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

by Logan, Jake

  Wilma looked all fresh, smiling at his arrival when he dropped out of the saddle.

  “Got some fresh beef,” he said, and she rushed over, excited.

  He hitched up his pants and gun, then dug the paper-wrapped meat out of his saddlebags.

  “Good and fresh all right,” she said, smelling it. “You learn anything?”

  “I did. Those killers have got a place out in the badlands with some hot springs.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “That’s the problem. We’re going to have to find it.”

  She looked him in the eye and winked with a smile. “I bet we can find it.”

  He agreed and unsaddled his horse, then hobbled him and sent him out to graze. “Reckon I’ll shave and take a bath. It’s warm enough today.”

  “That crick ain’t warm enough to stay in very long.”

  “Heat some shaving water for me. And we’ll be all clean when we go find those two in the morning.”

  “Reckon Houston will come along?”

  He turned up his hands. No telling what the remittance man would do. Slocum liked him, but Houston had his own world. With a bar of soap in hand, a towel she gave him slung over his shoulder, and a quick kiss, he headed for the stream. The rushing sound of it forewarned him. It would be sharply colder than the sunlight he’d spotted in the clearing.

  The water was brisk and quickly shriveled up his sac, but he soaped and rinsed and then went to the sunny spot to dry. Cold was not the word. Damn cold better described it. On the verge of shaking, he dressed, strapped on his gun belt, and pulled on his socks and boots. Still freezing, he set off in a jog for camp. Goose bumps popped out on his shoulders as he ran into camp.

  “Everything all right?” She shaded her eyes to look up at him.

  “Cold is all.”

  She laughed and brushed her shoulder-length brown hair, which shone in the shafts of sunlight. “I warned you. Your shaving water’s hot.”

  He could hardly believe the changes he saw in her from the first day they met. She wore a fresh man’s shirt that her large breasts filled out and a divided skirt. No old dirty men’s jeans and stained shirt. Her hair glistened with highlights from all the brushing, and her tan complexion looked smooth. Big changes from the ugly witch he’d first laid eyes on. Better said, she had taken some pride in herself. What had she said? Something like he was the first man who had not come home to raw screw her or beat her for screwing up something she had no control over.

  He used a hog hair brush and soap to lather up his face, and using a small mirror, he scraped the whiskers from his cheeks with his sharp, straight-edge razor. The job was soon completed, and she came over and rinsed the rest of the soap off his face with a wet towel.

  “What have you done in your life?” She stared hard at him.

  “Tried to stay alive and meet pretty women. You’re one of them.”

  She curled her lip in disbelief and impatience. “You had your eyesight checked lately?”

  “Nothing wrong with my vision.”

  She blushed like a young girl and turned away to chew on her lip. “The day I’m pretty, the world will end.”

  He hugged her shoulder. “Well then, what should we do first?”

  “What do you mean?” She frowned hard at him.

  “Hell, if the world’s going to end, I want to go out in pleasure’s arms. You savvy that?”

  “Dang right I do.” Then she looked around, checking for sight of anyone. Not wasting another second, they were off in a jog, pedaling side by side. He swept up the bedroll. Soon behind the screen of some willows, he began clearing the ground with the side of his boot. Seated on her butt, she heaved off her boots. Then, quick as a cat, she got to her feet and began hanging her clothes on the limber pine branches nearby. Naked as Adam and Eve they hugged and kissed. With the warm wind sweeping over his bare butt, he felt his erection beginning to unfold.

  At last with her under him on the blanket, he braced his arms to hold himself over her large treasures and his body positioned between her wide-spread knees. The suggestive wiggling under him raised the bar, and her lips parted in a grin. “Get me!”

