by Jake Logan
Only three cylinders were loaded. When it had been fired last, he wasn’t sure. “Take off your hat and go look around. Be sure they ain’t coming back.”
“Oh, dear God—” Shorty moaned, but he obeyed.
The cylinder was soon cleared and the firing holes under the nipples were cleared. Slocum felt the gun should fire for Shorty—if he could use it. Many enlisted men had never shot a pistol in the war or in their lives. Maybe they had had a shotgun at home, or even a .22. Shorty acted like a man with not much firing experience. Time would tell. This boy wasn’t the picture of bravery that Slocum would have liked to have—but Shorty was all that was available.
Slocum worked some lard over the rusty parts to make the gun operate smoother, then reloaded five cylinders and rested the hammer on the empty one. At this point, all he could do was pray they caught the four Indians off guard before they reached the main party.
He joined Shorty on the rim. “See anything of them?”
“No.”
“Stick it in your belt.” He handed him the revolver. “It’s loaded.”
Gingerly, Shorty took the weapon and stuck it behind his waistband. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I sure don’t.”
“I do.”
“Good, ’cause I’m about ready to puke over this deal.”
“We both may do that then. Let’s get our horses.”
17
They were bellied down and creeping toward the campfire that made an orange glow in the starlit sea of greasewood. Slocum led the way. Both of them were slithering like snakes to get close enough to surprise the camp. Pausing to take the stickers out of their hands at intervals, they inched toward their goal—the Comanche war party.
Dancing, stomping, and chanting, the Comanches sounded loud in the night. The bells rang clear when the wearer joined in the celebration. Comanches were not the most ceremonial people, not usually holding special dances like other tribes did. This was a man’s society. They respected only the virile, the buffalo hunter, the killer of his enemies, the mighty male. A male who didn’t measure up would be killed or commit suicide. Women were lowly servants and provided labor and children. A woman had to keep herself ugly and unkempt so no other man but her husband would desire her. She risked the loss of her nose if she didn’t obey. If her husband suspected she was having an affair with someone else, he would cut the tendons on her heels so she had to crawl about doing her work and tending her children.
Even mountain men ignored the unbathed Comanche women. One old man that Slocum had met in Saint Louis after the war called them all “rotten crotches.” Said they smelled worse than a dead cow. All his years on the frontier, he said, he always avoided the Comanches’ filthy camps and stinking females. It was the only pussy the old man said he ever passed up, and by his own admission he’d screwed some sorry ones in his day.
Using his elbows to propel him, Slocum advanced inches closer at a time. The tempo of the Indians’ hell-raising grew louder and faster. The drumbeat thumped like a bad headache in both of Slocum’s ears. When he glanced back, he could see Shorty coming after him. Good—despite all his fears, the cowboy was along for backup—good shot or not. Sometimes just having bullets flying helped. Slocum hoped his plan to surprise the Comanches worked.
Then he dried his sweaty right hand on the side of his leg, and paused for a moment. In the fire’s light he could make out the bloodred figure as he ripped off his loincloth and held the protruding erection in his hand. Scooting forward flat-footed as if advancing on some target with his long spear, he threw his head back and howled loud enough to cause the skin on the sides of Slocum’s face to draw up.
The captive girl’s scream filled the night. Those others must be holding her down for him, Slocum decided, since he could hear her struggling. Damn them.
“Now!” Slocum hissed, and was on his feet aiming down the rifle’s sight on the move. The rifle blasted an orange muzzle flash. The naked Indian staggered forward a few steps, then fell. Another rose up and Slocum took aim. He squeezed off the trigger and his bullet spun the screaming brave halfway around.
“Get that other one!” he shouted at Shorty.
The revolver bucked in Shorty’s hand as he shot at the third Indian, then rushed forward in pursuit of the last buck, who was fleeing the camp. Straddling bushes and jumping others, Shorty was hot on his trail. He fired all five shots before he drew to a halt.
