Slocum and Pearl of the Rio Grande

by Jake Logan

  He and Benny tied their hands behind their backs and then their feet.

  “We better see what they’ve got,” Slocum said, and motioned to their things.

  “We ain’t got nothing. No one paid us our share,” the outspoken one said.

  “What’s your name?” Slocum asked, on his knees reaching into the war bag.

  “Ted.”

  “Who are the rest of you?”

  “He’s Myers and that’s Peg on the end.”

  “Who’s the dead man?”

  “Larry Kent.”

  Something jingled as he felt around in the bag. Slocum stopped, and then reached in deeper. The small hammered coins on a chain hooked in his fingers came out into the rising moonlight.

  “Benny, come over here.”

  He came and squatted. Then he carefully took the necklace, held it up in the campfire’s light, and began to swear aloud in Spanish.

  “I won that in a card game. Didn’t I, boys? Didn’t I?”

  Slocum stood up. “I don’t really care what you do with him,” he told Benny.

  “What did he do to her?” Benny asked Slocum.

  “Ask him.” Slocum gave a toss of his head toward Ted.

  “What did you do to my Alicia?”

  “I won that—I never—”

  “Tell me. I must know.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Give me your knife,” Slocum said to Benny.

  “What for? What you going to do to me?” Ted cried.

  “Personally, I’d cut your sack open and stick your left leg through it. But right now, I’m going to notch your ear until you tell him.” Slocum took hold of his ear as if ready to begin.

  “Okay, okay. I was drunk. I can’t remember much. We were raping them all.”

  “And—”

  “And I guess I got a little rough—”

  “How rough?”

  “I might have slapped her a time or two. I don’t remember much, except I couldn’t get a load off. She wouldn’t suck on it. I think I fucked her ass, too.”

  “Heard enough?” Slocum asked Benny.

  “Sí. He makes me sick. I wish I could make him like she is.”

  “He ain’t worth much.”

  Benny stuck the pistol in his waistband and hurried off into the night. It was time for a man with such a burden to be by himself. Slocum put more wood on the fire. The tongues of the flame licked at the night and he sat dry-eyed and looked at the three worthless rustlers. He wasn’t a lyncher. He wouldn’t make a good express man and executioner of every would-be stage robber either. But he could come close with these three. They’d ran roughshod over innocent people like Benny’s Alicia, and God knows how many other small ranchers’ wives had paid the tax. Sons a bitches . . .

  23

  It took all the next day to drive the horses back, and it was past dark when he reached the ranch with his three prisoners and the corpse of the fourth strapped over his horse. He rode in, leading the prisoners on their horses, and saw the buckskin horse in the starlight. Sims was there. Damn.

  His heart stopped. He jerked the .44 out of the scabbard. “If one of you bastards move off your horses, when I find you I’ll kill you.”

  He rushed to the house under the starlight and burst in the front door. Inside, he could see through the blue haze from a gunshot that someone was sprawled on his back on the floor at the base of the stairs. He was hatless, and his long curly black hair was spilled on the tile.

  Seated on the stairs being comforted was Perla, with a smoking six-gun still in her hands. Jolanda and the house girls were crying and hugging her. Her glance met Slocum and her lips trembled when she tried to speak.

  “I—I—told him to stop.”

  He reached up and took the gun from her limp hand. “You had no choice.” He turned to her cook. “Jolanda, there are three rustlers and one dead one out there. Get the men to take them prisoner and lock them up for the sheriff.”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding at him as he reached down and gently lifted Perla in his arms like she was a feather.

  With the precious cargo at last in his arms, he couldn’t glance away from her magnetic face. Under his rundown boots, the stairs were like clouds as he climbed them, consumed by her face and the rest of her beauty.

  On the top floor, she said, “The second door.”

  He nodded, and pushed it in with a boot toe. The fireplace crackled and the orange light flooded the shadowy room. With his butt, he closed the door. Her small hands framed his face, and she raised up until her mouth was against his. Then, when they brushed lips, her arms flew around his neck and they plunged into a deep pool of hard breathing.

