Slocum and the Three Fugitives (12 page)

“The judge's got something for you to tell around town.” Slocum stared at his hands again. “I need to get some kerosene to soak off the sap.”

“Sap,” shouted Lucas Deutsch. “That's what you are, Slocum. The rest of you, too. I'll be out of here before dawn! Mark my words.”

Judge Locke spoke rapidly to the marshal, who grew increasingly frightened.

“We gotta hold the prisoner 'gainst the Deutsch clan? That's suicide!” Marshal Donnelly turned pale and swiped his hand across a sweaty forehead.

“We'll be ready. You go tell everyone Slocum's cleared of Annabelle Harris's death and that I'm holding Lucas for it.” The judge pursed his lips. “Go on. It'll be fine. You come right on back. Sober.”

Donnelly looked like a prairie dog as he left, his head bobbing up to look around, then dipping down, only to pop back up a few paces farther down the street.

“He's a weak link, Slocum.”

“He'll do his duty,” Slocum said, more for Deutsch's benefit than to mirror the truth. Given the chance, “Donkey” Donnelly would bray and kick and run like hell from any trouble. “I'll let Deputy Locke know what we're planning.”

“Do it after you get that pine ooze off your hands. There'll be plenty of time to set the trap.”

Slocum left, the night air invigorating him. The notion of all the Deutsches behind bars appealed to him, especially if Judge Locke charged them with Annabelle's murder, even if they didn't do it. What rankled was the notion the deputy had pulled the trigger—or the judge himself. Slocum knew he had to be sure before riding away from Taos. Annabelle's killer wasn't going to get away scot-free, whoever it was.

As he went in search of some kerosene, he had to wonder if Locke would press that charge to the fullest. Slocum couldn't shake the feeling the judge had been responsible for killing Annabelle and framing him to use as a cat's-paw in his determination to bring the Deutsch gang to justice.

He found a kerosene lantern in the livery stable and sloshed the liquid on his hands. The pine sap peeled away easily when he rubbed his hands on a rag. As he worked, he realized he hadn't figured out Judge Locke yet. Did the man step outside the law to bring his son's killers to justice or not? It made sense to Slocum that he or Deputy Locke had shot Annabelle, but wouldn't it be quicker if they just rode up to the Deutsch ranch and opened fire? With a posse backing them up, they could cut down the entire family.

That was a possibility if Judge Locke ignored the letter of the law. If he adhered closely to it, someone else had killed Annabelle. And that had to be one of the Deutsch boys.

Or Rory Deutsch himself.

A last swipe got the kerosene off his hands. Slocum wiped down his six-gun to be sure the hammer and trigger were free of the sticky sap. After checking the load, he walked back to the jailhouse. The stars were a brilliant blanket overhead, giving him enough light to walk easily.

He turned the corner and started for the jail when he saw three horses outside that hadn't been there before. Slocum broke into a run when a single gunshot rang out. He threw down on the masked pair leaving the jail, with Lucas Deutsch trailing them.

He fired at the biggest of them. He recognized Timothy Deutsch's shout of defiance. Slocum fired until his six-shooter came up empty and still he ran. The three rode off in a cloud of dust.

Slocum kicked open the jail door. Marshal Donnelly lay facedown in a pool of his own blood. From the look of it, the single shot had drilled smack through his forehead. In the rear, a single cell door stood open, the key ring swaying gently from the key in the lock.

They had come for Lucas Deutsch much sooner than he had expected.

“He's dead,” Judge Locke shouted. He pointed at the marshal's body on the floor as if the lawman were in contempt of court. “I should never have let you talk me into such a harebrained scheme.”

Slocum had never known Marshal Donnelly, but Annabelle's opinion of him had been lower than a snake's belly. That didn't mean he wanted to see the lawman dead, especially when the trap had been sprung too soon. That much of the judge's scorn he had to bear. Dealing with the Deutsch family had shown him how dangerous they were. He should have known.

“They got to town mighty fast,” Slocum said. “I hadn't been back a couple hours and Rory Deutsch was already here to spring his boy.”

“I heard tell that Deutsch was in town earlier today. He might have figured out what had to be done when the other one showed up.”

Slocum nodded.

“There's no doubt that Timothy Deutsch was one of them springing Lucas,” Slocum said. The man's bulk was as distinctive as if he had worn a Union flag wrapped around his shoulders. “They both wore masks, but the other one had to be Rory Deutsch. I recognized his horse, a paint with a patch on its rump.”

“I'll get my son and we'll go after them. I can find the posse. We'll burn the son of a bitch out if we have to.” Locke stepped over the marshal's body on his way outside.

“Something doesn't fit,” Slocum said. He tried to put into words the uneasy feeling that he was missing something important.

“Rory and Timothy Deutsch broke Lucas out of jail. Marshal Donnelly's dead. What's wrong with you?”

