Slocum and the Comanche Captive

by Jake Logan

  “Shorty cut lots of sign over west this morning. I’m calling in the horses until we know more.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Saddle up and go scout for them.”

  Paco grinned. “You know, I was getting bored laying around here.”

  “Bring a rifle, we may have all the excitement we need if we do find them.”

  “Tomas, catch the horses Juan left for us today.”

  “Sí, patrón.” The youth ran off to get them.

  “Be ready in minutes,” Slocum said. He went back inside and squatted by the fire. With a kerchief for a pot holder, he refilled his coffee cup. Mary sat cross-legged sewing a buckskin seat in his other pair of britches. She met his gaze.

  “They finally came, huh?”

  “Maybe. I’ll be back.” He looked at little Heck sitting atop a blanket next to Mary, playing with a smooth bone he could chew on.

  “He and I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  “Take care of her, little man.” He rose, kissed her on top of the head, then went for his gun and hat. “Don’t wait up.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  He nodded and went outside. A buttermilk sky shut off the sun. He jammed the rifle in the scabbard. There were half a dozen tubes of ammo sticking out of his bags. He tossed up the stirrup and checked the girth. Then he swung aboard and headed for Paco. Comanche time.

  21

  “How bad are you hit?” Slocum shouted to Paco over his shoulder as he spurred his horse hard and gave him rein with his left hand.

  “My left arm. I can ride. Go!”

  For a second, he hesitated, then shook his head in disapproval. “ ”Ride like hell. There’s too damn many of them for us to fight them here.”

  “I’m coming—”

  Damn. They’d found a whole band of them. Their hair-raising screaming and yipping like coyotes told him the war party was coming hard, and they were over a mile away from the Bar C compound. He’d never wanted to test his drilling of the crew on what to do like this. What worried him the most was how he and Paco could make it to the ranch.

  “Go off there.” He pointed. Paco never argued, and reined his pony off the side with him. They took their horses off a steep bank into a dry wash. A ploy Slocum hoped would confuse them. But sliding down the bank, he saw more angry painted faces and screaming Comanches coming from the left down the wash at them.

  He managed to turn the horse he rode, and so did Paco. They tore down the dry bed. No need to shoot at them, he’d never hit one. His heart in his throat, he lashed the pony to go faster and they charged the hill. How many bucks were there, a hundred? Fifty? Sounded like ten thousand of them all screaming—making bloodcurdling noises all around them. But their hard-breathing horses were maintaining a distance that kept the bow hunters out of range. Then he could see the outline of the ranch headquarters. He spurred and whipped the bay harder. The animal gave a surge, and Paco’s mount on his right did the same, like they knew the ranch might save them too.

  Slocum chanced a glance back. He could see a black-faced buck on a fast paint with a lance charging in the lead. That Comanche wanted one of them on his stabber. Slocum drew his pistol and cocked it—he might not hit the buck, but if he shot the horse, he’d stop him. How did they get in this mess anyway?

  Shot one. Nothing. The brave had his horse wound up and was gaining. This shooting off a galloping horse might be foolish. Maybe he should be making his horse run faster. He snapped off another shot—no results. Time to cut or shoot. He twisted more this time in the saddle. Took aim and fired. The paint went nose-down in the dirt, his rider under him, and the lance spilled away.

  His wreck caused a pileup of horses and Comanche. Slocum glanced back at the diversion—might be what they needed.

  “Madre de Dios! You stopped him.” Paco went to urging his mount on faster.

  “If they don’t open that gate, we’ll have to jump the wall,” Slocum shouted over the wind in his face at his partner, who was riding stride for stride beside him.

  “I can’t pull him up enough with one good arm.”

  “Better hope they move the carts in the gate then.”

  Paco, white-faced and strained-looking, nodded. They charged on. Arrows whizzed by them. It was serious. The war party didn’t want them to make it to the ranch. Those screaming bucks were getting real worked up about that in Slocum’s estimation. Less than a quarter mile left and both of their horses were running out of steam. Slocum could feel his pony losing speed.

