Slocum and the Thunderbird (16 page)

“Lock shackles on him,” the guard said. Two others rushed over to clamp the irons on Slocum's ankles and snap shut the locks.

“He got a key. He can get free, like he did me,” the prisoner said. He cackled when a guard found the key in Slocum's pocket and held it up.

“Yup, that's it,” the guard with the rifle trained on Slocum said. “You're a slippery cuss. Now you got to do the work of two men.”

“That's because they're letting me go free. I won't be working in the mines no more,” said the man who had betrayed Slocum.

“You're right, old man,” the guard said. “He has to do the work of two men because we just lost one.”

“Lost me, lost me,” the man said. Then his eyes went wide and he held out his hands as if he could deflect the bullet that seared into his gut. “Why? Why'd you shoot me?”

“Nobody gets out of the mines, but you done us a favor, so we're doin' you one. You don't have to dig ore now,” the guard said. He fired again. This round hit the man in the head. He died on the spot.

“We better get back to work,” Watson said.

“The two of you have to peck out twice the ore. If you don't, you stay at work until you do.”

As Slocum and Watson shuffled back down the stope, Slocum asked, “Why'd you knock me down?”

“I didn't want to die,” Watson said. “You would have killed us all.”

“It was a ruse to get the guards to run. The powder burns slow. There'd have been time to kick a gap in the trail.”

Watson shook his head, then said, “Sorry. I panicked and thought you were trying to kill everyone.”

“Should have,” Slocum groused.

“Shut up and get to work. There're the picks.” A guard settled down across the small chamber where Slocum and Watson began work on the quartz vein flecked with gold.

Bit by bit, the ore dropped to the floor. Slocum worked steadily but not as hard as he might have. His body ached from all the wounds he had acquired, but he mustered his strength rather than trying to produce the ore for Mackenzie. It might take a spell, but he knew what would happen. And less than an hour after beginning to swing the pick, he saw the guard begin nodding off.

Slocum nudged Watson and said in a low voice, “Keep an eye on him.”

“Why? We can't get close to him without rattling our chains. That'd wake him up before we got within five feet of him.”

“Might be I can throw my pick and skewer him,” Slocum said, enjoying the prospect.

“Men who tried that all ended up dead. There's almost no chance of killing him outright.”

“Might be if I had a key to the locks.”

“You lost that,” Watson said with rising anger. “I never thought Tallman would betray us like that. You set him free?”

“He paid for his stupidity by trusting Mackenzie's men,” Slocum said.

“They kept the key.”

“Not this one,” Slocum said, reaching down into his boot. The shackles restricted his reach but the key finally came free.

A quick look in the guard's direction convinced him he had to act now. The lock opened with a click that sounded like the peal of doom. Slocum froze, worried it would bring the guard out of his stupor. The man stirred, swiped at his nose, then settled back. The rifle rested in the crook of his arm, but Slocum saw his Colt Navy jammed into the guard's belt. That was the weapon he wanted more.

He unlocked the other leg, pulled off the shackles, and gingerly set them on the ground. With careful steps, he went to the guard. He rubbed his hands together to get the dirt off them, then moved like a striking rattler. Slocum grabbed his Colt from the guard's belt; it almost jumped into his hand and felt all firm and secure. The guard snorted and opened his eyes. Then his eyes rolled up in his head as Slocum swung the barrel hard into the man's temple.

“Bring the shackles,” Slocum said.

“Kill him. I'll kill him if you don't.”

“We're doing this my way. It's better to leave him alive to create a ruckus. The guards will fight and give us more time to get away. If he's dead, they'll come for us right away.”

“We can shoot our way out.” Watson handed over the shackles and grabbed for the guard's rifle.

Slocum attached the irons to the guard's ankles, then released Watson. He used those shackles to secure the unconscious man's wrists to an ore cart. Only then did he step back. He worried that he was drenched in sweat. It was hot in the mine and he had been exerting himself, but attacking the guard had pushed him to his physical limit. Food, sleep—especially sleep!—would renew him, but not as much as being a free man again.

