Slocum 258: Slocum's Partner

Grimly, Slocum followed after the surviving six murderers, but he did not rush himself. He was in no hurry. One killing a day was plenty for him. Besides, he figured the longer he dragged it out the more the bastards would suffer. And he wanted them to suffer. They had sure made Harley suffer. He wished that he could get the horrible image of Harley’s body out of his mind, but he could not; and then he finally decided that maybe it was best that way, at least until he had killed the other six murderers. That awful and painful image would keep him determined, keep him going. It would keep him cold and hard. That was the way it had to be.

He got within eyeshot of them, and he slowed his pace even more. He was pretty sure they had not yet seen him, and he wanted to keep it that way for a while. The day was getting short, so he made himself a cold camp in the hills looking down on the gang below. He took out his looking glasses again to study them, and he could see easily that there was unrest among them. That was good, he thought. Let them make things even worse for themselves. As he watched, five of the men, including Ace Carter, mounted their horses and headed on toward Whizbang.

One stayed behind. He sat alone with his back to the rest. His horse grazed casually nearby. This one must have had a serious falling out with the others. Why else would he have stayed on alone? The others rode on and left the loner to himself. They would make it on into town, all right, but their horses would never be quite the same. Slocum thought them a bunch of fools, but then, anyone who would do what they had done to Harley couldn’t be expected to treat horses right.

Chapman sat cross-legged on the ground, his arms crossed over his chest, his back to the others, a hard pout set on his face. He looked over his shoulder once as the others mounted their horses to continue the ride back to town, but when one looked in his direction, he snapped his head back around. Hedley hesitated and called back to him. “Gary,” he said, “you coming?” Chapman did not answer. “Fuck you then,” Hedley said, and he kicked his horse to race after the rest.

When they were all nearly out of sight, Chapman at last stood up. He stared hard after them for a long moment. Then he walked over to his horse and found one last biscuit in the bag. He pulled it out and began gnawing at it. After a few seconds, he looked nervously around himself. As far as he could tell, he was alone. It was quiet and still. There was no sign of human life that he could see.

“Huh,” he said out loud, “ain’t no one coming after us. Ain’t no one out here even. I’m all right. Yeah. I’m all right.” He gnawed some more biscuit, but his belly started craving grease, and he had no meat. He was also thinking of whiskey. He wanted a steak and some good whiskey. “I better start on back, though,” he said, still out loud and talking to himself. “I better go. It’ll get dark on me if I don’t hurry on up.” He glanced again toward the hills in the background from where the shots had come. He wondered about Trumbull. Holding what was left of the biscuit in his mouth, he quickly mounted his horse and started riding after Carter and the others.

He rode for a distance quickly, then slowed down, walking his horse. He went on for a while like that before he looked back over his shoulder. He stopped, his mouth hanging open. Far behind, he thought he saw a horse and rider coming at him as if through a mist. He waited, and the figure came closer, loomed slightly larger. Chapman urged his tired horse ahead faster. He rode hard, but when he looked back, he still saw the mysterious figure coming behind him. He lashed at the poor animal, lashed and kicked and raced ahead. He thought then that he should have gone on with the others, no matter how he had felt about them at the time. It had only been his foolish pride that had kept him behind and put him in this danger. He should have known better. He should have used better judgment.

He lashed harder, and his horse stumbled, throwing him over its head. He screamed as he flew through the air, landed hard, and then rolled on the hard dirt. When he finally sat up and shook his head clear from the rough tumble, he saw that his horse was back up on its feet, but even he could tell that it would go no more. He looked back and saw the ominous figure coming ever closer. He saw it as the figure of death itself. He struggled up onto his own feet and hurried back to the horse, but he was walking with a limp. The fall had hurt his leg. He whimpered as he pulled the rifle out of its scabbard. He looked around quickly for cover, and it was only then that he realized he had taken his fall right near the ghastly open grave that had earlier been desecrated by him and the others.

He shuddered, but he saw no cover save the mound of dirt they had piled up there by the grave, so he ran over, still limping, and settled himself down on the far side of the mound from the approaching rider. In his peripheral vision he could see the exposed body in the hole to his left. Looking ahead again, he could still see the figure of death moving slowly toward him, and it still appeared as if through a mist or a haze. In desperation, he took aim and squeezed off a round. The shot sounded like an explosion in the silence, and it made his ears ring. He looked ahead and squinted, and the relentless figure was still moving steadily, still coming at him. His whimpering increased until it had almost become a sobbing. He fired again, but he knew as he fired that his shot was wild and useless.

Slocum stopped. He steadied the roan until it stood stark still. He studied the scene ahead for a moment, then pulled out his Winchester and cranked a shell into the chamber. He had thought that one killing a day was enough, but this man was forcing the issue. Well, so be it. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he aimed at the mound of dirt ahead and fired. Quickly he levered another round into the chamber and fired again, and again. He knew he would not hit the man, unless with a lucky shot, but he also knew that he would cause a panic, and that would be just about as effective.

Dirt was kicked into Chapman’s face with the first shot. He whirled around and pressed his back against the mound and felt the dirt from the second and third shots flick into the hair on top of his head. His whimpering grew louder and faster. In a panic, he jumped to his feet and ran for his horse. Tired or not, it would have to run. He would ride it to death if need be. Another shot rang out and dirt was kicked up between his feet. He jumped and screamed. In a few more running strides, he reached the horse, and he mounted quickly. He kicked and lashed at it, and it turned to make a last valiant effort. Then another shot rang out as Chapman felt the hot slug tea; into his back.

