Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Teaser chapter

  A HARD, DARK PLACE

  When Slocum found a stack of papers with orders for the various patrols and rosters showing the field commanders, he began leafing through and found the orders Sergeant Atkins had been given. But before he could read them, Slocum heard footsteps coming toward the office. He hastily snuffed out the lamp and dived behind the desk as the door opened.

  “Who’s there?” came the cold voice.

  Slocum reached for his Colt Navy, slung in its cross-draw holster at his left hip, knowing that he would have to shoot his way out . . .

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SLOCUM AND THE LOST COMMAND

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / September 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-16723-6

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  1

  “Yes, sir, it’s mighty hot out there. I surely am glad to be inside such a fine stagecoach out of the direct sun,” said the shabbily dressed peddler seated across from John Slocum. “It’s a real chore decidin’ whether it’s better to keep the canvas flaps down over the windows or maybe lift ’em. What do you think, sir?”

  Choking dust kicked up by the stagecoach wheels caused Slocum to spit out the window occasionally. It did nothing to get rid of the grit in his mouth, but to lower the flaps would turn the interior of the coach into a furnace sure to cook both of them. The rattling, swaying stage Slocum could tolerate. The intense heat was another matter. Keeping the canvas flaps raised provided a small, cooling breeze along with the dust. He could tolerate the dust longer than he could the closeness.

  “I think it’s a mighty long way to Salt Lake City,” Slocum answered. He huddled down against the rickety coach’s wall and closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted was a long conversation with the peddler because he knew it would be only minutes before he heard a long sales pitch for gadgets or elixirs that served no useful purpose, at least to a man like Slocum.

  He had spent more than a month in Denver, hunting for any job that wasn’t bouncer in a saloon or didn’t require him to shoot other men in the back. He had been offered both and had turned them down, only to find by doing so for the latter job as murderer that he had made enemies. Rather than argue, he had chosen to move on west, getting over Mosquito Pass into Leadville before his horse died under him. From the mining boomtown it had looked easier to take passage on the stage to Salt Lake City, where he had heard a wagon master was looking for dependable scouts to shepherd settlers into the northwest. The trails were well marked by hundreds of earlier wagon trains, but Slocum knew scouting the route was less needed than someone to ride ahead and palaver with Indians who were kicking up a fuss. With a passable command of Arapaho and Crow, Slocum figured the job would be perfect for him. Find the renegade Indians off their reservations, dicker a little, pass around cheap trade goods and win safe passage for the new settlers.

  Dangerous, possibly, but less so than staying in Denver and looking over his shoulder at every small sound. If he was given a new horse to do the scouting, that would be icing on the cake.

  Slocum grunted when the stagecoach hit a large rock in the road, causing him to slam hard against the wall and then recoil in the other direction. He reached out and caught himself to keep from being tossed onto the floor as the stage lurched the opposite way. The peddler looked a little green around the gills now and had quieted down the talking on how much better it was inside the stagecoach than out in the sun.

  “I . . . I need a snort. You got any whiskey, sir?”

  “Nary a drop,” Slocum said. If he had any, he wouldn’t waste it on the peddler. He’d knock it back as quick as a flash and enjoy the numbing feel as it spread through his belly.

  “That is a true sh-shame,” the salesman said, turning so his face was thrust outside. If he had to puke, the peddler had the good sense not to do it in the hot confines of the coach compartment.

  Slocum closed his eyes again and tried to sleep but felt a peculiar itch that kept him from doing so. It was a sixth sense he had honed during the war. Since then he had listened to it, and it had kept him alive.

  He opened his bright green eyes and found himself staring down the double barrels of a sawed-off shotgun.

  Slocum reacted instantly. He reached out, grabbed the two barrels and jerked as hard as he could. The sun-heated metal turned suddenly hotter as the weapon discharged. Slocum flinched as the barrels burned his calloused hand, and he twisted to the side. The shotgun clattered to the floor of the compartment. Only then did Slocum take in what was happening all around him.

