Slocum 329

Slocum rolled out of bed while the sky was still a hazy purple and orange. Miranda purred like a well-contented kitten and stretched before she snuggled into the pillows once again.

Her husky voice stopped him at the door. “Leavin’ me again already, darlin’?”

“Just for a little while.” Slocum looked over his shoulder. “I ain’t leavin’ town just yet, honey.”

Abruptly, Miranda sat up and the sheet fell to her waist, revealing her ample charms. “I should hope to kiss a pig you’re not! Where are you going?”

“Takin’ a ride out to the Bar C. Want to take a look around. See if I can figure out what’s goin’ on out there.”

“In the meantime, just wait for me. I’ll be back and we can pick up where we left off last night.” He paused, adding, “And keep Crone in town. That fool chatters more than a magpie and makes even less sense. I don’t want him talking none.”

He was glad she found Crone amusing. Slocum found him downright annoying, not to mention pretty damn stupid at times. But he means well, he kept reminding himself. Not that it did much good . . .

Apache Wells was quiet as he walked from the hotel to the livery. Cougar poked his head over the stall door and whickered when Slocum entered the barn. The Appaloosa seemed eager to get moving.

Slocum was out of town when the sun broke the horizon, the hot white of day pushing aside the softer, more beautiful colors of dawn. He didn’t meet anyone on the road to the Bar C, which suited him just fine.

He wanted to get onto Bar C land without being seen and to take a good gander around the ranch without the interference of anyone, especially a particular pair of Miranda’s hired hands.

What had possessed the woman—and her uncle Abel—to keep those two reprobates on the payroll? And what in the hell was up with the blood spattering their boots?

He wasn’t a man given to jumping to conclusions, but he’d bet a good saddle they were involved with the slaughter of the horses at the Bar C.

Slocum rolled himself a quirlie and struck a lucifer on the seam of his denims. Drawing deeply on the smoke, he twisted around what he knew so far.

Dave Crone thought Marcus and Foley had killed Jefferson, and he was probably right. All else aside, Crone had fairly good instincts.

Someone was slaughtering horses on Bar C land and that just didn’t seem fair to Slocum, killing a horse. It seemed to him that it was against God, somehow. Whoever was doing it, had to be doing it to hide what they were really up to.

And that brought him back to where he started and left him with as much as he had started with . . . which was little more than squat.

Crone rode that poor short-legged bay of his at a hard gallop. Having few other options, Slocum reined Cougar to a stop. When Dave drew alongside of him, he demanded, “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“Figured you’d be headin’ out to the ranch sometime today. Didn’t figure it to be before the goddamn dawn, though, but I just slept in the livery, anyways, waitin’ for you. What are you goin’ to do when you get to the ranch?”

“I’m just goin’ to have me a look-see. Go back to town.” He gigged Cougar into a walk. “Ain’t no need for you to ride with me right now.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I’m here, so the way I see it, ain’t no need for me to go back to town.”

Slocum was more than tempted to kick Cougar into a gallop, leaving Crone’s horse scrambling to keep up, but that would draw a bit too much attention if anyone were watching the road. The dust cloud alone would be the visual equivalent of firing a cannon.

“Fine, Crone, but you keep your yap shut. I ain’t in the mood to listen to you this mornin’.”

For once, Crone didn’t babble, and after a few minutes, Slocum turned Cougar off the road and across country. Crone followed, still quiet.

Slocum turned in the saddle, leather creaking as he did. “Tell me again what you heard about Jefferson’s killin’.”

“Got hisself shot up by Marcus, over some dance-hall girl. Don’t that beat all?”

“Well, no,” Crone admitted. “And I done told you that! But it come from a reliable source. Creed Norseman—you remember him. He saw the whole deal, and I never knew Creed to stretch a story in all his life. Heard tell, too, that Marcus was hooked with Foley, and that’s right on the money.”

Slocum didn’t point out to Crone that Cassidy, the all around good soul and straight dealer whose range they were sneaking across, had seemingly hired Marcus and Foley.

Cougar snorted and shied back. Slocum reined in the Appaloosa, calming him. The breeze shifted, and the scent of blood and carrion carried with the wind.

“Jesus, what’s that smell?” Crone asked. His face screwed up. “It’d knock a buzzard off a goddamn shit wagon!”

“Shut up, Dave. That was the deal. You keep your pie hole closed and I let you tag along.” Slocum put his heels lightly into Cougar’s sides and the gelding unwillingly started forward again.

At the overlook of a deep ravine, the origin of the smell became apparent. Miranda’s slaughtered horses littered the canyon floor. Slocum shook his head and felt anger twist at his stomach, felt his gorge rising. What a damned waste . . . and it still didn’t make a blasted bit of sense.

He started Cougar down the slope of the ravine’s wall, giving the animal his head. Crone followed, strangely and blessedly silent.

At the bottom of the ravine, Slocum swung down. Cougar snorted and danced, not wanting to go near the slaughtered animals. Slocum tied the gelding to a scrub pine and walked the remaining distance to the dead horses.

Buzzards and coyotes had just about finished what the butchers had started. Slocum turned on his heel. “Crone, if you were going to kill horses, why would you do it?”

