Mexico Territory and had to cross the Colorado River at some point.
The railroad crews would be especially alert because a vice presidentâs daughter was part and parcel of the wreck. If she kept her head down, Marlene would be fine.
If Slocum successfully decoyed the Apaches away.
Bent down low, he chanced a look behind. Through the dust cloud came two riders. It meant death for him unless he got lucky, but Marlene was safe. He had done his job the best he could.
Slocum angled off, thinking to curve back toward the railroad tracks. What the Apaches sought other than his scalp was a poser since this stretch of desert was as barren as an old sowâs womb. They must have escaped the reservation in the eastern part of Arizona and sought refuge here. Or they might have been chased to southwestern Arizona Territory by cavalry and looked to get across the border for the safety Mexico offered. Whatever the reason for the war party, the Apaches were intent on stopping Slocum.
That meant they feared he would reveal their position. Hope popped up a bit higher. Fort Barrett over on the Gila River was the closest military post. If these were Warm Springs Apaches off the reservation east of the fort, troopers might be close on their heels. All Slocum had to do was dodge about until the Indians began to worry about the soldiers finding them.
He crossed the railroad tracks and rode due north, but his pony began to flag. He slowed, alternated gaits, did what he could to keep moving without killing it under him. From the way his mouth filled with gummy cotton from lack of water, he knew the horse similarly suffered. The only sure source of water he knew in this desert roared along under the S&P bridge, but if he cut back in that direction, he risked Marlene being discovered.
Heading for low hills to the northwest, he had to slow almost to a walk. Even then the pony stumbled as it moved along. Slocum watched it closely for sign of ears pricking up or nostrils flaring at the scent of water. When nothing reached the horse, he knew he was in for tough times.
ÂCanyonsâÂhardly more than ÂgulliesâÂbegan to cut through the dry land. Slocum dropped to the ground, considered his chances, and then applied the flat of his hand to the horseâs rump. It snorted, reared, and trotted away. Such a trick wouldnât slow the Apaches much, but getting the horse back as booty might satisfy them and theyâd stop hunting for him.
The sun hammering down from directly above might wink out entirely, too. He knew false hope from reality. Choosing a ravine at random, he ran down it until his legs ached. The soft sand and hard pebbles robbed him of stamina and bruised his feet at the same time.
When a cutbank presented a hint of shade, he dived low and crawled out of the sun. Pressing his back against the crumbling sand wall, he took out his Colt Navy and examined it. The swim in the Colorado hadnât done it any good. Fearing the war party would come across him at any instant, he stripped the pistol and used the tail of the fancy shirt he had gotten from Burlison to wipe dry the metal parts. Without oil, he had to rely on metal grating against metal not to hang up from friction.
Each cartridge was carefully dried off and then slipped back into the cylinder. Whether any of the rounds would fire depended a great deal on how long they had been submerged. Slocum had dropped an entire box of cartridges into a river once, and after drying them off, all had fired. But the immersion had been only minutes. He tried to estimate the time heâd spent being slammed about in the Colorado and decided he couldnât. It all came to him as a soggy blur.
The sound of a horse coming from the east alerted him to danger. Slocum knew he could never get to the top of the bank and escape that way. He moved slowly, trying to stay in the shadows, retracing his path. The sound of the horse grew louder behind him. He slid his
The railroad crews would be especially alert because a vice presidentâs daughter was part and parcel of the wreck. If she kept her head down, Marlene would be fine.
If Slocum successfully decoyed the Apaches away.
Bent down low, he chanced a look behind. Through the dust cloud came two riders. It meant death for him unless he got lucky, but Marlene was safe. He had done his job the best he could.
Slocum angled off, thinking to curve back toward the railroad tracks. What the Apaches sought other than his scalp was a poser since this stretch of desert was as barren as an old sowâs womb. They must have escaped the reservation in the eastern part of Arizona and sought refuge here. Or they might have been chased to southwestern Arizona Territory by cavalry and looked to get across the border for the safety Mexico offered. Whatever the reason for the war party, the Apaches were intent on stopping Slocum.
That meant they feared he would reveal their position. Hope popped up a bit higher. Fort Barrett over on the Gila River was the closest military post. If these were Warm Springs Apaches off the reservation east of the fort, troopers might be close on their heels. All Slocum had to do was dodge about until the Indians began to worry about the soldiers finding them.
He crossed the railroad tracks and rode due north, but his pony began to flag. He slowed, alternated gaits, did what he could to keep moving without killing it under him. From the way his mouth filled with gummy cotton from lack of water, he knew the horse similarly suffered. The only sure source of water he knew in this desert roared along under the S&P bridge, but if he cut back in that direction, he risked Marlene being discovered.
Heading for low hills to the northwest, he had to slow almost to a walk. Even then the pony stumbled as it moved along. Slocum watched it closely for sign of ears pricking up or nostrils flaring at the scent of water. When nothing reached the horse, he knew he was in for tough times.
ÂCanyonsâÂhardly more than ÂgulliesâÂbegan to cut through the dry land. Slocum dropped to the ground, considered his chances, and then applied the flat of his hand to the horseâs rump. It snorted, reared, and trotted away. Such a trick wouldnât slow the Apaches much, but getting the horse back as booty might satisfy them and theyâd stop hunting for him.
The sun hammering down from directly above might wink out entirely, too. He knew false hope from reality. Choosing a ravine at random, he ran down it until his legs ached. The soft sand and hard pebbles robbed him of stamina and bruised his feet at the same time.
When a cutbank presented a hint of shade, he dived low and crawled out of the sun. Pressing his back against the crumbling sand wall, he took out his Colt Navy and examined it. The swim in the Colorado hadnât done it any good. Fearing the war party would come across him at any instant, he stripped the pistol and used the tail of the fancy shirt he had gotten from Burlison to wipe dry the metal parts. Without oil, he had to rely on metal grating against metal not to hang up from friction.
Each cartridge was carefully dried off and then slipped back into the cylinder. Whether any of the rounds would fire depended a great deal on how long they had been submerged. Slocum had dropped an entire box of cartridges into a river once, and after drying them off, all had fired. But the immersion had been only minutes. He tried to estimate the time heâd spent being slammed about in the Colorado and decided he couldnât. It all came to him as a soggy blur.
The sound of a horse coming from the east alerted him to danger. Slocum knew he could never get to the top of the bank and escape that way. He moved slowly, trying to stay in the shadows, retracing his path. The sound of the horse grew louder behind him. He slid his
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