  The rider pacing the stagecoach wore a bandanna pulled up over his nose. A road agent. And from the way his eyes flashed, the outlaw was fuming mad that Slocum had taken his shotgun—and prevented him from blowing off Slocum’s head while he slept.

  The outlaw let out an inarticulate growl as he grabbed for Slocum through the window. Slocum winced, noticing that his left arm had been grazed by at least one of the sixteen-00 buckshot pellets the road agent had intended for his face. He pushed aside the pain and fought with the man trying to pull him from the coach. Slocum wasn’t sure what happened to unseat the rider, but the outlaw tumbled down. From the way the stagecoach lurched as if it had hit another rock in the bumpy road, Slocum knew the rear wheel had run over the man.

&n
bsp; “Wh-what’s goin’ on?” stammered the peddler. Whiter than a bleached muslin sheet under his tan and grime, the peddler shook like a wet dog.

  “We’re being robbed,” Slocum said, reaching for his Colt Navy slung in a cross-draw holster. He tugged but it didn’t come free. Cursing, he remembered he still had the leather thong looped over the hammer to keep it from accidently falling from the holster.

  “What’s that? My God!” shouted the peddler.

  “What’re you looking at?” Slocum demanded. He tried to follow the peddler’s gaze and couldn’t. The man was facing backward and had seen something behind the coach. From the way the driver whipped the horses and the shotgun messenger fired repeatedly, Slocum guessed it might be even more road agents. One robber trying to stop a stage by shooting the passengers wasn’t too likely. An entire gang of them out for the fun of killing as well as a profitable robbery made more sense.

  Slocum saw nothing ahead, then heard the guard up in the driver’s box cursing a blue streak. Either he had run out of ammo or his gun had jammed. Thrusting himself half through the window on the compartment door, Slocum swung around to get a better look at what followed. And he did. For a brief instant.

  He saw three masked riders galloping behind the coach—and then the door pulled free of its hinges and sent him tumbling to the ground.

  Slocum let out a screech of pain when the wood frame circling his body cut into his belly, sides and back as he rolled along the sun-baked desert road. Hooves flew past his head but missed kicking him. The outlaws paid him no heed, either thinking he was dead or not caring since the real treasure lay with the stage still rumbling on down the road.

  For more than a minute Slocum lay dazed. The hot sun beat down on him like a blacksmith’s hammer, but the pain around his midsection kept him from passing out. Every slight move sent new lances of pain through him until he finally rolled over and found the right position so he could sit up. His body was completely circled by battered wood. Gingerly pulling and pushing, Slocum got the door pushed up over his shoulders. A nimble twist got him free of the door then. Again he found himself out of breath and needing a little rest.

  Coming to his hands and knees, he finally climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. In the spill from the stagecoach he had lost his hat, but his trusty six-shooter remained in its holster, thanks to the leather keeper he had cursed before. He kicked at the stage door. The hinges had rusted, and the rotted wood holding them to the body of the coach had torn away when he put his weight against the door.

  Squinting, Slocum looked around. The stage and the three road agents pursuing it were out of sight now. But a fitful wind blew his hat alongside the road until it caught on a prickly pear. He walked to it and bent gingerly. His entire belly felt as if it had been painted with fire. The wood had scraped the skin off, making any movement a trial. He bent, got his hat and pulled the cactus spines from it before settling it on his head and turning to look up the road in the direction taken by the coach and the outlaws.

  One foot in front of another got him moving along the dusty road until he reached the top of a rise. Slocum’s hand went to the ebony butt of his Colt when he saw the stagecoach pulled off the side of the road. Closer examination showed him that nothing—and nobody—stirred. The stage canted slightly, as if the wheels on the right side had been damaged. Of the team he saw no sign. And the road agents who had chased down the stage were nowhere in sight. He started to call out to the driver and guard, but caution warned against it.

