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

by Logan, Jake

  At dawn, he was up and dressed. He saw Renny under blankets on her side-by-side cot. She was holding her husband’s fingers between them—both sound asleep.

  Rose finished dressing and hurried to join Slocum. “I can make us coffee,” she said. “You are leaving today?”

  “There are things I must see about.”

  She nodded and went to work getting a fire going. “Saddle your horse. I will have it ready by then, I hope.”

  He bent over and kissed her. “Thanks.”

  With Ghost saddled and his bedroll tied on, he came back and squatted by her on the ground.

  “When you ride back through here again, my place is on the Red River west of Nickmore in the bottoms. You can find me?”

  “I can’t say when, but if I get the chance, I will find you, Rose.”

  He ate her oatmeal sweetened with honey, which drew the saliva into his mouth. Sometimes it is better to ride off than linger, but he found Rose’s company sincere and undemanding. Finished, he handed her the bowl, and they stood so he could hug and kiss her good-bye.

  “Will you come by?” she asked.

  “I can remember west of Nickmore. Thank you.” He kissed her again and went for his horse. Magnets pulled at him, but it was time to go on. Leaving always was the hardest. But he rode on north that morning.

  18

  The latest cow town railhead was Newton, Kansas, right at Cottonwood Falls and about twenty miles north of the Arkansas River crossing. On the river there was a small place called Wichita where two whorehouses and that many saloons fed off the cattle herds going by and sold booze to the dry country across the river in the Indian Territory.

  In Newton he found the banker he knew, Harvey Manning, in a tent with the fancy sign First Bank of Kansas. After explaining to Manning what he needed regarding the cattle money deposit and how to send Raúl his money, he visited a bar—also in a nearby tent—and had a beer. He was there way too early for any drovers to have arrived. The first cattle herds were still more than a month away, no doubt grazing down on the Trinity River and waiting for the grass to bust out.

  After noticing all the temporary businesses, he asked Manning if there were plans for any permanent buildings to be built. The banker shook his head. “We won’t be here that long. Newton hates cowboys and all their hell-raising so much that the city council is paying for half of the bond to move the railroad down to Wichita.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Two years is all I figure, and there won’t be a railhead for loading cattle here.”

  Slocum frowned. “Man, folks got rich in Abilene.”

  “I know, but they won’t listen.”

  He shook Manning’s hand and thanked him. “I’m heading on.”

  There wasn’t much wagon trade going west of York, Nebraska. The railroad was built clear to Cheyenne and headed west from there. But he followed the Platte River across Nebraska and looked at the desolate country wiped bare all along the old wagon route. No trees left, not even on the islands. All cut down for firewood. Places where the bluestems once grew head high were now dirt bare. Even many things like broken-down wagons had been salvaged until there weren’t as many as when he was through there the last time. Lots of great grass plowed under and being homesteaded.

  There was talk north of Ogallala that the government was going to buy out the Sioux and make it all homestead land to the South Dakota border. Word was they weren’t using it anyway and white men would. He looked up his friend the sheriff in that town—once considered an outpost on the frontier and presently populated by more foreign-talking people than he ever knew. His sheriff friend complained about the horse thieves rustling every living animal they could. According to him, it was an obsession for them to steal any horse.

  He thought about taking the train on to Cheyenne, but he’d much rather have the gray horse to ride when he got there. It wasn’t late enough in the spring for the new grass—maybe three weeks short. So when his visit was over, he headed for Cheyenne on horseback.

  The next town in western Nebraska was Lodgepole. He heard the whistle of a slow-moving freight train going east. He crossed the tracks and started up the main block of businesses. Things here looked less busy than they did in Ogallala. He stopped at a saloon, went inside, and bought a beer, then went and ate at the lunch counter. If you bought a beer in such a place, they set food out for their customers. Rich-tasting rye bread, cold cuts of roast beef and mustard, with a side of sauerkraut. Tasted much better than the jerky left in his saddlebags, and the beer washed it down.

