Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [27]
Slocum cursed under his breath. He had a small posse on his tail and wouldn’t stand much chance shooting it out with them. Even if he could ambush them the way he had Wilkinson, he would have to risk getting shot himself.
The sheriff finished his coffee, wiped out the cup with his bandanna, and then stashed his gear in his saddlebags. The others broke camp, preparing to follow their escaped prisoner.
Slocum found himself in a predicament. He had walked almost a mile from his horse. The posse could reach the spot where he had left the road long before he could return to his stolen mount. If he hightailed it now, he might mask his trail on foot, but he was sick and tired of walking everywhere.
The sheriff led the way, a deputy riding alongside. The third deputy was having a difficult time with his saddle. Every time he tried to tighten the belly strap, the horse reared and fought him. Slocum knew this was his chance. Gripping the pistol he had taken from Wilkinson, he walked briskly toward the struggling deputy. The man never looked up from his battle with his horse until it was too late.
Slocum swung the pistol and buffaloed the deputy, dropping him like a stone. The horse shied away and continued to kick up a fuss. Slocum ignored the horse for the moment, more intent on the pistol in his hand. Etched into the barrel were the words PROPERTY OF SAN QUENTIN. He hefted the weapon, then dropped it on the ground and took the deputy’s six-shooter. Only then did he turn his attention to the reluctant horse.
More than once in his checkered career, Slocum had worked breaking broncos. This horse hadn’t been properly trained and to take the time to do so now would guarantee that he would end up in the sheriff’s jail again. Instead of leaping on the saddle, Slocum grabbed the cinch and loosened it. The horse settled down and actually let him get close to yank the saddle from its back. He tossed the gear away, took the reins, and vaulted onto the animal’s back. The horse reared and tried to throw him, but its heart wasn’t in the fight. Slocum concentrated on simply staying on, then guided the horse away from the fallen deputy and got on the road. He turned northward and let the horse have its head.
When the horse began to tire, he gently guided it toward the wooded area on the eastern side of the road, got into the trees, and began working his way back southward toward the horse he had taken from Wilkinson. This horse didn’t much cotton to a rider, but not having the saddle screwed down tight made it an easier ride.
The sheriff and his deputy had ridden a fair distance down the road, but when the third member of their posse hadn’t caught up, both had retraced their path. Slocum watched them passing in the direction opposite to his as he threaded his way through the trees. By the time he reached his horse, the one he’d taken from the deputy took it into its head to throw him at the first opportunity.
Slocum slid from the horse’s back before that could happen and clung to the reins. He had use for the horse that didn’t include riding. It took him a few minutes to go over his mount to be sure it was rested and well fed. He stepped up, looped the other horse’s reins around the saddle horn, and then continued his way south through the copse until he reached a wide meadow that stretched flat and inviting—except that any rider on the road would spot him instantly.
It might be a half mile or more across. Slocum had to guess whether the sheriff had found his fallen deputy yet. Probably so. Leaving Wilkinson’s pistol might muddy the water a little, but Slocum couldn’t count on the sharp lawman being all that confused. By laying the false trail, Slocum gained a little time. Or possibly not. Bernard might decide that he was being decoyed away and split his forces. One deputy might go northward while he continued