Slocum and the Comanche Captive

by Jake Logan

  15

  Mason was a small frontier town hugging the edge of Comanche territory with its backside against the hill country and facing the flatter desert country to the west. It had been settled mostly by Germans, and the Lutheran church’s spire stood above the live oak trees. Slocum stopped at the public watering trough and watered Roan. While he was busy undoing the girth, he eyed the row of saloons and businesses. Where would he start looking for someone who knew anything about Colonel Banks’s plans to winter a herd around there?

  When Roan was through drinking his fill, Slocum led him across the dusty street to the rack in front of Marcham’s Saloon. The black letters were painted on the plank-board false front. He hitched Roan, went through the swinging doors, and stood in the sour-smelling, dark room, letting his eyes adjust.

  “Velcome to Mason!” a man with a thick black beard shouted from behind the bar.

  Three men playing cards at a side table hardly paid him any interest. He ventured over and studied the large mirror on the back bar. Much larger than most. He nodded to the man.

  “Vat you want?” the man asked.

  “A cold beer?”

  “I got cool beer. No ice in dis country.”

  “Draw me a cool one then.” Slocum smiled at the big man.

  “You are passing through?”

  “I’m really seeking some information. A man named Colonel Banks planned on using some grazing land around here this fall and winter.”

  The man shrugged and delivered the mug overflowing with foam. “Could be. Dere is lots of grazing west of town. Open range, huh?”

  “You never heard of a Colonel Banks?”

  “No, my name is Marcham.” He offered his hand and they pressed the flesh over the bar.

  “Slocum’s mine. I guess the colonel came through here, saw that range, and decided it would be a good place to winter.” When his host nodded, Slocum raised the mug and sipped the cool beer. Not cold, but at least evaporatively cooled. He nodded his approval and dug out a dime to pay.

  A short man rose from the card game and came over. “My name’s Smith. I know the colonel. Where is he?”

  “Well, Mr. Smith, that’s a mystery too. His crew was murdered and we were unable to find his body at the scene.”

  “Smith’s good enough, I ain’t no mister.”

  “Where did you know the colonel from?”

  “War. I served under him.”

  Slocum nodded and raised the mug for another sip. “When did you see him last?”

  “About nine months ago here. He was trying to buy a bunch of neck yokes.”

  “Did he lease any outfit for his winter headquarters around here you know about?”

  Smith shook his head. “Told me he was going to use the old Bar C.”

  “No one live there now?”

  “Pack rats and jackrabbits.”

  Slocum set down his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What happened to the Bar C?”

  “What gets all them folks that try to go too far out there—Comanches got them.”

  “Is there water out there?”

  “You don’t sound any smarter than Banks did.”

  Slocum hoisted the glass for another drink. This sawed-off puncher sounded like he knew enough to get him there. “I’m probably not. Can you show me the place?”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon?”

  “It’ll take some time to get out there. A half-day ride out there. I don’t know, it may be all burned down by now.”

  “I’d like to see it. I’d pay you to take me out there.”

  Smith nodded and hitched up his pants. “I could sure use a beer.”

  “Mr. Marcham, draw my friend a cool one.”

  “Coming up.”

  Slocum put his elbows on the bar and studied his own dust-floured personage in the mirror back of the bar. Not very impressive-looking for a man who needed a couple thousand bucks worth of credit for food and supplies until spring broke nine months from then. No need in going much farther if he couldn’t find any.

  “Who’s the biggest merchant in town?” he asked the two.

  “Goldman,” Marcham said, and Smith nodded.

  “I need some supplies for this drive. He worth talking to?”

  “Charges a hundred percent interest.”

  “I could stand that.”

  “What’ve you got for collateral?” Smith asked, using a kerchief to wipe his mustache dry from the foam off his beer.

  “A thousand steers and seventy horses.”

  “He might talk to you.” Smith looked at the barman with a questioning look.

  Marcham frowned his thick black eyebrows. “Vere you going to sell them?”

