Slocum and the Thunderbird (3 page)

“Slocum,” Rawlins said fearfully. “This here canyon don't go no farther. It's a box we rode into.”

The moon poked up enough to cast a bright silver spotlight on the canyon mouth and beyond. He didn't have to be a frontier scout to see that Rawhide was right. He pulled his Winchester from the saddle sheath. With the Henrys he had given the other men, they could stop one good attack or maybe two halfhearted ones. During a skirmish in the dark, their accuracy wouldn't be worth shit. Worse, the muzzle flashes would be beacons in the night for the Sioux.

“Into those rocks,” Slocum said. He guided the two cowboys to the best possible positions. “Take a box of ammo with you.”

“Been good knowin' you, Slocum. Wish we'd had time to buy a bottle or two of whiskey with what we took from the bank.”

Slocum couldn't tell who spoke because his full attention was focused on the canyon mouth. Keeping the Sioux from surrounding them was the only good thing about this otherwise indefensible position. One all-out attack would overwhelm them.

He rested his rifle on the top of a rock and leaned forward. The rough surface scraped his chest as he worked the lever, then he put his elbows down to steady the Winchester. Dark shapes bobbed up and down on the back trail. He stopped counting when he reached eight Sioux. There wasn't any doubt the Indians had tracked them since they likely knew this stretch of the Badlands better than any white man. The canyon was a death trap.

Slocum tensed. A deadly plug drove into that rocky canyon neck as a full dozen braves sat astride their ponies, faces hidden in deep shadow as the bright moon lit them from behind. Slocum eased back on the trigger. The rifle bucked. His shot went wide but caused the Sioux to let out whoops and sight in on him. Moving to a different position to continue the attack was out of the question when the Indians began firing. The night sky was soon filled with orange lances of flame from a dozen rifles. When his rifle jammed, Slocum tossed it aside and drew his six-shooter.

“Here they come,” Dupree said. He started firing wildly. Rawlins joined in.

Slocum doubted either of them came close to hitting anything, but it might not matter. If the Indians dismounted and advanced on foot, they would simply vanish into the terrain. Better that the Sioux stayed on horseback.

The war cries rang in his ears as the Indians attacked.

He knew they were goners . . . until the Indians let out a screech of fear rather than attack. All the Sioux wheeled their horses about and hightailed it away. For several seconds, Slocum couldn't believe his eyes. He finally stood and stared after the retreating riders.

The eerie shriek that ripped through the canyon caused Slocum to whirl about. He looked up and saw a bird with ten-foot outstretched wings on the canyon rim illuminated in the bright moonlight. A shiver went up his spine. He had never seen any bird that big in his life.

“Kill it, kill it!” Lee Dupree spun about and began firing wildly at the bird until his rifle barrel glowed a dull red. Only when the magazine came up empty did he stop, and then in his panic he worked the cocking lever mindlessly.

Slocum reached out and jerked the man's arm to spin him around. Dupree's eyes were wide with fear, and a touch of drool dribbled down his chin.

“Stop it,” Slocum ordered harshly.

Only when Dupree began babbling and dropped the rifle did Slocum look up at the canyon rim. For the briefest instant he saw the dark figure and struggled to make out what it was. Then it disappeared. With the huge bird went its shrill screeches. The canyon had become so quiet that it hurt Slocum's ears. Straining, he tried to catch any sounds of rabbits running for their burrows or a hunting coyote prowling for dinner. Nothing. Even the wind had died down, turning the slot canyon into a furnace. Sunlight from the autumn day had warmed the colorful layers of rock, and they now released their stored heat, making the silence even more oppressive.

“What the hell was that?” Rawhide Rawlins said, breaking the stillness with the question Slocum had not put into words.

“Never saw anything like it,” Slocum said.

“It . . . it was a thunderbird! One of them Indian spirits.”

“Stop talkin' crazy, Dupree,” Rawlins said uneasily. He looked at Slocum for reassurance. “There ain't no sich critter, right, Slocum?”

“We're in a box canyon. If the Sioux decide to come back, we'll be in worse shape than before.”

He kicked at an empty ammo box. They were running low on cartridges, and in their current condition, after seeing the creature on the canyon rim, he doubted Dupree would put up much of a fight. Rawhide wasn't as shaken, but any hesitation would spell their deaths.

“You ain't gettin' no argument from me on that, Slocum,” Dupree said. He ran to his horse. Slocum bent over and grabbed the man's discarded rifle, then tossed it to him. “Thanks,” Dupree said sheepishly. Then he looked at the nighttime sky and got frightened all over again.

Slocum and Rawlins followed at a distance until they reached the canyon mouth. Slocum called for Dupree to stop while he thought on where to run. Going back into the box canyon was out of the question. Retracing their path to this point might stick their necks into a noose if Marshal Hillstrom had gotten onto their trail. Even if the lawman hadn't twigged to them leaving the main road, going in that direction would put them behind the Sioux war party.

“There,” Slocum said. “You have any idea where that canyon leads?” He pointed to a dark opening in the wall of Badlands mountains.

