Slocum and the Devil's Rope

by Jake Logan

  “Seek and hide!” She straddled his waist, one foot on either side of the stump. Then she lowered herself around his groin. The thick top of his manhood brushed past the nether lips he had already kissed and rested in the moist crease for a moment.

  Neither of them could speak as sensations ripped through them, filled their minds and bodies with a passion not to be contained. She reached down, grabbed hold, and guided his shaft to her pink gates. Simply relaxing and letting gravity do its work, she took him full length up into her heated center.

  Again they were robbed of speech. Then Christine gasped out, “So big. You’re so big in me.”

  Slocum reached up and pressed his hand into her bodice, feeling the firm, lush breasts beneath. Hard buttons capped each of those marshmallowy mounds. Through her blouse he pressed down hard and elicited a gasp of even greater desire from her. Christine threw back her head and turned her face to the cloudless blue autumn sky.

  She let out tiny sounds that grew as she rose and fell around his thick, fleshy pillar. When she began twisting on every descent, Slocum felt the pressures mounting in his loins that couldn’t be contained much longer. He closed his eyes and let the hot sensation spread throughout his groin, his belly, his entire body. Reaching out, he cupped her buttocks and guided her in a rhythm that built even more sexual tension.

  And then he could hold back no longer. Arching his back and trying vainly to thrust upward off the stump, he felt himself totally engulfed in hot, damp female flesh that grasped and squeezed and caressed his hidden length.

  He exploded.

  And seconds later, Christine went berserk, pumping fast and hard until he began to turn limp within her. She gasped, and rocked back to look at him. Her face was covered with sex sweat, and she positively glowed.

  “I don’t know what to say, John.”

  “Again?”

  She laughed and stood, straightening her skirts, letting them fall down to a more chaste level.

  “In your dreams. You couldn’t—” Christine spun at a bull-throated roar of rage.

  “Papa!” She took a step forward, giving Slocum a moment to tuck himself back in and try to button his fly. He only got one fastened before Mordecai Magnuson charged out of the woods like a bull attacking a red flag.

  “What the hell’s going on?” He swung a shotgun around and pushed his daughter out of the way.

  Slocum found himself staring down the double barrels of a ten-gauge that would blow him to bloody bits.

  “I saw your daughter and came to see if she needed any help.”

  Magnuson glanced at his daughter and the flush on her cheeks.

  “You been havin’ your way with her, Slocum? I’ll kill you here and now if you have!”

  “Papa, please. It’s not like that.”

  Slocum started to declare his love for the woman. He swung forward to get to his feet, but the shotgun barrel swung back, hard, fast, and caught him on the side of the head. He sprawled on the forest floor, stunned by the blow. Bees buzzed about and he couldn’t focus his eyes.

  In the far distance he heard, “If I could prove you molested her, I’d kill you outright.”

  “Papa, you—”

  “Shut up. Get on back to the house.”

  Slocum grunted as a boot struck him hard in the ribs. He rose to hands and knees and caught another one in the belly that took the starch out of him. He collapsed to the ground.

  “You’re fired, Slocum. I knew there was something wrong with you. I should have fired you before the trail drive but I was shorthanded.”

  Slocum gasped as another kick to his midsection sent waves of pain through his body where pleasure had dwelled only a few minutes earlier. The Magnuson family took him from one physical extreme to the other.

  “If I lay eyes on you, I’ll shoot first. I swear, Slocum, I’ll kill your sorry ass and not regret it for an instant.”

  Slocum braced for another kick, but it never came. He lay panting until he got his breath back. He rolled over and looked around. Both Magnuson and Christine had gone, but she had left her basket of herbs behind. Getting to his feet, Slocum doubled over in pain, staggered, and supported himself on the stump where he and Christine had made love.

  “Son of a bitch,” Slocum said. He kicked the basket of herbs and then followed the game trail, knowing it would lead back to the ranch house. He’d have it out with Magnuson once and for all.

