Slocum and the Three Fugitives (8 page)

“You believe in saving money on paying juries, don't you?” Slocum said.

Judge Locke's eyes widened, then he laughed, slapped his thighs, and leaned forward. He kept just beyond Slocum's grasp.

“That's quite a sense of humor you've got.”

“You expect me to tie my own noose?”

“I wouldn't go that far with any man, though I heard tell of some judges making the family pay for the rope. When a family in Arkansas refused, the judge pulled out a pistol and shot the condemned man. Then he held the family at gunpoint while his bailiff collected money off them for the price of the bullet.”

“That's quite a standard to live up to,” Slocum said.

“I'll talk to the editor on the paper in the morning, but by then you'll have escaped.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“My son'll let you out when he's sure you can ride out of town without drawing unwanted attention.”

“Being on the run ought to make me tolerable to the Deutsches, is that it?”

“You aren't going to leave this neck of the woods. I see it in your face. You want revenge, and this is your chance to do it all legal. Get the goods on them, bring them in, and I'll put them on trial in my court. Think of the bullets you'll save doing it that way.”

“That let's both of us get our revenge.” Slocum wasn't sure he liked the idea of a judge using the law for his own vengeance, though it wasn't the first time he had run across such a notion. It was certainly better than returning to Slocum's Stand and finding a carpetbagger judge ready to steal away his property. This way, he didn't have to kill the Deutsches. The legal system would grind them to dust.

He had no doubt they were guilty of a hill of crimes. Maybe a mountain, and probably one of them had shot Annabelle in the back while another alerted Deputy Locke to the crime.

“Might be necessary for me to shoot the bastards.”

Judge Locke nodded knowingly and then said, “Won't hold that against you. In the eyes of the town, you'll be a fugitive, but Byron won't try overly hard to catch you. If you have to gun down any of them, I'll exonerate you as an officer of the court working for me.”

“Can you deputize me?”

Slocum read the answer in the man's face. He was on his own when he went after the Deutsch family, and Judge Locke wasn't authorized to make him a federal deputy.

“I'll do it,” Slocum finally said.

Judge Locke laughed again.

“You don't have any choice. You say no, you're convicted of the woman's death. A judge is impartial during a trial but that doesn't mean I can't influence the attorneys just a mite, just to keep them within the boundaries of the law.”

Slocum had seen more than one judge browbeat a lawyer to get the verdict he wanted. It might take liquoring up the jury or ignoring protests from one lawyer or another, but a judge's power in the courtroom was supreme.

“When do you let it be known I'm a fugitive?”

“About any time that suits you. You realize how hard it will be for you to get in with them to get the evidence necessary for a conviction?”

Slocum knew. The Deutsches had tried to frame him for Annabelle's murder. There wasn't any good reason they would accept him into their gang. If anything, they'd be more inclined to catch him and turn him over to the deputy marshal. The same deal Judge Locke had outlined for Slocum appealed to them. They could get the law to remove an unwanted enemy. More than that, Rory Deutsch would see it as successfully completing his initial scheme since this was what he had wanted. Taking time to sort through all his impressions, Slocum thought the small man was the likely back shooter, though he had never seen his face. Rory Deutsch could as easily have killed Slocum when he gunned down Annabelle, but that took away the thrill of it.

Slocum guessed Deutsch harbored about the same fondness for the law that he did.

“How are you going to get cozy with them?” the judge asked.

“They own the liquor trade in Taos. Somewhere in the mountains they have a still going full out. That's a place to start.”

“You understand what's at stake?” Judge Locke looked over his shoulder as his son came in. Byron Locke carried his sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm.

“He agree, Judge?”

“He's not a dull boy, son. Of course he did.”

Slocum watched as the deputy unlocked the desk drawer and took out the keys. He spun and tossed the jangling ring to Slocum. Only a quick step forward and a grab through the bars rescued the keys. As judge and deputy watched, he opened the cell door. The plan was risky, and Slocum suspected a double-cross on the part of the lawman and his father, but Byron Locke handed over Slocum's Colt Navy without a word.