Slocum started to speak, but Judge Locke stormed away. Pulling up the marshal's desk chair, Slocum sat and stared at the body, as if the corpse would come alive and tell him what he missed. It was as straightforward as Judge Locke said. Timothy Deutsch was quickly identified because of his size. Rory Deutsch's horse was as characteristic. Lucas was gone. One had killed the marshal, and it mattered naught which had pulled the trigger. In the eyes of the law, they were all guilty.

That was enough for Judge Locke. Why wasn't it enough for Slocum?

He heaved to his feet, skirted the drying blood on the floor, and looked around before leaving, homing in on the Santa Fe Drinking Emporium across the plaza. The gaiety had died down and Pete had only four customers. Two snored at a table, a deck of cards and stacks of poker chips ignored. The other two stood at the far end of the bar, arguing in a friendly way. Slocum saw nothing to hint at sudden death here.

“You outta the clink? Fancy that.” Pete bent down behind the bar.

“Leave the scattergun where it is. Judge Locke decided it was one of the Deutsches that killed Annabelle.”

“Now why'd they go and do a damn fool thing like that?”

“Tom wanted to buy liquor from a dealer in Denver, and so did she. Rory Deutsch's monopoly on the town's whiskey supply was threatened.”

“One tiny crack in the wall can spread,” Pete said, nodding. He stood. “You want a drink?”

“Not the Taos Lightning that Deutsch sells you,” Slocum said. “That's too strong for me. A beer.”

As Pete drew the beer, he said, “Rory don't have no trouble drinkin' his own swill. I never seen a man who could put it away. He was in here all afternoon. He was half my business.”

Slocum said nothing. This was an instance of the owner drinking up the profits since Deutsch had cut himself in as a silent partner in the cantina. Pete would have gone out of business without the cheap whiskey.

“I do declare, he put away damned near a full bottle of that 'shine.”

“When did he leave?”

“Couple hours back.”

“He must hold his liquor well,” Slocum said. Rory Deutsch hadn't shown the least bit of drunkenness as he mounted and rode away from the jail after rescuing Lucas.

“Don't know 'bout that,” Pete said. “The door wasn't close to bein' wide enough when he left. A while back, a week or two 'fore Tom was killed, Rory spent the day in here. It took three of his wranglers to get him on his horse.”

“They get him back to the X Bar X?” Slocum frowned as he sipped the tepid beer. Again that mental itch bothered him, and he didn't know where to scratch to ease his mind.

“Suppose so. Ain't my part to see customers get home, even if one of 'em's the owner. The silent partner, at least.”

Slocum heard the bitterness in the saloon keeper's voice. Pete had little in the world but his pride in owning the Santa Fe.

“Hey, Slocum, I got a few bucks for you. From the nights I ran yer place 'til the whiskey run out. Didn't see no reason to peddle only beer, and I didn't know how Rory would take it if I used some of the Santa Fe's 'shine over at yer place.”

“Hang on to it,” Slocum said. He had forgotten about the Black Hole. “I don't know when I'll get back to it. I need to—”

Slocum looked up into the mirror behind the bar to see Judge Locke run in. The man's face was flushed, and he gasped for breath.

“There you are, Slocum. He's gone.”

“Lucas Deutsch?”

“No, you idiot, my son. Byron!”

Slocum glanced at Pete, who stared wide-eyed. He began wiping down a beer mug without actually seeing it.

“I ain't seen him since earlier, Judge. He was in here 'bout the time Rory Deutsch was,” Pete said.

“He took out after Deutsch. They have him. You got to get him back, Slocum. This is all your fault. You made a complete mess of it.”

Slocum's anger rose, but he held his tongue. Arguing with the judge got him nowhere. If he pointed out that the Deutsches had no reason to take the deputy marshal prisoner and would have killed him outright, Locke would have slapped him back in jail. The law ceased to mean anything compared with revenge.

A whole indigestible lump of vengeance rested in the pit of Slocum's belly. For the good deed of bringing Tom Harris to town to die, he had wandered into a real shit storm that never stopped. The one good result had been Annabelle, and she'd caught a bullet in the back because of him.

“Did Rory Deutsch say anything about hightailing it?” Slocum asked Pete.

“Nope. All he went on about was fixin' his still. The old one got blowed up, from the hints he dropped. The man is obsessed with makin' 'shine, but then that's 'bout all he does that amounts to a hill of beans. Heard tell the X Bar X is hurtin' from his poor management. Even heard the last of his wranglers have drifted on, but I can't testify to that for certain sure.”

“They took Byron when they broke Lucas out of jail,” Locke said, cutting off Pete's gossip. “You have to rescue him.”

“How do you know he isn't on their trail? What makes you think they took him hostage?”

“Hostage for what? They sprung Lucas.” Judge Locke's florid face turned whiter than bleached muslin as the obvious hit him like a freight train. “They'd kill him, wouldn't they?”

“So he's on their trail,” Slocum said. “That ought to make finding him easier. The Deutsches will leave tracks and so will he.”

