Slocum and the Thunderbird (7 page)

Slocum stretched, settled his gun belt, then studied the dirt on the narrow path leading to the canyon rim. Alicia had pressed on to reach the summit. He considered following her again. The dalliance in the shallow cave had not been expected, but it had been worth Slocum's time and then some. In spite of their going in separate directions, he and Alicia had come together in a most satisfying way. Trying to guess what she had gone through in Wilson's Creek proved a fool's game, but Slocum had some idea how men like Mackenzie ran their towns.

It was never pretty for anyone not on the fastest gun's side. She had dropped hints enough to make Slocum wary of the man. The word “loco” was tossed around a lot but too often fit exactly. Alicia intended to fetch soldiers and get them to raid Wilson's Creek. Slocum had to avoid Mackenzie, find Rawhide and the loot, then hightail it out of there.

Slocum smiled ruefully. All he had to do was avoid a crazy gunman, rescue his partner, find the money from the bank, and then get the hell out before the cavalry rode down on the town. He didn't know if Marshal Hillstrom had put out the word of the bank robbery, but Slocum couldn't risk it. Wilson's Creek had to be a quick visit.

He smiled a bit more as he told himself that rescuing Alicia's family wouldn't be a bad thing either. If he got the chance.

Walking slowly back down the steep trail leading his horse, he reached the canyon floor, mounted, and rode steadily for the canyon junction. Fog had settled in, making it impossible to see more than a few yards. This cloaked him, but it also made it more likely he would ride up on Mackenzie's sentries and get caught. Waiting for the fog to lift worried him a mite.

He had no idea where the cavalry post might be or if the post commander might jump to rescuing Alicia's family right away. She had a way about her that a lonely officer out on the frontier might want to favor. She might be a day or two reaching the fort, then another few days returning. Slocum reckoned he had forty-eight hours to get Rawhide to spill his guts about what had happened and where the money they'd stolen was and then have a safe margin to get the hell out of town before the cavalry showed up.

Letting his horse pick its way through the fog took him into a strange world robbed of sound. The mist dampened everything but the clicking of the gelding's horseshoes on the rocky trail. Slocum wiped at his face occasionally as if he sweat. The seasons were changing, and it ought to be cooler in the canyon, but the rock walls held in the day's heat and the fog made it sultry.

A moving phantasm a few feet to his right caused Slocum to go for his six-shooter. He watched as the rider stayed on a steady course, face forward, never giving a hint he had spotted anyone else in the fog. The sound of the passing horse was smothered quickly, once more leaving Slocum isolated in the gray mist. He let his six-shooter drop back into his holster and continued riding. If the other man had left Wilson's Creek, that meant the town was somewhere ahead, and likely not too far off.

Another half-hour's ride brought him to a stretch of canyon with only patches of fog. The sun dropped fast in front of him, almost hidden behind tall peaks. He pressed his horse to the left to hug the canyon wall. If sentries had been posted on the canyon rim, he would be more difficult to see at the base.

The canyon widened and blossomed into a small meadow with what he took to be Wilson's Creek smack in the middle. Not a mile on the other side of the town the hills were dotted with tailings from mines. Faint pick and hammer clicks and clanks reached him, even at this distance, giving some credence to part of Alicia's story. He hadn't really doubted anything she'd said about the town or the mines, but it made him more comfortable to scout it for himself.

One odd thing struck him as he surveyed the road leading from the canyon into town. Twin wooden watch towers had been built. He squinted as he made out two men in each tower. At this time of day, riding into the sun, he would be spotted more easily. Worse, they had battlements to crouch behind in case a skirmish broke out. That would be a potent deterrent to a cavalry charge should Alicia return with the troopers the way he had just ridden.

More defenses than the two towers along the road were scattered around Wilson's Creek. Other points had been fortified in rocks at the canyon mouth. A dozen men could hold off a small army if they had ammunition enough. If the cavalry attacked, they had to filter through the canyon two or three abreast at the most, making them easy targets. Alicia had to warn any officer of the problem and have the soldiers infiltrate before the main attack.