  “You going west?” the bartender asked, taking a break from polishing glasses.

  “I’m headed for Cheyenne.”

  “Busy place? I’ve thought about looking for a job up there, but they treat me nice here. You a cattle man?”

  “Yes, I have a herd coming up to the Kansas shipping yard.”

  “I thought you were one.”

  Slocum paid him for the beer and decided to ride on. Not much happening in the small town. He went out on the porch and watched two men come riding by. The man on the right wore an eye patch and his partner had on eyeglasses. He stepped back inside the batwing doors and signaled to the bartender to be quiet when he spoke to him.

  “What’s going on?” the man whispered, coming over, knowing something was wrong.

  “Those two men getting off over at the bank. You know them?”

  The man made a face watching them out the front window. “Never seen them before. Who are they?”

  “I’m not sure, but when they pull their bandanas up, I’d say they were bank robbers.”

  “Holy shit!” He ran behind the bar for his shotgun.

  Slocum saw the two pull up their bandanas, draw their guns, and go inside. “They’re robbing the bank.”

  “You take the far side, I’ll take this side of the street,” the bartender said, holding the sawed-off scattergun beside his leg.

  Slocum nodded and walked out of the saloon and directly for the saddle repair shop. A man came out the front door and greeted him.

  Under his breath Slocum told him, “There are two masked men just went inside the bank.”

  A quick nod and the other man ducked inside the shop, then came out with a rifle. Slocum waved for him to stay close to the storefront. The door on the bank busted open, and the one with the eye patch came out and fired a shot in the air. His partner came behind him with two heavy sacks.

  “Drop your guns,” Slocum ordered and drew a bead on the money man. The man dropped both sacks and went for his gun. A blast of the bartender’s shotgun and the one with the patch was knocked backward. Their horses, peppered no doubt by the shot, broke the hitch rail and trampled both of the two robbers, then tore out, dragging and stumbling over the rail until a bystander caught them.

  A bald-headed banker in a suit rushed out the door. He and a clerk wearing a celluloid visor were frantically chasing greenbacks being blown around by the swirling wind. A man wearing a shining star on his long black coat came running with his gun drawn.

  The two shot-up would-be bank robbers were on the ground, moaning over their wounds and the horse attack, when Slocum tossed their guns aside.

  “What’s going on here?” the out-of-breath lawman demanded.

  “Them two went in and robbed the bank,” the bartender said. “This man here saved the day, saw them and told me what they were up to, and we shot them coming out. He gave them warning what we’d do, told them to drop their guns. They wanted to fight.”

  “What’s your name, mister?”

  “John Slocum.”

  “Never met you,” the lawman said. “You know these two outlaws?”

  “Never seen them before in my life.”

  Bloody faced, the one wearing the eye patch looked hard at him. “You’re the sumbitch I’ve been looking for.”

  “What for?” Slocum asked.

  “To kill your ass.”

  “I haven’t been in town fifteen minutes. Glad you m
issed me.” His words drew some laughter from the bystanders.

  Eye Patch ground his molars and shook his head in anger. Slocum smiled at the others. He for sure owed Wilma, or he’d never have noticed them coming into town.

  “Mr. Slocum.” The banker rose and dusted off the knees of his pants. “Let me shake your hand. My name’s Simmons. You saved my bank and the depositors of this bank lots of money. I want to pay you a reward, sir.”

  Slocum wasn’t going to turn down any reward. “These other two men need one too.”

  The banker agreed. “The three of you come back in an hour and I’ll see all of you are rewarded.”

  The marshal sent for the doc to come and treat his prisoners. A crowd of the curious had been drawn by the activity. Talk of hanging them got the lawman’s back up, and he silenced the ones talking about it.

  “I can handle them,” he said to the crowd. “Rufus, why don’t you go set up a round for all of them over at the saloon,” the lawman said to the bartender.

  “I can handle that,” Rufus said and broke open the shotgun, extracting the empty brass casings. “Everyone come with me. We’re having a round on the marshal.”

