by Jake Logan
On fresh horses, they roped and castrated the captured horses that afternoon. Mary came with the hot branding iron each time and they put the colonel’s A2X brand on the horses’ left shoulders. It was hard work, with plenty of hot sun baking man and beast, stinking brand smoke to coil up Slocum’s nose, and the blood from the surgery dried on his fingers tightening them as he worked. All the horses left wore drag ropes; heads down, they stood around and blew wearily in the dust, including the former stud.
“You were lucky to get those other grown males in with the herd,” Heck said as they squatted in the dying sun admiring their work. “They’re usually outcasts off alone.”
“We’d probably not have rounded them up, but the stallion took a wide course and they must have fell in with the bunch.”
Heck nodded and shook his head. “We’ll need lots more luck to ever get eighty horses.”
“Hell, we’re a quarter of the way there. Let’s go home.”
Mary nodded, and they led their saddle horses out of the enclosure. Then they trotted in the twilight for camp. Shadows began to swath the land and the night insects started to chirp. Slocum decided the new man would earn his salt. Heck could rope and ride. As they headed home, Slocum felt better at having him along.
The next day the real work began. Horse-breaking proved tougher despite the horses’ surgery—they still kicked and fought being saddled. The worst ones were tied down on a canvas sheet for a few hours. Slocum and Heck took turns going over and sitting on the prone ponies to show them they couldn’t escape. Besides being strange to the horses, this took some of the wild sap out of them like the yokes did to cattle.
Some horses could be ridden easily on the third day. Others still had spurts of bucking that jarred their riders in stiff-legged landings on springs of steel. But as the days passed, all the horses could be ridden, even the chestnut stud.
After a week, they finally led the horses back to camp and hobbled them. Slocum had begun his horse tally book. Each had a name. Baldy was the bald-faced horse. They called the former stallion General Lee, the dun Dun, a bay horse Star for the spot on his forehead. A big leggy red roan was named Sarge for some red-haired Irish sergeant Heck knew in the war. Toby, Big John, Rafter, soon they all had names in Slocum’s book. Counting all the horses they had, they were up to thirty-six.
The next day, they scouted for more. Topping a rise, Slocum saw three multicolored horses raising their heads from grazing. His hand went for his gun butt in the holster. Indians!
“There’s three more,” Heck hissed. “There’s half a dozen of them!”
“Those are buffalo-hunting horses,” Slocum said, anxious about their situation because Mary was along with them. He studied how the rising wind lifted the horses’ braided manes and how they watched the three riders more curious than afraid of them.
She pushed her bay in close to the two men. “See the owners anywhere?”
“No, and it makes the skin on my neck itch,” Slocum said. “Heck, you circle west and look for any footprints. We can’t be lucky enough to find six broke horses.”
“Keep the likes of your six-gun handy,” Heck said and rode west.
“I will. Mary, you stay close too.” Slocum bent over in the saddle looking for any sign of footprints. Making a quarter circle around the animals, he spotted none.
“They came from the west.” Heck pointed as he rode over. “No sign of anything but them.”
Mary nodded. “No sign here either.”
“Catch one,” Slocum said to him. “And the rest will follow. Mary and I can herd them.”
For a long moment, Heck looked at him. “What if they want them back?”
“They come looking for them, they would find us up here anyway.”
“Guess you’re right.” Heck shook out a loop. “Put ’em in the tally book, boss.” Then he rode off after one.
With the six new ones in the herd, the riders rested the next day, taking baths, shaving, and washing their clothes. Some tall clouds gathered in the west so the sunset was painted red on the high tops, but no rain came. Might have rained forty miles west or so the way lightning danced on the horizon that evening. Heck was gone off to sleep somewhere on the other side of camp, and Slocum and Mary were sitting on their bedroll in each other’s arms, kissing and watching the far-off storm.
“Nice to be clean for once,” she said softly as he gently felt her firm breast through the blouse’s material.
