by Jake Logan
“Yeah, he ain’t got no right—”
“Shut up,” Phelps said to Dawson, and frowned hard at the two to quiet them as he closed the cell door.
“Here, better lock them in there.” Slocum tossed Phelps the keys on a big ring he took from the paper-cluttered desk, and Phelps caught them, but not without an angry look.
“I’ll sign the warrant,” she said. “I’m a taxpayer.”
“You know having a trial costs this county big bucks.”
“Cost never bothered you when you arrested Searle.” She set the rifle across the top of the desk and looked for something. At last, she found the paper and dipped the pen in the inkwell and wrote her name, Roberta Bakker, in the appropriate place, and then wrote that Guy Dawson and Dun Manley were caught red-handed using a running iron on a steer with a B7 brand on it, changing it to an AX, on August 15, 1878.
She signed it and had Slocum sign it, too. “That should hold them for the judge.”
Phelps shook his head. “You two are wasting your time. What court of law’s going to believe a horse thief’s sister and some saddle tramp?”
She whipped the rifle up and Slocum caught the barrel to stop her. “Phelps, you may have nine lives, but you just used up one of them,” he said.
A pin falling would have been loud. Slocum then nodded at the door, and for moment he felt that she was getting ready to twist the rifle from his hand—it passed and she went on outside.
“Now when’s the circuit judge due in here?” Slocum asked.
“Depends. Month, six weeks.”
“Maybe the governor could send one sooner. So them boys don’t have to fret too long in jail here before they get sentenced.”
“Mister, I don’t know who the hell you are, but you go to messing with the law here, you’ll be buzzard bait.”
“Don’t ever come back to the B7 with a hard-on again. You’ll come home a gelding.”
“Yeah?”
Slocum nodded. “Oh, your prisoners may need supper.”
“Get the hell out of here,” Phelps raged.
Slocum nodded and turned to go outside to join her at the buckboard. Phelps would be a tough one. But he would crumble before this was over. Slocum owed it to Roberta to be sure Phelps was fully paid back.
With a wary shake of her head as she looked at the lighted doorway of the jail, she said, “Let’s get some supper and then we can drive back to the ranch.”
He agreed and unhitched Baldy from the rack. On foot, he followed her and the rig down the empty darkening street to the café. One day in this country and he was already in a mess. Maybe he looked for tough situations like this, or maybe they drew him in.
Shame that Phelps and his two buddies weren’t sharing that cell. Damn shame.
Chapter 2
He reached past Roberta and opened the door. The café was hot, and the rich smell of cooking filled the air. Faces turned, and some customers blinked at the sight of the two of them. Roberta led him to a table and indicated the opposite chair.
“We naked?” he asked under his breath as he sat down across from her.
“Naked?”
“They looked us over like we were.”
“They’re not used to me showing up with a man. Especially a stranger.”
“Evening, Roberta.” An older gentleman removed his hat and stopped before their table.
“Sam Lowery, good to see you. This is my new hired hand, Slocum.”
Sam extended a hand and they shook.
“Take care of her,” he said. “She’s been through a lot. If I can help, let me know.”
“I will,” Slocum said. If that man behind the white handlebar only knew the half of it.
“Well, I’ve got to get back and check on the stock. Good to meet you.”
“Sam?” she said. He stopped. “Slocum and I brought in two of Worthington’s men on rustling charges. Slocum caught them working over a brand on one of my steers.”
He shook his head gravely. “It’ll only make him madder.”
“I know, but I felt I needed to do something.”
“There ain’t no end to it. Times I want to give up and sell out.” He rested his gnarled hands on the top of the chair. “If I was thirty . . . but I ain’t.”
“There has to be justice somewhere, Sam.”
“Not in this county. See you,” Sam said to both of them, and turned to leave.
Slocum watched his retreat to the front door. His slightly bent posture and the limp in his walk showed the mark of the man’s years. He’d do as a friend.
