Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Unwelcome Visitors

  Slocum’s steady hand drew his .44 from the sheath of leather beside the bedroll. Wilma lay on her stomach, still breathing hard. Her face blanched as she looked at him with an unspoken question. Lying on his belly behind the willows with the hammer cocked on his .44, he could not see the two men who, obviously from the sounds, were searching for their camp.

  “They can’t be far.”

  “His horse is hobbled. I see it out there with the others.”

  “Where are they?”

  Silently, Wilma frowned at him as Slocum held out his free hand for her to be still. He wanted to surprise the hell out of them.

  “I thought you said this getting him would be easy—”

  “Shut up.”

  They must have missed Slocum and Wilma. After shaking his head at her offer of his pants, Slocum eased his way through the willows. He could see the pair standing in front of the tent, their backs to him.

  “Hands in the air or die,” Slocum shouted.

  “What the hell—” The older one cocked his hammer, but when he jerked around, Slocum shot him in the chest and he spilled over on his back. His loaded gun went off in the air. The second man raised the muzzle of his pistol—obviously shaken by the surprise attack of a naked man.

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

  LONGARM by Tabor Evans

  The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

  SLOCUM by Jake Logan

  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

  An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson

  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SLOCUM AND THE TRAIL TO YELLOWSTONE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / January 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-55364-0

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  1

  Slocum’s heart beating under his breastbone while he caught his breath sounded like a large Indian tom-tom. Changing hands with his Colt Army model .44, he swallowed, then dried his sweaty right palm on the side of his britches. The sharp traces of spent gunpowder filled his nose. His shoulder pressed hard against the wall of the saddle maker’s building; his ears turned to hear the sounds in the night, and he listened hard. A dog barked out on the street—somewhere some men were shouting, “Where in the hell did he go?”

  I’m in the alley, stupid. His horse was half a block away, hitched beside the Valley Tribune Newspaper building. By being careful, he hoped to slip down the alley and get to his mount. They didn’t know the animal, nor, in all likelihood, had they seen Slocum ride in on him a few hours earlier.

  On his move from the saddle maker’s building to the rear of the mercantile, he crossed the dark back dock, smelling the sweet molasses feed and feed grain’s thick aroma. His eyes adjusted to the starlight even under the porch roof as he slipped across to the far side with some ease. Then the sounds of someone’s footsteps moving between the store and the next building came to his ear. In response, he moved to the wall between some crates to conceal himself, his .44 cocked and ready.

  “You see him?” someone asked his companion, out of breath and standing in the starlight not six feet away from the porch.

  “Hell, no, I wouldn’t know him if I saw him.”

  “Who in the hell is he?”

  “Slocum’s his name is all I know.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Shot someone over a card game in Gertmeir’s Saloon.”

  “Probably some tinhorn who deserved it. I’d bet he’s long gone.”

  “Let’s get out of here. He’d probably shoot us if we did jump him in this damn dark alley.”

  “Yeah.” They hurried back toward the street.

  Slocum listened to them shout when t
hey were out front. “He ain’t back there.”

  He moved off the porch. In a short while, he made his way like an Apache through the alley until he was looking at the silhouette of his horse standing hipshot under the cottonwood branches. Inching his way close to the whitewashed pine siding, he stepped out, undid the reins wrapped on the worn-smooth rail, and put them over the horse’s head.

  “Easy,” he said to the animal out of habit. The gelding snorted in reply. Slocum about laughed. That horse didn’t understand anything except that they would soon be moving. His foot in the stirrup, he threw his leg over and, seated, turned the animal north. The bay gelding set into a jog and drew a few dog barks after him. The skin on Slocum’s shoulders felt taut as his horse clopped past some dark homes, and he half expected a bullet or a shout to challenge him at any moment. Soon they traveled between the small, fenced, irrigated fields, and a milk cow’s bawling broke the night crickets’ orchestra sounds.

