Slocum and the Glitter Girls at Gravel Gulch (9781101619513)

Always Carry Protection…

Bonnie stood there for another few seconds, then stooped over and picked up her nightclothes and slipped them back on.

“Maybe, in town…” she said to Slocum.

“Maybe,” he said. He began to put on his black pants and shirt. He pulled on his boots as Bonnie walked back to the wagon.

Slocum sat down and waited until it was quiet again. Then he plucked a cheroot from his pocket, lit it with a lucifer, and smoked.

Halfway through his cigar, he heard a muffled sound. Instinctively, he reached for his gun belt and unwrapped it.

He peered into the darkness in the direction of the soft sound.

His hand slid to the handle of his bowie knife. He saw a silver flash in the moonlight.

One shadow in the night grew larger and started toward him.

Slocum drew his knife and stubbed out his cheroot.

The shadow crept closer and he saw the form of a man and the man held a blade in his hand.

Slocum lay flat and the shadow began to run toward him.

Ten feet away, he saw the Apache, silent as a cat, running toward him at full speed, running toward the hobbled horses.

When the Apache was two yards away, Slocum rose up. He held the big blade at his waist, ready to strike.

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Slocum and the Santa Fe Sisters

John Slocum galloped his black horse off the small butte like roaring thunder. Ferro’s hooves, newly shod in iron by a Laramie blacksmith, struck sparks from the rocks and kicked up twin spools that followed them down like rust-infused dragon’s tails. He passed the four horses ground-tied to clumps of sagebrush and put the blunt spurs into Ferro’s flanks with a practiced tick that parted hide and tapped into flesh. The horse stretched its neck and flattened its ears on the level road with the wind in its teeth, its tail flowing behind it like tassels of black silk.

Ahead of him was a rickety covered wagon pulled by a four-horse team, hell-bent for leather, the driver whipping the horses as he leaned out and looked back at five young Apache braves yelping their war cries and firing single-shot Sharps carbines as fast as they could load them. A man Slocum could not see, who had been sitting beside the driver, stood up with his arms outstretched and fell from the wagon. The Apache shrieks rose to a higher intensity.

Slocum saw puffs of white smoke rising from the top of a
butte off to his right. He knew that the smoke could be seen for miles. While he could not decipher the message in the small smoke puffs, he reasoned that the signals could be a summons to others of the tribe at various locations.

Two of the Apache braves turned their ponies and galloped over to the fallen man. One of them dismounted and was pulling on the downed man’s hair after knocking his hat off with a single swipe of his hand.

Slocum slipped his Winchester from its sheath and let his single-looped rein fall behind the saddle horn. He cocked the rifle and heard the mechanism slide a cartridge into the firing chamber. He leveled the rifle with his right hand and braced the butt against the hollow where his shoulder joined his chest. Still, the blued barrel jumped up and down and was hard to steady. When the barrel dropped and blotted out the brave on the ground, he held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The Apache brandished a knife. Its blade glistened silver in the sun.

He levered another cartridge into the chamber and heard the ping of the empty hull striking the ground. The other brave looked at him and brought a Spencer carbine to his shoulder. He fired at Slocum. There was a puff of white smoke and a stream of orange and golden sparks that issued from the barrel.

Slocum turned his horse with knee pressure and headed for the mounted Apache.

He heard the whispery rasping sizzle of lead blow past his head with the ferocity of an angry hornet.

The Apache brave hunched low over his pony’s back and the horse galloped in a zigzag motion so that Slocum could not get a clear shot. In seconds, the pony and rider were out of range, headed for the butte, where the smoke signals were no longer visible.

As Slocum approached the wagon, it slowed until it came to a full stop.

“Howdy,” the driver said as he set the brake and looked back. “I’m mighty grateful you run off them redskins, stranger.”

“Your shotgun is dead,” Slocum said as he pulled up alongside the driver.

“I figgered that.” Obadiah Gump lifted his gray felt hat, which had all but lost its shape, and wiped a bandanna across his sweat-sleek forehead. “Tom warn’t with me long, but he should have had more sense than to show himself. We was outnumbered.”

Slocum heard voices from inside the wagon. Terrified women’s voices, voices that whispered in breathy tones.

“What have you got in there, mice?” Slocum asked.

Gump laughed.

“Got me two brides from Denver. Catalog brides, I calls ’em. They put their pictures in a paper and try to get some poor old sodbuster or miner to marry ’em.”

“Mail-order brides,” Slocum said.

“I calls ’em catalog brides. Most of ’em wind up takin’ care of some cripple or workin’ like a slave in a store or on a farm.”

“Where are you headed?” Slocum asked.

“Deadfall. It’s a—”

“That’s where I’m going.”

“You want to ride shotgun for me after I load poor Tom in the wagon?”

“I’m driving four horses there.”

“Hell, tie ’em to the wagon, yours, too, and I’ll pay you two dollars to ride shotgun.”

Two small faces appeared behind Gump. The women wore bonnets, but were young and pretty.