Slocum and the Widow's Range Wars

by Jake Logan

  “Where do you hail from?”

  “Missouri.” She had her back to him as she dipped out some chili from the kettle on the range. “We left there after we got married and wandered around until he gathered enough cows to stock this ranch. This place had been homesteaded and the man died, so his wife sold out to us. Frank’s twelve years older than I am.”

  “So the windmill and all were here then?”

  “Oh, yes, all the improvements were here. All we had to do was move in. Up till then I’d spent most of my married life in a covered wagon.”

  Between bites, he pointed his spoon at her across the small table. “I bet that was a treat to a woman.”

  “I wasn’t certain that I could even live in a house.”

  They both laughed. Then she dipped her face down, looking a little embarrassed.

  “I say something wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t laughed in years. Guess I felt silly doing it Frank would say so. Laughing’s for fools.”

  “He must be a bundle of joy to live around.” Slocum dipped a cracker in the red chili and chewed on it, looking hard at her.

  “I told you, I am a dutiful wife.”

  “Well, duty be damned. You sure must be in a pickle of a deal.”

  Her steel-blue eyes met his. “I am. Miles from anywhere or anybody. I can’t go home, so I endure Frank Waters, this ranch, and the isolation. Last woman I talked to came passing by here with her family in a wagon seven months ago.”

  “What can I do about it?”

  “Do you dance?”

  “Yes. I don’t suppose he dances either?”

  “No. He considers it kid stuff. I have a music box—” She scooted her chair back. “I will play it.”

  “Sure.”

  She whirled and frowned at him. “I am not being too imposing on you, am I?”

  “No, but I thought coming in here I smelled more like a horse than a man.”

  She laughed, and then put her hands to her face. “And I don’t even know your name.”

  “Slocum.”

  “Very well, Mr.—”

  He waved her words away. “Slocum, that’s all.” Wiping his face on the napkin beside the bowl, he rose and watched the swirl of her dress as she crossed the room to the music box. She raised the lid and used the key to wind it.

  He stopped a few feet behind her. When she turned and the music began, his right hand slipped behind the small of her back and the other closed on her long fingers. They spun around the gritty floor to the waltz music, and soon she began laughing. He clutched her closer and felt her hip bone against his upper leg. She was thin, but she could dance and her hilarity proved contagious. Soon they both were laughing with an excitement that clutched at them as they danced. Then the music slowed and she rested her face against his shoulder. They were alone on another star—another place.

  He raised her chin and kissed her. A kiss that sparked a fire in the tinder of all her suppression. Her hands clutched his head and her tongue sought his mouth—eager, excited, and demanding. His hands cupped her hard butt so she was tight against him.

  At last she tore her mouth away and looked out of half-closed eyes at him. “I want you to take me.”

  He swept her up in his arms and she giggled. “Am I really doing this?” she said.

  “I think so.”

  She put a hand to her forehead. “I’ve at last gone crazy, haven’t I?”

  “No, but it can get worse.” He set her down on her feet at the edge of the bed and toed off a boot.

  Caught up in her laughter, she put a hand on his shoulder to catch herself. “I sure don’t have what you’d call a ripe form.”

  “You warning me?”

  She stopped unbuttoning the dress and stopped laughing. “I mean it. Franks says—”

  His finger on her lips silenced her. “I don’t give a damn what Frank says.”

  She hunched her shoulders and shook her head in amused amazement. “You don’t, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Francie—he calls me Frances, but with all my friends I grew up around it was Francie.”

  “Francie it shall be.” He damn sure wasn’t calling her any name her husband used.

  “Well—” She looked back at the bed, then at him. The dress was unbuttoned and the small breasts were half-exposed.

  “Want me to blow out the candle?” he asked.

  “No, I want to remember this for a long, long time.”

  “All right.” He slipped the dress off her and put it on the chair with his gun belt and his shirt. Then, with their gazes locked on each other, he shed his pants.