Without asking Watson to follow, he strode off down the tunnel, slowing only when he neared the larger chamber where Tallman had been cut down. As he expected, the four men listlessly swinging their picks had been left unguarded.

Slocum held up his finger to his lips, cautioning Watson to silence. He pointed to a half-filled mine cart. Rather than argue, Watson slipped past and climbed into the cart.

The nearest prisoner looked up. His eyes narrowed when Slocum held out the key to the man's shackles. Using sign language to indicate what he wanted, Slocum handed over the key before climbing into the ore cart.

The miner started to remove his chains but Slocum whispered, “After we get out. If they see you aren't shackled, they'll know something's wrong.”

“How?” the man mouthed.

“Push us out, but be sure they aren't watching when you unlock yourself.”

The miner tucked the key into his belt, covered Slocum and Watson with a tarp, then began pushing. The cart creaked and screeched as its wheels finally began turning. The tracks caused the cart to sway from side to side as they yielded, but the motion forward became constant.

“I'll kill them all if I have to,” Watson said, clinging to his rifle.

“Better to get away without being seen,” Slocum said. “You'll be with your wife and Alicia before dawn.”

“Where are they?”

“Safe,” Slocum said, then silenced the man. Voices coming from an ore cart would alert even the most slovenly guard.

The cart jostled them and then stopped. A gust of wind lifted the tarp. Slocum grabbed for it and pulled it back down. He looked at Watson and whispered, “We're outside. Wait until we're dumped out.”

“The guards will see us. The piles at the end of the tracks are sent to the ore crusher.”

“Then we shoot it out, but I think the guards are getting sloppy. They think they've done their jobs for the night.” Slocum wouldn't have been too surprised to find the guards passing around a bottle of whiskey to celebrate being so good at their jobs.

He fell silent and gripped his six-shooter when he heard boots crunching on gravel around the tracks. Mumbled orders caused a louder argument. Slocum started to burst up to defend the man who had pushed them from the mine. He owed him more than the key to his shackles for risking his life. He peered out from under the tarp and saw the guard shoving the miner who had pushed them from the mine. The rattle of chains convinced Slocum he had been right demanding that the man wear his shackles. The miner—and they—would be found out if he had rid himself of the chains.

“What's happening?” Watson whispered.

“Quiet,” Slocum warned. He couldn't figure out what the argument was about. The miner refused to do something the guard wanted. That much was clear. But what else was there but dumping the ore cart onto the pile at the end of the tracks?

Slocum ducked down when the guard forced the miner back to the cart.

“What's going on?” Watson asked.

“I don't think Mackenzie'd want to waste an entire load of ore,” the miner protested.

“Shut up,” the guard ordered him. “You're not bein' paid to think. Hell, you're not bein' paid!” The man laughed harshly.

Slocum lost his balance and fell onto Watson as the cart rattled on.

“You want the ore
wasted
?” The miner spoke so loudly that it had to be for Slocum's benefit. What he meant confounded Slocum.

“Do it. Now.”

The ore cart slammed hard into a piece of wood nailed to the tracks to stop it for dumping. Slocum tumbled out from under the tarp before Watson. Instead of sliding onto a low hill of ore, they slid down a steep slope. Clawing at the loose gravel to check his fall, Slocum got a quick look below.

Linc Watson slid past and splashed into a noxious pond of waste from the amalgam plant. He screamed as the thick liquids spewed up into his face. Slocum tried to dig in his toes, to find purchase. He slid faster toward the poisonous pond after Watson.

“I'm blind!”

Linc Watson screeched as he splashed about in the waste from the amalgam plant, the slimy fluid drenching him and covering his face. He clawed at his eyes and then choked as more of the water got into his mouth.

Slocum slid down the slope, following the man into the pond. He grabbed futilely until a hard kick drove his toe into the slippery incline and slowed his descent. A kick with his other foot kept him from getting dunked in the pond.