The gun belt felt good around his waist again. He balanced the six-shooter in his hand for a second, then crammed it into the holster.

“Give me an hour. I need supplies and a plausible story how I broke out.”

“You overpowered Byron,” the judge said. “Does it have to be more complicated than that?”

“Yeah,” the deputy chimed in. “They don't know us. With the contempt they have for the law, they'll believe a drifter got the drop on me and lit out for the high country.”

“Why didn't I kill you when I escaped?” Slocum held up his hand before either judge or deputy could answer. “I'll figure out a story to cover that. You tell about my escape and don't repeat yourself.”

“Good idea,” Judge Locke said. “Make it appear as to how we're covering up our own carelessness.”

“Don't forget this is your scheme. I don't want to get gunned down when I bring in the three of them.”

Slocum left quickly, hurrying through the gray dawn to fetch his horse. He rode to the Black Hole and got what supplies he needed from the storeroom but didn't ride out of town immediately. Instead, he stopped by Pete's. The owner of the Santa Fe Drinking Emporium slept in the rear. Slocum went around, eased open the door, and stepped into a small storage room filled with the scent of spilled beer and the sound of loud snoring.

He slipped around a pile of crates and sat on the cot next to Pete. The bar owner's eyelids flickered then snapped open. In the same instant he reached for a six-gun on the floor by him. Slocum made sure he couldn't reach it.

“Got a request of you,” Slocum said. “I'm leaving town for a week or two. If you run the Black Hole, you can keep whatever profits you make.”

“That's mighty generous of you, Slocum. What about Annabelle?” Then Pete grinned broadly, a gold tooth glinting in the sunlight struggling through a dirty window above his cot. “Her and you're goin' off together. Might this be a honeymoon? Ain't been a good hitchin' in town since the Armijo wedding four months back.”

“Not possible now,” Slocum said, shaking his head, but he didn't elaborate. “Here're the keys to the place. I'll expect everything to still be standing when I get back.” Slocum started to go, then asked, “How'd the place get the name? Black Hole?”

“'Twarn't Tom's doin'. Him and Annabelle bought the place from a limey name of Cruikshank. Bugger claimed to have been in the British Army over in India. Imagine that. Another place where they call the locals Indians. Anyway, Crook, as we called 'im 'cuz that was what he was mainly, said he named it after some place in India where a passel of limeys died in a prison, all jammed up together more 'n a hunnerd years ago. Crook shoved his customers in shoulder to shoulder, so I suppose it was apt.”

“Remember,” Slocum said. “I'll be back.”

Without another word, he made his way back through the maze of crates and got to his horse. The sun had risen far enough to bestir the town and get its citizens moving about for another day's commerce. As he settled into the saddle, he heard a loud cry.

He looked up and saw a man with a rifle drawing a bead on him. Slocum reacted instinctively. That saved his life. The bullet tore past and vanished into the cold morning air behind him.

“I got him. Here he is! The killer what murdered Annabelle Harris. I got him!”

The man worked furiously to chamber another round but the rifle jammed. The man cursed, looked up, worked more frantically as Slocum rode up and drew his six-shooter. Making a big production out of cocking it, Slocum pointed the muzzle at the top of the man's head.

“Don't go disturbing folks this early in the morning,” Slocum said.

The man dropped to his knees and began praying. Slocum eased back the hammer, holstered his pistol, and rode away, aware that the Lockes had called out their posse a lot sooner than he would have thought.

This sent him thinking along other lines. Maybe it was the deputy or even his pa that had killed Annabelle. Byron Locke had showed up mighty fast after the fatal shot. What Slocum couldn't fathom was the reason. The father-son team had him dead to rights and locked away in the town calaboose. Why release him to go after the Deutsches, only to loose a posse on his heels right away?

Everywhere he looked, men glanced in his direction. He rode faster to get out of town, though his haste was due to misgivings about the Lockes' motives rather than any of the pueblo's citizens seeing him with a wanted poster pinned on his chest. Heels kicking harder against the Appaloosa's flanks, he reached the outskirts of Taos and headed into the higher slopes, west toward the X Bar X.

