Read Slocum Giant 2013 : Slocum and the Silver City Harlot (9781101601860) for Free Online Page A

scout?”
    â€œNot too bad,” Slocum said simply. He studied the forest around them, choosing how he would approach the fight.
    The reports from a half-dozen different weapons rolled like thunder. With that fierce a fight going on, all attention would be directed at anyone in front of a muzzle. Slocum could creep in behind, get a notion what was going on, then make his plans.
    â€œI don’t like it,” Frank said.
    â€œNo reason you should. I’m the teamster, the cargo’s my responsibility, no matter what Holst said to you.”
    Frank bristled, then subsided. From the storm cloud of anger lingering on his face, Frank was about ready to try plugging Slocum again. This time his six-shooter was loaded. Turning his back on him would require an act of faith that Slocum didn’t have.
    His only other option was to gun down Frank first.
    He took the one that didn’t require him wasting a bullet when he said, “You skirt the fight in that direction. I’ll go this way. Just be sure you know who’s in your sights before pulling the trigger.” Slocum watched the redhead’s reaction. To Frank, it wouldn’t matter who he aimed at. Everyone counted as an enemy.
    That suited Slocum. He could handle drunks and backshooters. What he couldn’t handle was uncertainty as to a man’s intentions.
    He motioned for Frank to head out, waited until he no longer saw the man’s hat or the thatch of red hair poking out from under the brim, then started in the same direction, tracking with all the skill he had. What Frank did was more important than who was still filling the air with lead.
    Frank moved quietly, but Slocum’s step came softer than a gentle breeze. He avoided bushes that might spring back and give him away. Where he stepped hardly bent the blades of grass. He placed his boots in the imprints already left by the redhead. This was pure caution on his part. There might never be anyone backtracking Frank, but if there was, he would find only one set of footprints unless he was one damned fine tracker.
    The redhead blundered through a thick clump of undergrowth, then flopped forward onto his belly. Slocum took his time approaching to make sure Frank didn’t catch sight of him. Ahead, through the edge of a copse, he saw one of the road agents clutching his arm and hopping around. He’d been hit several times, but what chilled Slocum was why the man limped.
    He hadn’t taken a bullet in his leg. An Apache arrow with its distinctive fletching had driven itself halfway into his thigh.
    Slocum slid his Colt back into the holster, then began climbing an oak tree to get a better look at the battle still raging. Not rustling the leaves proved difficult but necessary. Frank stirred uneasily not ten yards ahead and below him. The redhead fingered his six-gun but made no effort to add his fire to the skirmish. For that, Slocum was glad. Frank finally showed some common sense.
    He edged out on a thick limb and clung to it with his knees and reared up. Using one hand, he pushed smaller limbs out of the way. From this vantage, he had a complete view of the battle. The road agents had pulled the wagon up not twenty yards away and had exposed the crate. From the condition of the wood panel in Slocum’s field of view, they had tried to rip off the slates and hadn’t succeeded. The hammer he had carried might have bounced out as they made their breakneck descent this far on the mountainside, or they might have been in such a hurry to cool their hands that they didn’t see it in the wagon bed.
    They had been caught flatfooted by the Apaches and hadn’t a chance to do more than return fire. Now that the battle was stretching on, the road agents were finding better cover and doing a credible job holding off the Indians.
    Slocum counted the places where the Indians attacked from and knew there were no fewer than five in the band. Holst hadn’t warned him of any