  “Sedalia, Missouri.”

  “No more. They got all the roads barred up there. They say the longhorns got tick fever and it kills their cattle.”

  “Well, someone needs them.” Slocum looked at both of them. He’d find a market.

  Marcham shook his head in surrender, like he didn’t believe there was any use in talking anymore. “They gawdamn sure ain’t worth much down here. You can go talk to Goldman.”

  “Reckon I can. Where will I meet you in the morning?” he asked Smith.

  “Here. I’ll be ready whenever.”

  “Sunup. I’ll be out in front.”

  “I’ll have my horse and kit. You getting us a few things to eat?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Ain’t no damn cafés out there.”

  Slocum paid for the beers and nodded. Best he went and found Goldman next. Wondering what sort of a man the merchant was, he stepped out in the afternoon glare and squinted against it. Across the street, the faded letters were on the adobe wall: GOLDMAN MERC. The rest of the letters were gone. Folks no doubt knew what the large building contained—no need in wasting money on another sign.

  The store smelled of raw wool—a smell of sheep that penetrated his sinuses with a strong whang when he stepped inside the doorway. A sheep bell rang overhead, and a pair of sharp dark eyes cut through the store’s shadowy interior piled high with merchandise on tables, a mountain of one-size-fits-all shoes, sandals, straw hats, overalls, bolts of material, blankets, scrapes, ponchos, rolls of leather cowhides, hardware, and tools.

  “What’s your pleasure, mister?” the man asked with a ring of impatience in his tone. Bent over some figures he worked on, he barely gave Slocum a glance.

  “The name Colonel Banks mean anything to you?”

  He indicated no, and some of the black hair fell over his forehead. “Should it?”

  “He said he planned to winter a large herd of cattle around here.”

  The man shook his head as if he’d had enough of their conversation, and went back to his calculation on the butcher paper atop the counter with a pencil. “Plenty of land around here. He could do it anywhere.”

  “No, the colonel was going to do it around here at Mason.”

  “Where is this colonel now?” The man looked up hard at Slocum.

  “I don’t know. Some no-good outlaws shot his camp up and killed all his men. We couldn’t find his body.”

  “What’s all that got to do with me?”

  “I need a stake for enough grub to get my crew through till spring.”

  “I ain’t charity.”

  “I’ve got a thousand steers.”

  The man looked up at him and then used his forearm to straighten upright. “Well, they’re about as valuable as lily pads are around here.”

  “I’m taking them to Sedalia and the railhead in the spring.”

  “What’re they worth there?”

  “Ten cents a pound.”

  “That makes an eight-hundred-pound steer worth eighty dollars.”

  Slocum nodded.

  “And how do I know you’ll ever come back and pay me?”

  Slocum shook his head slowly and picked up a new jackknife off the counter to examine it. “Mister, ain’t nothing certain but death. However,
if I don’t get killed, I’ll be back in the fall to pay you.”

  “I charge a hundred percent interest. A barrel of flour costs you twenty dollars—cash ten.”

  With a nod to show that he’d heard the man, he set the knife back down. “I savvy. Do we have a deal?”

  “Most men would scream at those prices.”

  “I’m a realist and I’ll pay you.”

  “So you are. When’ll your herd be coming in here?” He backed up and parked his butt on the low counter behind him. “Say your name once more.”

  “Slocum. They’ll be up here in a week or so.”

  “Slocum, my name’s Estes Goldman.”

  Slocum stuck out his hand and they shook.

  “I’ve got a paper here you might want to read.” Goldman reached under the counter and brought out a printed page. “Fella came by here a few days ago talking about a new market. Out in Kansas.”

  “Where?”

  “You ever heard of Abilene?”

  “No, sir.” Slocum looked at the signature on the bottom. Joe McCoy. Who in the hell was he?

  “New shipping point. Past the damn farmers. It might be for real. This fella came in by here and talked my leg off about it last week. I says, who’s dumb enough to go up there with cattle?”