“Quiet,” he called to Watson. “They'll kill us if you keep up that commotion.”

“My eyes,” moaned Watson, but he quieted. An occasional whimper escaped his lips but otherwise he settled down. His feet were in the black water while he sat on the bank, body and head well above the surface.

Slocum edged over, careful to keep from joining the man in the poisonous liquid. When he got behind him, he reached out, grabbed Watson's collar, and yanked hard. He pulled the struggling man from the water so he lay on his back facing the slowly lightening sky. Dawn was their enemy. If Slocum didn't get them away soon, the guards would spot them.

“Don't rub your eyes,” Slocum ordered. “Wipe the sludge away, then blink as hard as you can.”

“I can't see.”

“You have to or you'll never see your wife and daughter again.” Slocum used the only goad he could think of. It worked. “They're holed up in a ghost town on the eastern side of the hills. You go blind and you'll never find your way to them.”

“I know the place. We passed that town 'fore we started into the canyons.”

Watson dabbed at his eyes and then used his sleeve to get even more swiped off before turning his head to the side and blinking fast and hard. He cried out again, forcing Slocum to reach over and clamp a hand over his mouth. A guard stood above them, outlined against the dawn. Slocum couldn't tell if the outcry had drawn his attention or if something else had stirred up Mackenzie's henchmen.

When Watson stifled himself, still fighting to clear his vision, Slocum reached for his six-gun and steadied it to take out the guard. But the shot wasn't needed. The guard sent a stream of urine arching out until it formed a tiny rivulet that made its way into the pond. Then he buttoned up and left. Slocum let out his pent-up breath and relaxed a mite. That single shot would have meant their deaths when other guards swarmed over to see about the ruckus.

“Everything's blurred, but I can see better. I'm not blind.” Watson started to rub his eyes. Slocum stopped him.

“Keep blinking. Don't force more muck into your eyes.”

“Feels like I'm bawling with so many tears pouring out.” Watson looked up with his bloodshot eyes and smiled wanly. “Thanks. You saved my life and maybe my sight.”

“We're not out of trouble yet,” Slocum said.

He looked up the slope and saw how slick it was as sunlight glanced off the shiny black surface. Climbing would be a chore, but he saw rocky areas to support their weight. He pointed out the spots to Watson, then started up. After a few of the stones gave way under his weight, Slocum slowed and made certain of every hand- and foothold before pulling himself higher.

Watson slid back a few times but was only a yard behind Slocum when he reached the rim. Slocum flopped onto his belly and grabbed the other man's arm, pulling him to safety.

“I lost the rifle,” Watson said.

Slocum thought that was for the best. Watson's anger at being imprisoned and forced to work in the mine, what Mackenzie had done to his wife and daughters—all those reasons increased the likelihood that Watson would fly off the handle in a quest for revenge.

“If we steal horses, they'll know right away.”

“The wagon,” Watson said. “It's daybreak. If the wagon's leaving, we might sneak out on it.”

“What wagon?”

“Every week a wagon's sent south. There's a town on the railroad there. Mackenzie buys supplies using gold dust.”

“We might be lucky. With so much destroyed in town, Mackenzie will want to get supplies right away.”

“I saw him overseeing a wagon being loaded with the gold dust this morning, right before they sent me to the mine. It always leaves at first light.”

“Where's it leave from? The center of town?”

“No, from here.”

Slocum got to his feet, helped Watson stand, and turned him around to get his bearings. The man's eyes still watered, but they looked sharp.

“Over there,” Watson added, pointing. “The supply warehouse is right there.”

Slocum ran to the building, aware that the shift change would bring out double the number of guards. Since Mackenzie had already ordered more of his gang into the mines after the fire, the place would be swarming soon.

He and Watson pressed against the warehouse wall. Slocum opened a door and chanced a quick look inside.

“Four guards. Two are loading the gold, two are already in the driver's box.”

