Read Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) for Free Online Page B

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    As O’Dell rambled on, Slocum turned and walked back to his horse. The undertaker sped up to conclude the ceremony now that he had lost his only audience. Swinging into the saddle, Slocum rode toward the road.
    The other onlooker had already hightailed it.
    Slocum wondered if the man would have come to the graveside if he hadn’t been there. Finding out would go a way toward answering questions that piled up.
    The muddy road didn’t hold tracks well, but the rider had cut across the road and plowed through open field. One set of tracks came toward the cemetery, another went away. Slocum didn’t have to be much of a tracker to know where the man had come from and where he returned. He put his heels to his horse’s flanks and trotted across the snowy terrain.
    The man had made a hasty retreat, daring to gallop his horse where Slocum felt secure only in a trot over the hidden, frozen land. But there was no hiding the trail as it meandered up through the foothills toward a canyon angling away sharply.
    The tracks led deeper into the canyon. Slocum slowed his advance and looked around. The stillness came from the snow damping the sound. Slocum played on this to keep after the fleeing rider without fear of being overheard.
    As he followed the trail close to boulders, he stopped. The tracks changed. He didn’t dismount as he deciphered their message. The rider had halted, wheeled his horse around, and then continued along the trail.
    Slocum stiffened. The rider knew he was being trailed. He must have spotted—
    Before Slocum could finish his thought, a rock crashed down on his head, knocking him from his horse.

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    Slocum struggled in the snow and mud, trying to get to his feet. He hit a slippery patch and fell facedown. The shock of icy water against his nose and mouth brought him fully alert. His head throbbed from the rock that had bounced off his crown, but his hat had robbed the missile of some power. That didn’t make his situation any less perilous.
    He rolled to the side as another rock crashed down from the top of the boulder he had passed. Standing atop the huge rock was a masked man—not the one he had followed.
    When the man saw he wasn’t getting anywhere with his rain of rocks, he went for his six-shooter. Slocum kicked hard, skidded along the ground, and slid on his back. He reached for his own six-gun, but the metallic sound of a hammer cocking froze him faster than the icy ground ever could.
    â€œYou’re a dead man if you draw that hogleg,” came a muffled voice.
    Slocum craned around and saw another masked man sighting down the twin barrels of a shotgun. He slowly thrust out his hands—without filling either with the butt of his Colt.
    â€œWhat’s going on? You road agents?”
    â€œShut up!” the man atop the rock called down. Slocum turned his attention upward, something gnawing at the edge of his brain. Then he blacked out entirely when the shotgun-toting outlaw clobbered him on the side of the head with a hard, cold metallic barrel.
    When he was again aware of pain, he forced himself to keep his eyes shut. Let them think he was still knocked out. But something betrayed him. His eyelids might have fluttered or he could have moaned. Slocum wasn’t sure what it was, but a hard blow to his jaw snapped his head to the side.
    â€œWhy you followin’ me?”
    Slocum winced as new pain assaulted him. The man used his pistol to beat him. The barrel smacked into his temple. Bone didn’t break but blazing white stars danced about. Then the man used the butt on his chin again. Slocum was quickly reaching the point where he wouldn’t be able to speak, even if he wanted to. He felt his lips swelling from the blows, and the ringing in his head made hearing something of a chore.
    He squinted to try to focus his eyes. Four men stood in a half circle around him. All wore heavy tan canvas dusters, hats pulled low almost to their