Slocum and the Big Horn Trail

by Jake Logan

  Where were those three anyway? He’d hoped to rescue poor Easter before this time. That niggled him worse than anything else. There was nothing he could have done—still, his conscience kept kicking him about her plight. While he was riding the clacking rails in the swaying car, there wasn’t much he could do for anyone, except to hold Lilly.

  It was past midnight and dark when he checked their things with the Rock Springs depot agent. Then, with Lilly under his arm, they went up the main street for a meal and lodging. They passed several noisy saloons and dodged a drunk or two staggering down the boardwalk.

  The café looked clean and the interior inviting. They ducked out of the cold night into the establishment’s warmth. The rich aroma of food filled the air. It might be a good choice. The young waiter brought steaming coffee and recommended the roast elk.

  They agreed on his choice of side dishes, and sat back in the booth to savor the rich coffee.

  “Where will we stay tonight, Tom White?” she asked.

  “I’m sure the waiter can tell us about a good hotel, Mrs. White.”

  They both chuckled.

  Two tough-looking men came in the door and went to the counter. Slocum thought he recognized the older of the two—a man he knew as Carter. Drawing hard on his memory, he tried to think about the time and circumstances of their last meeting. Above Socorro, New Mexico. It was at the Magdalena shipping yards.

  In those days, Slocum represented the Aqua Verde Land Company, and Carter had delivered some cattle with what Slocum considered the outfit’s smudged brands. Andy Eager, the brand inspector, agreed, so they ran four head into the chute and shaved around the brand on each of them. It was obvious then that the Aqua Verde brand had been altered.

  Carter disappeared before they could serve a warrant on him. But Slocum had no desire to renew his acquaintance—in fact, he’d rather let that dog lie considering his purpose in Rock Springs.

  “You know them?” she asked in a low voice, indicating the pair.

  “The one on the right’s name is Carter. He’s a rustler from New Mexico.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  The waiter delivered the food and they ate. He wondered if Carter would even recognize him, but they soon became busy eating the fine meal. The side dishes were mashed potatoes under cream gravy, green beans, sweet whole corn, brown yeast biscuits with butter.

  “This is the best food we’ve had lately,” she said between bites.

  Slocum agreed, chewing the tender elk meat. “Wonderful.”

  “Maybe we’ve been eating too much of our own cooking.”

  “You may be right.”

  “Well, I’d bet Green River food is a letdown after this meal.”

  The two at the counter finished their pie and coffee. Carter cast a blank look at him and they left. Slocum hoped Carter had forgotten the Socorro incident. Slocum paid for their meal and they headed up the boardwalk for the Palace Hotel, which the waiter said was the best in town.

  In their small hotel room at last, Slocum looked down on the dimly lit street under their window. He wondered what the Green River country would be like this trip. All day on the train, he’d watched cloud layers move in that he felt were harbingers of a winter storm coming. It was time for one.

  She came and clung to his shoulder with both hands locked over it. “You selling your thoughts?”

  “For you they’re free. I am concerned a new storm might be coming.”

  “What should we do, stay denned up in this room till spring?”

  He turned and took her by the waist. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Forehead pressed to forehead, she wiggled her nose. “I’d much rather do it in Texas where the rooms are warmer.”

  “That was where I thought I was headed before the first frost.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His mouth found hers and he gathered her in his arms as they sought each other. In seconds, their clothes fell to the floor, covers were turned back, and they fell naked on the cold sheets in a tight embrace.

  She pulled the covers over him in a frenzied attempt to keep some of their body heat underneath with them. It was his entry into her that made her snuggle on her back and throw her head back with a sigh.

  Braced above her, he pumped his growing erection through her gates as her heels kicked him on the back of his legs. She pulled him down, so he crushed her long breasts and they were one in the spinning cocoon. He kissed her neck, face, and mouth as their fierce lovemaking grew steamier. The walls of her well contracted and her clit grew hard enough to scar his shaft with each drive in and out.