“Don't look like it's a box, not like the other,” Rawlins said. “There're a couple trails going in.”

“Game trails?” Slocum trotted toward the canyon and tried to see what Rawlins had. He had to scratch his head. There might be a trail or two here, but that didn't mean this wasn't a dead end, too. Still, the tracks looked well traveled. Another town hidden away in the hills promised safety from the Indians, if not from Halliday's marshal.

There wasn't anywhere else to flee.

He started in, following one of the faint dirt tracks. Dupree called out.

“What if it comes after us? The thunderbird?”

“There's no such thing,” Slocum said. “That's a story the Indians tell around campfires, just like the stories Rawhide spins.”

“He ain't much of a storyteller,” Dupree said.

“I'll think on a story 'bout a cowboy without a lick of sense who got spooked and fired at some big bird and then claimed it was a thunderbird,” Rawlins said.

“I saw it. I
saw
a thunderbird! What else could it have been? Rawhide? Slocum? Tell me what else it could have been.”

“Saw something,” Slocum allowed. “Don't know what it was since I didn't get a good enough look at it.”

“You
heard
its huntin' cry. It was after us.”

“Chased off the Sioux,” Rawlins said, nodding.

The moon rose high enough to illuminate the trail they followed. Slocum wished it had remained low. Not only would it have hidden them from anyone behind, but it would have hidden his partners' faces. Dupree was still scared. Rawlins put up a good front, but Slocum saw how the man edged a tad closer to thinking like Dupree with every mention of the bird and its scream.

“Might have been a trick that fooled our eyes,” Slocum said. “The moon looks bigger when it rises. Mid-sky, it looks tiny but it's still the same size.”

“That's not so,” Dupree said. “You can tell the moon shrinks as it rises. Look at it!”

Slocum had. When they were children, his older brother, Robert, had shown him how to measure it. Holding a stick at arm's length, Slocum had cut notches on either side of the moon as it peeked out over the horizon. Hours later, he had held the stick at the same distance and the moon still touched the notches. After he had told Robert, his brother had given him the knife used to cut the notches. He had always learned so much from his brother. Robert had convinced him that things weren't always the way they appeared and careful study revealed the truth.

He pushed down the memories. Robert had been killed during Pickett's Charge and had died a hero in the midst of a terribly wrong tactic.

“It might have been an eagle,” Slocum said.

“You ever heard an iggle make a sound like that, Slocum? I never have, and I'm a damned sight older 'n you. And it was huge! Bigger 'n any iggle I ever set eyes on.”

Slocum let Rawlins take up the argument, but it was obvious he was slowly coming around to believing Dupree was right.

“Damn Injun spirit, that's what it was,” Dupree said. “They live in thunderstorms and come swoopin' down to earth and . . . and make sounds like the one we heard.”

“No storm,” Slocum pointed out. “Wish there was. It would hide our tracks and make any posse behind us think twice about staying on the trail.”

“Might be better languishin' in the Halliday jail rather 'n bein' et by a screamin' mad thunderbird,” Dupree said.

He warmed to his subject, engaging Rawlins in a discussion of Indian spirit creatures and how the Sioux got scared of their own totem. Somehow, the Sioux turning tail and running proved his argument—at least it did to Dupree. Slocum snapped the reins and rode farther ahead on the pretense of scouting.

The moon made for perfect riding. Not a cloud in the sky dimmed its light, and the silvery brilliance let Slocum keep a steady trot. From the condition of the trail, others had ridden this way not long back. He thought he saw fresh horse flop but never slowed to be sure, distracted by the dark openings of branching canyons. The Badlands were perfect to get lost in, with all the canyons and winding trails.

At the juncture of three canyons, he had to make a decision which trail to follow. The one to his left might turn back behind the box canyon where they had held off the Sioux war party. To his right yawned a huge canyon, while the one ahead swallowed the trail he already followed.

“Which way we gonna go, Slocum?” Rawhide drew rein beside him. “We keep on goin' straight?”

“We camp here and see how things look at daybreak,” he said, coming to a decision. “My horse is about ready to collapse under me.”

“Reckon that's a good idea. My old hoss ain't up to many more miles tonight either.”

“We got to push on,” Dupree said, his voice rising. “We're exposed out here. The thunderbird kin see us right clearly and swoop on down and—”

“Shut up,” Slocum said. “We're camping. If there's water anywhere around here, we camp beside the stream.”

“Might be somethin' ahead,” Rawlins said. “My hoss is all excited 'bout somethin'.”

“The thunderbird,” Dupree muttered.

“Ain't nervous. More like expectant.” Rawlins looked at Slocum, who nodded, then rode ahead.

Slocum let Rawhide get a dozen yards away before he turned to Dupree and said, “You're spookin' him and getting on my nerves. Not one more word about that bird.”

“But—” Dupree clamped his mouth shut when he saw how serious Slocum was.