  The world swirled around them. He undid her gown, then held her up and soon tasted her rock-hard nipples. She swept his face away to look at him and whispered, “The bed.”

  When she was on the sheet, he toed off his boots, dropped his gun belt, and shed his jacket and shirt while she undid the buttons on the gown down the front, exposing the orange-fired brown skin. He wanted to kiss every inch of it.

  In minutes, they were in each other’s arms and coupled in a dizzy head-whirling passion that put the whole world aside. His hands clasped her small rock-hard butt, and her contractions inside pulled the skin off his overinflated erection.

  The explosion left them both trembling, but not ready to quit—not ever ready to stop. She was on top next, riding him, then on her hands and knees underneath him. They laughed, and then grew aroused again—consumed by each other’s teasing into another tryst that took them to new heights.

  He awoke hungover, sat up on the edge of the bed, and combed his hair through his fingers. Soon, she was pressing her breast into his shoulder. “Where do you go?”

  “I need to see about my prisoners.”

  She slipped onto his lap and smiled up at him. “Once more.”

  He closed his eyes and nodded. How could he refuse such a woman?

  Later, they lay in each other’s arms.

  “You will ride on?” she asked.

  “It damn sure isn’t you. I mean, the reason why I am leaving.”

  “I think I understand, but—”

  He put a finger to her mouth and said, “I won’t forget you.”

  “I agree.”

  “Agree to what?”

  Like a cat, she rolled on top of him and sat up sweeping her hair back. “I think I have found myself. Never again will I be afraid. That was what you did for me.”

  “Good. Good.”

  She bent over and kissed him. “If I ever hear that you came by and did not stop here, I will track you down.”

  “I won’t.”

  24

  The sheriff in Española was a small Mexican who accepted the three prisoners and their handwritten signed confessions to rape, horse rustling, and cattle rustling. They claimed they’d never robbed a stage. That was Sims and others. Slocum had no argument with that—he left the courthouse after being assured they would stand trial and be sentenced when the circuit judge came by.

  Then he rode out the road east, and in mid-morning stopped at Tonyah’s jacal. She came sleepy-eyed to the door, half-wrapped in a blanket, and blinked at Slocum. Obviously, she was naked under the wrap. Her sausage leg was exposed almost to the lip of her belly.

  “Where’s Bledstone?” he asked

  “I haven’t seen him in days. He owes me money,” she whined.

  He shoved her aside and pushed the door open.

  The bare-chested boy who bolted up in the bed let out a scream. “I didn’t know she was your girl.”

  Slocum scowled at him. “She damn sure ain’t mine.” He turned back to her. “Where did he go?”

  “Santa Fe—I don’t know. Can I go back inside? It’s cold out here.”

  “Sure.” He walked over to Heck and checked the cinch. Maybe that no-account was down there and had probably already spent Slocum’s and Collie Bill’s money. A toe in the stirrup, then he swung up and rode off.

&n
bsp; The day was probably done. In the west, the sun was sinking fast. Back in town, he’d get a room in the hotel and go on in the morning. That damn slob Bledstone had better count his days. They were damn sure going to be shorter if he ever caught him. Made him madder about the SOB taking his friend’s money than it did his share. But Collie Bill had lovely Juanita and those two small kids of hers, plus a prosperous small ranch and stage station—still, the money would mean a lot to him.

  Plus Sims and the Boosters were gone. He wondered about May. She had a ranch, she could figure out how to run it. Shame about her. She could have been lots of fun to have gone hot-water swimming with in another snowstorm.

  Perla would take charge of her ranch and she would be fine. He dismounted at the livery to put Heck up.

  “You’re Slocum, ain’t ya?” the white-whiskered old man asked when Slocum led Heck inside.

  “Yeah.” He started unthreading the latigos.

