Slocum and the Three Fugitives (14 page)

“I'm swapping him for you. If he's dead, that's the way your boys will get you back.”

Slocum grabbed Deutsch by the collar and heaved him to his feet. The man was shorter than he remembered.

And he wondered how Deutsch had swapped his paint for a roan. Slocum wondered about that as he scribbled out his ransom note and stuck it on a nail for Lucas and Timothy to find.

Slocum kept an eye peeled for the Deutsch brothers, but mostly he rode behind Rory Deutsch and puzzled over the horse the man rode.

“How'd you get to the still so fast?” Slocum finally asked. “You kill the horse under you?”

“I don't mistreat my horses. But I swear, when my boys catch you, I'll use a horse whip on you until the skin falls off your back.”

“How bad is he hurt?”

“Who are you talking about? That deputy of yours?”

“Timothy,” Slocum said.

“You plug him?”

“Wasn't the deputy that shot him. Locke came up from behind. I had a good shot at your boy and took it before he got feisty.”

“Shot him from ambush, more 'n likely. That's the kind of coward you are.”

“No worse than putting trip wires across game trails. Triggering a shotgun blast like that kills a man without knowing he's even in trouble.”

Slocum watched Deutsch's shoulders draw back as he rode a bit prouder. Something in the reaction seemed odd to Slocum. It was as if he didn't know anything about the booby traps. How he had reached the camp with his two sons might have been along a different path, but the one Slocum had seen with the shotgun was the most direct between still and camp.

He frowned as he considered that. Why hadn't his sons simply camped out at the still? There wasn't any call to go hide in the woods.

“What are you planning on, Slocum? Shooting me in the back?”

“That's not going to free Deputy Locke,” Slocum answered. “You're my poker chip, and I'm trading you for the lawman.”

“You're swapping a white chip for blue? That's rich.” Deutsch laughed a little too loudly, putting Slocum on edge.

He studied the terrain more closely. Deutsch tried to hide some small sound with his nervous laughter. They were a couple miles from the X Bar X ranch house, where Slocum intended to trade the man for Byron Locke. Blundering into the Deutsch boys before he got there would ruin his plan. He needed a safe position to conduct the swap. If they rode straight to the house, they would arrive before him but wouldn't see the note that he had taken their pa as prisoner.

“What are you going to do if they killed him? The deputy? They don't have any love for the law, much less carpetbagger deputies.”

“You better hope they haven't killed him,” Slocum said, but he considered how easy squeezing the trigger and leaving Rory Deutsch dead might be. Killing in cold blood came easy for some men. Not John Slocum.

Deutsch laughed again, too loud to be natural.

Slocum saw movement off to the right, just behind a sparse stand of pine trees.

“Ride!” Slocum swatted Deutsch's horse on the rump and sent it galloping. He bent low over the neck of his Appaloosa to present as small a target as he could. They crossed the meadow and hit a double-rutted road, kicking up dust that shielded them from sight.

Deutsch tried to veer away several times, but Slocum had worked the range too long to let a stray get away from him like that. The road curved and then the X Bar X ranch house loomed ahead. Slocum took a quick look around but saw no one moving about. Rather than the brothers reading his demand note, they had either stumbled across him as they rode or had come directly here and he crossed their path.

“To the barn,” Slocum said.

As he came up behind Deutsch, he stared at the loft door swinging in the wind. The wooden arm holding the pulley looked forlorn. The rope he had used to get away from Lucas and Timothy Deutsch before still lay in a pile on the ground. The memory of what he and Marta had done in the loft convinced him that not all the Deutsches were out to kill him.

“Inside,” he said. When Rory Deutsch hesitated, Slocum swung hard, connected with the man's cheek, and knocked him to the ground. Deutsch groaned and tried to sit up but failed.

“Can't move. You blew my shoulder to hell. Now my leg's all bent up.”

Slocum jumped to the ground, grabbed Deutsch by the collar, and dragged him to the barn door. He checked the man and saw he had told the truth. His arm hung useless and the fall had broken the right leg. Deutsch wasn't going anywhere.

