Slocum and Little Britches

by Jake Logan

  None of the saddles straddling the wall had his gun in the scabbard. They walked a block, and after being sure they were not observed, slipped in to the Lone Star Wagon Yard. A few minutes later, she hissed to him, “Over here.”

  It was his rifle all right. He eased it and the forked stick out of the scabbard, while she dug the cartridges out of the saddlebags. With a nod, they started for the back of the livery. Moments later, a half block away, they both breathed easier.

  “Whew. You have your rifle back.” She rested her butt against he building and shook her head in the starlight. “I was about shaking back there, I was so afraid.”

  “We’re safe now.” And he did have the long-range rifle in his hands again.

  They were entering the hotel from the back entrance. A loud familiar voice in the lobby made him stop her.

  “Mulkey,” he said to her. “He’s in the lobby.”

  She listened, then nodded in agreement that it was him haggling with the clerk.

  “. . . I want that writer sumbitch. What room’s he in?”

  “I can’t give you that information. I am certain that when Mr. White returns this evening, he will be glad to discuss anything you like.”

  “I’m going to kill the sumbitch, too.”

  “I hope not in this hotel.”

  “Hope your ass. I get him in my gun sights, he’s dead.”

  Slocum stood the rifle on its butt and gave it to her to hold. “Stay here.”

  “Oh—”

  Slocum drew out the Colt and checked the cylinder, then jammed the weapon in the holster. Mulkey wanted him, he’d damn sure find him.

  He allowed himself a moment for his eyes to get adjusted to the brighter lights, then shoved his hat back and stepped into the lobby. “You looking for me?”

  “Why, you lying sumbitch—” Red-faced, Mulkey twisted around to draw his handgun.

  The .45 slug from Slocum’s muzzle struck Mulkey squarely in the chest and staggered the big man so his revolver went off in to the floor. The percussion of the shots doused the lights. The darkened room boiled with acrid gun smoke. Slocum heard him crumple to the floor.

  “Slocum!” Little Britches shouted, and rushed into the room.

  He caught her with his left arm. “There was no talking to him.”

  His six-gun holstered, he herded her out the front door. Along with the desk clerk, who was already on the porch, they coughed and gasped for fresh air.

  A lawman ran up and frowned at them. “What was the shooting about?”

  “The man in there—” The clerk caught his breath. “He tried to shoot Mr. White.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Mulkey,” Slocum said. “A mine operator and gunrunner from Mexico.”

  “Don’t sound like the world will miss him.” The law turned back to the clerk. “Self-defense, you say?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. That guy was a raging madman.”

  “Guess you’re passing through, Mister—ah, White?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, we try to run a peaceful town here.”

  “I understand,” she said, and thanked him.

  They went back inside and Slocum left the marshal the chore of disposing of the body. In the back hall, Slocum and Little Britches recovered his rifle, and he took it up to their room to check it out.

  “Is it all right?” she asked, leaning on him as he examined it.

  “I think so. No one ever shot it. Looks clean enough.”

  “Where to next?”

  “A place called Keersum. Those two might be hidden there.”

  “What if they aren’t?”

  “I guess go to Silver City and check on them there.”

  “Get undressed,” she said, then stripped the suspenders off her shoulders and began unbuttoning her shirt.

  “What for?”

  “What for?” Her eyes flew open. With a scowl, she gave him a two-handed shove. “Because I sure aim to use you and this bed for all it’s worth tonight.”

  “My, my, where did that sweet girl I found in the desert go?” He toed off his boot and shook his head in mock dismay.

  “I have been plowed by more sorry men than I want to count, and you’ve got a lot of making up to do for all that.”

  “How could I have helped it?” He paused to look at her compact derriere as she wiggled off the pants. Lots of woman in that small package.

  “By what you’re going to do tonight.”

  “Good, I can do that.”

  Naked as Eve, she blew out the lamp, turned back the covers, and bounced on the bed. “We’ll see about that, too.”

