Slocum's Breakout (7 page)

He began stroking with sharp, quick strokes. Friction mounted between her inner walls and his fleshy stalk. He gripped her hips even more firmly, and they fell into a rhythm, crushing together, stimulating one another, getting the most out of this carnal coupling as they could. When it felt as if he would explode within her like a stick of dynamite, Slocum slowed the frantic pace and caught his breath.

“No, no, don't stop. Oh!”

He reached up and caught at her dangling breasts. Firm in his hands, they barely overflowed each of his palms. He had big hands, but Conchita was ample enough to give him something to work with. He squeezed and stroked and finally caught the brown nubbins between thumbs and forefingers. Rolling the nips around brought cries of even more intense joy to her lips.

And then he started driving his fleshy spike back into her. Caught between the two regions of stimulation, Conchita went wild with need. This spurred Slocum on until there was no holding back. The fierce tide rose within him and edged upward, burning and giving intense pleasure until he erupted within the tightness she so avidly offered him.

He heard her cry out as she shoved her rump back into the circle of his body. She shivered and shook and cried out again, then sagged forward, catching herself on the edge of the crate until he slid limply from her heated interior.

“You are so good, John, so very good.” Conchita turned and flaunted her breasts, cupping them and offering them up to him. He couldn't resist such a treat. He bent, suckled first on one and then the other. She gasped with the sudden intrusion of his middle finger into her tightness again. Between his oral ministrations on her teats and his delving finger, he got her off again. This time she staggered back and perched on the edge of the crate. Her face was flushed and her eyes wild with lust.

“Never have I found such a lover. Not even . . .”

“Not even who?” Slocum asked. “I want to know my competition.”

“There is no one who can compete with you, John. You are perfect. Absolutely perfect.” She threw herself forward. Her arms circled him and pulled him close. Slocum wasn't going to complain but thought something was wrong. She purred like a contented kitten, and he certainly had no complaints, but something wasn't right and he couldn't figure out what it might be.

“We'd better get back and see how your brother and pa are getting on.”

“Why? José can do well on his own. You should know. Was he not capable helping in his own escape?”

Slocum had nothing to say about that. Both Doc and Murrieta had sacrificed themselves for him and Valenzuela to escape. Valenzuela had contributed little and would have brought down the guards if Slocum hadn't convinced him to keep a low profile rather than shooting anyone who moved. Valenzuela was a hothead and had ended up in San Quentin for a reason.

Still, Slocum had ridden with worse in his day. Bloody Bill Anderson and his commander, William Quantrill, had been conscienceless killers. Anyone wearing a blue uniform was fair game, no matter their age. That had gotten Slocum gut-shot and left for dead when he refused to kill Yankee sympathizers in Lawrence, Kansas, who were as young as eight years old. But compared with the killers serving with Quantrill's Raiders, José Valenzuela was a babe in arms.

“Something's wrong,” Slocum said. The uneasy feeling grew. “Where're the horses kept?”

“On the other side of the house, but do not worry about that, John. Come, let us—”

Slocum shook his head as he drew his six-shooter. Something felt wrong. He had survived during the war by listening to this inner voice. Sometimes it whispered; other times it screamed. Slocum was almost deafened by it now.

With Conchita trailing behind, struggling to get her blouse pulled up over her shapely shoulders, Slocum rounded the house and saw the crude corral.

Empty.

“José's gone,” he said.

“There is nothing to worry about. He will be back soon. I know it.”

Slocum ignored her and went to the house. He pushed open the front door with the toe of his boot, then edged into the dim interior. Calling out wasn't too smart; Slocum went to the bedroom door where the elder Valenzuela had been on his deathbed.

Had been.

The room was empty. The bed was neatly made and might not have been slept in recently.

“Both José and your pa're gone,” he said. Slocum turned to face Conchita, who stood with a curious expression on her face. It was a mixture of anger and confusion. “Where'd they go?”

“I . . . I cannot say. Perhaps José took him to a doctor. Our father. To a doctor.”

