by Jake Logan
He drew a deep breath. “Is your husband’s middle name Erwin?”
She blinked her blue eyes. “Yes, have you met him?”
“No, ma’am, but you better read this newspaper. Hand me little Sam.”
Looking lost, she traded the boy for the newspaper. “Oh, no . . .”
When she looked up, the color had drained from her complexion. “These are the men he was going to Kansas with. Why would they do this?”
“I have no answer as to the why of it, ma’am.”
Tears spilled down her face. “I’m so sorry, sir. I had no idea. I thought they’d sold the cattle already and I—I was going home. Where did they bury him?”
“A pauper’s grave, I imagine.”
“But how could he have done this?”
Slocum handed her his kerchief then he bounced the boy a little on his leg. “How long did you know him?”
“Two, maybe three years. I met him at a dance. He worked for a few ranchers, then he said he was heading up a herd. His parents have a ranch west of San Antonio. I’ll have to tell them if they haven’t heard. What will I do?”
“I don’t know your circumstances, ma’am.”
“I have a six-month-old son, and I’m the widow of an—an outlaw.”
“Can you stay with your parents?”
“Yes, but what will I do—oh, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Where are your parents at?”
“They have a ranch in the hill country.”
“We can rent a buckboard and I can take you up there.”
“Oh, I could not impose on you—”
“Do you have anyone to help you?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll take you up there myself.”
“But you have your own life.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle both.”
“Well, I don’t know . . . imposing on a stranger. How will it look?”
“I’m not sure but you need help. I can get you to where you want to be.”
The train reached the depot in San Antonio in the middle of the night. He made certain her trunks were on the dock along with his saddle and war bag. She handed him Samuel Colt and went to use the facilities. “I’ll be right back.”
It was the last time he saw her that night. He and Samuel were left on the San Antonio Depot platform waiting for his mother to return. The longer he waited, the more jittery he felt, and he began walking and bouncing his newfound buddy. Something was obviously wrong. He finally went inside and asked the agent if he’d seen a woman in a brown dress.
“Yeah, she met two men and they left in a buckboard together.”
“Buckboard? Did she look like she was being kidnapped?”
“Well, she didn’t seem to know either of them.”
“Easy, Sam. We’ll find her.” It would help if I knew her family’s name.
First item, he needed to find someone to babysit Sam. The infant wasn’t happy about the absence of his mother. A city cop sent him by taxi to the house address of a Mary Dolin. He woke a large buxom blond woman who swept her ample hair back over her shoulder.
The woman said she would care for him. She and Sam hit it off though he needed an immediate changing. The taxi man unloaded the trunk that contained Sam’s things. Slocum had left Joan’s trunk and his war bag and saddle at the train station. The woman changed Sam’s diaper and told Slocum she would feed and care for him until he returned. He paid her ten dollars, and she looked pleased.
“I believe his mother was kidnapped. I’ll be back when I know more.”
“Thank you. He will be well cared for.”
“Much obliged,” Slocum said. This woman sounded very trustworthy and sincere.
He left her place and decided to get a hotel room to rest a few hours. His mind was blank from exhaustion and concern for the little guy and his mother. After a few hours of troubled sleep, he went downtown to the main police department. They knew nothing about the disappearance of the woman.
“One minute she was there and asked me to hold the baby. Next, the agent told me two men had herded her off in a buckboard. I had to find a woman to watch her baby.”
“Why didn’t you report her missing then?” the officer at the desk asked.
“I had not had any sleep in twenty-four hours. And I had to find a woman to care for the baby. You damn sure don’t want him down here.”
“What was her name?”
“Mrs. Joan Briscoe. She had just learned that her husband, who she thought was driving cattle north to Kansas, had been shot to death in a muddled bank robbery up in Denison.”
“I knew I’d heard that name.”
“Do you know where his parents live?”
The deskman shook his head.
“She would never have left that boy with me unless she was kidnapped. She’s a fine mother.”
“Then where did she disappear to? She got rid of her son by giving him to you, and was going to hide out.”
“Quit supposing. Name some men who live here that might have wanted her for something.”
“Did she have any money from another crime they might have wanted?”
“You have all the information I know. I’m going to look for her and I’m going to be looking for his parents. Someone will know them.”
“Meanwhile, where are you staying?” the deskman asked.
“Hotel San Carlos.”
“Check back in with me in two days. Sign your name on this paper.”
“You can check every day at the San Carlos bar.” Slocum signed it and left. Then he went back to the Alamo district. More than likely her kidnappers came out of that area because that was where, in the city, most of the cowboys and ranchers usually stayed.
Who’d rented a buckboard yesterday from a livery? He asked each stable about renters in the area, and it was afternoon before he found a likely renter at Price’s Livery. A white-bearded gentleman named Jenkins gave a description of a pair of men in their late twenties who’d acted upset the day before when renting a team and buckboard.
