Slocum and the Lone Star Feud

by Jake Logan

He raised his fork to make a point. “That’s how I got Devereau started. I let Taylor run off her hands, then I got Devereau here to start stealing her cattle on the shares. They played right into my hands, didn’t they?”

  He stood up and tried to look out the door. “Where in the hell did she go? Run off?”

  Knotts went to the door and peered out. Something smacked him on the head, and he went down to his knees like a poled steer. Another blow, and he fell facedown on the porch.

  She came in the room with a blanket wrapped around her waist. The pain still in her dark eyes, she took a sharp knife and hurried to Slocum.

  “That gawddamn Knotts is a madman,” she said as she sawed on Slocum’s binds. “Bastards like him, all they can do is beat up women. I should cut his balls out with this knife so he would never do that to another woman. Ugh. He’s worse than those Dodge cowboys.”

  Loose at last, Slocum stripped down the kerchief from his face and took his first good breath. Desperate, he gulped air, unable to talk.

  “Are you going to be all right?” she asked, sounding distressed as she retied the blanket at her waist in obvious discomfort.

  “I’ll be fine,” he gasped. “Can you ride a horse?”

  “Perhaps standing,” she said with a frown. “That bastard really hurt me.”

  “I’m surprised you can stand at all.”

  “I hurt.”

  “You want anything out of here?”

  “No, it would only remind me of today.”

  “I’ll saddle you a horse after I tie up Knotts.”

  “You won’t kill him?” she asked, looking at him in disbelief.

  Slocum let the sharp edge of his upper teeth run over his sun-crusted lower lip. Knotts needed killing, but being the executioner was not Slocum’s way. In a fair fight, a life-or-death struggle, maybe, but he couldn’t simply kill the man.

  “I’ll tie him up,” he said, ignoring her question. “We’ll have time to get away.”

  “But he will come after you.”

  “Other have tried. Come on,” he said, bending down and thrusting the groaning man’s hands behind his back with a rope she provided. Satisfied with his work, he jerked the lawman’s Colt from the holster. Then he removed the cylinder from the pistol and slipped it in his pocket. He tossed the Colt aside.

  He straightened as she stepped in with a butcher knife, and before he could reach over to stop her, she sliced off the top half of Knott’s left ear. His piercing scream shattered the air.

  “There, you sumbitch. You will look like a steer even if he won’t let me castrate you.” She delivered a swift toe to his side that drew a grunt out of the moaning lawman.

  “Come on,” Slocum said with a frown as he grabbed her hand that held the knife.

  “That is better than killing him,” she said with a black look of hatred on her face. “He won’t forget that.”

  Slocum hurried her along to the corral as, behind them, the tied-up Knotts cursed and cried in pain. Slocum caught her a small cow pony, led him out to saddle, and then looked for her. Where had she gone? Back to fix Knotts? Then he saw she was undoing the rope tie of the stud’s pen. What would she do next?

  He tossed on some pads and then a saddle. He cinched it up as she shouted and waved her arms at the roan. The stallion spotted the open gate and charged out. She hurried back, obviously in pain, as they both watched the stud rush to the top of the hill in the twilight. He half reared, screamed, and was gone.

  “I always wanted to do that,” she said. “Devereau damn sure won’t look for us until he has his precious stallion back either.”

  “Good,” Slocum said, and helped her aboard. He could see she was sore and how gingerly she sat down. When he reached his own mount, he dug out a whiskey bottle from his saddlebag. In the saddle, he rode over and offered her the whiskey.

  “It might help. Or you won’t care.”

  “I can use it then,” she said, and took the bottle, removed the cork, took a deep swallow, and then gasped.

  “Whew, strong stuff,” she said, trying to get her breath. Then she took another swallow and handed it back. “I’ll be too drunk to ride if I drink any more.”

  “Let’s head for Green Hopper County. We can den up at a shack down there. I need to be certain my friends are having their roundup.”

  “Lead the way,” she said with a sigh.