  When she glanced down at his half-full erection, immediately her look went to the ceiling and she hugged him. “Good gosh, I didn’t know men came in that size.”

  “Afraid?”

  Laughing so hard her apple-sized breasts shook, she covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed. “No, I can’t wait.”

  With the covers pulled back, she dropped on the bed and swung her slender white legs up. He slipped between them and lowered himself on top of her. Eyes tightly closed, she reached down blindly for his shaft, and sighed when she started it in to her gates. Then, laughing, she raised up for him to go deep inside her.

  “Oh, my Gawd!” she cried out loud.

  The bed protested under them. Their wild surging soon greased their bellies with perspiration and she was shouting, “I love it—love it—love it.”

  Their pubic bones mashed tight, her walls began to contract and her clit started to scratch the top of his turgid rod as he sought more and more of her. Their world swirled around them in wild abandonment. Breathing became huffing and their all-out effort grew to a peak, and then when he felt the time was at hand, his spine jerked him upright and he came hard.

  She fainted.

  “Oh, my Gawd—” she moaned, then blinked at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Company. Outside,” he whispered, and slipped off the bed to cross over and blow out the two candles on the table.

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sure, but I heard horses.”

  17

  “Hey, woman, open up. We want some pussy.” Someone drunk was pounding at the door.

  In the dim starlight invading the room, she shook her face, hurrying to dress.

  “Open up—you gawdamn whore! We come to fuck you.” The drunk punctuated his speech with heavy blows on the solid door. “You better open up or I’ll kick the damn door down.”

  “You open the door. I’ll jerk him inside,” Slocum said in her ear. “Then slam it shut.”

  She nodded, and they worked their way across the dark room to the entrance.

  “Open up—”

  “All right,” she said to the intruder and raised the bar. “I’m hurrying.”

  When she swept the door open, Slocum caught the man by the shirt, jerked him inside, and bashed him over the head with his pistol butt. He collapsed on the floor with a grunt. Slocum used his knee to press him down and took his gun and knife from him.

  “Got some cord?”

  “Yes.” She ran for it.

  Slocum tied the intruder’s hands and left him facedown. Then he began to dress.

  “Which one is he?”

  “Felipe is what they call him. The real tough one is the breed out there. Oh, I’m so grateful you are here.”

  “Damn you, Felipe, where did you go?” a voice outside called. “Where in the hell are you?”

  Slocum could hear him riding back and forth in front of the door on his horse. Six-gun in his fist, Slocum nodded for her to open the door again. She raised the bar as quietly as she could and then pulled it open.

  “Damn you—”

  Slocum’s Colt fired at the outline of a man balancing a rifle. He fell off the far side of his horse, and was on his feet like a cat running for the corral and outbuildings. The horse blocked Slocum’s shot, and he moved past the frightened animal to look for the outla
w. Armando was gone from sight. Down there—somewhere—were the corral and outbuildings. And there was no sign in the starlight of Armando’s rifle on the ground—wounded or not, he’d be like a diamondback rattler.

  Slocum stepped back into the house. “That other outlaw awake?”

  “He’s moaning.”

  “Good, I’m using him for a shield. The other one is down by the corral and windmill.”

  “Be careful, they’re dangerous.” She put a hand on his arm. “But I’ve never had any dealings with the likes of them.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good. I’ve never denied anyone a drink here. But I sure never encouraged them to stay a minute longer.”

  “Francie, I know you didn’t.”

  In the shadowy light, a smile crossed her face. “I like you to call me that.”

  He jerked Felipe to his feet. The half-groggy outlaw, smelling of rotgut, stood unsteadily. “Who are you?”

  “Slocum’s my name. You killed a friend of mine.”

  “That good-looking woman, huh?”

  “Yes, now we’re going to the corral. You better holler loud for Armando to give up and not shoot you.”

  “He won’t give up.”

