by Jake Logan
Closer in, all about them, the land was browned, the grass a scraggly thatch of ungrazed pastureland. He saw no cow pies, no hoofprints, no signs of the vast herds of cattle a ranch this size should rightfully be running. His discovery and subsequent confusion must have been writ large on his face, despite his efforts to appear nonchalant. The thin man said, “Cattle been moved to higher grazing. We got a lot of land here.”
Slocum raised an eyebrow, half nodded.
Slim took that to mean skepticism. “They’re around, don’t you worry about it.”
Once the distant tarped work wagon had rumbled and creaked well beyond the ranch into the distance, the handsome cowboy jerked his head toward the ranch house. “Come on then.”
They drew up to a steel hitch rail before the grand house, which looked to Slocum even more imposing than it had from a half-mile back. A smallish man, stout and dressed in a cotton-color linen suit, and with white hair and a trimmed dagger beard, all seemingly suited to go with the look of the house, descended the steps slowly, his white leather shoes making a gritty scuffing noise with each slow step. He kept his eyes on the motley assortment of riders before him.
“Look sharp,” hissed Handsome. “It’s Colonel Mulletson.”
A true Old Southern colonel, eh? thought Slocum. Odder and odder.
After the thin man made explanations as to how he’d found Slocum and the girl, the colonel eyed them a silent moment more, then said, “And just how did you hear about our humble operation, Mr. . . . aaah, what was the name again?” He squinted up at Slocum as if what he was about to tell him was perhaps the most important thing he ever would hear.
“Slocum. John Slocum.”
“That’s it!” The colonel snapped his fingers and nodded.
“And I heard about the Triple T from a friend down Dodge. Name of Rufus, you might remember him? Older fella with a limp, worn out from prospecting, but his looks don’t slow him none. He can still move cattle like he was in his prime. He heard from someone else in town, I forget who just now, that your ranch was in sore need of hands and that such a place would surely, given its size, be able to use someone such as myself. My credentials come hard won, but they’re honest.”
A snort rose behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Harley. He’d give a month’s wages to wipe that smirk off the chubby young fool’s face with a knuckle or two. And something told him the opportunity would arise sooner than later.
A round of sharp stares from Colonel Mulletson and the other cowhands stifled the young whelp’s mirth.
“You said you were expected.” The thin hand who’d met them glared at Slocum.
“If I hadn’t, would you have brought me here?”
The colonel emitted a short laugh. “Initiative. I like that in an employee. No need to sell me on your abilities, Mr. Slocum. Any fool—even I—can tell just by the look of you that you know your way around a ranch. And I daresay you may find yourself impressed with the range of skills required of my employees. Compensation is fair, I don’t think any gathered here will argue that, and for that I require hard work and tight lips.” He stepped toward Slocum’s horse and his face grew grave. “For instance, I will not tolerate talk of our affairs beyond the boundaries of this ranch. Do we understand each other, Mr. Slocum?”
“Sounds fair to me, Colonel.”
“Now, if you are interested, Mr. Slocum, I’d like to talk with you about how you feel you can best serve me. In fact, I find I am in need of a . . . shall we say, a wrangler, at present. But there are caveats.”
“For instance?” said Slocum.
“You must do exactly what you are told. I will not tolerate insubordination.”
“There are all sorts of ways of interpreting that word, Colonel, aren’t there?”
“Maybe so, Mr. Slocum, but as long as you forget all of them but my way, we’ll get along swimmingly well.”
Slocum thought the man was surely hiding something. The whole thing—the job, the work itself, the other hands loafing about the place, and not asking to check a man’s references, nor at least inquiring about them before the man even dismounted, all this was odd and some of it unheard of. Still, it all began to sound as if the girl and her grandfather were right.
Handsome cleared his throat and waited for the colonel to favor him with a glance. “Sir, as I’m sure you noticed, this here fella’s got Gabe’s and the Pole’s horses and gear.”
