Slocum and the Thunderbird (2 page)

He said nothing more, saddled, and led his gelding out into the warm autumn sun. Easily mounting, he started after the rancher.

“Slocum, hold up. They got a head start on us. If we cut across country, we kin overtake them 'fore they reach town.” Dupree pointed off at an angle from the road.

He didn't bother answering. Slocum simply turned his gelding's head and trotted away. Dupree knew the land in that direction better than he did. It took a half hour before they encountered a deep ravine that made further progress a problem.

Slocum seethed at the delay as they rode the bank until they found a way down into the arroyo, then worked another fifteen minutes until a break in the tall bank afforded them a return to level ground. Without a word, Slocum set a faster pace than either of the others' horses could maintain. Even then, too much time had been wasted.

He rode down Halliday's main street, then drew rein and watched as Holman left the bank empty-handed. The rancher had deposited his ill-gotten money in the secure vault.

“Whew, Slocum, you surely did git here in jig time.” Rawlins saw his former boss mount and ride away. Holman didn't see them. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

“He put the money in the bank,” Slocum said.

“What're we gonna do now?” Dupree asked.

Both Slocum and Rawlins turned toward him, but to Slocum's surprise, Rawhide gave the only answer to their problem.

“We rob the bank.”

Then both of them stared at him. Slocum was the only one with experience using a six-shooter—and robbing a bank.

“Good idea,” muttered Slocum.

“Yeah, they owe us,” said Dupree, obviously trying to convince himself.

Then both men stared at Slocum and, as one, asked, “How do we do it?”

The two of them laughed nervously before Rawlins went on. “We ain't bank robbers. I heard tell of men robbin' banks and trains, but I never seen it done with my own eyes.”

Slocum paid no attention to the men. He carefully studied the streets of Halliday, taking note of how sleepy-looking the town was. This late in the afternoon, men hadn't come in from the ranches yet to whoop it up in one of the half-dozen saloons lining the main street. The marshal's office at the far end of the street might have been deserted for all the activity there. No horse tethered outside, men didn't head for the jailhouse on business. If anything, they veered away from it.

Slocum considered what that might mean. He had come into town more than once to get drunk and find himself a woman, but he'd never seen the marshal. Not raising a big enough ruckus might be part of it, but Slocum thought enforcement was lax in this town. The ranchers preferred it that way and would call Marshal Hillstrom on the carpet if he threw too many of their hands into jail for whooping it up. That said nothing about how fired up the marshal might get if the bank with all the ranchers' money in it was robbed.

“How do we plan it? I mean, what do we need to do?” Rawlins asked. “'Fore we stick it up.”

“Pull up your bandannas like this,” Slocum said, tugging at his sweaty neck scarf and tying it over the bridge of his nose so only his eyes peered out from under his hat brim.

“We can do that,” Dupree said, duplicating Slocum's effort. “Then we—”

“Then you take out those rifles I gave you and chamber a round.” Slocum kicked free of his horse, looped the reins around an iron ring mounted at the side of the bank, drew his six-shooter, and went to the front door. “Follow me,” he said.

With a quick kick, he slammed open the double doors so hard they smashed against the inside walls. Glass in one shattered, sounding like a gunshot. This got all the tellers' attention.

Slocum stepped inside and heard the broken glass grinding under his boots. He lifted his pistol and aimed it squarely at the bank president at his desk behind a low railing to the left.

“This is a robbery. Keep your hands where I can see them or
he
gets ventilated.” To emphasize his order, Slocum cocked the Colt. In the small bank lobby it sounded like the peal of doom.

“Grab the money,” Rawlins said excitedly. “We take all of it, Slo—”

“Only what's ours,” Slocum said, cutting the man off before he could blurt out the name. Louder, he said, “Where's Holman's bag? The one he just came in with?”

The teller closest to the bank president held up the burlap bag.

Dupree snatched it from the man's shaking hand.

“We kin get more,” he said, half fearfully, half in greed.

“Is it all there?”

“Cain't tell,” Dupree said, peering into the bag.

“Empty your cash drawer,” Slocum ordered the teller. “Just to be sure.”

“You can't do this,” the president said, half standing. His florid face turned beet red when Slocum planted a bullet into the fancy desk smack in front of him. Wood splinters flew into his face.

“We're only taking some of it.”

“Got it,” Dupree said, holding up the stuffed bag.