  Slocum approached from the side of the stagecoach and saw the guard flopped over the edge of the driver’s box, obviously dead. The wheels on the right side had broken free of their axles, causing the extreme tilt. Slocum saw that the door he had broken off wouldn’t be missed by the peddler. The unfortunate man lay slumped inside, a pair of bullet holes in the side of his head.

  Pulling himself up, Slocum looked into the driver’s box. The strongbox was missing, as was the driver. He jumped to the ground and circled the coach, keen eyes studying the sunbaked ground for any trail. It took him only a few minutes to see drag marks in the dirt. He followed them until he saw the driver’s boots poking out from behind a clump of tall buffalo grass. The man had been stripped of his shirt and hat. Slocum guessed the outlaws didn’t want a pair of boots with large holes in the soles.

  Slocum dismissed the sight of the body and kept walking when he saw hoofprints leading away. The outlaws had mounted after they had killed the three men in the stagecoach, and ridden north toward the Wasatch Mountains. He returned to the stage, found the two canteens half-filled with water, combined the contents into one, then set out after the road agents. He had a score to settle.

  The trail was plain enough for a blind man to follow, but then the outlaws had no reason to think anyone would be coming after them. They had killed everyone interested enough to shoot it out with them. Or they thought they had. Slocum rubbed his bruised midsection and realized the door might have saved his life. Taking a tumble from the coach the way he had should have bounced his head on a rock when he hit the ground. As it was, he had the wind knocked out of him, got a few scrapes and nothing more serious.

  Other than a big case of cold fury at the robbers.

  Slocum slogged along, rationing the water as he walked, wondering if he would ever overtake the highwaymen. Then he heard loud laughter and a gunshot that sent his hand flashing toward his own six-shooter. He relaxed when he realized they weren’t shooting at him. They might just be whooping it up to celebrate their successful robbery. If he was lucky, they would have a bottle of whiskey to pass around and get themselves completely soused by the time he reached their camp. That would make it easier for him to extract a bit of justice on them.

  As he advanced toward the loud voices, he made out their words. The road agents were joshing one another, making crude jokes about the men they’d killed and how the peddler had looked stupid and the shotgun messenger was not much of a guard since he hadn’t brought anywhere near enough ammunition along to hold off real robbers. Real robbers like them.

  Slocum made out three different voices. Things had happened fast during the robbery, and he had been unsure how many of the outlaws were left after he had plucked the one out of the saddle and cast him under the stagecoach wheels. Three outlaws, six bullets in his Colt Navy. The odds were on his side, especially if the trio was liquored up.

  “Cain’t get the damn lock off. What should we do?”

  “Shoot it again,” suggested a second robber.

  “Go doin’ that and you’ll plug yersef fer damn sure. The first bullet ricocheted off and damn near kilt me.”

  “Naw, it woulda gone clean through your head. You ain’t usin’ yer brain fer nuthin’ much, Caleb. Wouldn’t have hurt you one little bit.”

  “Get a rock. Bang it against the lock. It cain’t stand much of that, not fer long.”

  Slocum heard sounds to his right and hesitated. He went to investigate since the road agents were well occupied trying to break the lock on the strongbox. He dropped into an arroyo and approached the spot where he had heard movement. A slow smile came to his lips. The outlaws had fashioned a rude corral from rope for not only their horses but the stagecoach team. The nine horses pawed at the ground and whinnied as he approached. Slocum looked over the animals and found one of the outlaws’ horses that looked sturdy. Trying to ride any of the stagecoach team was chancy since none of them was likely to have been saddle broke. The outlaws’ gear was stacked nearby. Using the best of the tack, Slocum saddled the horse he chose, then led the horse from the corral and back into the arroyo, where he tethered it. Only then did he return to the outlaws and their vain attempt to break open the strongbox.

  Slocum almost laughed at their inept work on the box. It was a good thing they weren’t bank robbers. They’d never be able to open a real vault.

  He flopped onto his belly and watched. The sun was sinking fast. If the outlaws didn’t get the strongbox open soon, they’d have to build a fire to continue their work.