by Jake Logan
Then Barr’s world dissolved back into darkness.
He awoke like a drowning man. What day was it? Erma jumped up from her nearby chair and moved to his side. Morning sunshine slanted in a bright shaft from the open window. His left arm was in a sling. How damn long had he been here? Then he moved his head to see more, and the pain struck him like a bolt of lightning. What had they done to him?
“Here,” she said and held a tablespoon of medicine out to him. “Doctor said to give you some if you woke up. It’s for the pain.”
He raised up enough to sip it. It tasted bad.
“Did Doss and the men go look for that son of a bitch?” His own voice, even in a whisper, sounded rusty and cracked. “You just remember that they wore masks and we didn’t know them.”
She nodded that she knew what to say and gave him the rest of the laudanum. His head back on the pillow, he could hardly wait for it to take effect. It soon did and he was off again.
When he awoke the next time, he could hear them talking—Erma and, he thought, the sheriff.
“No. I was so scared—I never noticed anything. It was at night. I heard them in there swearing at him, and then they beat him half to death after he opened the safe for them.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Erma. I need more information. Did any of Barr’s men notice anything about them that you know of?”
“No, some of the other gang members held them in the bunkhouse.”
“Then they knew your operation. Could they have been men that used to work for Barr?”
“They wore masks. I don’t know. I’ve only worked there a short while.”
“Any idea about how much money they got?”
“They cleaned out the safe. All the money that he had—”
Barr closed his eyes. You done good, girl.
7
Slocum prepared to leave the Farley ranch the next morning. He told Minnie, Roy and Denny to remain armed and close. He suggested that Denny climb the windmill tower several times a day and use Charley’s binoculars to look over the country, and that they all three should stay in the main house at night; meanwhile he’d try to get a lead on the gang.
Buck short-loped most of the way to North Platte. Clouds were gathering in the southwest. He expected rain by late afternoon, when the towering clouds got tall enough to wring it out. Rain wouldn’t hurt them. Might even help folks’ fresh-planted fall gardens of cabbage and turnips.
He reached town in midmorning. At the jail, he found Garner’s chief deputy, Sam Welch, who told him about Barr. “The boss is over at the doc’s office now talking to Barr’s farm girl, Erma, about the gang. All Barr’s men would say was that the men were masked and they caught them all off guard.”
“How many men?”
“Four or five. Why?”
“That many men attacked Minnie Farley earlier that night. They shot and killed one of her men, a Calvin—” Slocum shook his head. “I can’t recall his last name. Then they tied her to the bed, took turns raping her and told her to get out or they’d be back and do it again.”
“Oh, God, Slocum, who were they?” Welch looked sickened by the news.
“The ringleader was a guy called Bridges.”
The deputy narrowed his left eye. “Big Texan, a trouble-maker. I ain’t seen him in town today.”
“What about a Horace somebody? A fat guy.”
“He’s Bridges’s shadow.”
“Where do they stay?”
“They’ve got a camp along the Platte River west of town. Tents and corrals is all, squatting on some river land in them willows.”
“I may ride out there and have a look around.”
“Be careful.” Welch shook his head. “I’d go with you, but I better watch the town, with Huey working on the Barr case and all.”
“I understand.” Slocum turned on his heels.
“Better take one of these shotguns. You may need it up there.” Welch fumbled with the keys to open one of the locks in the chain to get a shotgun for him. “I always like them in close range.”
“Won’t hurt.” Slocum broke open the breech of the double-barreled Greener. It was clean as a whistle, and when he snapped it back shut, he smiled. The damn British made some great shotguns.
Welch handed him a handful of high brass, twelve-gauge cartridges. “Twelve number two buckshot to the shell.”
“That should stop anyone.”
“I wish to hell that I could go—”
Slocum dismissed his offer. “They’ve probably rode on already.”
“Be damn careful. If they’re as bad as I think they are, you need to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Slocum agreed.
After getting a crude map from Welch, Slocum thanked the man and went outside to mount Buck. There was no sign of the sheriff, so he headed Buck west. Lots of wagon and horse tracks cut through the sandy river overflow ground making up the pencil-marked road on Welch’s map. Places where rigs had bottomed out, the road swung around or had been built up with cut brush thrown in to fill the sinkhole.
Lots of poor folks squatted in the river bottoms. Crate shacks, canvas strung on crooked poles, women in wash-worn dresses stared at him as a stranger passing by. Others puffed on corncob pipes and snubbed him, rocking in their weathered gray rockers. Their sisters hung dull wet clothing on bushes and called their children back like they were venturesome pups—curious about the invader on the jogging dun horse with a shotgun across his lap.
Short of the camp, he reined up Buck and broke open the Greener. He loaded it with shells from his vest pocket, then snapped the barrel shut one-handed and pushed Buck on. He could smell wood smoke, and once around the brush screen, he saw two women bolt up from cooking something and eye him critically.
“This the Bridges camp?” He noted that there were only two horses in the pens, and they looked gaunt. Not the kind of mounts that a man like Bridges would ride.
