Slocum and the Widow's Range Wars

by Jake Logan

  “He did once with me and lost.”

  The kid’s shoulder shook with his silent amusement. “Hell, he never told us that.”

  “Mister,” the older one said. “Could I ask your name?”

  “Slocum.”

  The man shook his head like he’d never heard it before. “You and I get on cross sides again, just tell me it’s you and I’ll join yeah or ride on.”

  “Ride on,” Slocum said, and they led the dead one belly-down over his horse.

  If they recognized Belle as a woman, they never made mention. She’d tucked her hair under her hat before she came down, and stayed well above them, holding the rifle ready. When they filed away, Slocum scrambled up to where she stood.

  “There’s only three left in that camp. That’s counting Booth. Guess Jeminez and I better see about them.”

  “What did they say about Booth?”

  “He’s got some broken ribs that Jeminez caved in when he kicked him. He’s too sore to ride.”

  “Those were the last MC hands?”

  “That’s what they said. Booth plans on sending word back by the supply wagons for more help.”

  She looked at him hard. “They’re not coming.”

  “No way. We know that.”

  “Back to the herd?”

  He agreed, and they went for their horses.

  In the red-orange light of sundown, they rode into the setup camp and Raul came to meet them. His face was lined with concern, and he looked sleepless and filled with questions.

  “What have you learned?”

  Slocum dismounted. “We ran off the last cowboys today. There are only three gunhands in their camp. One’s Booth, and he’s got broken ribs and it hurts him too much to ride.”

  “What about all these cattle?” Raul indicated the herd that was bedded down south of them.

  “We need to take them past the east side of your range. Send along some supplies, spare horses, so we can drive them hard for a few days.”

  “Do we have all of them?”

  “All but a few hundred head, I figure. Those left you can gather and drive to the stockyards at the railroad, give them to the brand inspector as strays, and he can ship them.”

  “The people of the Rancho owe you much. I would never have challenged that law business. These people have risen as our ancestors would have done when they were challenged, but only because of you.”

  “No, Don Jeminez did much of this.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?” Belle asked, looking around for him as a woman brought them food on trays.

  “He has not been seen all day, Señora,” the woman said.

  “I better go look for him,” Slocum said.

  Belle laid a hand on his arm. “Soon it will be dark and how could you find him?”

  Slocum agreed, though Jeminez not being back niggled at him. With each bite of the rich spicy food, he wondered where his friend was and why he hadn’t returned. Despite the mouth-watering flavor, the food became harder to swallow. Somewhere a coyote yelped and Slocum listened—no sounds of anyone returning in the night.

  12

  He had both their horses saddled before the first glimpse of sunrise appeared over the wide horizon. Nowhere in the West was the face of dawn wider than on the plains. From Canada to the Rio Grande, the sky took up more of one’s vision than in any place he’d ever been. There were places in this region where everything looked like it was downhill from where a person stood. Slocum had heard about the poles on the top and bottom of the earth, but for him the top of the earth was somewhere on this strip of land.

  He put feed bags on the horses, left them crunching corn, and went to join Belle at the campfire. She handed him a plate of food and a fork. “Don Jeminez never came in?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not like him.”

  “Where will we start looking?”

  “East and north of where we were yesterday. His mule should be easy to track, he’s shod.”

  “You think something happened to him?”

  “Strange he never came in. I can’t imagine.”

  “Señor,” Raul said to him. “Should we move the cattle today?”

  “Yes, put your best riflemen out ahead. One on each side, and use the boys that drove the other bunch as swing riders. Once you get them headed east, have the swing riders move in closer until they are trotting and keep up the pace. You should make thirty—thirty-five miles and then bed them down. The next day do the same, then stampede them.”

  “But how will the women and carretas keep up to make camp?”

  “They will have to hurry all day to catch up later. Since the next day will be the last day and the cattle will be stampeded, the women can stop halfway and make camp. The drovers can come back to them that evening.”

  “Ah, sí. We will do it as you say.”

  “We’ll find Don Jeminez and we’ll be along to help.”