Getting in with the Deutsch gang would be easier if Judge Locke had killed Annabelle. This gave him a perfect reason to hunt for allies. Who better to recruit than the man who owned or controlled almost all the saloons in town? Even if Lucas Deutsch had been the one who'd shot Annabelle in the back, that made a plausible story. Rory Deutsch might think of ways of using Slocum before trying to double-cross him. As long as Slocum watched his back, he could poke around as a member of the gang.

He had convinced himself that was reasonable by the time he reached the Rio Grande Gorge and started over the rickety bridge to reach the western side. It became even likelier when his horse reared and tried to twist around. Slocum spotted four riders galloping hard for the bridge, and he doubted they were in a hurry to get across.

They were the leading deputies of the posse sent to drag him back to jail.

“Easy, boy, keep a steady gait.” He guided the Appaloosa onto the bridge and started across. There might be room for two riders abreast to come after him, but not if he reached the far side. He could hold off an army from that position, though there'd be scant reason to try. Better to saw through the ropes supporting the bridge and force them to go miles up- or downstream to come after him.

His horse tried to rear as the bridge swayed in the strong winds blowing along the 800-foot-deep gorge. He leaned forward, using his weight on the horse's shoulders to hold it down. The Appaloosa calmed—but the posse recklessly charged onto the bridge.

From the way it sagged, Slocum doubted the bridge could hold the combined weight of the posse and him. He brought his mount to a trot in spite of the uncertain footing. The instant he reached the solid rock anchors on the west side, he kicked free of his horse and pulled out his Winchester. Cocking it and making a show of bringing it to his shoulder had the desired effect.

The lead deputy slowed and stopped midway across the bridge. It promised to be a turkey shoot if he kept after Slocum. The men behind him had to come to a stop. This caused the bridge to sway, straining the ropes from both the weight and the amplitude of the swing.

“Go on back to Taos,” Slocum called. “If you don't, you'll be picking fish out of your teeth down below.”

“You wouldn't shoot,” the man said foolishly.

Slocum snugged the stock to his shoulder. If he fired, four men and their horses died. His bullet wouldn't be responsible. The huge fall wasn't anything a man—or horse—could survive.

“All right, wait, don't shoot. We give up.” The deputy argued with the three crowded close behind. Getting a horse to walk backward was a challenge at the best of times. Doing it on a bridge that might give way at any instant added to the danger.

Slocum waited until the four were safely on the far side. He considered cutting through the ropes and sending the now empty bridge plunging into the river. He had a better idea.

Spare rope had been coiled beside the anchors sunk into the stone. He pulled some of it over and piled it at his feet, then pulled out the tin holding his lucifers.

“I'm setting fire to the ropes. You come across again, and you won't get halfway.” He struck the match and set fire to the coil of rope. It burned brightly, thick black smoke curling upward to be caught in the gorge updraft. The fire would keep the posse at bay, but without applying a match to the actual ropes holding the bridge, it would remain in place.

By the time the posse figured out their passage was safe, he could put quite a few miles between him and them.

He rode away with the posse screaming at him for destroying the bridge. Replacing the rope required someone climbing down into the gorge with a length of rope at least as deep as the canyon, then scaling this side. Once the new rope was in place, other cables could be pulled across until the bridge was repaired.

Slocum wanted only to hold the lawmen back, not destroy a bridge that had taken weeks to install.

He cursed when he started up a long slope going deeper into the mountains. The posse had caught on to his trick and one had ridden across to stamp out the fire. As much as Slocum admired such courage, he cursed it, too. He had eight men after him now, others from town joining the posse.

The mountains twisted about and rose to dizzying heights. Slocum kept to paths that let him make the best time through canyons, though he constantly looked for a path leading to a rim. If he reached the upper wall of any of these canyons, he could lose the posse. Nothing showed that wouldn't expose him to rifle fire if the posse got close enough.