Good, he got the fourth one. Slocum went to the girl’s side and knelt beside her, noting both bucks he had shot were on the ground and not moving. He dropped on his haunches beside her.
“You all right?”
Numbly, she nodded, sitting up and frantically pushing her tattered dress tail over her bare legs.
“Where’s the boy?”
She gave a nod toward the shadows, and Slocum saw the bound youth seated on his butt between two bushes. Slocum glanced in Shorty’s direction and shouted, “You get both of them?”
“Ya. . . .”
“You okay?”
“Hmmhmm.”
“What’s your name?” Slocum asked the girl. He’d have time for Shorty later.
“Darla.”
“Slocum’s my name. I better untie the boy.”
She nodded, still in shock. Slocum patted her shoulder and moved to the boy. “How are you?”
“Pretty scared,” he said in a small voice.
With his jackknife, Slocum cut the leather ties on his wrist and feet. “You all right now?”
“I think—think so—” He rubbed his sore wrists.
“Good. What’s your name?”
“Hertz.”
“Hertz, you see about Darla. She’s upset and we understand. Right?”
He nodded. “I was sure scared for her.”
“So was I. But she’s fine. I better check on Shorty.” He pushed off his knees and rose to his feet. Where was his man?
Then he saw the silhouette of his hat and strode over there. “You all right?”
“S-sure—just kinda sick to my stomach.”
“I understand.”
“No, I went though the whole damn war. I don’t think I ever shot a man. Oh, I shot, but I never knew if I hit anyone. I pissed all over myself at Corinth when them bluebellies charged us. Yet when I got up back there I knowed it was me or them. I didn’t care about nothing else.”
“It ain’t never easy.”
Obviously shaking, Shorty threw back his shoulders to reinforce himself. “I won’t ever be afraid again.”
“Afraid?”
“Ya, you know, afraid.”
“Good. We better find all their guns and ammo, what things they stole, and get out of here.”
“What about their bodies?”
“We’ll take them too and cave a dry wash bank over them somewhere else.”
Shorty nodded. “We can handle that. Slocum, you reckon you can even winter cattle out here?”
“I’ll figure a way.”
“I bet you do. What about the kids?”
“We’ll take them home.”
“Ya. I’d like to go home.” Shorty dropped his head as if in defeat.
“Where’s that?” Slocum asked.
“Hell, there ain’t one. My folks all died with the fever while I was in the war.”
“Lots of bad baggage. We’ve all got some. We better reload that pistol too.” Slocum turned on his heel and headed back for the camp.
“Yeah, Slocum. Do you need some help with them cattle? I mean, I’d work for my food.”
He paused, looked back at the man. “I might need some.”
“Good. I’ve got a chance then anyway.”
Slocum stopped, nodded, and then listened to the coyote’s mournful howling for his mate. “Let’s clean this up and move out of here.”
“Coming.”
Sixteen-year-old Hertz Von Louder said he lived near Mason. Fourteen-year-old Darla Rouse’s family’s place was nearby. Both had been herding their families’ sheep band
s on Oak Creek when the savages burst in and took them captive.Riding in the rear, Slocum led the two ponies loaded with the four bodies. Something about those two kids wasn’t being said. He couldn’t put his finger on it. The kids’ stories did not sound alike, like they were covering something up. The notion niggled at him as he rode on.
At mid-morning, they buried the four bucks under a dry wash bank they caved in on top of them. It was a relief to have the burden gone. It was a good job, and after much tracking around to confuse any red tracker that might want to investigate, they rode on to the Bar C headquarters.
The place was situated on a shallow brown stream that shifted from sandbar to sandbar. A few gnarled cottonwoods lined the bank. The place was adobe-walled about six feet high around the perimeter. Slocum considered it defensible with repeating rifles. The jacales were in poor repair, but the large pens inside the compound could hold a large cavvy at night.