“Yes, I’m plumb disinterested in getting dirty again.” She chuckled softly. “Oh, well, we don’t need to get all sweaty and worked up then tonight.”
“Who said that—” He quickly smothered her mouth with his and forced her down on the blankets.
Giggling underneath him, she tore at his pants to open them. Fondling his rising erection, she grinned at him over her discovery. Then, gathering her skirt up in a wad to her waist and exposing her bare legs, she raised her knees on both sides of him and threw her head back. “Make me sweaty.”
And he did.
It was past midnight when he awoke and listened. It was no coyote out there making that call. They had company. He needed to get word to Heck in his bedroll across camp. He pressed a finger to her mouth to silence her when she stirred, and he whispered, “Comanches are here. I’ve got to warn Heck.”
She nodded as he placed the pistol in her hands with a soft: “Five shots. Use them wisely.”
She nodded, and he had his boots on and was on the run, staying as low as he could with the Spencer rifle in his right hand and still make time. He reached Heck’s bedroll and squatted beside him.
“Best get up. We’ve got company.”
Heck was instantly awake and never hesitated pulling on his boots. “How many?”
“I ain’t sure. I think I’ve heard three.”
“There’s one,” Heck said after the yipping went off to the south of them.
“Damn sure no coyote,” Slocum said in a low voice.
“Not a very good call either.”
“No. I’m going back to Mary. You take care.”
“He ain’t no better than that, I might sneak up on him.”
“That’s your call. Be careful.”
“I will.” Heck rubbed the back of his neck. “I like this old world too well to take many chances.”
Slocum left him to join Mary. He dropped down on his haunches beside where she sat on the bedroll with the Colt in her hand. No sign of the would-be raiders—then he heard the rustle of a rawhide sole on some twigs and made a shushing sound to her. He eased the hammer back on the rifle as the figure with a headband and a lance came into Slocum’s starlit view.
With a steady aim, he squeezed the trigger and the barrel belched orange fire and smoke. There was a sound like a thud on a watermelon and the lance flew into the ground before the buck. Slocum’s second shot staggered him some more and he went down.
At the sharp cry to his left, Slocum rose to his feet. It was not Heck’s voice and he couldn’t see anything. Two figures were running in the starlight toward the west.
“Stay here,” Slocum said to Mary, and took off running after them. Anyone that escaped only meant more would return. Comanche were the poorest runners of any tribe, but those two had a good start and their short bow legs were churning ground under the stars.
Soon Heck, armed with a pistol in his fist, was running beside him.
“Can’t let ’em—get away.” Heck huffed out the words.
“Right . . .”
One of the raiders stopped and turned as if to fire an arrow at them. On the run, Slocum took him out with a single rifle shot. The Indian dropped his bow and fell on the ground crying in pain. Both Slocum and Heck topped the rise, and Slocum saw one of the raiders already on his mount, another trying to get aboard his frightened horse.
Heck deliberately shot the pony under the one in the saddle. The paint horse reared, screaming in pain. Then the horse fell over backward before the Comanche could get clear of him and m
ashed its rider. The last one, unable to mount, charged Slocum and Heck in suicidal fashion, and ran into a volley of their hot lead that stopped him in his tracks.
“Had to shoot the horse or he’d been gone,” Heck said.
“Yeah.” Slocum nodded that he understood. Their lives depended on those young bucks never returning to their camp and reporting this night. Revenge for their death would have been something kinfolk would have needed to attend to. Slocum turned his ear to the night—nothing but a hoot owl and the hard-breathing horse struggling on the ground.
“We better be damn sure they’re dead,” Heck said, and Slocum agreed.
“I’ll check on the two back there and see about Mary,” Slocum said.
“Fine. I’ll be damn sure we’ve got these two.”
Slocum had not gone far until he heard two shots. One no doubt was for the horse—number two the injured Comanche on the ground. Tough world they lived in, but there was no room for mistakes in this business. When he knelt in the starlight and checked for a pulse below the ear of the Comanche who had charged them, he found he was dead.
