Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640)

by Logan, Jake

But he kept his hand on the horse’s nostrils and whispered to distract him. The half dozen riders with high crown hats silhouetted against the night sky filed north in a line with four packhorses behind in a hard trot. Moving at night, they were more than likely an outlaw gang heading out to rob a mail train or make a big heist of some bank with lots of money in its vaults.

  From Browns Park down in western Colorado to the north end of the Bighorns along this trail, lots of outlaws hid out. Most of them were Mormon boys in their late teens who were shunned into exile by elders who didn’t want them taking the eligible wives from the supply the pluralists drew from. These young exiles had a hard time finding any work in this tough country and turned to joining the outlaw gangs. The first place the law went to look for them after a big robbery was in the whorehouse district of places like Denver. Since they weren’t going to be future customers anyway, the houses bled them of all their money with rollicking sex, high-priced liquor, and fine, expensive meals. When all of their dough was gone, they were turned over to the law with busted heads and shrunken balls. They would stumble out the front door of some grand Victorian three-story mansion into the arms of the local lawmen, who promptly called in the U.S. marshals, and then the local police collected the hefty rewards on their arrests.

  Simply business in the West. Horny young men flush with their ill-gotten riches went to the whorehouses, had a helluva a good time, and when that loot was gone—they robbed again. Usually they were led by clever men who had escaped the claws of legal authorities for long periods of time. Such men stayed in hiding or snuck off to places where they were unknown, like Chicago, for a taste of all the flesh and parties their money could buy. The underlings, meanwhile, were incarcerated in state pens like the one near Laramie, the Deer Park freezer in Montana, and Colorado’s finest steel bars and cement. Wyoming Territorial might have been the easiest to escape. Lots of men went out through an unlocked door there with the paid-for assistance of an insider and were whisked away by relatives on waiting fresh horses. Few of them were ever returned, and no record of their recapture showed on the prison books.

  The band of thieves had passed by him in the starlit night. Satisfied at last that they’d gone on north, Slocum returned to his cold blankets and slept till dawn. He felt satisfied that the gang was not coming back that night anyway.

  Next day, he took the road south. They called it the Owl Hoot Trail or the Outlaw Underground Railroad that went through Wyoming, Utah, and Arizona. Wanted men used it to slip off into Mexico. That afternoon he stopped at the first small outfit he came to. A woman in a brown dress was using a shovel to divert irrigation water into the rows of her well-kept garden.

  “Hello, stranger,” she said, busy with her garden-watering operation and the shovel. “Can I help you?”

  “Could you sell me a meal?” He dropped out of the saddle, knowing these were pay-as-you-go-operations. No doubt she was a sister-wife in the LDS Church. Her blond hair was straight and shoulder length, and her pale face needed a little powder and some lip rouge. That all cost money, and her husband likely wouldn’t bring her any such frivolous items. Since the man probably only saw her every three to four months, she didn’t need it. Slocum could see the muscles in her slender forearms. They were hard muscles; he’d bet there would be no fat on her body underneath the wash-worn brown dress either.

  “My name is Jennifer Duncan.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Slocum. I can change the water when it gets to the end of the row if you want to go prepare the food.”

  She agreed and handed him the shovel. “When you see the water’s going to make it to the end, change it. I don’t have lots of water to waste.”

  “I can do that, Jennifer.”

  She swept her hair back behind her ears. “Slocum, huh?”

  “That’s my handle.”

  “I’ll remember it. Not many folks drop in here.”

  “I take it that’s right. I ain’t seen a soul in days.”

  “Mister, if they’re looking for you, they won’t ever find you up here.”

  “Whatever,” he said, as if that was unimportant.

  She shuffled to the house in her clodhopper shoes that peeked out from under her hem, which she held up out of the dirt as she walked. Those shoes looked so stiff he knew they had to be pinching her feet. He went to changing furrows. No need to mess up and waste her water.

  She was gone for quite a while, then he saw her go up the hill to the source of water and put in a headgate to shut off the flow.

  “Are you about through?” she called out to him.

  He could see she’d timed it right; the final furrow was nearly completely soaked. “This should water the last row.”

  “Good, I’ve got something ready for us to eat. Bring your horse. We can put him up and then eat.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He led Red over to the corral and unsaddled him. There was hay in the manger and water in a stone trough. Jennifer came over without a word and waited for Slocum with her arms folded.

  “You have a horse?” he asked her.

  “She’s out on the range. I only use her for plowing or hauling in the hay I cut for winter.”

  “You put all that hay up by hand?” he asked, amazed at the amount he saw stacked around.

  She smiled. “Oh, some boys stayed over who were passing through and helped me put some of it up. There isn’t much else to do up here.”

  Wetting his lower cracked lip, he nodded. “No children of your own?”

  “No. I never carried a full-term child.” She shrugged, walking beside him. “So I am in charge of my husband’s Wyoming ranch. My sisters can raise the kids and do those things over in Utah.”

  “How many wives does your husband have?”

  “I have four sisters.”

  He knew that meant her husband had five wives, including her. This dim trail over the Bighorns must have several travelers going both ways. Folks with faces that fit wanted posters.

