by Jake Logan
“You just have to be so ingrained in the military way that you can’t leave it and stay,” he said.
“No wife?” Slocum asked, looking up from his meat and potatoes.
“She died several years ago or I’d’ve resigned before now. No reason to go back East after that and I love it out here, despite spending two Nebraska winters in a tent. This camp was only supposed to be temporary.”
They both laughed.
At mid-afternoon, Slocum, Sergeant McCoy, and his troopers left camp. They rode in a long trot and took the road south. A tall cloud bank was building in the northwest, and Slocum felt they’d be lucky not to get rained on before they reached the wagon trains. But he did have some men who knew how to fight and that should deter the Sioux. That only meant the renegades would move on to strike some unwary settler or ranch. They also knew the small army forces could not be everywhere—it would be easy to avoid them.
Strange, Nichols had never mentioned having scouts. He’d ask McCoy about them when they took a break or rested their horses.
Close to sundown, they watered their horses. Slocum was impressed. Four men formed a perimeter with their rifles ready while the horses were watered and other troopers had a chance to relieve themselves.
“You have any scouts with your troops?” Slocum asked McCoy.
“Two. They’re up at White River with the rest of the troop. Frontier trash I call ’em. One’s a breed named Red Top, and he’s drunk ’round the clock. Dumont’s a squaw man and he’s usually got some little Injun girl he says is his wife that he dicks quite regularly. Neither one could find his ass with both hands.”
“Can’t Nichols get some Sioux?”
McCoy shook his head. “No, that goes clear back to General Crook when he came over to Fort Robinson to get some Sioux scouts before he went to meet Crazy Horse at Rosebud. The agent told him that if any Sioux went with him, none of his relatives would get one kernel of rations. Crook never got a Sioux either. These agents hate the damn army to this day.”
“Power struggle,” Slocum said.
“Yeah, well, I’m telling yah, Crook would of done lots better if he’d had Sioux scouts. And don’t get me started on Custer. Him and them Crow was like brothers, but any man knew a damn thing about ’em knew Crows shit in their breechclouts when the word Sioux’s even mentioned.”
“I just wondered.”
“Aye. Mount up. How far’ve we got to go?”
“About five more miles.”
“Good,” McCoy grinned. “We may beat that bloody rain chasing us.” He indicated the approaching storm.
Slocum agreed.
With thunder over their shoulder, they crossed into the valley that held the wagons, and the hot still air promised a good one whenever it reached them. Slocum was relieved at the sight of the wagons.
“Seen any sign of them red devils?” McCoy asked him.
“No.” Slocum twisted in the saddle, but saw nothing. In fact, he was surprised he had not sighted anyone on some far ridge scouting them on their trip down. Then he saw the activity of three mounted Indians on horseback to their right.
Acknowledging them, McCoy looked grim. “It’s them all right.
“We better announce our arrival so the wagon folks don’t shoot at us. A good show of force might scatter them bucks, too. Form a line right,” he ordered. “Private Bennings! Get out that tin horn and blow us a loud charge on it. Pistols ready, men.
“Charge!”
“To the right,” Slocum called to McCoy as he rode stirrup to stirrup with the line. A dozen or so bucks on horseback were streaking out of an arroyo to head them off from reaching the wagons.
“Hold your fire,” McCoy said to steady his men. “Till I give the order.”
The bucks looked like they had reined up in the distance to reconsider their actions, and they milled around on their ponies. Thunder rolled over Slocum’s shoulder, but it was Private Bennings’s horn that Slocum felt was unnerving the renegades.
Then shots rang out from the wagons. Several men rushed out on foot shooting at the war party with their rifles. Two horses went down that Slocum could see, and the bucks had had enough. They fled to the west, and McCoy gave Slocum a nod of approval as they galloped out of the last low spot.
On top of the rise, Slocum could see the Sioux were long gone, and McCoy called his troopers down. Large drops of cold rain began pelting Slocum’s back when, through the wave of rain, he could make Rory out booting Roan toward him. She was not wearing a slicker, and had her hat and head down in the driving storm of rain mixed with small hail. She was pushing Roan hard until she about collided with Turk. Then, standing in the stirrups, she reached out and hugged him.
“Oh, thank Gawd, you’re all right. We heard shots after you left and I just knew they’d shot you.”
He kissed her hard on the mouth. So hard he forgot about the ice pellets pecking on them and drumming on his hat. Turk impatiently started to spin around before he let go of her, and they were close to being jerked out of their saddles.
“We better get the hell out of here,” she said as thunder drowned out her voice.
They rode hard for the wagon in the dark wall of water. Soaked to the skin, he managed to put his slicker over the saddle, tied Turk, and followed her wet form into the back of the freight wagon. She was unbuttoning her shirt when he turned from closing the back canvas oval.
“Well, we better get some dry clothes on, don’t you think?” she said.
He laughed and took her in his arms as lightning struck close enough to pop and shake the wagon under his wet soles. Thunder followed so loud, it made his ears ring. The hail drummed on the canvas over them, threatening to come though. He could hear the shouts of men outside and their cussing. Ignoring it all, he swept her against his chest and kissed her hard enough to take both their breaths away.