Mary came running to meet him. “You—you all right?”
“Yes. Heck is too.”
“I—I heard shots.”
He hugged her shoulder. “They’re all dead. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, I was so scared.” She trembled under his left arm as he held her against his chest.
“They won’t bother anyone ever again.”
“Good. I’ll make some coffee. I don’t suppose any of us can sleep after this.”
“Good idea. We’ll have to bury them.”
She nodded and gathering her skirt, rushed off to camp ahead of him.
He looked back in the night’s glow and waited for Heck, who was coming.
“How many horses?” he asked Heck when he caught up.
“Oh, I think they had a couple extra. Maybe stolen ranch horses.”
Slocum clapped him on the shoulder. “Beats having to break them.”
“Damn sure does.” Heck chuckled. “Don’t guess them vaqueros will care. A horse is a horse to them.”
Slocum nodded. Where was Paco? He was overdue to be back. Something was keeping him—either pussy or high water. And Slocum doubted high water was the problem.
After breakfast, they buried the four in a common grave and rode their horses back and forth over it to hide as much sign as possible. They’d gained two cap-and-ball pistols and a single-shot trapdoor rifle with a pouch of ammo. No doubt stolen from one of the Indians’ victims on the war trail. Also two good saddles and pads. When they gathered their new horses, two big stout brown horses showed collar marks. Slocum was pleased. They’d make a team for the cart. The new horse tally came to forty-four.
“This is a damn sight easier than breaking them,” Heck said, and laughed aloud when Slocum wrote the new ones down in his tally book.
“Just so folks don’t think we stole them, we’ll be all right.”
Heck took off his hat and checked the midday sun. “You have a point.”
“It could happen.” Slocum tucked the tally book and lead pencil in his saddlebag. “We’ve got more worries than that if Paco don’t come back soon.”
“Guess you’re right.”
10
Slocum heard the bells first. He was scouting cattle in a wide draw when he first heard them, and turned his left ear toward the ringing sound. Pushing his horse to the rise, he could see a caravan of carts, horses, streamers fluttering, even some cattle and sheep being driven along with them. Was that Paco? He short-loped the bay toward them, seeing the familiar sombrero of the rider on the black lead horse. It was no doubt his overdue partner, but he must have brought his entire village along. What would they do with all of them? This was a cattle drive—not a pilgrimage.
“Ha, mi amigo. Bet you thought I was never coming.”
Slocum nodded, noticing several attractive women on foot walking beside the carts. “I thought you went for vaqueros, not families.”
“Oh, it is hard to get men to come.” He shrugged under his thick vest. “So I brought some women. That helped. Some of them can ride too. Some are only good for fucking, but what the hell, we can use them too.” He laughed aloud. “You have any trouble?”
“Some Comanches dropped in.”
Paco grinned and gave a nod to Heck, who was riding up to meet them. “Who is he?”
“Our new partner. He’s a good man. Name’s Heck. We have forty-four horses.”
“Oh, you two have been very busy. I brought two dozen. A man owed me money in Mexico. I took his horses as payment.”
“Good. We’re close to the number we need. We have to unyoke the rest of the cattle and head north. No rain and the feed is getting short around here.”
“Good. How is the señora?”
“Fine, she’ll be excited.”
“About me coming back?”
“No, she’ll have some women to talk to.”
Paco laughed. “There are ten men and two boys and two of the women who can ride like sandburs. The other women are camp helpers.”
Heck reined up his bald-faced horse and blinked at the caravan. “What did he bring?”
“A fiesta to take to Missouri.”
His hat in his hand, Heck shook his head in disbelief at what he saw. “Hell, there are even sheep.”
“To eat,” Paco said. “The sheep you can cook them for one or two meals before they spoil. They are cheap too.”
“Paco, meet Heck.”
The two men rode in close and shook hands. A friendly exchange of words and Paco said, “Ah, you would like Rosa. She is a good one.”
“Hell—” Heck scratched his rumpled hair looking after the women. “I’d like anything.” They all laughed.
