by Jake Logan
* * *
Slocum and Julie rode out with blankets to wrap the bodies in, and each pulled a crude sled to bring them back on. A grim job. He told her he could do it, but she said she was his helper and could stand the bitter task. He chose not to argue about it. When she set her mind to such things, he found her very determined.
Midday, they found the murder site and began the grim task of digging out the frozen remains, which had been further ravaged by wolves. Wrapped in blankets and rope-tied to keep them covered, they put two on his sled and one on her sled. Then as Slocum tasted a sourness behind his tongue that threatened to choke him, they headed for the fort.
Slocum also collected the spears, hoping the squaws might recognize the marks on the shaft. Julie had no idea, but she was a Navajo and knew little about the plains tribes.
“They must have snuck up on those boys to kill them, with so little evidence of a fight.”
“Or they carried away their own dead.”
She nodded. “Those three were tough men. Maybe they thought the braves were friendly?”
“I guess we’ll never know why they were killed. I fear they killed them to weaken the fort’s security and then try to take it. McKee has some great stores of gunpowder and whiskey, plus yours.”
“That belongs to Wolf. I don’t drink firewater. One time he made me drink enough to make me drunk—to show me what happens.”
“What did you do?”
She booted her horse to go faster. “I passed out and had bad headache the next day.”
“Never again?” he asked, amused at the bad face she made for him.
“Never again.”
He laughed. “What will you do if he does not find you by spring?”
“Maybe I will go home to my people.”
“I thought they’d shunned you.”
“I think I can find a man who needs a woman and become his squaw. What will you do?”
“I’ll take those white girls to Santa Fe.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll probably go north into the mountains.”
She nodded.
They rode over the frozen land. The sleds hissed across the snow. The loads were much less to pull than the buffalo carcasses and came much easier, aside from turning over once in a while and requiring Slocum to dismount and right them. Otherwise, the trip was uneventful.
McKee’s women had the graves dug for them. And under torchlight with his square reading glasses on his nose, McKee read some Psalms over them. They were buried inside the low adobe fence around the fort.
The women took the spears to the house to examine, but Slocum heard no comment from them about the tribe or where they might have come from. After some food, he and Julie went to their jacal and banked the fire. He caught and held her tightly to his chest.
“I’m very grateful that we met, Julie. You’ve been my right hand, and when you leave, I’ll be sad.”
She looked up and smiled. “You embarrass me. I won’t forget you. Indian men seldom or never kiss their wives. I have enjoyed you kissing me like I was a white woman.”
“You are,” he said, then kissed her.
“You kiss me and I am like coal oil, set on fire by a match, and I am ready to take you to bed.”
“So am I.”
“You are always ready. Even when it is just over.” She pushed him backward on the bed and began to take off her outdoors clothing, laughing as if free of the day’s grim task.
What a great little woman. In minutes, they were naked and hugging each other for warmth since the room had cooled without a built-up fire going all day. Their mouths locked in dedication to arouse both of them. Her small fingers found his dick and she pulled hard on it to stiffen the shaft. Satisfied that he was soon going to be hard enough, she guided him in the lips of her vagina, then she raised her small butt to accept him.
In a blinding fury, they soared like flames in a hot fire to fly like great eagles in the madness that took hold of their bodies and minds. Their breathing became rapid and heavy. His hard-driving dick in her tight pulsating pussy fueled their desires to become a raging forest fire, consuming them in a blaze that went on forever.
Soon she was on top of him, riding his dick like a bronco rider with her small breasts shaking like flags in a high wind. Between the hair covering her dark eyes, he caught glimpses of the intensity she had for the last blast. He gripped her narrow hips with his hands, assisting her fiery action.
Then from the depth of his balls, he felt the rise of hot fluids, which he fired like a shotgun into her core. She collapsed on top of him and the muscles inside her made pulsating waves on his tight-fitting erection. Their mixed fluids leaked from her over his scrotum as she sprawled on his chest and tried to recover her breathing.
He raised her chin and smiled at her. “You are some woman, Julie.”
“I have seen mares mounted by strong stallions that would get so weak from the breeding they would fall to their knees when the stallions were done and lay sprawled on their sides, groaning deep in their throats. I feel like that right now.”
They both laughed.
The next week the weather broke, the snow melted, and a caravan of carretas loaded high with firewood came to the fort. McKee already kept a mountain of split firewood next to the main building—maybe enough for two years—but he welcomed the Mexican men as gratefully as if he were about to run out of fuel.
They asked him about the fresh graves. Obviously they were either relatives or friends of the deceased, for the graves drew some tears and grief from some of the hardest-looking men in the group. Many dropped to their knees, crossed themselves, removed their sombreros, and spoke to their Maker.
Money was in short supply among the Latinos in Texas. But McKee would always buy their firewood since he’d need it at some time, and so they left the western hill country for his fort when they had a good amount to deliver. There must have been thirty teams of oxen and they showed him each load. Two carretas had carried the hay for the oxen. They had about used up the first load. But they knew how to ration it out and how much to take along.
