Slocum and the Apache Campaign

by Jake Logan

She hung on his arm to the horse. He undid the reins, tightened the girth then took her in his arms and kissed her. “Alma, thanks for all your hospitality.”

  “You be careful—”

  “I know, Slade’s a killer.”

  She waved and he rode on.

  By the prints in the dust, it seemed Slade never stayed in the Sulphur Springs community. Slocum could tell his tracks by this time without bending over. Headed south for Mexico, he guessed.

  Late afternoon he approached a rancheria. He drew the Colt and checked the chambers; he didn’t know this place and wanted to be ready for anything. Holstered again, he pushed the Morgan down the draw for the jacal and some pens. Many of these ranches had been abandoned in northern Sonora and on the U.S. side, because of the Apaches’ bloodthirsty raids on them.

  Three tough-looking men came out of the adobe house. By their hats and manner of dress he’d called them cowboys—however, none wore the red sash of Clanton’s men. Slade had been there—he knew from the tracks.

  A hard-eyed breed, a Mexican wearing two bandoliers and a bearded white man of ample girth. He spoke. “What’cha need?”

  “I’m looking for Jed Slade.” He checked the dancing Morgan under him.

  “Any of you know a Jed Slade?” the big man asked the other two.

  They shook their heads.

  The big man threw his hands out to cover the place. “See, he ain’t here.”

  “He was.”

  “You calling me a damn liar?”

  Slocum shook his head. “Jed Slade rode up here with the woman he kidnapped.”

  “Well, I damn sure don’t know Jed Slade or nothing about no kidnapped woman.”

  “Strange, ain’t it? I been on his tracks for two days and they led right here.” Slocum grasped the saddle horn in both hands and rocked back and forth to loosen his stiff back muscles.

  “You the damn law?”

  “No, but I’m looking for Slade.”

  “You may be looking for a grave.”

  “Mister, I can cut two of you down before the third one might get me. You’re going to be the first one to die if I do. However, I’m going to excuse all that talk—where’s Slade?”

  “He ain’t here.”

  It was either have a shoot-out or leave. He reached down, lifted the reins and set the Morgan to backing until he was beyond easy range. The big horse backed fast. Then Slocum saluted them and rode on. Slade had been there. He knew it. Maybe he came out on the wagon road—maybe not. No sign of his horses at the place. A mile down the road, the familiar prints in the dust gave him new hope and he set the Morgan to trotting.

  By afternoon, he was deep in Sonora. Where was Slade headed? This made the second day and he felt no closer. He found a camp late in the evening. The smoke from the cooking fire carried on the wind. A man stood up with a single-shot rifle in his arms. His pregnant young woman looked up from where she squatted at her food preparation.

  “Buenas tardes,” Slocum said, and the man nodded, still hugging the rifle. “Would you sell me some supper?”

  “We have so little, but we will share it.”

  Slocum nodded. “I don’t wish to be a burden to you.”

  “Get down. We eat soon.”

  The woman nodded in agreement.

  “My name is Slocum.” He stepped down and loosened the cinch. “I am looking for a man and a white woman.”

  “My name is Pablo. She is Nina. Such a man went by here.”

  “Good to meet you. How long ago?”

  “Maybe a few hours. Her hands were tied.” Pablo frowned, looking concerned.

  “He kidnapped her three days ago from the school where she taught. Did he stop here?”

  Pablo nodded. “He wanted to know how far it was to San Rico.”

  “Was he headed there?” Slocum squatted down on his boot heels near her small fire.

  “I think so.” Pablo removed his sombrero and joined him. “This woman is yours?”

  Slocum shook his head. “She is a schoolteacher and came to Arizona to teach little children, not to be kidnapped and abused by worthless trash like Slade.”

  “This one is a bad hombre?”

  “He thinks he is anyway. He sells guns and whiskey to the broncos when he isn’t doing this.”

  “I see the evil in his eye when he was here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To a rancheria. My Nina, she thinks the baby is coming, so we camp till it comes.”

  “Your wife?”