  Dawn came as a blue promise. They had their horses and packhorse saddled and ready to ride. Slocum still fought the cobwebs in his brain. Too much scampering in the bed with her all night and not enough sleep. He slid the rifle in the used scabbard that the swamper sold him for a dollar.

  “Keep your hands away from your gun,” a rough voice ordered. “I come to talk to you.”

  Slocum heard Little Britches sharply suck her breath in. He turned around to look at the Mexican sombrero topping the man in the doorway with the six-gun in his hand.

  “Ah, Pasquel Vansenta,” Slocum said. “You’re out of work this morning, I understand.”

  “You shot my patrón.”

  “No, I shot a worthless bastard that raped her and sold guns to the broncos.”

  “I have no money. I only wish to return to my home-land.”

  “Then put that gun away. No need for you to be in a New Mexico prison.”

  Pasquel laughed. “Why would you give me money?”

  “Because you never stole mine.”

  “Do you have much money on you?”

  “Some. I’ll give you twenty pesos and you can go home.”

  Pasquel shook his head and holstered his gun. “I never met a man wrote books before. You are a crazy hombre. First you shoot a tough man, then you give another dinero.”

  Slocum slapped the money in Pasquel’s palm. “Ride easy, amigo. There is more work for a good man in Mexico. Maybe working for a better man.”

  “Gracias.” Pasquel looked at the paper money he shuffled in his fingers as if considering it. “Say, have you got one of your books?”

  “What good would it do you?”

  “I can read some.”

  “It’s in English.”

  Pasquel shook his head. “I don’t need a book like that. Adios.”

  Watching him leave, Slocum reached out and hugged Little Britches. They were chuckling to themselves until they heard Pasquel ride off.

  At last free of him, she pointed a finger at Slocum. “He wanted a book you wrote to read?” And then she broke into tears and laughter.

  “I told him he couldn’t read it anyway . . .” Too much. He doubled over.

  19

  They sat side by side at the small campfire. Red-orange tongues licked at the night’s darkness. They had eaten some pinole—a mixture of ground corn and raw sugar that vaqueros existed on. The cowboys simply added water and cooked it in cups.

  “This place we’re going is in a canyon?” Little Britches asked.

  “Yes. I don’t know if they’re there or not, but I was warned that a tough hombre runs the place.”

  “Do we need help?”

  “Not much around here.”

  “You aren’t going down there alone, are you?”

  “I need to learn if they’re there or not.”

  “I don’t like it. It sounds too dangerous. St. John and Fine would kill you in a minute.”

  “Others have tried.”

  “Slocum. Listen to me. They will kill you.”

  “I’ll ease down there tonight and check around.”

  “You’re so stubborn—”

  He reached over, hugged and kissed her. When their mouths separated, he cradled her in his arms and rocked her. “I’ll be fine. You can watch the horses while I’ll go down and look.”

  “I’m scared.”
She hugged her arms. “This is too dangerous. You alone.”

  “I’ll put out the fire. There’s a place I can get down a side canyon.” He poured some canteen water on the blaze, then scuffed dirt on the edges.

  She brought the horses up and gave him the reins to his. “I wish we weren’t—”

  His kiss silenced her, and then he tossed her on the horse with a laugh. “Come sunup, you’ll be smiling again.”

  “That a promise or a threat?”

  “Why, a promise of course.”

  The stars lighted the small mountains in a pearl glaze. He led the way up the steep trail with mesquite brushing his legs as they wound their way skyward. At last, on a great flat that sloped away from them, he told her the hideout was off the lip to the south.

  Dismounted, he hobbled the horses so they could graze the dry bunchgrass. When he finished, he gave her the older-model Colt from his saddlebags.

  “It’s loaded. You know how to shoot one.” He recalled her marksmanship.

  She nodded.

  “Don’t close your eyes when you shoot it.”

  With a grim look on her face, she agreed.

  “I’ll be back,” he said.