  In a half hour, she began to sing as they rode under the stars. Clearly the liquor had taken some hold of her. Under the starlight he held a course southwest, hoping they didn’t ride into any fences or traps in the darkness.

  “Carolina, oh, Carolina, you’re a dandy when I feed you me candy. Oh, Carolina, dance for me—” Then her deep laughter at some private joke shattered the night, and he rode in beside her and steadied her in the saddle.

  “You know, Simmons or Slocum—whatever the hell your name is. I have a sore ass. I mean, a real sore one. You ever had a sore ass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone—bust yours?”

  “They did it with a pair of bull-hide chaps.”

  “How come?”

  “They wanted me out of the country. You’re going to fall off that horse,” he said, concerned, and held her up.

  “I don’t care....”

  “I do.” What could he do? He reached over and tried to take her in his arms. His horse shied, and he almost dropped her. She barely clung to the saddlehorn, moaning, as he dismounted and went around and caught her in his arms. Like a limp rag, she clung to him.

  “We can do it here,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. All he needed was a drunk woman on his hands. He glanced back in the night as he drew in a deep breath. Then he swept her up in his arms and went to look for a place to put her down. She’d have to sleep off the whiskey.

  “Take me, Slocum.” The palm of her hand slid down his face, and then her whole arm fell limp as she passed out. He looked down into her smooth face in the pearly starlight. Another time, another place, maybe. This isn’t the place or the time—a shame too.

  He laid her down on the grass. Then he ran back, caught their horses, and removed his bedroll for her. He soon had the ponies hobbled with their reins tied to their front legs so they could eat the dry grass while he situated the unconscious Red Feather on the blankets.

  He paused once or twice to turn his ear to the night sounds. They hadn’t gone far enough, but there was no way that Knotts could trail them in the dark. By sunup, she’d sober up enough to ride. With her on her stomach on the blankets, he sat with his back to a large tree. The rest of the night he sat hugging his knees, listening to the locusts sizzle and watching for any sign of pursuit.

  Sam would start her roundup this day. He sure hoped she managed to get it under way.

  17

  “How much further?” Red Feather asked, rising in her stirrups, in obvious pain as they sat their horses in the grove of live oak. He studied the open country beyond them for a sign of another rider. Slocum wanted to be certain they weren’t discovered, and taking a few minutes was little price to pay when it might mean their lives.

  “We’ll be there in an hour,” he said to reassure her. “I know you’re sore. It’s just over that high ridge and then down on the creek.”

  “I may have to get off and walk.” She held her hands to her hips and strained her back against them. “It hurts.”

  “If you can ride another three miles, we’ll be at the shack.”

  “I’ll try. Is it clear out there?”

  “Yes. Let’s go.” He booted his horse out into a jog. She was tough, but the long ride had not been easy. Detouring around various places so they wouldn’t be seen had also taken longer. Only an Apache could trail them. He had made sure they had covered their tracks.

  “I wonder if I soaked it in water if it would help,” she said, shifting around in discomfort.

  “It might. There’s a big tank at this place you can use.”

  “Good. That damn Knotts. I sh
ould have cut both his ears off.”

  “You notched him up good enough.”

  “You didn’t approve of that, did you?”

  “He didn’t beat my fanny raw either.”

  “Right. You told me that these people that Knotts talked about were the same ranchers that shot your friend?”

  “Someone did it.”

  “Are you going to be able to prove who did it?”

  “I’d like to. I owe Luther that much anyhow. That, and I want to be sure that Sam can get her cattle rounded up and her ranch put back together.”

  “You’re some kind of angel of mercy, aren’t you?” Red Feather squinted her eyes as if to see him better as they rode side by side.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “You’ve got a past too, haven’t you?”

  “Everyone has.”

  “I see you look over your shoulder every once in a while. A man on the run does that. Other men may look once in a while, but they only glance. You look hard like someone—” She made a pained face and reached back for her butt. “You look back like you know more than Knotts or Devereau is back there.”

