Slocum and the Three Fugitives (13 page)

Slocum lost Rory Deutsch's trail within minutes. How the rancher managed to fade into nothingness as he had angered Slocum. He counted himself better than most trailsmen and the equal of the rest. It shouldn't have been possible for Deutsch to up and disappear as he had done.

Riding into a meadow, Slocum looked around. The still lay a couple miles behind. From here, he barely made out the curls of smoke rising from the fires feeding the distillation process, and the pungent odors were swallowed by the fitful wind. Craning his neck, he strained to hear any hoofbeats. The rising wind muffled such noise and robbed him of a powerful tracking method. The way Deutsch had ridden made it unlikely he knew Slocum was anywhere near.

So how did he get swallowed up by the forest so quickly if he didn't try to lose anyone on his trail?

Slocum wiped his face with his bandanna, then settled his agitation to concentrate. Deutsch hadn't tried to lose him because Deutsch didn't know anyone was out in the forest. Or did he ride to throw Deputy Locke off his trail? The judge could have been wrong that the Deutsch gang had taken his son prisoner. That never made a whit of sense to Slocum. Rory Deutsch would gun down the deputy and leave him where he fell. Or he might take him with him, then dump the body into the Rio Grande Gorge. No one would ever find it once the raging river carried it downstream.

Slocum put his heels to the Appaloosa's flanks and walked toward a stand of junipers that must have been Rory Deutsch's destination. Slocum realized he might have missed catching the man at the still by only minutes. He cursed his bad luck, and then he realized Lady Luck smiled on him instead.

By losing the tracks on the larger trail, he had wandered too far west and only now came along a small game trail. The trail where Deutsch had ridden had been rigged with a devious trap. A thin strand of rope stretched from one side of the trail to the other. Anyone not knowing it was there would have broken the string. As it was, Slocum had come up past the trap and saw the way the rope had been wrapped around the backside of the tree and up to a shotgun tied to the tree limb.

Blunder across the trigger, get a load of buckshot in the face.

Deutsch had something ahead to protect. Slocum advanced along the smaller trail cautiously, alert for any other traps. He had hardly ridden twenty yards into increasingly thick forest when he heard voices ahead. The argument grew heated. Slocum came to the edge of a clearing hardly a dozen feet across. In the center a cooking fire worked to heat a coffeepot dangling from an iron tripod. To the far side a crate had been opened.

Slocum saw the stack of supplies there, telling how this was a semipermanent campsite.

Timothy knelt by the fire, poking at it with a stick and trying not to look concerned at the fight between Lucas and his pa. Slocum drew his rifle and considered what he could do. Timothy Deutsch was an easy target. Lucas stood holding the reins of his pa's horse and Rory was completely hidden behind it. Slocum might shoot the man in the leg between the paint's legs, but it would be tricky since the horse would rear and Lucas might be able to return fire in the confusion.

“Aw, come on,” Timothy Deutsch complained. “Will you two stop arguin' so much? You're givin' me a headache.”

Lucas responded by raising his voice. Rory Deutsch's was muffled and sank to only a low murmur.

“Dammit, we can't do that. We got a federal marshal on our asses,” Lucas said. “If you hadn't busted me outta jail, Judge Locke woulda swung me for sure.”

Again Slocum couldn't hear Rory Deutsch's reply. The paint started pawing the ground and complaining. Slocum sat a little straighter and raised the rifle to his shoulder. From the way the campfire smoke blew, he had suddenly become upwind from the horse. His scent spooked it. If he didn't act quickly, all three outlaws would go free.

“Don't,” came the low voice behind him.

Slocum swiveled, the rifle training on Byron Locke. The deputy marshal motioned Slocum to retreat.

“They're all here. This is our best chance of taking them together,” Slocum protested.

“Don't have enough evidence. Not yet. I need to know where they hid the loot from the Denver job.”

Slocum backed away, then followed the deputy deeper into the woods away from the Deutsch gang. He seethed. Even if he had let one of them go, he knew two of the road agents would be dead by his hand. He still worried the Lockes might have had something to do with Annabelle's death, but he knew the Deutsch family had killed her brother. That might not be good enough for a court of law, but it was for him.

