Slocum's Breakout by Jake Logan Page B

the other. She gasped with the sudden intrusion of his middle finger into her tightness again. Between his oral ministrations on her teats and his delving finger, he got her off again. This time she staggered back and perched on the edge of the crate. Her face was flushed and her eyes wild with lust.
    â€œNever have I found such a lover. Not even . . .”
    â€œNot even who?” Slocum asked. “I want to know my competition.”
    â€œThere is no one who can compete with you, John. You are perfect. Absolutely perfect.” She threw herself forward. Her arms circled him and pulled him close. Slocum wasn’t going to complain but thought something was wrong. She purred like a contented kitten, and he certainly had no complaints, but something wasn’t right and he couldn’t figure out what it might be.
    â€œWe’d better get back and see how your brother and pa are getting on.”
    â€œWhy? José can do well on his own. You should know. Was he not capable helping in his own escape?”
    Slocum had nothing to say about that. Both Doc and Murrieta had sacrificed themselves for him and Valenzuela to escape. Valenzuela had contributed little and would have brought down the guards if Slocum hadn’t convinced him to keep a low profile rather than shooting anyone who moved. Valenzuela was a hothead and had ended up in San Quentin for a reason.
    Still, Slocum had ridden with worse in his day. Bloody Bill Anderson and his commander, William Quantrill, had been conscienceless killers. Anyone wearing a blue uniform was fair game, no matter their age. That had gotten Slocum gut-shot and left for dead when he refused to kill Yankee sympathizers in Lawrence, Kansas, who were as young as eight years old. But compared with the killers serving with Quantrill’s Raiders, José Valenzuela was a babe in arms.
    â€œSomething’s wrong,” Slocum said. The uneasy feeling grew. “Where’re the horses kept?”
    â€œOn the other side of the house, but do not worry about that, John. Come, let us—”
    Slocum shook his head as he drew his six-shooter. Something felt wrong. He had survived during the war by listening to this inner voice. Sometimes it whispered; other times it screamed. Slocum was almost deafened by it now.
    With Conchita trailing behind, struggling to get her blouse pulled up over her shapely shoulders, Slocum rounded the house and saw the crude corral.
    Empty.
    â€œJosé’s gone,” he said.
    â€œThere is nothing to worry about. He will be back soon. I know it.”
    Slocum ignored her and went to the house. He pushed open the front door with the toe of his boot, then edged into the dim interior. Calling out wasn’t too smart; Slocum went to the bedroom door where the elder Valenzuela had been on his deathbed.
    Had been.
    The room was empty. The bed was neatly made and might not have been slept in recently.
    â€œBoth José and your pa’re gone,” he said. Slocum turned to face Conchita, who stood with a curious expression on her face. It was a mixture of anger and confusion. “Where’d they go?”
    â€œI . . . I cannot say. Perhaps José took him to a doctor. Our father. To a doctor.”
    â€œWhy’d he do something like that if the old man was dying? The time’s past for giving him a tonic or some other medicine.”
    â€œJosé knows so much more than I do, than our papa does. He might have seen and known the right place to go.”
    â€œYou’re lying. Where are they?”
    â€œYou cannot call me a liar! I will not stand for it. You get out. Now. ¡Con veloz! ”
    â€œSo I get your brother out of San Quentin and you run me off?” Slocum reckoned he had gotten paid out in the shed, and there had been so many times prior to him agreeing to carry out her crackbrained scheme, but it hardly made up for a week in solitary confinement in the bowels of the prison. He had been tricked