Slocum and the Hellfire Harem (9781101613382) by Jake Logan Page A

from this mysterious red-shirted person.
    He’d made it to within a few dozen yards, nearly to the curious campsite, when from behind him, a rattle of collective sounds froze him in his low-crawling crouch. What the hell was that? A mix of the sounds of nickering horse and tumbling rocks . . . He ducked down behind the boulder he was skirting. He risked a peek around the side of the nearest boulder and just caught a glimpse of something straight back behind the Appaloosa, closer to the slope they’d traveled down.
    Damn if it wasn’t a person. Someone in a light shirt and a skirt? No . . . and then an image of Ruth flashed in his mind. She’d been wearing pants, but . . . Oh no, it couldn’t be that foolish woman! He jerked his head back toward Red Shirt and saw nothing. Great.
    Caught, Slocum. You’re caught betwixt a mess of rocks, a potential killer, and a cow-eyed woman. He risked another peek around the boulder and a rifle shot whanged off one far behind, near his horse. The woman let out a strangled yelp.
    So Red Shirt was either Mueller or an innocent. But whoever it was, he wasn’t afraid to fling lead. As if to put a wax stamp on the thought, another round did much the same as the first, and elicited the same response from the woman. Slocum’s horse nickered louder and galloped off. Fortunately, Slocum knew that the beast wouldn’t go far. There was plenty of graze and the horse was always hungry.
    It was possible that Red Shirt didn’t know he was here, trapped between him and the woman. Slocum didn’t see any other horses, so whoever it was must have either walked, which was unlikely, or left her own horse back up at the top of the hill. Maybe he could belly-crawl off to the right, snake his way around in a wide arc. But that wouldn’t help Ruth, if that’s who it was, though he was relatively sure it was her, darn her silky hide.
    A dozen feet to his right sat a cairn, the stones left by some act of nature long before man ever thought to set foot here. From there on out, it would be a smoother crawl of it, with plenty of cover for him to dash to, between where he was and Red Shirt’s campsite. He wasn’t risking any intrusion, which told Slocum that the mystery man was up to no good and so, probably, was Mueller. One way to find out, Slocum old boy, he told himself, and slunk forward.
    The next shot rang out, spanging off a nearby boulder, sending stinging rock chips skyward, and letting Slocum know the man must know he was there. But did he know who Slocum was? He wanted nothing more than to get a clear shot at the bastard, put him down once and for all. But between the distance, the fact that he was well hidden, and the slim chance that he might not be Mueller, Slocum couldn’t risk a killing shot. He had to know. He had to get closer.
    He was busy dashing from the tumbledown of boulders to the horse-size cairn when, from behind him, the woman, no doubt scurrying for better cover, knocked loose a fresh tumble of rocks. Red Shirt let go another two-shot volley, then must have seen Slocum, because the next thing he knew, even as he dove for the cover of the cairn ahead, a bullet blazed a smoking, seeping red trench across his thigh. He pitched sideways and his teeth came together hard. He growled as he pushed himself forward to get to cover. Going backward—which would provide better cover—would take too long. God, but that hurt.
    He’d been grazed plenty, but this was a deeper wound. And all because of that damned woman. If he ever had the chance to get his hands on her again, he’d not be so kind. Even as it welled red with fresh blood, Slocum was grateful it hadn’t been an inch lower, or he might have to dig out a lead pill from his leg—if he could. Two inches lower and he’d have had to deal with a shattered bone. Mueller, or whoever Red Shirt was, was a decent shot.
    For long minutes