  He gave her no verbal answer, but his rigid tool soon found her wet gates and slipped inside her like a fine glove. A moan of pleasure escaped her lips and she squeezed him hard against her. His easy pumping opened the way through her ring and soon they were moving like a steam engine out of control—no brakes, racing off a mountain grade. Practically hearing a whistle screaming in his ears, they went faster and faster. The clutches of her inner surfaces her grew spasmodic, and his efforts to plunge into her grew harder and harder until the skin on the swollen head of his dick threatened to explode, and then he came.

  Her arms around him tightened, and he felt the rush of her fluids flowing over his balls. They collapsed in a pile, both of them groggy. He tried to recover from the stupor at the whisper of some unseen man close by.

  “They must be around here—somewhere. Their saddle horses are here.”

  Slocum’s steady hand drew his .44 from the sheath of leather beside the bedroll. She lay on her stomach, still breathing hard. Her face blanched as she looked at him with an unspoken question. The hammer cocked on his .44 while he lay on his belly behind the willows, he could not see the two men who, from the sounds, were obviously searching for their camp.

  “They can’t be far.”

  “His horse is hobbled. I see it out there with the others.”

  “Where are they?”

  Wilma frowned at Slocum as he held out his free hand for her to be still. He wanted to surprise the hell out of them. But first, he needed to be certain how many of them there were. A posse or some bounty hunters—two would be no problem, but three or more individuals could mean the odds were not good enough for him to try to take them.

  Seconds went by like minutes or even hours.

  “I thought you said this getting him would be easy—”

  “Shut up.”

  They must have passed by and missed Slocum and Wilma in their cozy hiding place. They were centered on Houston’s tent. Slocum decided they were farther away. After shaking his head at her offer of his pants, he eased his way through the willows. He could see a pair of men standing in front of Houston’s tent, their backs to him.

  “Hands in the air or die,” Slocum shouted.

  “What the hell—?” The older one cocked his hammer, but when he jerked around, Slocum shot him in the chest and he spilled over onto his back. His loaded gun went off in the air, and the second one raised the muzzle of his pistol—obviously shaken by the surprise attack of a naked man—and then a shotgun blast from the side cut him down.

  Houston rushed outside, the shotgun butt held tight to his shoulder. “Hey, lad, are you all right?”

  Slocum chuckled. “Thanks, they were disturbing my nap.”

  “I’ll check on them if you’d like to dress for the occasion?”

  “Handle it. They ain’t going anywhere. You know them?”

  “No, I have never seen them before. Why did they attack us?”

  “They may be hired killers looking for me.”

  “I must say that business is growing lax if they are. Why, those two couldn’t have snuck up on a deaf duck.”

  “Check them out,” Slocum said and went back for his clothing.

  In the bright sunlight, Wilma rushed up whispering, “Was that Houston talking?”

  Her skirt was on, and she was rapidly tucking her breasts out of sight and buttoning up the shirt. “What will he think? I mean of us being undressed?”

  “He’ll probably think we were having sex.” Slocum buttoned his shirt, then took his pants from her.

  “I mean—oh, who in the hell cares, right?”

  “For my part, we foiled those two men from killing us. That’s all that matters. Act normal. Like we stop killers every day like this.”

  She laughed and then covered her mouth. With a no head-shake for his answer, she looked in
disbelief at him. When his gun was strapped on, he went over and kissed her, then hugged her shoulder. “We do this all the time.”

  She elbowed him in the ribs. “Sex, maybe, but not shooting people when you’re bare-ass naked.”

  “Let’s go see what we have.”

  “Fine.” She looked to the setting sun for help.

  Somberly, he went to where Houston was squatting beside the second gunman. The man nodded, then filled him in. “Says he’s Newton. Raddison is the dead man. Says they’re horse traders. Wanted to buy our good horses.”

  Slocum dropped to his knee and took the wounded man’s vest in both hands to half raise him off the ground. “You’re lying. You came here to kill me. Who hired you?”

  “All right. All right. My name’s Coleman.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Jesse did.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Runs a bar in Deadwood.” The man shook his head. “I didn’t know him. Raddison did. He made the deal.”

