by Jake Logan
They came to this place to trade their prizes. In the next two days, they sold two for slaves to a don taking them to Sante Fe. He took the thickest ones. His desire was for ones that could work—his segundo took them to his camp on the river, and Slocum never saw them again. The man in the gold-braided vest paid the head boy eighty gold dollars for them. The six boys were not stupid—they understood the worth of money well.
That night two freighters sat at their fire, and the bucks stripped the four who were left naked and made them model for the two whiskered men old enough to be their grandfathers, who slobbered looking at them. Full of firewater, the teamsters chose two of the budding teenagers and paid sixty dollars and four gallons of whiskey for them. The two white men took their purchases and quickly left the camp as soon as the trade was finalized.
The one in charge put three gallons of the whiskey away after much arguing and allowed them only one to drink. It was enough. All night they war danced and then they took turns openly screwing the remaining two girls. Sometimes two would screw a single one at same time. Afterward, they would laugh and clap each other on the shoulder standing naked in the red firelight, their erections shrunk away and their belief that they were world conquerors filling their expanded chests. Had they not came to this big place with plenty of white men about to see them, riding stolen fancy horses and bringing a bevy of handsome captives to sell for high prices?
The next day they lay about hungover, and only a few lookers came to poke at the filthy, disheveled girls, who looked as bad as their captors. But by afternoon the leader had made two of them bucks take the pair to the river and wash them. He went and found a squaw who sewed and bought two buckskin shirts from her that would make them short dresses.
Slocum had watched the young leader unbraid the whole lot of them. No more sex with them. They must look nice-looking for the buyers—even the dumb, horny white men did not want soiled merchandise.
The next day some packers came in and grinned big at the young teenage merchandise. The leader sold one to them for a Henry rifle, a cap-and-ball pistol and seventy dollars in gold.
The last one was probably the youngest, since she had only budding breasts. But another white-whiskered man came and traded for her—he dragged her off like a cur dog on a leash. Slocum never knew what he gave for her, but the Cheyenne in charge was no fool, despite his youth.
Their leader had swapped his tired horses for fresh mounts, and some furs they’d brought for three more rifles and ammo—so each one had a rifle or pistol. They left the fort for parts north howling like wild men, and Bent’s returned to being a place where a Frenchman could get drunk, stand on a crate in the square and give a sermon in his own language on the stupidity of the Americans.
Slocum wondered about the six bucks and whatever happened to them. A few years later a Crow told him the story about the abductors’ fate. Three Crows had trailed them from Montana to southeast Colorado. They snuck up one night and put poison mushrooms in the three whiskey crocks, then sat back and waited.
Four died from drinking it, in pain and with much suffering; they paid for what they did to the Crow girls. The leader and one more never drank, so they survived. The younger one died at the Rose Bud Battle, and a short week later the leader, who called himself Red Blanket, shot George Arm-strong Custer in the chest at the edge of the Little Bighorn River, with the same pistol he’d traded a Crow woman for at Bent’s Fort.
In the too bright noon sun, Wink sat beside Slocum on the bench and they drank the sharp tomato juice from an opened airtight before spearing out the red fruit. It was a good treat, and each had an unopened can of peaches for dessert. Indian women crossed the open square hauling things on their backs from a band on their foreheads. Other groups of them sat aside in the shade and gossiped in their own language like magpies.
Some freighters used their rifles for posts to lean on as they talked with others about the road or the business. Perhaps they shared some news about the Indian wars that raged miles from there, or the economy and banking.
“Learn anything?” she asked him.
“No one’s seen him or anyone like his description.”
“Maybe he went elsewhere?”
“I am thinking that too.”
A salt-and-pepper bearded man in dirty buckskins came over and put his Winchester brass butt on the bench. “They say you’re looking for a skinny cowboy riding a shaggy mustang.”
“You see him?”
“This morning, headed west.”
“Going toward Santa Fe?”
The man nodded. “What’d he do?”
“Murdered several woman.”
“I hope you get him then.” He nodded as if satisfied, lifted his rifle and went on.
“What should we do now?” she asked under her breath.
“Board the horses and catch a passenger train to Santa Fe.”
“You serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“What if he—”
“We miss him, we miss him. Try again.”
“I’m ready, Boss.”
They caught the evening passenger service at Sidler’s Switch. The telegrapher put out a red lantern, and the train stopped in a screech of steel on steel and a hiss of the air brakes. A conductor put down a step at the back of the second car and waved them on there. Once they were aboard, he tossed the step on and waved his lamp at the engineer. They were on the platform when the shock of the engine starting gave them a jerk and they had to grab for something or be thrown down. In minutes, their small amount of baggage was in a rack overhead and they had a seat in the back of the dimly lighted car.
The night fled by at twenty-five miles an hour; a strong stench of burning coal caught in the car once in a while, and the lonesome whistle marked each crossing, wailing off in the night to the howls of coyotes that answered it. A clack-clack sounded over the seams, and the car swayed like a boat. By mid-morning they had reached the Santa Fe siding station, where they took a coach the ten miles to town, across the piñon-juniper mesa to the ancient, sleepy adobe settlement set at the base of the mountains.
