Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [49]
As Slocum turned to look in the direction she pointed, Conchita swung hard. Her tiny fist caught him on the cheek. The unexpected blow caused him to recoil and fight to keep in the saddle. By the time he had pulled himself back securely into the saddle, she had galloped straight ahead and disappeared into the woods. He started after her, then slowed and looked at the soft dirt on the ground and how the tufts of grass had been cut up from other horses passing by.
Conchita tried to lead him away from her real hideout. From the tracks, more than one horse had gone to a spot opposite where she had pointed. He trotted along this small trail. The riders hadn’t tried to conceal their hoofprints, telling him the Valenzuelas felt secure against being tracked to this area.
He slid into a lightly wooded section and wended his way around, hunting for tracks in the leaves and pine needle carpet. Finding the trail proved as easy as falling off a log. Slocum came to another clearing. A small cooking fire smoldered in the middle of the sward; a pot of coffee brewed and sent its aroma to his nostrils. He inhaled deeply. A cup wouldn’t be amiss while he waited for them to come to him.
And they would. He had found them. Their cache had to be in the area, perhaps even in their camp.
Slocum dismounted and went to the fire. A pair of tin cups had been turned upside down on rocks next to the coffeepot, dangling from a tripod of green limbs over the fire. He poured himself some coffee and prowled around. Three bedrolls. No sign of their ill-gotten gains from the stage or bank.
And no trace of José or his father.
Slocum sipped at the coffee, ignoring how bitter it tasted on his tongue. It might have been the coffee or the memory of how Conchita had convinced him so easily that her pa was dying and this would be José’s only chance to see him before he died.
Slocum drained the cup and went back to the fire for another. As he bent, he heard an asthmatic wheezing. Looking up, he saw an old man shuffling painfully from the forest, a rabbit in one hand and a rifle in the other.
“¿Que tal, José?” The old man shuffled closer.
Slocum stayed low by the fire but slid his Colt from his holster. The old man came closer, squinting hard. He acted as if he was almost blind.
Slocum tossed the tin cup away to rattle against a rock a few feet to his left. The old man turned in the direction of the sound, dropped the rabbit he had bagged for dinner, and lifted his rifle. He got off a shot that came damned near the cup.
“You’re dead if you don’t drop that rifle,” Slocum called. “Now!”
The elder Valenzuela started to turn back, rifle still tucked into his shoulder.
“I can see plenty good, and you’re in my sights,” Slocum said. “Drop the rifle, and I’ll let you live.”
“Slocum.” The name came out in a snake’s hiss. “Conchita said you were in jail.”
“We need to talk about that,” Slocum said. “The rifle. Now! Drop it now!”
The old man finally did as he was told. He threw the rifle down. Slocum flinched as it discharged from the impact, but he never wavered in keeping the man in his gun sight.
“Why do you not kill me?”
“Tell me where the gold you stole is hidden, and you can live.”
“Kill me!”
Slocum considered doing just that, then knew there was a better use for this murderous old codger. He was arthritic and damned near blind, but he was a cold-blooded killer. Watching him during the stagecoach robbery had shown that. Nobody but his son and daughter would miss him if he ended up with a couple slugs in his belly.
But he was worth more alive than dead.
“We’re going on a little ride. Where’s your horse?”
The way Valenzuela turned betrayed the location of his horse just inside the woods. His horse was fastened to a single rope strung between two trees. Slocum had to saddle the horse for the old man, but that was small price to pay for his ticket to a passel of money.
He herded the old man away from camp at gunpoint, already counting the money his ransom would bring.
14
“He eats like a horse,” Maria said, glaring