Johnny Malotte turned his head painfully to the side in an effort to squint through the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Mercifully, he had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion two hours before, in spite of being trussed up, hands behind his back, lying with his face in the dirt. The sleep provided some escape from the stabbing pain in his head. But awake now, he found no relief from the aching in his arms and shoulders, and his wrists were bound to his ankles by a length of rope too short to allow him to straighten his legs.
Unable to see his captor from this position, Johnny bit off a groan as he forced his body to roll over on its side. Hearing the faint cry of pain, Slocum turned to look at the tormented man. “Well, now, did you enjoy your little nap?” Slocum asked sarcastically. Sitting on the end of a log by the fire, the huge man ripped off a mouthful of salt pork while he gazed at Malotte. He scooped up a spoonful of boiled beans and loaded them in with the pork, chewing noisily while he studied his prisoner. “You know, you ain’t been a helluva lot of company on this trip. I almost wish I hadn’t cracked your head so hard.” He paused in his chewing for a moment. “Almost,” he added, grinning at his humor. “While you was layin’ around sleepin’, I’ve been fixin’ us some supper. I bet you could eat a little, couldn’t you?” When there was no response from Malotte, Slocum got up from the log, lifted the iron pot from the coals, and walked over to stand before the prone figure on the ground. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” he said. “I wouldn’t waste the beans on you, but if I don’t keep you alive, that prissy-ass captain won’t give me my money.”
“I ain’t Jim Culver,” Johnny forced through swollen lips.
“Course you ain’t,” Slocum said, grinning broadly. “Here, here’s you some beans.” He spooned out a little pile of beans on the ground in front of Malotte. “I hope you’ll excuse me, but I musta misplaced my tablecloth.”
Johnny stared at the beans piled on the bare ground. He wanted to tell Slocum where he could shove them, but he had not eaten in two days and he was hungry. “Untie my hands,” he said.
Smiling, Slocum slowly shook his head back and forth several times. “Now, Jim, you don’t really expect me to do a damn-fool thing like that, do you? Git down there and eat ’em like a dog.”
“You son of a bitch,” Johnny growled.
Still grinning, Slocum went back to his seat by the fire. “Eat ’em or leave ’em, all the same to me.”
Johnny tried to restrain himself out of sheer defiance, but his hunger was overpowering, and he knew he must take nourishment or he would grow steadily weaker. After only a few minutes, he rolled over on his belly again and stuck his face in the beans, gulping them down as fast as he could. Slocum chuckled softly in the background.
Johnny had tried repeatedly during the first couple of days on the trail to convince the obstinate giant that he had captured the wrong man, but it was to no avail. Slocum had put two and two together and it had come up four in his mind, and he was not one to be swayed. To a man who made his living tracking down fugitives, Johnny’s claims were not in the least unusual. Slocum would have been surprised if Johnny had admitted he was Jim Culver. Johnny had even confessed that he had killed Jim Culver and taken his horse and rifle. This was after trying to convince Slocum that he had bought them from an Indian. Slocum just displayed that contemptuous grin until he was tired of hearing Malotte complain. Then he had silenced him again with the butt of Jim’s rifle, which had caused the swollen eye. Johnny had given up after that, convinced that there was no chance to alter the single-minded bounty hunter’s convictions. He would hold his tongue and hope for the best when they reached Fort Lincoln. It had been bad luck that led him across Slocum’s trail. But luck just might swing over to his side before this was over and done with. He promised himself that if he got the chance, he wouldn’t waste it. He’d open the big son of a bitch’s throat from ear to ear. That would give him a nice scar to match the one down the side of his face.
* * *
Captain Thomas Boyd looked up from his desk when Master Sergeant Cochran appeared in the doorway. The bugle had just sounded Recall minutes before at eleven-thirty, signaling the end of morning drill. “Captain Boyd, sir,” Cochran said with his customary absence of emotion, “Major Rothmeyer wants to see you.”