  He left her on the rim and eased his way off the steepest part. Far below, he could see a few lights of jacales. The rough rocks soon hurt his hands as he let himself down the sheer wall. At last, he dropped on a ledge and caught his breath. The way down the side canyon became easier, and the brush was tall enough to conceal him. Down to the last hundred yards, the steep ground was covered in low sagebrush. He kept low and hoped no one was watching.

  Fifty feet from the first outlying jacal, he dropped to the ground and listened. There was music somewhere. He rose up and dared to pass the dark silent house. Horses were fighting. In the corral, a troublemaker was angry and biting all the sleeping horses, which caused enough confusion. Dust boiled up and several cur dogs rushed in to add to the melee.

  A short Mexican waving a sombrero climbed over the corral fence and tried to separate them. Flying hooves soon flattened him. With dogs biting their heels, the herd stampeded around the pen—not one or two, but perhaps two dozen. Two more Mexicans came into the pen shouting, cursing, and waving sombreros at the panic-stricken horses. The horses crashed into the corral fencing. Poles cracked and the horses escaped in a flood through the opening.

  “Get some horses and go after them!” someone ordered in Spanish.

  Slocum wanted to cuss. Everyone was awake in the boiling dust that hung in the air. Women rushed about. Men raced around shouting, trying to find horses that had not escaped. A few took reatas and raced off in the direction the horses had fled.

  There was no sign of St. John or Fine. Maybe they’d gone on. This Cotter Bates must not have known the value of their bullion, or he’d probably have taken it from them. Busy speculating on his next move, Slocum heard voices speaking in English.

  “Now what in the fuck do we do?” It was St. John.

  “They’ll get them horses back in few hours.” Freddie Fine was here, too.

  Next problem: Where was the bullion and how could he get it away from them? Crouched behind a smelly outhouse, Slocum tried to see where those two were standing. Damn, he’d never get the drop on them, load the loot, and take it plus them out of there. Bates must have a dozen men on his payroll.

  Squatted down in the stinking shadows, he only had a few hours of darkness left, and no telling how long their horse roundup would take. It was no time for him to head back to Little Britches over the lower slopes with no cover. With everyone awake, he’d be an easy target.

  “Don’t move, Señor.”

  He spun on his toes and saw the hatless Mexican pointing a large cap-and-ball Colt at him. His heart stopped. No backup. Damn. All he had left to hope for was that at dawn, if he didn’t come back, she’d ride on. Dear God, please guide her . . .

  In the office of Cotter Bates, brightly lit by lamps, the narrow-eyed half-Chinese sat on the dusty desktop. “What are you doing here?”

  Seated in a chair, Slocum stonewalled them for the fifth time, and knew the red-faced man called Dago would hit him again in the face with his fist. The blow made him see stars.

  “That loosen your tongue?” Bates demanded.

  When he didn’t answer, Bates slid off the desk. “Put him in the shed. A few days on no water and food will make him want to tell us everything.”

  Dago agreed. “Stupid gringo, what did he want anyway?”

  “Who knows?” Bates yawned. “I need some sleep.”

  Dago marched Slocum out of the office into the dawn. A glow had begun in the east. The bare ground that went downhill was steep. The cocky rooster strolling behind Slocum was bragging under his breath how he’d—

  When the man gurgled, Slocum turned and heard the thunder of a rifle’s report from a faraway gun. Dago was knocked on his butt—hard hit. High on the bluff, Slocum could see the puff of gun smoke. He scooped up the man’s pistol, thumbed it back, whirled, and shot the first man that burst out of the office door. That one crumpled, and another sprawled over him.

  A rider was coming back hard. Slocum whirled and the man in the saddle froze, then he fell off. The horse spooked away and left bucking as the thunderlike report echoed overhead. It was Little Britches. She’d taken out another Mexican. Slocum reached the security of some packing crates—his four shots would be precious.

  The pistol-swinging Bates ran out on the porch in his nightshirt. “What the fuck is happening?”