When he went outside, Roberta looked at Slocum. “He’s a good man.”
“Sorry, folks,” the rawboned, red-faced woman said, wiping her hands on her apron. “My help’s sick. I’m working shorthanded. What can I get you? Heavens to Betsy, what happened to you, girl?”
“It’s long story, I’ll tell you later,” Roberta said to allay her concern. “Both of us need a plate of food.”
“How about you?” the woman asked, turning to Slocum.
“This is Slocum, Gloria.”
“Nice to meet you. What’ll you have?”
“The same as her.”
“Take me a minute—”
“We’re fine,” Roberta said, and looked for his nod of approval. “Meanwhile, I can pour our coffee.”
Gloria swept her prematurely gray hair back from her face. “I’d appreciate that.”
She left. Gloria was an ample-bodied woman, but there wasn’t much fat on her. The strain of her situation showed in the small lines around her mouth and eyes. The lack of help and maybe something else were putting a strain on her.
Roberta got up to get them some coffee, and on her way back she refilled cups at the other tables while making friendly conversation. Most folks apologized for her brother’s fate. Slocum could hear their concern and polite-ness toward her.
When the man came in the café, she froze and glared at him.
Slocum turned and looked at a stranger in his forties wearing a tailored brown suit. He wore a clean Boss of the Plains Stetson with a silk-rimmed brim. He put it and his walking cane on wall pegs. Then he turned and pasted on a smile for her.
“Well, how are you, Miss Roberta? Doing well, I suppose.” He looked around as if expecting someone to show him to his seat.
“Gloria’s in the back. She’s shorthanded,” Roberta said, and resumed pouring coffee.
“Ah, so you are the waitress?”
“No, Worthington,” she said. “I’m helping. Here, you ain’t doing anything. Pour some coffee yourself.” She set the pot down on a table and turned on her heel.
“Why, Roberta, what has you so upset?”
She swept the riding skirt under her and pulled the chair up. Her good eye narrowed as hard as it had a short while before when she’d brought up the rifle on Phelps. “I ain’t giving you any satisfaction, Worthington.”
“Just think, in three years your brother will be a free man again.”
Slocum started to get up. Rage boiled in his chest, but her hand on his forearm stopped him. “He ain’t worth it,” she said.
“Worth what?” the man asked, advancing a few steps toward them. “Oh, you think I’m not worth sending a proven horse thief off to prison?”
“He’s fixing to have company,” Slocum said.
“Oh, who would that be?”
“Two men that work for you.” He wanted to use the slight pause to set Worthington up. “Dawson and Manley. They do work for you, don’t they?”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re in the county jail down the street.” Slocum hooked a thumb in the direction of the jail. “Maybe you need to go bail them out. They said you’d hired them to work over brands and they’re ready to testify in court to that. You’ll still have time to catch some of the hot weather down there at Yuma.”
“Mister—I don’t know who you are, but when did you get to be the damn law around here?”
Slocum rose to
straddle the chair. “My name’s Slocum and when the special judge arrives, maybe a grand jury can indict you as an accomplice to their artwork.”
“Mister, you—” Red-faced, he shook his finger at Slocum. “You are going to rue the day you threatened me. I mean it.”
“That suit won’t look near as nice covered in rock dust down there along the Colorado.”
“Who gave you the authority anyway to arrest anyone?”
“Mister, it’s part of the federal law. A citizen can arrest lawbreakers—especially self-confessed lawbreakers.”
“If you aren’t out of this county in twenty-four hours, have your coffin ready.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, it’s a promise.” Worthington started for the door, then remembered his hat and cane.
“Worthington?”
“I’m not talking—”
“You better listen to me. There are over a dozen people in here just overheard you threaten my life. If I’m dead or alive, they can tell the grand jury exactly what you said.”
“There’ll be no fucking grand juries in this county.” He spat out the words like a venomous snake; in his departure, he slammed the door.
A cheer went up around the café. Gloria tossed a lock of hair back as she came out of the kitchen with their plates of food. “What did you do to His Majesty?”