“Now?” Boyd asked. “He wants to see me now—or sometime today?” Boyd was preparing to go to the officers’ mess. He would prefer to see the adjutant after he had eaten.
Cochran shrugged. “He didn’t say, sir. I reckon he meant now.”
“All right,” Boyd replied with a heavy sigh. Cochran paused for a second, then turned and left the room. The captain slid his chair back and got to his feet. He didn’t care much for Major Rothmeyer, and he was satisfied that the feeling was mutual. “What’s the old son of a bitch complaining about this time?” Boyd muttered to himself. Boyd had been led to believe that he would be given the position of post adjutant when he was assigned to Fort Lincoln. Instead the post was held by Philip Rothmeyer, a blocky, gray-haired officer who had been a schoolteacher before the recent War Between the States. He claimed to be a distant cousin to Phil Sheridan, the general in command of the Division of the Missouri. Boyd suspected that was the man’s chief qualification for the position he held. It chafed the captain to have to report to Rothmeyer, but he had no choice in the matter.
Rothmeyer was busy shuffling through some papers when Boyd entered. “Ah, Captain Boyd,” the major greeted him. “Take a seat,” he said, waving his arm toward a chair in front of his desk.
“Sergeant Cochran said you wanted to see me,” Boyd said.
“Yes. I’ve just been looking through these papers you filed on this civilian in Fredericksburg. This case has been open for quite some time with no progress toward conviction that I can see. I’m trying to clean up all the old dead files, and I think this is one we can close out. If I read this correctly, it appears we are paying this man, Slocum, to track the fugitive on a per-diem basis. I’m not sure how you got that approved, or even if the army is legally bound to honor the arrangement. There is no contract that I can find.”
Incensed by the implication, Boyd replied. “It was a spoken agreement,” he insisted. “You approved it yourself.”
Rothmeyer seemed unimpressed. “I did, did I? You must have caught me in a weak moment. Anyway, since I approved it, as you say, then I’m officially disapproving it now.” When Boyd started to rise to his feet in protest, the major stopped him. “You don’t stand a chance of convicting this man Culver, even if your bounty hunter finds him. The only witnesses to the shooting, four enlisted men and a civilian sheriff, have all testified that your Lieutenant Ebersole fired at Culver first.”
“Begging your pardon, sir—” Boyd started, now on his feet, but Rothmeyer interrupted.
“I think you may have a personal interest in this, but there’ll be no more discussion on the matter. The army can’t afford to pay some lazy bounty hunter who’s probably lying around with some squaw somewhere. General Custer has ordered that we stop wasting time on matters that are unrelated to this post. I’m sorry, Captain, but this matter is closed. I’m authorizing one month’s pay for Slocum, no more.”
Boyd made one more attempt to protest, but Rothmeyer cut him off again and told him he was dismissed. Feeling the anger all the way down in his boots, Boyd snapped a sharp salute, did an about-face, and left the room. Outside the major’s office, he grumbled to himself about the incompetent ex-schoolteacher. He was one of Lieutenant Colonel Custer’s boys—still addressing the post commander by his brevet rank, currying favor at every opportunity.
Captain Boyd was no longer passionate about trying Jim Culver for Ebersole’s murder. That emotion had waned over the months. He was livid, however, over the treatment he had received from his immediate superior. Who the hell was Philip Rothmeyer to make judgment on the case? As far as the tracker Slocum, Boyd had not heard anything from him since he left Lincoln. He had planned to cut off his per diem in a week or two anyway.