  That drew most of the onlookers in a parade after the white-shirted man. Rufus nodded to Slocum to thank him and hurried back to his job. Things were settling down in Lodgepole. The doc arrived, looked over the two bloody robbers, and told the marshal to take them to the jail. He’d patch them up there. Several men hoisted the two up, and the lawman shook Slocum’s hand.

  “I don’t know why that SOB wanted to kill you, but I can tell you one thing, I’m damn glad to meet you.”

  Slocum never told him anything about the reason those two were after him, shook the marshal’s hand again, and then shook the saddle maker’s too. “I’ll hang around for a while and see what Simmons is going to do.”

  “I didn’t do nothing,” the saddle maker, Anderson, said.

  “You were part of the force that stopped them. You’ll get an equal part of it.”

  The mess was cleaned up. Their horses were sent to the livery, and luckily none of the shot did much damage to them. Slocum went back over to the saloon and had another beer. The crowd poked lots of questions at him, but he could only answer a few. He’d never laid eyes on those two. Had no idea why they were looking for him.

  The clerk came over from the bank and reported that they had recovered all the money, and asked Rufus and Slocum to come over to the bank. Mr. Simmons wanted to pay them their reward.

  “Get Anderson too,” Slocum said to the man, and Rufus’s boss told him to go too.

  The banker met them on the boardwalk in front of his bank. The crowd gathered to hear him. “I appreciate these three men so much for saving the bank this morning. True heroes.”

  The applause was loud.

  “I am giving a hundred dollar reward to each of them.”

  Slocum and his two cohorts nodded to one another. Slocum thanked Simmons and stuck the gold coins into his vest pocket. After another round of handshakes, Slocum thanked all of them, mounted Ghost, and rode on west.

  The five twenty-dollar gold pieces jingled in his pocket, and a smile crossed his mouth. One more time he gave thanks to Wilma. He made it to Cheyenne three days later.

  He put Ghost up at the livery, walked two blocks to the King’s Arms Hotel, and signed in the registry. In the room at last, he dropped his bedroll and the saddlebags on the chair. Maybe a short nap would revive him. He’d been pushing himself hard since leaving Lodgepole. He needed a bath and a shave, but that could wait.

  On his back looking at the square copper ceiling tile, he wondered if Carley had ever left an address for him at the saddlery. He got up, strapped on his six-gun, and put on his hat, then walked the four blocks. Inside the business, he discovered that Crane was busy waiting on a customer, and when the farmer left with his repaired harness on his shoulder, he nodded at Slocum.

  “You looking for someone here?” Crane asked. The wide grin told Slocum she’d already been here.

  “She lives north of town on Steele Hill. You can’t miss her place.”

  “That the big white house up there?”

  “You know it, then?”

  “I’ve never been there, but I’ve seen the house. Thanks, I owe you one.”

  Gary shook his head. “You get the letter I forwarded?”

  “Yes, thanks for that.” He tossed him a twenty-dollar gold piece. “I owe you that.”

  “No, you—don’t.”

  “Sometime when I have more time, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “I can’t wait to hear. You ain’t driving cattle to Kansas this summer?”

  “I took a break. I better go see the lady. Thanks.”

  “I would too. She’s some woman.”

  Slocum went and took a bath, got a haircut, and had a shave. The Chinaman laundered and ironed his clothes. It was near sundown when he rode up the driveway of the white house on Steele Hill. He turned to look back at the bloodred town in the evening light spread over the rolling hills turning green.

  He hitched the horse and looked up at Carley’s gasp when the door opened.

  “Slocum, you did come back!” She flew into his arms, and they kissed.

  “How have you been, Carley?”

  “Oh, fine now that you’re here. Let’s put that horse up. You will stay a little while won’t you?”

  “Yes, I planned to if—”

  She made a face and drove a fist into his belly. “You better. I have so much to tell you.”

  “Let’s put Ghost up, then, since you halfway want me to stay.”