  “His reply?”

  “Anyone that likes the color of money.”

  “This McCoy was here?” Slocum asked, thumping his fingers on the name.

  “No, he said McCoy was building pens up there this winter.”

  “What did you think?”

  Goldman raised both eyebrows and nodded. “I believe I’d head for there if I had any cattle to sell. Them stories about Bald Knobbers and guerrillas in Arkansas and Missouri don’t sound good.”

  “You get me enough grub to feed this outfit to get us up there, and I’ll pay your twenty dollars a barrel.”

  Goldman stuck out his hand and they shook on it. “Slocum, where’re you going next?”

  “Bar C in the morning. Some cowboy’s showing me the way out there. I need a place to hold them till spring.”

  “A man ain’t got any more sense than drive cattle due north would go there.”

  “You got a better place to winter a thousand head?”

  “No. But it’s too close to the Comanches for me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Does any bank own them cattle?”

  “Nope, not now. Paco and I do.”

  “Guess I’ll meet this Paco in time.”

  Slocum nodded. “You will, and I get set up, I’ll be after that high-priced grub.”

  Goldman nodded his head slowly as if considering the matter. “If you got any hair left, you will.”

  Slocum left the store with some jerky, dried cheese, and crackers in a poke to take on the trip out to the Bar C. He wondered about the Indian threat. Must be serious. Still, he needed the place to winter—going very far north this time of year would only lead to disaster. When the new grass appeared in the spring, then he’d—The words on the bill said take the wagon tracks north from the Red River to Jesse Chisholm’s trading post at Council Oaks, then use Jesse’s Road to the Salt Fork of the Arkansas, and from that point follow the new furrow and piles of sod to Abilene. The trail was well marked, the bill said.

  It better be. It sure better be.

  16

  The next morning Slocum met Smith and learned he was called Shorty. He had a wide-brim hat, a neck rag of gray silk, batwing chaps, a vest to pocket his tobacco makings in, a longhorn mustache all twisted at the ends. He was too bowlegged to hire to herd hogs. They’d all escape running under him. Slocum bought them each some hot tamales from a Mexican woman in the street.

  Her coffee was a shade bitter, but Slocum had a notion that when he got back from this trip it might be flavorful. After Slocum paid her, Shorty mounted a bay horse that snorted wearily in the dust. With his saddle and lariat tied on, he looked real enough. Time would tell the rest. They set out west through the low greasewood and mesquite. There was some dried bunchgrass, and Slocum figured those old brush-eaters would find enough to exist on till spring.

  Close to noon, Slocum heard something that sounded like bells, and indicated by hand signal for Shorty to head into the cover of the dry wash.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got us company,” Slocum hissed at his protest. He couldn’t see anything, but he’d heard the bell. It might be a sheep bell, but he wanted to take no chances. In the wash, he dismounted and gave the pale-faced Shorty the reins to his horse.

  “Keep them quiet. I’m going to sneak a peek and try to see who’s out there.”

  Shorty’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard. “Yes, sir.”

  Slocum removed his hat and climbed to the top of the wash. From there he could make out four bucks—rusty red-colored skin, their braided hair the same color from the dirt, filthy eagle feathers flopping in the rising wind. They were wearing loincloths of leather and moccasins heels that beat a tattoo on their animals’ ribs. They led two white captives on horses. One of the bucks beat the lagging horses with his quirt to make them jog. That was the source of the ringing.

  Another buck carried a rifle. The other two were armed with bows and arrows. At a medium range they could sink an arrowhead into someone’s heart. In fact, most Indians were more dangerous with bows and arrows than firearms.

  The white bone vest of one Indian looked like it was made from polished ivory, with bright brass beads on it for decoration. They were not boys, but hard-faced men. The two children’s tears had streaked their dirty faces, but the boy and girl were long past crying.

  “Holy Jesus,” Shorty said in a whisper from beside him.

  “Get back to them horses. They whinny one time, we’re dead meat.”