* * *
At approximately four-thirty on a cloudy afternoon, Slocum rode into Fort Lincoln, leading his prisoner. The bugle’s last notes of Stable Call were drifting over the parade ground as the two riders approached the adjutant’s office. The hulking bounty hunter riding the iron-gray horse scowled as he met the inquisitive stares of the troopers on their way to the stables. Slocum didn’t have a lot of use for soldiers—too many rules. Snorting his contempt, he turned away and guided the horses to the building where he had first talked to Captain Boyd. He dismounted and tied the horses to the corner post of the porch. After untying the rope under Toby’s belly that had held Malotte’s feet in the stirrups, he grabbed his prisoner by the shirt and pulled him unceremoniously to the ground. Johnny grunted when he landed hard on his side, then cursed Slocum. Slocum paid him no mind. His thoughts were now on the anticipated payday for bringing the prisoner in.
A young private stood gaping at the grizzled bounty hunter as he stepped up on the porch. “Go fetch Captain Boyd, sonny,” Slocum said. “Tell him I brung him something.”
When Boyd was told that a man who looked like a grizzly bear wanted to see him, he knew immediately who it was. It could be no other than the vile manhunter Slocum. The private said he had a prisoner with him. This was enough to cause Boyd to rise quickly from his desk, anxious to see Jim Culver in irons. In spite of the recent order from Major Rothmeyer, Boyd at once revived thoughts of pleading his case again. With the prisoner in custody, Rothmeyer might change his mind about trying Culver.
Boyd stepped out on the porch to confront the intimidating figure of his hired bounty hunter. Having once been exposed to the fearsome countenance of Slocum, he thought it inconceivable that the man’s image could fade from memory. Yet Boyd was still taken aback somewhat to confront the tracker face-to-face again. “Slocum,” he said, nodding acknowledgment; then, looking past the huge bulk of the man, he stared at his captive. Johnny Malotte stared back at him in angry defiance. “Who’s this?” Boyd asked, puzzled.
Confused by the captain’s question, Slocum let the malevolent grin slowly fade from his face, and he turned to look at Malotte. The defiant prisoner, standing on the bottom step with a rope around his neck, much like a dog on a leash, stared back at Slocum with a smirk on his face. Slocum looked back at the captain. “Jim Culver,” he replied, “the son of a bitch you’re paying me for.”
Boyd stepped down off the porch to take a closer look. Even with Malotte’s battered face, there was no uncertainty in Boyd’s mind. Still, he studied Johnny’s swollen features for a few long seconds. Then he turned back to Slocum. “I don’t know who the hell this is, but he’s damn sure not Jim Culver.”
Slocum was stunned and, for the moment, speechless. He jerked his head around to gape at his prisoner. Johnny found his voice. “I told you my name’s Johnny Malotte, you dumb son of a bitch.” He looked at Boyd then. “I tried to tell him all the way between here and Fort Laramie, but he’s crazy. You need to lock him up for trying to kill me.”
Boyd was now faced with a dilemma. He hadn’t the faintest notion of the identity of the man whom Slocum had mistakenly captured, nor did he particularly care. His orders were to terminate Slocum’s services, and that was what he was about to do. The battered man at the end of Slocum’s rope was probably justified in demanding Slocum’s arrest, but Boyd knew the army had no interest in pursuing that. At this point he just wanted to be through with both of them. Before he could speak, Slocum recovered his thoughts.
“What the hell you mean, he ain’t Culver?” he demanded. Stalking down the steps, he stood beside Toby. “This is Culver’s horse. There ain’t no doubt about that. And this here’s sure as hell that fancy new Winchester he carries—got his initials carved right in the stock.” He held Jim’s rifle up to show Boyd.
Boyd paused to think about it again, peering at Johnny Malotte, reassuring himself. “They might be Culver’s,” he quietly agreed. “But this man’s not Jim Culver. I’d know Jim Culver if I saw him. A bullet from that rifle passed right under my arm before it took the life of Lieutenant Thomas Ebersole. No, this isn’t Jim Culver.” The matter finished as far as he was concerned, he turned to go back inside. “I suggest you turn that man loose, and the two of you go on about your business.”
“Wait a minute, here,” Slocum protested, catching the captain’s sleeve to detain him. “You owe me pay for tracking Culver.”