“But no Gabe and Pole, eh?” Colonel Mulletson knitted his brow in mock concern.
“No, Colonel,” said Slocum. “That is the truth of it. As I told Slim and Harley here when they first come upon us, those two boys didn’t give us much warning before they opened up on us. It was all I could do to incapacitate them.”
“Well, why forever didn’t you bring their bodies back on their own horses?”
“One of them was too fat for me to heft, the other was too rank. Smelled like the southbound end of a northbound moose.”
Colonel Mulletson nodded knowingly, but Slocum could tell by the looks on the cowhands’ faces that he would have to answer to them on their own terms for killing their compadres. Should word of the other two get out, he’d have even more to deal with.
“Well, we were down two men, but now it appears”—the colonel waved a hand at the two sullen-looking riderless horses standing hipshot behind the rest—“that we are now down four men. But with the addition of Mr. Slocum here, we’ll surely regain any ground we may have lost due to vacant souls.”
Colonel Mulletson turned his attention to the girl. “Now, what have we here?” He made no pretense of hiding the fact that he was looking her up and down, from hair to feet and back, stopping at a few points along the way, detouring around and through certain hills and valleys of her physical terrain.
Slocum said, “This is . . . you know, I still don’t know her name, and after she tried to up and rob me. Funny thought, I almost don’t want to know. She’s a tough little nut, I tell you what. But she can cook and . . . a few other things. As I told your advance party here, I had come too far to turn back and bring her to the law. I figured you all might find a use for her here at such a famous and sizable spread as this.”
“What say you, girl?” The paunchy little colonel patted his belly, setting his gold watch chain to jingling, but his look to her was stern.
For the first time, all eyes were on Tita’s face. Slocum thought maybe she enjoyed having the attention, even if it was from rank men.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt Mr. Slocum,” she said. “I only wanted food. It had been a long time since I ate and I was beginning to feel like I could not go on much longer. And then he came along. I was afraid he would pass me by, so I tried to surprise him.”
“To take his food,” said the colonel, nodding as if he understood completely. Judging from the size of his ample gut, it seemed he did. The colonel thrust out his bottom jaw, rubbed his dagger beard, and nodded, as if agreeing with an unseen guest.
“And he says you can cook, eh?”
The girl nodded, looking for all the world eager to repent a sinful past and take up wholesome ways. Slocum almost laughed.
“Good, good,” said their fat host. “We always have use of another hand in the kitchen.” He looked up at Slocum. “I’ll turn her over to our head cook’s custody. She will no doubt appreciate a hand with the cooking and . . . whatnot.”
He turned to the girl, still seated in the saddle, and set a hand on her thigh. “Provided you mind your p’s and q’s, eh?” This struck the colonel as funny and he bent double with laughter, a pinched whinnying sound that Slocum thought would be embarrassing if it ever came out of his own mouth.
The man’s hands all began their own variation on the noise, until Colonel Mulletson stood upright, suddenly stone-faced, and stared them down. He turned his gaze on Slocum next, and his genial smile returned. “I
figure, Slocum, that since you are new here, we ought to get acquainted. I can tell you about the Triple T, what our goals are, that sort of thing. Why don’t you let the boys show you the bunkhouse—you can get settled in there. We have a couple of hours yet to supper, but I’ll tell the cook to put on a good feed, something memorable.”
“You make it sound like the last supper, Colonel.” Slocum slid a smile on his stubbly face.
Again, the man guffawed, then said, “Not at all, sir. Not at all. Just the first of many, I hope.”
“How about I get one of the men to show me around the spread, get the lay of the place. I’m sure you have a fresh horse I can use.”
“All in good time, young man. All in good time. For now, why don’t you kick back and enjoy a cool drink of spring water? We’ll cover all the ground you’ll want to in short order. In fact, you may just grow tired of seeing so much of this ranch!”
“What about the girl?” said Slocum, his gut knotting tight but not wanting to show it.
