Slocum 315: Slocum's Gold Mountain

Slocum wasn’t the sort to sit around and do nothing. He knew Eustace Montrose expected him to stew and churn in his own juices, so that when a demand note came to ransom Erin Finnigan, he would obey frantically and without question. Instead, Slocum let a cold anger possess him.

With that anger came an even colder logic. Molly had lured him away. He had not seen anyone who might have been a Montrose with her, holding a gun to her head or forcing her to obey. That meant Molly and the Montrose gang were in cahoots. In a way, Slocum preferred it this way. He didn’t have as many loose ends to tie up. With Molly and Eustace Montrose looking for the same thing—the map—Slocum stood a better chance of eliminating them all at once. And if, as he suspected, Montrose had the last part of the map, he might stir a little dissension in their ranks by turning Molly against the Montrose family. How hard could that be? They all wanted to be sole owners of a million dollars’ worth of gold bullion ripped from the mines around the Comstock Lode before even more silver had been discovered.

Slocum looked in the direction Molly had taken and knew he could never follow her in the dark. Instead, he dropped to his knees, struck a lucifer and studied the ground around the shed until the match burned his fingers. He dropped the burnt match and set off in the direction of the tracks leading away from the outbuilding. The steep hill quickly leveled off into a rocky field. He found where Montrose had left his horses. From the tracks, Slocum guessed there had been three others with him. Two sons and a spare horse for Erin? To Slocum’s surprise they had ridden south, possibly to join up with Molly somewhere along the road.

Returning to the shed, Slocum fetched his horse, saddled and mounted. He might overtake them if Montrose thought he was safe and rode slowly, but Slocum didn’t count on that. The moonlight was bright enough to track by, but gathering clouds often obscured it and cast long, deep shadows across the ground.

Spurring his horse to a trot, Slocum returned to the area where Montrose had left his horse, then began the tedious process of tracking in the dark using only the hide-and-seek moonlight to work by. About an hour before dawn, bone-tired and almost falling out of his saddle from exhaustion, Slocum spotted the Montrose clan’s campsite.

He sat astride his horse, sizing up the opposition. He knew he could ride in, shooting anyone who moved. If he did that, though, Erin might be killed in the confusion. Slocum doubted Eustace Montrose had much control over his family, other than to bully them. This wasn’t a disciplined cavalry troop but a gang of greedy outlaws each wanting a mountain of gold bars stacked in front of him.

As he pondered that, Slocum almost laughed aloud. He was getting greedy and he was getting stupid. He had to play this hand right to keep Erin from getting killed—and still rake in the biggest pot of all. A million dollars in gold was a powerful goad.

Sheriff George might be called in, but Slocum knew the outcome of that. The sheriff wanted the gold for himself. Slocum smelled the greed boiling from the man’s pores every time the gold was mentioned. If involving the lawman was foolish, not being able to attack straight on was out of the question, and waiting for Eustace Montrose to deliver a ransom note played into the owlhoots’ hands and wrote a death sentence for both Erin and himself—that left only one course of action.

Slocum slid from the saddle, poked around in his saddlebags until he found his spare Colt and tucked it into his gunbelt. He could sneak as good as any Indian and intended to prove it. It was still too dark to be sure where everyone slept in the camp, but Slocum doubted the Montrose gang would be wary of him coming. If anything, they’d be passing around a bottle, celebrating how easy it was to put one over on the interloper—and how they were going to divvy up the gold and spend it when they got the map from him.

Tethering his horse some distance away, where if it whinnied it would not draw attention, Slocum checked his firearms and began the slow descent into the camp. He watched for lookouts, but saw none. He relied on a silent tread and kept to the shadows to get within fifty feet of the camp. In the middle of the camp blazed a fire that cast flickering light across the terrain and the four large, old Army tents that had been pitched. Slocum tried to get one tent between him and the fire to see if he could make out silhouettes inside. With luck, he could see where Erin was being held.

Or Molly. The difference in what he would do was simple when it came to the auburn-tressed beauty. He would gladly plug her for luring him away so Erin could be kidnapped.

The canvas in the tents proved too thick for him to get a good idea of who was inside any of them. He saw two men sitting on rocks near the fire, huddled over and not talking. They drank silently. In the ten minutes he watched them, they poured themselves two cups of coffee from a pot boiling on the fire. Slocum suspected they also added a hefty dollop of whiskey to their coffee before drinking it, but both men were cast in heavy shadow from where he spied.

