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

by Logan, Jake

  “You two don’t get into any trouble,” Sobell said with a knowing grin and waved them on. “I like your new horses, hombre,” he shouted as Slocum turned the buggy around and headed out.

  Slocum waved that he’d heard him and winked at Silvia beside him. “He knows good horses too.”

  Possessively, she hugged his arm tighter as they headed for San Antonio. They ate supper at a nice restaurant, then took the rig to the livery and had the swamper care for the horse. Then, to the strum of guitars, they came up the street listening to the dancers’ music and some girl singing a Mexican folk song. Silvia made him stop and hugged him.

  “This is romantic,” she said. With her head leaning on his chest and his arms holding her, they stood back in the shadows. The swivel of the dancers, like willows in a soft wind, made him glad to be there.

  “Let’s go to our room. I am jealous and think maybe some of these pretty girls would steal you away from me.”

  He laughed. “Not tonight.”

  “Oh, you never know.”

  Once in the hotel room, raw passion swept them away, and he forgot the cold nights sleeping on the ground alone without her smooth skin against his own, and she shared her muscular body, which carried him to new heights of pure fire. The scent of her filled his senses, and the entire process erased all the rest of his thoughts. Sleep became a peaceful suspension of time and he awoke early. Realizing her warm body was curled into him, he eased his way out from under the covers, leaving her to sleep, and dressed in the shadowy room.

  He went to the restaurant and sipped on strong coffee on the patio as the small birds awoke. The night clerk brought him a letter. It had come from Cheyenne, from Crane’s saddle shop, and contained a note from Wilma.

  You said I could write you if I ever needed you. I don’t need you right now.

  Houston and I plan to marry in May. Jennifer’s husband came by Ten Sleep and cried with me last fall about her death. He wanted me to thank you. I lied and said I had no forwarding address. Two men were up here asking about you this winter. I told them nothing.

  One was Thomas Key and the other Hyde Walton. They were hired guns. Key has an eye patch, the other one wears glasses. Be careful. I will always think of you and our adventures.

  Love, Wilma

  More people wanting his hide. There would always be someone who might drop his name, or a drunk in a bar would mumble, “I know him. He was down at San Antonio this past winter.”

  It was early in the year to be having to head out from his winter nest, but he needed to leave no tracks. No place was sacred enough to hide from bounty hunters. He had enough of his share of the reward money left to be comfortable. His kitten upstairs in the bed would miss him, but she was fickle enough to find another before midnight. Sobell could bank Slocum’s money in Kansas. He’d open an account up there at the Kansas railhead with instructions to pay Silvia’s father his part. He closed his eyes. In two days he would be moving again.

  He penciled a note to Wilma, thanking her for the warning and congratulating her on her future matrimony. Sent it to Mrs. Wilma Houston, General Delivery, Ten Sleep, Wyoming Territory.

  He laid his plans to ride away. When he gave the news of his leaving to his spoiled hacienda owner’s daughter, her response was as he expected—near hysterics. But she too would be all right. She loved San Antonio and the bright lights of a bigger place much more than the border town where he’d found her. With her looks and skills, she wouldn’t sleep alone for very many nights.

  On the third day, he rode the gray horse north in the darkness before dawn. He wore two shirts and his jumper, but the cold wind tried to chase him back to the Alamo Plaza. Instead, he kept riding on. He spent a few days in Fort Worth in the stockyard district, hoping the weather would warm, but March was not a promise keeper that winter was over.

  Twice in Fort Worth, he saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, dressed in tailored clothing and bowler hats. Once in a card game in the White Elephant Saloon’s smoky atmosphere and the other time on a street corner with two well-dressed ladies of society in tow. They never acted like they recognized him.

  He left Cowtown and stayed with an old friend near Denison. Hugh Barton and he had been together for a while right after the war. Barton found a sweet woman named Lisa and they had a passel of kids, and he farmed up there. They always made him welcome. The two adults with their five small children were cheerful company and the potbellied stove warm enough for him to linger a few days.