He tried to hang on as the horse began to run. He tried to control the horse, but he was only just sitting there. He was as useless as a sack of grain. His fingers no longer gripped the reins. His legs no longer pressed against the horse’s sides. He couldn’t tell if his feet were in the stirrups or not. He wasn’t even really sitting in the saddle. It was more like someone had just placed him there. He knew he was going to fall. His brain told him to stop the horse, but his body refused to respond. He reeled in the saddle. At last he fell.

When he hit the ground, he hit hard, and it hurt. It hurt like hell, but then suddenly the hurting stopped. He lay flat on his back staring straight up into the sky. A buzzard circled above, and it made him want to shiver. The shiver stayed inside. His body refused to move. He had no control and no feeling. He was battered and broken, and he was actually surprised to find himself still alive. He was numb, not hurting, but his mouth and throat were parched. He thought of water. He knew that the mysterious death figure coming out of the mist had shot him, and he wondered if the man would come over and finish the job or just let him die slowly. He no longer knew where his rifle was. It didn’t matter. He figured that his revolver was at his side, but he couldn’t make his arm move to reach for it.

Slocum realized as he drew nearer what the mound of dirt was, where it had come from. He rode in quickly then, and found that his worst fears were true. The bastards, he said to himself. The dirty sons of bitches. They had actually dug up Harley’s grave. Pulling the little roan to a quick stop, he dismounted and raced to the grave’s side. Looking down, he could see Harley’s exposed face. He dropped down into the open grave and pulled the blanket back around the face. Then with his bare hands, he started scraping the dirt back into the grave.

Chapman could barely roll his eyes, but he saw the man walking toward him where he lay. He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry and parched that only a harsh rasping sound came out. Slocum walked up close and looked down on him.

“I found what you did over there,” Slocum said. “It wasn’t enough that you murdered my partner, was it? Tortured him to death? That wasn’t enough. You came out here and dug up his grave. Why the hell did you do that?” Chapman breathed out a heavy rasping sound. Slocum knelt beside him. “Can’t talk, huh?” Slocum said. “Throat dry? Have some of the dirt you dug out of Harley’s grave.”

He raised a closed fist up over Chapman’s face, and as he slowly opened it, dirt ran out and down into Chapman’s already tortured dry mouth. Chapman convulsed with gags and coughs. He tried to spit, but he could not. His hand empty of dirt, Slocum stood again. He turned to face the grave.

He walked back toward the roan with Chapman still alive, still coughing and convulsing. He mounted up and rode away and left the son of a bitch like that. He wouldn’t last long.

Slocum rode right into Whizbang, right down the middle of the main street. He rode straight to the town marshal’s office, and this time he found it open. He tied his horse to the rail and walked into the office. A big man with a handlebar mustache looked up from behind the desk.

Foss poured two cups, gave one to Slocum and took the other back around to the other side of his desk and sat down again. He looked up and into Slocum’s face, as if to say that he was ready to hear the tale, whatever it might be.

“My name’s Slocum,” Slocum said. “Me and my partner Harley Duggan run into a little trouble back down the trail. We were set on by four men, hide hunters, by the looks of them. We killed them, all four. We were headed this way, so we brought their horses in. Meant to tell you what happened, and ask your advice on what to do with the horses. But you weren’t here. We decided to wait. I sent Harley on out of town to make us a camp. When I got out there later, I found him killed. Strangled with a rope.

“It seems that some of your upstanding citizens had seen Harley taking those horses back out of town and decided that me and Harley had stole them from some fellow named Tom Grant.”

“These citizens,” Slocum continued, “rode out to the camp site and put a noose around Harley’s neck. They strung him up and strangled him, trying to get him to tell them where I was at. Hell, he didn’t even know except that I was still in town. He told them that, too, but they killed him just the same.”

“Deader’n hell,” said Slocum. “There were seven of them, and they found my trail. Along the way they found where I’d buried Harley, and they dug him up again. Anyhow, they caught up with me, but I scared them off with a couple of shots. One of them nicked Carter. Ace Carter. He’s the leader of the pack. They all run off, but Trumbull lost his horse. I faced him alone, and he confessed the whole thing to me. Then he went for his gun, and I killed him.”

“No witnesses,” said Slocum. “I followed the others, and while I was watching them, they seemed to get into it with each other while they were taking a rest. When they mounted up to ride on, one of them stayed behind alone. I went after him. When he noticed me behind him, he started shooting a rifle at me. I shot back.”

“It was probably Gary Chapman,” Foss said. “He’s not anywhere around. I knew something was going on around here, but I haven’t been able to get anything out of anybody. I figured Ace Carter was behind it somewhere.”

“I want you to do something for me, Slocum,” said Foss. “I want you to ride out to the Grant place with me. The doc tells me that old Tom is doing a bit better now, and he could likely take one look at you and tell me whether you were one of the ones that nearly killed him and stole his horses. That’ll give us a starting place in this mess. Will you ride out with me?”

“The first part of your story’s confirmed,” Foss said as he and Slocum stepped down off the porch of Tom Grant’s ranch house. “Now we have to deal with the rest of it.”

“The rest of it happened just like I told you,” said Slocum. “Carter and his gang saw Harley with the horses and figured that me and him was the thieves. They found him alone and tortured him to death. Then they went after me. I killed two of them. I mean to kill the other five before I quit.”

“Now, hold on, Slocum,” Foss said. “I can’t let you run around Whizbang killing folks. Not even if what you’re telling me is true. I need some time to get to the bottom of this.”

“Yeah?” Slocum said. “And what if you can’t prove it? They all get away clean? I ain’t taking that chance. Harley was my partner. They strung him up and killed him slow. Then they went and dug up his grave. Why the hell did they do a thing like that? You tell me, if you was in my place, what would you do? Wait for the law and hope they could prove it? Would you?”

“I’d do the same as you, Slocum,” said Foss, “but right here and now, I’m representing the law, and I got to tell you to leave it alone and let me deal with it.”