They found a room in a two-story hotel, with a balcony that overlooked the square. If Henny rode in, Slocum wanted to see him—everyone who came there rode into the plaza; it was the hub of the city, and all roads led there. So did the double freight wagons pulled by eighteen head of bullocks, and the squeaky ox carts of the produce farmers from the Rio Grand Valley. The valley split New Mexico north to south like a huge ax blow in the earth, from the deep gorges in the north to the flatter willow bottoms in the south. This city had risen long before the pilgrims came to New England. They still took siestas, and they closed their shops, cantinas and stores every afternoon for the event. It had handicapped Slocum and her when they arrived and wanted a room or anything to eat.
At last the cafés opened, and a waiter took their order in the lacy shade.
“Ah, fresh chicken,” the waiter said in Spanish and kissed the ends of his fingers for Wink’s benefit. “We have the fresh one today. No rooster for you, these are fat lovely pullets.”
“We’ll have the chicken,” Slocum said. He’d had enough of the sissy waiter, who probably had no balls under the tight-fitting pants.
“Ah, to drink, señor?”
“Wine for her, whiskey for me.”
“Yes, I will be right back.”
Amused, she saved her smile until they were alone. “You disliked him?”
“I can’t stand prissy men.”
“Why?”
“You’ve lived a very sheltered life, my dear. They have sex with other men.”
A frown shaded her eyes. “Oh, no.”
He looked away at the fine gray horse of a man dressed in a Spanish suit who rode into the square. “There’s a powerful stallion. A Barb and a wonderfully gaited animal.”
“I must say I think you have the poor waiter all wrong.”
“Look at the horse; he’s much more pleasing than that strange w
aiter.”
Slocum sat back as the man dismounted and a boy rushed forward to hold the horse. The boy had obviously been positioned there to wait for his patron and be sure nothing happened to the great horse. The man swept onto the patio, and three of the servers were on his coattails, including theirs. They took the man’s order for a drink and asked him how he was and how things were out at his hacienda.
“Fine. Doing very well, thank you. What is fresh today?” He was swinging the riding crop around idly, until he at last grasped it in his other hand when his waiter finished the pitch for the fowl.
“Yes, bring the fresh chicken and the usual.”
“I don’t believe I know you, sir,” he said, looking across two empty tables at them.
“Tom White, this is Mrs. White.”
“Nice to meet you, madam. New to Santa Fe?”
“We arrived a few hours ago,” Slocum said.
“Nice place, the only civilized one this side of San Francisco.”
“Yes. I like the Barb stallion you’re riding as well.”
“He’s a handful; not for a man like you, but for me he’s really quite a horse.”
“You do quite well.”
“Excuse me, my good lady, my name is Ralph,” He stood up, walked over, took her hand and touched his lips to it. “You are a gem in a large mountainous pile of rocks. Ralph Cardin at your service. May I join you?” He eased into a chair at their table and smiled at Slocum, who nodded his approval.
“You have business here?” Cardin asked.
“A man who killed her husband and son is headed here.”
Cardin blinked. “You said you were—”
“We are covering our identity so he doesn’t learn we wait here for him.”
“And this outlaw is?”
“Henny Williams, a murderer of women as well.”
“When will he arrive?”
“In a few days.”
Cardin considered Slocum’s words, and the waiters delivered the drinks. Alone again, he raised his gaze. “I could send some of my men out to learn where he is at.”
“A marshal did that in Dodge and it made the next morning’s paper. He hightailed it out of there.”
“Oh, señor. My men have closed mouths. No newspaper will learn a thing. He may be at Las Vegas too.”
“Could be.”
“You look in doubt, señor?”
“Why do that for us?”
“This man is a killer, no?”
“Yes.”
“Then we don’t need him here in Santa Fe.”
Slocum narrowed his gaze at the man. “If they locate him, I want to be in on it.”
“No problem.”
“Show him the poster,” Slocum said and leaned back to sip his whiskey. A golden glow shone through the fine glassware, from a glint of sunlight that managed to spear through the lacy shade. Some things were too good to be true. Why did Slocum distrust this rich man? Maybe his obvious move to get Wink’s attention had him off center—Cardin’s too quick “I’ll help” didn’t make sense. There was something in it for him—but Slocum was not certain what.
13
Ralph Cardin’s hospitality included them moving to his casa grande and staying there, while his men scoured the country for Henny Williams. The land by Santa Fe that Cardin owned had been part of an old land grant, and it was obvious to Slocum that Cardin had not made his money in New Mexico agriculture there—but he did have orchards and lots of produce in the irrigated fields. His cattle operation was on the plains to the east of the mountains, and he also wanted them to see that spread. Slocum choose to stay close, in case one of Cardin’s three men made contact with the killer.
He stood in the cool morning air beside the drapes and studied the men getting ready to work the farm. A hatless, gray-headed segundo put his hand on each man’s shoulder and used his other hand to make waving motions to go with his instructions. Individual, patient attention for each one, and a laugh or two at the end that carried to the open French doorway on the balcony. Many men under him would want his power and the job when he grew too old—but few could mold the workforce like him, make them happy with what they did that day, believing it was worthy, and send them to do another chore tomorrow that the segundo saw as needing to be done to keep the whole circle under his command complete. Such leaders were scarce and this neat, well-kept place spoke of his talent—Slocum felt glad he had been able to observe him in action while the day still held the freshness only first light could bring.