  The words escaped her lips like sighs of relief as she moaned, “Yes, yes, more. Oh, yes, more. My God—”

  Then like a burst dam, he came deep inside her and pressed his hips hard against her. They collapsed on the bed.

  “Texas—Wyoming—who cares,” she said, slurring her words, and hugged him tight.

  He raised up and looked around. “Where are we anyway?”

  She pulled him back down. “You know good and well. We’re in Montana.”

  They both laughed until they cried; then they began arousing each other all over again.

  Morning came and he decided the weather might take a turn for the worse. The clouds were thickening, and more were rolling in. The temperature was about freezing, and the south wind was a harbinger of the moisture that might be on the way.

  After some dickering, he bought three sound horses at the livery. A dish-faced gray for Lilly, a stout bay for his saddle horse, and a powerful Roman-nosed dun for the packhorse. He named them Gray, Bay, and Dunny, had the livery man reshoe Dunny, and paid two boys to help him bring the gear up there from the station so he and Lilly could leave at dawn the next day.

  Meanwhile, Lilly had bought them some new woolen underwear for the trip, thick socks, two pairs of new gloves, and two thick wool-lined vests to wear under their jumpers. The items were laid out on the bed when he returned to the room.

  She swept off his felt hat and pressed her body against him. Then she put a woolen cap on his head, leaned back and looked him over, then after a nod of approval, kissed him.

  When she stopped, she asked, “You have the horses?”

  “A dandy gray. I think you’ll like him.”

  “Sounds good. The store will have our food supplies loaded in panniers when we get ready to leave in the morning.”

  “I guess all that’s done. We better get back in bed, since we won’t have much chance out there, huh?”

  She closed her eyes and raised her chin. “Oh—yes.”

  They rode down Main Street headed south in the dim light of early morning. The horses were frisky but manageable, and he was glad to see they had that much spunk. They needed to cover thirty-five miles in a short winter day. Once clear of town, they hard-trotted the horses on the road along the Union Pacific tracks. When the road forked, they followed the hand-lettered board signs to Graham. It was a settlement he knew about on the Green River where Bud Asher had lived a few years earlier when he was on the dodge.

  The day passed uneventfully until middle afternoon. Then wet flecks began falling like feathers from a plucked goose. They melted on his cheeks as he turned and gave her a worried look.

  “What now, big man?” she asked.

  “Better den up quick as we can. There’s some willows in that streambed on the left. We can make a shelter and worse comes to worst, the horses can eat them.”

  As soon as they stopped, he began using a hand ax to cut the willows bigger than his finger. She stripped off the dead leaves and they soon had a pile. He peeled off bark to use as string, and began tying the sticks into mats. The whips cleaned, she joined him in the falling snowflakes and they soon had two lattices. He drove some stakes in the ground about six feet apart on both sides, and then he stood the first mat up, and she held it while he stood hers up.

  With some cord to hold them in the center where they overlapped, he bowed them over and tied them so
that they made a U-shaped shelter. Then he tossed one of their tarps over the frame. By then the snow was several inches deep, and she used a broom of bound willows to clear out the inside while he staked down the tarp corners. When he finished, he began to build the end-frame section so the open end was toward the east and got less wind.

  Finished with his west wall, he strung a tarp over it and tied it down. She smiled as he tossed the last one over the east side and made a flap. Then, resetting his cap with a wink at her, he went and used Bay to bring in some driftwood out of the streambed along with a few small trunk parts. The deepening snow made the driftwood harder to find, but they were in piles in the dry stream and he could kick them loose of the fluffy snowflakes.

  By his third trip back, she had a fire going as he chugged into camp dragging a pile of driftwood.

  “I reckon this will have to do,” he said, stepping down and undoing the lariat. Busy recoiling rope as she undid his latigos, he laughed. “Guess I gauged it about right.”

  “Yes, you did. How long will the storm last?”