  He smiled, looked back, and saw no pursuit. Satisfied there was no one coming after him at the moment, he sent the bay off in a long lope. The horizon began pinking in the east over a towering range as it moved closer to sunup. When he came off the mountain and knew he had only a short distance to go before he reached Marla’s place, the tight tension in his back muscles eased.

  The corrals and Marla’s low-sided log house blazed in the first bright light of the sun as he reined up. Marla came to the doorway in a dress unbuttoned down the front. The dim light in the shadows showed flashes of her flesh as she appraised him from inside the house. As she swept her hair back, one of her pointed breasts became exposed, and so did the half-dollar-sized nipple on the right.

  “Didn’t expect you to come home this soon,” she said in a dry, smoky voice. Then she hunched her shoulders and gripped the dress closed about midway down. He could still see her cleavage. He dropped from the saddle and held on to the saddle horn until his sea legs were firm under him. Then he stepped out and she came over to kiss him.

  Finished kissing, he held her and rocked her against him. “I wasn’t coming back this soon.”

  “What happened?”

  “That Townsend kid drew a gun on me in a card game.”

  “Oh, no.” She squeezed him harder and pressed her firm boobs into him. “His father has all kinds of power. What now?”

  “I better get on my horse and ride. I can’t beat him in a prejudiced court of law.”

  Her green eyes narrowed and she looked upset at his words. “But if he drew a gun on you, how can it be a crime to shoot him?”

  “Money and power, like you said, would get me railroaded.”

  “What now?”

  He smiled at her, then with his hands, he gently moved the dress apart to expose her shapely body for him to look at. With a mischievous grin, her green eyes sparkling, she stepped back inside the open doorway and undid the buttons on her dress. Then she gave a shimmy, and the dress fell to her feet. She swept the garment up and turned to show him her shapely rump. “Come on, big man, the bed is this way.”

  In no time, he shed his clothing and boots. The morning temperature chilled his bare skin, and he stepped over to the bed to get under the patchwork quilts. She hid beneath them, holding the covers up to her chin.

  He slipped under the bedcovers and soon began to feel her smooth skin and firm flesh under his hands as he slid against her. He sought her left nipple and rolled his tongue around the stiffening point. She rose off the bed for his attention, her mouth formed an O, and she inhaled. “Gawd, Slocum. That’s wild.”

  He moved over her leg and nested between them, his rising erection bumping into her. Quick as a cat, she gripped his prod to push it down and then inside her wet gates. She raised her butt to accept him, and he plunged deep inside her.

  “What will I do—” Her words were cut off by his strength, which sent her flying away in a thunderstorm of lovemaking, fired by his regrets—today he must part with this passionate female who was rubbing her smooth belly against his corded one. He drove into her with even more fierce effort than usual, and she responded by crying out to encourage him. Lost in each other, they soared higher than a bank of thunderheads and fought through the updrafts to ride the tops of the sky. Then, at last, he came inside of her and she strained to join him. Like colorful hardwood leaves in the fall, they glided back and forth from one side, then the other, until they landed on earth like a feather.

  “Oh,” she cried. “I’ll miss you, hombre. There are men in this world, but few with your strength and passion. Dear God, what will I do without you?”

  “Hire a couple of hands to do the ranch work and find you a new man to share this bed.”

  “Where?”

  “Marla, you weren’t looking for a man when you found me.”

  She swept the hair back from her face and settled on the pillow. “I was about over the loss of my husband, Rail. You caught me during a rare lapse in the effectiveness of my shield against men moving in on me.”

  “Any good man could break down your barriers.” He laughed, pulling on his pants. “We better have breakfast and I’ll ride on.”

  “If I don’t feed you, will you stay longer?”

  “No, I need to move on. Mark Townsend will send the toughest men he can hire looking for me when he gets the word that his worthless son is dead.”

  She shook her head, angrily putting on her dress. “Everyone knows that boy of his wasn’t worth a damn.”