Slocum led his and Deutsch's horses into the barn, retrieved his rifle, and loaded it. The last shell slid into the magazine when Lucas Deutsch trotted into the yard in front of the house.

“You got our pa. Let him go and we don't kill the deputy.”

“Send Deputy Locke out where I can see him.”

“We ain't killed him, not yet. But we will.”

“Your pa's got a game leg,” Slocum said. He pulled the rancher out and let him flop about just outside the barn door. “Send the deputy over and we'll swap.”

Lucas started to argue, then wheeled about and rode around the house where Slocum couldn't see.

“I hope they kill that damned deputy,” Rory Deutsch grated out. “I hope to hell they kill
you
!”

“They try either of those and you're a dead man.”

“It's worth it if I know you'll be waiting in hell for me.”

Slocum put the rifle muzzle against the man's head as Lucas rode back around.

“Deputy's all trussed up like a Christmas goose. We ain't freein' him from his ropes so you can trick us.”

“Get him out where I can see him.”

Lucas motioned. Timothy rode half bent over, clutching his belly where Slocum had shot him. Behind trailed a horse with a man slung facedown over the saddle. Slocum recognized the lawman's clothing but couldn't tell if he was dead or alive.

He had gotten himself into a tight spot. Shooting his way out made for a risk he refused to take unless he assured himself all three of the Deutsch family died on the spot. Rory was in a sad way, and Timothy had been gut shot. Slocum had seen men survive for a week or more before infection took them. Timothy might be on that road. That left Lucas, but the way the outlaw cleverly positioned himself, any shot Slocum made had to be past Byron Locke. The short range favored a single killing shot, but the horses milled about uneasily.

“I'll get mounted. I'm leaving your pa where he is. You set the deputy's horse to running and I'll catch up to it.”

Lucas tilted his head as if listening, but Timothy said nothing. His only contribution was a low groan as he clutched his belly.

“Get mounted,” Lucas said. He paused, then added, “And you better ride like you mean it.”

Slocum got his Appaloosa from the barn and swung into the saddle. He stared at Rory Deutsch. If looks could kill, Slocum would be dead a dozen times over.

“You need some of that Taos Lightning you're fixing up. That'll do for you real good,” Slocum said.

Then he was galloping after Locke's horse. Lucas had slapped its rump and sent it running full speed. But as Slocum rode after, a shot rang out. He looked over his shoulder. Lucas had already reached his pa and knelt on the ground beside him. Timothy wobbled in the saddle.

Another shot tore past Slocum. He saw Byron Locke jerk, then spastically twitch. Bending low, he dodged back and forth in a zigzag pattern to confound the sniper. No more shots came. Slocum reached out and snared the reins and guided the horse toward a ravine. Once in the arroyo, he slowed and finally brought Locke's horse to a halt. The animal's flanks heaved and its nostrils flared. It took all his skill to even get close enough to drag the deputy from the saddle.

Locke slid to the ground. Under his weather-beaten skin, he had turned pale. He reached out with a shaking hand, grabbed Slocum's coat, and pulled him close.

“Don't let me die, you son of a bitch.”

“You're too consarned mean to die from a single bullet,” Slocum said, seeing only a single bloody spot on the man's back.

He rolled Locke over and tore away coat and shirt.

“You're hardly wounded at all,” Slocum said. “The bullet broke skin but only went a half inch into you. Slug must have come from a punk cartridge.” He took out his knife, stretched the skin tight around the hole in the deputy's back, then pressed. Locke screamed. Slocum pressed harder and then dug the knife point under the small-caliber slug. It popped out into his hand.

Slocum displayed the bloody hunk of lead for the deputy to see.

“All removed. You're more scared than hurt.”

“I'll kill you for what you did!”

Slocum shoved the deputy flat on the ground and stood, towering over him. The knife dripped blood onto the lawman's chest. If it were possible, Locke turned even paler.

“You settled down?” Slocum asked. He slid the knife back into its sheath, then reached down, grabbed Locke's hand, and pulled him to his feet. The deputy almost fell, but Slocum kept him upright.

“Let's go back to Taos,” Locke said between clenched teeth.