Slocum backed away as Rawlins and Dupree left ahead of him, cackling like hens at how easy the robbery had been. When he was sure they had mounted, he pulled the doors shut behind him and vaulted into the saddle. As he put his heels to the gelding's flanks, he saw the bank president poke his fiery red face through the broken window. Slocum sagged inside when the man fired a hideout pistol. A derringer wouldn't do a whole lot of damage at such a distance, but Slocum couldn't count on the heavy slug not finding its way into his horse.

Slocum began firing, slowly, methodically. The banker's bald head disappeared, amid cries of confusion. The tellers had crowded close behind and the retreating bank officer had collided with them. That suited Slocum just fine. The more confusion he created inside the bank, the less likely any of them were to give a decent description.

Galloping after the other two, Slocum knew the telling of the robbery would grow the longer it took for the marshal to show up. Even now, the bank employees might be willing to swear that a dozen men had stuck them up and give descriptions that would fit no one in the entire territory.

“Slow down, or you'll kill the horses,” Slocum called as they rode around a bend in the road and got out of sight of town.

“We done it. Jist as slick as snot, we done it!” chortled Dupree.

“We'll ride a ways farther, divvy it up, and then go our separate ways,” Slocum said. Due west rose wind-eroded mountains that hid the worst of the Badlands. Out here it was hilly, but there a man could get lost mighty fast.

Get lost—or lose a posse.

“Split up?” Rawlins asked, confused. “We're partners. We kin—”

“We split the loot, then go different ways. If you two want to rendezvous later, make your plans now before we stop.”

“You don't want to ride with us, Slocum?” Dupree sounded hurt.

“We've got to make it as hard as we can for the law to find us.”

“Sounds like you've got some experience in that department,” Rawlins said.

Slocum cut off the road that angled southwest toward the town of Overton and trotted straight west for what appeared to be a pass leading deeper into the Badlands. He had more than his share of experience dodging the law. Although he had never poked through the stack of wanted posters in the Halliday marshal's office, he likely would find an old reward on his head. After the war he had returned to Slocum's Stand in Calhoun, Georgia, only to find a carpetbagger judge had taken a shine to the land and intended to raise Tennessee walkers.

A faked tax lien was all it took for the judge and his hired gun to ride out to seize the property. He had gotten more land—and less—than he'd bargained for. Slocum had buried the two down by the springhouse, then had ridden away. Killing a federal judge, even a thieving carpetbagger judge, was a crime Reconstruction bureaucrats looked poorly on. The wanted poster had dogged his tracks ever since—not that he hadn't accumulated a few more along the way. Working for a living never bothered him, but sometimes using a six-gun and a mask, as he just had, was the only way to keep body and soul together.

More than this, it often dealt out justice where the law refused to budge. The town marshal would never have listened to Slocum and the others' pleas that they had been robbed of their horses and salaries. The Box M spread was about the largest in the county. Holman was respected, and even if his reputation included rooking hardworking cowboys out of their due, the marshal wouldn't have listened. A judge wouldn't listen and no one in Halliday was likely to either. The Box M brought too much business to town to risk angering the owner.

“Might be you don't think much of us as partners,” Dupree said.

“You said it yourself. I've got experience robbing banks. You don't. This doesn't have anything to do with how good a partner you are on the trail,” he explained, trying not to let an edge of anger cut along with his words. “We've got to play it smart.”

“Hell, they won't come for us,” Dupree said. “Marshal Hillstrom's not budged from town in months.”

Slocum brought his horse to a halt and put his finger to his lips to quiet the other two. He cocked his head to one side, then turned slowly so he located the shouts. From what few words he could make out as the anger drifted on the cool afternoon breeze, several men were riled up over the bank robbery. They had mistakenly thought the robbers had remained on the road that curved around and headed to the southwest.

“Either of you know how good a tracker Hillstrom is?”

Dupree and Rawlins exchanged looks, then shrugged.

“Heard tell he used to be an Army scout for the Seventh 'fore he got his leg all busted up. Might jist be a tall tale.”

Slocum couldn't risk that it wasn't. The posse would follow the road until the marshal found a rise that let him look a mile or two ahead. Not seeing his quarry, he would backtrack and hunt for any spot the trio might have left the road. Slocum cursed under his breath. Not doing anything to hide their tracks, at least for a short distance, might be their undoing.

“It's too late to cover our hoofprints,” he said. “We ride as fast as we can for the hills and lose ourselves there.”

“Does get rocky mighty fast. They don't call these Badlands fer nuthin',” Dupree said.

“You reckon the hard ground'll confuse the posse?” Rawlins kept looking over his shoulder into the twilight, as if he felt the marshal's hot breath on his neck.