  The distance cut in half, and Slocum saw the people at the ranch pull the carts aside and leave a space for them to enter. He could hear their people screaming for them to hurry. Hell, they were doing all they could.

  They both stood in the stirrups and drew the last bit left in their mounts. A war-painted buck aboard a wide-mouthed lathered horse swept in beside Slocum. His ax’s blade flashed in the sun. Slocum knew he’d never draw his gun in time to stop him and stay on his own horse. The brave swung his war ax at him. Slocum ducked and the brave missed. When he drew back again, a bullet from the compound stopped him in midair and he pitched out of the saddle.

  Slocum and Paco hit the gate and set down their horses in the yard. “Mary, see about Paco. He’s been shot.”

  He jerked his Spencer out of the scabbard along with several tubes from the saddlebags, and ran to the wall. When he reached the barrier, an explosion went off behind the mob of Comanches milling around on lathered horses. It bolted many of their mounts toward the wall and put them in easy gun range. The ranch rifles opened up. Then more blasting sticks thrown at them sent Indians and horses flying and the dust grew thicker. Slocum picked off targets he could see— horses or riders. No time to be particular.

  Then there was no more screaming, only horses in pain. Many animals lay in the field thrashing as the wind began to clear the dust away. The braves were gathered back farther away on their horses as if considering another charge. The blasting powder had made enough of an impression on them to take notice.

  Slocum looked up and down the line at the dust-floured faces of the crew and women. “Anyone wounded?”

  “No. ’Cept Paco.”

  “Good.”

  “They want more?” Toledo asked, ready with more armed blasting sticks.

  “They’re deciding that now.”

  “You wish you had a cannon?” Shorty asked.

  “We could sure use one. Couple of you run out there and get a few bows and arrows off those dead ones out there. I’ve got an idea.”

  He cut a couple of sticks of blasting powder in half, armed them with a blasting cap and fuse, then tied the first one on an arrow. “Give me the biggest bow.”

  “All right,” he said, drawing back the bow they brought him to test. “Here goes our Indian cannon. Light it.”

  He aimed high and the smoking charge made a tall arch. It exploded close to the ground and sent the Comanches running for their lives on equally frightened horses. His actions drew laughter from everyone.

  “They thought they were safe out there,” Montag said. “Now they know better.”

  “Comanches are like hornets, boys,” Slocum said as Paco, with his left arm in a sling, came from the jacal. “Sometimes you only make them madder.”

  “All our horses are in here and everyone is accounted for?” he asked.

  “So far so good.”

  “What now, general?” Paco teased with his arm in a sling. “Your army is ready, no?”

  “They ain’t done bad so far. How are you?”

  “I have a hole in my arm. The bullet went through. I think it will be fine.”

  Mary nodded and came over for Slocum to hug her. “He doesn’t get an infection, he’ll be fine.”

  Slocum nodded, and tried to see the Indians through the distant dust churned up by their horses and the wind. Rosa brought a pot of coffee, and the shy girl Gato gave them each a cup. He thanked the two and sipped on his with Mary close by.

  “
I saw you two coming and those-those killers right on your heels—I thought you might not make it.”

  “Hey, the Good Lord saved me and Paco was all.”

  She shook her head in disapproval.

  He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her forehead. “Mary, how can you doubt me?”

  “You’re bad, Slocum—bad.”

  “Paco, we got any whiskey?”

  “No. We got some wine.”

  “Let’s all have a drink and settle down. There is no telling what they’ll do next. Just a few glasses of wine. Don’t get drunk. They ain’t done with us yet.”

  He looked off to the south. They were still milling around down there. No telling.

  22

  Whether they had tired of the game or thought better of it, the Comanche had moved on. Slocum stood in the quiet predawn satisfied they were gone. Earlier, he’d been out beyond the wall, and saw no signs of them. They’d even left their dead on the field. It would be a mess to clean up—but the lesser of the evils when compared to more warfare.