He watched and waited another half hour before anyone came to join the pair at the fire. The man who crawled from one of the tents stood up and might have been a grizzly bear decked out in human clothing. He was immense, broad of shoulder and with a belly that bounced every time he took a step. Slocum knew better than to discount the man, however, because of the way he carried himself. He might look fat, but the quickness of his movement told of great strength. He looked like a bear and might be able to crack a man’s back with his own version of a bear hug.

“You boys ain’t all liquored up now, are you?” The man walked around and grabbed a tin cup from one man’s hands. He lifted it and took a deep whiff. “I thought so, you drunken sots! No sons of mine’ll disobey me when I tell ’em to stay sober. Who’s out there watchin’ for that sneaky son of a bitch Slocum?”

“You ain’t got the brains God gave a goat. It don’t matter what you like in a whore. It matters what he does. If Slocum’s sweet on her, he won’t want her all cut up.”

“We could use her a mite and see what he likes ’bout her,” suggested the other man. The giant cuffed him so hard it knocked him off the rock where he had perched like some carrion eater.

Slocum remained as quiet as a statue, watching, taking it all in, getting ready to act. He pegged the huge man as Eustace Montrose and the other two as his remaining sons. Nobody had ever said exactly how many sons Eustace had riding with him, but it was a family affair, with his brothers and a couple cousins, too. But the Arnots had not died without putting up a fight. Any of them might have taken out a Montrose, and Michael Preston’s killer had some of the facial features of the unlamented Big Jack Montrose. Eustace was losing his family one by one and didn’t much care.

“You worthless worms have one thing right. Might be downright interestin’ to find out what she’s got to entice a man like Slocum.” Eustace started for the tent on the south side of camp, then paused. He tilted his head to one side, sniffed the air like a bloodhound and turned slowly in a full circle.

“I don’t unnerstand why you’re expectin’ him to come here. How would he find us? Wasn’t he supposed to wait back in town till you gave him another note? A ransom note with instructions?” The man stumbled over such big words. Slocum thought he was repeating what he had heard someone else tell him.

“The both of you get your asses out there and watch for Slocum. Me, I think I’ll go get myself bedded down for a spell.” Eustace Montrose laughed, hitched up his trousers and went to the tent to his right.

Slocum wondered where Erin was being held. From Eustace’s first words, he thought she might be in the southernmost tent, but he had gone to the one on the west side of the camp. Slocum went cold inside thinking of this animal forcing himself on Erin.

If he had half the sense Eustace Montrose credited him with having, he would bide his time and permanently remove the two sons from their lookout posts. It never paid to have an armed enemy at your back. But Slocum couldn’t take the time. He heard a soft female moan from inside the tent where Eustace had gone. The objection grew louder, then was cut off when the man obviously used a big, loud kiss to silence any further protests.

Thrashing sounded inside the tent and galvanized Slocum. He threw caution to the winds and raced to the tent. A quick look around showed that Montrose’s sons had not heard the brief clatter of boots against rock. They might have been too drunk to notice anything less than falling over a cliff.

In the dim light all Slocum could see was a white leg drawn up and Eustace Montrose with his pants down around his ankles. Opening his fly was what passed for foreplay with him, but what else did he need for rape?

Montrose moved and Slocum saw the woman in the bed for the first time. Molly kicked out and knocked the six-gun from his grip. Then he found himself mixing it up with a half-naked Eustace Montrose. The man was as immensely strong as he had suspected and faster. Much faster. Slocum’s only advantage lay in Montrose having his pants down around his hairy ankles.

Slocum clapped both of his palms against the sides of Montrose’s head, crushing his ears. Montrose growled like a beast and tried to grapple. Slocum kicked out and caught a knee, knocking the man down, but this was almost his undoing. The tent was small and restricted Slocum’s movement. He felt a meaty paw of a hand clamp down like a vise on his leg.

Slocum twisted hard and kicked Eustace Montrose in the face. For a moment, he didn’t think he had done any damage. Then, as if it took the monster of a man a couple seconds to realize he was injured, Montrose let out a bellow of pure pain and rage. Slocum had smashed the man’s nose amid a shower of blood.

Scrambling to get his feet under him, Slocum heard a sound that was all too familiar. A gun had cocked. He looked at the bedding and saw a naked Molly sitting cross-legged, his own gun pointed at him. She held it steady in a two-handed grip, but there was no doubt that she could hit him at this range.

Eustace Montrose still moaned and pressed his hand into his fountaining broken nose. Slocum slumped as if in resignation, then jumped sideways. He crashed into the pole supporting the tent and brought it down just as Molly shot. The slug ripped past his shoulder and drilled a neat hole in the thick canvas.

