Slocum and the Comanche Captive

by Jake Logan

He kissed her, and the pain in his heart felt like a cold arrow. Paco nodded, looking long-faced, and Slocum led him outside. They went to the corral.

  “What horses do you want?” Paco asked.

  “The least different one from the rest. That big roan Sarge will do. He looks like a hundred more, and that other brown one for a packhorse.”

  Tomas had joined them. “You are leaving so soon?” the out-of-breath youth asked.

  “He never was here,” Paco said in a low threatening voice.

  “Sí.”

  The cold north wind swept Slocum’s face. He could hardly get her out of his mind. The smooth skin. The body responsive under his attack. The walls contracting like a powerful fist. Damn dreary day. Damn cold weather. Nothing was ever fair.

  He took fifty gold dollars from the heavy sacks he’d carried into her jacal and left the rest with Mary to count out Paco’s money. She shook her head. Tears filled her eyes. “I can never repay you for all this.”

  “Yes, raise that boy. Have a life of your own.”

  “God bless you.”

  He nodded with a hard knot behind his tongue. Better leave while he still could. He was grateful the crew was out checking cattle and he didn’t need to face them too. He left her and outside, took the reins from Tomas. Then he hugged Paco and clapped him on the back.

  “Vaya con Dios.”

  “Yes.” He swung up and jerked the lead—Brownie came on.

  A high overcast cut down the sun to a gray light spread across the greasewood sea when he rode out of the gate. Another dreary cold day in his life. Damn.

  23

  It spit snow late that afternoon. Tiny ice grains rapped on his hat and canvas coat as he pushed south. Somewhere down there far enough, it would still be summer. There would be dark-eyed señoritas on the plaza dancing around a hat to guitar music. Swirling their colorful dresses around their shapely hips, their brown cleavage rising and falling promising the beholder hard tits to suck on and possess in his palms.

  He reined up and considered the Texas flag popping in the wind. He could use a drink. There wouldn’t be another place for days beyond this point. He’d simply go inside, buy a bottle, and ride on. If Williams was in there—he’d do what he had to do.

  On the ground, he let his sea legs come to life before he let go of the horn. Then he opened the duster and adjusted the holster. Ordinarily, he’d let the cinches looser—in this case, he wasn’t certain how long he’d stay in there.

  The new rough board door’s latch was hard and it finally opened. When he stepped in the candlelit interior, he let his eyes adjust and walked to the bar.

  “What’ll it be, Señor?”

  “Bottle of whiskey.”

  The swarthy-faced man nodded and went for one. In the smoky back bar mirror, Slocum studied the four at the table. He saw the gold braid on the felt hat—Williams.

  “You’re a long ways from all them greaser buddies of yours, ain’t ya?”

  “They might not be as far away as you think.” Slocum turned slowly and faced them.

  Willams used both hands on the chair arms to push his tall frame to a standing position. “You owe us for the Bar C.”

  “I don’t have any money.” Slocum’s back muscles tensed, and he noticed the bartender had set his bottle on the bar. He tried to gauge how drunk the colonel was. He sounded impaired. A slur in his words—it was always an advantage.

  “Listen, you damn trash—”

  “Draw your damn gun or take that back.”

  “I-I—”

  “Colonel didn’t mean nothing. He ain’t no pistolero.” Billy Jack jumped up and tried to turn the man away.

  “Leave me alone—I—can handle this.”

  “No, you can’t,” Billy Jack insisted. “I’ve seen that look before.”

  “Colonel.” Another of them took the colonel’s gun arm and forced him back. “Go on, Slocum. There ain’t no trouble for you here.”

  “Have it your way.” He paid the man, took the bottle in his left hand, and went for the door.

  “Gawdamnit!” Williams swore behind him. But when Slocum opened the door and looked back, they still had him restrained.

  “Good day,” Slocum said, and touched his hat brim with the bottle hand, then left.

  Outside, he climbed on Sarge and rode off in the gathering darkness. Been nice to have had a room and a bed to sleep in. He only had that cold bitch winter to hold him in her arms until dawn.