  “There are men back there.”

  “Bounty men?”

  “Yes.”

  “That explains it.”

  He drew up on the rise and studied the cottonwoods and the pens around Sam’s uncle’s place. It all looked clear. He planned to hobble the horses out on dry grass away from the shack and corral them at night. In case someone rode by to look, they might go on if there was no smoke, no stock in the pens, and no activity.

  “What will you do?” she asked. “When we get down there?”

  “We’ll use it for our headquarters for a few days. I need to ride up, get a few supplies, and check on the roundup tonight.”

  “I think I’ll stay here,” she said, raising up in the saddle and wincing at the hurt. “I should have cut him, Slocum. Oh, I’ve never hurt this bad before.”

  “I’m sorry about that. We better not build a fire right now. Smoke carries. And I’ll leave you a gun too.”

  “Good. If Knotts comes I’ll shoot him.”

  He refused to argue about it, and rode on across the dry creek bed and up to the shack. The windmill was pumping a pencil-size stream into the tank full of mossy water. Good, they’d have fresh drinking water.

  “Is the water warm in there?” she asked, motioning to the tank. Dismounted, she began undoing her blouse.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Look the other way,” she announced. “I intend to soak my sore ass in it.”

  He took her reins and led the pony off with his to unsaddle. As he pulled out the latigoes from her rig, he looked across the yard and saw the brown nymph gingerly climbing over the tank sides. Then she eased her shapely form into the water and disappeared from his view except for her head. Nice body, he mused, and then he stripped off the saddle and blankets.

  At sundown, he left Red Feather lying on her belly on top of the feather mattress. He set out for Sam’s headquarters, hoping to learn about her successes or problems on the first day of her roundup. Approaching the ranch from the back draw, he slipped up to the barn in the twilight and found Teo in the shadows, sitting guard with a rifle.

  “Amigo, ” he hissed so as to not alarm the young man.

  “Ah, Señor Slocum,” the youth said, rising to his feet, holding the Winchester in his arms.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, Teo. Did she come back tonight?”

  “No, they took the wagon and crew and left this morning.”

  “Good. Anyone send reps?”

  “One who they call Franklin, he came for them. No sheriff. No one else.”

  “That’s well and good. Where are the prisoners?”

  “They escaped.”

  “When?”

  “Two nights ago. We kept them in the saddle room. Somehow they got loose and they ran off on foot. We have not seen them since. We rode around looking all over for them the next day, but they vamoosed.”

  “Just as well. If they know what’s good for them, they’ve left the country. You keep an eye on things here. I’m going to get some things from the house. You tell her when you see that I am out there watching things. Don’t tell anyone else about me beside Ray and Lopez, huh?”

  “I savvy, señor.”

  “Would you get me a fresh horse while I get those supplies?”

  “Sí, ” he said, and took the reins.

  Slocum hurried to the main house and packed some lard, jerky, flour, baking powder, beans, and rice in two sacks; enough to do them for a week. When he returned to the barn, Teo had the fresh horse saddled for him. He tied the bags of goods on his horn, told the young man gracias, and rode on.

  Slocum crossed the rise as the half-moon rose. Strange that in all this time Dayton Taylor had not tried a thing. Was this some kind of trick? Aside from the ill-fated attempt to send some raiders to steal the horses, the man had lain low. Quite unlike the proddy sort that he had met at the tank on his way to San Antonio.

  Carefully, Slocum circled the dark shack on horseback.

  At the porch, he dismounted wearily and then yawned. He tried to shake the sleepiness from his brain. Then, with his hand on his gun butt, he listened for any sounds. Nothing he could detect, so he untied the sacks from the horn. She must be sound asleep. Good, she needed the rest.

  “So, you are back,” she announced from the dark doorway.

  “Half dead, but yes, I’m here. Have any trouble?”

  “Two men rode in here right after you left. I heard them coming and so I slipped into that shed behind. One was a big man, the other one wore a suit.”