  “For how much?”

  “Gave us a three hundred to find and kill you.”

  “He must have been rich. How did you find me?”

  “We paid for all the beer that these two cowboys could drink. Texas ones—we met ’em in a saloon on the road to Cheyenne. Said you was shacking up with some woman up here.”

  “How did you find us here?”

  “Some guy in town said an English guy, some cowboy, and a woman were down here camping on the crick—” He coughed up some blood and then passed out, drowning in his own blood.

  “Aye, who would hire killers to find the likes of you?”

  “A rich old man whose son came back drunk to a card game and accused me of cheating.”

  “Money buys killers, doesn’t it? Did you meet that pair that they got drunk?”

  Slocum made a grim nod. “Once. Their names are Smith and Ward. Those two came by when Wilma was gone to get supplies. They told me that they were looking for Sundance to join his gang. I believe those two robbed and killed their Texas boss after he made a big cattle sale in Montana and they were started back home. He’s still missing, best I know.”

  “So they wanted to join Sundance’s outfit, huh?” Houston nodded as if considering the matter.

  “You know Sundance? Would he have taken them on?”

  “I know some things about him. He’s kinda choosy and stays with Mormon help, figures he can trust them better. You know more than that?”

  “Yeah, I’ve met those famous outlaws, Cassidy and Sundance. They came by Wilma’s place. Later, Smith and Ward showed up. Those two got caught in a bad storm and I met them when they came to the cabin for shelter. Montana law wants them. It sounds like they got drunk and told those two killers about me being up here.”

  Houston agreed. “What now?”

  “Bury them or feed them to the magpies.”

  Houston frowned at his answer. “They must have horses nearby. Cowboys never walk far. We’ll toss their corpses over them, tie them on, and I will deliver them to some authority,” Houston said. “Don’t worry, I won’t implicate either of you. Now, what are the two of you going to do?”

  “Eat some supper,” Wilma said. “I’ve got some good beef to cook.”

  “Wonderful,” Houston said.

  “Sounds good,” Slocum said. “Tomorrow we’re going to look for those two killers out in the badlands. I understand that they have a place out there near some hot springs.”

  “A vast area. When you come back, look me up.”

  “We will,” Wilma said, and Slocum agreed.

  “My dear lady, how unfortunate that you had to be in the midst of all this bloodshed.”

  “Pard.” She shook her head as she was on her knees making a fire. “I’ve been in lots worse places. Thank you anyway.”

  “Of course, I imagine you have been. All the same, I regret their imposition on all of us.”

  “You be careful too,” she said. “You two can go find their horses. Going to take me a half hour to get this cooking going.”

  She made supper while Slocum found and brought in the two horses. Then the two men used the outlaws’ bedding to wrap their bodies in. With the corpses laid out, they planned to load them onto the horses in the morning after breakfast.

  Houston was shaken by the whole thing when he spoke during supper. “I don’t mind taking them to the law, but why would men become killers for such trivial prices?”

  Slocum shook his head “No telling. Sounded easy enough. I just appreciate you taking charge of them.”

  “No problem, chap. It has been rather adventuresome.” Houston beamed.

  After breakfast the next morning, Slocum and Wilma loaded the two bodies onto their owners’ horses and tied them down, then parted with Houston. Slocum watched the Englishman ride off leading the corpse-bearing animals and his mule. Wilma slipped under Slocum’s arm to join him. “Now, ain’t he a dandy,”

  “A real one.” Slocum laughed. Houston knew that Slocum had no business messing with the law up there, even if the shooting had been self-defense. The man had done him a big favor handling it and freeing them to go look for the pair of killers. Finding those two would not be easy, but Slocum was sure he’d find someone who knew where they were hiding.

  “You know, you could go home and be safe,” he said to Wilma as he finished cinching his horse and dropping the stirrup. Jennifer’s horse was packed and they were ready to ride off.