Boyd glanced down at the hand on his sleeve for a moment, waiting for Slocum to retract it. When he did not, Boyd jerked his arm away. “I don’t owe you anything,” he pronounced curtly. “You weren’t being paid to go chasing after this saddle tramp.” Then the thought struck him. “What are you doing with that horse and rifle, anyway?” he demanded of Johnny.
Malotte hesitated for a moment, sensing he might yet be in trouble with the army. “I bought the outfit from a fellow at Fort Laramie. I didn’t ask him his name.”
“You lying bastard,” Slocum exclaimed, getting madder by the minute. “You told me you killed Jim Culver.”
“Well, I didn’t. I just said that. I never killed nobody.”
Slocum jerked his head back to confront Boyd. “He’s still hiding out there. I’ll find him for you,” he insisted.
“The army no longer needs your services,” Boyd coldly replied. “We have no further interest in Culver.” Once again he turned to go inside.
“So that’s how it is,” Slocum growled. “I track all over Injun territory for you, and you ain’t gonna pay me for it.”
Boyd paused. He was authorized to pay Slocum for one month’s wages—Rothmeyer had told him that—but he had decided against it. He felt the army shouldn’t finance a wild-goose chase that resulted in the capture of the wrong man. “It was your decision to waste the army’s time chasing after the wrong man. You’re dismissed.” He turned to the private standing on the porch who had witnessed the entire confrontation. “Private, untie that man.” Looking back at Malotte, he said, “Both of you clear out.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnny Malotte replied cheerfully as the private loosened the knot around his neck. Luck had clearly shifted over to his side, so he was quick to take advantage. “That there’s my rifle he’s got.”
“Give him the rifle,” Boyd instructed the private.
Slocum was seething, his huge body trembling with a rage that was steadily building, but he did not protest when the trooper pulled the Winchester from the strap on his saddle. He had been cheated, and he didn’t take being cheated well. The mocking smile on Johnny Malotte’s face, as his former prisoner took the rifle and climbed aboard Toby, was almost enough to set the angry giant off in spite of the appearance of several additional soldiers attracted by the loud discussion. But Slocum said nothing as he watched Johnny ride across the parade ground. There would be a reckoning. Johnny was a dead man.
With a brief glance at the soldiers gathered around the captain, Slocum then turned back to lodge one final protest. “You hired me to go after Jim Culver. All I had to go on was that damn horse and his rifle. I didn’t have no damn picture of the man. I done my job.” Then, in slow, deliberate motions, he untied the iron-gray horse from the corner post and stepped up into the saddle. With a hard glint, he favored Boyd with one last glare, an unspoken promise, before turning the gray to follow after Malotte. Feeling the anger like a hard knot in his belly, he fervently wished the day would come when he caught the arrogant captain away from the fort and his soldiers. Dismissed, am I? We’ll see who is dismissed, all right. Slocum was due for payment, and he meant to have it, if not in U.S. currency, then in blood. And the memory of Johnny Malotte’s snide smile was burning in his brain like a white-hot coal.
* * *
For the sake of his immediate health, Johnny Malotte deemed it of utmost importance to first put some distance between himself and Slocum. He had no intention of simply running from the loathsome brute, for he had promised himself restitution for the cruel beatings he had absorbed from the not-so-gentle hands of Slocum. But before he reversed the roles to become the stalker instead of the prey, he needed a good head start on the big man. Battered, broke, and hungry, he turned Toby toward Bismarck, six miles to the north, confident that Slocum would follow him. He checked the Winchester and determined that it was fully loaded. It would have been more satisfying to simply kill Slocum right then, but they were in the midst of several hundred soldiers. And he was smart enough to know that he would most likely come off second-best in a showdown with Slocum at this point. Bushwhacking was more Johnny’s style. I’ll have my chance, he promised himself as he kicked his heels into Toby’s flanks, leaving the post at a gallop.
