by Jake Logan
“Next time I’m through here,” Slocum said, and pushed the heavy hide aside to go outside.
He joined Belle at the tank.
“What do you think?”
“I think he lies. See those three ponies in the corral?” He indicated some mustangs with dried salt on their backs where saddles had once sat. They’d been rode hard and put up wet—recently too.
She nodded. “They were rode in here, right?”
“Yes. I wonder where the riders are at. He claims there’s only his wives and kids here.”
“Wives?”
With a grin for her, he nodded. “Probably Indian women or breeds. They aren’t too valuable in trade out here.”
She shook her head in dismay. “Are we riding on?”
“Yes.” Definitely. He wouldn’t sleep except with one eye open at this outpost, even alone.
They mounted up and rode away. Slocum could feel some cold eyes staring at his back. No need to turn and look. They were hidden, but they’d watched Slocum’s and Belle’s every move since they’d arrived there. The thing that bothered him the most was having her along. He could handle himself—always had thus far. But her being there made a big difference in how he did things.
He nodded for Belle to move out, and they short-loped for the next horizon. In an hour it would be sundown. The more space they had between them and Free Water, the better he’d feel.
Twice he’d paused and used his field glasses on their back trail for any sign of trail dust. Nothing. That did not make him feel any easier. They were ripe meat for the two-legged buzzards that existed in this no-man’s-land.
A half hour later, they found some cottonwoods around a seep. Several wild horses had recently been there. The water was in the tracks and their own horses, not too thirsty, only tasted it. He hobbled and unsaddled them while Belle started a fire with the dead branches on the ground. The bloody sunset was swallowed by the thick cloud banks and he knew there would be no twilight. In fact, he’d heard some distant thunder rumbling. It might really rain.
She made coffee, and they had some tortilla-wrapped bean burritos to eat that Juanita had sent along.
“You’ve been awfully quiet all day,” she said, seated cross-legged close by him. The shifting wind sent the low fire’s smoke in their eyes, then away again.
“Been concerned about trouble. There’s been hundreds of people never seen again that wandered out here.”
“I thought that was because of the Indians.”
He took the hot tin cup in both hands, shook his head, and blew on the steam. “No, there were about as many worthless white renegades out here as there were Indians. Some you couldn’t tell that they were white.”
“In other words, they lived off those folks headed west.”
“They never raided a big wagon train. Except maybe to steal some stock or some supplies. But they swarmed on the small outfits and people traveling alone. Then they burned the wagons so Indians got all the blame.”
“Why didn’t the law do something?”
“Vast country and not many lawmen.”
“I understand that. More coffee?” She rose and turned her head to listen. “That thunder sounds closer.”
He tossed some twigs in the red-hot fire and they were consumed. “I’ll string the tarp tree to tree and we’ll have some shelter.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine.”
He wanted to say, Until we finally arrive—yes—you’ll be fine till then. But he nodded instead and went to string the rope to cover the panniers and themselves so they’d be dry in case the storm blew in.
When the the rope was tied off, he made their beds between the panniers, then he draped the canvas over the tree-to-tree rope waist-high to form a low tent over them. She joined him and drove in more stakes for tie-downs as the wind increased and the sky wall in the west became illuminated with vivid bolts of lightning.
Soon the first beads of hail swept in on a cold wind. He had all their gear under the shelter and crawled in to join her—grateful he’d finished in time, he hugged and kissed her. In the background, the fire sizzled out. The stink of wet ashes swirled inside their shetter as the rain grew stronger.
“Think they’ll be out in this weather?” she asked in the darkness snuggled in his arms.
“Wolves never really den up. They keep pacing back and forth waiting for the right moment.”
“When will be the right moment for them?”
“When you’d least expect them or when they figure you’d given up and gone to sleep.”
Soon larger hail began to beat on their canvas roof. The fire went out. They sat in the shelter looking out the small eastern opening. Every few seconds, the night was illuminated by the lightning, the ground trembling under them from the blasts. The storm tore at their shelter. Then he heard the horses whinny.
“Damn,” he swore under his breath. “They’re stealing the horses.”
“What can we do?”
He drew his six-gun and started out. “You stay here. Keep your gun handy.”
She nodded in the dim light of the flash outside. “Be careful.”
He rushed out into the cold rain. With the next bolt that lit up the grove of trees, he saw a rider coming hard shooting at the tent, the orange flashes of his revolver blazing away, the bullets striking the canvas cover in the deluge of hard rain.
Slocum snapped off two shots at him, and the riderless horse shied from the man and raced off in the night. Where were the others? He could hear the protesting sounds of their own horses being driven away. He was too late. They were gone.
He found the rider on the ground facedown. Rivers were running down his own face and blinding him in the inky darkness. He picked up the rifle and decided the man was either dead or would be. The rest were gone. It would be daylight before he found anything more.
“Belle?” he asked, ducking down on his knees to enter the tent.
No answer.
He tossed the rifle inside and scrambled to where he found her on her back—not moving. Hands trembling, he dug out a dry match and lighted it. A knot formed in his stomach at the sight of her. The brief span of light showed her blank eyes staring at the ceiling. No. No.
