Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [26]
Sergeant Wilkinson jerked hard on the reins to keep the horse moving straight ahead. “Don’t go gettin’ skittish on me. We’re close. I know it.” Wilkinson reached down to pat the horse’s neck.
Slocum moved like lightning. He stood and grabbed, both hands circling Wilkinson’s brawny wrist. Digging in his heels, Slocum yanked with all his might. In spite of Wilkinson’s bulk, the prison guard went flying through the air. Slocum never released his hold on the sinewy wrist. Instead, he jerked upward and felt the arm separate from the shoulder. The dislocation left Wilkinson with only one good arm—even better, he landed hard and lay stunned.
Following up his initial attack, Slocum swung around and fell heavily, his knee driving into Wilkinson’s belly. The air gusted out in a sudden whoosh! Slocum pulled his pistol, swung hard, and caught Wilkinson alongside the head. The crunch told of a solid impact. The guard slumped, unconscious.
Panting harshly, Slocum rolled Wilkinson over onto his belly and used strips from the man’s shirt to hog-tie him. With the guard’s pistol stuck into his belt, Slocum stepped back and studied his handiwork. He wasn’t satisfied. He added a gag to keep him from crying out. Only then did Slocum go after the guard’s horse.
Swinging into the saddle, he turned the horse’s face back toward the road and reached the spot where a decision had to be made. North returned him in the direction of the Valenzuelas—and San Quentin. If he went south, he could curl around the bottom of San Francisco Bay and then head north to Oregon. But searching for him as an escaped prisoner might have ranged in that direction from San Quentin. It was better if he returned south and kept riding. From there he could decide what was best, although the thought of the Arizona desert this time of year wasn’t too appealing.
On the other hand, having his tongue swell up from lack of water in the Sonoran Desert was more enticing than being sent back to San Quentin.
He rode south.
Dawn cracked the sky and promised an open road where he could make better time, but something settled into the pit of his stomach. He had ridden a half-dozen miles from where he had ambushed Wilkinson. The guard wasn’t likely to have followed him, but an uneasy sensation told Slocum somebody was watching him. He rode off the wide dirt track and circled to get a look at his back trail.
Nothing. He was the only one on the road. But the feeling refused to go away. Slocum had learned to listen to this sixth sense because it had kept him alive over the years. He was tired to the bone and knew he should rest. Worse, his horse was beginning to stumble. Riding the horse to complete exhaustion was foolhardy. On foot, he would be an easy target for Wilkinson or Sheriff Bernard.
Thought of the sheriff made Slocum narrow his eyes and study the road where he had just ridden more closely. Did he see a fountain of dust rising? Or was it only a fitful morning breeze? He knew he might be inventing pursuit when there wasn’t any. Wilkinson might have shot the sheriff and left him dead in the jailhouse. There had been the exchange of shots that Slocum hadn’t bothered to investigate.
He dismounted to let the horse crop at tufts of grass growing between the trees. Stretching betrayed aching muscles. He yawned and knew he would fall over in a stupor if he didn’t get some sleep, but he couldn’t do that because of the uneasy feeling. Not seeing anyone on his trail ought to have quelled the sensation—but it hadn’t. If anything, he felt even jumpier.
Making sure the horse was tethered but still able to pull at the juicy grass, Slocum began hiking through the woods intent on keeping hidden from anyone who might be traveling the road.
Less than a mile along, he was glad he had been so cautious. Three men had left the road and huddled around a small fire heating