“What makes you think there's any evidence left?” Slocum asked when he and Locke were far enough away that the dense forest muffled their voices. Even with the wind blowing in the direction of the camp, they were safe enough. “Even if the banknotes from the robbery were issued on a Denver bank, that's not real proof.”

“I didn't want you shooting them out of hand. I need a confession.” The deputy looked earnest.

Slocum remained silent. Getting any of the Deutsches to confess to murdering a lawman was nigh on impossible. The deputy had to know that. Even a confession gained by torture wasn't going to be enough for evidence in a lawful court.

“What do you have in mind? There are three of them, two of us.”

“They don't know we're here—or that anybody's on their heels.”

Slocum remembered the booby trap set on the forest trail. The Deutsches showed foresight enough to ensure their own safety, or at least time to escape if the need arose.

“We can always make them think there are more of us than there are,” Slocum said. “Set up a rifle with a string on the trigger, fire it, and then rush in from other directions.”

“I'm not giving up my rifle for a single shot.” Locke clutched his rifle until Slocum wondered if he'd leave fingerprints in the stock.

“The big one's tending the cooking, Lucas and their pa were talking to one side of the clearing.”

“Clearing's only a few yards across,” mused Locke. “They might escape into the woods. If nothing else, they have handy places to extend a fight.”

“We come at them from opposite directions,” Slocum said. “When they take cover against one of us, the other gets the drop on them from behind.”

Locke nodded slowly, his lips working but no sounds coming out. He finally looked up and nodded a final, assured gesture.

“Good idea. I'll circle. I want to get the drop on them myself.”

Slocum doubted the deputy trusted him, but he only wanted this done with. The quicker they moved, the sooner the trio would be in custody and Slocum could get on with his life.

He waited for Locke to mount and ride off into the dense woods. He took out his pocket watch, flipped open the case, and studied it as if he had never seen it before. This was his brother Robert's sole legacy, and every time he stared at the ornately engraved case or the roman numerals around the dial, he thought of him. Slocum blinked and got out of his reverie. This time as he stared at the hands moving as if dipped in molasses, he had the chance to settle himself.

After five minutes, he thought Locke had plenty of time to get into position. Slocum hefted his rifle, walked back to the clearing, leaving his Appaloosa out of the line of fire. A quick look made him wonder if any time at all had passed. Timothy Deutsch still poked at the fire, and Lucas and his pa still argued.

Slocum thought a single shot would cut the legs out from under Rory Deutsch. The paint crow hopped and made such accuracy chancy. As he pondered taking the shot, Timothy Deutsch looked up and let out a whoop.

“Slocum! He's found us!”

The giant of a man went for his six-shooter. Slocum shifted his aim from Rory Deutsch's knees to smack dab in the middle of his son's massive body. His finger came back, the rifle bucked, and Timothy Deutsch grunted, then sat heavily. He looked down stupidly, reached up, and brushed at his chest with the muzzle of his six-gun. Then he collapsed in the dirt.

“Hands up!” Slocum shouted to empty air.

As Deputy Locke had anticipated, the others had ducked into the woods, using the thick-boled trees as cover. Slocum worried that Rory Deutsch had gotten his horse out of the line of fire. He tried to find the man in the woods but couldn't. Foolishly sticking his head up almost got it shot off by Lucas Deutsch.

Slocum ducked back and got off a couple rounds to keep Lucas from noticing Byron had sneaked up on him. It occurred to him to shoot low. Random lead sailing over Lucas's head might endanger Locke.

“You're not going anywhere, Deutsch,” Slocum shouted. “Your brother's dead.”

He glanced at Timothy Deutsch and realized it took more than a single bullet to kill that hulking giant. Feeble kicks turned stronger until Timothy flopped onto his belly and started crawling for the underbrush.

Slocum edged around. Shooting a wounded man in the back wasn't his style, but for Timothy Deutsch he made an exception. If he hadn't been the one who had murdered Annabelle, he had taken part in the frame-up. Slocum braced his rifle for the killing shot, only to be startled when he heard Byron Locke cry out in pain.

“They got me, Slocum! They got me. Shot me clean through the leg. Take 'em down. Take 'em all down!”

