Slocum and the Devil's Rope

by Jake Logan

  “Got to get a rope halter on first. Maybe calm the horse then, press it against a rail, and see what needs to be done. I’m mighty glad that’s not my job.”

  “You afraid of that horse, Slocum? Never thought I’d hear you say such a thing.” Garvin laughed. Slocum looked hard at him. The young cowboy was mocking him, ridiculing him. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he was calling him out, but he skirted mighty close to that.

  Even worse, the other cowboys watching their foreman work the horse overheard and were intent on the exchange. Slocum had tried to keep a low profile, especially since he didn’t want it becoming gossip how he and Christine were getting on. So far as he could tell, nobody, even Garvin, had a hint of suspicion about him and the rancher’s daughter. If that happened, he wasn’t quite sure what he would do. Drift on, in all likelihood, but the thought of settling down with a filly as lovely and frisky as Christine Magnuson wormed its way into his brain. He wasn’t looking to cash in on her daddy’s ranch—that notion made Slocum even antsier about the cowboys finding out.

  He wasn’t the kind to live off another man’s hard-won riches, and the Bar M was a fine ranch. Slocum would be happier starting on his own and building off that.

  He shook himself. Every time he thought of Christine, he began making plans. That wasn’t anything he had done in a very long time—since before the war. His brother, Robert, had been the hunter and was older by a couple years. He would have inherited Slocum’s Stand in Calhoun, Georgia. That didn’t bother Slocum overmuch. If anything, Robert might have decided to move on, leaving the farm to Slocum, who had always been a better farmer.

  But the war had changed everything. Robert had been killed during Pickett’s ill-fated charge. Slocum touched his watch pocket and the timepiece resting there. This was the only legacy he had from his brother or anyone else in the family. He had tangled with William Quantrill, gotten gut-shot and left for dead. Long months of painful recovery had passed before he had been able to return to Georgia, where he found that his parents had both died sometime earlier. The farm ought to have been his by law, but a carpetbagger judge had taken a fancy to the spread.

  He wanted the land to raise Tennessee walkers and had trumped up fake bills that showed no taxes had been paid during the war years. When he and a hired gunman had ridden out to seize the property, Slocum had left. And behind him were two fresh graves down by the spring house. He had traveled west, dogged by wanted posters for killing a federal judge. Even crooked, Yankee judges mattered to the law.

  But not since he had ridden off, the Georgia sun warm on his back as he headed westward, had Slocum seriously considered settling down. That arrest warrant might be a problem, but he hadn’t come across a bounty hunter looking for him in a year or more. It wasn’t forgotten because judge killing was a crime, no matter what kind of snake in the grass the judge was, but if he settled down and proved some land and became an upstanding citizen, nobody around might much care what a bounty hunter or federal lawman thought.

  “What’s wrong, Slocum? You got a far-off look in your eye. Ain’t never seen you lookin’ like that before.”

  “Nothing,” he said, turning from Garvin. It never paid to wear your heart on your sleeve or let others, especially casual acquaintances, know what was going on in your head.

  Still, settling down might not be such a bad thing.

  He jumped when the piebald kicked out and struck the rail just under his hands.

  “You kin break it, Slocum. You got the look of a real bronc buster ’bout you,” called Blassingame.

  “You just don’t want to do it yourself,” Slocum said. He considered the horse and how it sunfished when it left the ground, belly going toward the sky as it arched its back. It was a mean one, but he might be able to do some good. “What’s it worth?”

  “A dollar,” Blassingame said without hesitation, telling Slocum the man would go higher. He did. He agreed to five dollars if Slocum rode the mustang until it got all tuckered out.

  From the power in the horse’s legs, that might be quite a while, but Slocum wasn’t any tyro. In his day he had broken worse.

  “You gonna do it, Slocum?” Garvin asked, almost out of breath. He had a wild look in his eye, as if he needed some breaking, too.

  “Bring that cayuse by the rail,” Slocum said. “I’ll get him saddle broke or know the reason.”