  He found Jennifer’s small house plain, with a lean-to bedroom on the side with bunks. She obviously slept in the living room on the bed covered with a colorful patch quilt, and she did her cooking in the fireplace. There was a table with six chairs for busier times. He could smell the wood smoke that hung in the air from her preparing the meal.

  “It is always good to share a meal with a person passing through—better than eating by yourself,” she said and showed Slocum where to wash up. He hung his hat on a wall peg and thanked her.

  “You almost caught me wearing overalls,” she said as he lathered his hands and then washed his face.

  “That would not be a big crime,” he said, busy drying his hands and face on her flour-sack towel.

  “Oh, that would be very unladylike of me.”

  “Lots of farmwives wear britches—women who have to work in the crops and fields or ride horses.” He was thinking about Marla; when she worked cattle she wore overalls and thought nothing of it.

  Jennifer raised her chin and then shook her head. “Not for a woman in public places.”

  “Your home becomes a public place when someone arrives here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what’s for supper?” A big smile on his face, Slocum decided there was no use arguing with her about proper dress; he’d never win.

  “Roasted ear corn from the garden, green beans, and the last of my salt pork. Oh, and sourdough rolls from the Dutch oven.”

  “I smelled them. Excellent.”

  “Glad you’re pleased. Let us say grace to the Lord.”

  “Sure,” he said, bowing his head.

  “Most heavenly father,” she began, thanking him for many things including her guest, whom she referred to as “company”—and finished with, “Amen.”

  She raised her head and asked, “Are you married, Slocum?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Do you have a home?” She passed him the green beans. “Sorry, I ran out of butter last week.”

 
; “No problem. No, I don’t have a place to live except wherever I am.”

  “You don’t speak like an uneducated man.” She rose and went over to the pail to dip a cup of water out, and then apologized. “I forgot, you probably miss your coffee.”

  “No problem.” He knew the LDS did not partake of coffee. “Yes, I attended school.”

  “I can write my name and read the Book of Moroni, which for a woman is not bad.”

  “Someone is coming,” Slocum said and set down his cob of roasted sweet corn.

  She agreed with a grim face. “Eat. I will see who it is.”

  His curiosity aroused, he followed her to the door, wiping his face on a cloth that served as a napkin. Out of habit, he shifted his .44 in its holster as she opened door and stood back.

  Two bearded men with floppy hats sat atop jaded horses in the yard. They were dressed in ragged clothing, and one wore a wolf skin cape over his shoulders. “Hello, Mrs. Duncan. Seed you got company, huh?”

  “Yes, I do, Mr. Deushay.”

  “We won’t keep ya. Just wanted to drop by and see if you needed anything.”

  “No, I’m fine. Don’t need a thing.”

  “He staying long?” Deushay’s partner asked, then spit tobacco off to the side of his fidgeting horse. His lower lip and the beard around his mouth were stained with the black traces of the tobacco. Then he hiccupped and nodded.

  “I expect he’ll stay for a while, Mr. Roberson.”

  “Well, don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do.” Deushay said. “See you, darling.”

  His sidekick laughed like Deushay had said something funny, like he knew something Slocum and Jennifer didn’t, and the two men galloped away. Jennifer collapsed against the door frame.

  “Who are those two galoots?” Slocum asked.

  “Two crazy, filthy old men who live up here in the mountains. They come by every so often when they’re drunk and scare the life out of me. Talking nasty and spitting tobacco.” She shivered, and Slocum caught her.

  He looked down into her face. “Have they ever hurt you?”

  “No, but I don’t trust them. I sleep inside even in the summertime and bar my doors when I am here alone.”

  He looked hard at her. “You ever tell your husband that they scared you?”

  “Yes. He said when they come at me to shoot them. I can’t hardly shoot a coyote, let alone a person. He doesn’t know how bad they are. He’s never seen them.”

  “Still, you better keep the gun handy. Those two are half—or more—raw animals.”

  She nodded with her face pressed against his vest, and he felt some of the tight-muscled tension slip away from her.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you with them.” She drew back and then guided him back to their meal. “Eat before your food gets cold.”

  She only picked at the food on her plate and shoved the remaining food in the china bowls at him. “Let there be no waste.”

  No doubt the two men had struck fear in her heart. Slocum decided that he’d let Red rest a few days and do some work around the place to help her out—and to see if they came back. “When is your man due here?”

  “Two, three months. He’ll bring me supplies in October before the snows begin, and take the cattle back with him. Then I’ll be locked in here until spring.”

  “Ever get lonesome?”

  “I have a Bible and the Book of Moroni to read. I try to stay busy. I make quilts and clothing. I’ll shoot a deer and hang it. An elk is too big. I pray a lot too.”

  “You know you haven’t eaten enough?”

  “Enough for me. I’m fine. I am grateful you were here though.”

  “No problem. How many cattle does your husband have up here?”

  “Maybe sixty head. It’s just summer range. They do good all summer on the rich grass, but I have no way to feed hay to that many. I keep my mare up in the lot and shed her during the bad weather. We share the winter.”