The old man knew how to survive in this land. In summer they brought him hay caravans. But in a land of so little money, McKee was their principal industry. They had a fiesta that evening. They raised hell, ate and drank and danced with the Indian women and their own cooks. The silent one did not dance; she sat in the corner, bowing her head. Her sister was different, and agreed to dance with a few of the men. But Slocum noticed that McKee’s women acted like her chaperones and kept an eye on her to make sure no one took her away even briefly.
The next day was warm, too, and the caravan made plans to leave—obviously afraid of the next storm waiting to sweep in. Fifty-degree days lasted only a short while on Cap Rock in the winter, and they had a long trip back home to San Angelo. Four young men agreed to stay behind and work for a year at the fort.
McKee took Slocum aside and asked him to teach them how to shoot and how to care for firearms.
“I’ll feel much better when we have some trained fighters here. Then you can take them on a buffalo hunt. I bought a carreta and an oxen team to replace the one we lost.”
Slocum agreed and they saw the long train off the next morning. The leader promised the old man another fuel delivery in late spring. McKee thanked them and told them to come back anytime, as the creaking wheels began to roll southeastward.
The four young men were in their late teens and early twenties, and Slocum began teaching them about firearms. Carlos was squat built, Rafe was the youngest, Juan was the biggest and strongest, and Pablo was the slowest. Slocum lined them up with Springfield breech-loaded rifles. They learned gun safety first, then the women made them stuffed dummies for targets and Slocum planted posts to mount them on. He brought them blindfolded to the r
ange when it was all set up. Julie and another squaw turned them around so they were almost dizzy.
He fired his pistol in the air and shouted, “You’re being attacked!”
They stripped off the blindfolds and stood there, getting their bearings. Some looked around first to locate the positions of the dummies, but Juan went right for the stacked rifles. He ordered Rafe to open the ammo box while Slocum shot his other pistol in the air. And he was shouting, “They’re shooting at you! Hurry! Hurry!”
One by one, they began loading and shooting at the targets.
When Slocum called for them to stop shooting, he said, “Juan, you might have survived. The rest of you were killed. You weren’t fast enough, and the enemy rode you down. What did I say to do first?”
“Find the weapons and ammo,” Juan said with his rifle standing beside his leg.
“Right. You can’t defend a fort with your bare hands. You get your guns first, then figure out whether you have to use them.”
“Now what must we do?” Rafe asked.
“Clean the weapons,” Carlos said. To Slocum, he said, “I see what you mean. If they come to charge the fort, we must go get our guns right away, before we even look to see how many there are?”
“Right. There’s no time to think about it. C’mon, let’s go clean our weapons.”
Within a few days, the foursome could hit the targets with their rifles. Then at rifle range, Slocum had them shoot with cap and ball pistols at the dummies. No one hit a thing.
“Use a rifle for long-range shooting and pistols like knives in close combat.” They agreed, shaking their heads about their failure to even come close to the dummies with their hand weapons.
Winter had swept in hard and then defrosted. They set out to find a buffalo with the carreta and oxen. They slept in bedrolls. They’d brought along enough wood to keep up a fire to warm by and cook on in the morning. He and Juan took their horses and went looking.
They spotted three buffalos grazing. Juan set up the tripod and loaded the rifle.
“Now be sure you hit him behind the front legs and blow up his heart. Even at this distance a wounded buffalo is always dangerous. Be real steady.”
The young man took aim and the rifle exploded so loud the report made Slocum’s ears ache. The bull crumbled into a pile downrange. He clapped the youth on his shoulder. “You did great. Now go get the crew.”
“Should we shoot another?”
“No, we’ll have enough fresh meat for a while and then you can organize another hunt.”
Juan smiled at him. “I am learning so much. Thank you.”
“You learn quick.”
They had another fiesta that evening when they returned. Fried liver and the finest rib steaks. Slocum and Julie watched the excited boys talking about the kill and having to run the other two buffalos off, who didn’t even know that one was dead.
* * *
In a cold snap with feathery snowflakes on the hard wind, a party of white men came by the fort. They had several pack mules, and in their buffalo coats they looked bathless and tough. Slocum, repairing a saddle with Rafe, watched, and then he left the boy in charge to finish the repairs, went to the back door, and came into the kitchen.
“Who are those men out there?” he asked Willow.
“I don’t know. They asked if Wolf Ripley was here.”
“Why?”
“He owes them money for whiskey they sold him and say he ran out without paying them for it.”
“Send someone to tell Julie to stay out of sight. I want to check on them first. They may know her. No names?”
“One is called King something.”
“Tell her that.”
“Should we be armed?” Willow asked.
“It might not hurt.”
He went to the room next to the store and listened. One loud voice spoke about many things to McKee. The fucking Comanche. The damn army. The badge-toting U.S. marshals. He had a hard-on for Mexican women.