Slocum had to assume the cavalry would attack, even though he suspected even Alicia's charms might not be enough to have an entire company sent out to arrest Mackenzie. The woman had to present overwhelming proof that outlaws were hiding here or that Mackenzie committed crimes and thumbed his nose at the law. Considering the crimes most likely to occur, Marshal Hillstrom might be more interested.

With only a half-dozen men in the posse, he stood no chance at all of breaching the town's defenses. He and his deputies would be more unfortunates who were simply swallowed by the Dakota Badlands.

While he watched, trying to figure out a way of sneaking in, Slocum saw something peculiar. As the sun dipped low and twilight seized the town, the sentries in the towers abandoned their posts. He had already seen two men in each tower; there had actually been four. The eight men trooped along the road back to town, leaving the road undefended.

Slocum strained to see if sentries elsewhere along the canyon walls became more alert. To his surprise, those in the rocks and a few up on the rim made their way to town also, leaving the town undefended. By the time darkness was complete and only bright stars provided illumination to the land, every last guard had vanished into Wilson's Creek.

He waited for the night guards to come out. After an hour when no one did, Slocum mounted and rode slowly into town, keeping well away from the road. The going was rocky until a few hundred yards from the edge of the town, where grassy patches became more common. Rather than riding down the town's main street, Slocum dismounted again and advanced on foot, cautiously peering around the corners of buildings.

Wilson's Creek consisted of ramshackle half-permanent wooden buildings and tents. At the far end of the street, a two-story hotel dominated the town. From within the hotel came raucous laughter. Occasionally armed men emerged and looked around as if hunting for someone, then went back inside. This puzzled Slocum since the saloon in a tent across from his vantage point didn't seem to be the center of their attention.

Men didn't patrol the streets. Everyone remained inside the buildings and tents. After three gunmen came out of the hotel, made their cursory inspection, and went back inside, Slocum acted. He walked steadily across the street, not hurrying but not creeping either. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself by unusual behavior.

He pushed aside the tent flap and got a blast of cigar smoke in response. A piano at the back of the saloon had seen better days. The piano player sat with a pretty serving girl on his lap, more interested in what she whispered laughingly in his ear than in banging away at the keys. That suited Slocum just fine.

He went straight to the bar, a long wooden plank dropped across a pair of sawhorses. Whiskey bottles were stacked on the ground behind the barkeep, a man with a walrus mustache and a booming laugh. He worked from one end of the bar and back, pouring shots, now and then drawing a weak-looking beer without foam, and always quick with a reply to his customers' jibes.

Slocum didn't push his way through the crowd along the bar. He touched his pockets and realized he had damned little money. It had been the end of the season, and because he'd assumed the Box M owner would pay him not only his salary but a bonus, he hadn't conserved his money when it came to spending. The last poker game in the bunkhouse had about cleaned him out.

But it had been all right since Holman was going to pay for a successful drive.

That thought angered him anew. He looked around for Rawhide Rawlins but didn't see the man. Rawhide had the money to buy his way into an outlaw hideout. He hadn't seen another saloon, so that meant Rawhide likely was in a whorehouse or at the hotel down the street—likely both a hotel and whorehouse with a bar.

The jovial barkeep came over and stared straight at him. Slocum worried that the man knew the regulars and would raise an alarm over a stranger. That didn't happen.

“What's yer poison, sir?”

The politeness startled Slocum. He couldn't afford even a nickel beer but to say so would draw attention.

“I understand you have a way of getting liquor in exchange for—” He'd intended to say “work,” thinking he could trade a shift or two as a bouncer for whiskey. The man nearest him interrupted and kept him from being the butt of jokes—or worse.

Such an armed camp had to be under Mackenzie's tight control. Anything that drew attention also drew danger.

“He's challengin' you fer that free bottle of hooch, Axel! Hey, boys, we got a challenge!”

Everyone in the tent fell silent, then the piano player dumped the pretty saloon girl off his lap and began banging out “Camptown Races.” The crowd sang along at the top of their lungs as they crowded around Slocum and pushed him forward to bang against the bar. Glasses and mugs rattled the entire length of the plank.