  “I’d rather rough it with you.” She wrinkled her nose at him and grinned.

  He smiled at her. Under her weather-beaten felt hat, her face beamed with a freshness and her brushed hair looked bright. No way was she going to be separated from her source of pride: him. With a knowing wink, he nodded that he understood and swung onto his horse. They were off.

  The desert beyond Ten Sleep was barren, obviously a much drier land than the Bighorns. Far across this sagebrush desert land lay Yellowstone, the country’s federal park and a sacred land to many natives. Still ten nights’ sleep away, Slocum had no plans to go see it again. He recalled that the land of steam blowouts, mud pots, and wild game was a great adventure to explore, but he wanted those two killers run down. Someone out in this wasteland would know where they were located.

  They found a large flock of sheep and spoke to the shepherd, a scruffy older white man who eyed both of them as if he was suspicious of their interest in him. Slocum understood his fears—sheep people fought lots of opposition from stockmen who claimed that the woolies ruined the range.

  “I’m looking for two killers,” Slocum said. “One wears a wolf skin cape, and they have a place out here somewhere.”

  He nodded like he understood. “They came by here a few days ago. I figured they were crazy too. Made me concerned about them killing me for what little I have.”

  “Deushay and Roberson are their names.” Slocum waited for the old man’s validation.

  “Yes, I met them last year. Their place is somewhere south of here near Red Canyon. You ever been down there?” he asked.

  Slocum reined Red around and looked at Wilma. “You ever been there?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Head south.” The old man sliced the air with his right arm in that direction. “There’s some reddish shades to the rocks. You can’t miss them. I’d say they were living in that area.”

  “Thanks. What can I do for you?”

  The old man scratched the shaggy gray hair over his ear. “I don’t need nothing. You two be careful. They ain’t nice people.”

  “Thanks for your warning. We’ll be careful.”

  The two of them rode on with little conversation, looking at the ground a lot for signs of fresh tracks. Slocum never felt that they were following any certain trail or tracks. Late in the evening they found a small stream coming from the towering mountains. Wood fuel and even cow pies were both in short supply. He found a dead bush and dragged it in for Wilma to add to their short supply of fuel.


  “Thanks,” she said. “We’ll have enough with that.”

  He agreed and dismounted. “We still aren’t in that red rock area that the old man talked about yet.”

  She nodded as he undid Red’s girth, unsaddled him, and turned him loose to join the other two. Grass was scarce in this land, but the three horses were finding some. Survivors were what he considered them. A fussy horse would never make it in places like this. He’d seen stable horses wilt away in such a cross-country ride. It required a real eager horse, one that wouldn’t turn his head away from the available forage, to survive the harsh deserts.

  “Think we’re going to find them?” She poured him some bubbling coffee into a tin cup.

  “I haven’t given up. Have you?”

  With a glance aside after putting her coffeepot back, she smiled at him. “Hell, I’d go chase boogers with you into never-never land.”

  He laughed and squatted beside her. “That’s what I call loyalty.”

  Feeling his hand on her shoulder to comfort her, she acknowledged his words, then she rose to use a hook to turn the Dutch oven lid, covered in hot ashes, to more evenly brown her biscuits. A whiff of the sweet sourdough smell attacked his nose when she raised the lid—it would be a great evening.

  Later, in the bedroll, he made hard love to her in the gathering coolness of the night. Then crickets set into a serenade for them as they fell asleep. He woke once under the bright stars, turned an ear to any odd sounds, and, satisfied, he went back to sleep till the predawn. In the chill of predawn, he dressed, pulled on his boots, and went to the edge of camp to empty his bladder. Pissing a stream off in the dim light, he heard horses—other than his. He ran for camp and scooped up his rifle.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “Horses out in the night.”

  “Who in the hell are they?”

  Then he heard the stallion’s scream and laughed. “Mustangs who want to steal the pack mare.”