16
He dug her grave with a rifle butt. It took hours. But at last he had a hole deep enough. Numb to the core with grief, he lifted her canvas-wrapped body and lowered it in to the grave.
Then, on his knees, he prayed. “Lord, take her home. She was dealt a tough hand out here by some of the devil’s men. Belle belongs up there. I’ll send them home too. Amen.”
He rose and began to cover her up. When he finished, he’d still not seen a horse since the night before. Even the dead outlaw he’d left for the buzzards—his horse had run off. So Slocum wrapped his field glasses, saddlebags, canteen, and a small bedroll in his slicker with some jerky and a rifle. The rest he cached under the tarp. Then he picked up his slicker and started out for Free Water.
No need for a map, or even checking on the hoofprints in the muddy spots—he knew where he was going. It was never easy to forget a good woman. All day he hiked, keeping under the brow of any ridge until evening. Then he sat cross-legged on the high ground and studied the bloody sundown. It was the first time he’d eaten anything that day.
The hard smoky-tasting jerky was no treat. Nothing had lifted his spirits all day. All day he’d walked, one boot ahead of the other as if each footfall was stomping on her killers. Only they were not stomping hard enough to suit him. With no idea how much farther it was to Free Water, he rose in the night, gathered his things, and pushed on under the thousands of stars.
In the moonlight, at last he could see the flag flapping in the night wind. He found secluded place and waited. After dozing a few hours, he was jerked awake by the sounds of goats bleating. In the dim light of predawn, he could see some figures milking them. They looked like Indian women at the distance. No sign of the men—the killers. They were no doubt sleeping.
The goats
were herded back in pens until sunup. The women, and the children helping them, went inside. He took a rifle and left the rest of his gear on the rise. In a low run he headed for the jacales. Catching his breath with his back to an adobe wall, he checked the rifle’s chamber—loaded. Then he edged to the rear deciding to try the first jacal on the left. At the open door he could hear someone snoring. He slipped inside and found a man sleeping away on a pallet.
He set the rifle down. On his knees, he stuck his six-gun in the man’s face. “One wrong move you’re dead.”
“Huh?” The man blinked his eyes in disbelief.
“Get on your belly. Hands behind your back.”
“Sí, sí.”
Slocum found a reata, and tied his hands. “Where are the others?”
“Who?”
With his skinning knife in his hand, he applied the keen blade to the man’s throat “Who is here?”
“Ah, Armando, Chico—Gibbs—some squaws.”
“Where’s Armando?”
“Huh?”
“What jacal is he in?”
The man shook his head. “He don’t sleep inside. He’s a breed.”
“Chico?”
“I think he slept with one of the women.”
“Which one?”
“Twila.”
“Where’s her place?”
“It’s the one on the far side of the saloon.”
“You make a sound you’re dead.” He sheathed his knife and rose. Rifle in his hand, he checked outside before stepping out in the growing light. Then he hurried around the saloon and studied the jacal from the corner of the building.
Voices of women carried from the rear of the saloon. Cooking-fire smoke entered his nostrils and the food smelled good. It was fifty feet to the doorway of the jacal. He rushed to it and stepped inside. He felt the dark eyes on him. Eyes of a cornered weasel as the man raised up on his elbow. Then the man moved like one—started to twist for the six-gun on the floor.
Slocum’s finger closed on the trigger and the rifle spat lead in an ear-shattering blast. His hand slipped down in the lever and ejected the cartridge. Then he shot again into the body, which was in the thrashing throes of death. Bullet number two slapped him like the thud of an impact on a watermelon. Number three smashed his forehead.
Rifle reloaded, he whirled and started out the door. Gibbs came around the corner, dressed in his underwear and brandishing a Walker Colt. Slocum dropped to his knees and fired at his chest. The man’s Colt muzzle spat a bullet into the dust. Gibbs’s knees buckled and, struck hard by the second rifle shot, he fell over backward.
Slocum could hear the horses, and rushed around to the front of the saloon. Two riders were racing away, bareback on horses from the corral. His chances of hitting either were small, so he eased the trigger down. His prisoner was one of the men, the other must have been Armando.
“Oh!” wailed a distraught woman coming from behind the buffalo hide.
“Who were those two?” he demanded.
She looked at him terrified and shook her head as if she didn’t know.
“Who were they?”
“Armando and Felipe.”
“Where do they live?”
She turned up her light-colored palms and shook her head. “Where do such bandidos live?”
“Gibbs was in it with them.”
“I don’t know.”
He reached out and shook her shoulder with one hand. “You know. You know damned good and well. He sent them to steal my horses and murder me.”
“Please, Señor, I know nothing.” She began to cry and cowered away from him.
“I’ll hang you, woman, if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“Yes, yes, he did.”
“Those three worked for him?”
“Yes, yes, they did.”
“They killed the lady rode in here with me a day ago.”
She dropped her chin. “I’m sorry.”
“They will be too. Now I need some food.”
“There is food.” With a twist of her head she indicated inside the saloon.
“I know, I can smell it” He motioned for her to go first, and he ducked inside the hide doorway after her.