Slocum watched as Johnny galloped away. “Run, you bastard; it won’t do you no good,” he muttered under his breath. Settling for a more leisurely gait, he started out after Malotte. Slocum had no intention of coming up empty-handed after hauling Johnny Malotte all the way from Fort Laramie. He considered the horse and the Winchester his property and just payment for the trouble he had been put to. He would not stop until he regained them. In addition to his desire for these material possessions, he had developed a burning hatred for Johnny Malotte, primarily for not being Jim Culver. He had cost Slocum a lot of time and ultimately his rightfully earned money.
After pushing Toby hard for almost a mile, Johnny let up on the big Morgan. Looking back over his shoulder toward the buildings of Fort Lincoln, he couldn’t see any sign of Slocum on the trail behind him. He’ll be coming, he told himself, and began looking around him for a suitable ambush site. The flat, endless prairie offered little in the way of concealment for a man and a horse; the many gullies and washes by the river were the most promising. He rode on for another mile before sighting a treeless ravine a short distance off the wagon road, and deep enough to conceal the horse. The grass along the rim of the ravine grew high and thick, enough cover to hide him as he lay in wait for the big bounty hunter.
After another look over the wide expanse of prairie behind him to make sure Slocum was not close, he guided Toby down into the bottom of the ravine. Stepping down from the saddle, he staggered slightly, his knee almost buckling, and he realized he was even weaker than he had thought. He was suddenly feeling the results of the days on the trip from Laramie, when Slocum denied him food beyond a few beans strewn on the ground, and those only occasionally. Adding to his extreme hunger was the fact that he had been unable to sleep at night, due to having been trussed up like a hog to market.
He steadied himself with his hand on the saddle horn for a few minutes until he felt he had his feet under him again. Then he drew the Winchester and started back up the side of the ravine, grunting with the effort. Reaching the rim, he dropped down in the grass and waited. It would not be a long wait.
* * *
Slocum was good at his craft, in part because he prided himself on being able to think like the cutthroats he stalked. He figured Malotte knew he would be coming after him. And knowing the kind of man Johnny was, Slocum could pretty much bet on an ambush. With that in mind, Slocum had no intention of following Johnny along the wagon track to Bismarck. Instead he guided his horse off the road and worked his way north along the riverbank. It was slower, but he was confident Johnny would wait for him.
Come on, you big bastard, Johnny pleaded. It was getting late in the afternoon, although this time of year there was plenty of daylight left. Lying in the tall grass, the rifle resting on the ground before him, he was almost of a mind to give it up. The constant gnawing in his empty stomach pleaded with him to forget his revenge for the time being. If it were not for the vivid memory of the brutal beatings administered by Slocum, he might have given in to his hunger and gone immediately into the town of Bismarck. He’ll come.
Slocum might have passed right by the ravine where Johnny lay in ambush, had he not been warned by his horse. The iron gray and Toby had traveled together from Fort Laramie, and when Toby recognized the familiar smell of the gray, he nickered a greeting. The gray returned the greeting, causing both men to react immediately. Realizing Slocum had gotten behind him, Johnny rolled over on his back, blindly firing his rifle as rapidly as he could. His shots ricocheted off the rocks on the side of the ravine, whining and whistling as they spent themselves harmlessly. By far the cooler head, Slocum backed his horse around a protruding rock formation and quickly dismounted. Pulling his pistol, he scrambled up the bank to the rim of the ravine and circled around to approach from the direction Johnny had been watching until the horses nickered. As he suspected, Johnny was crouching halfway down the side, his back to him as he watched the mouth of the gulch.
A slow grin began to creep across the grizzled features of the bounty hunter as he stepped up to the rim of the ravine. He paused to enjoy his advantage while Johnny nervously craned his neck, watching for some movement from the direction of the river. “You’re wasting a helluva lot of ammunition,” Slocum said.
