Slocum and the Trail to Tascosa

by Jake Logan

Slocum obeyed.

  “Cold Springs.”

  “Where’s Cold Springs?”

  “Fuck if I know.” She shrugged her thin bare shoulders. “He said, ‘Boys, let’s go to Cold Springs.’”

  Slocum motioned for her to take the money and turned to the barkeep. “You ever hear of Cold Springs? I know where Colorado Springs is, but Cold Springs is a new one on me.”

  The big man, who stank like a boar hog, delivered his beer. “She told you what she knew.”

  “They mention Texas?”

  “They didn’t say shit to me. Got two bottles of whiskey. That Bridges paid for ’em and that big guy wanted some pussy, so he took Frizzy on. The rest got loaded drunk and finally stormed out of here. That’s all I know, mister. When the law comes by, who should I tell ’em was here?”

  “Tell them that Slocum was here looking for ’em.”

  “And I’ll do that, but the only law comes by here are the deputy U.S. marshals, and they’re looking for bootleggers.”

  Slocum finished his beer, thanked the man and went out the batwing doors. He paused on the porch to let his eyes adjust to the brightness. Another puncher came outside and spit tobacco juice off the porch.

  “You looking for Cold Springs?” He wiped off his mouth on the back of his hand.

  Slocum nodded.

  “It’s southwest from here, maybe two days’ hard riding. The water ain’t cold either. I been there.”

  “Trading post outfit?”

  “Yeah.”

  Slocum fished out another silver dollar from his vest. He tossed it to the man. “We’ll find it.”

  “What’s that?” Denny asked, riding up and handing Slocum the reins to Buck.

  “Cold Springs. You ever been there?”

  “Nope.”

  “I guess by tomorrow or the next day you’ll know all about it.”

  Denny blinked at him. “That’s where they went?”

  “A whore inside heard them say that’s where they were going.”

  “What did all that cost?”

  “Two dollars and a dime. And I got a warm beer to boot and all that information.” In the saddle, Slocum started out in a trot. “Let’s make tracks. They ain’t that far ahead.”

  He hoped, anyway.

  There was no rest for Barr. When Doss came back empty-handed, he threw a raging fit. “Those bastards took seven thousand dollars out of my safe, and you can’t find them?”

  “Boss, they ain’t in the country, and no one knows if they went north or south. I really got after that woman who says she’s his wife. All she said was that big bastard called Slocum asked her where he was too.”

  “Where’s he at now?’

  “I don’t know. He don’t seem to be in town or anywhere close.”

  “Take two men and a pack outfit and you go find his trail. He’s after Bridges because of what they did to his buddy’s wife. Let him take Bridges on, then you step in, eliminate him and get my money back.”

  “Hell, they might ride to Texas.”

  “I don’t care where they ride to. You get that done. Saddle some fresh horses. Get you two tough men to ride along with you and go find that fucking Slocum. Be sure he finds Bridges before you turn your hand. Savvy?”

  “What if he don’t find him?”

  “Don’t come back—No, that guy will find Bridges. Send me telegrams of where you’re at. But code them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Use words like ‘Saw your aunt today.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Means you saw Slocum.”

  “Call him your aunt?” Doss looked upset.

  “Yeah.” Simple enough, even Doss should understand.

  “All right, I’ll go look for him, but I don’t think it’ll work.”

  “It better work. That was all the money I had to survive on, do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I know, but I can’t think where to even start looking.”

  “Bridges rode out. How did you learn that Slocum rode out after him?”

  “Talk in the Texas Moon Saloon. A guy said Slocum’d been by there looking for Bridges. He figured that Slocum was going—Oh—no. No, it was a deputy sheriff told the bartender he figured that Slocum was going after them for what they did to Mrs. Farley.”

  “Slocum’s the guy came to town asking about Farley?”

  “That was the word. Them two were old buddies. They also said him and Leta Couzki are old friends too.”

  “You ask her?”

  “Naw. She ain’t working the damn saloons anymore. She’s building herself a brand-new whorehouse.”

