Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [21]
Slocum reached the road, looked once in the direction of San Francisco, and began walking the other way. There was nothing for him to the north. For that matter, he knew there was nothing southward either. He had come this way to escape the heat and drought and saw no reason to return to it. Mostly, he needed to find a horse so he could range due east, circle around San Francisco Bay on the Oakland side, and then ride as hard as he could for the Pacific Northwest. Oregon had to hold better circumstances.
Barely had he gone a mile when he heard the thunder of hooves behind him on the road. Whoever rode down on him was in a powerful hurry. He considered stepping aside and seeing who was intent on killing his horse under him, then got the prickly feeling at the back of his neck that he ought not indulge this curiosity. He left the road and went to a dry acequia. The drought here wasn’t as bad as down south, but it was enough to make the irrigation ditch little more than a mud puddle.
He slipped over the edge and flopped down, waiting.
The riders approached, then slowed, and finally stopped about the place he had left the road.
Sunlight glinted off badges pinned on the riders’ vests. He slid his Colt Navy from his holster when one of the lawmen pointed to the tracks he had left, then slowly traced along his trail to where he hid in the irrigation ditch.
Slocum knew he was in for trouble when the posse dismounted, fanned out, and started toward him.
6
“You lift that iron and you’re a dead man,” shouted the man Slocum took to be the leader. “Boys, get ready to shoot. He don’t look like he’s the surrendering kind.”
A quick glance left and right confirmed Slocum’s worst fears. He was already caught in a cross fire. The deputies on either flank had a clean shot at him. He might take out one, but the other would ventilate him in the span of a heartbeat. And that didn’t even take into account the two gunmen flanking the leader. One held a rifle like he knew how to use it, and the other’s grip was steady on his six-shooter.
“Don’t get itchy trigger fingers,” Slocum said, holding up his hands. He felt exposed and about ready to die. All it would take was a single deputy to get a tic, and lead would fly.
“Come on over here, and keep your hands up in the clouds. I swear, we’ll shoot if you don’t!”
As Slocum got closer to the lawman, he saw a sheriff’s badge.
“Look, Sheriff, I—”
“Shut your face,” the lawman snapped. He snared Slocum’s six-gun and tossed it to the nearest deputy. Even then, the sheriff kept a keen eye on Slocum’s every move.
“He matches the description, Sheriff Bernard.”
“What description?” Slocum asked. He got a pistol barrel laid up alongside his head. He felt all the strength go out of his legs as he collapsed to his knees. The world spun in crazy circles, and pain filled his head.
“Don’t go doin’ that, George,” Sheriff Bernard snapped. “He done surrendered. It’s up to us to keep him that way until the trial.”
“You reckon he’s got a price on his head? Other than for the robbery?”
Slocum didn’t know which of the deputies asked the question. He went cold inside.
“My horse died. I was just going to—”
“Get him in irons,” the sheriff said. “And if he keeps yammering like that, gag him.”
Slocum felt cold metal cuffs snapped around his wrists. He was yanked to his feet and shoved along to the road. A rope was looped around the chains holding his wrists together. The ends were fastened around a deputy’s saddle horn, then they all turned their horses’ faces and started back north toward San Francisco.
If the drunk identified him as the one who stole his horse and buggy, Slocum knew they might just string him up. Stories of vigilance committees were rife in San Francisco. But the sheriff seemed one of the rarities, a peace officer who actually enforced the law and didn’t permit his prisoners to be mistreated. Or at least Slocum hoped that was true of Sheriff Bernard.
To his surprise, they didn’t follow the main road back into San Francisco but took one angling off west toward the ocean. Slocum