“Ran him off,” a toothless customer at the bar shouted and slapped his thighs. “Did the best damn job I ever seed of it. You missed it all, Glory. You missed it all. Why, he tied a tin can on that bastard’s tail and sent him kiting.”
“Amen,” another yelled.
“I could hear most of it,” said Gloria. “You a lawyer, too?” she asked Slocum.
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, you sure sounded like one. I’ll get you two some bread in a minute. It’s about done in the oven.” She nodded to a man putting money down near her register. “Thanks, Howard. You need change?”
The man shook his head and smiled. “Bob, you’ve got yourself a real one there.”
“Thanks, Dub. Maybe we’ll all see some daylight around here one of these days.”
“I hope so.” Then he shook his head as if that might not be possible and left.
Slocum looked at his heaping plate of sliced roast beef, potatoes, and gravy with brown beans, and smiled. It all looked good. He met Bob’s gaze.
She closed her good eye and shook her head. “Well, you’ve done it all now. Joined me, arrested two of his men, and made Charles Worthington mad as a wet hen, plus made Phelps angry. I can’t think of a thing you left out.”
Busy cutting his meat, he nodded. “I like to get to the bottom of things fast.”
She chuckled. “You damn sure did.”
He wasn’t even close to it, though—he wanted the wheels of justice to creak into action. That might require a fast ride to Prescott to see the governor himself. A territorial sheriff had few constraints besides the court system, and the governor could make some adjustments in that.
Despite Slocum’s protests, Roberta paid for supper, and after a few kind words from Gloria, they were out in the night on the boardwalk.
“I can drive those horses home,” he offered.
“I accept.”
“You’re easy enough to convince,” he said, helping her up into the rig.
She looked back and shook her head. “I’d’ve made it, but thanks. I can’t recall anyone ever helping me into a rig.”
“Maybe they never figured you needed any help,” he said, and went to tie Baldy to the tailgate.
When he came back and climbed up beside her, he took the reins. “It don’t hurt to be a woman once in a while.”
“No, I guess it doesn’t. I’ll have to learn how.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” He set the team in jig trot under the spray of a thousand stars. It would be late when they reached the ranch. It had been a long day since he’d set his saddle down on the hillside above her place. He still had to recover his bedroll, but sharing the seat with her wasn’t half bad. Not half bad at all.
In the pearl light of a quarter moon and ten million stars, they were both dog tired as they unhitched the team by the unmoving windmill.
“I don’t have a bunkhouse.” She rose and looked over at him. “My brother and I grew up together in that house. You can sleep in his bed. I personally don’t give a damn about what’s proper and what ain’t, especially after last night.”
“I’ll respect your boundaries.”
She moved to the front and unhooked the tongue from the collar on one of the horses. “I never doubted that.”
He did the same to the other horse, and then he set down the tongue pole.
“No wife, no family?” she asked before starting for the gate.
“Never had a wife. My brother was killed in the war. The rest are dead or in ashes. I’ll get the harness off and toss it on the fence.”
“I guess I’ll do it. I’ve done this for years.”
“That was before you hired me.”
She laughed and backed up to the corral to rest her butt against it. “First day’s work’s going to be twenty-four hours long.”
“I’ve had worse days.” He led the horses over to the corral and she opened the gate.
“You know, we’ve stepped on some toes tonight.” She closed the gate with him out and the team loose inside.
“Maybe they should have been stomped on a long time ago.” He looked at the outline of the house in the silver light. He needed to keep to his place, though after the ride back together on the buggy seat, he felt like reaching out and hugging her shoulder. Better for now to keep his hands to himself.
He ambled along beside her to the dark porch and opened the door. Every muscle in his body ached and his mind felt cobwebbed. She lit a lamp and pointed to the far bed. “That’s yours.”
“Thanks. Good night.”
“Good night.” And she blew out the lamp.