The desert graze in the area looked like the rest of Texas west of the hill country, sparse dried bunchgrass in the creosote brush, but ample enough to winter on. The colonel had had a good idea planning to use the Bar C for his winter quarters—save for the Comanche. That would be their worst enemy—but a half-dozen repeating rifles in the hands of defenders might be enough to run them off. That and some blasting powder charges set off at intervals might persuade any Indian to leave and stay away.
“What’re you thinking now?” Shorty asked, breaking into his thoughts.
“Who owns this place now?”
“Damned if I know. I heard they were all killed by Injuns.”
Slocum was watching the two white captives talking to each other in the shade. Still, there was something there untold. He shook his head and turned back to Shorty.
“They ain’t told it all to us, have they?” the cowboy asked in a hushed voice.
“Not yet. No idea of the owner’s name?”
“No. Wonder what they’re hiding from telling us.”
“Let’s head back for Mason. I expect their folks will be glad to see them.”
Shorty nodded, but from his look, Slocum knew he wasn’t satisfied.
They rode into the night, leading the kids’ horses and two spare ponies while Darla and Hertz rode buffalo ponies. They were drawing close to Mason when Hertz asked Slocum to stop.
Thinking the boy had to piss, he halted the train. The youth pushed his pony in close. “Mr. Slocum. We can’t go home.”
With a frown, Slocum pushed his hat up and looked hard in the night’s dim light for an answer. “Why not?”
“Her father will put her away in a convent.”
“Why?”
“Cause she’s ah—soiled.”
“You think she’s soiled?”
“No—no—I love her.”
“Then why is he going to think that?”
“ ’Cause—’cause them Injuns done it to her.”
Slocum could hear her sobbing on her horse a few feet away. “He will, he will,” she cried.
“Can you support a wife?”
“If I had a job.”
“How good are you with figures?”
“I know all my tables. I can make change. I had five years of schooling.”
“What are you thinking?” Shorty asked.
“I’m wondering if a judge would marry them when we get to Mason.”
“For two bucks, Henry Brower would marry a billy goat. He’s the justice of the peace.”
“I’ve got five dollars. Ride in and get him. We’ll wait here. We’ve got to wash the bride’s face. You’ll find us. Bring the judge.” Shorty headed for town in the dark.
Hertz blinked his eyes and hugged Darla, who’d run over to him. “That easy?” he asked Slocum.
“Nothing is going to be easy. But if you two are sure this is the answer, I’ll help you.”
“Her father told me in no uncertain terms not to herd my sheep close to hers. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen and he beat her over it.”
Slocum scratched under the too-long hair on his neck. “You ever keep books for a business?”
“No, but I can learn how.”
“This outfit needs a bookkeeper.”
“Yes, sir. What does it pay?”
“Food and a place for both of you till we get to Abilene.”
“Where’s that?”
“Kansas. Then you’ll get your wages.”
“Good.”
“You can tell me in Kansas how good it was.”
“Will this work?” she asked in a small voice. “Will we really be married?”
“As far as God and the State of Texas are concerned you will be.”
“He—he can’t beat her anymore?”
“No, Hertz. She’ll be yours.”
“Oh, I won’t ever beat her.”
“Better not because I’m going to be your best man here this morning and I ever hear of it, I’ll come back and beat you.”
They laughed.
When the sun was coming up, Shorty returned with a passel of folks driving buggies, carriages, hacks, buckboards, and on horseback and even on mules. They carried flowers and food. Slocum was not too pleased with his entourage, thinking a simple ceremony in the middle of the dusty wagon tracks would be good enough.
“This is Henry,” Shorty announced to Slocum, and the man removed a top hat and bowed.
“I understand you wish my services, sir.”
“I do. Hertz and Darla wish to be joined in matrimony.”
“Oh, my, they are both alive and safe?” He looked at the throng of people surrounding them.
“Get to hitching them,” Slocum said.
“Now?”