“I got the slug out of you. You hit somewhere else?”

“Town,” Locke repeated.

Slocum let the deputy wrestle himself back into the saddle. Locke had put a dozen yards between them before Slocum stepped up and got his Appaloosa trotting along the sandy-bottomed ravine. The deputy's back was a bloody mess. If Slocum hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would have thought the man had died from the wound. Either extreme range or punk powder had kept the slug from drilling too deep into his skin. That failed to explain his choler toward Slocum.

They found the road from the X Bar X that led into town. Slocum weighed the chance of going back and capturing or killing the three Deutsches. With Rory all laid up and Timothy carrying a bullet in the gut, catching Lucas would be a breeze. Seeing how Locke wobbled in the saddle now and again warned Slocum a better course was to get the lawman patched up. Once he had begun to mend, they could go after the Deutsch gang.

Slocum barely slept that night, every sound a potential warning. And when the sounds died, he came fully awake. For no good reason. The night was as barren as a whore's compassion, leaving him almost as woozy as Locke when they hit the road the next morning.

By noon, they rode up to the Taos jailhouse and dismounted.

For the first time since escaping the Deutsches, Byron Locke looked alert.

“Your pa's not inside,” Slocum said, looking through the open door. The large dark stain on the floorboards marking where Marshal Donnelly had died gave mute reminder of how dangerous a game they played. “I can go look for him.”

Slocum turned and stared down the barrel of his own rifle. Locke had reached over and yanked it from the saddle sheath.

“Drop your smoke wagon, Slocum. Handle that gun real slow, or I swear, you die on the spot.”

“What's gotten into you?”

Locke levered a round into the chamber. Slocum had something new to worry over. The man was not only pale but his trigger finger trembled. Such a dangerous combination spelled death. He did as ordered.

“Kick the gun away.” When Slocum did, Locke came over, bent low, and grabbed the Colt. “Now, I—”

Slocum moved like a striking rattler. He grabbed the deputy's wrist and wrenched it back. The sudden gasp of pain told him he wasn't hurting the man as much as prior injuries were. That didn't keep him from pressing Locke back even more, but the lawman's determination knew no bounds. He twisted about and got his finger around the Colt's trigger.

“What's going on here?”

The question caused Slocum to glance over his shoulder and see Judge Locke hurrying up.

The brief loss of focus on Slocum's part almost proved deadly. Locke drew back the Colt's hammer. The hammer fell and detonated the round in the chamber. The slug missed Slocum's face by an inch and caught the brim of his hat, knocking it back off his head. Too much to deal with all at once forced him to wrestle with Judge Locke when surprisingly strong arms circled his body, pinned his arms, and then threw him off the deputy.

Byron Locke sat up, cocked the Colt Navy, and held it in a shaky hand.

“I'll shoot, Slocum. I can't miss, not at this range.”

“What the hell's going on, son?” Judge Locke stepped out of the line of fire. “Why are you holding him in your sights?”

Slocum tried to decide what his chances were against the trembling deputy, then decided he wasn't in any position to get away without catching at least one round from his own pistol. That riled him as much as the deputy's sudden change of heart.

“I brought him back after the Deutsch boys bunged him up,” Slocum said. “I swapped Rory Deutsch for him and now he wants to shoot me!”

“I heard them talking, Pa,” Byron Locke said, scooting to prop himself against the jailhouse wall. He steadied his hand on a bent knee, taking away any chance Slocum had to escape. “He's part of their gang.”

“They've tried to kill me. I would have killed them if I had a chance. I put a round in Timothy Deutsch's belly. Why would I go and do a thing like that if I was in cahoots with them?”

“All I can think is that was a mistake on your part. You might have been aiming for me and Deutsch got in the way,” Byron Locke said. “I want him in jail, Pa. If we can't get the rest of them, we'll at least have him.”

Slocum knew better than to argue. Whatever Locke had overheard had either been confused or something the Deutsch brothers deliberately said so he would turn on Slocum. Either way, the result was the same.

Slocum walked into the jailhouse, the deputy and judge close behind.

