by Jake Logan
“Ma’am, sorry to bother you,” he said.
A tall, raw-boned woman, she swept the blond hair from her face and squinted in the sunshine at him. “What do you need?”
“What happened to John Henry? I just came from there.”
“The goddamn Sioux attacked him last summer. He’s still alive, but moved to Ogallala. He lives with his cousin out there.”
“Bad deal.”
“Me, my husband, and his brother were under attack for half a day, but we killed five of them and they never got us. They finally left and the next day the army arrived. But John was coming home the day before. He was alone and they wounded him, and then they trailed his mares and two stud horses away. I sure miss him. He was a nice man toward me and all my family.”
Slocum thanked her and tossed his head to Swan that they were leaving. The woman’s name was Emma, and Slocum knew John Henry had frequented her. Her and those two men she spoke about were having a rough time making it—so Emma entertained men like John to make their ends meet. They were her egg money—she didn’t have any chickens.
He and Swan never stopped in any town, but rather camped away from faces, until they were near the home of another man Slocum knew and so they rode to his place. Curly Manard was breaking a horse in a round corral when they rode onto his ranch. He had the horse running in a circle, but he stopped and climbed up on the fence, still holding his air rifle. He shot the horse in the flank with BBs until the horse quit trying to escape and came to him.
Seated on the top rail, he removed his hat and swiped his wet forehead on his sleeve.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, like Slocum was not even with her. “I’m so glad you dropped in. My name is Curly and my head ain’t as curly as it used to be, but you can see this. Who is this man you brought along?”
She straightened her back and smiled. “My name is Swan Woman. He goes by Slocum.”
“My, what is a famous lady like you doing riding with such a low-bellied hombre?”
“All I could get.” She jumped off her horse. Curly set down the rifle and ran to hug her, then swung her around in a wide circle.
“Well I feel sorry for you.” He set her down and kissed her forehead.
“Crazy, ain’t he, Swan?” Slocum asked her.
She shrugged and fought a smile. “Better than most.”
Slocum laughed and hugged his friend. They had lots to say to each other, so with him on one side of her and Curly on the other, they herded Swan to the house and inside it.
Slocum had never thought about it, but she had never been inside a farmhouse before in her life, and she was totally struck by all of it. She whirled around trying to take it all in at once.
“What a wonderful place.”
Her obvious awe of everything made both men smile. She was in a heaven on earth, far, far from the smoky crowded round house at home. The fireplace, the range in the kitchen portion, the hand pump in the sink that produced water with only a small effort on the handle—she gazed around at everything. Then, with her butt backed to the sink, she sighed. “Where is your wife?”
“She died last winter,” Curly said. “They said pneumonia.”
“I am so sorry. I too have a sad story. My husband was killed fighting as an army scout. Then such a thing as took your wife took both my children.”
“Then you ended with this scoundrel Slocum?”
“I chose him when he came to our lodge to see Three Bear. He gave me his hat and said we must ride to see his friends.”
“I am so glad you came, Swan.”
“May I fix you some food?”
“I can show you how to use the range.”
“I fear I might burn your house down.”
“No fear.”
Slocum hung his hat on a peg, then retrieved it, recalling that he had animals to put up.
“I will come help you,” Swan said.
“No, you learn how to cook in here. I can put things up.”
She accepted his answer and turned back so Curly could show her how to fire up the range. Slocum smiled at them as Curly showed her more things. He went outside and unsaddled the animals, then put his panniers and the packsaddle in Curly’s harness shed. The animals he turned into a corral with hay and water. They rolled on their backs to stop the itching where the saddles had been.
Satisfied, he went back inside and hung up his jacket and hat. He sat down to read some newspapers. In the back of the Denver newspaper he came across a story with the headline MURDERER OF MISSOURI CONGRESSMAN’S SON STILL ON THE LOOSE. The story read:
U.S. Marshal Craig Jensen reported that the man, guilty of murdering Miles Hampton, a federal agent, had escaped federal agents while being taken to Leavenworth Prison to be hung for his heinous crime. In a well-planned attack by agents from the rogue government of Washington, the prisoner escaped and all the federal agents were badly beaten and left to die tied up in ropes in freezing temperatures.
John Slocum is being sought at this time with a five-hundred-dollar reward to be paid for him alive or dead. Slocum is thirty-three, a former Confederate captain, and has been connected to this rogue government Washington. He is dark-haired and six feet tall. The following drawing is ten years old, but he looks like this today according to the agents who arrested him. Consider him armed and dangerous.
“You find that?” Curly asked.
“I was never convicted or even tried. I had a hearing coming, and those agents rushed me out of Fort Hayes to take me to Leavenworth. This boy’s father is a powerful congressman. They said the son was a federal agent, which no one believes. He was treasure hunting and shot a man probably because he knew too much and Hampton feared he would beat him to the loot.”
“Sounds like you fell into another bowl full of shit.”
“I did.”
“Where is she from?”