“What are we going to do?” Watson talked to empty air.

Slocum reacted fast. He scooped up a rock as he went into the warehouse. He heaved it hard enough to bang into the far wall, drawing all four men's attention. With a savage swing, Slocum decked one guard. The other responded, only to catch a hard punch to his gut, doubling him over. Slocum lifted his knee and caught the man on the chin. From the way his head snapped back, he might have broken his neck. He slumped to the floor and lay still as Slocum hopped into the wagon bed and slid under the tarp.

He reached for his six-shooter when he heard a disturbance behind him but realized Watson had finally joined him.

“The driver and his partner didn't see you drop the guards.”

The wagon clanked, creaked, and rattled from the warehouse, drowning out Watson's report. Slocum pulled a canvas bag over and pounded his fist on it. He unlaced the top and saw it was filled with dozens of smaller leather bags.

“This much gold can make a man very rich and very happy,” Slocum said.

The wagon hit a rock and sent both him and Watson flying, to crash back down. The sack of gold hardly budged. It would take the wagon to make off with the gold, but Slocum already considered how to get away with the shiny dust. All of it. Mackenzie owed him.

That thought sparked another. Rawhide Rawlins owed him, too. He hadn't located the cowboy, much less found out why he had hightailed it with the bank loot. Getting the Watson family free from their bondage was a start. Rescuing Erika went even farther, but Rawhide presented a different problem.

He drifted off to sleep, exhausted from all he had been through. His body hurt and had passed the limits of endurance. He had no idea how long he had slept but knew when he woke up that Linc Watson was gone.

So was the gold dust.

“Danged wheel's loose,” came the loud complaint from up front. “Thought it'd go spinnin' off when you hit that pothole.”

“Ain't my fault,” grumbled the driver. “You was supposed to tighten the wheel nut 'fore we left, but you was too hungover to do it.”

Slocum listened to the pair argue. He was in a dangerous spot. Watson had left with the gold dust. Leaving his rescuer behind was another way of putting distance between him and Mackenzie's men.

Anger built as Slocum turned that notion over in his head. Watson had left him to die after having his wife and girls rescued. Without the key and a helping hand, Watson would have died in the gold mine. He cursed his foolishness telling Watson where they were as a goad to get him to safety. Once he had mentioned Alicia and Mrs. Watson hiding out in the ghost town, Slocum's usefulness disappeared.

“Got a wrench in the back o' the wagon. Gimme a hand with it.”

Slocum slipped his gun from his holster, lay flat on his back, and waited. The tarp went flying. The two men jumped back startled when they saw their unexpected cargo.

“Make a move for your six-shooters and you're dead,” Slocum said, sitting up.

The wagon's poor condition betrayed him. As his weight shifted, the wagon lurched and the wheel popped off, sending him sliding. The shock of seeing him had worn off. Both men slapped leather. The air filled with lead. Slocum caught a bit of luck when neither of the men proved much of a marksman. He got off a round, sending them scurrying away like frightened rabbits. This gave him the chance to flop over the side of the wagon and land hard on the ground. The tilted bulk of the wagon sheltered him from more slugs sent his way.

Outnumbered and outgunned, he made his way to the nervous team. Working underneath, he unfastened the two horses. He intended to jump on the yoke between them and get away. His luck failed him now. As he stepped up to grab the harness, one horse reared. Slocum was thrown back and landed hard against the wagon.

Momentarily stunned, he failed to hang on to the harness as the horses galloped away.

“The gold's gone. That varmint stole the gold!”

The complaint warned Slocum that at least one man had jumped onto the sloping wagon bed and moved forward. He swung about and flopped on his belly, estimating where the man would be. He squeezed off a couple rounds, shooting through the wagon bed. From the squeal of outrage, he had winged the man.

That still left him in a precarious position. Now he faced two furious gunmen, one of them wounded.

“Give us back the gold, and we'll let you go free,” lied the gunman in the wagon bed.