McKee simply listened to him without arguing and then sold him some whiskey. The men sounded mad about this Ripley guy running out on them. The loud voice kept asking McKee about him as if he thought he’d trip the old man up and get him to admit the son of a bitch had been there.
In the room’s dim light, Slocum checked the loads in his .44 and then holstered it. Better go face these devils, whoever they were. When the door opened, they all went for their gun butts.
“Hold your fire,” McKee said loud enough only the deaf couldn’t have heard him. “This is my partner, Slocum. Slocum, meet John King and his associates.”
“Nice to meet you,” Slocum said. “Kind of cold to be up here on Cap Rock, isn’t it?”
The bearded faces of the other men nodded in agreement, and the four of them sat down. King, a portly man in a dark oilskin duster, pulled the coat back and exposed an ivory-handled Colt with a steer head carved on it. Nickelplated, too. He pushed his wide-brimmed black hat back on his head.
“Maybe you know where that stinking Wolf Ripley’s at?”
“He may be going to sprout daisies come the spring thaw.”
“How’s that?”
“I found his woman about two months or so back in a dust storm. I brought her here and she had no idea where he ended up. They’d come under attack and she ran away.”
“She’s lying to cover for the son of a bitch,” King swore.
Slocum shook his head. “She doesn’t know where he’s at or what happened to him. Am I clear enough?”
“You covering for some red whore?”
“Listen, King, you call her nothing but ‘ma’am,’ or I’ll blow you to kingdom come.”
King sniffed out his nose, then reached for his Colt.
That was all it took. Slocum drew and fired at him.King’s left hand shot to his ear in the cloud of black-powder smoke and screamed, “You shot me!”
“You want the other one notched?”
“Hell, no! I’m bleeding to death.” He looked in disbelief at the blood on his hand.
“You got it straight?”
“Help me, boys, I’m bleeding like a stuck hawg.”
“Just keep your hands off your gun butts,” Slocum warned.
Three men were instantly around him, trying to stop the bleeding with their kerchiefs, and like the others, they were also coughing, their eyes watering from the smoke in the room. Someone opened the door to let the acrid burning fog outside. Willow came in the room and went directly to the wounded man.
She pulled the others away. “It needs cauterizing. Bring him into the kitchen. I’ll heat an iron. Who did this?”
“That guy.” Someone pointed to Slocum.
“Then he must’ve needed it.” She took King by the arm and dragged him after her out of the room.
“Everyone settle down,” McKee said and handed one of them a small crock jug. “You go around and pour everyone two fingers of that.”
Slocum holstered his gun in time to hear King scream back in the kitchen. She must have cauterized it. In a short while, he came back out with his whole ear bandaged and he looked groggy. He sat down in a chair. Several of his men watched Slocum like dogs that wanted to bite him but were afraid to challenge him. They asked King if he was all right.
King gave them a grumpy reply. “Hell no, I ain’t all right. The bastard about shot me in the eye.”
Slocum shook his head and turned to the bar. “If I’d wanted to, you’d be blind right now.”
King didn’t answer him. Obvious from what he saw in the smoky mirror behind the bar, King was experiencing great pain. Good, it might take some edge off the bossy bastard. He’d make his next shot solid in him if he bothered Julie. Slocum’s anger slowly drained away. Someone closed the door. Most of the gun smoke was out of the
room, and the store had chilled down. There were five men with King. Everyone no doubt had a past of being tough and lawless. But like most followers of men such as King, they weren’t leaders and waited for his decision on what to do next.
That injured ear would sure be sensitive to the cold, and Slocum doubted he’d try anything in case he couldn’t hear well on that side or his balance was off. For the time being, King was disabled enough to fear the man who’d shot him.
McKee came down the bar and offered Slocum a drink, saying in a low voice, “Willow said the boys were ready if you needed backup.”
Slocum shook his head. “We’ll see. There won’t be a problem here for a few days. His ear’s going to hurt too bad for at least that long.”
“You ever met him before?” McKee asked in a whisper.
“Never seen or heard of him. Where’s he from?”
“Damned if I know.” Then he raised his voice. “Where you guys come from?”
“Texas.”
“Helluva big place.”
“I come from Fort Worth. It ain’t this damn cold back there.”
“You boys seen any polar bears coming out here?”
They laughed.
Their untanned buffalo hide coats gave off a rotten odor of cow dung, and it grew stronger the longer they stayed in the heated store.
“You got any whores up here, McKee?” one of them asked.
“Nope, I’m too far from having steady customers to have any.”
“Hell, you could charge ten bucks a pop for one and make yourself rich.”
“And wait another month for the likes of you to come back. No need for me to have any.” McKee sold the man another quart of whiskey and thanked him.
“I’d give twenty,” another outlaw said, squeezing his crotch like he had a problem. “Even for an ugly one.”
“How many of you are going to want supper?” McKee asked. “I’ll get the women to start cooking it.”
“What’cha got?”
“Buffalo, frijoles, hot sauce, and apple pie.”
“How much?”
“Two bucks a plate or frijoles for a dollar.”