The camp was soon bustling. Slocum met several of the new men. Their names flew by him as he organized the group to repair saddles. Paco had brought several extra old saddles, and some of the men had their own. Many needed severe work, and Slocum sent the youngest boy, Tomas, to Rio Frio to get copper rivets, girths, and a couple of leather hides to finish the job. There were enough hulls, if they could be repaired, that the crew would all have saddles.
The women butchered a sheep and began to cook it on a spit. Two of the vaqueros on horseback dragged in mesquite to keep the fire going. Slocum had spoken to Mary twice since they arrived, and she sounded in good spirits over the women. By sundown, all but the worst rigs were fixed and the crew was ready to eat the frijoles, rich mesquite-smelling sheep, and tortillas.
Tomas returned and Slocum went to meet the boy. He took the two hides wrapped in a roll from him and the youth jumped down.
“How did it go?”
“Fine. He gave me some candy.”
“You had a wonderful day then?”
“Sí, Señor Slocum.” The boy was busy undoing the latigos to remove the saddle. “Oh, this is a wonderful horse.”
“He single-foots.”
“It is very fast too. Oh, the man sent you a message.” He reached inside his shirt and handed Slocum a paper damp with the youth’s sweat.
Slocum set the leather down beside his leg, turned the note toward the last light in the west, and read the pencil scrawl.
Slocum,
Beware. I have word that Matt is close by in Mexico. Herman Goeserman
How close? Slocum had all the responsibility for this herd, for all these people. No way he could simply haul up stakes and go look for that killer. Settling with Matt would have to wait until the drive was over. In the meantime, maybe some Good Samaritan might do the world a big favor and send Matt to hell.
“News?” Mary asked, joining them.
“Goeserman sent a note that Matt is somewhere in Mexico.”
“Close by?”
He shook his head to dismiss her concern and picked up the roll of leather. “We don’t have time to mess with him. We need these cattle unyoked and moved to more grass and water.”
“We can
start in the morning,” Paco said, joining them.
“Goeserman wrote that Matt is in Mexico.”
“Ah, I would like to kill him.”
“That makes two of us.” Slocum shook his head. “We’ve got too much at stake here. His funeral can wait.”
“What will we do next?”
“Start roping and unyoking cattle.”
Paco nodded as they walked to the campfire. “Sí, that will be a big job, but we have the horses.”
“And the vaqueros.”
“Oh, sí, they are good ropers.”
“Sunup let’s get started.”
One of the men, named Jerome, came and took the leather. “I can fix the rest of the saddles.”
“Good, the two boys can collect the good yokes with a cart. They might have some value,” Slocum said.
“Come and eat.” The woman called Matilda waved them toward the food. An ample-bodied woman in her thirties, she supervised the cooking.
Slocum had to agree the slow-cooked mesquite-flavored sheep was delicious. He sat cross-legged beside Mary and ate until he felt ready to burst. Much better than any fare they’d managed to rustle up.
“I would hire her,” Mary said, wiping her mouth on a kerchief.
“We may get fat on this run.” Slocum smiled and listened to Paco talking in Spanish to the crew. He made teams of the men and the two women dressed in vaquero leather clothing. Both were slender and short, but they looked very athletic in their moves. Estelle and Vonda Santiago were sisters. Their hair was cut short and they might have been taken for boys at first glance. Large sombreros rested on their shoulders and their skills as ranch hands, Slocum figured, were not to be underestimated.
The men were all in their late teens to twenties. In the fire’s reflection, they looked anxious to get this business under way.
“How far is Sedalia?” one asked Paco, who turned back to Slocum for the answer.
Slocum wiped his calloused hand over his whisker-bristled mouth and shook his head as if uncertain. “Three to four months away. That’s after the spring grass breaks out.”
The answer satisfied the man, who nodded in approval to the others around the fire. Guitars and fiddles began to liven up the night. Soon couples were dancing. Matilda came and asked Mary if she could dance with Slocum.