  “Señor, be careful. We owe you so much. How will we ever pay you?”

  “You don’t owe me anything but a place to hang my hat when I ride through. But the MC outfit won’t take this lying down. You have shown them what you can do. I fear they won’t like it.”

  “Sí, I savvy. But after this my people will be stronger and they will learn the edge of our knife is sharp.”

  “It will have to be. Time to ride, Belle,” he said to her, and shook Raul’s hand.

  With the feed bags off and cinches tightened, they left the cluster of well-wishers and rode eastward.

  “Spread out,” he said, standing in the stirrups and trotting. “A mule shoe is long and narrow where a horse’s shoe is more circular.”

  She nodded and swung to the side, searching the ground. After a quarter mile she shouted, “Over here.”

  He loped his pony over and, at the sight of the tracks, agreed with a grin. “That’s Tonto’s, all right.”

  They moved against the fresh sun that bathed the land in a golden glare. Meadowlarks and plovers raced ahead at their approach. The land they crossed proved to be rolling, with some deeper draws, and he scouted them from the rims, looking for any sign. Nothing but the mule’s hoofprints in the soft dirt that guided them.

  They spooked up a small pocket of a half-dozen MC cattle that ran away like deer. It would take a couple of roundups to clear the range of the Texas cattle. Some of those old brush cutters had hidden from capture for most of their lives in the thick mesquite thickets of south Texas. They’d be as hard to catch again as they had been originally. Folks called them haints.

  He rode the left side, with her on the right edge of the long hogback, both searching the steep grassy slopes for any sign. A large buck deer rose from his bed in a low cluster of mesquite. One look over his shoulder and, with his ten-point rack held high, he bounded away.

  “Slocum,” she called out. “I see his mule and think he’s under it.”

  Slocum charged over and reined up his horse on the brink. Far down the hillside, the red mule was lying on his side not moving. Slocum never hesitated, and sent the horse down off the brink. On his hind hooves the pony skidded downhill, on his butt most of the way. Slocum jumped off before the animal stopped, and ran over to the mule.

  “Don Jeminez. Don Jeminez. You all right?” He dropped on his knees beside the still-hatless body pinned under the dead mule.

  A black bloody bullet wound behind the mule’s front leg told part of the story. When the mule went down, he’d pinned Jeminez underneath. The .50-caliber Sharps lay a few feet away.

  “Is he shot?”

  Slocum shook his head. “I don’t know—”

  His finger sought a pulse behind his friend’s ear. Nothing. He dropped to his butt and closed his eyes. Don Jeminez wouldn’t ever answer him. His buffalo-hunting partner was gone.

  “What’s wrong—”

  “He’s dead.” Slocum swept off his hat and stood up. Could he have found and saved his friend the night before? No way they would have ever found him in the
darkness. Slocum dreaded worst of all having to tell Juanita.

  “Juanita,” rolled off Belle’s lips at the same moment.

  Slocum nodded.

  “Was he shot?”

  “No, but the mule was shot. I’ll tie a rope on the saddle and we’ll pull the mule off him.”

  She nodded, biting her lower lip, and then ran for her horse. He took the rope off Jeminez’s saddle and tied it around the hull, then took the end to Belle’s in the saddle. She dallied it around the horn and Slocum rushed back to help push. The rope grew tight and she put spurs to her pony. The mule’s body began to slide away as Slocum pushed on it with both hands to help. In the confines of the steep slopes, they finally managed to get Tonto clear of the limp body.

  She bounded off her horse and picked up the Sharps. Then she ran over to him. “Was he shot?”

  “I can’t see any marks. Unless he hit his head on a rock when the mule went down, I guess we’ll never know.” He picked the man up in his arms and carried him to her horse. “We need to take him home.”

  Her grim face set, she nodded and hurried around to the far side. “Tie him on?”

  “Yes, I’ll get the lariat off the saddle.” He slid the body over the seat and then hurried downhill for the rope. As he picked his way, he couldn’t swallow the knot behind his tongue. Damn, who’d shot the mule? Some of the MC bunch—no doubt. Slocum had no time to scout the area or even search for a shell casing or tracks.