  “Yes, sir.” Shorty fled.

  Dumb sumbitch anyway. He could get them both killed. Slocum’s eyes were still focused on the Indian lashing the horses. Over the rising wind he could still hear his bells. Tiny silver ones.

  What could he do about the captives? Nothing much. Shorty wouldn’t be any help. If Paco was there, they could take on the four of them. But his one-eyed partner was miles south with the herd. If Slocum managed to get the children away from them and any of the bucks escaped him, they’d bring back a pack of savages to kill him. Yet—he still needed to do something.

  What? Good question. Send Shorty after help? Slocum couldn’t imagine him raising a tough posse out of those German farmers he’d seen on the street in Mason. Ill-armed and inadequate would sum up their fighting ability even against only four warriors.

  When the Comanche went over the next rise, he slipped back in the dry wash. When he spotted Shorty by the horses, the man was pissing a full stream out of a dick that would have made a donkey proud.

  “Damn, are they gone?” He looked to be uncontrollably shaken by the encounter.

  “For now.”

  “For now?” His voice was shrill and his blue eyes blinked in disbelief.

  “Hush. They’ve got two children as hostages.”

  “Well-well-what the shit can we do—do about that.”

  “Try to get them back.”

  “Holy sweet Jesus. You—you’re crazy. Nuts. They’ll kill us too.”

  “Those are children out there.”

  “No—no—they ain’t got a chance anyway, so why we going to get killed?” He swallowed hard.

  “ ’Cause we ain’t savages. You got a gun?”

  “Sure, but I ain’t—”

  “Get it out and be sure it’s loaded. I have a .44, this Spencer, and a .30-caliber five-shot pistol in my saddlebags.”

  Shorty fumbled in his things. “I ain’t no damn pistolero.”

  At last, Shorty produced a handgun. He handed it to Slocum and then took a wild look around.

  “I thought you were in the army,” Slocum said. He looked at the rusty weapon Shorty had handed him. “This thing hasn’t been fired—”

  “Been years since I found
it.”

  “I can see that. We better disassemble it and start over. It’s .44 caliber. My ammo will fit it.”

  “I got over killing folks and me being in the line of fire in the war. I ain’t going no Comanche hunting with you. Captives or no captives.”

  “Well, you can run back to town. They might not catch you.” ’1

  “Catch me? Why? Why?”

  “Just shut up,” Slocum said. “You can take this pistol and ride with me and try to help me. Or you can run off.”

  “Help you?” Shorty’s voice became shriller.

  “Help me. Now settle down. We have four firearms. They have one.”

  “Bow, arrows, axes, knives. Shit fire, they cut folks’ nuts off alive and eat them raw in their faces.”

  “They ever do that to you?” Slocum went for his extractor. He needed to unload the weapon, clean it best he could, and reload it for the obviously shaken cowboy.

  “Nooo—and once more, they ain’t getting the chance to do that to me.”

  “Well, I can clean and reload this pistol and then we can go see how tough they really are. Or you can run back to town and cry like a baby. What’ll it be?”

  “You figure there may be more of them, don’t you? More between here and town?”

  “I figure usually they have several small bands out capturing children, and they’ll be joining back up at some camp later.”

  Shorty nodded like he had all the information under his hat. “I fought in Mississippi. I never knew why. I hated that skeeter country. I hated cotton. I fought them bluebellies for acres of it. In the end we lost. I came home barefooted, busted down. For six months I couldn’t even get up a hard-on.”

  “That’s bad. But them two kids deserve our help.”

  “Worse’n bad. I was just coming back from all that. I mean, I could finally sleep at night—now.”

  “What if you were that boy? Wouldn’t you want someone to save you?”

  “Hell, yes, but I ain’t no hero. I wasn’t a hero in the war and I ain’t improved none since then. You can fix that pistol—but—but I ain’t no hand with shooting one.”

  Slocum drew out the first ball with the T-shaped screw.