“Challenge, challenge!” the men chanted as the piano player finished his song and came over to get a better view.

“You got the look of a man who can win,” the piano player said.

“What do I have to do?” Seeing the man's face flash confusion, Slocum hastily added, “Exactly. I don't want to violate any of the rules.”

“Simple enough. You put a slug through Axel's nickel, you win a bottle of whiskey.”

The barkeep took a coin out of his vest pocket and held it between thumb and forefinger. Without hesitation, Slocum drew, cocked his Colt, and fired.

The crowd gasped. Axel grabbed his hand and rubbed the fingers used to hold the nickel.

“You damn fool. I was jist showin' the crowd the coin. You was supposed to shoot it after I stuck it to the wall.” The barkeep pointed to a spot behind him where a half-dozen holes in the canvas let in fresh air from outside.

“You only git one shot,” the piano player said. “Too bad. You got to pay up. A hunnerd dollars.”

“That's a mighty lopsided bet,” Slocum said, the six-gun still in his hand.

“Mr. Mackenzie says otherwise. You better pay up or you'll be tossed out of Wilson's Creek right now.”

A shudder passed through the camp. Men began whispering. The fear this simple punishment caused among hard-bitten men made Slocum wonder what the hell was going on.

“Hey, Axel, this here's the nickel. I found it in the dirt.” A burly man at the far end of the bar held up a shiny coin. “Drilled it fair and square. You're the one what gots to pay up.”

The coin made its way down the bar, passing from hand to hand until it fell to the plank in front of Slocum.

“He ain't no winner. The bet's to cut the middle out of the nickel. His slug tore off part of the rim. Got to see the hole surrounded by nuthin' but metal.”

The piano player picked up the coin and ran his thumb over the rough spot where the bullet had torn the rim and left a small gap.

“You're damned lucky he didn't miss and blow off yer fingers, Axel. I say he won the bet. Don't you all agree? All of you?” He held up the coin with the hole through it so everyone in the saloon could see. The cheer that went up gave Slocum a touch of hope he might get out of this without shooting any of the customers.

The barkeep brushed dirt off his mustache, grumbled a mite, then put a bottle of whiskey down on the bar with a loud clank. Slocum held his breath. There was deathly quiet in the tent, and he knew why.

“What's that?” he demanded of the barkeep.

“What you won, dammit.”

“I want shot glasses for everyone here,” Slocum said. The deafening cheer told him he had said the right thing. Everyone crowded close to get a shot of free whiskey.

Slocum hung back. The tarantula juice would go a ways toward cutting the taste of trail dust, but it was more important to keep the men from gossiping about him. Let them say they had drunk a free shot, and nobody else in town was likely to ask more than that. If he had denied them their bounty, word might have spread like lightning.

He finally got a shot from the dregs. The liquor burned like a branding iron all the way down to his empty gut, where it threatened to sear away at his flesh the rest of the night.

“You're mighty good with that hogleg, mister,” the piano player said. “Ain't seen you around. Mr. Mackenzie jist bring you in?”

“Just got into town,” Slocum said.

He didn't understand why the piano player reached out and pushed up Slocum's hat until his forehead was exposed any more than he did what the piano player said next.

“Sorry, sir. Didn't mean nuthin' by my impudence.” The man backed off and even put a protective arm around the woman who had been occupying his lap earlier.

They cast quick, fearful looks at Slocum and returned to the piano. In a thrice, the music started again, the man playing and the woman warbling off-key. But no one in the saloon thought twice about it. They had their free drinks.

Slocum had some questions he wanted to ask, but there wasn't anyone to answer. He settled down in a chair and quickly had the table all to himself. The patrons avoided him just as the piano player had, sometimes casting a quick look in his direction, as if to be sure he wasn't swinging his six-gun into action against them.

This set Slocum to thinking. None of the men in the saloon wore sidearms. More than a few carried knives sheathed in boots or at their side, but he was the only one wearing a gun. That struck him as unusual but not to the point of them shunning him.