The deputy's voice cut off suddenly. Slocum jerked around and fired at the escaping Timothy Deutsch. His shot missed. Then he dove for cover as two six-shooters opened up on him. He had Lucas's location pegged, but where was Rory?

“I can't let you back-shooting sons of bitches go,” Slocum called. Insults meant nothing. He wanted Rory to reveal himself so he could get a better shot. Kill the father, maybe Lucas would get so mad he'd make a mistake.

Slocum liked the idea of Lucas Deutsch charging headlong at him to avenge his father's death.

Nothing of the sort happened. Try as he might, Slocum failed to see the slightest movement in the brush that gave away Rory Deutsch's position. A couple shots where he thought the man might be hiding failed to flush his quarry.

Slocum ducked down when Lucas began firing with more accuracy. One bullet tore away a splinter just inches in front of his nose. Slocum wiped away sap, then emptied his rifle's magazine before switching to his six-gun. He took only two shots before realizing something was wrong.

“Deutsch?”

Nothing. Slocum threw caution to the winds and rushed across the clearing, vaulting the low fire and iron tripod with the coffeepot swaying beneath it. He crashed through the undergrowth. Nothing.

The Deutsches had escaped.

Slocum circled the area like a caged animal, muttering to himself as he pieced together what had gone awry with the attack. Byron Locke had been caught by Rory Deutsch. From the evidence, the deputy had been tossed over his saddle and led off. Slocum saw tracks of two horses leading away. Working farther afield, he found a trail of blood from Timothy Deutsch's chest, but he also saw where the man had mounted and ridden away in a different direction.

Lucas had stayed as a rear guard, then hightailed it, too, leaving Slocum alone at the camp.

Slocum got his bearings, knowing he had to rescue the deputy from Rory Deutsch, hiked to his Appaloosa, and mounted. It took the better part of ten minutes to find the trail again.

And he lost Deutsch and Locke within another ten minutes. That Rory Deutsch had evaporated into thin air made Slocum angrier than ever. This time he had the deputy as his prisoner, and Slocum was left with no way of finding him.

“A swap,” he said to himself. Resolve hardened as he swung his horse around and set off through the forest, wary of other shotgun traps.

He found two others along the biggest game trail. Why a deer or wolf hadn't triggered the guns was something of a mystery, but wildlife had a way of surviving. One season he had spent the winter trapping in the Tetons and had almost starved to death and hadn't bagged more than a dozen pelts. The critters had outwitted him at every turn.

Just as Rory Deutsch was doing now.

Slocum finally reached the meadow, where he spotted the curls of smoke rising from the hidden still. The only one with a connection to the Deutsches he could find was whoever tended the still. His value as a trade for Locke was questionable, but Slocum had nothing more. All his cards had been played and his chips shoved into the pot.

He found the place where he had started his futile hunt for Rory Deutsch, then worked his way to the still. Heat from the fire made him sweat, even at twenty feet away. His Colt Navy slid from the holster, and he dropped to the ground.

“Lucas, that you? I—”

Slocum fired as Rory Deutsch came around the shed holding the still just as the rancher went for his six-shooter. Slocum missed, and so did Deutsch. The difference came in Deutsch having the shack to use as cover. He slipped around the corner, then opened fire.

Exposed and out in the open, Slocum fell forward and braced his six-gun with both hands, his elbows digging into the soft dirt. He sighted carefully, forcing himself to bide his time. His most recent mistakes had all come from rushing. Calming himself, he squeezed back slowly on the trigger.

It discharged. His reward came in a loud yelp. Deutsch dropped his six-shooter and left the shelter of the shed to grab for it.

Slocum squeezed off another round. This one hit Deutsch in the shoulder. From the shriek of pure pain, Slocum knew he had busted his shoulder joint. Deutsch would be lucky to ever use his arm again.

“Stay where you are or the next shot will blow the top off your head,” Slocum said.

He got his knees under him, then rose to his feet. The entire while he kept his pistol trained on Deutsch. After going to him and kicking away his six-shooter, Slocum said, “You're in sorry shape, but then the deputy's not likely to be better off.”

“The deputy? Locke?” Deutsch stared at him with a mixture of confusion and loathing.