  “Heavens, girl, it’s a wonder I got the forecast right.”

  They spent two nights in their “house.” The sun came out on the third day and the temperature remained frozen, but it was time for them to move on. They left camp in early morning treading six inches of snow, and headed southwest through the tan sandstone formations worn smooth by wind and dust. He was glad to be on the move again.

  In late afternoon, a streak of wood smoke from a chimney made him nod to her. “Hope Bud Asher is still there.”

  “So do I.” She wrapped the blanket tighter around her as she rode the gray up beside him.

  They crossed the wide valley, reining up before the low-wall cabin.

  “Anyone home?” Slocum shouted.

  “Naw,” a whisker-faced man said from the doorway and spit out on the snow. “Well, I’ll be jiggered. That you, Slocum?”

  He stepped off Bay. “You ain’t lost your eyesight. How’ve you been?”

  “No, and you sure ain’t lost yours. Howdy, ma’am. You excuse us old hawgs. We ain’t laid eyes on each other in a spell.”

  “No problem,” she said, and laughed while dismounting. She looked around, and Slocum pointed to the outhouse.

  She nodded and headed that way.

  “You come right inside,” Bud shouted after Lilly as he pounded Slocum on the back. “My Lord, she’s a looker.”

  “Some breeds and a black murdered her husband.”

  “Ah, hell. Come on in, it’s a damn sight warmer in there.” Bud hustled him into the cabin. “She’ll come along, huh?”

  “Yes, she’s tough.”

  “Who kilt her man?”

  “A breed named Red Dog, another named Snake, and a black called Tar Boy.”

  “Tar Boy, huh? He got a couple of squaws with him?” Bud asked, squeezing his beard.

  “Yes.” Slocum turned from heating his hands at the fireplace when Lilly came inside.

  “Make yourself at home, darling,” Bud said to her.

  “Thanks, I will.” She stomped her boots on the old rug mat.

  Slocum looked over at Bud. “He could have some Indian women with him. He around here?”

  Bud narrowed his left eye and nodded. “Less than three miles from here in a shack.”

  Slocum met Lilly’s questioning look and pursed his lips tight. Their chase might soon be over.

  22

  Red Dog had crossed the Union Pacific tracks and was headed south across the snow-covered country. He was in the Green River country. The rows of bare cottonwoods running down the valley told him so. He noticed some smoke, and knew from the ache in his hip and right leg another storm was coming in. Against the glare, he spotted an outfit—cabin, corrals, and small buildings.

  He’d need to be careful approaching the place. If she was a Morman widow, he’d be fine, but there were some tough people lived in this country besides them. Homesteaders were dumb farmers, lambs to prey on. The others were tough. Like him, they were eking a living out of this hard land that had little to give them.

  He decided to ride up to the place and act like he could pay for his meal and lodging. That worked as a decoy. Most of these white women, with the prospect of even a little cash money, would feed a traveler, even a breed. Maybe make him stay outside, him being a savage. That was why he’d kilt them honyockers up there in Wyoming—they wanted him to stay outside. Too good to let him come inside their dirt-floored shack. Injuns lived better in tepees with skins on the floor. Who did they think they were anyway?

  The stock dogs barked and danced around. He dismounted, and at last the board door opened a crack.

  “What do you want?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “I’m hungry. I have not eaten in two days. I have some money. I can pay you.”

  “My husband will be back soon.”

  He knew the soon part was a lie. He’d heard the tremble in her voice that betrayed her. “All I want is some food. I have some silver coins.”

  “No…I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

  “How far is it to town?” he asked, knowing well there was only a store, saloon, and blacksmith at Graham farther downstream according to what the old man the day before told him.

  “Not far. Go south—you—you can find it—they’ll sell you food.”

  By the tone of her voice, he knew she wasn’t an old woman. “I’m weak,” he said. He rubbed his stomach. “I haven’t eaten anything in days.”

  “Not my problem, you ride on. He’ll be here soon.”