  “No, no, she is my daughter. Her husband was killed by bandits and we only have each other.”

  “I have a pistol in my saddlebags. It is loaded. I have no more caps, powder and balls for it, but I will give it to you—so you and her can be safe.”

  “Gracias,” Pablo said and she nodded with him.

  “There are many bad men on the road.” Then Slocum warned them to avoid the rancheria he had passed earlier.

  Pablo thanked him and she fed him a bean burrito. After he ate it, he gave her two silver dollars. When she hesitated taking the money, he nodded to her belly. “For the little one.”

  She agreed, and Pablo grinned examining his new pistol. “Muchas gracias, mi amigo. May God ride with you to find her.”

  He trotted the big Morgan in the orange flare of sundown. San Rico was still several miles away—but chances were good that he might catch Slade there. He felt for the first time since Dos Cabasos that he had a good lead on them and a real chance to close the gap between him and them.

  The moon was up when he rode into the small community under the stars. The outline of the unfinished second bell tower stood above the hovels and jacals that nested in the small valley. The long-ago builders only completed one per sanctuary, so the church stood unfinished and no taxes were due on it. The trail of missions constructed by Father Kino across Sonora to Tucson all shared that same feature.

  He put the Morgan in a livery and asked about a gringo and his woman stopping there. The stable boy said he had not seen any such pair. The news was not good. Maybe Slade had contacts in this village—other saints or people he could stay with. It made sense because he could hardly take her around tied up and not draw some kind of challenge.

  In the cantina, Slocum bought a drink and asked the bartender if he’d seen a gringo with a woman there that day. The barkeep called over another. He was bald-headed and an older man.

  “Yes, señor. Gonzales says you ask about a white man and woman who came through here today.”

  “They came this way anyhow.”

  “Are they your amigos?”

  “No. The woman is a schoolteacher and he kidnapped her.”

  “Oh, such a bad thing.” He shook his head.

  “You know where they are?”

  “This hombre has a rancheria in the hills.”

  “Slade has a ranch down here?”

  “It is not much of a ranch. A ramada, some corrals, a well and a couple of men to guard it.”

  “From what?”

  “We don’t know. But his pistoleros are cheap ones.” The man looked around, then, satisfied there was not danger in continuing, put his forearms on the bar. “He may deal in stolen horses—maybe he sells some putas—something, we think. You know?”

  “Yes, he’s not worth shooting.” Was he fixing to sell Mary? “Where does he sell these women?”

  “On the border.” The man shrugged. “They are captured Indian girls mostly and they don’t bring much. They bring them to him and he sells them to the brothels.”

  “Where would he sell a white woman?”

  “Oh, she would bring many pesos.”

  “Where?”

  “Maybe Guaymos or Mexico City.”

  “Can I hire a guide to show me where his rancheria is?”

  “Franco,” he said and waved a young man over from a side table. When he came, the man put his arm on the younger one’s shoulder and talked softly. Franco looked up, met Slocum’s gaze and nodded.

&nb
sp; “When do you wish to go there?” the man asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “Franco will show you. He is a good man.”

  “Yes, gracias,” Slocum said and downed the mescal he had ordered. He and his guide left the cantina and went for his horse.

  “I have no caballo, señor.”

  “We can ride him double. You’re small.”

  The Morgan out and saddled, they rode him from the village under the stars. Franco pointed the way and they soon went into some hills. They left the Morgan hitched to a mesquite in a side canyon, then climbed a steep hillside to spy down on the dark cluster of pens and a ramada.

  “I can pay you now,” Slocum said in whisper, holding his Winchester.

  “No, señor. I can go with you and help get her free.”

  “There might be shooting.”

  “I have no gun.”

  “Can you use one?”

  “Ah, sí, señor.”

  He handed him his Colt. “Don’t shoot me or her. The rest are expendable.”

  “I don’t savvy that word.”

  “Means you can shoot them.”

  Franco’s teeth shone in the night with his pleased grin. “Fine pistol.”