He’d made them put up two hundred dollars up for security, because he thought they were acting shady. They said John Carson and Eli Campbell were their names. They were supposed to have already brought the buckboard back, so it was overdue. Slocum decided to wait to see who returned the rig for their deposit just in case they did come back. That was a large sum, and he decided that unless they were real rich, they’d want it back. Across the street from the livery a Hispanic vendor woman made him some lunch on a small cooker. About the time she got his beans and meat wrapped in a large tortilla, a boy of twelve or so arrived in a buckboard. Slocum rushed back across the street to the livery.
Jenkins began looking around, waving for him.
“That’s my rig,” he said, indicating the outfit. “I don’t know this boy.”
The barefoot youth in his early teens tied off the reins, jumped off the rig, and held out his hand to Jenkins. “Mister, Big Jim said he wanted his two hundred bucks back or he’d bust my ass wide open.”
Jenkins nodded for Slocum to interrogate him.
“Who’s Big Jim?” Slocum asked.
“Big Jim Lansberry.”
“Where’s he live at?”
“Over on Stack Street.”
“Was the woman crying when you left them?” Slocum asked him.
The boy’s face went white as a sheet. He swallowed hard.
“Do you know her?” Slocum asked.
“No.”
“Have they been treating her mean?”
Numb-looking, the boy nodded.
Slocum said, “I’ve got a twenty-dollar gold piece. You take me where she’s at and it’s yours.”
The boy started to
panic. “I need his deposit first or he’ll kill me.”
“I’m giving it to this man,” Jenkins said, indicating Slocum. “He can give it to him. You sure won’t get hurt. He won’t let Big Jim hurt you.”
“He said he’d bust my ass if I didn’t get right back.”
Slocum shook his head. “I won’t let him do that. Jenkins, loan me a pistol. I’ll handle this matter.”
The bearded man rushed inside and came back with a short-barrel Sheriff model .45 Colt. “It’s loaded.”
Slocum thanked him. He slipped the handgun in his waistband and the two hurried off. Three blocks away from the livery, the boy pointed to an adobe jacal halfway down the street. “They’re gonna be mad at me for bringing you here, mister. I know them.”
“I can handle them. Are they drunk?”
He made a quick nod. “Kin I have that money now?”
“No, you walk closer to them. You may be lying to me.” He motioned for the boy to go ahead while keeping his eye on the building.
The boy began to sniffle. “They’re gonna kill me. I done figured it out. You the law, mister?”
“No, I’m just a citizen.”
“You act like the law. Mister, I gotta piss.”
“Step over by the wall.”
“I really got to.”
“Pee there.”
“All right. All right. You don’t know them two, do you?”
Slocum stared at the house right on the dirt sidewalk. “I’m fixing to meet them.”
“What if they kill us?”
He shook his head. “I won’t let them. Get behind me.”
He could hear a woman crying and someone slapping her. “Shut your damn mouth,” a gruff voice ordered.
“Oh, dear mother of God . . .” the boy began whispering. “Let me go.”
“No. I’ll protect you. Will you do what I say?”
“Oh, yeah, but I don’t want to die.”
“Then keep quiet.”
A man with a pistol in his hand stepped out with his back to them not twenty steps away to search the street.
“Drop it!” Slocum ordered, and the man whirled around, not obeying his command. He shot in the direction of Slocum’s voice.
The Colt barked loudly in Slocum’s hand, and the bullet slammed into the man standing against the door. He fell down and Slocum knew the outlaw was hit hard enough in the chest to kill him. The sound of someone running out the back made him charge to the doorway but the dead man’s body in the space forced him to jump over it. He saw the wet red face of Mrs. Briscoe with her hands tied behind her back, sitting at a table in the room.
“Cut her loose,” he shouted to the boy as he ran hard for the back door. A wide-eyed man with a pistol, mounted on an unruly brown horse, was trying to rein him around. He took a wild shot at Slocum that raised dust where the lead struck the adobe wall. Slocum took aim, fired, and knew by the way the man ducked in the saddle that he was hit. But his mount tore away and the wounded kidnapper disappeared down the alley toward a side street.
“Kid, go see if he fell off his horse. I hit him.”
“Yes sir.” And he ran out the back door.
“You all right?” Slocum asked, going to Mrs. Briscoe, pained by the sight of her black eye and appearance.
“Where’s Samuel?” Untied, she fell into his arms.
“Sam’s doing great with a lady who’s caring for him. We’re going right over there next.”
“He never fell off the horse, sir,” the boy reported.
“Thanks. What do I owe you?”
“Twenty dollars. I showed you right where she was at.”
“You did well.” Turning to Joan Briscoe, he explained, “He returned the livery buggy they’d rented, then he led me up here.”
Slocum paid him and the boy bit on the coin.
“It isn’t fake.” Slocum scowled at him.
“You can’t take no chances these days.”
“You go back to Jenkins and tell him I need to rent a rig. And bring it over here on the double.” He could hear a police whistle blowing and the bells of a paddy wagon en route to their location. More damn explaining to do.
“You’re sure Sam’s fine?” Her hand about squeezed his arm off.
Four policemen armed with clubs arrived, aided by a number of Mexican women pointing toward the adobe shack.
