Sheriff Sam Hewitt looked up from his plate when the lone rider leading a horse passed in front of the window. Though he only caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye, there was no mistaking the massive figure of the despised bounty hunter Slocum. Sheriff Hewitt took supper in the hotel dining room every night. Slocum knew that, so Hewitt knew the surly bounty hunter would turn around and come back to the hotel when he found the jail locked. Might as well go on down there, he thought, pushing his plate away. Seeing him takes my appetite, anyway.
Slocum was already back in the saddle when he saw the sheriff walking from the hotel. He dismounted again, stepped back up on the walkway, and waited by the office door. “Evenin’, Sheriff,” Slocum said as Hewitt approached.
“Slocum,” Hewitt acknowledged. He stopped and stood on the walkway, working a toothpick around in his mouth as he gazed at the stiffened corpse draped across the extra horse. “I reckon that would be Crowder,” he stated.
“Yep, that’s him,” Slocum replied, grinning. “That’s all five of ’em,” he reminded the sheriff. There was no love lost between the two men, and Slocum knew it. For that reason he enjoyed Hewitt’s irritation when he brought a man in dead. The notice said “Dead or Alive,” so Slocum figured, why bother with nursemaiding them?
Hewitt stepped down from the walk to take a closer look at the corpse, which exhibited a great deal of trauma as a result of being dragged over a quarter mile of rough prairie and through a rocky creek. He didn’t make any comment at once, taking his time to determine if the body was indeed that of Grady Crowder. Crowder was not well known around town, and Hewitt did not put it past Slocum to substitute any corpse and claim it was Crowder. When he decided it was probably the fifth member of the gang of would-be bank robbers, he finally spoke. “What in hell happened to him? Half the skin’s scraped off him.”
“He put up a fight,” Slocum replied casually.
Hewitt stared at the huge man for a few seconds, considering his reply. “He did, huh?” He pulled the blood-encrusted shirt away from Grady’s back. “Shot him in the back, just like two of the others you brought in,” he said accusingly.
“He run,” was Slocum’s simple explanation.
“He ran,” Hewitt repeated, disgusted, “and you just happened to shoot him in the back.”
Slocum’s grin returned. “Like I said, he run. If he’da run backward, men I reckon I’da shot him in the chest.”
Hewitt shook his head, perplexed. He didn’t like bounty hunters in general, and Slocum was the worst of mem. But mere was nothing he could do but apply for the reward money for the obstinate brute. “All right, dammit. I’ll accept the body, and you’ll get your blood money.”
“Thank you kindly,” Slocum said with a touch of sarcasm.
“You know, if you were the sheriff here, there wouldn’t be no need to have a jail. All we’d need is the graveyard.”
Slocum laughed. “I’ll be back for my money in a week or two.” He untied Grady’s body and slid it off on his shoulder. “‘Scuse me, Sheriff,” he said as he stepped up on the walk in front of Hewitt. With effortless strength, he carried the body over and deposited it beside the office door. With a satisfied grin for the sheriff, he proceeded to mount up and turned to leave.
“What about that horse?” Hewitt asked, indicating Grady Crowder’s chestnut and knowing what the answer would be.
“That’s my horse,” Slocum replied. “Grady musta sold his.” He gave the gray his heels, leaving the sheriff to grumble alone as he led Grady’s chestnut mare behind him.
* * *
True to his word, Slocum showed up before two weeks had passed. Sheriff Hewitt looked up from his desk when the light from the doorway was suddenly blocked out as the hulking man stepped inside. Hewitt reached in his desk drawer and took out an envelope. He tossed it on the desk, and Slocum quickly snatched it up. The crooked grin that Hewitt had come to despise appeared immediately as Slocum tore into the envelope and started counting the money.
“It’s all there,” Hewitt growled, making no attempt to hide the contempt he felt.
“Why, I’m sure it is,” Slocum retorted, enjoying Hewitt’s discomfort. “I just like to count it.” When he finished counting, he flashed his grin again and said, “Come on down to the saloon with me, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Thanks just the same,” Hewitt replied dryly. He remained seated at his desk while Slocum stuffed the envelope inside the waistband of his trousers and turned toward the door. The sheriff was tempted to hold his tongue and let the contemptible bully walk out. However, he had promised to deliver a message to Slocum, so he stopped him before he closed the door. “I’ve got a message for you from over at the fort,” he called out.
His hand on the doorknob, Slocum paused. “Is that a fact?” Suspicious at once, he quickly thought back over his movements during the past few months. He couldn’t think of any point at which he might have done anything to rile the military’s anger. Still cautious, he asked, “What in hell’s the army want with me?”
“They might have a job for you.” He wrote a name on a piece of paper and slid it across his desk. “Go see mis captain in the adjutant’s office.”
Slocum picked up the piece of paper and stared stupidly at it. “You know, Sheriff, I ain’t never took the time to learn to read. Ain’t never needed to.”
Hewitt favored him with a tired expression, then said, “Captain Boyd.”
“Captain Boyd.” Slocum repeated the name, then looked up at Hewitt. “Where do I find him? I ain’t spent much time at Fort Lincoln.”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Hewitt replied impatiently. Slocum’s visit had already extended far beyond the sheriff’s tolerance. “He’s with the infantry detachment up on the bluff, is all I can tell you. You fancy yourself a tracker. You find him.”
Slocum’s grin slowly crept back into place. “That I will, Sheriff. Much obliged.”