“Swan is a Pawnee. You heard her story.”
“Yes. She is a nice woman.”
“She yearns to read.”
Curly nodded.
“We have been coming this way the past few weeks while they really look for me back there. I am thinking I might slip out of sight into the north.”
“Then how can you clear this up?”
“I don’t know. While I waited for an attorney to come out there, we convinced the federal judge at Fort Hayes to hear witnesses to the shooting. He was listening, but the marshals didn’t want that to be told in open court, so they hustled me out of there and on the way to Leavenworth before that happened. I felt they’d shoot me for trying to escape, as an excuse for killing me. My friends figured it out, followed, ran down the marshals, and whacked them all over the head, tied them up, and sent me packing.”
“You were damn lucky. But how will this ever be solved?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere there is a lawyer with the money and power enough to close that case.”
“I don’t know him. Do you?”
“No.”
Swan fed them supper and smiled. “Your friend has a wonderful house.”
“I know we have not spoken about it, but I may have to leave you here with Curly. I have more bad news about them wanting to arrest me.”
She nodded, looking very upset.
“My friend Curly has a nice ranch here. He would like you to stay here. He understands Indian women. His wife who died was a full-blood Cheyenne. Besides being my good friend he is a good man.”
“If he does not like me, how will I get home?”
“He will return you to your people.”
Curly raised his hand. “I swear I will take you back there.”
“I will be sad. I have lost so much.”
“I am sad too, but they are pushing hard to bring me down. But here you will have a secure place, and he will teach you to read I promise you.”
&nb
sp; “When will you leave me?”
“Tonight.”
She swallowed hard. “I understand.”
“Won’t you be happy in this fine house?”
She nodded. “If I had you too. But I will try to please him.”
“Good.” Turning to Curly, he added, “She has a picture of us standing together.”
Curly nodded. “Good, she will have that for a memory of you.”
Slocum agreed and said, “I’m sorry to make this such a grave meal. Your first made on a stove top too.”
“I have had few metal pots in my life. I have boiled water in hides with hot rocks. When I left with you and saw that small Dutch oven, I almost cried. So yes, he has a wonderful house with no smoke in my place and very private walls.”
“You will do well here in his care, Swan.” He reached over and patted her hand.
After dark, he loaded up and rode north.
9
He left leading his mule and rode across the bridge spanning the Platte, heading north in the starlight. No close calls, but the hair on his neck stuck straight up riding through the drunks staggering in the Ogallala main street in the night. North of the river at last, he trotted his animals under the stars. His plan was to make it to the Fort Robinson area next. He’d covered lots of Nebraska and was in the grassy country on a little-traveled road when he met a man carrying his saddle on his shoulder and walking.
“You walk far?” He stopped his gray.
“Too far. My horse gave out back up the road. I had to destroy him.” The youth, in his late teens, looked weary.
“Where are you headed?”
“Colorado. I figure I might find work down there.”
“Let’s camp. I have some food we can fix and you can rest a little.”
“Hey, mister, no one has offered me a thing. I’m indebted to you. And that is a great gray horse—” Then he stopped. “You . . . you’re the guy they want for killing that congressman’s son.”
“I shot him in self-defense.”
“Boy, your wanted poster is all over the damn country. Says you were convicted of murder and sentenced to hang.”
“That is all a lie. You don’t believe me, you can hike on down the road.”
“Hey, mister, I lied about my horse. I stole a horse up north and figured they’d recognize him in Ogallala, so I let him loose and started out walking, not knowing I was over thirty miles from there.”
Slocum laughed at the young man. “I have a plan. You ride my gray horse clear down into Colorado. I’ll make you a bill of sale for him. Don’t stop so anyone sees you for long, and then strike out. You should get clear down there, and some will think it was me went through. I’ll pay you twenty dollars besides.”
“Holy shit, mister, I can ride him to the Mexican border for that. Good, but what will you do with this camp stuff?” He looked around at the mule and the panniers.
“I guess leave it. Better than being picked off because I have it.”
The kid agreed. “But a damn shame.”
“I’ve had to lose more than that to save my hide before. We can split what we can use and tow sack it.”
“Sounds good. Am I glad I met you, mister—”
“Slocum.”
“Jerry Kane.”
“Now, let’s fix supper.”
“Yes, sir.”
The preparation went well. Afterward they split the cans of tomatoes and peaches left and some other items. Slocum kept the coffee and the candy. The next morning they ate well and parted. The mule was not well broke to rein, but after some arguing, Slocum won and he trotted him off north. Kane rode south as the decoy with a bill of sale from “Andrew Thomas” for the gray horse.
* * *
The mule was extremely tiring to ride or drive for Slocum, but in two days he was at an isolated ranch in a great swale, with lots of wet land around it, near the South Dakota line.
A handsome woman in her late twenties came to the door in a blue dress.
“Good day.” He removed his hat. “My name’s Slocum. Could I buy a meal?”