  The old man looked around, then spit some tobacco aside. “Two Kansas deputies were in here not an hour ago. They was asking about you.”

  Slocum went to rethreading the leather. “Thanks. Where did they go?”

  “Going to see the sheriff, they said. Maybe he knew where you were at.”

  Slocum paid him two silver dollars for his troubles, and the old man let him and Heck out the back door into the alley. He recalled Maria’s sister, who lived a block or so away. Maybe he would stop there and get some sleep before he rode south.

  The woman in her thirties, with a shawl on her shoulders, answered the door and recognized him in the twilight. “What can I do for you, Señor?”

  “Do you have a man?”

  “No.” She frowned at him and checked her cleavage.

  “I need to put my horse in back and sleep here for a few hours.” He looked around in the twilight and saw nothing out of place. “I can pay you.”

  “No, no, you are the man who hit Ryan over the head and saved my sister Maria. Come in, Señor.”

  “Let me put the horse in back.”

  “Oh, sí. Are you hungry?”

  He nodded. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  “I can find something.”

  When she closed the door, he led Heck around back and loosened the girth. He’d only be there for five hours or so, and then he had to hit the road. The buckskin would be fine hitched to the small mesquite tree for that long.

  He used the rear door and stuck his head inside. “I’m coming in.”

  “Oh, I am making you some tortillas,” she said, looking back at him in the light of the fireplace. On her knees, she was swirling the growing flour tortilla between her palms. The orange-red light danced on her face. Her cheekbones were too high and her mouth too thick for her to be pretty, but her smile was warm as if she was pleased he had chosen her casa.

  He took off his hat and coat, and went over to squat close to her to absorb some of the heat. The one-room jacal was plain. There was a shrine on one wall where candles could be set, and a pallet on the floor. A steamer trunk sat to one side, and her Sunday dress hung on a hanger on the wall. Four hats, two of felt and two straw ones, were lined on pegs beside the back door. Her two small windows, one on front, one in back, were covered with small drapes. A louvered folding Chinese divider hid something in the far corner, and a single lighted candle in a bottle furnished the other light.

  “How is Maria?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. She left the next day.” She rolled her lips inward as if about to cry. “I—I have heard nothing from her.”

  “Do you think that Ryan has her?”

  “Sí, but there is nothing I can do. He is a powerful man, patrón .”

  “Slocum’s my name.”

  “Francisca is mine. I am sorry, Señor.” A tear ran down her cheek. “There is nothing I can do. I fear for her safety.”

  “Is he down at the San Juan Mission village?’

  “That is where he lives.” She sniffed.

  “You have no family?”

  “Me? Oh, no. The fever took my Jimanez and the three children two years ago. I have been all alone since then. All I have left is Maria. I spoke to that donkey sheriff about her, and he says there is nothing he can do. She will say she chose to go with Ryan if he goes after her.” She shook back the hair from her face. “She won’t do that.”

  “There are some men here in town looking for me. I need to ride from here about midnight. I will check on her when I get down there. If I can, I will try to free her. You’re sure she doesn’t want to be with him?”

  “Cross my heart.” She handed him a bean burrito. “She does not love this man. What can I do about these men? The ones who look for you?”

  Between bites of his spicy food, he shook his head. “Nothing. They won’t find me.”

  “You no longer work for the Señora Peralta? Such a lovely woman.”

  “No, that was a short job.” He smiled at her. “She is very pretty.”

  She wiped the tears from her face with a small cloth and tried to smile at him. “Then why did such a grand man as you leave her? She is a widow, no?”

  “The same reason I must leave you at midnight. There are men looking for me.”

  She nodded in defeat.

  “Your food is good.” He held up what was left of the second tortilla. “You would spoil me.”

  “If I could. Get some sleep when you are ready. I will lay with you and you can hold me.”

  She went behind the divider to change, and came back in a nightshirt. “I will get you up by midnight.”

  He pulled off his other boot. “It is important that I get up and leave.”