  Christine would choose him over her pa, and they could make a life for themselves as far away as possible.

  Somehow, Slocum got lost. He might have taken a wrong branch in the trail or simply left the trail by accident and taken another. It was almost sundown when he got back to the bunkhouse.

  He went in and sat heavily on his bed. He gently probed his ribs. There didn’t seem to be anything broken, but the bruises were livid, ugly yellows and purples in the shape of Magnuson’s toe.

  “Wondered when you’d git back,” came a cold voice.

  He looked up to see Tom Garvin in the doorway, his hand resting on the butt of his six-shooter.

  “Where’s Magnuson? I want to have words with him.”

  “He and Miss Christine have left. Gone for a ride.”

  “Where? When’ll they be back?”

  “Cain’t rightly say, and it don’t matter because you’re gettin’ your gear and ridin’ out. For good, Slocum, for good.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Reckon not since Mr. Magnuson fired you, but if you still worked for the Bar M, you’d be doin’ what I say.”

  Slocum stared at Garvin.

  “That’s right. I’m the new foreman. Tole you I’d get the job one day. It jist came sooner ’n I thought. From the look on your face, it came a hell of a lot sooner than you’d thought it would.”

  “You can’t run a ranch this size.”

  “Can and will. And you got ten minutes to gather your shit and ride on out.” Garvin squared his stance and curled his fingers around the butt of his six-gun.

  “You going to throw down on me?” Slocum knew he was at a disadvantage sitting on the edge of the bunk, but not all that much since he had a cross-draw holster. The angle was more difficult for him, but he was quicker and a better shot than Tom Garvin.

  “Not ’less you force me.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You got a taste of killing and can’t get it out of your mouth.”

  “You was a friend, Slocum. Once. You thought you was helpin’ me, but I see how you didn’t do anything but hold me down. No more.”

  “Go to hell,” Slocum said. He slid his saddlebags from under the bunk, slung them over his shoulder, and pushed past the new foreman of the Bar M Ranch.

  The night seemed colder and less inviting than it should have as he saddled and rode from the spread.

  16

  “Slocum?”

  Slocum didn’t bother turning to see who called him. All he wanted to do was knock back yet another shot of the cheap whiskey. He had a goodly sum of money from his work at the Bar M but wanted to preserve as much as possible. The trade whiskey burned all the way down, punishing his gullet and belly, and he needed that. The bruises on his ribs burned, and the disgust he felt for Magnuson burned even brighter.

  “Slocum!”

  He finally half turned, winced at the pain in his side and saw Jed Blassingame a pace behind him. The man leaned heavily on a cane and looked half past dead. His weathered face had turned pale, and he moved like an old man.

  “Buy you a drink?” Slocum offered.

  “Can use one, but that’s not what I wanted to ask. Let’s set a spell. I can’t get around the way I used to and standin’ gives me pains.”

  Slocum had the barkeep pour another shot, which he carried to a nearby table, where Blassingam
e had already dropped heavily into a chair. The man looked even older as Slocum studied him. He pushed the shot glass across the table.

  “You need this more ’n I do.”

  Blassingame eyed the drink, then shook his head.

  “Dr. Abbey is givin’ me some medicine. If I try drinkin’, it makes me puke my guts out. Can’t wait ’til I ain’t swillin’ that medicine shit.”

  Slocum retrieved his whiskey and sipped at it rather than downing it in a single gulp. Changing the way he drank made it seem as if he was able to drink more.

  “Heard tell Garvin’s foreman now.”

  Slocum nodded. He ran his finger around the rim of the glass, then licked it off his finger. It was both salty and dusty, but it gave the whiskey more body. Slocum hunted for ways to make it taste different every time and was running out.

  “He know what he’s doin’?”

  “What’s it to you? You aren’t foreman any longer. You don’t even work there.”

  “Mr. Magnuson did right by me. He’s payin’ my doctor bills and gave me damned near a year’s salary since I’d worked for him so long.”

