Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) Read Online Free Page B

often. So with you here, I realized how much I keep my mouth shut.”
    â€œThe food is good. I saw the woodpile yesterday. I’ll split some more cooking wood for you.”
    â€œThat would be generous of you.”
    Outside after breakfast, he sharpened the two axes with a whetstone, then went to splitting blocks to make smaller sticks to use for cooking. Pine split easily, but it also burned faster than the hardwoods that did not grow in these mountains. He was swinging the axe as a shot rang out.
    The bullet struck his shoulder blade like a sledgehammer, slamming him to the ground, and his shoulder felt like it was on fire. Half-conscious, he could hear two men talking—the hermits, Deushay and Roberson. Slocum lay facedown in the dirt, not daring to move a muscle.
    â€œWe got him! We got him!”
    Sour sawdust in his nose, Slocum didn’t move for his .44. His left shoulder blade felt like it was on fire. The two hermits were right there in the saddles on their fidgety horses, stomping all around.
    Where was Jennifer? Did she have her pistol?
    â€œWe got him. He ain’t moving. Is he dead?” Roberson asked, all excited.
    â€œShut up. Where is that little bitch at? I want her.” Then Deushay gave a silly laugh like a screech owl—both of them were drunk and crazy.
    â€œGet off my place. . . .” It was Jennifer’s voice. Oh, no, thought Slocum right before he dropped off a dark cliff into a pain-filled nightmare.
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    How long had he been out? Where they still there? Slocum couldn’t hear them laughing like crazy loons anymore. His shoulder still felt like it was on fire. How bad was the wound? He had no idea but the blood drying on his back made the skin tight. His whole upper left side was on fire. Where was Jennifer? Had they raped and murdered her? If they had— damn, it hurt to raise himself up—he’d make them pay for all of this when he found them. He struggled to his feet, light-headed.
    The door of the cabin was wide open when he staggered inside. “Jennifer?”
    No answer.
    He was not ready for what he found. Weak-kneed, he stood looking at her form sprawled on the bed, naked from the waist down. Not moving. Her blue eyes open wide, staring for eternity at the underside of the cedar-shake ceiling. At the sight of her, Slocum closed his eyes to shut out the vision of her before him. Those damn worthless cowards had raped and then killed her. The blue cast to her face told him they must have smothered her.
    How could he, one-armed, ever dig a grave for her, let alone lug her out of here? The clock was ticking for him. He needed to put her in the ground. There was no one to help him dig that grave. The slug in his back needed medical attention or someone to treat it. No way could he do much of anything. His stomach curdled inside and he thought he’d puke.
    Where could he go and find the help he needed?
    He collapsed in a chair. The fire in his back about blinded him. He hugged his left arm. There was no way to escape the pain raging in his body.
    At the table, he used a small pencil to scribble a note on the back of an old calendar.
    Two men named Deushay and Roberson raped and killed Jennifer. I was shot and have gone for help. If anyone finds her, maybe you’ll see that justice is served by ending those two men’s lives.—John Slocum
    The note written, Slocum went over and covered her up with a blanket. That would have to do for now.
    His stomach churned as he staggered out the door and then closed it. He caught himself on a hitch rail to try to clear his blurring mind and jumbled thoughts. It took a great effort for him to get to the pen, and he still had to catch the horse, saddle him, and get up into the saddle.
    He pushed for the gate, then his knees buckled and he passed out. He awoke with his face in the powdered horse shit and, too dry-mouthed to spit it out, he wanted to clean it away, but gave up. On his hands and