  “Blood’s thicker than water. Worthless or not, the old man’ll want revenge, and he can afford to hire it.”

  She raised her chin, busy buttoning up the front of her dress. Working to squeeze her boobs under the material, she shook her head in disgust at her disobeying body. “I know you like them, but at times they get in my way.”

  They both laughed.

  Slocum started the fire in her iron stove, feeding the small strips of wood he’d chopped earlier for her. He’d damn sure miss her cooking, the seasoning and care that went into every meal. Marla was a dream of a person to have shared his life with during the past six months while he helped her work her cattle, cut out and ship the culls, and make the ranch’s operation top-notch for her. To have to leave her after all this time and all their efforts tugged on his mind. But there was no other way; he must ride on.

  Coffee making was soon completed. He took a steaming cup and went to the front door to look at the mountains for any sign of someone coming for him. Too soon for any pursuit to get out here. With his mouth pursed, he blew on the drink’s surface to cool it. “Marla, have you ever been to Cheyenne?”

  “Not in years.”

  “There’s a guy named Gary Crane who runs a saddle harness repair shop on Dray Street. Gary Crane, Dray Street, Cheyenne. Gary might know where I am if you ever need me real badly. I mean real badly. Send him a note or go down there. However, it might be slow, me getting word and then getting back here, but I’d come.”

  “Send a note to Gary Crane on Dray Street, Cheyenne, or have him forward my letter. Tell him to get hold of John Howard?”

  He agreed with a head bob.

  Tablespoon in her hand, she looked up at the underside of the cedar shingles on the roof for help. “I hope I can remember all that—if I really need you. All right, I have some huckleberry syrup for these flapjacks.” She was soon on her hands and knees behind the curtain on the lower wooden crate cabinets securing the quart of fruit preserves. Out of breath, she rose up holding the blue treasure. “There. The butter is on the table. Don’t tell a soul you know about my syrup. I save it for special days like Christmas, and this damn sure is special, to have you leaving me.”

  His first bite of the pancake and her sweet syrup made him nod. “I see why. That is heavenly. I haven’t had any of that since I was a boy in the South. The berries grew on mountainsides, with chiggers, ticks, and copperheads living in the low bushes.”

  “Rattlesnakes in them up here. It ain’t easy to pick enough to make that much syrup.”

&n
bsp; He blew her a kiss and went on eating. When he finished, she stood up to hug him. “I have some elk jerky in a poke. Also some cornmeal with brown sugar that the Mexican folks boil in their coffee cups for nourishment. Just be careful is all I ask.”

  With her hugging his waist, they went outside and then she recalled his food sack and went back in for it. When she returned, he secured it in his saddlebags and then kissed her.

  Hard for him to release her, but there was no choice. He had to ride off, hide his trail, and get farther away from his enemies. He scratched the too-long hair behind his ear. Marla had planned to cut it when he got back from town. A haircut would have to wait until later. For now, he climbed onto his horse and, with one last salute to Marla, rode away from possible pursuit.

  In Buffalo, Wyoming, two days later, he swapped horses at a livery and rode east like he was going to Deadwood and the Black Hills. But he soon circled back south and headed into the Bighorns. He hoped his pony’s tracks were lost to anyone who was after him. If they knew his bay horse, he knew the red chestnut he rode now would not fit the description; besides, the livery man was pretty closemouthed. Later that day, he had climbed well into the Bighorns and felt that that would lose most any trackers, save some real Indian ones. He avoided people on his way and made no stops at any small crossroads stores.

  He had enough supplies from Marla to do him for several days. The second night in the Bighorns, he camped in the high country off any trail, back in the timber. He expected no one to come around, but the sound of horses on the move in the night awoke him. He quickly put on his boots under the stars and went to his own mount. He didn’t need the animal to start nickering to the others. Keeping him quiet might prove hard since the sorrel had not seen any others in two days.