  Slocum left thirty dollars in the Bartons’ sugar bowl and rode on. It would be a long time till the cotton and corn harvest. The Indian Territory began north of the Red River Ferry. He went past the sign on the north bank that prohibited any alcohol being brought into the Indian Territory, with a stern warning that violators would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law by Judge Isaac Parker’s Federal Court in Fort Smith, Arkansas.

  The loss of a few days never bothered him, winding his way through the rolling hills going north. In the midst of an afternoon thunderstorm, he met an Indian woman. She was close to his age and straight-backed with premature gray streaking her long hair, which only added to her distinction and beauty. Even with a trade blanket for a shawl, there was nothing downcast about her. Mary Rose, she told him was her name, though she mostly went by just Rose.

  They met casually when he took shelter from the downpour at a crossroads store’s barn where they put up travelers. Rain had driven him and the gray horse he’d named Ghost to the shelter. She was already there when he dismounted at the doorway and led Ghost inside.

  “Is this the place we can stay?” he asked the straight-backed woman standing in the shadows.

  “Yes, this is his hotel.” She about laughed at her own words. Amused anyway, and her smile looked inviting.

  “Beats that rain out there.” He turned an ear to more thunder in the distance. The patter of heavy drops on the cedar shingles came in waves overhead. He took his clammy slicker off, hung it on the saddle horn, and stopped to converse with this handsome woman.

  “You have your family here?” He looked around.

  “No, my family died last fall. Diphtheria took them.”

  “How sad you must be. Sorry I asked. Are you traveling alone?”

  “Yes, there is a stomp. I decided I needed to go there.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Are you on a purpose?”

  “Purpose?” He undid the cinch on the far side of his horse, straightened, and shook his head at her. “Nothing is pressing me.”

  “Maybe you would like to go to the event?”

  “Would a white man be welcome?”

  She shook her head, amused. “Sure. We aren’t cannibals.”

  He chuckled and swung the saddle off his horse. “Good. I’ll think about it.”

  The saddle on a rack, he led Ghost to one of the empty stalls. There was hay for him, and the pen looked secure. Slocum slid the bars in place and went back to Rose and the saddle. Undoing the bedroll, he asked her if she’d eaten anything.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well, would you eat some jerky?” He looked at her for a reply. “It’s super good if you’re hungry.”

  “I would chew on some,” she said and stepped over to accept a bit of it he took out of a cloth bag.

  He looked around. “Guess we can’t make coffee in here.”

  She shook her head. “There are bunks in the back.”

  “Good.” He shouldered his bedroll. “Lead the way.”

  There was a room he figured had once been a tack room. She pointed to a lantern and he dropped the bedroll, chewing on the peppery jerky. He lit a match and struck the wick. With the globe lowered, the lamp began to shed some light, and he hung it on the hook from the ceiling.

  She nodded her approval. He sat down on the bench a small distance from her. “Where is the stomp being held?”

  “On Sheephead Creek at a schoolhouse.”

  He didn’t know the location. “Is t
hat far away?”

  “No. Maybe a four-hour ride.”

  “It starts tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  He nodded that he heard her. “You’re sure I won’t get scalped?”

  “Yes. No one will bother you. You will be my guest.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “Good, we can go up there in the morning.”

  “This rain passes, it will be cold again.” He figured by dawn it would be down in the forties.

  She agreed. “I am ready to sleep.”

  “Sure.” He rolled out his bedroll on the floor, staying away from a few drips from above. She used one of the rough-made mattressless bunks to make her bed, and he blew out the lamp.

  The storm grew greater in the night and woke him twice. Satisfied the barn was secure, he went back to sleep. They both woke in the predawn.

  “There will be coffee up at the store,” she told him, straightening her long skirt and blouse. Then she folded up her blankets.