The colonel had already headed toward the broad steps, but stopped and turned back. “As I said, I’ll show her to the cook and she can take it from there.” He offered a hand to Tita to help her down from her horse. “Bring your belongings and I’ll escort you to meet our cook. You’ll love her and I daresay you will find her to be a fair supervisor.”
As Tita held out her bound hands to Slocum to once again slice through the rope binding her wrists, she looked at him, just a hint of smugness in her eyes.
Slocum wagged the long blade of his Bowie knife in her face. “Now you mind the colonel here, and the cook, too. By bringing you along, you are my responsibility. Any stepping out of line you do here will reflect poorly on me, and that isn’t something I am likely to look on favorably, you hear?”
Slocum laid it on thick, and the girl narrowed her eyes accordingly. He didn’t think it was an act on her part. Despite the urgings of the other men, Slocum sat his horse and waited for the girl to disappear into the big house with Colonel Mulletson. Then he nudged the Appaloosa forward and headed to the bunkhouse.
8
They rode across the vast yards to the bunkhouse—a multilevel affair with fancy walkways and porches out front, and a path leading to the four-door privy out back. Slocum marveled once again at how well kept the place looked, but also how barren it felt. The Triple T lacked all the usual signs of a busy, working ranch—no bawling of calves looking for their mothers, no constant boil of dust from scattered head in the distance, no hay ricks, none of it. Most of all, he missed the distinct dry tang of cattle smells floating on the air.
“Where are all the stock?”
Slim said, “You were already told that.”
“Yeah, just you shut your mouth and we’ll do the askin’.” He didn’t have to look to know it was Harley.
Slocum looked behind him to see the young man glaring at him. Great, I trade one angry youngster for another. For once, though, he noticed that his fellow cowhands didn’t shout him down and tell him to keep his mouth shut. Harley noticed it, too. He spat tobacco juice and sat a little straighter in the saddle.
They reined up at the hitch rail in front of the bunkhouse and Slocum said, “I’d like to take care of my horse and the girl’s, too, before I tend to myself.”
“Nope,” said Handsome. “Harley here’ll take ’em to the barn. Don’t you worry. He may be an idiot, but he don’t mistreat animals. Ain’t that right, Harley?”
Slocum made to reach to his breast pocket for his makin’s, but he wanted his hand free for clearing leather should it come to that. “Thanks just the same, fella, but I reckon I’ll take care of my own horse my own self. Always have, always will.”
From just behind him, to his left, he heard Slim say, “First time for everything.”
Slocum reached for his Colt, felt the ebony handle just under his fingertips, and he was jerked hard by the shirt collar and felt himself plunging from the saddle. He managed to yank his left boot free of the stirrup—knowing that the Appy would crow-hop if given half the chance, and drag him from here to hell and back around the yard, just for the fun of it.
Slocum had not expected being pulled from the saddle. He landed hard and with one thing on his mind: what these gents had planned for him.
Slocum sprang up from the dust, the Appy dancing just behind him. He’d lost his hat; it sat at his feet, the crown dented in. He didn’t care. His trail clothes were already dusted, but now felt as though they’d been filled with the stuff before he slipped into them.
As the dust cleared, he saw Handsome and Slim had both dismounted and standing before him, their sidearms drawn.
Slocum stood still, his legs planted shoulder-width apart, his hands ready to draw his hip guns. He was breathing hard and he felt a tingling in his left shoulder where he’d landed, trying to roll with it. “Now, Slim,” he said, catching his breath and blowing the dust from his mouth and nose. “That wasn’t a very kind thing to do to someone you’ll be working with, was it?”
The tall, thin man peeled back the hammer on his pistol. “The last thing on my mind is being kind to you, Slocum.”
“Well now,” said Slocum, making what he hoped was a slow play for his gun. “Just what is on your mind, then, Slim?”