Crone lifted his shoulders in a shrug and shook his head. “Ain’t nobody got no need to be doin’ that.”

“Ain’t nobody got a need to be doin’ this,” Slocum echoed. He walked back to Cougar, taking another long look around the ravine floor. “Somethin’ tells me, this is a way to cover what’s really happenin’ here.”

Slocum pulled Cougar’s rein free, threw it across the horn, and then swung up. He turned the red dun from the carnage and started up the sloping ravine wall. Crone fell in behind.

Halfway up the slope, a shot rang out in the still-cool morning air. The red sandstone beside the Appaloosa exploded with a puff of dust. Slocum spurred Cougar and dropped low over the gelding’s neck, urging him up the wall faster.

Crone’s bay exploded past him, nimble as a mountain goat on the slippery sandstone. More shots peppered the ground.

As Crone’s bay broke over the lip of the ravine wall, another shot caught Crone in the shoulder. He fell to one side, pulling the bay over. All Slocum could do was rein Cougar hard to the side and get out of the way of the falling horse.

Crone and his bay fell backward, tumbling over and over, ass over teakettle, all the way to the bottom of the ravine.

Cougar broke over the top of the wall, and Slocum spurred him to a protective outcropping. Vaulting from the saddle, he pulled his gun. He swept his hat off his head and peered around the rock to the opposite side of the ravine.

The Appaloosa breathed hard behind him, but didn’t leave the protection of the rock outcrop. He was well trained to a ground tie.

Slocum was beyond angry. Whoever had taken shots at him and Crone knew he had been coming. Or at the very least, expected him to take a ride out to the Bar C.

When it became apparent that whoever had been on the opposite rim wasn’t going to make the next move, Slocum debated his. He picked up his hat and cautiously extended it out enough to appear as if he was looking around the rock.

And they were taking their goddamn time about it, too. He couldn’t even see the dust of their passing.

He slammed his hat back on his head and stood up. He walked to the ravine rim. A look down at the floor told him there was nothing he could do for either Crone or Tommy, his bay.

Neither moved, and God surely never intended a man’s head to be twisted so far around to the side as Crone’s was.

Passing the barkeep on his way to his room, Slocum demanded a bottle of whiskey. He marched up the stairs to his room.

Miranda was curled on the bed, naked as a jaybird, idly turning the pages of a book.

She looked up, her quirky smile crossing her face and just as quickly vanishing. “What happened, honey?”

Slocum didn’t answer her. He pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle, spat it halfway across the room, and took a long pull. Lowering the bottle, he wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “Who’d you tell you wired me?”

She sat up, flinging her hair off her shoulders. “Why? What happened?” she repeated.

“There’s more to this than just horses gettin’ killed. I took a ride out to the ranch, and got shot at. Dave Crone’s dead.”

“Dead?” She paled and pulled the sheet up around herself. “Someone shot him?”

Slocum nodded. “Winged him on a steep incline, which is about the same damned thing. He and his horse fell clear down the cliff. Did you know about Vance Jefferson gettin’ killed?”

“I heard rumors.” Miranda pulled her hair to a side, twisting it around her fingers, and her face fell. “Someone said he got called out over a dance-hall girl, but I can’t believe that. He was like another uncle to me. And what’s that have to do with us here?”

“Don’t quite know, yet.” Slocum took another long pull from the bottle. “Except your uncle hired the two boys what did it. At least, by all accounts. What could be on the Bar C worth killin’ for?”

Miranda rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet around herself as she did. “Who?” she demanded. Slocum could practically see the wheels in her mind whirling. “Foley and Marcus?” she exclaimed at last. “Why, Vance was a good friend to Uncle Abel! And Vance Jefferson wasn’t the kind to get himself killed over a saloon dancer. Besides, handcuffed and blindfolded, he could outdraw either Foley or Marcus!”

She sat back, huffing. “Now, I know he did some bad things when he was younger,” she went on, “but ain’t none of it somethin’ that would make anybody want to murder him.”

Miranda stood up and walked closer to Slocum, splaying her hand over his chest. “I was gettin’ worried about you. And, I’m sorry about Crone. I guess you stopped at the sheriff’s office on your way into town.”

Slocum nodded. “Wasn’t in. But the undertaker—and a deputy—are on the way out there now to get him. There’s no way I could get him out of there with only my horse. Never would have made it back up the rise.”

Miranda took the bottle from him and took a drink herself. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

She handed the bottle to him and Slocum raised it to his lips. He paused. “Where were Marcus and Foley when Vance got killed?”

“They were over in New Mexico, on business. Uncle Abel sent them.” She trailed off and her eyes narrowed. “Those snakes!”

“Not sure what I’m thinkin’ just yet.” He set the bottle on the small table near the window. “I’m thinkin’ though, much as I hate to admit it, that you need to get some clothes on and we need to get out to your ranch.”

Miranda sighed, flipped her hair off her shoulder, and flounced over to the bed. “And I’m thinkin’ you’re right. We’re not goin’ to find out anything here in town. Whatever it is that’s worth killin’ for is on the ranch. Maybe by way of going through Uncle Abel.”

“You and me both. But if I find out that Marcus had anything to do with Vance’s death, Uncle Abel will just kill him, himself.”