  “Good, I’m buying.”

  “I wasn’t looking for an invitation.”

  “You invited me to the stomp.”

  “All right, I accept.”

  He saddled Ghost, tied on his bedroll, then helped her saddle her calico horse. The tricolor mare was tall for an Indian horse and it suited her, he decided. With his hands clasped for a stirrup, she stepped in and he tossed her into the saddle. Seated quickly, she thanked him. He swung onto Ghost, and they rode toward the store. Dismounting, they went inside, and the storekeeper’s Indian wife greeted them. She had coffee and oatmeal for sale for twenty cents. He ordered two of each, after getting a head nod from Rose.

  They ate their cereal near the warm woodstove, and the woman brought them coffee refills. She spoke to Rose about her going to the stomp. They conversed in English so Slocum understood most of the conversation. Obviously the storekeeper’s wife wanted to attend but there was no way.

  After the meal, they headed northwest on the narrow wagon tracks that wandered over some post oak–clad hills, and if they met someone coming back, they got off the road for them. By noon, they were at the schoolhouse grounds, and many families were camped all around the large meadow and even up in the woods.

  “I know a woman who will sell us some food.” Rose directed him and led the way through the camps. He felt several dark eyes following him, but nothing more hostile than gazes. The sun finally had warmed enough that they’d both stopped using blankets to keep warm.

  “My sister, Renny,” she said of the woman who came out of a sun-faded tent. The smile on the woman’s face was one of welcome to both of them.

  “I want you to meet Slocum,” Rose said, dismounting. “He comes to see a stomp.”

  Renny shook his hand. She was perhaps a little taken aback by this white man accompanying her sister, but she recovered, offering them stew for lunch.

  “We will eat with you,” Rose said and waved for him to join her.

  “Where do you live?” Renny asked, dipping out her rich-looking soup into bowls for them.

  “I guess wherever I wear my hat.” He thanked her for the steaming bowl and spoon.

  Rose turned and smiled. “He’s a cattle trader.”

  “Oh,” Renny said. “Do you have a herd going to Kansas?”

  “Yes, but a friend is taking it up there for me this year.”

  Renny looked impressed with him, and he could see she wanted to learn more about him and what he was to her sister, but didn’t dare ask. Rose saved her. “He is just a friend who I met on the road.”

  Renny dismissed the matter and asked Rose about her farm. Rose told her that the she had some good sharecroppers on her place. Slocum had not thought about the widow being a large landowner, but obviously she owned some good bottomland.

  The stew was delicious and, seated on a log, they both bragged on Renny’s cooking. She poured them coffee and many people stopped by to talk to Rose. When Renny went off to get something, Slocum asked Rose privately if he should pay her for lunch.

  With a smile, she dismissed the problem. No. Their horses hobbled, she took him around to meet more of her friends and relatives in the camp. There were sweets and treats and lots to eat. Some of the men talked to Slocum about their concerns. One older man said that Judge Parker would send his deputies there to arrest the whiskey traders—that he should be careful. Slocum promised him that he would be.

  Rose took a towel and soap, then invited him to go take a bath with her. He agreed and in the warming sun, she led him to a more isolated place on the stream. By themselves, she looked at him, amused. “You have seen people naked. So you won’t be shocked, will you?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Then let’s bathe.”

  They undressed and waded into the cold water. “It won’t take long to get washed,” she said with a laugh. After soaping herself, she tossed him the bar of soap, rinsed, and hurried to get out. He admired her figure and then got busy lathering up. Soon he finished and waded out. Wet and cold, he stood shaking in the warm sun. She only had on her skirt, but coming to his aid, she stepped over to dry him.

  “Was it cold enough?” she asked, busy drying him, and he caught her face and kissed her. Her firm breasts pressed against him, and she dropped the towel and put her arms around his neck.

  When they parted, she wouldn’t look at him. “I didn’t bring you up here to seduce you.”