The three women served him frijoles, corn tortillas, barbequed goat, and white cheese melted over enchiladas. They were all young Indian women. Ula was the one that Slocum had talked to. She was part Mexican and had sharp facial features. Tina was more Indian with slanted eyes and high cheekbones—tall for her race and thin, in her late teens. The very pregnant girl, and youngest, they called Ono. He thought her to be maybe fourteen. All had ended up there as slaves.
“What can we do now? He is dead.” Tina stood with her arms folded over her chest and backed by the other two.
“Arm yourselves. Be tough and make this your home.” They had no place else to go. “Can any of you count money?”
“Ono can, she went to Indian school,” Tina indicated.
“Make her the keeper of it. Be tough traders when the whiskey men come by. Keep your guns loaded. You either kill them or they kill you.”
“What will you do?” she asked.
“Go after them. They killed the lady who rode with me.” Finished and unable to eat any more, he pushed the plate away.
“You could stay here. Run this place.” She used her long fingers to indicate the interior of the saloon.
He shook his head. “I’m leaving two horses here. There is some gear south of here at the camp where they shot her. Go get it and if I don’t return in six weeks, you may have it too.”
Tina nodded.
He put some money down and she shook her head.
“No, everyone must pay,” he said. “You savvy?”
“Everyone must pay,” she repeated as if she had to learn it.
“Everyone.”
He went out and saddled his roan with a worn-out saddle from the corral’s top rail. They’d taken Belle’s bulldog mountain horse. Good, he’d be easy to identify. He hugged each of the women, mounted up, and rode to the rise for his things. He tied them on the saddle, then headed east with a glance back at Free Water. They might make it.
Late in the day, he stopped at a low-walled ranch house with a creaking windmill that needed greasing badly. A tall woman in her twenties came out holding a rifle on her hip. She had a willowy figure. The wind swept the blue calico dress around her legs, but her clear blue eyes were devoid of anything but serious business.
“Evening, ma’am,” he said, removing his hat.
“You can water your horse, mister. Then ride on.”
“Thank you. Did two men riding bareback come through here today?”
“You mean that worthless Messikin and breed?”
“Could be.”
“Those two and some others stole three horses from us not a month ago.”
“Three of them are dead.”
“They worked for that buffoon Gibbs at Free Water, didn’t they?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s dead.”
She blinked hard at him. “Sounds like you’ve sure been cleaning up this country.”
“Three nights ago they raided our camp. They shot a good friend of mine.”
“Well, those two rode through here about three hours ago. I kept my rifle on them the whole time. Better put that horse in the pen when you get him watered. There’s hay in there. I’ve got some chili on the stove.”
“I’m obliged,” he said, and touched his hat brim before he dismounted.
“Anyone shot Gibbs needs some reward.” She started to turn on her heel. “I’ll put a wash pan out and a towel for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He watched her go back inside and guessed her to be in her early twenties. Sharp-edged as the west Texas wind, she was tough enough to survive. He wondered about her man and family. This looked like an operating cow ranch. He’d been so intent on tracking those two, he hadn’t bothered to notice the brand on the cows and calves in the mesquite and bunchgrass.
; He led the pony to the tank and let him drink while he undid the latigos. There were two good ponies in the pen. They were freshly shod using horses that showed from the white saddle scars on their withers that they were working cow ponies.
With his horse in with the rest, he took off his hat and combed his fingers through his hair. He felt unfit to enter the woman’s house. Bathless and smelling more horse than human, he considered himself hardly fit for a campfire gathering, let alone to go inside the house of a white woman. At the porch he hung his hat on a peg, rolled up his sleeves, and used the yellow bar of lye soap on his hands in the warm water in her enameled pan that had been set out on the gray weathered table.
He washed his face with palms of water, and realized his beard was grown out. Then, using the towel, he dried his face and looked off at the west. A softer sunset was sinking out there than the night before. When he turned, the woman was on the porch.
“Ready to eat?”
“I sure am. Your husband’s not here?”
“Tascosa. Getting supplies, won’t be home for days. If he comes back then.”
“Oh.”
“Frank drinks a lot. He’ll eventually come home. Bring a few hands with him for me to feed, and they’ll be around till roundup in the fall. Then they’ll go back to Tascosa and he’ll come back alone whenever he thinks about it.”
“Just leaves you out here alone?”
She turned back and laughed. “That’s what a woman is for, right? Take care of things while he dances with some hussies in the Bye Gilly Saloon.”
When he didn’t reply, she pulled out the chair for him at the table. “I’m a dutiful wife.”
“I never doubted that.”
“Well, now you know my situation. Have a seat and eat before it gets cold.”
“Thanks.” He studied the rich-looking chili in the large crock and the soda crackers beside it as he sat down. “You aren’t eating?”
She poured him coffee. “In Frank Waters’ house, men eat first. I am well trained.”
“Since he ain’t here and ain’t going to be, get you a bowl. I like good company to go with good food.”
A pleased look swept her face and some of the sternness dissolved in her facial expression. She nodded in approval. “I’ll just do that.”