  He wondered who was the chief of this bunch. Not that it mattered, but he’d heard many feared names. Walking Bear, Tall Man, He-Rides-Hard, all names on the frontier evoking awe and cold terror.

  “You learn anything?” Hertz asked, coming with his rifle.

  “No. I think they went on to easier pickings. Thanks for the good shot yesterday.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “My life is all. In the army they’d give you a medal.”

  “You gave me one, remember?”

  “Huh?”

  “Darla.”

  “Good enough then. But we aren’t even.”

  “Oh, Slocum, these people here no longer think I am some dumb German boy. I am accepted now. I am one of them. I am a man, no?”

  “A helluva man you’ve made. You made all the good trades for the oxen. If I have to leave, you will need to help Paco with the business end.”

  Hertz blinked his eyes as if shocked by his words. “Where will you go?”

  Slocum chewed on his lower lip. “I’m not certain. I simply might have to leave.”

  Hertz nodded. “I will always remember you and what you did for us. Her father was mean to her and he’d never let me marry her. I was not rich enough to suit him.”

  “I understood that. You remember then—there will be times that you will need to take charge of a situation and do it right.”

  “Yes—do it right.”

  In the weeks ahead, word came back. The Comanches wanted no part of the Bar C, which fought with thunder sticks. That was the gossip in Mason. Goldman told Slocum he’d heard that from a whiskey trader.

  “So you must have made a real impression on them?”

  Slocum shook his head. “Might only make us a bigger target they want to smash.”

  “True. You mean a challenge.”

  Slocum agreed. No telling about Indians—they could change their mind in a minute and get in a frenzy about anything. Especially full of some rotgut whiskey. The ranch hands had recovered two Spencers and four new Winchesters from the dead Indians at their gate. Someone was selling the Comanche guns and that bunch, in Slocum’s eyes, needed their hides tacked to the outhouse wall.

  When the moon went down in size, he set out for Fort Worth anxious to see what was in Heck Allen’s lockbox. The ride took four days and before he reached Fort Worth, he wrapped his right hand in a bandage he’d secured from a small crossroad store. Signing the register like Heck might be hard, but if no one questioned him and he couldn’t write— his plan might work. With Roan stabled, he went directly to the Texas State Bank and presented himself as Heck Allen.

  The man with small glasses who sat behind the lockbox service desk acted bored when Slocum told him his business.He had him sign an X that he witnessed, looking with disdain at the bandaged hand, and then showed him back to the vault. The small box was withdrawn and set on the small table in the great vault. The man said he’d put it back if Slocum couldn’t, and left him.

  Inside the metal box was a deed to a hundred and forty acres, some jewelry that must have been Heck’s mother’s, and a letter.

  In the event I have died, to whoever reads this—there is five hundred dollars in gold coins buried on Laney Crick. It came from the Riely, Texas, bank robbery— you can return it to them or spend it—suit yourself. Heck Allen.

  Slocum looked at the map. Shouldn’t be hard to find. A shovel, invest a little time, and he’d have the money. He put the deed and map inside his shirt, slid the box back in, then thanked the man going out. It was in the sunlight outside with a cold north wind sweeping his face when he finally relaxed.

  It took a day to find Laney Creek and the site off the Thomasville Road. He’d secured some canvas bags and found the place was unfenced. He used a steel rod to bring some river worms up by driving it in the ground and beating on it so the vibration would send them to the surface. With an empty tin can half full of fat ones, he found an eddy and a small logjam. With a hook, line, and cane pole, he fished there for a few hours, catching a few flopping bullheads and some pan fish to be sure he wasn’t drawing any attention.

  “Catching a mess?” a farmhand asked, coming down from the bridge and chewing on grass stem.

  “Yeah, I was raised on a crick and had to stop when I seen this one. Ain’t no creeks like this out where I ranch.”

  “Get west of here very fur and there ain’t no water.”

  “Right. I was just going to fish some here and fry me a mess and go on. No one’ll mind if I camp here, will they?”