  “A few years ago I spent a winter up here, farther north.” He had no intention of telling her it was with a Cheyenne woman. “Wind sure howls.”

  “You know the ways of these mountains, then. I’m grateful for every warm day.”

  When dark came, she showed him to a bunk and said she hoped he slept well. In the distance, a timber wolf howled somewhere on the mountain, and Slocum decided that ought to make her fidget as bad as her earlier grubby company. His boots and socks off, he wiggled his toes. Maybe he’d get more than a few hours’ sleep during the night. His gun belt hung handy to him on the upper bunk post and, finally down to his one-piece underwear, he crawled into the bed and under the covers. It would be cold by daylight in this high elevation, summer or no summer.

  He awoke. Not sure why at first, but then he felt the presence of another person in the room. Starlight shone in through a small four-paned window, letting in enough light for him to see Jennifer’s form in the doorway.

  “You can’t sleep?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Come get into the bed. We can keep each other awake.”

  “No.”

  “I won’t bite you. Company is better than being alone.”

  “Not right.”

  “I guess we only answer to each other.” He propped his head up on his elbow. He thought she must be wearing some long cotton gown.

  “And to God.”

  “I understand, but if you aren’t going to sleep, come and I’ll hold you. You can get up anytime your conscience bites you.”

  She laughed. “It is biting me now for talking to you about it.”

  “Oh, the shame of it. Two grown people talking about right and wrong in the dark when no one else knows anything about it.”

  “He does. God does.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “If you promise me you won’t force yourself on me—I’ll share your bed.”

  “Good enough. I swear—”

  “To who?”

  He shook his head when she sat on the edge. “Whoever you want me to.”

  When at last she lay down beside him, he could feel her shaking and smelled the faint aroma of a woman. “You cold?”

  “Cold and scared.”

  He curled around her and in minutes he fell back asleep. A few hours later he awoke and could again smell the faint scent of woman. He held her securely in his arms on the narrow bed, and he wondered if she realized the danger lurking between them: his rock-hard erection.

  Taking a deep breath, he rolled over and gave her his back. He decided that she wasn’t ready for anything more than sleeping yet. Be patient, he told himself. He slept some more with her form pressed against his back. That was damn distracting, but he did manage a little more sleep. No need for him to be in a rush.

  He half woke when she moved hard against him and threw her arm over his shoulder. A sound from outside made him start and listen. Was someone out there?

  She started too and whispered, “You hear something?”

  “Stay in bed,” he said softly and slipped out from under the covers. His bare feet were silent on the rough board floor, and his fingers closed on the grips of his .44. The Colt slipped soundlessly out of the leather sheath, and the hammer made a slight sound when Slocum cocked it back.

  Someone was coughing not far from the front door when he slipped across the room, dark save for the starlight coming in through the window. He heard some deep breathing, hard soles scrambling on the ground, and then something hard struck the door. Those idiots were trying to ram down her front door.

  “Get the hell out of here!” Slocum shouted when they rammed it again.

  “That him?” The question sounded gasped out between their hard breathing.

  “Hell, yes. Get to the horses.”

  “Ow. You dropped it on my foot.” The victim went on moaning.

  “Get to running.”

  The bar over the door proved jammed despite Slocum’s efforts to remove it while holding his gun, so he set down the revolver and strained to pus
h the bar up. He heard the drum of horses’ hooves galloping away and swore under his breath. The holding board finally gave way and the door swung open. He grabbed the revolver and shot into the night’s darkness, swearing at the intruders’ retreat.

  Jennifer came to the door, wrapped in a blanket, and touched his arm. “Was it them?”

  “Deushay and Roberson? Yes, I think so. They got away. I couldn’t get the door open fast enough.” From the doorway, Slocum could see that the heavy post they’d been using to batter the door was lying on the ground where it must have fallen on one of the intruder’s feet. No doubt it had hurt—the ram was no small stick.

  “They ever do this before?” he asked, herding her back inside.

  “They never tried this.” She lit a candle and set it on the table. “Have those two lost their minds?”

  “No telling what old hermits like that are thinking.”

  She let the blanket slip away and hugged him. “What can I do?”

  “Load your pistol, if you must remain here.”

  “I can’t leave.” She hugged him tighter. He felt her thin body against his. The hard mounds of her small breasts under the flannel gown pressed into him. In a trembling voice, she asked, “Oh, my God, what will I do?”

  He released her and rebarred the door. Satisfied that the security was in place, he turned and pulled her up into his arms. As he passed by it, he blew out the candle. “They won’t be back tonight.”

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked in a small girl’s voice.

  “Where do you think?”

  “Back to bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” When he set her down beside the bed, she started taking her gown off over her head inside out. “Help me out of this thing.”

  He did and she began to unbutton his underwear like it was nothing at all. With her hands, she pushed the garment off his shoulders. Bending over, they bumped into each other and laughed as she helped him undress. Then she pulled him into the bed on top of her. Reaching around him, she covered them with blankets against the cold air and then lay back down in the narrow berth. He raised himself up and she moved in place under him.

  “I’m glad that attack is over.” She squirmed frisky-like underneath him.