The harder-looking woman swept some gray-streaked hair back from her face. “Who’s asking? You the damn law?”
“I’m looking for Bridges.”
“Well, gawdamn you, tough guy, get off your horse and look for yourself. The sumbitch ain’t here.”
“When did you see him last?”
“I asked—”
“Personally, I’m not interested in your mouth. Where’s Bridges?”
“How should I know?”
“He lives here, doesn’t he?”
She shrugged. “Tell him, Terry.”
The plain-looking girl with a belly full of baby straining her thin dress shook her head. “They never tell us anything. We’re just their slaves, and Lincoln turned them all free—right?”
“I heard that he did. When was the last time they were here?”
“Yesterday.”
“Much obliged.” He touched the shotgun barrel to his hat brim and started to turn Buck around.
“Hold up,” the older woman said. “You didn’t ride down here for nothing. What did they do to you?”
“Killed a man and raped a widow woman.”
“Where?” She hurried over, carrying her old dress hem high and exposing her skinny calves.
“West of town.”
“Why didn’t the real law come ’stead of you?”
“I came to kill them. All the law would have done is arrested ’em.”
She snorted out her nose. “I saw that look in your face when you rode up. Well, you won’t catch them. They’re too smart for that.” Her taunting laughter following after him made the skin draw tight on his cheeks.
Others had thought that too. But, lady, they’re all dead.
Back in town, he returned the shotgun and spoke to Sheriff Garner before he rode out of North Platte. Garner left him wondering about the four or so masked men who had robbed Barr. Something wasn’t right. Neither he nor the sheriff felt that they knew half enough about the crime—it was all sounding too vague to Slocum.
In the doc’s office, Barr sat up bare assed o
n the bed, and Erma jumped up to steady him so he could rise and pee in the enamel bucket at his feet. How much money did they get out of his safe? Five to seven thousand—he’d not counted the total amount lately. That sumbitch Bridges. Doss better have found him and them others by this time and got the biggest part of the money back or he’d hang Doss’s ass too.
Finished emptying his bladder, Barr dropped his butt on the bed, and Erma squatted down to put the pot back underneath the cot.
“No word?” he asked under his breath.
“No word.” Erma halfway rose and then backed into her chair.
There was no way for him to send her out to learn anything. He needed to be healed and chasing down that Bridges himself. Why, the SOB was probably headed for Mexico with all that money and busy planning to have a high old time below the border at Barr’s expense. If he ever caught Bridges, he’d smash his balls with a hammer, one at a time, for what he did to scar Barr’s head. Half of his fucking left ear was all he had left. He looked like some steer on a ranch in Kansas who’d been through five owners in his life. Jaws clamped, he ground his back teeth together, and that hurt too.
The damn sheriff had been here, and Barr had told him all that he dared. His head on the pillow, he couldn’t sleep on his left side because of the injured ear. Oh, he’d get Bridges, and that bastard would rue the day he’d robbed him and left him for dead on the floor.
Erma drove Barr home the next day. Nothing improved his disposition, not even the good whiskey she’d bought for him. Barr was half drunk when he got there, and Mozelle and Erma had to pack him inside the house. He passed out and slept for twelve hours.
8
After talking to Sheriff Garner, Slocum swung by Leta’s tent. She came out from behind the flap wrapped in a house-coat to greet him. Her hand shaded her eyes against the midday glare as she looked up at him seated on his horse. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for some rapists.”
“Who?” She made a serious frown.
“A Texan named Bridges.”
“Watch him. He’s mean as a prairie rattler.”
Slocum nodded that he’d heard her. “Bridges may have robbed Barr that night too.”
“Might?”
“Barr told the sheriff that the ones who robbed him, and who also pistol-whipped him, were all masked.”
“Get down. I’ll make some coffee.”
“I better get back. I figure Bridges has taken a shuck of the country, and I’m going to try and find him.”
“Be careful. He usually keeps a gang.”
“He had them with him at her place.”
“Farley’s widow?”
Slocum nodded. “They also gunned down one of her men.”
Standing beside him and his horse, she slapped his leg. “You’re going after them all by yourself, huh?”
He nodded. “I’ll be back. Is the lumber coming?”
“Yes,” A smile crossed her mouth. “It should be here this week.”
“Good luck,” he said, then waved and turned Buck off. Too damn tempting for him to get off and be with her, but things needed to be done. He short-loped back to Minnie’s ranch.
Both of her men, armed with rifles, met him at the corral.
“What did you learn?” Denny asked.
“Let’s tell it all to Minnie too. She all right?”
They nodded and headed for the house. Minnie met them in the doorway in a fresh white apron. “Coffee’s made. Come on in.”
When they were all seated at the table, she filled their cups.
Slocum told them all about the Barr robbery and what he knew about the subject of Barr’s beating.
“You figure that was Bridges and his gang?” Denny asked.
“Barr kept saying to the sheriff that they were masked. But in fact, when I questioned Sheriff Garner, he wondered if they really were masked.”
“What does that mean?” Minnie asked.
“Makes one wonder, doesn’t it?” Slocum blew on his coffee to cool it enough to drink.