  At sunup, he crawled out of his cocoon and rolled it up. His breath made big clouds of moisture as he reloaded and saddled the pair. The sky had cleared, so he hoped for some warmth. Little developed as the sun rose in the sky. He took a few drinks out of the neck of the bottle, and it warmed him some. No firewood on the site, so he rode on gnawing jerky.

  That night, he used some of the piled-up yokes he found to build a fire and boiled some coffee, but the strong wind made keeping warm impossible, so he gave up and went to bed. At dawn, he was headed south again.

  He reached Rio Frio the next afternoon. Dialgo welcomed him like a long-lost brother.

  “Where are the putas?” Slocum asked, looking around.

  “One went to Mexico for Christmas. One died.” He crossed himself. “Poor Marinia.”

  “Which one is left?”

  “Farita.”

  “I know her. Where is she?”

  “In bed. Sleeping, I think.”

  “Give me a bottle of red wine. I’ll go wake her up.”

  Dialgo smiled. “That will surprise her.”

  Slocum nodded. “Have a boy put my horses in a shed and feed them.”

  “Certainly.”

  He took the wine bottle and glasses and ducked going through the low doorway to the hall. At Farita’s door, he shouldered aside the blanket and looked in on her sleeping on the bed.

  “Time for a fandango.”

  “I don’t want one,” she grumbled, rolled over, and pulled the covers over her head.

  “Ah, but I have red wine and I’m ready to party.”

  She sat up, holding the blanket over her nakedness, and blinked her matted lashes to try and see him. “Oh, the gringo. You’re back?”

  “Stay under the cover. It is probably warm under there.”

  “Sí.” She took the bottle and glasses and acted excited. “When did you get here?”

  “Minutes ago. I came to see you.” He toed off his boots and shed his coat.

  “Whew.” With her teeth in the side of her small mouth, she wrenched out the cork and spit it aside. Then the blanket slipped away and exposed her small teardrop breasts and the pointed dark nipples. She raised the bottle up and drank from the neck.

  “Who needs glasses?” he said.

  “I don’t,” she said. Some wine ran down her chin.

  He shed his shirt, pants, and then his long handles as she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and scooted over to make room for him. He climbed on the low bed, then with the covers over his legs, took the bottle. With a deep draught, he handed it back to her.

  She threw her head back and drank some more. Then, with a giggle, she reached past him to put the wine on the table. Her breasts raked over his bare chest and she looked up at him when she drew back. Her brown eyes were still sleepy-looking—he kissed her hard on the mouth and dragged her still-warm body up against him.

  Her arms encircled his neck as she scrambled on his lap. She replaced her lips and put her tongue in his mouth. Between them, her fingers sought his rising sword, and when she grasped it behind the head, she threw her chin back and screamed, “Grande! Grande!”

  She dove back onto the bed beside him, rolled on her back, adjusting blankets over them, and raised her knees, acting desperate for his entry.

  “Oh,” she cried, wiggling on her back as he slipped his probe into her cunt. “Oh, I have missed you so much.”

  He began to pump it to her, and she arched her back for his deepest entry. When he reached the bottom, she cried out, “Yes. Yes.
” It was wild, and she contracted with each stroke that squeezed him tight. So his entry back in was tight too.

  Soon the tempo of their fierce lovemaking reached such a high plane, they both were huffing for their breath. His hips ached to poke it through her. His dick felt on fire, and then the ache in his left testicle became excruciating and he came.

  They collapsed in a pile and she wiggled out to get the bottle. Smiling with her hard-muscled belly sprawled over his lap, she raised the bottle and took a large drink. Then she handed the bottle to him. “More firewater. I want to fuck you all day.”

  “All day?” he asked, sounding taken back.

  “All day.”

  So they did.

  He spoke to Goeserman the next morning in his store and assured the man that Paco was taking the herd on to this new market in Abilene, Kansas, and would be back in the fall to pay him.

  “I wish you were still there with him.”

  “Circumstances didn’t allow it.”