Slocum heard boots scraping across the wood. Moving fast, Slocum rolled from the protection of the wagon as slugs ripped through the spot where he had been. He caught a flash of the man in the wagon bed levering his rifle and firing as fast as he could. It took Mackenzie's man a second to realize Slocum was no longer under the wagon.

Slocum squeezed off a round. He doubted he hit his target, but the rifleman dived for cover. Where the driver had gone didn't matter as long as Slocum could get the hell away. He ran for cover, sliding into a ditch alongside the road as another fusillade ripped through the air above his head.

He checked his pistol. He was low on ammo. If the men firing at him stopped, put into effect a decent attack, and launched at him, he was a goner. He sank down, thinking hard. As his ear pressed into the ground, he heard distant hoofbeats. His luck never improved. That had to be reinforcements sent from the mine to find out what had happened to the men he had left on the warehouse floor. If he failed to get away now, he would end up with shackles on his legs and working the mine again—or worse.

His back and torso ached from the wounds Mackenzie had inflicted with his razor-sharp thunderbird talons. Slocum couldn't rely on the Sioux to free him if he got strung up again.

The vibration from the horses' hooves changed to sound that filled the air. He glanced over his shoulder and saw two distant dark spots coming fast. A quick check of his Colt told him he was in big trouble. Caught between the two in the wagon and the approaching riders, he was a goner.

Sidling along in the ditch moved him away from the wagon. He took a couple shots to keep those men away. If they charged, they had him. He couldn't remember how many shots he had left, but if he had two, it would be a miracle.

“John!”

Hearing his name caused him to perk up and look around. It took a second to realize the two horses galloping toward him carried only one rider—Erika. The horse with the empty saddle was his gelding. He tried waving but drew fire and fell back. She would make a target of herself if she came closer to rescue him, but he would get himself filled with lead if he stood and ran to her.

She understood the problem, aimed his horse in his direction, and gave its rump a hefty slap. She stayed out of range as the gelding thundered toward him. When he saw the horse's path, he acted. Gathering his legs under him, he sprang out, dodged, and wove about crazily as the driver and guard fired wildly. His horse raced past. One chance. That was all he had. His fingers snaring the reins, he took three quick steps and jumped. His fingers curled around the saddle horn and then he was being dragged along until he kicked hard and became airborne. He landed in the saddle and immediately shifted his weight to steer the horse away from the road.

From behind he heard angry cries and finally the bullets stopped seeking his flesh. He had ridden out of range. The gelding strained on until Erika came alongside.

“You can ease up now,” she called.

He complied and let the gelding slow until it came to a halt.

“You're a sight for sore eyes,” he told her.

“I happened to be out for a morning ride and thought it'd be good if you joined me.”

“Right about now, there's nothing I'd like better.”

“You stirred up everyone in town 'bout as good as I did. It took the better part of an hour for them to put out the fire. Mackenzie has been ranting and raving. Offered a hundred-dollar reward for you.”

“That's all?” Slocum said dryly.

“I think you're worth more. You came back for me.”

“Watson lit out with a bag of gold dust. Mackenzie's not going to like that when he hears.”

“Any idea where he's going? Seems we ought to be cut in, considering he would still be swinging a pick in the mine if not for us.”

“I told him his wife and daughter were going to an abandoned town on the other side of those hills.” He pointed to the red-and-yellow stratified mountains due east. “I like the idea that he settle up since . . .” Slocum's words trailed off.

Rawhide Rawlins had money that was his. A share of it, at least. They had earned that money, and thinking of it as stolen from the bank hardly counted. It was money owed him, Rawlins, and Dupree by a scoundrel of a rancher. But a share of Mackenzie's dust would make a fine replacement.

“Can we find him?”

“He was on foot,” Slocum said, “but I don't know how much of a head start he has.” Carrying the heavy sack of gold dust would slow any man. “I don't cotton much to taking the road through the hills since we'd have to pass those damned guard towers.”