14
John Slocum saw a little group of men coming after him. He was sitting calmly on top of a large, round rock, watching as four riders approached a narrow draw. The draw was so confined that they would not be able to get through without squeezing into a single file. It was a place that no one with any tactical sense would go. But these were not men with a sense of tactics. These were cowboys, fired up by the promise of a five-hundred-dollar reward for bringing in John Slocum, dead or alive. There wasn’t a one of them who really intended to bring Slocum in alive. And there wasn’t one of them who would balk at putting a noose around Slocum’s neck. Because of that, they were men who could be easily lured into a trap.
Slocum stood up so he could clearly be seen against the skyline.
“Look! There he is!”
“He’s up there!”
“Let’s get him! Let’s get the son of a bitch!”
The riders galloped through the draw, bent on capturing or killing John Slocum.
A couple of the men in front thought Slocum made an easy target, so they pulled their pistols and began shooting up toward him as they rode. Slocum could see the flash of the gunshots, then the little puffs of dust as the bullets hit around him. The spent bullets whined as they ricocheted through the little draw, but none of the missiles came close enough to cause him to duck.
Slocum was smoking a cigar and now he leaned over, almost casually, to light two fuses. A little starburst of sparks started at each fuse, then ran sputtering and snapping along the length of fuse for several feet alongside the draw. The first explosion went off about fifty yards in front of the lead rider, a heavy, stomach-shaking thump that filled the draw with smoke and dust, then brought a ton of rocks crashing down to close the draw so that the riders couldn’t get through.
The second explosion, somewhat less powerful, was located behind the riders. It, too, brought rocks crashing down into the draw behind them, closing the passage off. Slocum chuckled. It was going to be a long, slow process before the cowboys would be able to dig their way out of this.
Slocum scrambled down off the rock, then wriggled through a fissure that was just large enough to allow a man to pass through if he weren’t riding. He had left his horse on the other side, and now he mounted and rode on, leaving the trapped cowboys behind him.
Slocum rode no more than a quarter of a mile before he saw the next group of riders. Attracted by the sounds of the explosions, they were hurrying over to see what it was.
“There he is!” someone shouted excitedly, pointing toward Slocum.
“Get him!” another yelled.
All four riders started after Slocum at a full gallop.
Slocum took his horse into a mesquite thicket. The limbs slapped painfully against his face and arms but they closed behind him, too, so that he was hidden from view. Slocum slowed his horse just enough to hop off, then he slapped him on the haunch, sending him on. Slocum squatted down behind a mesquite bush and waited.
In less than ten seconds, his pursuers came by. Slocum reached up and grabbed the fourth rider and jerked him off his horse. The man gave a short, startled cry as he was going down, but the cry was cut off when he broke his neck in the fall.
The rider just in front of that rider heard the cry and he looked around in time to see what was happening.
“Hey! He’s back here!” he called. This rider had been riding with his pistol in his hand, so he was able to get off a shot at almost the same moment he yelled.
The man was either a much better shot than Slocum had anticipated or he was lucky, for the bullet grazed the fleshy part of Slocum’s arm, not close enough to make a hole, but close enough to cut a deep, painful crease. The impact of the bullet, plus the effort of unseating the rider, caused Slocum to go down and he fell on his right side, thus preventing him from getting to his gun. The shooter had no such constraints, however, and he was able to get off a second shot. This time his bullet hit a mesquite limb right in front of Slocum’s face, and would have hit Slocum had the limb not been there. Slocum knew then that the first shot had not been a lucky accident. This man could shoot.
Slocum rolled hard, not only to get out of the line of fire, but to be able to reach his gun. As he pulled it up in front of him, he saw that it was covered with dirt. He had a momentary concern that the barrel might be filled with dirt, and if so, it could explode on him when he pulled the trigger. Under the circumstances, however, he didn’t have time to worry about that. He squeezed the trigger, heard the bang, felt the gun kick back in his hand, then saw the shooter grab his chest and pitch backward off his horse.
The other two riders, though they had initially answered the summons of their partner, suddenly realized that in the space of a few seconds, Slocum had cut the odds down to two to one. Those odds weren’t to their liking, so they turned and galloped away.
Slocum borrowed one of the two riderless horses to recover his own. When he tracked his own mount down, he saw that one of the other Crown Ranch groups had already found it. They had dismounted and were giving their own animals a rest. One of the riders was taking a drink from a canteen, another was leaning up against a rock holding their horses, the third was examining Slocum’s horse, while the fourth was standing a short distance away relieving himself. Slocum dismounted before they saw him and sneaked up closer to them on foot.
“It’s got to be his horse,” one of the men said. “It sure don’t belong to Crown Ranch.”
“How do you know?”
“It don’t have a Crown Ranch brand.”
“Hell, what’s that mean?” one of the other men asked, laughing. “Half the animals on this ranch don’t have the Crown Ranch brand.”
“You sayin’ Mr. Draper rustles?”