“Why'd he do something like that if the old man was dying? The time's past for giving him a tonic or some other medicine.”

“José knows so much more than I do, than our papa does. He might have seen and known the right place to go.”

“You're lying. Where are they?”

“You cannot call me a liar! I will not stand for it. You get out. Now.
¡Con veloz!
”

“So I get your brother out of San Quentin and you run me off?” Slocum reckoned he had gotten paid out in the shed, and there had been so many times prior to him agreeing to carry out her crackbrained scheme, but it hardly made up for a week in solitary confinement in the bowels of the prison. He had been tricked before and likely would be again, but he felt angrier at himself for letting this pretty
muchacha
dupe him so easily.

Rather than leaving as he was told, Slocum went into the bedroom and began rummaging about. He had no idea what he was hunting for. There wouldn't be any money to recompense him for all he'd been through, but he wanted more to find something that would tell him where José and his father had gone. They had left almost immediately after Conchita had lured him out to the shed, so they had been planning something. He wanted to know what it was.

“Get out!” Conchita cried. “You cannot rob us!”

“Wasn't planning on that. I want to know what you and your family are up to.” He found a small metal box. Using the butt of his pistol, he knocked off the small lock and dumped the contents onto the bed. A few coins and a sheaf of papers comprised the entire contents. He left the coins and pawed through the papers. There were maps and scribbles in Spanish that he didn't understand.

“Tell me what this means,” he said, holding out one map for Conchita, but she had disappeared. He stuffed the paper into his pocket and strode into the main room. The sound of a horse got him moving outside in a rush. He saw Conchita riding bareback on the horse that had so reluctantly pulled the buggy. He took a couple steps in her direction, but the dust cloud obscured her direction when she got to the nearby road.

He took off his hat and slapped it a couple times against his leg to dislodge some of the dust. Then he began walking, fuming as he went. He hadn't even come out of this ridiculous failure with a horse, even a swaybacked nag hardly up to carriage duty.

Slocum reached the road, looked once in the direction of San Francisco, and began walking the other way. There was nothing for him to the north. For that matter, he knew there was nothing southward either. He had come this way to escape the heat and drought and saw no reason to return to it. Mostly, he needed to find a horse so he could range due east, circle around San Francisco Bay on the Oakland side, and then ride as hard as he could for the Pacific Northwest. Oregon had to hold better circumstances.

Barely had he gone a mile when he heard the thunder of hooves behind him on the road. Whoever rode down on him was in a powerful hurry. He considered stepping aside and seeing who was intent on killing his horse under him, then got the prickly feeling at the back of his neck that he ought not indulge this curiosity. He left the road and went to a dry acequia. The drought here wasn't as bad as down south, but it was enough to make the irrigation ditch little more than a mud puddle.

He slipped over the edge and flopped down, waiting.

The riders approached, then slowed, and finally stopped about the place he had left the road.

Sunlight glinted off badges pinned on the riders' vests. He slid his Colt Navy from his holster when one of the lawmen pointed to the tracks he had left, then slowly traced along his trail to where he hid in the irrigation ditch.

Slocum knew he was in for trouble when the posse dismounted, fanned out, and started toward him.

“You lift that iron and you're a dead man,” shouted the man Slocum took to be the leader. “Boys, get ready to shoot. He don't look like he's the surrendering kind.”

A quick glance left and right confirmed Slocum's worst fears. He was already caught in a cross fire. The deputies on either flank had a clean shot at him. He might take out one, but the other would ventilate him in the span of a heartbeat. And that didn't even take into account the two gunmen flanking the leader. One held a rifle like he knew how to use it, and the other's grip was steady on his six-shooter.

“Don't get itchy trigger fingers,” Slocum said, holding up his hands. He felt exposed and about ready to die. All it would take was a single deputy to get a tic, and lead would fly.

“Come on over here, and keep your hands up in the clouds. I swear, we'll shoot if you don't!”

As Slocum got closer to the lawman, he saw a sheriff's badge.