“Right now.” Slocum waved his hand high enough for Hertz to see it. “Get over here. The wedding is about to proceed.”
Women were swooning, carrying their skirts and running in a mob. The men were asking Hertz many questions until the two stopped before the judge.
“Hush!” Slocum shouted, and the judge began his ceremony.
“We are gathered here today—”
“Stop! Stop!” I was a man who’d rushed up in a buggy, waving and shouting. “No!”
“Shorty, go shut him up for the duration of the service.” Slocum’s frown of impatience even silenced the onlookers’ whispering. “Your Honor, proceed.”
The cowboy rushed to obey him and confronted the man. After a brief exchange of words, Shorty clubbed him over the head with his pistol. The man went down and silence reigned.
“. . . I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Everyone cheered. They rushed the young couple with congratulations and a million questions about the kidnapping. A large woman pulled on Slocum’s sleeve. “Come, we got breakfast for everyone.”
Good, he could use some. “I’m coming.”
“You have wife?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said as she towed him toward a wagon tailgate laden with food.
She leaned over as if to examine him as they went by, and then straightened. “She don’t feed you so good.”
They both laughed.
He and Shorty were seated cross-legged on the ground in the shade of a farm wagon. Both of them were nursing their third or fourth beer. It was stout dark beer too. Not pulque.
“Hated I had to bust him over the head, but that Rouse fella wasn’t going to shut up.”
Slocum clinked his glass mug to Shorty’s. “I’ve got to hand it to you, you damn sure weren’t afraid either.”
“No, I wasn’t, was I?”
18
Hertz and his bride drove a small carriage after them. Shorty led the Indian ponies and Slocum rode Roan in the lead. When they reached the herd, there seemed to be more people there. The women came rushing out drying their hands to greet them.
Mary had a bundle in her arms, so Slocum smiled. Little Heck was still making it.
Paco rode in at a short lope. He reined up hard short of Slocum. “How you do?”
Slocum used his fingers. “Got us a ranch to use. Got us some credit.” He held the third finger. “Shorty here’s a cowboy. Got a bookkeeper, Hertz, and his wife, Darla, and four more ponies.”
Standing in the stirrups and looking over the new horses, Paco scowled. “Did I send you off to kill Comanches?”
Slocum shook his head. “They simply got in the way.”
Both men laughed.
Slocum used his tongue to loosen a strand of jerky from breakfast and nodded. “Plus a place we can winter the herd. It isn’t heaven, but it has some live water and should keep the cattle in the area without lots of riding herd.”
“You learn anything about the colonel up there?”
Slocum shook his head and indicated Shorty. “He talked to him when he was up there. But the colonel only told him he needed ox yokes and was going to use the Bar C, the place we looked at.”
Shorty nodded.
Paco shook his head. “You ain’t the bookkeeper then.”
“Naw, that’s Hertz. I’m just the cowboy.”
“Bueno, we need them too.” With a tip of his sombrero to the married pair in the buggy, Paco turned his horse and waved them toward camp.
“What do you really think of this place to spend the winter?” Paco asked Slocum riding stirrup to stirrup with him.
“Good enough. It’s no fancy hacienda. With a few more Spencers we can defend it from the Comanche.”
“What else you learn up there?”
“We’re taking the herd to Abilene, Kansas.”
“I thought Missouri.”
“New deal. Joe McCoy is the man and he’s got a market out on the prairie.”
“What about Sedalia?”
“We’re going to Abilene.”
Paco frowned and shook his head in dismay. “How do you ever get there?”
“Pretty simple,” Shorty said. “There’s tracks all the way and he’s plowed a furrow the last quarter of the way.”
“Good, you can be the guide.” Paco threw his head back and laughed louder. “Slocum, you are some hombre.”
Mary and her baby met them.
“How’s he doing?” Slocum asked, dismounting and giving his reins to Tomas.
“He’s doing just fine.” She showed the sleepy red face, which yawned at him.