Slocum and the Warm Reception (2 page)

Slocum pulled his trigger quickly because he wanted to keep the Indian from grabbing hold of his leg. While Slocum had seen too many things in his years to be afraid of much, there was no shame in being startled by an animal as wild as this one. The .44 barked once and sent a round sparking against the rocky surface of the trail.

Another war cry sounded from behind Slocum as the brave rode down from the rise. That shout was quickly followed by the crack of a rifle being fired and the hiss of a round whipping through the air within inches of Slocum's ear. Since that first shot was so close to hitting its mark, Slocum knew it wouldn't take long for the brave to put his target down. Suddenly, the prospect of getting away from those crazed Indians wasn't so appealing. It was time to stand and fight.

The Indian with the narrow mane of hair was still in his sight, so Slocum took an extra moment to aim before squeezing his trigger again. That bullet tore through the Indian's hip, but somehow failed to slow him down. Whatever had sparked the fire in that one's eyes was powerful enough to keep it burning as he charged forward without showing a lick of concern for pain or the threat of death. All the conviction in the world wouldn't have been enough to keep him on his feet when Slocum swung down from his saddle while lashing out with a boot to knock him in the face. The momentum of his entire body was behind his boot heel as he met the oncoming Indian with one hell of a nasty reception. The Indian's head snapped back, and blood spewed from a freshly opened cut in his face as his arms and legs flailed.

Slocum hit the ground with one foot, planted the other, and spun around to greet the next attacker. The other Indian that had crawled up to the trail didn't present himself right away. Another shot was fired from the brave behind him, causing Slocum to hunch down even lower. Although the gelding had backed away in the midst of all that ruckus, he wasn't about to leave Slocum by himself. Once he'd put several paces between himself and the fighting men, the horse held its ground.

After enough time had passed for the brave to lever another round into whatever rifle was in his hands, Slocum dove forward and stretched out one arm to cushion his impact while twisting his entire body around. The brave's shot came right on schedule and whipped through the air a foot or so above Slocum's body. If he'd still been upright at the time, he would have caught that round squarely in the chest.

Slocum's shoulder and back pounded against the ground. Even if he'd expected the wind to be knocked from his lungs, there wasn't a whole lot he could do to brace for it. Since he'd managed to keep enough breath inside to sustain him for another second or two, he gritted his teeth and sighted along the top of his .44. The Indian with the coarse mane on his head was coming at him again, eyes burning with crazy fire. Slocum pulled his trigger once, hit his mark, and fired again.

The first shot punched into the Indian's chest and the second drilled a hole through a face that was already covered in a mess of blood put there by Slocum's boot heel. He fell backward and sprawled to the dusty ground, feet scraping at the desert as if he still thought he was taking a run at Slocum.

Rather than waste a shot in putting a quick end to the first Indian, Slocum looked for the second. That one wasn't hard to find, since he'd almost gotten close enough to put an even quicker end to Slocum using a short-handled tomahawk. The little axe was gripped in a tight fist held close to the Indian's ear. Slocum could just make out the man's face before his eyes were drawn to the tomahawk's sharpened stone edge as it was swung at him. Slocum leaned back to allow the tomahawk to slice past him so close that he could feel the gust of wind in its wake.

Unlike his companion, the second Indian wasn't crazy. When Slocum fired a quick shot at him, he hopped to one side in the hopes of avoiding incoming fire. The shot had been taken in haste, but provided Slocum with some breathing room so he could circle away from the tomahawk.

Rather than decorate himself with war paint of any kind, the second Indian had smeared mud across his entire face and chest. His head was shaved clean and covered with mud. Because of a similar coating on his arms and legs, he'd been close to invisible while crawling on the ground. That struck a chord in the back of Slocum's mind.

He'd seen other Indians use similar tactics, which had forced him to deal with one hell of a mess. Rather than take the time to think if these were the same Indians he'd dealt with before, Slocum busied himself with the act of staying alive.

That tomahawk was in very capable hands, cutting through the air in short, efficient chops. As soon as Slocum leaned away to avoid one swing, the weapon was brought up and back around to take another. He ducked under that attack and snuck a sharp jab into the other man's gut. The Indian let out a wheezing grunt and staggered back a step, allowing Slocum to back away as well.