Saucy women’s voices soon echoed in the courtyard. Two women carried wicker baskets of wash; their words were plain enough—“. . . you sleep with such a donkey dick and that is why your back is sore. Work did not cause it to be so.” Then more bantering and laughter.
He dressed and eased out, leaving Wink asleep on the fine goose-down bed. They’d shared blankets on the hard ground, slept in sheds and old buildings, but this was better than any hotel or place they’d been in so far. Obviously Cardin wanted to separate them and keep her. It did not matter that she was Slocum’s woman—Cardin desired Wink for his own. Like his Barb stallion, he only possessed the best, and even as slightly used merchandise, the woman was a diamond in a sandy wash full of rocks. Something like that. Maybe there would be news that day from Cardin’s men about the killer’s whereabouts.
“Ah, Señor Slocum, you are awake so early,” Nona said when he entered the kitchen. The buxom woman’s pleasant smile showed her white teeth, and the genuine goodness sparkled in her brown eyes. “Coffee?”
He nodded, looking over the fresh-plucked chickens on the counter, their skin a bright pink with a yellow cast of grain feed.
“They tell me the help drinks the first pot, and it is the best,” he said, taking the steaming mug from her.
“Ah, so the patrón never learns that.”
“I think he knows, but does not dare complain.” He stood in the open back door and studied the activity in the yard.
“Don’t tell him, please,” she said in a mock-concerned voice.
“I won’t. This is a peaceful place. Not many like it are left in this world.”
“The old hacienda system was good to the people. But they were never satisfied; they wanted to own them, and they had no idea how to run them.”
Slocum knew the same thing. “That’s why so many closed, and the patrón took his money and left them there to eat the dust.”
“Exactly. Big deal to live like an Apache in a hut. No, I am pleased that we are here with Señor Cardin. Silly ones go away, and then they find they must buy the food, must get the wood to cook it and pay the rent, and they never have anything to show. Then they come back and beg the segundo to give them their old job back.”
“Does he?”
“Not often. He has much knowledge and can look in their eyes and see the sincere ones.”
Slocum sipped the coffee and nodded. He wished one of Cardin’s men would return with news.
“I have some eggs, sausage, chopped tomatoes, fresh goat cheese and peppers. Marie is making you some fresh flour tortillas. You wish to eat?”
“Eat? I can always eat.” He turned back and went to sit on a tall stool to watch as she deftly dressed the birds.
“Make him breakfast,” she said to the young girl who was busy dicing vegetables. “She is just engaged so she may burn things.” Then Nona laughed and the girl blushed as she went by her. “Oh, to be young again. Would you like that?”
“Some days I would. But to have the knowledge too?”
“No, no, none of that.”
“You set too many boundaries on it.”
“You have few. I can tell. You have the eyes of a lobo wolf; you look at everything, appraise your stake in it and then trot off.”
“I look that wild?”
She met his gaze and nodded ever so slightly. “Last night you slept with that lovely woman upstairs. Tonight . . .” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Tonight you may sleep in an arroyo with a s
tone for a pillow. You will be the same.”
“The same?”
“You feel little pain. A man like that is a hard one for his enemies to put down.”
“But you can see my enemies?”
“One is on a horse and he comes this way.”
“Thin, stoop shoulders?”
She laughed and busied herself reaching with her right hand inside the carcass for the guts of the second bird. Soon the bluish spiraling entrails, liver and heart were on the table beside the first one’s, and she eased the hollow bird into the kettle of water. A sour gas came with the removal, but it soon dissipated into the room’s smells of mesquite smoke, cooking meat and tortilla making.
After a long pause, she nodded. “This is the man you seek?”
“Yes, he’s murdered many women, besides her husband and son.”
“He is coming.”
“Today? Tomorrow?”
She looked away then shook her head as if time had no meaning in the matter. “He is coming.”
“Gracias,” he said and toasted the cup at her.
“My hands smell of chicken—”
“I can fill it myself.”
“Good. You live alone a lot and don’t expect anyone to help you.”
“That’s me.” He went to the coffeepot and then turned back before he squatted down to the side of the fireplace. “I appreciate that news.”
“I knew you were thinking hard about it.”
With a pot holder he poured his coffee and then nodded to the shy girl standing above him with her tray of food. “I’ll eat on the counter. Too much. Way too much food.”
She shrugged like she could not help it.
“I will try, though.”
The food set down, she curtsied and then backed away.
Midday, Wink, Cardin and Slocum lounged in the shady patio drinking sweet lemonade. At the sounds of a hard-running horse entering the center courtyard, Cardin rose.
“You may have your answer.” He nodded to Slocum and headed for the gate.
“That would be nice,” Wink said and shared a private look of approval with him.
Cardin hurried off and Slocum stopped her. “This man Cardin wants you,” he said under his breath, “I can handle Henny. Stay here.”