  Goeserman nodded as if he understood. “Where’re you going next?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Be careful down there. That Matt Cotter, he calls himself Boudry now.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “Trading whiskey to the damn Injuns last that I heard. Going back and forth across the border with whiskey and arms.”

  “Guns are the main things, I’d bet good money. Those Comanche made a raid on the place we were at up there. When the fight was over, we picked up brand-new rifles.”

  Goeserman nodded. “Some folks will do anything to make a dollar. You never found any sign of the colonel’s body?”

  “No. But if I ever get my hands on Boudry, I’ll squeeze out of him what he did with the colonel.”

  “He’s tough and rides with mean men.”

  “You have any idea where he stays?”

  “No, I haven’t heard much about him lately.”

  Satisfied that Boudry as he called himself was up to no good, Slocum went back to the cantina and found his nymph asleep in bed. He stripped off his clothing, crawled in bed, and scooted over to her. Curled around her, he eased his half-alive dick in her from behind.

  She grumbled. “I missed him. Sleep.” She reached back to pull him tighter to her. They slept connected till mid-afternoon.

  Then she woke him up for another round. She was on all fours under him, and he was pounding her rock-hard butt, when he heard someone in the hall clear his throat. He put his hand over her mouth. “Yes?”

  “Thought you’d want to know.” It was Dialgo. “Word’s out that Matt and his pack train crossed into Texas yesterday. Headed northwest.”

  “Thanks.” Boudry was on the move. More vulnerable out in the open country than when he was dug in somewhere. Maybe Slocum could single him out. He owed him for killing those boys.

  Her hand shot back and slapped his leg. She was impatient for him to get going again. He reached under her and fondled her breasts until she got back in the mood. They went and went, until they finally collapsed in the bed and slept till supper time.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, reaching across the table between them for a tortilla. She was dressed in a thin cotton gown, and her dark nipples dotted the white cloth when she sat back ready to fill the wrap with frijoles and tender long-cooked beef.

  “In the morning I must leave you.”

  She half-closed her left eye as if in pain. “I don’t please you?”

  “Oh, yes, you’re fine. You’re wonderful. But I’ve got business I must attend to.”

  “The one Dialgo told you about, huh? That bastard Matt?”

  “You know him?”

  “I hate him. He used to come here. He has a dick like a small dog and he is mean.”

  Slocum nodded and forked in a bite of his enchilada. Maybe he could find him. Leaving her slinky bed full of pussy would be a big loss and a letdown, but some things came before that—for him, getting Boudry was number one. He’d never forget the sight of those poor boys Matt’d shot down in cold blood.

  At midday, bellied down on a ridge, he was following the movement of the mule pack train in his new binoculars. Four Red River carts pulled by double teams of oxen trailed them a few miles back. Oxen never kept up with mules. Boudry had a half-dozen armed men with the mule skinners and three men carrying rifles with the carts. Slocum had not spotted the man himself in the glass, so there might even be more pistoleros than he had seen.

  They soon made afternoon camp and the cattle were turned out to graze. The horses, mules, and bell mare also were turned loose to eat what grass the land offered. If the wrangler was careless, during the night Slocum might be able to stampede their horses and mules. Then they’d have to put what they could in the carts and walk. Pistoleros made poor foot soldiers. They were thirty miles from the Rio Grande. A long walk, and there were not enough horses there—surely not enough mules—to replenish his losses.

  Slocum chewed on some jerky and thought about Farita’s pear-shaped breasts and squeezing them. The horses and mules would be his next move. No moon till late. He could maybe get lucky. He pulled the blanket up over his shoulder. Even with the sun out, it was cold. Still no sign of Boudry— where was he?

  Before the quarter moon rose, with the stealth of a Comanche, he worked his way down the dry wash. The wrangler was dismounted and sitting somewhere under the high bank. Slocum had seen the silhouette of his horse and had worked his way around to the wash.