* * *
Captain Thomas Boyd glanced up at the young private standing in the door. “Sir, there’s somebody out here says you wanted to see him.”
“Who is it?” Boyd asked. He couldn’t recall recently ordering anyone to report to him.
“Civilian, sir—looks like a scout or something—says his name’s Slocum.”
“Slocum.” Boyd pronounced the name slowly, not recalling immediately. Then he remembered his conversation with the sheriff in Bismarck, and the sheriff’s description of the bounty hunter. “Slocum,” he repeated. “Big, nasty-looking fellow?” The private grinned and nodded his head. “Send him in,” Boyd said.
In spite of Sheriff Hewitt’s description of the man, Captain Boyd was still taken aback by the appearance of the brute who crossed his threshold on that morning. Boyd was taller than average. Still the bounty hunter towered over him, with shoulders as wide as the doorway and arms like hams that threatened to split the sleeves of his woolsey shirt. It was the face that caused a man to draw a sudden breath, however. In describing the man to a fellow officer afterward, Boyd likened that face to an artist’s rendering of evil in its purest form. Coarse black hair forced its way from under a flat-crowned hat, the broad brim of which drooped low over his face and the back of his neck. His face was covered by a heavy beard, except for a long, jagged scar on the left side where no beard would grow. At once repelled by the man’s ghastly appearance, Boyd realized that this just might be the perfect candidate for the job he had in mind.
“I’m Captain Boyd,” he said, starting to extend his hand, then deciding against it. Slocum noticed, but couldn’t care less. “Sheriff Hewitt tells me you might be the man I need to do a job for the army. I need a good tracker.”
“That so?” Slocum replied, showing no interest. “What about all them redskin scouts you got hanging around here? Ain’t they supposed to be good trackers?”
“They are,” Boyd said. “But I expect most of them will be going on an expedition to the Black Hills with the post commander in a couple of weeks. Besides, this job isn’t suited for an Indian scout. It may take some time, and you may have to hunt him in towns and forts, as well as in the hills. An Indian scout couldn’t very well do that, and it’s too far to send a cavalry patrol out looking for him.”
“Who are you looking for?” Slocum asked, only mildly interested. He had just cashed in on a big payday, and he felt no urgency to take to the wilds again.
“A fugitive. James Ryman Culver is his name.”
“What did he do?”
“He murdered an officer in the United States Army.” Boyd had been there when Lieutenant Ebersole shot at young Jim Culver on his father’s farm in Virginia, then paid for his bad aim with his life. Perhaps it was more self-defense than murder, but Boyd felt justified in calling it the latter. The army could not tolerate the killing of an officer by a civilian. He went on to give Slocum a description of Jim Culver and where he had last been seen.
“Hell, there’s a lot of fellers that look like that.”
“He’ll be the only one carrying one of those new Winchester seventy-threes with his initials, J.R.C., carved in the stock. He rides a big bay Morgan with a white star on its face, and he calls it Toby.” Boyd paused to try to remember anything else that would help identify Jim Culver. “He’s pretty handy with a rawhide whip. He used it on an officer in Fredericksburg, so he’s probably carrying it on his saddle.
“He fled Virginia and came west. The last report we had was from Fort Laramie. He showed up with a young woman at the sutler’s store just before winter set in. They said he left Laramie to go over South Pass with a man carrying a wagonload of supplies to a little settlement called Canyon Creek.” He paused to judge Slocum’s interest, but the passive giant’s expression offered no clue. “I’m authorized to pay you five dollars a day, but you’ll have to stand the cost of all your supplies and ammunition.”
Slocum’s only response was a slight narrowing of his eyes as he added up the possible total in his mind. He preferred to work on his own time and collect a lump sum, but this wasn’t a bad deal when he realized the length of time a job like that would require. Maybe it might be the start of some regular work for the army. “That’s five dollars a day, starting from the day I leave here?” Slocum asked.
“That’s right.”
“Fort Laramie’s a hell of a piece from here—take me close to two weeks to get there to even start lookin’ for this feller.”
“More like a week and a half, but I don’t care if you have to follow him to Oregon. I want this man brought to trial.”
“There’s a heap of Injuns between here and there that would love to catch a lone white man traveling across that country.”
“Granted,” Boyd replied. “That’s why I sent for you. Sheriff Hewitt said you traveled in Indian territory all the time.”
“All right,” Slocum decided. “I’ll get him for you.”
“Good. We’ve got a deal. But I’ve been told a little about your reputation. I want you to understand one thing for certain. I want him brought back alive. It’s important that we try this man for murder. Folks have to know they can’t kill an officer of the U.S. Army and get away with it.”
This caused Slocum to cock his head back a notch. “Alive?” he exclaimed. “What if he puts up a fight? What if I have to kill him?”
“No deal, that’s what.” The captain was adamant. “You don’t get paid for a dead man. Wounded, if you’ve got no choice, but the army doesn’t want to try a corpse. If you get the job done in a month’s time, you’ll receive a two-hundred-dollar bonus.”
This raised his interest considerably, but the insistence that Culver had to be alive didn’t sit well with Slocum. He never thought much of bothering with a prisoner. It was just a lot more efficient to shoot the son of a bitch and carry the meat home—just like any other kind of hunting. He was almost of a mind to turn the deal down, but decided the potential for additional jobs for the army might be worth the extra trouble. “All right then,” he said. “I’m gonna need me a night in town first. I’ll set out for Fort Laramie tomorrow morning.”