  “You better talk him into it.” Slocum shoved him out the door and drew his Colt. He caught the man by the shoulder and told him to stop. Taking time to reload all six cylinders, he cocked the pistol and then motioned for him to move ahead.

  “Armando! Armando! Don’t shoot, it is me, Felipe. Please don’t shoot, mi amigo.”

  “If you fall down or try anything. I’ll shoot you,” Slocum warned. “Keep more right.” Then, with a shove in the back with his muzzle, he sent his shield where he wanted him to go.

  The outlaw kept up his pleading. Slocum studied every shadowy place for any sign of the other one. Then, from the side of the saddle shed, a rifle shot blazed in orange and the hot lead thudded into Felipe like something hitting a ripe watermelon.

  Slocum answered with rapid fire from his pistol, and he knew when his second bullet struck something besides adobe wall. He advanced, his arm out, the Colt cocked and ready. Moving up to the slumped figure on the ground, he kicked the rifle away and bent over to feel for any sign of life. No pulse.

  “Slocum? Slocum, are you all right?” Francie called, sounding uncertain as she walked toward him.

  “It’s over.” He reached out and hugged her shoulder. Resting his cheek on top of her head, he rocked her with his free arm. “It’s over.”

  Finally, he let go of her and spun the cylinder to an empty cylinder, then holstered the gun. “It’s all over, Francie.” His arm over her shoulder, he herded her toward the house.

  “He even gunned down his own partner.” She glanced at the silent Felipe on the ground and shook her head in disapproval as they went by him.

  “There isn’t any loyalty among them,” Slocum said.

  “They shot a woman?”

  “Yes. I was helping her find her husband’s killer. We got mixed up in a New Mexico range war on the way down here. You ever hear of Henry Martin and the MC?”

  “He’s a friend of Frank’s.”

  “Well, not anymore. He’s dead. He was all set to take over some rangeland in New Mexico and sent in lots of gunhands with his foreman and lost.”

  “I’m not surprised—last time that he was here, he bragged that he was moving there and that all he had to do was shoot a few greasers.”

  “He did, and in the end they shot him instead. He cost me a good friend that they dry-gulched.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “Belle Nelson. Some bounty men in Wyoming gunned down her unarmed husband thinking he was some outlaw. She took out a couple of them. We were headed south looking for the sole survivor.”

  “Guess you help lots of folks.” She paused at the doorway.

  “I do what I can. Where can I find Booth, the MC foreman?”

  “He kill your friend?”

  “Either did it or ordered it done.”

  “Tascosa. Probably drinking with Frank and hugging some hussy.”

  He nodded, and washed his hands in the cool water left in the basin.

  “I can get you some fresh water,” she said.

  “Don’t need it. Still a couple of hours till daylight. They can wait for their funeral.” He finished drying his hands and pulled her to him. His mouth closed on hers and her hands soon clutched his head. Still a couple of hours left to tear up a bed with her.

  He looked back at the starlit yard to check on things. She quickly pulled him inside and shut the door.

  Following the brief burial of the two outlaws behind the sheds, he had greased the windmill. It did a lot less creaking and complaining when the wind came up that afternoon. He had shaved and bathed, and his clothes were drying on the line as he sat in Frank’s loose-fitting pants and shirt on the porch bench, sipping on her fresh coffee. He felt halfway human.

  “What next?” she asked, snuggled up close to him with her legs tucked under her dress.

  “I need to go and find Booth.”

  “Will it do much good?”

  “Every time you eliminate one rattler, they can’t hatch any new ones.”

  “Why couldn’t you have come along and married me instead of Frank?”

  “’Cause I was on the run and couldn’t have stayed.”

  She frowned and flipped back her hair before laying her head on his shoulder. “You’re still on the run?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why aren’t you in Mexico then?”

  He blew on the hot coffee. “’Cause I like it better up here. I’m not a Mexican. I’m a gringo down there regardless of how well I speak their lingo.”