  “That’s Taylor and Martin.” He yawned again.

  “The big one kicked around in here and swore a lot. He told the other one real loud that there were no ghosts with sacks.”

  “Yes, I understand that,” Slocum said, amused.

  “He also said that you must be pulling tricks on them. Then he said no one was here. I could not hear much more.”

  “You did good. I brought some food.” He held up the sacks and started in after her.

  “Can we cook?” she asked

  “Yes, they’re miles away by now. Might even be asleep.”

  After he placed the supplies on the table, he struck a lucifer and the orange flames showed their tall shadows on the walls. From the match, he lighted a stub of a candle stuck in a whiskey bottle that was covered with ribbons of wax as she went through the food. He noticed that she wore a thin white gown. It was much too big for her, and she had to keep pulling up the shoulder straps to keep it up. The candlelight shone on the thin material, revealing her tawny outline through the gown and leaving little to his imagination.

  “I’ll make some rice,” she announced, holding the front of the shift up.

  “Good. Tomorrow, I’ll find us some meat,” he said seated on a keg. One at a time, with effort, he pulled off his boots. Legs outstretched, he flexed his grateful toes and considered what he would do next.

  “This man Taylor, he is rich?”

  “You looking for a rich man?” he asked.

  “You are not funny,” she said, and wrinkled her nose at him.

  “He owns some ranches, I guess.”

  “He sounded like a big bully to me. He was cussing and kicking the things around in here like he was the boss of all this junk. I thought I would shoot him if he came to the shed.”

  “Taylor’s lucky day. He has both ears and his life. Whatever did they teach you in finishing school?”

  “How to set a table,” she said, and gave him a demure look. “But you have no china or silverware, so I can’t show you that.”

  “What else?” he asked, amused, as he considered her having to toe the line in some fussy place with haughty women looking down at her in sheer disgust.

  “How to curtsy,” she said, busy pouring water in a kettle on the stove. “You do that for kings and queens.”

  “You ever meet any
kings or queens?”

  “No, but I know how to curtsy. If my butt wasn’t so sore, I’d do it for you.” She curled her lip at him, then clutched the front of the dress to hold it up.

  “Where was your mother?” he asked, sitting back on the keg.

  “She died when I was a baby. My father sent me to Mrs. Hubbard’s Charm School in St. Louis. So I could be a lady.”

  “Your mother was Indian?”

  “Yes. My father was Spanish. He came from St. Louis. He freighted and traded on the Santa Fe Trail. He met my mother and they were married.”

  “She was from what tribe?”

  “I think Cheyenne. No one ever told me. But I lived with the Cheyenne for a winter and summer, and I thought I could remember things in their language that I think she told me when I was little.” She swished the waist of the oversized garment around and raised the front of it with some impatience over the fit.

  “Did you have a man with them?”

  “Yes. His name was Last Elk.”

  “Did you leave him?”

  “No. He choked to death on a strip of meat at a buffalo feast. I watched him gasp for his last breath and then he died.” She shook her head in disappointment. “No one could do a thing for him.”

  “After he died you left the tribe?”

  “Yes. I was an outsider. Besides, those women, they hate a widow. They fear she will become a favorite wife and take their place.” She pulled up a strap.

  “How long have Devereau and Knotts been partners?”

  “Maybe for three months. Knotts came when they were breaking new horses last spring.”

  “Four days ago I captured a kid and two others, Darby and Brown, stealing Sam’s cattle. Devereau and Slade got away. Did they go home after that?”

  “No, they did not come home. I have not seen any of them in a week.” She shrugged. “But before, when they rode off and stole cattle, they always took them into the Indian Nation and were gone for weeks.”

  “How did all of these fellas get involved with Devereau?”

  “He just found them, I guess,” she said, stirring the rice.

  “That kid came by one day, so he hired him. He brought the other two in with him. I never knew where they came from. Just more mouths for me to feed. Slade and him used to be partners. He rode in a month ago.”