Slocum and the Thunderbird Read Online Free Page A

go no farther. It’s a box we rode into.”
    The moon poked up enough to cast a bright silver spotlight on the canyon mouth and beyond. He didn’t have to be a frontier scout to see that Rawhide was right. He pulled his Winchester from the saddle sheath. With the Henrys he had given the other men, they could stop one good attack or maybe two halfhearted ones. During a skirmish in the dark, their accuracy wouldn’t be worth shit. Worse, the muzzle flashes would be beacons in the night for the Sioux.
    â€œInto those rocks,” Slocum said. He guided the two cowboys to the best possible positions. “Take a box of ammo with you.”
    â€œBeen good knowin’ you, Slocum. Wish we’d had time to buy a bottle or two of whiskey with what we took from the bank.”
    Slocum couldn’t tell who spoke because his full attention was focused on the canyon mouth. Keeping the Sioux from surrounding them was the only good thing about this otherwise indefensible position. One all-out attack would overwhelm them.
    He rested his rifle on the top of a rock and leaned forward. The rough surface scraped his chest as he worked the lever, then he put his elbows down to steady the Winchester. Dark shapes bobbed up and down on the back trail. He stopped counting when he reached eight Sioux. There wasn’t any doubt the Indians had tracked them since they likely knew this stretch of the Badlands better than any white man. The canyon was a death trap.
    Slocum tensed. A deadly plug drove into that rocky canyon neck as a full dozen braves sat astride their ponies, faces hidden in deep shadow as the bright moon lit them from behind. Slocum eased back on the trigger. The rifle bucked. His shot went wide but caused the Sioux to let out whoops and sight in on him. Moving to a different position to continue the attack was out of the question when the Indians began firing. The night sky was soon filled with orange lances of flame from a dozen rifles. When his rifle jammed, Slocum tossed it aside and drew his six-shooter.
    â€œHere they come,” Dupree said. He started firing wildly. Rawlins joined in.
    Slocum doubted either of them came close to hitting anything, but it might not matter. If the Indians dismounted and advanced on foot, they would simply vanish into the terrain. Better that the Sioux stayed on horseback.
    The war cries rang in his ears as the Indians attacked.
    He knew they were goners . . . until the Indians let out a screech of fear rather than attack. All the Sioux wheeled their horses about and hightailed it away. For several seconds, Slocum couldn’t believe his eyes. He finally stood and stared after the retreating riders.
    The eerie shriek that ripped through the canyon caused Slocum to whirl about. He looked up and saw a bird with ten-foot outstretched wings on the canyon rim illuminated in the bright moonlight. A shiver went up his spine. He had never seen any bird that big in his life.

3
    â€œKill it, kill it!” Lee Dupree spun about and began firing wildly at the bird until his rifle barrel glowed a dull red. Only when the magazine came up empty did he stop, and then in his panic he worked the cocking lever mindlessly.
    Slocum reached out and jerked the man’s arm to spin him around. Dupree’s eyes were wide with fear, and a touch of drool dribbled down his chin.
    â€œStop it,” Slocum ordered harshly.
    Only when Dupree began babbling and dropped the rifle did Slocum look up at the canyon rim. For the briefest instant he saw the dark figure and struggled to make out what it was. Then it disappeared. With the huge bird went its shrill screeches. The canyon had become so quiet that it hurt Slocum’s ears. Straining, he tried to catch any sounds of rabbits running for their burrows or a hunting coyote prowling for dinner. Nothing. Even the wind had died down, turning the slot canyon into a furnace. Sunlight from the autumn day had warmed the colorful layers