“They were lying,” Slocum said to Judge Locke. “Everything they said about me was intended to make your son think I was riding with them.”

He hung on the cell bars, watching how the judge reacted. It looked bleak.

“They expected to kill Byron,” Judge Locke said. “No reason for them to be so cunning. Besides, which of them thought it up? From everything you say, Rory Deutsch is the brains of the outfit.”

Slocum started to answer, then pursed his lips. Something fluttered across his mind, just beyond his understanding of what it might be.

He finally said, “Lucas isn't as stupid as he acts.”

“That boy shoots first and thinks on it later. That's one reason I want him swinging from the end of a rope.” Judge Locke turned even more dour. “You said you plugged Timothy?”

“Got him in the belly.”

“Byron claims Deutsch only pretended to be shot to make it look like you were on our side and not theirs.”

“I didn't miss,” Slocum said. “He's just dying slower than I expected.”

“Moreover,” Judge Locke went on, not hearing Slocum, “Rory was with you when they spilled their guts about you being part of the gang.”

“How's that make any sense? I brought Tom Harris back after they shot him. One of the Deutsch gang shot Annabelle in the back.”

“About that, might be Byron had the right idea at the time. If you killed her brother so you could be with her, then you might have killed her when she found out. That's a powerful argument for you killing both brother and sister.”

“I never met either of them before I came across Tom being robbed out on the road.”

“So you say. The trial will bring that out. You want me to find you a lawyer or you got one in mind already, Slocum?”

He had nothing to say to that. Locke, like his son, had passed beyond listening to reasonable arguments. The evidence piling up on Slocum's head was featherlight. A good lawyer could blow all the fluff away and lay bare the truth. Slocum settled on his cot and stared through the iron bars. That presented the biggest hurdle he had to getting free.

He needed a lawyer who believed him. Unless the Lockes had passed around the word that Slocum had been working for them while the posse scoured the mountains for him, most of the town still believed he had shot and killed Annabelle. Even if the lawyer made all the right arguments, finding proof for it bordered on the impossible. With a jury already questioning his innocence, Slocum worried that he might get his neck stretched long before any of the three Deutsches.

“I reckon we can get the trial started in a couple days,” Judge Locke said. “That ought to give your lawyer time to get all the evidence he needs.”

“Two days?” Slocum knew railroading when he heard it.

Again something struck him as odd about Rory Deutsch, but Judge Locke's rush to start the trial worried him more now. It might be that Locke intended using Slocum as bait. If he believed his son—and Deputy Locke believed what he had overheard—Judge Locke might be using Slocum to lure the gang in to rescue him. If that were so, Slocum would be dancing at the end of a rope with the Deutsches laughing as they watched his execution.

“Reckon I've been wrong in my approach to the law,” Locke said, picking his teeth with a wood splinter as he stared hard at Slocum. “An old man gets impatient. That's what happened to me. Getting my only living son all shot up convinces me I need to go slow, take my pursuit of justice a tad slower.”

“So you'll hang me, then go after the Deutsch family one by one?”

“Can't say that's wrong. If I remove you thieving murderers one at a time, that's eventually as good as doing it all at once. For all I know, it will be more satisfying.” He spat out the wood. A sneer came to his lips. “Though seeing the lot of you strung up side by side would do an old body good.”

“So much for a fair trial. You've already convicted me and sent for an executioner.”

“I'll tie the noose myself. Won't be the first time.” Judge Locke spun about and left, slamming the jail door behind as he disappeared.

Byron Locke had been carried over to Dr. Zamora's surgery, so that had to be where the judge was going. Or maybe his departure signaled the setting of the trap. Slocum rattled the bars, hoping that was so. If Locke wanted immediate justice, letting his prisoner escape so he could be gunned down before hightailing it out of town seemed a clever trap.

The cell door rattled but did not budge. Slocum examined every inch of the cell and found no weakness he could exploit. He had been put in the back cell, the one without a window, so prying loose the bars from the thick adobe walls wasn't open to him. A thorough examination of the outer wall and the floor showed no hint of a hole being started or a tunnel dug out in the rock-hard floor. Slocum flopped back and worried that the judge didn't intend to use him to draw in the gang but fully expected to hang him.