  “Not the same as sleeping in his daughter’s bed,” Slocum said.

  “You’re the one what’d know about that,” Blassingame said coldly. “She never had a lick of sense. Lovely girl, but she’d spread for any stud who came along.” Blassingame stared hard at Slocum, as if he wanted to anger him.

  Slocum finished his whiskey and set the glass down with a sharp click on the table.

  “One of us ought to go,” Slocum said.

  “I’ll go, but hear me out. There’s somethin’ wrong ’bout Tom Garvin. I owe Mr. Magnuson for his kindness.”

  “Garvin has changed. That’s all I know.”

  “You know more ’n that,” Blassingame said. “The rope. That black rope he carries. You know about it.”

  “I don’t know anything about it except he sleeps with the damned thing.” Slocum took a deep breath, thought about how Garvin treated it, how it seemed hot sometimes and the way it had stretched longer than any rope should have when he rescued him from the muddy island in the middle of the river—

  “You know it ain’t a normal rope.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort.”

  “His luck is too good. You know that. I heard stories ’bout what’s happened.”

  “Can’t say his luck is all good. Fact is, he’s had terrible things happen.” Slocum remembered how Garvin had shot himself, how he had been in the middle of the stampede and had almost drowned.

  “He gets a bit of good luck, but the bad is worse. Then the good luck saves him only for more bad to bedevil him. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  “True.”

  “I heard about that black rope. The Devil’s Rope, it’s called. It’s got a curse on it. If he doesn’t get rid of it, it’ll destroy him.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Blassingame licked his lips, studied the empty shot glass, then locked eyes with Slocum.

  “I owe Mordecai Magnuson. That bad luck swirls around like a damned tornado and will suck up him and the entire Bar M. I don’t want to see that.”

  “Tell Magnuson.”

  “Tried. That rope is pullin’ the wool over his eyes, same as it is Garvin. Nuthin’ good will come from havin’ him and that rope in charge at the ranch.”

  Slocum snorted. He believed in things he could see. Garvin was a tenderfoot and got himself in trouble because he didn’t know better. His luck had been good getting out of those spots, though there had to be more than a streak of good luck having a heart on the wrong side of his chest and walking away from a gunshot that would have killed most men.

  But it had nothing to do with the rope.

  “I still don’t know why you’re telling me any of this,” Slocum said.

  “She might be a slut, but you love her. I kin tell. She even has feelings for you. I kin see that, too. You might be ’bout the first to get that far with her.”

  Slocum’s heart beat faster at the man’s words. Then he said, “Doesn’t matter any to me. Her pa said he’d shoot me if I poked around the ranch. Can’t imagine what he’d do if he caught Christine and me together.” He bit back the word “again.” There wasn’t any reason for Blassingame to know every damned thing that had happened.

  “You got an iron hand. Might be that’s what Miss Christine needs.”

  Slocum tried to get a handle on why he stayed around town. Magnuson had made it clear he wasn’t welcome on the Bar M. If Christine heard he was still here, she might come to him and . . .

  Slocum stopped kidding himself. Blassingame was right. She would move on to another man, probably Josh Norton from the way she had been cozying up to him at the square dance. From all he had heard about the young rancher, he would end up like putty in Christine’s hands. She would mold him any way she wanted and probably hate him for being that way.

  “I’ve got business,” Slocum said.

  “Think about it. I don’t want Garvin ruinin’ the Bar M or gettin’ Mr. Magnuson into trouble.” Blassingame cleared his throat and added, “Wouldn’t be bad if you and Miss Christine got together either.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing I want to do.” Slocum stood, looked at the defeated old foreman, then left the saloon. He stepped out into the dusty afternoon. The rains had gone and left the strong winds to suck up the moisture from the ground. When the last of the water evaporated, the dust began to swirl about.