  Another white-clothed Mexican charged down the slope waving his pistol. Slocum stopped him with round two. Three shots left in the old cap-and-ball. Bates came—his gun smoking bullets that smashed into the building behind Slocum. Steadying the heavy pistol with both hands, Slocum aimed and fired it. The bullet took the raging Bates in the face and he fell over backward.

  The Mexicans began to run in all directions. One more, instead of trying to escape, came screaming like a banshee from the office. He had his pistol in hand, his poncho waving behind him—a heavy slug from the mountain struck his chest and punched him backward.

  Too weary to get up, Slocum slumped on the ground. He needed to wave the all-clear at her, if she could recognize him in the telescope sight.

  Where were St. John and Fine? On his feet, he started across the open ground littered with bodies and waved his hat. He couldn’t see her at the distance. He only hoped she knew it was him.

  When she didn’t shoot him, he felt better and slogged on toward the office. Where were those other two? He climbed the steps and stepped over the dead man on the porch. There on the office floor was something covered by dirty canvas tarps. With his left hand, he swept the covering back in a flurry of dust and saw the panniers. Were they the ones he’d come after? Could he be so lucky?

  He stuck the six-gun in his holster and knelt down to unbuckle straps on the first one. In the pannier, he found several sacks of high-grade ore, gleaming in gold flakes. For a second, he wondered why they’d only taken rich ore. Then he ran his hand down in the rich material and struck something solid. It was heavy and required both hands to lift.

  A gold ingot—they could bring unrefined ore across the border without paying a tariff. With bullion, they’d pay a heavy fee. He sat on his butt and then brushed his hands off over the open pannier. The reflective gold dust clung to his hands and forearms. I have your gold, Lucia.

  The sounds of horses coming awoke him from his half daze. Where was he? Seated on his butt beside the treasure he’d come for.

  “Slocum! Slocum!”

  “I’m coming, Little Britches.” He struggled to his feet and made it to the doorway. At first sight, she bounded off her horse and raced up on the porch.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “I may never use my arm again. That damn gun kicks like a mule.” She shook her head.

  He hugged her gently, observing her stiff right arm and the shoulder that must be
sore. “You see Fine and St. John ride off?”

  “Yes. I thought they were too far away to shoot at. Besides, they were going behind things.”

  “No problem. They’re gone. We have the gold.”

  “What next?”

  “Get the gold bullion to Wells Fargo in Denning and have them deliver it to Lucia’s bank.”

  “Then what?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Go back to Dragoon Springs—I never asked you what you were going to do.”

  She buried her face in his shirt. “I ain’t through with you yet.”

  “Good—for now.”

  “What should we do now?”

  “I’ll round up some packhorses, and the sooner I get this to Wells Fargo the better.”

  “I’ll go, too. This place is spooky.”

  “Good,” he said, and ushered her out the front door.

  On the barb gray, he swung around. “I’d like to get my strawberry roan back, too.”

  “He with them?”

  “No, the damn Apaches took him for a packhorse. Probably ate him by now.”

  They short-loped to the east, and they soon began to see the scattered, loose horses grazing. He swung around them and sent half a dozen back toward the corral and headquarters. They filed obediently into the corral and he dismounted. “You block that break with your mount.”

  Slocum took down a reata looped over a post and roped the first one. He was well broke and stopped when the loop encircled his head. When he was tied up, Slocum caught a second one and had him hitched. Then, with another lariat off the fence, he picked out a taller horse that bucked around some before Slocum brought him under control.

  “He looks tough,” she said.

  “Aw, he’s salty is all. Bet once we get him saddled, he doesn’t do a thing.”

  In thirty minutes, they had packsaddles on the three and the panniers loaded on them. “We only need three?” she asked.

  “That should do it.” He hugged her good shoulder. “Let’s go to Denning.”

  “Where did all his men go?”

  “They ran off when you went to shooting at them and must have run a ways. I haven’t seen a sign of them.”

  “Think they’ll track us?”

  “Not if I shoot a few of them if they try.”