by Jake Logan
“That’s the bed?” she said in a weak voice.
Slocum sat on the bed and bounced. The ropes holding the straw-filled mattress creaked under his weight.
“Looks to be,” he said. “Here.” He tossed her the key. Catherine caught it and stared at it. He got up, put his hands on her waist, and turned her around so she was in the room and he was in the doorway. “There might be bedbugs in the mattress.” Without another word, he stepped into the hallway and opened the rear door leading to the bathhouse.
“Wait, where are you going? This is your room.”
“It’s yours. You weren’t getting anywhere with the clerk.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“You offering the bed?” He grinned at her shocked expression. Slocum couldn’t figure her out. She was willing to strip down to the buff and share her ample bounty when he was in the bath, but not now. Something about her dithering amused him. She was all manners and righteousness now, trying to live down what she had done before so impulsively.
“All yours,” he said.
“But where will you sleep?”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve bedded down with another companion.”
“Oh. There’s someone else?”
“My horse, the livery stables, nice clean straw,” he said.
“Wait, don’t go.”
Slocum hesitated. He was not certain what she was offering.
“You were after Magee before he destroyed Charity. You were in Cherokee Springs, too. What’s your interest? I told you why I want to stop him.”
“You don’t want to stop him, you want to get his daughter and wife out of his way,” Slocum said.
“I suppose that’s so, but I want him dead. That’s the only way Sarah Beth and Mrs. Magee will ever be safe. What’s your interest? You don’t know them, do you?”
“Never heard the names till I got to Charity,” Slocum said. “I made a promise. That’s why I’m after Magee.” He didn’t want to go into the promise he had made Nickson back in Cherokee Springs.
“It must be a promise to a dear friend,” Catherine said.
“I take such things seriously,” Slocum said. “Enjoy your room.” He touched the brim of the hat and closed the door behind him. He waited a moment to see if Catherine would open it and come after him. He expected her to offer to share the bed—and all that meant. But the doorknob did not turn. He shrugged it off. Some women would do things in private they would never fess up to in public.
Catherine Duggan’s reputation would take a beating if it came out she was crowded into the same room—and bed—with him. Slocum stepped out behind the hotel and looked at the sky. The rain had stopped, but the dreary, lead-gray clouds remained.
He walked around Cimarron Junction and thought on what he saw. Mostly, he thought about Catherine and how she had so mysteriously and emphatically come into his life. She had been in Cherokee Springs and Charity where he had caught more than a whiff of her distinctive perfume. The letter warning of Magee’s attack on Cimarron Junction carried her indelible scent, too. She was doing a powerful lot of traveling, just a step ahead of Clayton Magee.
Slocum frowned as he considered this. How did Catherine Duggan do that? She hunted for Sarah Beth Magee and her mother, but she was behind them by about as much as she was ahead of Major Magee. That took quite a bit of detective work on her part.
“She must be a powerful good friend to risk her life like this. What is it she thinks she can do if she catches up with Sarah Beth and her ma that they aren’t already doing?” To that question, Slocum had no answer.
Slocum glanced into the saloon and saw a few men there. He doubted they were leaving payment for the whiskey they swilled any more than he had when he’d taken the bottle. Slocum shrugged it off. The booze was their due, as it had been his. Facing Magee and surviving deserved some small reward.
The next morning, he wandered about until he found the doctor’s surgery. Two men sat outside, slumped against the wall. Their bandages were fresh, and they didn’t appear to be in much pain. Slocum went inside, and had to step over three men stretched out on the floor. Their condition was a considerable amount worse than those outside.
A harassed young man, hardly into his twenties, looked up. He wore a white coat stained with blood. His hands were bright red, and he held some sort of surgical instrument.
“If you’re able to walk, find somebody else to patch you up. I got men who have real injuries.”
“You the doctor?”
“Not the town woodcutter, though that would be more appropriate.” The young doctor looked back at the man on his surgical table. Slocum saw three bullet holes as the doctor worked on the man’s other side. He must have caught at least four slugs.