  He ought to ride on and forget Magnuson—and Christine. Somehow, what was logical and what he would have done five months earlier no longer mattered. If he wanted Christine, he had to fight for her. He wasn’t afraid of her pa, but getting into a fight with Magnuson didn’t do much to win Christine’s heart. He had to soothe the ruffled feathers and convince the rancher of his honorable intentions toward his daughter.

  Slocum wasn’t much for making speeches, but he had to make the effort. For Christine, he would.

  He mounted and rode slowly toward the Bar M as he worked out what he would say. Some things didn’t make any sense to him. Using what Blassingame had said about the new foreman and his cursed rope wasn’t going to get him past the front door. He needed some other wedge to get in a word or two.

  By the time he stopped under the wooden arch with the Bar M brand on it, Slocum had decided fancy words were for lawyers and preachers. As a simple man, he had to speak simply. What he felt for Magnuson’s daughter ought to be good enough.

  He rode straight to the ranch house and waited out front for a minute or so to see if Magnuson came boiling out. Or if a shotgun blast cut him down. When nobody stirred, he climbed down and went to the door. For a moment he hesitated, then knocked loudly.

  “Mr. Magnuson, I want to have words with you.”

  Only silence from inside greeted him. Slocum felt a letdown. He had spent the ride out to the Bar M going over the things he had to say about Christine—to Christine—and nobody answered. Turning to the bunkhouse, he stuck his head inside. Empty.

  Stride long, he went to the barn and heard someone humming “Dixie.” Slocum pushed open the door and saw Jonesy working to muck the stalls.

  “You never struck me as the type to commit suicide,” Jonesy said. He leaned on the shovel, wiped his sleeve across his forehead, and then straightened. “Ain’t none of the folks here have anything good to say about you. Whatever you did musta been a dandy.”

  “Where’s Magnuson?”

  “He don’t check in with me, but gossip has it he’s over at the Norton spread.”

  “Christine?”

  “Now, Slocum, you lookin’ to get me into trouble tellin’ tales?”

  “Do you know or not?”

  “Nope, don’t. One thing I do kn
ow is that you’d better watch your back. Garvin’s been whippin’ himself up into a killing rage over you.”

  “Why?” This startled Slocum. “I don’t have a bone to pick with him.”

  “He’s got one to pick with you.” Jonesy frowned and wiped his forehead again. “Mighty hot in here for this time of year. Guess all the shit is steamy hot.”

  “Where’s Garvin?”

  “You thinkin’ on havin’ it out with him? I’d steer clear of our new foreman, if I was you. But I ain’t, and for that I’m happy as all get-out.”

  “He got a taste for blood when he saved Magnuson from being robbed,” Slocum said, knowing the anger that had built in Garvin went back farther than that. He couldn’t remember how he had cut down the two rustlers.

  “Been practicin’ with that iron of his. I’m no expert, but he’s lookin’ quick, mighty quick.”

  “It’s Magnuson I need to speak with.”

  Jonesy leaned more heavily on the shovel, turned and spat, then said, “Ridin’ with you was a pleasure, Slocum. Wish you’d been made permanent foreman. You do things different from Jed but you get things done.”

  “Garvin doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Slocum said.

  “Your words, not mine, about my new foreman. Got to get back to work. Watch your back, Slocum, watch your back and be careful what you say.”

  Slocum didn’t need such advice. He never looked for trouble, but it always managed to find him. Outside in the afternoon sun, he looked around. The corrals stood empty, the horses turned out to graze on the fields where the cattle had roamed only a few weeks earlier. A gunshot echoed from some distance away. Then another and another. The sound made Slocum think the same gun was being fired repeatedly. When no answering shot came, he suspected this was what Jonesy had warned him about.

  Tom Garvin was out practicing with his Smith & Wesson.

  There wasn’t anything to gain by facing the foreman. He got to his horse and rode in the direction of the Norton ranch. What Magnuson had to say to the senior Norton wasn’t a concern, but the younger Norton and Christine did give Slocum a touch of foreboding.