  The horses and mules grunted in their sleep. A few stomped, and there was an occasional squeal when one bit another out of sheer meanness. The night horse, head down, snorted in the dust. Slocum stopped and held his breath. Then he heard the light snoring and moved in quickly. He struck the seated wrangler over the head hard with the butt of his gun, and the man spilled facedown. Then Slocum roped and tied him, then gagged him. With an ear to the night sounds, he sat on his haunches and regained his breath.

  Nothing sounded out of place. Next, he moved to the night horse and jerked the girth tight.

  In minutes, he had the bell mare moving south. The shuffle of the mules and the occasional kicking concerned him that it might wake the pistoleros as the animals filed after the mare. Then, out of habit, the horses began to shuffle along after the mules.

  Slocum’s heart pounded. He grasped the .44 in his right hand and craned his head around looking for any sign. None. They were moving at a good pace out through the starlit night—the mare knew the way home, all she needed was a hint. The silver bell sounded clear when he caught Sarge and Brownie up from where he had them hitched. Then, whistling and driving at the rear of the herd, he sent them all toward Mexico.

  At dawn, he broke off driving them with a hard rush to make them hurry. The bell mare showed no signs of quitting short of the border—that meant the mules wouldn’t quit either. The horses might tire of the game, but they were a good distance from Boudry’s camp.

  Satisfied the first part of his plan was a success, Slocum picked out a defensive spot on the rise and waited. Near noon, he spotted three riders in his glasses. Obviously, he must have missed a few head. One looked like Boudry. They were busy following all the tracks when they came in rifle range and he could hear Boudry cursing. “. . . sumbitch stole them was no damn Injun.”

  “Throw down your guns!” Slocum ordered.

  They went for their pistols instead. He took aim through the raised sight and fired. Boudry was struck hard by the first bullet and fell from his horse. Slocum rose to his feet levering in a second shot, and knocked the number-two man off his pony. The third one was waving a pistol and trying to stop his spinning horse. Slocum’s second try at him took him down.

  Slocum was satisfied. He turned, went down the hillside, and gained his horses. He rode around and dismounted by Boudry. He knelt down beside him, and could see his shot had struck him solidly in the chest.

  “What did you do to the colonel?”

  “Slocum? You?”

  He grasped Boudry by
the vest and shook him. “Yes, it’s me. What did you do with the colonel?”

  “I cut off and ate his balls looking in his face while he screamed.” Boudry’s eyes flickered, but he never lost the mean look. Not even when his life evaporated and his head slumped to the side.

  Slocum rose, walked to Sarge, and stepped in the stirrup. Let the damn buzzards have them. He never looked back when he rode off.

  Farita never asked him any questions when later the next morning he climbed in the bed with her. He curled around her warm back, and she raised her legs and inserted him inside her. Then she clapped his leg as if satisfied and they slept.

  Three days later, he kissed her good-bye and rode off into Mexico. In a village called Portis, he found a man he knew called Armando who owned a cantina. It was a quiet place at the foot of the mountains where the mule loads of rich ore came down from the Sierra Madres. Hard-faced men with rifles and pistols rode guard on such shipments, and they camped at Portis for one day to rest and they drank there in shifts.

  Twice a week, they came down with mule trains. Highly paid, they had enough money for whiskey and pussy. They all wore tan uniforms and stiff-brimmed four-peak hats with chin straps like soldiers. In fact, the first time that Slocum saw them come in the cantina, he thought they were federales.

  When the pack train guards weren’t in town, he flirted with Donna. She loved to dance and show herself off, clacking castanets and stomping her heels around a hat on the tile floor while Ramon played the trumpet.

  Slocum sat back and watched her firm cleavage shake in the low-cut dress, and enjoyed watching her slim hips connected to high heels stomp at the floor to the beat of the music. She was on wings when she danced. That was why she charged more than the other girls. Why she had the best dresses of all the putas in this bar. She was the flashy-eyed one who drew men like flowers drew bees and always wanted to be “raped.”

  She brushed her hair the next morning seated on the bed. Even when she did such a task, it was done as hard as she danced. She wanted no tangles, no restraint to the bristles, or she swore pulling through them. He knew, lying naked on his belly in the still-warm bed beside her, that it must hurt to pull that hard—it was her way.