  “Naw. Just curious. I better get home, got cows to milk. I never caught your name.”

  “Tom White.”

  “Well, nice to meet’cha, Tom.” They shook hands and the man offered his name. “Isiah Nelson.”

  “Well, don’t milk too hard.”

  The man laughed. “Same to you about the fishing.”

  “I won’t,” he assured the man, and swung up another fat shell cracker onto the bank. “Could you use some? I have plenty.”

  “Well, I might,” the man said. “I’ll string some on a stick. Don’t want to take all you got in that tow sack.”

  “Help yourself.”

  “Mighty neighborly. My wife loves fish.” Nelson strung most of them and left with two stringers, saying thanks all the way up the bank.

  An hour later, Slocum uncovered the strongbox and struggled to get it out of the hole. On his knees, he used his gun butt to bust off the lock. The bright gold ten-dollar coins the size of dimes glistened in the slanted sundown light. The amount of them impressed him. With an ear to listen for anyone approaching, he soon had them bagged and the tops of the sacks tied. He replaced the box, dirt, and sod over the hole. Then, satisfied the evidence of his digging wasn’t too glaring, he put the loot in his panniers to load out when he left.

  After a fish supper, he went to bed early since the November days were short. The next day he was in the saddle early, loaded his packhorse, and rode out of the area.

  Five days later, he led the packhorse behind Roan into the Bar C. Mary ran out to greet him wrapped in a blanket against the cold. Something in her face telegraphed to him that things weren’t right.

  “Oh, I was so worried about you.” She looked around as if on edge. “You didn’t stop in Mason, did you?”

  He shook his head. “No, why?”

  “Two deputy U.S marshals have been here asking questions about you.”

  His heart sunk. “They’re in town?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ve all been worried that you’d been arrested and that’s why you weren’t back.”

  “Amigo, amigo,” Paco shouted, coming from the other jacal. “You are all right?”

  Slocum nodded. “I’m fine. She told me about the law.”

  “Where will you go, my friend?”

  “Mexico, I guess. I’m not certain.”

  “But we need you—”

  “Let’s go inside. I have some news.” />
  “Oh, yes, what was in Heck’s lockbox?” she asked, hustling them inside the jacal.

  In the jacal’s warm interior, he shed his canvas duster and sat the two of them down. The baby was asleep in a small crib. “This deed is to a farm south of Fort Worth. It goes to Mary. The nice couple leasing it knows you are coming to claim it. They said they’d work for you.”

  “But I have no—” She swept the hair from her forehead looking disturbed over the matter.

  “Heck left the farm and the deed signed. I registered it in your name. He left some money too. It came from a robbery, but no one’ll ever know where. It’s out there on the packhorse.”

  “He was a bank robber?”

  Slocum nodded. “Paco, I’m giving you a hundred dollars of it. You’ll need things going north. There’s three-fifty in the sacks for Little Heck, and don’t protest. I guess I better take fifty of it and hit the trail.”

  “But what will we do?” Paco asked. “You are the one—”

  “No, you have the crew. Have Shorty and one of the boys move her to this place when you get a weather break. Come spring, head ’em north to Abilene. You can do it, Paco.”

  The man dropped his head as if the world was on his shoulders. “I am a poor Mexican vaquero. How can I?”

  “No, you own the Estrella Cattle Company. There’ll be rivers to cross, bad men blocking the road, and there will be plenty of trouble, but you’ll be in Abilene next spring with this herd. And I’ll meet you there if there is any way I can and we’ll celebrate in Abilene.”

  “It will always be half yours, mi amigo.”

  Slocum nodded and stood. “I need a fresh horse or two.”

  Mary rushed over and hugged him. “Must you leave now? So soon?”

  “I damn sure don’t want to. But those marshals will be back. Someone might have seen me riding in.” If she only knew how much he had lusted for another night with her in heaven.

  “Be careful. You know where Little Heck and I’ll be living?”

  “Yes, and you’ll like the farm. I’ll drop by sometime and see both of you.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”