  “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  They crossed the open flats in the starlight and reached the pens. The horses grunted in their sleep as they eased around the pen. He sent Franco the other way. Where was she?

  He moved across the open spot and reached the shadowy, dark ramada—Someone smashed him in the back of his head and his knees buckled. Then it all went blank.

  21

  Slocum could only see out of one eye. But he could see Franco, his head bowed, tied to an opposite post of the ramada. Like Slocum, he too was bound with his back to the post. Who’d hit him?

  No one in sight. His head hurt all the way through. The sun was up, so Slocum had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Had they been tied up and abandoned? No telling. The big thing was getting free and after Slade. Whew, the pounding at his temples was bad.

  “Franco,” he hissed.

  The youth raised his head and nodded.

  “Who did this?”

  “Slade’s men. They must have got word we were coming, huh?”

  “I didn’t tell them.” Slocum tried to clear his head. “Is she with them?”

  “There was a gringo woman with them.”

  “Her hands tied?”

  “I think so. She looked very tired.” Franco shook his head in disgust.

  “Damn, she probably is. Who told them we were coming?”

  “I wish I knew. I’d kick their asses in.”

  He strained at his hands. If they managed to get loose—they had no money, no guns and no sign of the Morgan or any horses in the pens. Be damn hard to chase them down in that shape. But he’d have to.

  “You getting loose?”

  “Ah, sí, a little more, señor.” Franco was really straining.

  “Good. Mine ain’t giving.”

  It was the braying of a jackass coming into the camp to find his horse friends that made Slocum whirl around. He pulled hard on the ropes cutting his wrists—they gave a little, but he knew the sticky feeling—that was his blood. How long would it take him to get to Guaymos on a burro?

  “I am free, señor.”

  “Good. Help me.”

  Franco soon had him loose and was rubbing his own wrists.

  “Why didn’t he kill us?” Slocum asked.

  “I don’t know. The woman, she cried I think was why. He was afraid she would tell they had shot us too.”

  “How long have they been gone?”

  “Oh, hours, señor. Where do you go now?”

  “I want that burro to ride.”

  “Ride a burro with no guns after those bandits?” The young man looked shocked.

  “I’ve done worse, Franco.” He slid the corral bars in place and smiled at the captive gray donkey. “Worst part, I can’t pay you. They’ve taken most all of my money.”

  “Oh, señor, I don’t need money. I am mucho grateful to be alive and free.”

  “Alive and free is nice. They leave any food?” Slocum was looking around for a bridle and possibly a pad.

  “I don’t know. Ah, here are some frijoles in this pot,” he said over his discovery.

  “Good. We can feast on cold frijoles, huh?”

  “Oh, they have been burned.”

  “We’ll feast on burnt ones then.”

  “Señor Slocum, may I go with you to Guaymos?”

  He blinked at the youth. “Why?”

  “I may never get to go there if I don’t go with you.”

  “Well, we have a knife in this boot they didn’t find,” Slocum said, pulling up his pant leg. Then, lifting the other one, he drew out a small .31-caliber revolver. “This and that jackass, we may make it there.”

  They both laughed.

  As they sat on the ground sharing the scorched beans with crudely whittled wooden spoons, burro number two came braying off the hillside. A white one. Slocum shook his head and grinned at Franco. “There’s our other steed.”

  Franco laughed at the notion. “I never had so much fun in my life, and it is so serious. I mean the señorita and all.”

  “Sometimes when things get the blackest all you can do is laugh.”

  “I never knew such a man as you.”

  “Good thing there aren’t more,” Slocum said. “Let’s catch Snowball and get on our way. Jed Slade, we’re coming after you.”

  Forced to keep his boot toes up or snag them on the ground, he beat a tattoo with a stick on the gray one’s butt to keep him trotting. So they hurried uphill and down and across the desert until they came to a small village that looked golden-walled in the setting sun.

  “What is this place?” Franco asked when they reined up.

  “I hope Horseville,” Slocum said. He jumped off his burro, pulled his pants out of his crotch and led the animal with a stiff limp toward the gate.