Slocum knew better than to let fear take hold. Dupree might not be calmed but Slocum wasn't going to let him get Rawlins riled up. They were on the run from the law, and the Sioux were on the warpath. Their painted faces and decorated horses showed that. Those were the two most important dangers they faced—not some imaginary thunderbird.

Slocum saw that Dupree wasn't inclined to argue. He rode off, letting the other cowboy trail him, mumbling as he rode.

“Here it is,” Rawlins called. “Knew there had to be some water around, what with my hoss bein' so antsy.” Rawhide had dropped to his knees beside the sluggishly flowing stream and took off his hat, filling it with water to douse himself as his horse drank.

Slocum let his gelding drink while he prowled about. He found a fire pit that hadn't been used in months. A careful circuit revealed nothing more to indicate pilgrims had been this way recently.

“Come on over,” Slocum called. “We can pitch camp here.”

Dupree and Rawlins were skeptical when they saw the old fire pit, then settled down.

“Didn't bring much in the way of tucker,” Dupree said. “I was jist glad to git away from the Box M.” He chuckled. “Never thought I'd ride away from a good job and rob a bank in the same afternoon.”

“That reminds me of the time . . .” Rawhide Rawlins began to spin his yarn.

Slocum slipped from camp and foraged the best he could. This late in the year, there wasn't much in the way food to be had, but he clubbed an incautious rabbit with a rock that gave them a greasy, if small, meal. Keeping the cooking fire low and banked prevented anyone on their trail from spotting the flames, though the odor of cooking meat would draw a posse like flies to shit.

After they had finished, Dupree and Rawlins stretched out and were asleep in seconds. Slocum found it harder to join them. When they got free of this maze of canyons, they had to divvy up the loot and go their separate ways. Neither of the others had a lick of sense when it came to avoiding the law. If they rode together much longer, either Dupree or Rawlins—and Slocum put his bet on Dupree—would do something stupid and land them in the hoosegow.

Getting through the canyons might take days. He vowed to split the money in the morning and tell them to each take a branching canyon. His eyes darted to the burlap bag holding the loot. Rawlins was using it as a pillow. Slocum sat up, resolved to wake them and split the money now. If he headed out right away, no matter how tired his horse was, he could put five miles between them all before sunrise.

He started to call out when he heard strange sounds in the distance, up the canyon where they traveled. His hand flew to his six-shooter when a scream rang out, disturbing the silence.

Both Rawlins and Dupree came instantly awake, Dupree grabbing for his rifle and clutching it to his body.

“What's that? The thunderbird?”

“That was a woman screamin',” Rawlins said. “I oughta know. I've made enough of 'em scream in my day, though usually with pleasure.”

“Quiet,” Slocum said. He turned slowly and homed in on the woman. The scream had died and was replaced with sobs, as if she tried to contain any sound. “She's in trouble.”

“Hell, Slocum, so are we,” Rawlins said.

“You two stay here,” Slocum ordered.

He started walking, careful of where he stepped. The moon had crossed the sky and now lit the path from behind him. This gave him a decent sense of the trail; it also outlined him to anyone with a six-gun and a thought to use it.

A couple hundred yards saw the path turn sharply and wend through a tumble of rocks close to the canyon wall. The woman's sobs came from that direction. Slocum advanced warily, Colt Navy ready for any trouble. Even as careful as he was, he still fell over the woman.

He came to his knees and turned, his pistol aimed at her in the shadow of a large boulder. All he saw was dark movement. Her sobs had died down, replaced with the scraping of leather against stone.

“Stop moving about like that,” Slocum said.

“Don't kill me. Please. I don't want to go back!”

“I'm not going to kill you, and I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You . . . you're not from Wilson's Creek?”

“That a town nearby?”

He saw the darkness fold into itself. She cried openly now.

“I'll do whatever you want. Just get me away from here. Please!”

Slocum scooted about and worked his way closer. From the evidence he could see in the moonlight, she'd been following the rocky trail but had fallen and somehow got her foot wedged under the huge boulder.

“I'm trapped and can't get free,” she said.

Slocum slid his six-shooter into the holster. Deciding caution played the best hand, he slid the leather thong over the hammer. If she tried to grab for his gun, it would take a considerable amount of strength or dexterity to get it free.

“You did get yourself stuck good and proper,” he said. Her entire foot was hidden in the crevice.

“Oh,” she said as he hiked up her skirt and ran his hand down her calf to her ankle. He looked up at her, their faces only inches apart now. She smiled weakly and said, “Do whatever you need to do.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a lucifer and lit it, so he could see the situation a bit better in the temporary light. The woman's face was dirty, smudged from grit and tears, but this couldn't hide how pretty she was. He now saw the bow-shaped red lips, the blush to her cheeks, the long dark hair framing her oval face, which all added to her beauty. Cleaned up, she would turn heads in any town.

“Didn't mean to be forward,” Slocum said, blowing out the lucifer and plunging them in semidarkness again. Gently he put his hand back on her bare leg. The flesh trembled. He stroked a bit and calmed her, as he would a nervous filly.