Undressed and in the bed under the flannel sheet, he thought about the night before—all that walking. Here he had a real bed. And an attractive woman for a boss. Where did he know that Phelps from? That deputy’s face had niggled him the whole way home. But nothing came. Phelps wasn’t his name the last time they’d met. It would come to him . . .
Chapter 3
He awoke to discover the front door was open and light was streaming in the room. He slipped off the bed and pulled on his pants. His eyes were gritty and his mouth felt like a barefoot army had marched back and forth through it all night. Crossing the room barefooted to the bucket on the dry sink, he dipped out a gourd of water. He was halfway through drinking it when Roberta came in with an armload of split stove wood.
She looked amazingly fresh, much better-spirited than the day before, and her smile was contagious. “I see you’re up?”
“Do you have a cow to milk or pigs to slop?”
“No.”
“Good. I’ll grease the mill this morning, then try to recover my bedroll.”
“Sit down. We’ll have breakfast and then we better go find your bedroll. You sure you remember where you left it?”
“I think so.” He put the gourd back, then went for his boots and shirt.
She stoked the fire that had started in the range, and stood up. “Biscuits, ham, and fried potatoes sound like it’ll fill you?”
He started to pull on his second boot. “I’m fine with anything you want to cook.”
Dressed, he started for the door. “I can saddle the horses and have them ready when we finish.”
“Sure. It’ll take a little time to get it all cooked.”
“Besides, my bedroll ain’t going to hatch or sprout anything.”
She laughed and he went out. In the corral, he roped Baldy, who stopped dead when the rope went over his ears. Talking softly to him, Slocum walked up the rope. When Baldy was tied, he went after Shoo Fly, a dark horse that Roberta said she rode a lot. The gelding acted foxy, but Slocum made an
overhead toss and caught him the first time. Shoo Fly bucked and kicked in a circle as Slocum reeled him in. He acted walleyed and snorted, but settled some when Slocum got to his head and formed a halter. Soon, he was tied beside Baldy. Slocum retuned with his own saddle and pads, plus a comb and brush.
He cleaned off Baldy’s back and brushed him down, even cleaned the dirt off his legs and fetlock. Then he thinned Baldy’s tail some before he put on the pads and saddle. Shoo Fly shifted back and forth; Slocum soon had enough of him and slapped him with the brush. The action settled him some, but in no time, he was back to whining and raising Cain. Finished with him, Slocum went to the barn for Roberta’s rig.
She rang the school bell as he finished cinching Shoo Fly up. When he led the horses up to the hitch rack, she came to the door. “You do good work.”
He smiled and tied the reins. “Part of the job.”
“Well, you better come wash up and eat. That’s part of it, too.”
He looked around for anything out of place and saw nothing wrong. “Coming.”
The meal was tasty and the potatoes crisply fried. He savored the coffee and dreaded hitting the saddle as he sipped on his last cup. Meanwhile, she was putting on some shotgun chaps and then her spurs. When she was finished, she stomped her heels on the wood floor.
“I’ll miss old Ring. He was a guard and pal.”
He rose. “I’m sorry I ain’t had time to bury him.”
“I didn’t mean that—I—I’ll just miss him.”
She dropped her chin and pursed her lips. “Those sonsabitches—that damn Phelps. You saw that banty rooster yesterday.”
“He always been in this country?”
“Why?”
“I think I’ve seen him somewhere else, but his name wasn’t Phelps there.”
“Ain’t no telling. He drifted in here about three years ago. I think from Texas. Damn banty rooster is what he reminds me of. Strutting around like he was some kind of a ladies’ man.”
Her look turned dark. It was filled with hatred, and he didn’t blame her. He realized that she had came close to settling it all in the sheriff’s office the night before with her rifle. Only his efforts had kept her from doing it—which had saved Phelps. Not that he felt Phelps hadn’t earned it—but the aftermath would have been hard on her. They’d have tried to prove it was cold-blooded murder, and she might not have told them about the night when he stole her innocence.