“Looking for the Charity marshal. Name’s Vannover.”
“Don’t ask their names. What was wrong with him?” The doctor glanced at the corner of the room where three men were stacked like cordwood. Not all the doctor’s patients survived to sit outside.
“Swollen ankle. Might have been a broken bone in his foot.”
“Him. He’s in the back room.” The doctor pointed with the forceps, then opened them to drop a bullet into a small tin coffee cup. The tinny ring in his ears, Slocum went to the curtain separating the rooms and pulled it back. Marshal Vannover sat on the window ledge, his leg thrust out in front of him.
“Dammit, they cut off my boot. Perfectly good boot, too. Only had it six months.”
“Get the town to buy you a new pair.”
“Damned cheapskates wouldn’t go for a pair.”
“Get them to buy you a replacement for the one boot.”
“It’d likely be for the wrong foot. Mark my words, Charity’s town fathers are a penny-pinching lot, and not too bright either.”
Slocum had to laugh. He stepped over more patients laid out. These were either sleeping or in a coma. He leaned against the wall next to the marshal.
“You talk to Captain Langmuir to find out what he’s going to do next?” Slocum asked.
Vannover shook his head. “Been locked up here since we got to town. That doc’s doing the work of three men. Might be he’d want to come to Charity.”
“Especially since you lost your doctor,” Slocum said. This erased any joking the two men engaged in.
“Reckon there’s no point stayin’ here. I need to get back to Charity,” the marshal said. “Trouble is, I don’t know if I can ride or not. Every time I stand up, I get all dizzy and want to fall over. Can’t imagine what it would be on horseback.”
“There’s nothing keeping me here,” Slocum said. “I’ll ride with you.”
“Why’s that? You’re not nursemaidin’ me. Not out of the goodness of your heart.” Vannover fought to focus his eyes. Slocum saw how bloodshot those once-sharp gray eyes were. The marshal needed to rest, but Slocum understood his need to get home. That was always a powerful draw. Home.
“I don’t think Magee will be back here,” Vannover said. “Not sure why he came roaring into Cimarron Junction, but it was a mistake since he butted up against the cavalry.”
“Don’t know for sure, but he might have been lured here,” Slocum said, thinking that Catherine Duggan was blond and might have been mistaken for one of the Magee women. If she did use herself as bait, getting Magee to attack and hoping Captain Langmuir responded to her letter, she played a far more dangerous game than Slocum ever thought.
“If he comes back, Langmuir’s not got a celluloid collar in hell’s chance of fighting him,” said Vannover. “From what the doc was sayin’, Langmuir lost half his men. Don’t know what casualties Magee took, but he probably outnumbers the soldiers by two or three to one now.”
“Magee looks to be a decent field commander. Too bad he got the taste for spilling blood and liked it,” Slocum said. “I’m going to look over the bodies of the men he lost.”
“You huntin’ for something, aren’t you, Slocum?” Vannover winced and turned pale with pain.
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“Aren’t we all?” With that, Slocum made his way past the bodies. This time the doctor did not even look up. He tossed aside an instrument and began bandaging a wound he had just sewn shut. Slocum had seen too many field hospitals for this to be a revelation to him, but getting outside, though the sun refused to shine and rain threatened again, was a relief.
He found Sergeant Benedict and asked after the outlaws’ bodies.
“We got ’em piled over yonder. Not sure what to do with them,” the sergeant said.
“Mind if I poke around?”
“You thinkin’ on robbin’ the corpses?”
“I’m looking for one thing in particular. If I find it, I’ll let you and the captain know. Otherwise, they’ve got nothing I want.”
“The captain’s decided any money on the bodies goes to the families what lost loved ones here.”
Slocum nodded agreement. The sergeant escorted him to where a private stood guard, and let the youngster know Slocum was allowed to hunt to his heart’s content. The private looked as if he was going to lose his last meal as his head bobbed up and down in assent.