  “Maybe you ought to squeeze the information out of her as to where he went. Gawdamnit, Doss, I hired you to do these things. You said that Bridges would handle the job of screwing the ass off Mrs. Farley, no problem. Well, he got us in a worse fix, and she’s still over there.”

  “I never thought—”

  “That’s the truth. Now run down this Slocum, then let him take Bridges and you scoop up the rest.”

  “All right. I’m getting supplies and leaving. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Just find them.”

  “I’ll try, I’ll try.”

  With Doss gone, Barr dropped heavily into his leather chair. His damn ear hurt and the headache was back, pounding in both sides of his head. No way he could ride after that bunch—he felt so helpless. He took some laudanum and soon stumbled off to bed and fell back asleep.

  For two days Barr did nothing much but rest and take medicine for the pain in his head. The second day after Doss left, Barr was sitting in his leather chair when Mozelle came into the room and stood next to him. “I think Erma is pregnant. She’s sick every morning. What should I do?”

  Damn, it sure hadn’t taken long to get her knocked up. “In the morning you take her up to Doc Crawford and have him get rid of it.”

  “He’ll charge ten dollars.”

  “I’ll give you the money.” Crawford kept an office over by Chenneyville. If someone wanted to be treated for anything, they had to go see him in the morning, ’cause by evening he was too drunk to do shit. He made most all of his money ending unwanted pregnancies.

  Barr shook his head—one more damn problem. “Get me some more medicine. My head’s killing me.”

  The woman agreed and went after some laudanum for him.

  That night in bed, Barr worked Erma’s ass over good. She’d probably be too sore for a few days to do anything after Crawford got through with her. When Barr finished with her for the night, he rolled over on his side and wondered what Doss was doing out there. He might just shoot his damn foreman if he didn’t find Slocum and Bridges this time. At the moment, he needed that money, and badly.

  9

  The sun was setting fast on day two for Slocum and Denny. They made a dry camp out on the prairie. With his hat cocked back, Denny Kline sat cross-legged on the ground beside Slocum. The small fire’s glow radiated off his smooth forehead as they fed their faces with frijoles from tin plates. Slocum asked him where he came from.

  “I was raised in a whorehouse in East Texas. Woman who said she birthed me was Thelma Kline. She worked there. Said I was the cause of that—why she worked in such a place. Said she and a young man named Hampton Orwell were pledged to get married. He got hisself kilt in a knife fight over on the Louisiana line. When her pa found out she was going to have me, he threw her out and shunned her.

  “So when I was fourteen I run off. I stopped an old man to ask if I could work out a meal for myself, and he made me his slave. When I got a chance I cut out on him. Course he said I stole his horse. But I worked my ass off for him and he owed me six months’ wages—the damn horse wasn’t that good.

  “I got hooked up with Calvin Howard in Fort Worth. He took a liking to me and got me on as a cook’s helper on a trail drive. We took them cattle to Dodge City, Kansas. Next year I was a full-fledged drover, and we went around them damn Kansas farmers and up the trail b
ack over there that they called the Texas Trail.

  “When we got to North Platte, Calvin found Charley Farley and we both got on with him. Been there two years. Calvin showed me everything. How to use a gun. How to fix a saddle. I can shoe horses. And I can rope with rest of them.”

  “Sounds like he was the father you never had,” Slocum said.

  “He was. He was—and I get teary eyed every time thinking about them bastards killing him.”

  Slocum took the empty plate from him and, on his knees, refilled it from the kettle. “I can understand that. Eat some more. In a few days, maybe even tomorrow, we’re going have us a meeting with them bastards and settle that score.”

  “You think they killed Mr. Farley?”

  “No telling, but if Minnie’d been my widow and Charley was still alive, I’d sure hope Charley would have taken up their tracks. He would have. He was that kind of a guy.”

  “Why is it the good guys get killed and these worthless outfits are still breathing?”

  “I don’t try to figure out God’s ways, but you’re right. Some miserable men are alive and some good ones gone.”