Slocum rubbed his grimy neck. He had come close to dangling before and had vowed to avoid that fate. Unless he came up with something brilliant in the next few minutes, that promise to himself was likely going to be broken—along with his neck.

He sat up fast when the office door slammed open and a gust of cool breeze whistled through. The bright sunlight outside turned the figure in the doorway into shadow. The man stepped back, motioned, and then made way for Lucas Deutsch. Slocum couldn't mistake him for anyone else.

Behind Lucas in the doorway leaned his brother. Timothy stood partly bent over, but from the way he gripped a scattergun, he was miles away from being dead. Right now Slocum didn't know how he felt about his earlier failure to kill the giant.

“Where'd they put the damn keys?” Lucas yanked out drawers and let them crash to the floor as he hunted.

“Middle drawer. Locked,” Slocum said. He watched as Lucas pried open the drawer and snatched the keys. With an expert spin, he sent the ring whirling and stopped it only when the proper key came up between his fingers.

“You do that like you have some experience,” Slocum said.

“Shut up. We were told to get you out. That doesn't mean I got to like it one damn bit.” He tossed Slocum's gun belt and pistol to his brother.

“Your pa wants me out?”

Lucas crammed the key in the door lock, inclined his head toward his brother, then turned the key. The cell door swung open easily. Timothy covered Slocum so he couldn't jump his brother.

“You want to stay in there?” Lucas asked.

“No matter what you have in store for me, I'm not inclined to stay one second longer,” Slocum said, pushing past Lucas. Timothy had already gone back outside.

Slocum saw him knocking out the rounds in the Colt's cylinder. Timothy shoved the Colt Navy back into the holster before tossing it to Slocum. It felt natural weighing down on his left hip, though he had to reload before that weapon mattered more than a hill of beans.

“Mount up. We're getting the hell out of Taos now.”

Slocum's Appaloosa pawed at the dusty ground, where it had been tied to an iron ring. A quick mount and Slocum was ready to ride. He caught sight of Rory Deutsch's paint vanishing down a winding street leading toward the plaza. Before he could start after the man, he caught sight of both Lockes. Judge Locke worriedly watched his son stumbling along under his own power. About the time he spotted them, Byron Locke saw him and went for his six-shooter.

Faster than thought, Slocum reached for his six-gun, then remembered Timothy had unloaded it.

“Back to the ranch,” Lucas said.

Slocum bent low as the deputy marshal began firing. For a man in his weakened condition, Locke's aim was damned good. The judge's shouts faded, but the warning rang in Slocum's ears for a mile down the road.

The judge had told his son to stop firing and to get the posse ready to hit the trail of “the goddamned road agents” again.

Slocum saw that Timothy rode ahead of him while Lucas brought up the rear. He slowed his headlong pace a quarter mile west of Taos and then began angling away. Lucas would have none of it.

“You ride with us.”

“Judge Locke's getting a posse together to come after us. Even if he can't prove you killed Tom Harris and his sister, you're guilty of breaking a prisoner out of jail.”

“Never killed the bitch, though I wanted to,” Lucas said sourly. Louder, he called to Slocum, “I was told to keep you with us all the way back to the ranch.”

“Why does your pa want to see me again? After I tried trading him for the deputy, I'd think he would want to see me dead.”

“Don't know what he wants. I know he's pissed how you burned down his still and left him a cripple.”

That struck Slocum as curious. Again the gossamer touch of memory caressed his mind. Then it all vanished as distant gunfire sounded.

“Damnation, Slocum, you was right. They got a posse after us quicker 'n I thought possible.” Lucas came even with Slocum. “That doesn't mean we're splitting up. That's not what I was told to do.”

“Your pa must want me mighty bad,” Slocum said.

When Lucas laughed like a hyena, he almost reached over and caught the man by the throat to choke answers out of him. Deutsch rode just far enough away so that wasn't possible.

“We got a chain of command. Me and Timothy, we do what we're told. It's worked out real good up till now. Never shoulda killed that lawman in Denver. That's what got the Lockes so hot for our hides.”