“What the hell was the shooting about?” the leader in his blue uniform demanded. One of his men squatted down and examined the dead man.
“He’s dead, Sarge.”
“Did you shoot him?” he asked Slocum.
“Yes sir, after he shot at me. Smell the pistol in his hand. It was shot at me only a few minutes ago. I returned fire in self-defense.”
One of the officers jerked the dead man’s gun out of his hand. Two others smelled it and agreed that it had been fired.
“This your gun?” one of the others asked, reaching out to take Slocum’s pistol.
“No, sir. I borrowed it from Mr. Jenkins over at the livery. I knew I’d need the weapon to recover Mrs. Briscoe, who they kidnapped at the train depot yesterday.”
“How did you find them?”
“That’s a long story that I’ll tell you at the police station. Send an officer with me. Mrs. Briscoe’s son is with a babysitter that I hired. He’s six months old. I was at your police headquarters this morning and explained all of this. Let us go get her baby boy first, and then I’ll come directly to the station. I won’t do anything else.”
“Who is this corpse?” another asked.
“I never saw him before he came out that doorway and shot at me.”
“Anyone know him?” their leader asked the onlookers. No answer.
“There’s a wanted poster on him down at the station,” the shortest policeman informed them.
“Cadrey knows them all,” the leader said then took off his hat and turned to Mrs. Briscoe. “I’m sorry, ma’am, my bad manners. Someone has your boy?”
“I left Sam with Slocum for just a minute, went inside the train depot to use the facilities, and this dead man and another grabbed me. They beat me up and threatened to kill me. I still don’t understand anything about it.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Whose buckboard is that?”
The boy and buckboard had just rattled up.
Slocum told him, “I sent that boy for it so we could go get her son.”
The man gave a big sigh. “Only for the lady would I do this. Irwin, go with them and take them to get her son. Then—”
“Let her check into a hotel, too. She’s not going to run away. I’ll go back with the officer, and the boy can tend the buckboard for me.”
The sergeant, as if overwhelmed by all that had happened, finally agreed. He began giving orders to his men. “Load the dead man in the wagon and take it to the morgue. Cadrey, you and Reynolds talk to all the neighbors and find out about these men then look up the landlord.
“Slocum, you go check her into the hotel, get the baby in whatever order, and I’ll meet you at the station when you get through.”
Slocum helped Mrs. Briscoe up beside the boy. “Take us to this address.” He showed him the paper it was written on.
“I can’t read,” the boy said.
“It’s 54 Second Avenue.” He joined the policeman on the tailgate and shook his head.
“We need to get our things from the depot, too,” Slocum told him.
The cop nodded. “That was some shooting you did back there. He was drilled right in the heart. You killed many men?”
“No more than needed it.” Slocum turned to speak to Joan, who was on the seat as the iron wheels turned up the light dust. “You all right, ma’am?”
“Y
es, Slocum. Are you sure my boy is all right?”
“He’s fine. We’ll be there in a minute.”
When they arrived at the babysitter’s house, she quickly opened the door and smiled. “I’m so glad to see you. This must be his mother. Sam is fine, although my goat’s milk isn’t as good as yours.”
She led Joan inside, and soon she had her boy in her arms, hugging him tight. Slocum got the boy’s bag and thanked the woman.
“Keep the money. You earned it.”
“Thank you. You are so kind. Come see me whenever you’re in town.”
“He’s fine,” Joan said excitedly. Slocum carried out the boy’s things.
Next, they went to the depot and got the rest of their things. At the Hotel San Carlos, he took her and the baby down from the seat and started inside.
“Tell them we’re husband and wife,” she whispered. “I’m shaking so badly inside, I’ll need to hold on to you.”
“After we check in, I’ll come upstairs with you to get you settled,” he said. “Then I’ll be back as soon as I’m done at the police station. In the meantime, I’ll order you a bath so you can clean up.”
She agreed and hugged Sam tighter. The baby looked pleased to be back in her arms, too. Slocum kissed her on the forehead and then he registered them as man and wife. Mr. and Mrs. John Slocum.
A boy named Rick brought in their luggage and the policeman helped. Then he drove them to the police station and watched the horses. The long interrogation proved that the men were wanted for various robberies, including suspicion they’d been involved in the Val Verde Bank robbery, which was listed as an eighty-thousand-dollar theft. James Briscoe had been one of the robbers.
Things were finally settled. The patrolman was to return Jenkins’s pistol to him the next day. The dead man was Ulysses Crabtree of Lyman, Texas, wanted for several bank, stage, and store robberies. Slocum donated the reward to the San Antonio Police Widows’ Fund. That sped things along. The wounded man that escaped was thought to be James E. Lansberry from Grapevine, Texas, also under many other assumed names and sought for dozens of crimes.
The desk sergeant shook Slocum’s hand and for the fortieth time told him gunplay inside the city limits was prohibited. Slocum nodded. Then three news reporters cornered him, asking a thousand questions. He referred them to the man at the desk.