  “You think this bunch will put up a big fight when we catch them?”

  Slocum sat back on his butt and nodded. “Wouldn’t you? If there was a posse on your tail and you figured out that they intended to either shoot you or hang you?”

  “Damn right, I would.”

  “There’s your answer.” For Slocum, Denny had filled in lots of information about his upbringing and also his dedication to his dead mentor.

  “We were going to try and start a ranch in a few years.”

  “Well, you’ll make that,” Slocum said. “It may take a little longer.”

  “Yeah,” Denny said and scrambled up for the coffeepot. “But I’m going to do it.”

  Slocum held up his cup for more.

  A coyote cut loose out in the night and yapped for the rest of them. Soon others cut in. They obviously were closing in for a kill of some unfortunate prey. Slocum wished that he and Denny were as sure of their own hunt and closing in on the gang.

  He blew on the steam. The coffee was too hot to drink. The warm moisture softened the beard stubble around his mouth. He could sure use a bath and a shave. There might be time for that later.

  The next day, they were in the saddle before the purple first light of dawn and heading southwest across the bunchgrass-and-sagebrush rolling country. A coolness penetrated Slocum’s clothing that reminded him fall wasn’t far away. By the time the sun was up they’d bake again, but the shorter days and all pointed at fall sweeping down out of the Canadian provinces.

  They found a low-roofed cabin, logs dark with age and the corral rails long sun-bleached. A couple of dogs barked at their approach, a sure sign they would find residents.

  Short of the front door, Slocum reined up and started to get off his horse. A man with a shotgun came to the door. With teeth bared behind his snowy beard, he spoke, his voice sounding high-pitched.

  “That’s close enough.”

  “We aren’t going to harm you. We’re looking for Cold Springs.”

  “You two look like the class of scoundrels that they entertain. Keep riding southeast. It’s still down there.”

  Slocum nodded. “Thanks for your hospitality.”

  He remounted. Strange old man’s been out there too long by himself. With a salute of his hat brim, Slocum reined Buck around and they rode on.

  Denny looked back. “He was sure unfriendly. Hell, all we wanted was directions.”

  “Folks go a little mad living way out by themselves for too long.”

  “I’ll remember that. Tell me: Weren’t you worried about that shotgun?”

  “He never had it cocked, or I’d have forgotten about asking him anything.”

  Denny laughed. “He sure made me uncomfortable-feeling as all hell.”

  Slocum checked behind and saw nothing but the rolling country. Trotting their horses, they kept on course, eventually reaching an east-west wagon road that looked well used.

  “I figure this is the road we need. If we haven’t ridden past it, Cold Springs should be ahead of us.”

  Denny agreed. They watered their animals at a small, sluggish creek that snaked through the sandy stream bottom. Then they rode on, crossing a tall ridge, and at the base was a line of tall cottonwoods, and smoke from cooking fires swirled out of them. Several tall tepees stood to one side. Slocum could see some Indian women wrapped in blankets moving around the camp. Small brown children ran about playing with black and yellow cur dogs.

  “It’s an Injun camp,” Denny said, looking around warily. “They on the warpath?”

  “No. The women and children being here, I’d say it’s a peaceful place.”

  “Good.”

  The noisy, playing youngsters grew silent when they noticed the two riders and packhorse coming toward them. Their dark eyes watched the two riders with deep suspicion as they passed by.

  “You seen any trading post yet?” Denny stood in the stirrups and looked around.

  “I figure that it’s here somewhere.”

  They rode on alongside the shallow, murky-looking creek underneath the gnarled trees that lined the waterway. Coin-sized leaves twirled overhead, stirred by the strong wind. A cluster of low-walled sod buildings and pole corrals soon appeared. Slocum reined up his horse. He needed to alert the kid that this might be the place where all hell broke loose.

  “From here on keep your wits about you. If they recognize either of us, there may be gunplay.”

  “I’ve been thinking along those lines too.”