“Let’s just say he throws a wide loop.”
The others laughed.
“Hell, we all do,” he went on. “Else we wouldn’t be workin’ here. Why do you think he pays us double what any other rancher would pay?”
“Turley, what the hell you doin’ over there, anyways?” one of the cowboys asked.
“What’s it look like I’m a-doin’?” Turley answered. “I’m waterin’ the lilies.”
“Goddamnit, you been pissin’ for five minutes. At this rate you could hire yourself out to them ranchers that can’t get any water.”
The others laughed.
“Why, didn’t you see old Turley this mornin’?” one of the other men asked. “When he went in the river, he got as much water in him as on him.”
“That’s the pure truth of it,” Turley said, returning to the others as he buttoned up his pants. “What do you say we backtrack this horse and try to find Slocum?”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“You heard all the shootin’ a while ago,” Turley said. “I figure he’s wounded.”
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cause if he was dead, we’d know it by now. Whoever kilt him would be whoopin’ and hollerin’ to beat bloody hell, claimin’ the extra thousand dollars. And if he wasn’t wounded, we wouldn’t have his horse.”
“What are we going to do if we find him?”
“Do? Why, we’re goin’ to hang the son of a bitch, that’s what we’re going to do,” Turley said with a smile. “That way we’ll lay claim to the extra thousand.”
“What if he’s already wounded?”
“Especially if he’s wounded,” Turley said. “If we bring him in wounded, someone else is goin’ to claim it was their shot done it and they’ll be wantin’ some of the money.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Suddenly, Slocum stepped out into the little clearing. His gun was already drawn.
“Where’s Caulder?” he asked.
“Oh, shit!” Turley shouted, and he started for his pistol.
Slocum squeezed off a shot and a little mist of blood sprayed out from the side of Turley’s head. Turley let out a yelp of pain and interrupted his draw to slap his hand against the source of his wound.
“You son of a bitch!” he shouted in pain and anger. “You shot off my ear!”
“You’ve got one left,” Slocum said calmly. “I’ll let you keep it if you answer my question. Where is Caulder?”
“I don’t know,” Turley grumbled.
Slocum cocked his pistol. “I might as well even you up,” he said, pointing at Turley’s other ear.
“No! No!” Turley shouted, holding both his hands out in front of him, showing the bloody palm of one of them. “I’d tell you if I knew, but I don’t know where he went.”
“Turley’s tellin’ the truth, Slocum,” one of the other men said. “We broke up into different groups and we ain’t seen Caulder since.”
Slocum waited for a moment, then he eased the hammer back down on his pistol and lowered it.
“All right,” he said with a sigh. “Take your guns out of the holsters and empty the loads onto the ground.”
The men did as they were directed.
“You,” Slocum said, pointing to the man nearest his horse. “Bring my horse over.”
The man obliged and Slocum mounted, then looked at the other four horses.
“Let go of their reins,” he ordered.
Again, Slocum’s instructions were followed.
Slocum fired a couple of shots into the dirt near the horses. The animals reared up in fright and galloped off, their hooves clattering loudly on the rocky ground.
“Hey! What’d you do that for?” Turley asked. “It’s a long walk back.”
“It’s going to be longer,” Slocum said.
“What do you mean?”
“Take off your boots.”
“What? Are you crazy? I ain’t givin’ you my boots,” one of the men said.
“You can walk without boots, or crawl without feet,” Slocum said dryly. “I don’t give a damn which it is.” He cocked his pistol again and aimed it at the feet of the man who had complained.
“No! Wait! Wait! We’ll do it!”
“I thought you might,” Slocum said.
All four men sat down then and began pulling off their boots. Slocum tossed a gunnysack to them.
“Put them in there and bring them to me,” he ordered.
A moment later one of the men handed Slocum the sack of boots.
“Thanks,” Slocum said. He hooked the sack over his saddle pommel and rode away, leaving the four cursing men behind him. He rode for at least two miles before he got rid of the boots.
A mile farther he found an irrigation canal and noticed that as a result of his blowing the dams earlier in the day this canal, which Draper had built to change the natural flow of water, was nearly dried up. There was, however, enough water for his purposes, so he dipped his kerchief into the stream and wet it so he could clean the wound in his arm.
A few minutes later, with the wound cleaned and bandaged, or at least bandaged as well as could be managed by using one hand, he remounted and rode off. He hoped to encounter Caulder out here. That would have made it easier for him when he went after MacTavish. But Caulder wasn’t out here.
Seth Draper looked through the window of his study. In addition to the pistol in his holster, there was another on the desk behind him, loaded and easy to get to. He couldn’t imagine Slocum getting through everyone to get to him but he wasn’t going to take any chances. The son of a bitch had already gotten much further than he would have imagined.
The same thing could be said about Seth Draper. He had already gotten much further than anyone would have thought. Who could have believed that the scrawny orphan back in New York, living out of trash barrels and off petty thievery, would ever live in a house like this, owning land for as far as the eye could see, and running enough cattle to feed an army?