  He started back with the lariat and saw someone on the ridge. “Belle, get down.”

  She whirled and then dove for the ground. The black smoke of the gunshot appeared on the hill as, like an angry hornet, the bullet cut the air close by Slocum; then came the crack of the rifle as he scrambled for the Sharps. Another shot echoed in the confines of the draw. He noted that Belle had hidden behind a rock outcropping.

  He picked up the rifle and dove sideways. In the cover of the wash’s overhang, he opened the chamber and noted the cartridge. Easing the rifle’s works back, he swung the muzzle around hoping it had not been jarred in the fall. Hot chips of rock stung the side of his face as another bullet ricocheted close by.

  “Keep down,” he said to Belle, grateful she was behind better protection than he was. The next shot sent dirt at him when the bullet struck to his left. He rose and caught the distant figure in his sight. His finger squeezed off the trigger, and the heavy rifle slammed into his shoulder like a mule kicking him. He’d forgotten the recoil of one of these cannons. He dropped down again.

  “You hit him!”

  Gun smoke stung his eyes as he rose and tried to clear them to see. The horse was gone and no one was in sight on the ridge. No time to take chances. He rushed over to Jeminez’s body, which had fallen off when the shots spooked their horses. He found six more shells in his friend’s pocket. With the long brass cartridges in his hand, he reloaded the Sharps and then started uphill.

  “Be careful,” Belle said after him.

  “You stay hidden till I tell you it’s clear.”

  The climb up the hill proved hard, with Slocum checking the rim every few seconds, expecting the shooter to be looking down the barrel of his rifle at him. Slocum’s footing slipped in places on loose rocks as he went up the steep slope.

  Out of breath, he reached the top, spotting the nearby horse and the man facedown. With his hard gaze on the still ambusher, Slocum knelt, laid the rifle down, and drew his Colt. He moved to the man and studied him. Then, with the .44 back in the holster, he squatted on his heels and lifted the body to turn it over. The shooter’s vest was a bloody mess. The man’s gray eyes stared at eternity. He was in his thirties, with a full mustache and a bad scar under his right eye. Slocum’d never seen this one before. Must work for the MC. Nothing else in sight but the bay horse. Had this dry-gulcher watched for them using Jeminez’s body as the bait? He’d never know. Weary from all the hurrying around, Slocum rose and went to the rim.

  “He’s dead too,” he shouted to Belle. “I’m coming.”

  She nodded and hurried down the ravine to get their animals.

  They both worked to load Jeminez’s corpse over her horse and tied it down. She rode Slocum’s horse, and led them both down the draw to circle back up on the rim. He went directly up the hill, caught the MC-branded horse and loaded the dead man on it. Besides the man’s expensive custom-made sniper rifle, Slocum, found a sweat stained letter addressed to Tom Burks.

  “Find out who he was?” Belle reined up before him as he read the paper.

  “Burks—never heard of him. Says here his father wasn’t expected to live. Been bitten by a snake in the granary.”

  “Guess Burks should have gone to see him,” she said.

  Slocum nodded at her. “And now there are two left.”

  “Where was he hiding when we rode up?”

  “I’m not sure. But he obviously made Don Jeminez the bait. He’d been a little better shot, he’d’ve had us. We can ride my horse double and lead these others.”

  “Fine. We going by the herd?”

  “Not unless they’re in the way going back. Bodies in this heat will swell fast. I want Don Jeminez buried this afternoon.”

  “I understand. Then what?”

  “I’m going to find Booth and send him to hell.” He swung her up and she said, “Yes.”

  Making a seat behind him, she hugged him tight and laid her face on his back. “You’re a tough man, Slocum.”

  “Not tough enough to protect my friends.”

  “Don Jeminez knew what he was doing.”

  “I should have been here.”

  “He never expected you to.”