  “You know what these men look like. So clear your throat if you recognize them.”

  “There ain’t no saddle stock around.” Denny twisted in the saddle in search of them.

  “We’ll hitch our horses and go inside anyway. They may have pushed on already.”

  A few flickering candles cast a weak yellow light on the room when Slocum opened the door. A white-bearded man behind the counter met his gaze when Slocum ducked under the hand-hacked-out lintel to enter.

  “Howdy.”

  Slocum nodded that he heard him and searched in the shadowy room for sight of anyone else. Nothing moved. There was no one else there. Damn, they’d missed them after all that hard riding.

  “Can I help you gents?” the storekeeper asked.

  “We’re looking for four men.” Slocum walked over to the counter and faced the man.

  “You a U.S. marshal?”

  Slocum shook his head. “Denny and I are looking for four rapists and killers. They raped his boss lady and shot his best friend.”

  The man shrugged. “They ain’t here.”

  Slocum put a silver dollar on the bar. “Have they been here?”

  “Maybe.”

  Another cartwheel slapped on the bar, and the man frowned at the money. “That ain’t enough.”

  “Next thing I’ll do is pistol-whip the story out of you. That’s all I’m paying you.”

  “You want Bridges, huh?”

  Slow-like, Slocum nodded at the man across the counter. His anger was rising fast.

  “Well, to start with, they ain’t here. Rode out this morning.”

  “Four of them?”

  A nod told him the answer, and the man went on, “They wasn’t too plain about where they were going next. I took it from the talk they wanted to go back to Texas, but Bridges didn’t act like he wanted to go home.”

  “I suspect there’s wanted posters in the Lone Star State for him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I want to buy some food for us to eat and horse grain.”

  “I can get you some stew. It’s fresh made and I’ve got some shelled corn I’ll sell ya.”

  “Stew first,” Slocum said. “We’ll put our horses up later.”

  The two of them took seats at the table with a candle set in the middle in an empty sardine can. The man’s half-breed wife served them stew on tin plates with spo
ons for utensils and hot coffee in tin cans. She was neither pretty nor friendly. Short and potbellied, her long black hair hung limp and tangled in her face.

  The storekeeper, who introduced himself as Silas Wickers, joined them. His wife brought him food and coffee too. Slocum considered the pair typical of such isolated places—tough old man who had probably trapped in his younger years. Wickers’d bought her as a teenager from some buck who needed money for whiskey. More Indian than white, the man existed on the far edges of civilization, trading with the red men and passersby.

  The meal tasted flat and even some rock salt sprinkled on it didn’t liven up the flavor. But Slocum didn’t expect much more—some gristly meat and the rest potatoes, rice and beans. The stew would simply fill a void inside him.

  “I guess Bridges and his men didn’t stay here long?” Slocum turned his ear toward the man for his reply.

  “One night was all. You’re close behind them.”

  “Did they grain their horses?”

  Wickers shook his face. “They never saw much care either. Left them saddled all the time. I figured they knew that someone was on their back trail.”

  Denny and Slocum shared a nod.

  “They also robbed a big rancher up at North Platte. His men might be coming after them too.”

  Wickers nodded, using some of the stale bread to sop up the juices on his plate. “Sounds like they were busy rascals. Drank some whiskey and sat around was all they did here. Never talked much aloud. That big guy called Bridges shut them up, and he did all the talking.”

  “Never mentioned another town or place that they might go next?”

  “You know about Fort Supply?”

  “Yes, it’s a military outpost south of Dodge. North of the Canadian River.”

  “There was something there. I don’t know what, but I did hear them talk about it.”

  “Thanks,” Slocum said and finished the bitter coffee. “We’ll be moving on before it gets too dark.”

  “I’ve got that shelled corn in fifty-pound sacks. That too much?” Wickers pushed out his chair to get up.

  “It’ll work.” Slocum lofted his can of coffee to finish it off.

  “Tell me one thing.” Denny wiped his mouth off getting up. “How much do they sell a woman like yours for?”