The distant report from rifles grew closer. Slocum heard the shrill whistle of a bullet ripping past. It was way high and no threat, but the rifleman would get in range soon enough.

“How are we going to get across the Rio Grande?” he asked.

“No way we can make the gorge bridge 'fore they catch up with us.” Lucas Deutsch pointed toward the southwest. “There's a way down into the gorge I know. We can cross the river there and be on our way.”

“They'll shoot us like clay pigeons,” Slocum said. All he wanted was the chance to get away from the Deutsch brothers. Clear of them, he could lose the posse, too.

Lucas stuck like glue to him, riding knee to knee. When he changed direction just a mite, Lucas cut him off and herded him back the way he had ordered.

“Ahead, Lucas, there's the notch ahead!” Timothy waved wildly.

Whether the gunshot in the gut betrayed him or he just lost his balance, Timothy Deutsch toppled from horseback and landed in a heap on the ground. Lucas shot Slocum a dirty look, then galloped to help his brother.

Slocum saw the notch in the rocky terrain Timothy had headed for, but he turned his Appaloosa due south so he could ride parallel to the river. The river curled about ten or fifteen miles farther south. Slocum could decide to cross there or keep riding south toward Santa Fe. Whatever he did freed him of the Deutsch brothers and got him away from the posse. They had to split up when Lucas got his brother back on the horse and ran for their way across the river.

The handful of posse remaining wouldn't be hard to lose once he reached the wooded area a couple miles off.

Only the posse didn't split up as he'd expected. If the temporarily deputized lawmen had any sense, two-thirds of them would have gone after the Deutsch brothers and the rest after Slocum. He could lose four men unskilled in tracking.

Only they all kept after him as if he'd had a big red bull's-eye on his back. He would never make the shelter of the woods and the diversion promised there. Cutting back east allowed the posse to cut him off. That left only one direction, and he hated to take it. Slocum rode west again, hunting for the rocky notch that marked the ford where the Deutsches intended to get over the Rio Grande. He couldn't fight off a dozen men. If he led the entire posse back onto the Deutsches' trail, the two outlaws would fight rather than surrender.

Slocum rode hard and felt his Appaloosa begin to falter from exhaustion. He slowed. By now the posse's horses were tuckered out, too. If they had been fresh, he would have been lassoed within a mile.

He saw Lucas and Timothy disappear through the rocky vee in the canyon rim and knew he had spotted the retreat. Slowing a bit more rested his horse but allowed some of the posse to close the gap between them. His hand brushed over the ebony handle of his six-gun. Even if it had been loaded, shooting wildly wouldn't have gained him anything. He was a sharpshooter, but riding a galloping horse, shooting over his shoulder—luck came into play far more than skill.

Right now his luck was wearing a trifle thin.

He chanced a look behind and laughed without humor. The two most aggressive in the posse had run their horses into the ground. The animals stumbled and then pulled up. They might be lame or just pushed past the point where they refused to be ridden one step more. Slocum didn't care. He burst through the rocky doorway and saw the steep path down the side of the gorge.

The Deutsches had already reached the bottom almost a hundred feet down and fought the swift current to reach the far side. The gorge wall there lacked a path, but Slocum guessed the outlaws had only a mile or two ride along the river before the gorge petered out entirely and opened up on level land. They didn't have to risk being shot off the far wall scaling a steep trail.

Slocum intended to overtake them—with a reloaded pistol.

He worked his way down the trail with more switchbacks than he could count. Every time he passed under the notch, he craned his neck up to see if the posse had come through. He gave the Appaloosa its head, letting it pick out the best track and pace so he could fumble in his saddlebags for ammunition.

Trying to reload as the horse swung to and fro on the narrow path proved a chore almost beyond his ability. More than one cartridge slipped from his fingers to tumble onto the rocky trail, but by the time he reached the riverbank, he carried a fully loaded six-shooter.

He started to cross the river when a shot rang out. Then another and another. Close. He looked up and saw three of the posse with rifles aiming downward at him. He pressed close to the gorge wall, cutting off their line of sight.