Standing across the table from him, she wet her lips. “Do you think Bridges left the country?”
“Yes.”
“Good. What will you do?”
“I’m going to swing south and see if I can cut his trail.”
Her face melted into one of concern. “By yourself?”
“There isn’t any posse going to do a thing. I may or may not get a line on where he’s headed.”
“Don’t waste your life for me. I’ll live the rest of my life all right.”
He nodded that he’d heard her. “People like Bridges don’t stop hurting folks until someone stops them.”
“But—”
“I may need to borrow a packhorse.”
“Sure,” she said. “We’ll pick you out a good one.” The men agreed with sharp nods.
“Good. I’ll head out in the morning.”
“Could I go along?” Denny asked.
“If Bridges is out of the country, I guess I could hire some more men in town,” Minnie said.
“Better keep your job,” Slocum said to the young man.
“I can find another. I’ll miss her and Roy, but I want to help you find them.”
Minnie refilled the coffee cups around the table. “Denny and Calvin were close friends. I can see why he wants to help find Calvin’s killer.”
Slocum nodded. “It sure won’t be any Sunday school picnic.”
Denny agreed. “I know, but I can help—someway.”
“You own a horse?” Slocum asked.
“He can take one of mine,” Minnie said.
“All right. We leave before dawn.” Slocum shook his head in dismay that he’d agreed to it and then blew on his fresh coffee. All he needed was a green kid along with him—time would tell.
Before sunup the next morning, they rode out. Slocum wanted to make a big circle to see if he could detect any direction the rapists had gone after they’d left Minnie’s place and, more than likely, after they’d robbed and pistol-whipped Barr.
“Tracking down men like Bridges is never easy. This is a big country, and there’s lots of places for them to hide.” Slocum rode stirrup to stirrup with Denny, who was coming along with the stout packhorse that carried their bedrolls and some camp things Minnie’d loaned them.
“Where do you think he’ll go?”
“Maybe Texas. But I figure he’s wanted down there for something.”
“Where does that leave him to go?”
“No telling.” Slocum twisted in the saddle to look back over his shoulder. Nothing but waving grass and rolling country behind them. There was a trading post south of North Platte on the Texas Trail that skirted the Kansas ban on cattle drives and came up the east side of Colorado. Wilbur’s Store and Saloon was a raw example of frontier commerce on the wet side of the line. Kansas prohibition drove drinkers out of state to quench their thirst. This would be the place Bridges might have first stopped on his way to escape.
“You ever been to Wilbur’s?” Slocum asked.
Denny nodded. “Tough place. Calvin and I came up here with a herd two years ago. We laid over there for two days to let the cattle recover some. They shot one of our cowboys and another Mexican got knifed to death in those two days. There’s a cemetery out back with so many fresh graves it looks like a prairie dog town.”
“You’ve sure been there.”
“What do we have to do when we get there?”
A red-tailed hawk sailed over them, screaming in protest at their invasion. Slocum smiled at its flight. “Keep our wits. Stay out of the way of anyone wanting a fight and try to learn about Bridges—if he came through here is all we need to know. Oh, if he or one of his men dropped any information about where they’re headed, it would be nice to know that too.”
“You don’t expect to learn that, then?” Denny laughed.
“We sure need it though. Any lead would be good.”
“Like a spark to start a fire, huh?”
Slocum dismounted short of the hitch rack and handed his reins to Denny. “I’ll go look around. Stay mounted till I come out.”
Denny nodded and took their horses aside.
Out of habit, Slocum felt for his holster and adjusted it crossing the open ground. There were a dozen jaded, salt dried, hip shot horses at the racks. Rode hard and put away wet. He passed them, not seeing a familiar brand, but he had no idea what brand the rapists’ horses might bear.
Inside the dark barroom, dimly lit by flickering candle power, the strong smell of horse, sweat and deeper fecal odors filled his nose. He looked over the room’s occupants and drew some squint-eyed stares back from some of them at the side tables. But no one moved out of place. He went to the end of the bar with the wall to his back and ordered a beer.
The barrel-chested bartender carried two small-caliber pistols in a red sash around his great girth and three big knives that Slocum could count. He hadn’t shaved in a long time, and under his wild, bushy eyebrows his eyes looked like polished coal.
“What ya be wanting? Food? Women?”
“A beer.”
He took the dime Slocum paid him. “What else?”
“Four men came through here in the last twenty-four hours—one called himself Bridges, another was big as a bear. Horace was his name.”
“What ya be needing them fur?”
“Rape and murder.”
“Them’s tough charges.” The man looked Slocum up and down. “You’d make a match fur them. Yeah, they rode on south.”
“How long ago?”
“Ah, be this morning they did that.”
“Did they mention where they were going?”
“Frizzy, get your ass over here.” He waved a big ham of an arm at a young whore working on some guy in a chair.
“What’cha need me for?” she asked, coming over and eyeing Slocum like a fat stock buyer.
“He’ll pay you a dollar to tell him where that last customer you had was going.” The big man turned back to Slocum. “Put’ cher money where your mouth is at, mister.”