  “I guess we’re both doing something we want to have happen.”

  A look of dismay swept her face. She shook her head. “I wasn’t going to let this happen.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  “Ha,” she said. “It will happen, won’t it?”

  “You decide. Someone is coming,” he said, hearing the chatter of voices. They hurriedly dressed and picked up their things. Three giggling teenage girls hurried by them, going back toward camp. Rose frowned. “Maybe they spied on us. That is bad manners.”

  “All they got was an eyeful,” he said and put his arm around her shoulder.

  She reached up and squeezed the hand he’d draped over her. “I am glad you are a patient man. I worried that if I found one, he would go crazy.”

  “I am really not patient,” he teased.

  “No. You are very polite. And I appreciate that.”

  “Where will we eat supper? I hate to bum food from your sister.”

  “Don’t worry, she would do that to me. Besides, she is fascinated about how I found you and got you to come with me.”

  They both laughed.

  A drunk came by her sister’s camp while they were eating supper. “Why is there a white man here?”

  Renny jumped up and pointed for him to go away. “Why is an impolite drunk in my camp asking questions he has no right to ask?”

  He blinked at her. “Well, damn, aren’t you bossy.”

  But he obviously wanted no part of the sharp-speaking woman and went off, about to stumble on his face. They laughed at his bumbling ways.

  “Don’t mind him,” Renny said, sitting down again with her tall quiet husband.

  “He is drunk. His tongue is too loose,” he said. “We are glad to have you and Rose here.”

  “You bet.” Rose got up and went to get some more fried potatoes and onions they had cooked with some sliced cured ham on the side.

  “You want more?” she asked Slocum.

  “No, I’m full. It was good.”

  At sundown, Rose led him toward the bonfire. She made a seat for them on a blanket and set another blanket close by in case it became cold during the night. Some friends came by and talked to her. She introduced Slocum to them. They were polite and then went on. He realized she was someone that many looked up to—her husband must have been a leader.

  The drummers came and set up. Many wore traditional dress, and some had even painted their faces. Headdresses appeared, but none as spectacular as the ones the plains Indians wore. Most men wore eagle feathers attached to their unblocked hats.
There were some women in deerskin-fringed dresses.

  The dancing began slowly, and the special trains of men and women formed chains, and a chanter carried the rhythm of the song as they moved along at a very mesmerizing pace.

  She leaned over to speak into his ear. “Are you watching them?”

  He nodded.

  “You think with your hands on my hips, we can do that?”

  “I think so, if it doesn’t get too fancy.”

  “Oh, we don’t get too carried away.” She pulled him to his feet. “This is social dancing, not war dances.”

  In a short while, they were stomping in a chain, and he imitated what she did. His hands on her hips, he followed and imagined what this willowy woman would be like in bed. She was a sweet person and acted like she didn’t expect too much of him. His opportunity to make love to her would come later on. The sweet image of rapture under the blankets pushed him along as they shuffled to the chanter and the drums. The stomping was a contagious thing, and after a few trips she took him out of the line.

  “You would make a good Choctaw,” she whispered as they retrieved the blankets and went back to her sister’s tent. “Could you and I sleep on one cot?”

  “Would we sleep?” he asked her.

  Amused, she shook her head. “Renny and her husband won’t be back for hours. But we only have one cot.”

  “I’ll be fine sleeping on the ground.”

  “No, you won’t. Come on.”

  In the dark tent, they undressed, and she beat him under the covers. His gun placed close by, he kneeled on the cot edge to get under the covers, which she held up for him. His cool skin slid against her silky skin, and he knew the night would be wonderful even wedged on a single cot with her. In a dreamy world, they gently coupled like waves breaking on the seashore and sought each other’s core. Exploring each other until they finally reached a high point, then swept onto a gentle plateau.

  “I want you to stay and hold me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

  “Good.” She kissed him, and they were back to working to get together again.