He drained his beer and left the judge with Pete and the other customers. The night air he drew into his lungs cleared his head. Byron Locke might have gone after the gang by his lonesome. Chances were better that he had caught a few bullets and lay dead along the trail. Slocum fetched his horse, got supplies for the chase, and rode from town a little before dawn stroked the sky with pink and gray fingers. A storm formed over the Sangre de Cristo peaks in front of him, making it even more important to get on the trail before rain obliterated every trace.

 • • • 

He spied on the ranch house for over an hour and never saw movement anywhere. The entire Deutsch family had abandoned it. Slocum hoped to find one of them and sneak along on his back trail to find the deputy. He had failed to find any trail at all of the Deutsches or Locke from Taos so he decided that his best option was to watch and wait. Catching a glimpse of Marta Deutsch again wouldn't have been so bad either.

Slocum wondered if he could get her to help him. She knew how dangerous her brothers were. The way she disappeared just before they showed up with blood in their eye proved that, but the lovely woman hadn't shown any hint that she would turn them over to the law. She helped Slocum get away from them, but she always covered her own sweet ass first.

Venturing closer, he made a quick search of the house. Downstairs gave him nothing, but he lingered in Marta's bedroom. He hadn't expected to find a room quite this plain. Such a pretty woman surrounded herself with pretty things, knickknacks, porcelain, and lace. He hesitated rummaging through the wardrobe, yet he found himself driven to do so. The clothing hanging inside was simple, with more sturdy clothing suitable for riding than he'd expected. He even found a duster with what looked like a bullet hole in the canvas.

Slocum snorted in disgust at himself. The room looked more like an austere hotel room than a woman's—and he was pawing through her belongings like some sneak thief. He closed the wardrobe door, looked at the neatly made bed, and wondered how it would be with Marta in bed rather than in the hay or on the cold, rocky ground. Someday he would have to find out.

After finding nothing to help him in the other rooms upstairs, he went to the bunkhouse. The X Bar X had once employed as many as two dozen wranglers from the number of beds he found. Now the cobwebs and dust told a different story. Deutsch had either fired them, or they'd drifted away. He chalked up Pete's gossip as being the gospel truth.

That meant the X Bar X was no longer a working ranch but instead had become an outlaw hideout. Rory Deutsch made more money selling his Taos Lightning in town than he could in a good season of cattle raising. Slocum had tallied up the numbers, and Deutsch rivaled any of the land grant owners in wealth because of his moonshining and extortion.

The crates given to the cowboys to stash their gear were all empty. He sat on one and stared around him. This ranch had been a big one in its day. Selling Taos Lightning had proven more lucrative than the backbreaking work of raising cattle.

His hand flashed to his six-gun when he heard a rider approaching. Slocum went to the bunkhouse window, rubbed away a spot on the dirty pane, and saw Rory Deutsch heading for the barn. The rancher hurried, telling Slocum he had to act now.

Before he could race outside to get the drop on Deutsch, the man had mounted and ridden off to the south, the barn blocking his departure. Slocum ran to get a better look. It was Rory Deutsch, all right, but he rode a different horse other than his paint.

Unable to capture him here, Slocum knew the next best thing would be to track him to wherever he and his boys had made camp. Finding Byron Locke alive wasn't too likely, but Slocum could lasso the trio and drag them back to Taos for Locke to pass judgment on them.

How best to go after Deutsch caused Slocum a few seconds of consternation. Riding hard then sticking a pistol under his nose to force him to tell where his sons were had advantages, but when Slocum galloped across the pasture, he discovered that Deutsch had vanished. He slowed and finally dismounted to look for tracks in the grassy meadow. The turf had been cut up by dozens of horses crossing, making it impossible to tell which set of hoofprints belonged to Deutsch.

Then Slocum's nose twitched. A familiar smell caught on the breeze and blew straight for him. Deutsch had his still running again, only in a different location. Caution told him to approach without being seen to find what he'd got himself into. Slocum's usual patience abandoned him. He rode straight into the woods, homing in on the heady smells of distilling Taos Lightning.

A curl of smoke from the center of the woods confirmed what his nose told him. Slocum slipped his pistol from its holster and braced it on his saddle horn as he made his way through the trees.

Ahead he caught sight of a horse—it wasn't Deutsch's.

He walked his Appaloosa to a point where he saw the still in a small clearing. The horse had been tethered next to a lean-to. Slocum would have bet the Black Hole Saloon that Deutsch had ridden from the barn, but he came around to believing he was wrong. Someone hired by the rancher might have gone to fetch supplies, then come straight here. But he didn't see the man anywhere.

Knowing his quarry had to be inside the small shed built for the still, Slocum rode closer and brought his six-shooter up.

A flash of motion out of the corner of his eye brought him around. Rory Deutsch disappeared into the woods. It had to be Deutsch. The rider wore the same duster Slocum had seen the rancher wearing when Lucas was busted out of jail.

Slocum considered capturing yet another distiller working for Deutsch or going after the rancher himself.

He tugged on the reins and got his Appaloosa trotting through the woods after Deutsch. The man had to lead Slocum to his sons' camp—and maybe even Byron Locke.