Slocum and the Spirit Bear (9781101618790) by Jake Logan Page B

Theresa busy for hours, she only indulged him for a short time before finishing with his leg and climbing back into the driver’s seat beside her son. No matter how badly his leg hurt, Slocum needed a splash of cold water more than anything else after she left him without doing much more than kissing him for a few minutes. Still, it was better than nothing.
    Now that he had some time to take stock of his injury, Slocum realized how very lucky he was. Even a small sprain or any one of dozens of lesser pains could have made his job a whole lot harder to do. As it was, years of being in the saddle and the ability to keep his wits about him when things went to hell had served him well. His leg would ache for a while, but wouldn’t prevent him from doing his part on the journey into Colorado. He spent another hour or two with his leg up before getting to his feet and stretching it when the wagons stopped to water the horses. When it came time for them to move on again, Slocum got back into his saddle to take his spot riding alongside the others.
    As they continued westward, Slocum kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. Before long, his neck ached more than his leg simply because he continued to look all around for any hint of trouble or signs that the scouting party might need help. His ears strained for echoes of gunfire. His nose continually tested the winds for that sickly sweet stench from the crazy Indians who’d ambushed him and Ed.
    Having thought of little else all day, Slocum convinced himself that the bushwhackers had been Indians after all. They weren’t anything like the Pawnee or Cheyenne he’d met before, which didn’t mean a whole lot. The tribes may live differently, look different, and speak in different tongues than the white man, but they were similar in many ways as well. They had their rules. They had their traditions. They had their ways of conducting themselves, and no matter how savage the Army or bounty hunters might swear they were, the Indians were not crazy.
    There was always the possibility that those bushwhackers were something new within a particular tribe or some newly born tribe in itself. Slocum could piece that together if they crossed paths again. And if they never saw those filthy, marauding, howling lunatics again . . . all the better.
    As the wagons rolled forward, Slocum’s horse trotted beside them, going just a little faster than the teams. When he made it to the front of the train, he rode ahead a little ways, veered off to the other side of the trail, and slowed down so the wagons could roll past him. That way, he essentially rode in a wide, lazy circle around them all so he could get a look at all sides of the wagons while stretching his horse’s legs. He was just allowing the wagons to catch up to him again when he heard May Warren call out from the front of the train.
    â€œSee anything interesting, John?” she asked.
    â€œFranco has been peeling potatoes and carrots ever since we broke camp,” he said. “I’m guessing there’ll be some kind of stew for supper. That’s about the most interesting thing I’ve seen for a while.”
    â€œBetter than what I’ve had to keep me occupied. This one hasn’t stirred since you got back.” She reached over to slap Ed’s shoulder. Her husband was beside her in the driver’s seat, but had both feet propped up, his hat down over his face, his hands folded across his stomach, and was snoring with every breath.
    â€œThis trail’s been full of more holes than a sieve,” Slocum chuckled. “I’m surprised his hat wasn’t knocked off or his teeth wasn’t knocked loose by now. The fact that he’s still asleep boggles the mind.”
    â€œHe can sleep through just about anything. Seen any sign of Tom or Josiah?”
    â€œNot yet. They’re not due for another hour, though.”
    â€œIt’s been quiet all day long. That