“Man, oh, man,” she said, poking him in the chest with her finger, her hips pressed hard to him. “Where have you been all my life?”
“On the run. Most of it from a judge and two deputies out of Fort Scott, Kansas.”
Her eyes looked deep into his as if searching for words. “I’ve been to Fort Scott. When I was a girl, Dad hauled freight there for the army.”
Her breasts jammed into him, she rested her chin on his shoulders. “How did you get into that mess?”
“A boy lost big at cards that night. He came back with a gun. I had no other option but to shoot him.”
“Why, that’s just self-defense.”
“Not when your grandfather and father are rich, influential people.”
“I see.”
“That means any day I may have to quietly ride off.”
She reared back. “That’s why you have no roots?”
“Yes.”
“There ought to be a way—”
He kissed away her concern and cupped her left breast in his hand. What a body—he better get her wrapped in a blanket, she was close to shivering. The temperature must have dropped forty degrees since that storm hit.
“So now I know what makes Slocum tick,” she said as he put the blanket over her shoulders, then did the same for himself. They sat side by side on a crate.
He explained Nichols’s plan to take them all to Camp Douglas, send the supplies to the White River Agency, and then accompany the others going south. She agreed that might work, but asked about Lane’s situation.
“Nichols is going to try to get troops out of Ogallala to help him. All his troops, except for the men who came with me, are up at White River, but he thinks the supplies you and the others are hauling may cut him some slack up there.”
She nodded. “We should be up there in four days if we push. Think Lane can hold out that long?”
He shook his head in defeat. “I hope so. There is nothing much else I can do.”
She clapped him on a wet leg. “You’ve about done all anyone could do. Damn—” Another nearby blast of lightning illuminated their shell, and the roar joined i
n the rest of the grumbling that swept across the landscape.
“Good rain,” he said, reminding himself he’d had little sleep and lots of saddle miles. A big yawn consumed him and he stretched his arms over his head.
“You nap awhile in here. The ground cover has kept the blankets dry even with the rain. I’ll go see about the meal and what else needs to be done.” She stood up to put on a fresh flannel shirt from her things. “’Sides, you’ll need all the rest you can get.”
“That a threat?” He winked at her.
“No,” she said in his ear. “That’s a damn promise.” He shed his wet clothing and slipped into the dry blankets, grateful for the respite. In minutes, despite the thunder and storm, he was asleep and dreaming about soldiering during the war.
Wet, muddy, and miserably cold, he and Orville Hackett, on the scout for any kind of food, found a barn still standing. Aftersearching inside, they felt satisfied it was empty save for a small hen they spooked up when they first entered. They closed the big divided door they’d used to let in enough light for a thorough search of the feed room and stalls.
“Hot damn, we’s going to have us roasted chicken tonight, Captain.” Hackett did a heel-and-toe dance in the aisle to celebrate.
“Maybe,” Slocum said. They had not caught the hen yet.
“Oh, Cap’n, I can taste it now. Oh, my, how I miss my momma’s cooking. Fried chicken crisp as a fresh cracker.”
“It won’t be that good,” Slocum warned him, searching for the hen around the hay manger. Not near that good.
Hackett discovered her nest and offered to share the fresh egg he found. Slocum told him it was his, and the private promptly ate it raw. In the meantime, Slocum caught the hen in a corner and a cloud of feathers. He wrung her neck, listening to the rain pounding on the high shingle roof over the hayloft. Then, with her still kicking in the throes of death, he began to dry-pluck her, knowing there would be no scalding water to dunk her in and he’d have to do his best this way.
“Scrape out a place in the floor we can build a small fire to cook her over.”
“Yes, sir, Cap’n. This are going to be a feast for kings. You need help?”
“No. Build the fire.”
"Yes, sirree. Cap’n, you figure we going to get out of this war alive?”
He looked up from his plucking with a fistful of feathers and nodded. “I sure intend to.”
“So do I, but—”
“What?”
“I’s hear horses coming.”
Slocum heard them, too. “Out the back door and into the woods. They could be Yankees.”
So he and his private fled the dry barn, ran back out into the deluge, plunging through the wet vegetation to get away with a half-plucked chicken, no way to cook it, and no shelter to get under. At last, when they were far enough away to hide in the woods, they hugged themselves to keep warm.
Listening to the thunder, Hackett said, “We damn sure ain’t got much, but we’s alive.”
“Barely,” Slocum said in disgust. “Barely.”
9
With the stock hitched and ready, the freighters and farmers were snaking north in a long line before dawn. Iron wheel rims cut deep in the soft wet ground in the purplish light. The men were cussing, the mules were braying, and the stock was acting up as they all rolled northward. Sergeant McCoy and his men were foraging around looking for any sign of the renegades.
They arrived at Camp Douglas before sundown. Nichols rode out to meet them.
“Have any trouble?” he asked Slocum.
“No. They started to make a raid, but between the charging cav and the men in the wagons who ran out to shoot at them, they ran off.”
“Good. I’ve sent a messenger up to telegraph Major Bone from the White River Agency. He should send Lane some troops up from Ogallala.”