Johnny tried to whirl around, but he made it only halfway before two .45 slugs from Slocum’s pistol ripped into his side. He yelped like a dog hit with a stone, as much in surprise as in pain. Dropping to his knees, Johnny tried to maintain his balance, but could not, the impact of the two slugs causing him to fall over on his side. Slocum followed his victim down the side of the ravine as Johnny rolled over and over until coming to rest facedown at the bottom. Slocum stooped to pick up the rifle Johnny had dropped on his way down. When he reached the mortally wounded man, he rolled him over with his toe and stood over him for a few moments, silently watching him for signs of life.
Johnny’s eyes fluttered open, and he grimaced in pain. His hands, clutched tightly over his wounds, could not stop the flow of blood that oozed through his fingers and covered his wrists. “You killed me, you son of a bitch,” he forced out between clenched lips.
Slocum smiled. “Looks that way, don’t it?”
“God damn you.” Johnny groaned, clutching his side even tighter in an effort to stop the pain. “I’m gut-shot,” he moaned. He could feel the blood filling his stomach, and the pain was becoming unbearable. Looking up at the hulking brute standing over him, he pleaded for mercy. “You’ve killed me. Go ahead and finish it.”
Slocum slowly shook his head as if sympathizing with the suffering man. “Like you said, you’re dying. Don’t make no sense to waste ammunition when you’re dying anyway.” He reached down and unbuckled Johnny’s gun belt, then unceremoniously pulled it from under him, causing Johnny to yell out in pain. “It ain’t gonna help you none to cry like a baby,” Slocum chided. “You can’t last much longer, so you might as well be quiet about it.” He threw Johnny’s gun belt over his shoulder and straightened up while he looked his victim over carefully. “I’ve been admiring those fancy boots of yourn ever since we left Laramie. Too bad they ain’t a bigger size. Might be worth somethin’, though.” He grabbed Johnny by his heel and started tugging on his boot. Johnny was helpless to stop him, and when he strained to pull his foot away, the effort caused his throat to fill with blood from his stomach. He was forced to lie writhing with the pain while Slocum methodically robbed him of everything that might be of value. Indifferent to Johnny’s suffering, Slocum loaded his plunder on Toby and prepared to take his leave.
“Don’t leave me like this,” Johnny pleaded. “I can’t stand this pain—just one bullet—please!”
About to step up into the saddle, Slocum paused to consider the dying man’s request. Without another word, he withdrew his foot from the stirrup and walked back to stand over Johnny once more. Then very deliberately he pulled his skinning knife from his belt, grabbed a handful of Johnny’s hair, pulled his head back, and cut his throat. Amused by the look of shock in Johnny’s eyes, he stepped back and watched his final convulsions. Stepping up in the saddle then, he took one last look at the now-still corpse and muttered, “I can’t abide a whimpering man.”
Riding up from the ravine, leading Toby, Slocum continued on toward Bismarck. He could cross the river there and head back to Indian territory. The anger that had consumed him at Fort Lincoln had been only partially satisfied. And at the root of that anger was Jim Culver. As Slocum saw it, all the time he had wasted, the money he had been promised and then denied, was all the fault of Jim Culver. Malotte had claimed at one time that he had killed Culver, then denied it when questioned by Captain Boyd. The more Slocum thought about it, the more he was convinced that Culver was still alive. More than likely Malotte had stolen the horse and rifle. He thought back over the trail he had followed from Canyon Creek. He had no idea where Johnny Malotte had come into the picture; maybe he had been riding with the Indian war party. But since it was Malotte who had left that little stream at the foot of the hill, headed for Fort Laramie, instead of Culver, then it was likely that Culver was with the party of Indians that had headed north toward the Crow agency. Stroking his chin whiskers thoughtfully, he thought, Seems to me I recall hearing about a new trading post some fellows built on the Yellowstone. It was supposed to be near the place where the Bighorn forked off, and that wasn’t too far from the Crow agency. That was as good a place as any to start looking for Jim Culver, he decided. If he’s alive, I’ll find him. Slocum had been cheated, and he would not rest easy until he found Culver and watched him die.