“Can't hurt,” Slocum said. They were reaching the end of their rope. Their horses had stumbled for more than a mile, a sure sign that they'd be on foot if they pushed too much harder. “Let's take a rest here,” he finally said, not wanting to but realizing the need.

“Good thing. Poor ole Betsy's staggerin' around like she's drunk,” Rawlins said.

“Like you, the last time we went to town,” Dupree teased him.

Slocum walked his horse around to cool it down a mite, then began a hunt for water. They needed more than the few drops remaining in their canteens, the horses most of all.

He skirted a rock, then stopped dead in his tracks. Only gathering shadows as the sun sank behind the hills before them saved his hide. Not twenty feet away, two Sioux braves watered their horses at a small spring bubbling up into a rock basin. Moving slowly, Slocum stepped back. He made certain each foot was secure before putting weight down. To turn a stone now would alert the Indians. While they were partially hidden in the same shadows that had saved him, he caught the glint of faint light off war paint on their faces.

When he pressed his back against the rock, he dared not breathe again until he felt secure enough to get the hell away. Walking faster now, he found the two cowboys arguing over some picayune thing.

“We got company. Hush! Keep your voices low. There are two Sioux warriors on the other side of this rock.”

“What'll we do, Slocum? Should we cut 'em down?” Rawlins clutched his rifle so hard that his hands shook.

“Let 'em water their horses, then go their way. When it's safe, we'll water our horses from the same pool.”

“But a war party! Them's dangerous souls, Slocum. The Sioux been hankerin' fer a fight nigh on three months,” said Rawlins.

“Rawhide's right, fer a change. They don't like the white man diggin' up their land for gold.”

Slocum quieted the two. They both stewed in their own juices. When they were about ready to pop from the strain of not arguing, he motioned them to follow. It had been the better part of a half hour. The Sioux braves should have finished watering their mounts and gone on their way.

He let out a pent-up breath when he saw he was right. Darkness had fallen, making it difficult to see. The moon wouldn't be up for another hour to light their trail. If he remembered rightly, it was three-quarters waxing full and, clouds willing, would give them light enough to ride deeper into the Badlands.

“Fill your canteens, too,” Slocum ordered. “We don't know when the next watering hole will spring up in front of us. Either of you come this way before?” He didn't have to see them shaking their heads in the dark to know they all rode blindly into terrain that swallowed up unwary riders without a trace.

Retreating was out of the question. That would put them into the arms of the law from Halliday. Slocum had the feeling in his gut that the marshal wasn't the kind to give up easily. Not finding the bank robbers on the road would only incense him.

“Scary ridin' after dark like this,” Dupree said.

“Give your horse her head,” Slocum advised. “She'll do better than you can in the dark.”

“Ain't never knowed a horse that could see in the dark like an owl.” Dupree craned his neck around and added, “Night's so dark the bats'll stay home.”

“Moonrise in an hour,” Rawlins said with confidence.

Slocum let the two ride ahead as he brought up the rear to keep a sharp lookout. Less than a half hour later, he was glad he had not let either of them watch their back trail. The sound of ponies alerted him to the Indians coming after them.

He considered falling back farther, then ambushing the war party. When he caught sight of the leading two riders, he smiled. He could take care of two warriors. Then his confidence faded when he saw dark shadows crowding close behind the leading riders. He stopped counting when he reached ten.

Urging his horse to greater speed, he overtook Rawlins and Dupree at the mouth of a canyon.

“We got big trouble,” he told them. “Those were only scouts back at the watering hole.”

“Scouts?” Rawlins said uneasily. “You see a big war party?”

“We're not going to fight them. Outrunning them is our only chance.”

Slocum looked around. A canyon angled off to their right. The one stretching ahead looked more promising since it took a sharp turn to the left only a hundred yards in. A quick look at the canyon rims warned him they had no chance in hell of finding a trail and getting out of the winding maze of rocky walls.

“Fast. Don't worry about being quiet,” Slocum said. He caught the rattle of unshod hooves against rock behind them. “If we have to find a place to make a stand, I want it in a canyon where the Sioux can't flank us.”

“You got the sound of a military man 'bout you, Slocum,” said Rawlins. “Seems like there's a whale of a lot about you we ain't heard yet.”

He had no time to relate his experiences with the CSA as a captain, even if he had anything there to brag on during his service. Slocum led them in deeper, took the sharp bend, and immediately began hunting for a spot to ambush the Indians. Outrunning them wasn't going to work. And he knew outfighting them wasn't likely any better a plan, but he wanted to die fighting rather than allowing himself to be taken captive. A war party might decide to torture their prisoners.