  They found the stable man and awoke him from a long siesta in a hammock. He looked them up and down doubtfully as he set his legs over the side.

  “We need two horses.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t have them.”

  “What do you have we can ride?”

  “Mules.”

  Slocum considered the man as he ran his fingers through his hair. He went to the corral and studied the hipshot, sleepy-looking mules. About twelve hands high, they would be much better than the burros. “They broke to ride?” He turned back for the answer.

  “Some. They will beat those burros.”

  “Some saddles?”

  The man nodded.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty pesos for two.”

  “Ten.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Fourteen is my last offer.”

  Slocum nodded and sat on the ground. He pulled off his boots and found the paper money in the walletlike slit. “We want them saddled in the morning before daylight.”

  “All right,” the man grumbled.

  “Oh, you can have them two burros in trade. They’re well broke.” Slocum pointed to the cantina and clapped his man on the shoulder, raising a cloud of dust. “Food is next.”

  “I hope the beans aren’t burned this time.”

  Slocum nodded, looked around, adjusted the small handgun in his waistband and went inside. The place was dimly lighted by some candles. A short woman came over with a low-cut blouse and looked at them with her dark eyes as if eyeing the size of their business. “Ah, hombres, what do you want?”

  “Some good food, some mescal and who knows,” Slocum said and nodded to the bartender.

  She caught him by the arm. “I have the pussy when you are ready.”

  Slocum nodded and winked at Franco. The youth about blushed, but he nodded to him.

  “Oh, we can feed you some cabrito—it is very tender.”

  “Cabrit
o sounds great. Bring it on.”

  Franco nodded, and they sat at the table in front of the empty bar and sipped the mescal the bartender brought to them. Soon the woman, called Cyd, brought them steaming goat meat and black beans on a wooden tray.

  “Who do I get to feed?” she asked.

  “Set in his lap,” Slocum said and raised his glass in toast. “To our new mules!”

  Cyd made herself at home in the boy’s lap, feeding him fingers full of the moist meat and then wiping his lips with a napkin with much care and fuss. Franco looked a little uncomfortable at all the attention. Slocum winked at him and dug in on his own. His backbone was gnawing on his navel again. The food was good, and when he finally sat back and looked across at them, he saw she had poor Franco worked up.

  “Better take him to your casa,” Slocum said to her and slid a silver half dollar across the table. “That’s for all night.”

  “Ah, sí.” She dropped the coin between her breasts and hustled the youth to his feet. They soon disappeared out the back door.

  Slocum leaned back. “A white man, some pistoleros and a white lady pass through here today?” he asked the bartender.

  He nodded, coming over to refill his glass.

  “They say where they were going?”

  “No.”

  “You know them?”

  “One pistolero they call Blanco.”

  “He an albino?”

  “Ah, sí. White hair, silver eyes.”

  “How many pistoleros?”

  “Two.”

  “Three men?”

  The barkeep shook his head. “Two gringos, two Mexicans.”

  Slocum nodded. Thorpe must have joined them somewhere. Maybe he had been at this place where they kept their stolen horses and slave putas. Slocum would know three of them on sight anyway. But sipping the fiery mescal, he felt the most regret about Mary’s plight and not being able to get her out of it sooner.

  Predawn came early. The mules saddled and bridled with curb bits, they slung their heads and acted bad enough that Slocum knew they weren’t dead broke. He held a twisted ear while Franco got on, and when he let go, the show was on. The mule crow-hopped across the square in the shadowy light. Then he got real stiff-legged and pitched Franco off.

  No time for bronc mules to act up. Slocum ran and caught him. Held the headstall hard to his knee as the mule snorted fire and tried to circle away from him. The mule continued to go around with his head tight to Slocum’s leg. Loose at last, he ducked his nose between Slocum’s knees, but by then Slocum was beating his tender flank underneath with a cross-over back-and-forth swing of the thick rope reins. The mule soon jerked his head up and began a stiff-legged run around the square, braying in protest.