“Look, Sheriff, I—”

“Shut your face,” the lawman snapped. He snared Slocum's six-gun and tossed it to the nearest deputy. Even then, the sheriff kept a keen eye on Slocum's every move.

“He matches the description, Sheriff Bernard.”

“What description?” Slocum asked. He got a pistol barrel laid up alongside his head. He felt all the strength go out of his legs as he collapsed to his knees. The world spun in crazy circles, and pain filled his head.

“Don't go doin' that, George,” Sheriff Bernard snapped. “He done surrendered. It's up to us to keep him that way until the trial.”

“You reckon he's got a price on his head? Other than for the robbery?”

Slocum didn't know which of the deputies asked the question. He went cold inside.

“My horse died. I was just going to—”

“Get him in irons,” the sheriff said. “And if he keeps yammering like that, gag him.”

Slocum felt cold metal cuffs snapped around his wrists. He was yanked to his feet and shoved along to the road. A rope was looped around the chains holding his wrists together. The ends were fastened around a deputy's saddle horn, then they all turned their horses' faces and started back north toward San Francisco.

If the drunk identified him as the one who stole his horse and buggy, Slocum knew they might just string him up. Stories of vigilance committees were rife in San Francisco. But the sheriff seemed one of the rarities, a peace officer who actually enforced the law and didn't permit his prisoners to be mistreated. Or at least Slocum hoped that was true of Sheriff Bernard.

To his surprise, they didn't follow the main road back into San Francisco but took one angling off west toward the ocean. Slocum heaved a sigh of relief at this. The longer he stayed away from where the prison guards might hunt—in San Francisco, most likely—the better his chances of getting away. Whatever the posse thought he had done, he could alibi his way out. After all, he had been in the area only a few hours. Conchita would sweet-talk them.

Or would she? They hadn't parted on the best of terms, and he had no idea what her brother and father had been up to. They had hightailed it from the house in a big hurry once José had returned.

Slocum slogged along, keeping up the pace the best he could. If he flagged, he suspected he would be dragged along and wasn't sure Bernard would much care about that. The sheriff and two deputies rode some distance ahead, chattering like magpies.

Footsore and about ready to collapse after making it through a low pass and to a level spot where he could see the Pacific Ocean, Slocum considered trying to engage the deputy so intent on keeping him moving in some conversation. The more he found out, the more improved were his chances of getting away.

It would be better if he could talk his way out of whatever the sheriff thought he had done.

“What town's that? Down on the coast?”

“Miramar,” the deputy answered before he realized he wasn't supposed to talk to the prisoner. “Shut up. No yammering.”

“Whatever you think I did, I didn't. Never been to Miramar. Didn't even know the name.” Slocum slipped and slid down the steep road, pebbles causing him to stumble repeatedly.

“Shut up.”

Slocum found it almost impossible to talk and keep up when the rider put his heels to his horse's flanks and picked up the pace. By the time they arrived at the tiny jail on the outskirts of town, Slocum was half past dead.

“Inside,” the deputy ordered. He jerked hard on the rope, and Slocum fell facedown in the dirt.

“None of that, Jess,” the sheriff warned. “We want him presentable when he goes up in front of the judge.”

“Damned stinkin' bank robber.”

“Bank robber?” Slocum looked up in wonder. “I haven't robbed any bank. Why do you think I have?”

“Witness. She saw you galloping like the wind, carrying the canvas bank bag filled with the gold coins.”

“She?” Slocum knew who this witness was.

“On the road not a couple miles from where we nabbed you. Right pretty young thing, she was.”

“If I was riding, where's the horse? Where's the money?”

“Now, those are matters we're going to determine,” Bernard said. “Get him inside, boys.”

Strong hands dragged Slocum into the jail, his toes dragging in the dirt. They threw him into one of two cells before removing the shackles on his wrists. He rubbed where the iron had chafed the skin raw and bloody. He hardly winced when the sheriff slammed the cell door with a loud clang and turned the key in the lock.