“Much obliged, Sergeant,” Slocum said. Then he got to work. An hour later, he was sorry he had taken a bath and then searched the bodies. He smelled of blood and death once more. Worse, he had not found Nickson’s ring. Disgusted, he bade the private adieu and returned to the surgery. Marshal Vannover was sitting outside now, making room for others inside.
“You look like you been in a battle and lost, Slocum. Before, you were all sweet-smelling and clean.”
“Sweet-smelling,” Slocum said, remembering Catherine Duggan and her distinctive rose perfume. “Be a spell before I’m accused of that again.”
“You’d really shepherd me back to Charity? I’d really appreciate the gesture.” Vannover moved his splinted leg around. The doctor had cut off the marshal’s pants leg just above the knee. From the knee to the ankle, he had taped two sturdy splints. Vannover could hobble along stiff-legged, but riding would be even more difficult. There was no way he could ever put his injured foot into a stirrup.
“Suppose I could toss you over a saddle like a sack of flour,” Slocum said.
“My belly’d give out before my leg,” Vannover said.
“What do you say to grabbing some chow, then hitting the trail?” Slocum looked up at the sky. “Weather’s never going to improve.”
“I wrangled some supplies,” the marshal said. “Got us a pair of slickers, too, for all the good they’d do in a real gully washer.”
“Better than nothing,” Slocum allowed. He helped the marshal to stand, then let him lean heavily on him as they made their way to a small restaurant. After the meal, Slocum brought around their horses. It took the better part of five minutes to get Vannover into the saddle. Once he was there, Slocum wondered how long the man could ride before he keeled over. But Vannover was game.
“You got folks to say good-bye to, Slocum?”
“Nope, nobody in particular. The captain’s no special friend.”
Slocum turned to see what Vannover had meant. Standing on the front steps of the hotel, Catherine Duggan fought with herself over whether to wave good-bye. Slocum mounted, politely touched the brim of his hat as he nodded in her direction, then rode off without so much as a backward glance.
“You’re leaving behind a mighty fine-looking filly,” Vannover said as they reached the outskirts of Cimarron Junction. “The way she was eyeing you, it might be worth staying in Cimarron Junction another day or two.”
“I just met her,” Slocum said. He couldn’t remember ever having “just met” a woman who got him hard and pleasured herself so avidly and who wasn’t also a soiled dove. But Catherine Duggan was not a woman of ill repute. Everything about her spoke of wealth and class. It might have been an interesting day or two figuring out her motives, but Slocum was more inclined to track down Clayton Magee and honor his promise to Jerome Nickson, if he could. As he rode, he considered what he would tell the man’s son if he was unable to recover the West Point ring.
It had been important enough that his son get the ring for Nickson to make a dying request. Slocum considered finding a ring—any ring—and passing it along if he couldn’t find which of Magee’s bravos had taken both ring and finger. It had meant so much to Nickson that it had to mean something to his son.
“Slocum,” moaned Vannover the following morning. “I’m not feelin’ so good.”
“You look like you’re ready to die,” Slocum said, riding closer to the marshal. Sweat beaded the man’s face, and he looked flushed. Slocum didn’t have to reach over to know Vannover was running a fever. His eyes were bright and his hands shook.
“Wish I would. That’d put me out of my misery. Your misery, too. You wouldn’t have to nursemaid . . .” Vannover began swaying. Slocum strained to grab a handful of the marshal’s jacket before the man toppled to the ground. “Thanks. I’m right as rain again.”
Slocum knew he was anything but right as rain.
“Where’s the nearest town?” Slocum asked. “We’ve been riding so long, I’m not sure going back to Cimarron Junction is the quickest.”
“Signpost a ways back,” Vannover said. “A town’s not too far. Not sure which or where, but it’s got to be along the road.” Vannover gestured vaguely, telling Slocum he had no idea at all where the town lay. For all Slocum knew, the marshal was hallucinating.
Slocum tried to remember the times they had crossed the muddy road. As before, they had lit out across country and found the traveling to be easier. Now he was sorry they had done this. The road meandered up and down the valleys, and often followed a good-sized stream.