“One man's dead,” Slocum said between gulping breaths. “No need to make it two.”

“It will be two,” the Indian replied in a voice that struck Slocum as peculiar. “When you are laid out for the vultures.” With that, the Indian lunged again.

Slocum had been doing his best to keep track of the brave with the rifle. Unfortunately, that was tough to do when so much of his attention was focused on someone else. Knowing he was in danger by being on open ground, Slocum broke into a run that was in such a crooked line he must have appeared to be drunk. Appearances were the farthest thing from his mind, however, as he zigged one way and zagged another. The erratic strategy paid off when the brave's next shot tore through empty space.

Slocum was heading for his horse, and because the animal was content to let him get there, he was certain he could get to the Sharps rifle holstered in the saddle's boot. He was close enough to smell the sweat soaked into the gelding's coat when he heard the crunch of feet against the ground directly behind him. Slocum spun around to find the mud-caked Indian racing toward him with his tomahawk cocked back next to his ear. Slocum faced the Indian head-on while backing toward his horse. Once again proving to be more calculating than his deceased partner, the Indian slowed to a halt.

Both men circled each other for several long seconds.

The Indian watched Slocum carefully as Slocum did his best to watch both the man directly in front of him and the brave that was still on horseback. The brave was outside the .44's range but well within the reach of his rifle. He had the weapon's stock to his shoulder and glared at Slocum over the top of its long barrel. Slocum adjusted his steps to put the closest Indian between himself and the one with the rifle.

“Leave your horse and guns and you can walk away,” the muddy Indian said.

Slocum narrowed his eyes. “What happened to all the big talk from before? Seeing a man get gunned down take some of the starch from your collar?”

“No,” the Indian said with a slow shake of his head. “I've seen plenty of men die. Looks like I'm about to watch another.”

Instead of waiting for the Indian to make the next move, Slocum took those words as a declaration of intent. He lunged for his horse and almost frightened the gelding away before his fingers scraped against the stock of the Sharps. As much as he hated to put his back to the Indian, Slocum had to turn around so he could reach across the horse's back and retrieve the rifle. Just as his body was stretched and his arm was extended toward the Sharps, the Indian lunged at him like a rattlesnake going in for the kill.

Slocum sidestepped to avoid getting sliced straight down the middle. When the stone blade dug into the saddle far enough to cause the gelding to rear up in pain, Slocum almost wished he had absorbed that blow. Fortunately, Slocum was now able to take the Sharps from the boot.

Just because he had the rifle didn't mean he was in the clear. In fact, Slocum couldn't put the Sharps to proper use because he still had the .44 in his right hand. He meant to holster the pistol so he could put a finger on the rifle's trigger, but the muddy Indian wasn't about to give him the chance. After plucking his tomahawk from where it had been lodged in the saddle's thick leather, he came at Slocum like a whirlwind.

From there, the fight became nothing short of chaos. Both men ripped into each other, ducked, sidestepped, and swung again in an all-out frenzy. Slocum survived the first onslaught by focusing only on the blade of the tomahawk as it came at him again and again. Every now and then, he snuck in a quick jab or a sharp knee driven into the Indian's side. Slocum could feel his knuckles and leg pounding against solid flesh, but wasn't able to slow the other man down. Suddenly, the Indian's filthy face filled his field of vision. Slocum could see the Indian's elbow and forearm as they came around in a vicious semicircle with the tomahawk trailing like the cutting end of a whip.

Slocum dropped straight down while letting out a quick profanity along with what was left of his breath. There was a sharp clang, after which the Indian stopped dead in his tracks. When he stood up again, Slocum saw the tomahawk had become lodged in the canteen that hung from his saddle horn by a strap.

The Indian winced with the effort of pulling the weapon's blade from the metal container. Although he was able to free the tomahawk, it wasn't before Slocum stood up and raised his gun. Opening his mouth to let out another war cry, the Indian cocked back the tomahawk in preparation of a strong downward chop. Before he could follow through, the Indian was rocked by the last round from Slocum's .44.