  “You tease. Bet you wonder how I landed all this place.”

  “Looks impressive,” he agreed.

  “Since you brought me here, I inherited my husband’s family estate. He never told me much about them, except he came out West to prove that he could be successful. Lands, with his family’s wealth he could have stayed home.”

  They both laughed.

  With Ghost in the horse stall, she told the small man who worked for her to take good care of the gray. He nodded and shook Slocum’s hand.

  They went back to the house, and he quickly lifted her up in his arms and carried her through the front doorway. Her face looked so flushed with excitement that he worried this whole episode might be too much for her.

  “Are you hungry or hungry?” she asked when he set her down.

  “I can eat later.”

  “Good.” Holding him by the sleeve, she took him upstairs.

  Slocum spent most of the summer with Carley. She had planned to take a trip in August to see a cousin she’d found who lived in Omaha. Slocum wanted her to take the trip and knew his long spell in Wyoming might again bring killers on his trail.

  He had Ghost re-shod and rode him enough to get him in shape. The day Carley was to leave for Nebraska, Slocum took her to the train, kissed her good-bye, and saw that the porter had all her luggage on board. She waved from the window under her wide-brimmed new hat, and he returned it.

  He went and unhitched Ghost from the buggy that Wilburn, her man, had brought them into town in.

  “I’ll miss you,” the old man said. “But I told my wife when you came that you weren’t the marrying kind.”

  “Drive easy,” he said, then mounted up and rode away.

  Six weeks later, he was riding south in the Indian Territory. He spotted the sign for Nickmore, and it pointed west. He turned the gray and rode that way. It was getting dark when he stopped at the store and asked where Rose lived.

  The man went outside and pointed down the road that went west. “You can’t miss it. A big house on the right.”

  The man, who appeared to be a full-blood Indian, looked him hard in the eye. “Your name Slocum?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “A medicine man told her a week ago you were coming. She’s a grand lady and a good friend of mine. Tell her John Horseback talked to you.”

  Ghost must have felt his exci
tement; he single-footed the half mile. The calico mare whinnied at him in the pasture when she saw him. There was the big house, and he rode up the lane.

  Rose was standing on the porch with her arms folded—waiting.

  “Where have you been, big man? You were supposed to have been here two days ago.”

  Two days ago? He had no idea what she meant. When he dismounted, a boy came to take his horse and very politely said, “I’m glad you made it.”

  “Thanks,” he said to the youth.

  He shook his head and went to hug her. “How have you been?” he asked. “Who told you I was coming?”

  “A real medicine man. Never mind. You are here now.”

  “John Horseback said to be nice to me.”

  With a grim head shake, she squeezed him and then laughed. “I don’t believe that either.”

  “Well, he said something like that anyway.” He took her arm and they went to the front steps. He looked up at the two-story house with columns and nodded. “Nice place.”

  “Better than an old barn, huh?”

  “No, those were sweet times. I’d never have stopped except for the rain and you showing me how to stomp.”

  “That wasn’t much.”

  “Hey, I loved every minute of that night.”

  She opened the door and winked at him. “A one-cot deal and—”

  “Hey, that was neat too. You told me if I ever came this way to come by and see you.”

  She looked up the staircase and then at the finely furnished living room. “Oh, hell with it. Let’s go upstairs.” She lowered her voice. “And do it.”

  They flew up the hardwood stairs and she guided him into a bedroom with a tall poster bed and a gentle wind moving the lace curtains in the open windows.

  Slocum toed off his boots, and Rose asked him to undo the lacing on the back of her dress. With his eyes shut, he fumbled to undo her dress and recalled their night in a narrow cot. Drums rumbled in his ears, and he could hear the chanter. Damn, this would sure be fun.

  Slocum spent the fall with her, attending several stomps, and the two of them grew even closer. She read a story to him in the Fort Smith Elevator newspaper, how two killers were hung in Cheyenne. When she finished, she dropped the paper and looked at him. “Isn’t that the two you chased into Yellowstone?”