Amused, she covered her mouth and shook her head in disbelief looking at him. Finally recovered, she stepped outside and leaned her back to the door frame. “I have had many folks stop by looking for a handout. But you are the first one ever, mister, to offer to pay for it.”
“Can I buy it?”
“Hell, no. Get off your mule and I’ll wrangle you up something for free. I’m Glenna, Glenna Russell. I gave you my name. Now, who are you?”
“Thanks, Slocum is mine.”
“Just Slocum, huh?”
“Yeah, it makes it easier.”
Glenna turned and showed her fingers over her shoulder for him to come inside after her.
“Good.” He hitched the mule at the rack and started for the house. On the porch he stuck his hat on a rack and washed his hands and face in the basin. Then he dried them on the sack towel available and stepped inside the neat cabin.
“You have a very nice place here,” he said to her back while she was working on the wood range.
She looked back. “You can sit at the table. You’ve been on the road awhile.”
“I probably could use a bath and a shave. But food seems like to me to be a little more important.”
“When did you eat last?”
“Oh, yesterday I had my last can of peaches.”
“I have some beef stew I am heating. You must be on the run.”
“I am.”
“Well, you aren’t Jesse James. I have seen fuzzy pictures of him.”
“No, ma’am. I recently shot a man in self-defense in Kansas after he shot a man in cold blood and then turned his gun on me. Only thing is he was the prodigal son of a congressman. I have never been on trial and they call me a convicted criminal.”
She served him a bowl of hot stew. “I’ll cut you some sourdough bread. It’s still hot.”
“Thank you, Glenna.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me. Any man rode a mule that far is tough as anyone I know. I saw right off he is not a saddle mule.”
Between spoons of his stew, Slocum managed to say, “My gray horse was too famous to ride any longer.”
“I said you were tough.” She poured him some fresh-smelling coffee.
“Your husband around?”
“He’s dead. He had a horse wreck and died two days later over a year ago. My brother Jon and I own this place.”
“I am sorry.”
“No need to be. I have not cried a tear. He chose a horse that morning I told him was too tough for him, but he rode off on him anyway. I tried to save him from dying. He never listened. What more could I have done?”
“I guess he made his own decision.” Her stew was delicious.
“He did that.” Sounding as if she was through talking about her late husband, she said, “I have a sheepherder shower. If there is not a posse right on your trail, I’ll give you a towel and soap. But I will not tell you that the water is hot.”
“I would be grateful.”
“And I am going to get you some clothes that may fit you so I can wash those you have lived in so long.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe his situation.
“There are not any bath houses on the back roads between here and Fort Hayes.”
“Well, you’ve found one today. You want more stew?”
“I’d take some more of your great sourdough bread, butter, and that chokecherry jam.”
“Oh, bragging will get you more.” She jumped up to fill his order.
After he ate three more slices, she pointed out the way and he trekked off for the shower. The water in the barrel overhead was certainly not warm, but he felt good shedding the dirt and stink associated with his long mule ride to here. His plans included buyin
g a horse to ride when he could find one.
Dry and dressed in borrowed clothing, he put his gun belt on again and then headed for the cabin. Nice place for a ranch, nestled under the hill; a small, clear creek ran by it, no doubt spring-fed, and surrounding it were big cottonwoods that soon would leaf out and a large garden spot in the alluvial riverbed. The place was well fenced to keep out vermin and plowed ready to plant potatoes and greens. It all looked serene—pens, haystacks, mowing equipment, and two teams of big draft horses in the corral. Her husband had left her with a nice place.
“Looks like Jon’s clothes fit you all right. Him and Carter will be back here in an hour or so. We have some trouble with a pushy guy named Horace Garvin. Moved in here because they ran him out of Texas some folks say. He gets awful pushy, thinks he owns the entire range. He’s run off some homesteaders over on the river. So we go with two men whenever we leave the ranch. Carter is a good old man. He’s tough, and Jon can and will stand up for himself, but they’ve got some hard-core sumbitches over at the Two G Bar. His foreman, Buck Sears, is some tough outlaw, seems to me.”
“Has this Garvin threatened folks you know about?”
“Yeah, he had one woman in tears. Her husband was gone when they came by telling her to leave. They ain’t left, but they’re real concerned. Another woman shot at them with a shotgun. Two of them got bucked off their horses when the pellets hit their horses’ butts.”
“Sounds like they need a few more lessons.”
“Would you be able to do something? I know you’ve been around, and I wondered what you could try on them.” She folded her arms over her chest, busy overseeing the cooking on the range. “Sit down at the table. We don’t have lots of furniture.”
“No problem. I’d hang a dummy on the ranch crossbar and pin a sign on him: GO HOME OR DIE.”
She began laughing. “How hard is that?”
“Some old clothes stuffed with hay, a pillowcase with a mouth and eyes painted on it, and a rope knotted and all around his neck.”
“By damn that might shake them some.”
“It won’t run off the real tough guys, but it will thin out the dumb ones.”
“Is that posse real close to your tail?”