  “Don’t worry. I can do that.”

  Under the covers, she put her round butt against his belly and clasped his hand to her right breast. He closed his leaded eyelids and fell asleep. Later, he awoke to her arousing him with her fingers jacking him off.

  She rose under the covers and mischievously grinned out at him in the firelight. “I had to make him stiff.”

  He nodded and with his hands cradling her face, he brought her up and kissed her. “Francisca, you are a sweet person.”

  “You aren’t mad? I mean, at me?”

  “Never.” He rose up so she could squirm beneath him. “Not ever.”

  On her back and looking up at him, she crossed herself. “Mother of God forgive me.”

  “She will. She will.” He laughed as she wiggled to get it in place.

  The cold stars were out watching him ride away. The declining moon rose when he was on the road headed south. He’d left her twenty-five dollars for firewood and food. In her case, a king’s ransom. He’d also left a note to Perla that Francisca would be good help if Perla could use any more. And another she promised to post from him to Collie Bill, saying that Bledstone and their money had fled south and he was going after him.

  The wind rose and it swirled brown dust in the air. Not as cold as in the mountains, but the stinging sand made him pull up his kerchief and closed down his vision. Several times, he used both hands to force his hat on tighter to keep from losing it. But a man who wore a felt hat all the time knew how to cock his head just enough so the wind never had much of chance to de-crown him.

  He turned off the Taos Road and started for the San Juan Mission. Close to sundown, the light was fast retreating and he was tired of fighting the blustery wind. The waves of dirt were even obscuring his vision of the jacales that lined the road. Loose things rattled and cried as the wind tried to pry them loose. No one was outside in the bitter weather.

  The LIVERY sign behind the veil of brown was welcome. Grateful for it, he dismounted and fought the door open. Inside, the hostler came and took his horse, promising to water and grain him. Satisfied, Slocum went out the walk-through doorway in the larger one and crossed to the cantina. Pressed by the wind, he soon was inside.

  When he pulled down his kerchief, Casita, who was flirting with a man at the bar, saw him and rushed over. As if she trusted no one, she spoke
in a soft voice. “What are you doing back here? I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “Where is Maria?”

  Her dark eyelids narrowed looking up at him. “How do you know about her? Who told you?”

  “Her sister Francisca asked me to see If I could help her.”

  “He would kill you. You can’t go up there.”

  “Now listen, you tell me where she is and I’ll find a way.”

  She closed her eyes and felt her forehead with her palm. “He has gunmen.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “There is a big brown house up the street on the right. But he has guards.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  She clung onto his arm. “Oh, my darling, I will be so afraid for you. For your safety and everything.”

  “I’ll be fine. Any of his men in here?”

  She looked around, and then shook her head in strong disapproval. “Be careful. They are killers.”

  He left the cantina. The day was waning fast. He turned his back to the wind and checked the loads in his .44. If dust hadn’t clogged it, he’d be fine. He saw the house and the low adobe yard wall she’d described to him. He went on the porch and knocked. Surprise sometimes gave one an advantage. Who’d expect him to be knocking?

  The door opened and a sleepy-eyed guy looked out. “What ya want?”

  Slocum slammed the door into him and clubbed him over the head in one fell swoop.

  “Who is it?” Someone on the second floor shouted down from the head of the stairs. “It’s you!” Ryan reached for his gun.

  He already was in the blade sight of Slocum’s .44. Slocum shot twice and the acrid gun smoke boiled up in the room. The candles went out and Slocum was in the dark downstairs.

  Hard hit, Ryan pitched forward and came tumbling down the stairs—ass-over-teakettle until he sprawled on the last steps, his arms outstretched, and even in the poor light his blank eyes told Slocum enough. He bent over and jerked the gun out of the moaning guard’s holster.

  With a swift kick in the ass, Slocum minced no words. “The boss is dead. Get the hell out of town.”

  “I’m going. I’m going.” He scrambled up, and went out the door on the run.