  “So you will ride off and leave me?”

  “I have to. Besides, Frank’s coming back, you said.”

  “He always does whenever he gets damn good and ready.

  “Slocum, I’d take living in a hut, or in a wagon even, over this life with him. I can ride a horse, shoot fair. Take me with you.”

  “Francie, if it was only me, I would. But I don’t know when I’ll have to disappear.”

  She shook her head on his shoulder. “Damn, if you ever ride by here and don’t stop and see me, I’ll—oh, well, be mad. I don’t care if Frank’s home or not.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Fat chance you’ll ever get this far out of your way, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, you never know.”

  She wrapped her arm around his waist. “It’s like having a real honeymoon, having you.”

  “Good, let’s honeymoon. I can fix the fence in the morning.”

  “You don’t have to fix that. I can do it after you leave.”

  “You running me off?”

  “Lord, no.” She was on her feet pulling him by one arm toward the open door. “Let’s honeymoon.”

  18

  A week later he headed for Tascosa. It was sure hard to part with her. Those things were never easy. He left with plenty of food in a cloth poke to eat on the way and the smell of her sweet musk embedded in his nostrils. She rode a few miles with him and they parted at mid-morning. He leaned over, kissed her, and then reined his pony away from her dun.

  “See yah,” he said, and she bit her lip unable to speak. She could only nod at him with wet lashes.

  “I won’t forget you and where you are, Francie.”

  He looked back from the next rise and waved to her. Still sitting her horse in place, she waved back. Then he was gone.

  He camped out the next two nights, and the third day he found Tascosa. At the livery he stabled his horse for two bits a day, and started down the boardwalk. Before he left the wagon yard, the hustler pointed out Waters’s team and saddle horse in the pen. Slocum tipped him a quarter for promising not to say a word to Waters, and drew a thirsty grin from the old man.

  The saloons on the two-block-long street outnumbered anything else from dry goods stores, milliners, and mercantiles to harn
ess makers and gunsmiths. The various structures ranged from tents behind false fronts to buildings made from such green lumber that in the hot sun’s drying process, the boards had already sprung free from the nails and stuck out in bows.

  Paint was only for the wealthy, save for the hand-painted business signs that looked like the scrawlings of children in the lower grades of school. A few businesses, hoping to earn respectability and show pride of ownership, hung out billboards made with artistic skill. The Bye Gilly Saloon was one of them. It showed shamrocks in bold green on a field of yellow, and the letters were in bright red.

  Slocum sauntered down the boardwalk, which needed repair and was made of such cheese-box-thin lumber it threatened to give way under each footfall. He kept an eye on every step, and soon he pushed in through the deep-green, louvered batwing doors. The place reeked of chewing tobacco, stale cigar smoke, and sour liquor. There was a whang of human and horse sweat as well.

  The place was empty save for a few drunks cleaning up. A man with a pencil-sized mustache attached to a thin face, which reminded Slocum of a barn rat, came down the bar to him. “What’ll it be, me man?”

  “A double shot of decent whiskey.”

  “Ah, and that’ll be four bits for the good stuff.”

  “There a rancher here named Waters?” Slocum twisted and looked the place over as he dug out the money.

  “Ah, I ain’t seen Frank in two days. He’s long overdue. You might ask Margie up at the Roll On Moose.”

  “That some French place?”

  The man laughed. “Yeah, but no one could spell it so that’s how they painted the sign.”

  Slocum considered the whiskey in the glass. Francie hadn’t been wrong about how Waters spent his leisure time in Tascosa. Margie must have him right in her bunk. Slocum sipped the whiskey to wash some of the trail dust out of his throat. He still didn’t have a good plan for kicking Waters’s ass and sending him home—he’d thought about it riding all the way across the panhandle. Something would come to him.

  After downing the glass, he thanked the barman.

  “Kin I tell him you was here if’n he comes in?” the man asked.