Draper had already come much further than anyone who was born in New York City’s Hell’s Kitchen had a right to expect, and most men in Draper’s position would be satisfied with the wealth already amassed. But not Seth Draper. There was a hunger in Draper’s gut that still ached from those days when he had to literally beg for a crust of bread.
Draper began his life of crime as a purse snatcher, burglar, and shoplifter. Then he graduated to armed robbery, but one of his jobs went bad and he killed someone. With the police looking for him, he left New York that same day, signing on to the crew of a sailing ship that was headed for San Francisco.
He was not a good sailor, and in addition to frequent lashings, he spent forty-three days of the one-hundred-twenty-day passage in the brig. Two days before they made San Francisco, the ship’s chief bo‘sun fell overboard. At least, that was how it was recorded in the ship’s log. There were some who, correctly, suspected Draper pushed the bo’sun over the rail. After all, the bo’sun had been Draper’s biggest adversary during the entire voyage. But as the ship’s master explained, suspicions aren’t evidence so he couldn’t bring charges. He could, however, put Draper ashore in San Francisco, and that is exactly what he did.
Draper left the ship in San Francisco, tried prospecting and failed, then went back to his old ways of supporting himself by stealing from others. Then he got involved with some forgers and had some success in managing to put mining claims in enough dispute that the rightful owners would pay off, rather than fight it in court.
It was there that he first heard about Spanish land grants. He read an article about a huge amount of land in Texas that was turned over because of a claim verified by an old Spanish grant. Armed with this information, and the ability to get documents forged, Draper had only to await his opportunity.
That opportunity came when Ian MacTavish visited San Francisco. MacTavish married Emma Ritter, and though in the female-scarce world the loss of any woman, even a whore, was a major blow, most were happy for her because she had married not only a man she apparently loved, she had married a wealthy man. It was listening to a description of MacTavish’s holdings that gave Draper the idea of where he would put his plan into action. Through his underground contacts, he found a judge who could be paid off, submitted his claim, and was rewarded with a sizable chunk of MacTavish’s land. That was a good start, but he would never be satisfied until he owned every blade of grass and every cow in the valley. And that especially included Cross Pass Station.
He was already well into taking possession of the cattle belonging to Cross Pass. With a branding iron of one diagonal slash, it was a simple matter to change the brand from CP for Cross Pass, to CR for Crown Ranch. But rustling a few dozen, or even a few score head, at a time wasn’t fast enough. He needed some way to take over Cross Pass. And of course, once he controlled Cross Pass, the other, smaller ranches would fall quickly.
Seth Draper pulled the drapes to, then decided to check on his prisoner. Going upstairs, he pulled the trapdoor down, lowered the ladder, then climbed up into the attic. To the degree that is was possible, MacTavish was sitting up on the bed, though as his legs were chained to the foot of the bed, he couldn’t put them on the floor.
“What was all the noise?” MacTavish asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? It sounded like a cannon going off.”
“Slocum blew the dam,” Draper said. “The old dry beds are filled with water again. It took out the cookhouse and the granary and, no doubt, rerouted my entire irrigation system. In a matter of seconds the son of a bitch has destroyed what it took me years to build.”
“It will be good to meet this man, Slocum,” MacTavish said. “It’s honored I will be, to shake his hand.”
“You think I’m going to let you live that long?” Draper asked.
“Aye. You’ve got to keep me alive for your foul plan to work,” MacTavish said. “So you’ll nae do anything until the last minute. But ’tis my belief that you’ll miscalculate and all this will be coming down on you.”
Draper growled, then pulled his pistol and pointed it at MacTavish. He drew the hammer back.
“What’s keeping me from killing you right now?” he asked.
“I can nae think of a thing,” MacTavish said. “If you’re of a mind to, go ahead. Pull the trigger.”
“Are you crazy?” Draper said. “Your life is in my hands!”
“Laddie, I’ve lived my life ready to die for the last fifty years. I’m as ready now as I’ve even been, or ever will be. If you’re going to kill me, do it and be done with it. Otherwise, go away. You are as annoying as a fly on dung heap.”
The blood vessel in Draper’s temple throbbed and he wanted to shoot MacTavish more than anything. But MacTavish was right. For his plan to work, Draper had to keep him alive. At least for now. He lowered the hammer, then put the pistol back in his holster.
“I’m going to let you live, for now,” he said, pointing at MacTavish. “But when all this is over... when I don’t need you anymore...” he let the sentence hang, threateningly.
There were several shots fired from outside, not too far from the house. Startled, Draper hurried over to look through the curtains.
“Sounds like he’s getting closer,” MacTavish said.
“I’d better go check on things,” Draper said, starting toward the open trapdoor and the ladder that led to the lower floors.
“Draper?” MacTavish called.
“Yes?” Draper looked back toward him.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”