  Blassingame and two others forced the piebald to the rail. The four of them got a saddle screwed down tight. As the three cowboys threw their shoulders against the horse, it took a side step and gave Slocum the chance to climb into the saddle by stepping off the corral fence.

  For a moment, the piebald simply stood. Slocum thought he was going to earn the easiest five dollars ever. Might have been that the horse had been broken but lit out and joined the wild herd and was remembering what it meant to have a rider astride its back.

  Then the horse unwound like a powerful spring. Slocum didn’t know how the piebald could launch straight into the air without any buildup, but it did. He was caught by surprise and went sailing through the air, to land hard in the dirt. Rolling to his hands and knees, he found himself almost eye to eye with the horse.

  “I swear, that nag’s laughin’ at you, Slocum,” Tom Garvin said. This produced a round of real laughter from the other hands.

  Slocum got mad, as much at letting down his guard the way he had as at the truth in Garvin’s words. The horse was laughing at him the only way it could.

  Getting to his feet, he dusted himself off and said, “I’ll try once more.”

  “I’ll only give you four bucks now,” Blassingame said, “since the horse’s already given you one!”

  This caused a new round of laughter from the cowboys. Slocum ignored them and stared hard at the horse, who accepted his challenge by letting him step up into the saddle without so much as a quiver. When horse and rider went airborne this time, Slocum was ready. He clung to the saddle horn with one hand and the bridle with the other, determined not to sail like a bird again.

  He barely clung to the horse as it hung suspended midair, then landed with enough of a jolt to crack Slocum’s teeth. His head snapped back, and he felt himself sliding to one side. Slocum was ready for this and bent low, his knees pressing in as hard as he could. This produced a new attempt to dislodge him. The piebald spun in a tight circle, then reversed on a dime and gave him some change.

  Dizzy from the spinning, Slocum was no match for another rocketing into the air. The horse bent almost double as if it could shove its belly up through its back. When they landed, Slocum went tumbling over the horse’s head, hit the ground hard, and lay flat on his back. The breath had been knocked out of his lungs.

  Blassingame and the other cowboys were slow in going to his aid when the piebald decided to end the matter with a heavy hoof in the middle of his chest. Slocum saw the unshod hoof descending but couldn’t find the strength to dodge.

  And then a cheer went up. Slocum gasped, sat up, and looked behind him. Tom Garvin had swung his fancy black lariat and roped the piebald’s front hoof. How he had tugged hard enough to unbalance the horse was a mystery, but it saved Slocum’s life. The horse hobbled about, front leg secured by the loop of rope.

  “Git on outta here, Slocum. You’re done for the day,” the foreman said. Blassingame helped Slocum up, but there wasn’t any need for the support. Slocum left the corral on his own, seething at how the horse had outwitted him again.

  “That’s a devil horse, I swear,” Blassingame said. “You was doin’ just fine and then it got you with the slickest moves I ever did see.”

  “Thanks,” Slocum said, slapping Garvin on the back and ignoring the foreman. “You saved me out there.”

  “Shucks, wasn’t nuthin’,” Garvin said. He pushed past Slocum and faced Blassingame. “Let me try.”

  “Try what?” The foreman stare
d at the tenderfoot with a puzzled look on his leathery face.

  “Breakin’ that animal.”

  “Slocum couldn’t do it. Why do you want to get yourself kilt?”

  “I kin do it,” Garvin said doggedly. “I will.”

  “You saved my hide out there,” Slocum said. “Let me return the favor. Don’t even try. That one’s smart, fast, strong, and worse, he’s a killer. Your best bet’s to let it go.”

  “Five dollars?” Garvin pressed. “You said you’d give Slocum five dollars.”

  “Ten for you,” Blassingame said.

  Slocum bristled. The foreman was egging on a man who didn’t have a ghost of an idea what he was in for.

  “You might as well lasso a tornado and try to ride it. Forget it, Tom. Nobody’ll think less of you for not trying—but they will if you’re too dumb to know you’ll get yourself killed.”

  “Ten?”