  “I’d give you a silver dollar for some food.” His gaze set on the weathered gray board on the door. He hoped his offer was high enough. What did she look like?

  “They will feed you.”

  “Lady, I’m starving—” He buckled his knees and fell on the ground.

  One of the collies came over and licked his face. Get away. But he dared not move.

  “Oh—” she said, and wrapping a blanket around her, she rushed out to see about him. “Get back,” she said to the collie.

  Dog barely opened an eye to see an attractive woman looking down at him. His hand shot out and caught her arm in a viselike grip.

  A choked-off scream hung in her throat.

  “Don’t say a word,” he said through his teeth and sprang to his feet, jerking her up and twisting her around and toward the house. The two surprised dogs yelped and dodged away. “You want these two dogs alive, don’t say a word.”

  No way he wanted them upset. They acted suspicious, but it was only a few feet to the open doorway. He roughly shoved her toward it and in seconds, they were inside the warm room. With his back against the door as he watched her like a hawk watches his prey, she backed away in shocked fear.

  “Who—who are you?”

  “I am a man. I am not a dog. You were going to treat me like a dog.”

  “No. No, I wasn’t. I swear.” She collapsed on a chair, looking like a cornered animal with no place to run. Her reddish curls fell over her eyes and she swept them back, but the curls kept falling.

  “I better show you I am a man,” he said, anger coursing through his veins. He ripped open his pants.

  “Nooo,” she said, and looked away. “I know you’re a man.”

  He stepped over to her, grasped a handful of her hair to force her to look at the limp dick in his hand. “You see this?”

  When she didn’t answer him, he shook her.

  “Yes. Yes—you’re a man.” She tried to pry his hold loose with her fingers, but she was no match for him and he only hurt her more for trying.

  “Where is your husband?” He reinforced his question with a jerk.

  “Salt Lake—”

  “Then I could have starved out there? Right?”

  “Yes, yes. Please, please, don’t pull anymore. I’ll tell you all—all you want to know.” Her eyelashes were wet with tears.

  “Good.” He released her hair. “Get up and fix me some food.”

/>   “What?” she asked, trying to sweep her hair back from her face.

  “What do you have?”

  “Some ham? Some rice? Some beans?” She turned up her palms.

  “Ham, biscuits, gravy, and rice.” She was in her early twenties by his calculation. Had a willowy figure, not skinny like the last one. Why was she out there? Mormons usually put their older wives that were barren out on these isolated ranches, not young ones like her. The one Snake killed and mutilated was in her thirties. No kids with her either.

  Woodenly, she nodded at him. “I’ll fix it for you.”

  “Good,” he said as he put his dick away and buttoned his pants. He’d sure need it later. The notion kinda warmed him. He took off his coat and hat, hung them on a peg as she busied herself getting food ready while from time to time cutting worried looks at him. On a whim, he opened the door and saw the two horses standing hangdogged in the falling snow. After supper, he’d tie her up and then put them up. For some reason, he didn’t trust her.

  This might be a good place to weather out the storm. Not bad, not bad at all, he decided, watching the sway of her hips and body movements as she prepared the food.

  “What is your name?” she asked, not looking at him.

  “Red.”

  She nodded. “Mine is Loretta.”

  “Loretta who?” All white people had last names. He held his hands toward the blazing logs in the fireplace. The heat felt good penetrating his skin.

  “Loretta Furman.”

  “What wife number are you?”

  “Three,” she said in a small voice.

  “How many he got now?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t tell me since he brought me up here.”

  “How long ago did he drag you up here?” Sitting on one of the ladder-back chairs, he leaned on his knees and watched her cook. Not hard to imagine what her body under the simple dress looked like.

  “Two years ago, three months, and two weeks.”

  Her words amused him enough. He grinned at her. She saw being there like a prison sentence. Just like those prisoners did in that Nebraska jail he’d once sat in. “You like it up here?”