At point-blank range, the shot could only be heard as a muffled thump. The Indian was lifted off both feet and sent staggering backward with blood pouring from a hole in his chest as well as a much larger one in his back. By the time the Indian fell over, Slocum had tossed the .44 and was turning the sights of the Sharps rifle toward the brave on horseback. “You brought this on yourself,” he shouted. “Still want to take it further?”

The brave stared silently back at him. Despite the distance between both men, they might as well have been inches away from each other. In fact, as he waited for a response, a word, even a flinch, Slocum swore he could see the man behind that other rifle blink.

“What tribe are you from?” Slocum asked.

The brave did not respond.

“Who are your people? Where is your homeland?” Even though there was nothing to make him think he was going to get an answer, Slocum kept asking his questions. “What did you expect to do out here like this? How many others have you killed?” That last question brought Slocum's blood to a boil. “That's it, isn't it? You've ambushed others on this trail. Lord knows plenty of folks use it to get across the state line into Oregon. Probably ranchers and families looking to move on up into California or maybe into Canada. They didn't put up as much of a fight as all this, is that it?”

Still, the brave held his tongue.

The longer the silence went on, the more Slocum had to fight to keep from pulling his trigger. Eventually, the brave lowered the rifle from his shoulder. Soon after that, his head drooped slightly forward and he steered his horse so it was facing another direction. Once he knew he'd made it that far without being shot, he started to ride away.

“Not so fast!” Slocum called out.

Surprisingly enough, the brave stopped.

Studying the other man through a stern scowl, Slocum said, “I'll have that rifle.”

The brave stayed put.

“You don't have to bring it here,” Slocum amended. “Just leave it in that spot right there.”

Slowly, the brave extended his arm. In a motion that was surprisingly quick, he brought the rifle back up to his shoulder and took aim. Slocum already had his Sharps at the ready. He'd had plenty of time to take aim and all he needed to do was squeeze the trigger. The Sharps barked once, sent its round through the air, and dropped the brave like a bottle from a fence post.

Even after the brave fell, Slocum watched and waited for something else to happen. Perhaps more Indians would emerge from where they'd been hiding to pick him off with bullets, arrows, or blades. Perhaps another brave would circle around to try and get the jump on him. Truth be told, he didn't really know what to expect. The ambush seemed strange from the moment it started and it ended in much the same way.

Eventually, the sun beating down upon his head, neck, and shoulders made Slocum lower his Sharps so he could wipe away a trickle of sweat that stung one of his eyes. Every rustling wind he heard, every scrape of something against a rock or movement of a dry branch, made him think the attack would continue. Nothing he saw could back that up, however.

There was nothing to see apart from the two dead men lying sprawled upon the ground.

Slocum propped his rifle against a rock near the Indian caked in mud. Taking one knee to present a smaller target if there was anyone out there still interested in taking a shot at him, he emptied the Smith & Wesson's cylinder of spent casings and then fed it fresh rounds from his gun belt. The movements were as common to him as drawing breath, which meant he didn't need to look at what he was doing. His eyes were plenty busy as his fingers prepared the .44 for another fight, however. They darted back and forth, never stopping, never satisfied with all of the nothing they found.

Finally, when the pistol was full and its cylinder snapped shut, he got to his feet and stayed there. Slocum no longer thought about making it difficult for someone to take a shot at him. On the contrary, he stayed as still as the rest of the desert . . . daring any other would-be ambushers to do their worst. His features took on a hard edge, and when he spat upon the ground, he might as well have been spitting into the faces of every one of the cowardly sons of bitches that had tried to ambush him.

At least the first two had gone out fighting. Slocum looked down at them while holstering the .44, focusing his attention on the one covered in mud. He squatted down and turned the dead man's head so he could look at his face. Something about him just wasn't right. When his canteen had been chopped by the tomahawk, it had spilled its contents onto the ground not far away from where the body now rested. Slocum went over to dip his fingers into the water so he could brush the moisture against his parched lips. There was a little left in the lower portion of the canteen, perhaps enough for two or three gulps, but not enough to get him all the way to Mescaline. Instead of riding to the more familiar town, Slocum would need to stop over at one of the smaller settlements along the way. He only hoped the places he recalled hadn't dried up and blown away like everything else in the arid climate.