Then Slocum was twisting, turning, dodging and making his way toward the tent at the south end of camp. Molly was cursing but nowhere near as loudly as Eustace Montrose. The canvas flapped like some giant flightless bird trying to soar aloft, but it held them as surely as ropes might have.

Slocum dragged his other Colt from his belt and was swinging it when the flap on the southernmost tent opened. His barrel caught the bearded man squarely on the chin. Slocum saw the older man’s eyes roll up in his head before he folded like a bad poker hand.

Stumbling over the man’s prone body, Slocum burst into the tent. Erin Finnigan lay all trussed up on a bedroll. When she saw him, she tried to cry out in joy but a gag had been savagely crammed into her mouth. She began choking, until Slocum ripped it out.

“Never mind,” Slocum said. “I know most of it already.” He slid the knife from the top of his boot and slashed at the rough hemp rope binding her. She sagged as he cut her hands free, then rubbed circulation back. He made quick work of the ropes on her ankles.

“No time for that. Come on.” Slocum went to the back of the tent and drove the point of his knife into the canvas. He sliced downward with a deft stroke and grabbed Erin by the hand. He pulled her behind him through the cut, and they headed into the dwindling darkness to the south of the Montrose gang’s camp.

“We have to get around to where I left my horse. There’s no way we can outrun them on foot. We’re running out of time fast.” Dawn turned the far horizon pink with the promise of a new day. Or was it the curse of a day filled with his and Erin’s deaths?

“Pa, over here! I hear them over in this direction!” The words rang clarion clear. A bullet followed them that forced Slocum to duck in spite of himself. He hadn’t thought either of Eustace’s sons would be that good a shot in the dark. It was even worse if it had been a lucky shot. Sometimes luck is better than skill. He couldn’t count on them turning unlucky or his own luck improving.

“This way,” Slocum whispered. He bent low and worked his way toward some brambles. Erin let out an involuntary yelp when one raked her skin and left behind a bloody trail.

He shoved her flat on the ground, cocked his six-shooter and waited. Slocum didn’t have to bide his time long. One outlaw came blundering through the woods, his nose working like his old man’s had back in camp. Slocum wondered if they were crossbred with dogs. Then he got a clean shot and took it.

“No arguing,” he said harshly. He hated telling the woman to get the lawman, but he had no choice. He might have to give up hope for finding the million dollars in bullion, but regretting it the rest of his life was better than getting murdered by these kidnapping no-account sidewinders right now.

“Stay low until I’m out of sight, then run like hell.” He didn’t wait to hear any more argument from her. Slocum aimed carefully and fired. He hit another of the Montroses but did not kill him outright. If anything, winging him made the man madder than a wet hen—and far more dangerous.

Slocum crashed through the undergrowth, making as much noise as he could before turning stealthy like a stalking Apache. He flopped on his belly and slid through the tall grass like a snake, trying not to stir the vegetation too much. When he got to a stand of trees not far off, he chose a sturdy-looking maple and clambered up it to lie flat along the lowest limb. This put him just above head level for most men and gave him a good view of his backtrail.

His heart almost exploded when he saw the man he had wounded come into sight. The man hesitated before entering the wooded area, though. Slocum fingered his gun and wondered if he dared to shoot again. He decided against it. Better to jump down like a pouncing cougar and finish off the son of a bitch with his knife. He didn’t want to attract too much attention, though he might have to if he wanted to give Erin a decent start toward reaching his horse and safety.

“Uncle Paul, that you in there?” The man swung his rifle around in a short, nervous arc that told Slocum he was still searching for a target. “Uncle Paul?”

Slocum worried that Uncle Paul would show up, but instead the man retreated and went back toward camp. Slocum wasn’t sure if he was lucky or not. He wanted to eliminate as many of the Montroses as he could and keep them off Erin’s trail.

Swinging down, Slocum dropped lightly to the ground with every intention of shooting his tracker in the back if he had to. He froze when he heard a ruckus from the direction of the camp. Shots sounded, then loud cries went up.

“We got her, Slocum. We caught the poxy whore. And we got your horse, too. It was staked out north of camp. You got ten seconds to show your face or we start with her.”

“I get her first,” came Eustace Montrose’s words, muffled and almost unrecognizable since Slocum had mashed his nose. “And after my boys and brothers and their sons have had their way with her, I’ll finish her off. You won’t recognize her, Slocum. She’ll look like a side of carved-up beef. I’m real good with a knife. Like a Sioux, they tell me.”

Slocum knew when he was beaten. He couldn’t run and leave Erin to such a fate. But if he tried dealing with the Montrose gang, he was likely to end up dead himself.