  That still didn’t settle it for him. Slocum reached out and caught the other rein. Both horses in tow, he set his pony in a long lope for the ranch. It would be late afternoon before they ever arrived there. Grim job—one he hated to even think about. But as he rode in the rocking gait with her holding on tight to him, he decided it wasn’t all bad.

  They missed the herd, seeing the dust in the south, and rode on to the ranch. The horse was tired, dropping his head in the dust when they arrived at Juanita’s doorstep. Juanita ran out drying her hands. From the look on her face, she knew full well the corpse over the horse was her husband.

  Her cries of anguish carried in the last hour of daylight with the sun sinking fast. Belle slid off and rushed over to hug her. Juanita’s sorrow drew others to come on the run. Someone rang the church bell, and more of the anxious ranch people came running.

  “How did he meet his death?”

  “Was this other one his killer?”

  The questions filled the air as Slocum carried his friend inside. The priest’s assistant came with a Bible to read over him. Women fell on their knees to clasp their hands in the air and pray, concerned about their own men driving the cattle. Slocum laid the body on the floor on a blanket Juanita and Belle spread for him.

  “Did they shoot him?” Juanita asked.

  Slocum shook his head. “He either hit his head in the fall or had a heart seizure. They shot Tonto. I don’t know, there are no bullet wounds I could find.”

  Wet-eyed, she nodded at Slocum. “I know he appreciated what you did for these people.”

  “He would have done as much for me. I will see about graves.”

  “No,” a man who seemed to be in charge said. “The graves are being dug at this minute. The boys are putting up your horses.”

  Slocum slumped against the wall. A small gray-haired woman shoved a cup into his hand. “Drink this, amigo.”

  It was fine-tasting mescal. He nodded his approval after the first taste. Someone had a brought a pine casket. After Juanita had cleaned Jeminez’s face and straightened his hair, they lifted him up and put him in the red-cloth-lined box. Men took the rope handles, and Slocum knew they were headed for the church. They wheeled away his slayer’s body in a handcart.

  When they drew near the small chapel, he could hear the sound of a pickax on gravelly ground as men began
to prepare the final resting places for Jeminez and his killer in the cemetery next door. It was the first sign of haste he had ever seen among these people. Belle steadied the sobbing Juanita. Both were wearing shawls over their heads as they were guided to the front row of pews.

  Slocum removed his hat and took a place at the rear. The assistant lighted candles and said prayers in Latin. The responses came from the audience in unison. A thick-bodied woman sang a hymn in Spanish. The bells tolled, and the assistant led the procession with Juanita and Belle behind him as the pallbearers brought the coffin. The others came after them. The sniffs and sobs of the women filled the night. Slocum was the last man outside, where candles in reflectors lined the way.

  “Who will avenge his death?” a man asked under his breath, walking beside Slocum as their soles crushed the gravel in the street.

  “It will be done.”

  “Good. He was a brave man.”

  Slocum nodded. “More than that even.”

  “Sí.”

  When Don Jeminez’s funeral was completed, the bushwhacker was dumped in his own space and no one stayed or listened as the assistant prayed over him.

  “Señor, come,” a woman said. “We are going to the Ortegas’, where there is food for you and the señora.”

  “We don’t want to be any—”

  “You are no trouble. It is customary to have a meal. Come along.” She took his arm and led him behind the widow and Belle to the well-lighted house.

  There was plenty of spicy fresh food. The women at the Ortegas’ must have prepared the food in the short time since Slocum and Belle had come back with the bodies. He sat cross-legged on the floor and spoke to those who came by.

  At last he and Belle took Juanita home. He went on to the shed, leaving the two women alone to talk. Bone-tired, he undressed, dropped on the bed, and went to sleep. Later in the night, she awoke him by hugging her ripe form to him.

  “How is Juanita?”

  “Asleep. I don’t know what she will do.”

  “Oh, she is a survivor.”

  Belle kissed the back of his neck. “I know the emptiness she feels. Go back to sleep.”

  He considered the MC outfit. Even driving their cattle halfway back to Texas would not settle it. His eyes closed, his thoughts drowned in sleep again.