“If we cut to the left and make the crest of that ridge, we ought to see this town,” Slocum said. “You don’t know what it is?”
“Ought to.”
Slocum grabbed again to keep the marshal from tumbling out of the saddle. The man slumped forward and clung to the saddle horn with both hands. This was barely enough to keep him astride his horse. If Slocum didn’t spot another town, he knew they had to head back to Cimarron Junction and the doctor there. From the way Vannover was burning up with fever, he might not make it, but Slocum knew the doctor would never leave town to tend a patient out in the countryside. There was still too much work to do in the aftermath of Magee’s raid.
Keeping a close watch on the lawman, Slocum led the man’s horse to the top of the ridge. He heaved a sigh of relief when he spotted the small town nestled in a hollow. He had been right about the stream. It ran near the town. The road was barely a pair of muddy twin ruts, though, the rain erasing all hint of how much traffic came through the area. In the distance, Slocum saw the cornfields and some cattle grazing contentedly in grassy meadows. Clayton Magee’s plague of destruction had left this town untouched.
“Come on, old-timer,” Slocum said, tugging on the reins to the marshal’s horse. “We need to find a doctor to get you all fixed up.”
Vannover did not offer even a murmur in reply. Slocum hoped the man hadn’t upped and died, but he wasn’t going to check to see until they reached town. He had seen enough dead bodies lately without taking it upon himself to bury another up here on the hillside.
13
Clayton Magee paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. He seethed with the indignity of being defeated in such a manner, and by a mere captain of cavalry.
“We’re gonna lose a few of the men, Major,” Albert Kimbrell reported.
“To injury or desertion?”
Kimbrell seemed to balance his answer. Magee would have none of that. His men had to be honest or there was no point in having them in his chain of command.
“Spit it out, sir!”
“More are deserting than are injured. Mostly, the injured died on the spot. There might have been a couple who didn’t escape, but we managed to get most of those who weren’t seriously injured away from that town.”
“Good. We must cleave together or they wi
ll destroy us one by one.”
“Easier said than done, Major,” Kimbrell said. “Everyone’s mighty disheartened.”
“I know.” Magee’s mind raced, turning over possibilities and determining what he could do and what he could not. A smile crept to the corners of his lips. He faced Kimbrell and said, “What post did that captain ride from?”
“Where was he stationed? Don’t know. I didn’t recognize the insignia on the company pennant.”
“We know the insignia of Fort Gibson.”
“Reckon he wasn’t from Fort Gibson then,” Kimbrell said, obviously not understanding what the major meant.
“There are only a few other possibilities, the most likely being Fort Supply.”
“That’s somewhere to the west of here, ain’t it?”
“It is. With this captain in the field, their garrison is reduced by at least twenty men. It is not unusual for a post commander to send out more than one squad to patrol any given area. Fort Supply is not large. There can be only a handful of soldiers remaining to protect it.”
“You’re not thinkin’ on attackin’ the fort? That’s crazy!” Kimbrell bit back anything more.
“You might think me crazy, but we are out of ammunition.” Magee let the criticism of his second in command hang for a moment before going on. “We need supplies. Too many of our horses were injured in the skirmish.”
“We got maybe fifteen or twenty men left, Major.”
“It’s time to buck up their spirits with a resounding victory. If we do not strike quickly and well, more will desert.” Magee heaved a sigh of resignation. “If only this were the army. I could catch, try, and hang deserters. There is nothing holding them to my company, however, other than loyalty. Therefore, I must show that I deserve their courage and blood and sacrifice.”
“By attackin’ Fort Supply?”
“Precisely,” Magee said. “Get the men onto the trail immediately. We ride for Fort Supply!” The fervor of a daring maneuver executed well burned once more within Magee’s breast. He had not found Louisa and Sarah Beth at Cimarron Junction. The scout had been wrong and that misinformation had almost led to their downfall. The man had paid for his carelessness with his life. Magee had seen the scout shot from the saddle. His death would light the way for greater victories!