  Slocum saw that the foreman held sway over Garvin, and he and the rest wanted some more entertainment. That it might come with a man’s death didn’t bother them one whit. He stepped back to let Garvin learn his lesson—if he survived.

  Slocum refused to help get the piebald into position again. Garvin snapped his fancy black rope off the horse’s leg. He swung it in a perfect loop and dropped it around the horse’s neck. The piebald settled down rather than strangle itself, obviously knowing what was to follow. It had patience enough to bide its time and unseat a new fool trying to ride it.

  “Watch me, Slocum. See how it’s done!” Tom Garvin settled down, got his feet into the stirrups, and then was launched so high Slocum wondered if he would ever come down. During the war he had heard stories of cannonballs fired so high they vanished for all time, and for a few seconds he thought Garvin would find what had happened to them.

  Then the tenderfoot crashed to the ground so hard it actually shook like an earthquake. Slocum was reaching for his six-gun to shoot the horse if it tried to stomp Garvin the way it had him, but the horse whinnied and trotted to the far side of the corral, secure and smug in yet another victory over a damn fool rider.

  “Tarnation, get him outta there,” bellowed the foreman. “Don’t want him stomped to death.”

  Slocum vaulted over the railing and dropped to the ground, wary of the horse. The piebald pawed the dirt like a bull ready to charge.

  He considered dragging out his iron again and putting them all out of the misery caused by the horse, but the animal’s instincts for survival were strong enough to scent the pure hatred boiling from Slocum. The horse backed away and let him get his hands under Garvin’s shoulder. He dragged the cowboy from the arena, his spurs cutting deep furrows in the dirt.

  “He still alive?” Blassingame peered over at Garvin but didn’t approach to find out for certain. He left that chore to Slocum.

  “Far as I can tell, he’s in one piece.” Slocum checked arms and legs and Garvin didn’t wince. The man’s breathing was thready and shallow, and when Slocum pried open his eyelids, he saw that the pupils were different sizes. “Seen this before. He might be all right, but he has to be kept moving.”

  “We got work to do,” Blassingame said. “You tend him, whatever it takes to keep him from dyin’, but don’t dawdle.”

  Slocum shot him a cold look. The foreman had never caught Slocum trying to get out of doing his fair share and wasn’t likely to now.

  “He ain’t as important as rounding up the strays. We got a herd to move to the rail yard next week, and every one of them damned beeves is worth more than his salary.”

  Slocum heaved, got Garvin to his feet, then put a shoulder under him. The added weight from the slight cowboy was hardly noticed as Slocum made his way to the bunkhouse. He kicked open the door with a loud bang, not noticing he had broken a board. With a quick turn, he put Garvin into a chair at the rickety table where they played five-card stud every night.

  “You come on,” Slocum urged, holding a tin cup with tepid water to the man’s lips. Garvin stirred but didn’t do more than moan in response. Slocum dashed the water in his face. This got the dazed man’s attention.

  “Wha—” Garvin stirred and his eyelids fluttered. “Whassit? Rainin’?”

  “On your feet and walk.” Slocum dragged him up, got his arm around his shoulder, and started Garvin putting one foot ahead of the other until they reached the far wall of the bunkhouse. Then they retraced their steps. Garvin was stronger by the time they made their third trip.

  “You keep walking on your own. Do it,” Slocum ordered.

  “Wanna sit down.”

  “Walk.” Slocum’s tone brooked no challenge. Garvin walked.

  “What happened? Don’t rightly remember much. The horse . . .”

  “He threw you even higher ’n he did me,” Slocum said. “That outlaw’s no good. Blassingame ought to either let it go or have Hashknife make us up some special steaks for supper.”

  “I’m getting some of it back now. I was doin’ jist fine and then I was sailin’ through the air.” Garvin made slapping motions, then looked around in a panic. “Where’s my rope?”

  Slocum shook his head. He hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention to such things, not with the spill Garvin had taken.

  “He stole it! That mangy son of a buck stole it!”

  “What are you going on about?”

  Garvin fixed hard eyes on Slocum. Any hint of having his brains scrambled was gone—or maybe not.