Slocum nodded. “You know Rory Clements?”
“Yes, good day, ma’am.” He removed his hat for Rory.
She gave him a curt nod. “Nice to see you again, Captain.”
“We’ll go get everyone settled,” Slocum said. “The two freighters think they can make it on to the agency by themselves. When can the ones needing to go south expect a guard to go with them?”
“I’ll speak to Sergeant McCoy and see what shape his men are in, and let you know later this evening.”
Slocum nodded. “Thanks.”
“Good day,” Rory said to the captain, and turned the roan to leave without another word.
A good distance from the officer, Slocum looked back, then satisfied they were out of hearing, smiled and asked, “You and him ever go to war?”
She never looked over at him. “You could call it that.”
“You talking about it?”
“I was pretty serious about that little banty rooster a year or so ago.” She threw her chin out. “But I didn’t have the damn attributes to be an officer’s wife.”
Slocum frowned at her. “He said that to you?”
She rubbed her right hand on the top of her leg, still not looking at him. “Yes.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Hell, it ain’t your fault. I went off and made a damn fool of myself. I’m a lot tougher now.”
“Rory, you didn’t make a fool of yourself. He made a big mistake.”
“You don’t need to humor me.”
“Why, hell, he ain’t having any military balls out here. What was he worried so about?”
“Getting stationed someday in Omaha or Washington and being embarrassed because his wife wore pants and swore like a teamster.”
“Well, by damn, he lost. He’s still out here with hoot owls and don’t have anyone as nifty as you to sleep with.”
She looked over at him, blinking her wet lashes. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“I ever tell you a lie?”
She wet her lips. “No.”
“We better see if they need help cooking supper.”
“Yes.” And they rode on to the camp.
Things were soon sorted out. Sergeant McCoy and his men were going to take the southbound party to Ogallala. The other two freight outfits, hers and Kerry’s, were going on to the agency, and made plans to pull out at sunup. Rory planned to go along and help so she could keep Whitey off his feet.
“I damn sure hate to let you go,” she said to Slocum later in the wagon. “But—I know you have to go back with those others and see what you can do for Lane.” She shed her britches in the darkness of their small area at the back of the wagon.
“I’ve been long enough doing it.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. When they parted to catch their breath, he put his forehead to hers. “Sorry we couldn’t do this forever.”
“Yeah, it would be all right.” She hugged him tight. “Damn, I’m going to hate to see sunup come.”
He agreed and finished undressing. In minutes, they were in the blankets making passionate love. His aching erection was inside her and arousing her with each plunge. Her long legs were in the air. Between the silky limbs, he hunched hard against the contracting ring of her pussy. They were gripped with an urgency, their breathing coming in rasping gulps. Her soft moans mixed with his throaty grunts. On and on they surged. Each was lost in the blind intoxication of their passion, until the pending explosion made him grasp both cheeks of her ass in his hands, drive his hip bones hard to hers, penetrate her to the bottom, and slam the swollen head against it. The explosion forced them to mesh hard together in a long straining effort that made both of them arch their backs toward each other. Then, when it was over, they collapsed in a pile of flesh on flesh.
“Damnit to hell, I’m going to miss you.”
“Yes, it goes two ways,” he said.
“We better get some sleep,” she mumbled, and threw her arm and firm breast on his chest.
In the predawn, they dressed with few words in their dark cubicle. At last ready to leave, he kissed her, and they lingered for a few minutes to savor their parting.
> “I’ll leave Turk at the livery in Ogallala if I need to take off.”
She frowned and shook her head. “No. You’ll need him. He’s yours.”
“I couldn’t do that—”
“You ever hear of a gawdamn gift?”
“Yes, but—”
Her fingers on his lips closed off any words of protest. “I’m giving him to you, dang it.”
He hugged her tight. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t go and get yourself killed.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. ’Cause I’d like to repeat this again sometime.”
“I would, too.”
“Well, cowboy, you know where I’m at.”
He nodded, and they left the privacy of their den.
By midday, the four empty freight wagons and dozen settlers’ rigs were creaking along southward with Sergeant McCoy’s troopers as their guard. The May sun had begun to warm the days, and Slocum knew his boss in Texas would need to know what he’d learned if he was intending to make a drive up there—it was almost getting too late for them to start.
His plans were to go on to Ogallala and send a telegram. The day passed slowly, and he met with McCoy at supper time.
“Any sign of Indians today?” he asked the noncom while seated with his plate beside him on the ground.
“Nothing. That kinda bothers me. Did they all go south and raid those ranches down there like Lane’s?”
“Good question. I hope not.” Slocum spooned up some beans from his plate.
“I’d been getting reports there were several young bucks slipping down here for weeks. How many, I’m not sure. But there could be several.”
Slocum nodded agreement and blew on the spoonful—too hot to eat. “Maybe I should run down there and see in the morning.”
“If we push hard, we can be there by dark,” McCoy said. “But I’d love to have you go down and scout it out. I been keeping my troopers close in case of an attack. They’re good men, but no telling how many hostiles are out there.”
“Yes, I understand. I’ll leave in the morning and when I learn how things are, then I’ll ride back and report.”