“The interesting fact that four of our friends have not returned, and yet about when we were expecting them, why, you turn up instead. And with that little Mexican squeezebox to boot.” He clicked the hammer back to the deadly position. “And my name’s not Slim. It’s Everett. Call me Slim again and I’ll plug you, and be glad for it.”
Handsome waved his pistol back and forth at Slocum. “Get that gun belt and knife off, but slow, two fingers, and let it drop.”
From behind him, Slocum heard Harley giggle. “What are you two fixin’ to do with him anyway?”
Precisely what Slocum was wondering.
Everett barked again at the boy. “Get those damn horses to the barn.” He looked at Slocum. “And treat their horses right. I hear you’ve done anything less than that and you’ll be answering to me, you got that, Harley?”
“Aw, you know I won’t hurt a horse, Everett, even if it does belong to a killer.”
They all waited, poised in the dusty yard before the bunkhouse like they were in some bizarre dance. They heard the horses being led away, then Handsome said, “That’s right, Slocum. We know what you are. We’d bet money you killed our friends and that you are here for a take, ain’t that right?”
“Clew, you have got a mouth that will get you in trouble one day soon.”
Slocum watched warring emotions play on Handsome’s face. Apparently he was named Clew.
“Is that was the colonel meant about loose lips, boys?” Slocum looked at each of them. They weren’t happy.
“Inside, now!” Clew took a step closer, but Everett stopped him. “Don’t get close to him, just let the gun do the directing, boy.” As if demonstrating, he waved his pistol at Slocum, who reluctantly obliged.
They all clumped up on to the porch with Slocum in front, holding his hands up, though not too high. He guessed there probably wasn’t anyone else in the bunkhouse; otherwise with all the ruckus they would have been out by now spectating.
He decided he’d use the dark of the room and the time it took their eyes to adjust to hit them hard and gain the upper hand. He wasn’t so sure of his odds of living out the day here at the Triple T, especially if these yahoos were convinced that he had killed their friends. While it was true he’d ushered them to their deaths, but he didn’t really have a choice. Somehow he didn’t think that would mean all that much to either of them.
He took one, two steps into the dim interior. Off to the right, against a long back wall, he saw a squat black steel stove, silver adornments atop. His eye, however, was not set on taking in the fine amenities of the bunkhouse, but rather on something he might be able to use as a
weapon against these two gunhands.
Slocum’s eyes settled again on the stove against the back wall of the room. The cast-iron removable lid handle would do nicely—except for the fact that it was all the way across the room and he wasn’t. Yet.
Clew was the first through the door just behind Slocum. “Keep it moving, Slocum, to the middle of the room. We got talking to do.”
Slocum kept his hands half-raised, but bent low and pivoted, bringing his left leg up high. “I’ve had about enough talk for one day,” he said through gritted teeth just before his arching boot caught Clew just under his jutting square jaw.
Slocum felt the man’s teeth come together hard, heard the man groan, and a couple of somethings—teeth?—cracked and snapped. He went down not as Slocum had hoped—backward—but fell like a chopped tree onto his left side. His handgun flipped from his grasp and spun into the shadows under a table covered in playing cards, poker chips, and a peach tin someone had used as an ash tray.
Slocum followed through with his kick and dropped himself almost flat to the floor. The pistol had gone to the far side of the room. He’d have to cross in front of the open door to get at it. He risked a glance at Clew, and saw that the man lay slumped on his side, just as he fell, not even moaning. Out cold.
At the first sign of a scuffle inside, Everett jumped back out of the doorway. Now, judging from his shadow, Slocum saw that the man stood just to the right of the doorway. If Slocum’s guess was right, Everett was no green hand. He was a seasoned old dog who wouldn’t wait around outside wondering what to do.
If Slocum were Everett, he’d know that the longer he waited out there, the greater the chance that Slocum could arm himself—if he hadn’t already—and would be waiting for him to make his play. But he doubted the man would use his gun. They’d just wanted to rough Slocum up for killing their two friends. What would they do if they knew for sure he’d killed four of them?