  “Blassingame. He wanted my rope. He cain’t steal it!”

  “Settle down. You—” Slocum was talking to empty air. Garvin had bulled his way out of the bunkhouse, slamming the door behind him so hard the board Slocum had broken came free and clattered to the floor.

  Heaving himself to his feet, Slocum followed. Garvin was still feeling the effects of smashing his head into the ground. Which was harder, head or dirt, was a matter that’d have to be settled, and Garvin ought to do it after he had slept on it a spell now that the concussion was a thing of the past.

  Slocum reached the corral in time to see scrawny Tom Garvin shove Blassingame so hard that the foreman stumbled and fell onto his ass.

  “You stole it. Admit it. You wanted my rope!” Garvin stood over the fallen man, hands clenched into puny fists. It would have been funny if both men hadn’t looked so serious.

  So deadly serious.

  The foreman was fuming mad, and Garvin had passed the point where simple persuasion would work.

  “Don’t,” Slocum warned. “He’s not got a gun strapped on.” His own hand touched the ebony butt of his Colt. Blassingame was within a heartbeat of throwing down on Garvin.

  “He stole my rope. He can’t just take it. He won’t. I won’t damned let him!”

  “Settle down,” Slocum said, stepping between Garvin and the foreman. To his surprise, Tom Garvin turned on him. The punch he delivered wouldn’t have been noticed except Slocum hadn’t expected it. He took a step back and his feet tangled with Blassingame’s. He sat down heavily and stared in amazement at the young cowboy. The change in him was like night and day. Normally peaceable enough and eager as a puppy dog, the other Garvin was a pleasant enough trail companion.

  Slocum had stepped on rattlers that were more accommodating than this Tom Garvin.

  “You in this, too, Slocum? You and him tryin’ to steal my rope?”

  “You’re not in your right mind. Settle down, Tom. Nobody’s out to take your rope.”

  “I want it.”

  Slocum had heard that tone of voice before and seen the set to men’s bodies just before they went into a killing rage. Garvin was pulling on a homicidal rage before his eyes.

  “It’s back there. In the corral,” Blassingame said, sitting up.

  “Ain’t nobody want that worthless hunk of hemp. Don’t even bend right, not with that silver
stripe in it.”

  “He’s right,” Slocum said, pointing. “There on the top rail. Your rope.”

  Garvin panted harshly, took a quick look, and then stomped over and snatched the rope as if it might grow wings and fly away.

  “Satisfied?” Slocum asked, getting to his feet.

  Garvin was panting harshly, as if he had run a long race. His head bobbed up and down. Slocum doubted he could answer any other way.

  “I sure as hell ain’t satisfied,” Blassingame said, climbing to his feet. “You get yer gear—and that includes that damned rope—and clear out. You’re fired, Garvin, and if I see your worthless hide on Bar M land, I’ll do more than fire your ass!”

  “You’re going to be a man short for the trail drive,” Slocum said. He didn’t owe Garvin anything, but he felt sorry for him. When a man lost everything, he clung to what little came his way. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t anything left for Garvin if he got fired from the Bar M.

  Blassingame scowled at Slocum. The meaning was clear as the azure blue sky domed over their heads. If Slocum pushed the issue any more, he’d be riding off the Bar M spread, too.

  A hundred things raced through Slocum’s head. Garvin was unreasonable, but he wasn’t thinking straight because of the knock to his head. Blassingame could be more accommodating. In another circumstance, he would have ridden off with Garvin, but not now.

  Christine.

  He wasn’t going to give her up over a crazy cowboy’s love affair with a length of black rope.

  “You got fifteen minutes to get outta my sight.” Blassingame turned to Slocum. “What’s it gonna be?”

  Slocum looked at a still furious Tom Garvin, then said to Blassingame, “That box canyon to the south might have a few strays. I’ll see how many I can find there.”

  Blassingame stormed off, muttering to himself. Slocum started to talk to Garvin and maybe convince him to apologize and get his job back. He had gone, too, dragging his black rope so that it left a trail like a sidewinder’s in the dirt.

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