Slocum and the Lone Star Feud

by Jake Logan

  “Lie still,” she warned, and threw her leg over to straddle him. With a death grip on his root, she scooted forward to get in position. He dried his sweaty palms on the bed-covers, his gaze locked on hers.

  On top, she reached under and situated his aching root in her gates. Then slowly she lowered herself an inch, then raised up again. In dreamlike fashion, each time she dropped down a little further.

  At last impaled on his root, she raised her hands over her head and began to weave a dance for him that made her breasts sway and rock until he was completely entranced with the idea of feeling them. Underneath her, he ached to thrust his hips at her, to be in her much deeper. She began to twist on top of him and move up and down at the same time.

  His hands reached out, sought her breasts, and began to fondle them. Like an artist molding them from clay, he sculpted them anew, and let the hard nipples scratch his palm, rubbing them over and over, as his breath grew quicker and shorter. Hunching up and down on him, she began to work his shaft harder. Her long dark lashes were locked shut, her mouth open in an oval of pleasure. She moaned as he grew larger inside her. Then, swept up in their passion, he began to raise his butt up to meet her force.

  “Yes! Yes!” she cried out loud, consumed with her eagerness.

  Intent on getting all of him, she leaned forward and pinned his shoulders into the mattress. Waves of the powerful muscles inside her began to contract around his swollen sword. Her sharp breathing came in rasping gulps. Then, as if possessed by some demon, she gave a sharp cry and as hard as she could pushed her butt down on top of him. A warm rush of fluid spilled from her onto his stomach, and she collapsed on his chest. He closed his eyes and with her nestled in his arms, he slept.

  Later, he woke up alone on the bed. Time for him to strike at the enemy.

  22

  He stood in the moonlight and used his saddle for a desk. With a lead pencil and the back of an old auction poster, he scribbled the note in the pearly light.

  I can see you. My rifle is aimed at you. Stand still or I will kill you.

  The stilled blades of the mill gleamed in the moonlight above him. He hitched the dun that he was riding over to the bottom rung. Then, with a few rocks from the ground stuck inside his shirt, he began climbing the wooden ladder. The land stretched away in an inky sea under a million stars. With an effort that hurt his sides, he pulled himself up on the platform and undid the vane and folded it flat so it would no longer twist the fan blades in the wind. Slocum knew the minute that Buck Martin saw it turned off, out of reflex and no doubt wondering why the mill was shut down, he would shinny up the wooden tower and try to fix it, so the wind could again bring the meager trickle of water into the tank.

  Slocum shut down seven of their windmills before the soft flutter of dawn creased the Texas horizon. Short-loping his horse, he made a wide circuit back to the first mill that he had disabled. There he dismounted in a draw, tied the dun out of sight, and removed the. 44/40 Winchester from the scabbard. When they discovered the disabled mills, they’d be riding hard to get their water pumps going. Should keep them busy for a day or so.

  He took some hard jerky from his saddlebags to chew on, then hiked up to look for a place where he could survey the mill. On the rise above it, Slocum removed his hat and bellied down on the high point that gave him full view of the tank and anyone approaching from three directions. The mesquite thicket where the dun was hidden, to the north and behind his back, was not a probable route.

  A bawling thirsty cow came out of the mesquite. Her voice was almost hoarse as she called to her calf and picked her way, a gaunt silhouette in the first light that shone like golden spears across the land. Soon her weary thin calf came trudging after her in the dust, and other individuals in the group began to appear. They’d been on a long circuit to find grass, and had not had water in a day or longer to judge by their gaunt condition and obvious thirst.

  The lead cow immersed her wide muzzle in the long tank and drank deep. With a flip of her skinny tail, the brush caked full of cockleburs, to switch away the biting horn flies, she kept on drinking. Meanwhile, the calf rushed into her flank. Trying her teats and finding no milk, he began to butt her in protest. Not stopping her drinking, she began to kick him away from her empty udder. At last, spun around by the force of her leg, the calf staggered sideways, acting confused and crying in hunger.

  Slocum watched the other cattle come hurrying in, their toes scuffing up the powdery dust with each step. In a short while it would not matter who won this range war—the drought would win hands down. There were no other calves in the bunch, only dry cows and a big hulk of a red roan bull who made a poor specimen with his drawn gut. If he’d been brown and fuzzy, he’d have looked like an old cast-off buffalo run off by the younger ones. He drank deep, and the tank’s level fell more as his lean harem lined up, pushing, butting, and arguing about whose turn it was to drink with who. They swished at the persistent flies, and then threw water from their mouths on their backs to chase the stinging ones they could not whip away.

  Slocum turned away from the scene and chewed on his jerky. This should be the first mill that Buck Martin checked. But maybe he had checked it the day before and wouldn’t be coming by. Slocum decided to give him a couple of hours to show up. Damn, the jerky was tough enough it about cracked his jaw teeth.

  A hot wind came out of the south, and the cattle began to drift away to find some distant stalks of still-uneaten grass. It would be miles from this oasis before they found any forage. The calf trailed them, bawling in protest at his hunger, and the lead cow coaxed him on as she struck out again.

  Above the song of a brown wren and the cicadas’ loud sizzle, Slocum heard a horse cough, and ducked down. The animal approached in a long running walk, snorting dust from his nose as Slocum stayed low. He dared to peek over, and saw Martin rein up his mount, pants tucked in his high-top boots, the red suspenders crossed the middle of his back—a perfect sniper’s target. Slocum lowered himself down under the crest.

  “Gosh-durnit, who in the hell shut this mill down?” Martin asked out loud, and the clink of his spurs told Slocum that he had dismounted. Slocum listened to the sound of Martin’s boots as he climbed the ladder rungs. Then Slocum rolled over and levered in a shell as quietly as he could. He turned back, raised up, and took aim.

  He watched Buck Martin look in disbelief at the note on the platform. His hand shot for his handgun. Slocum put the first round inches from Martin’s head, and the report of the rifle and the slap on the metal fan almost made Martin let go and fall off the platform.

  “Throw down your gun!” Slocum shouted, rising to his feet.

  “Who the hell—who are you?” Martin shouted. Then he obeyed, tossing down his gun and trying to turn to see who it was.

  “Time to call in the dogs, Buck Martin!”

  The man gripped the platform with both hands on the top of the ladder and gave up looking around. He simply held on and shook his head as if he didn’t believe what was happening.

  “Well, shoot me! I’ve got my back to you!” Buck shouted.

  “I didn’t come to kill you! I came to tell you there won’t be nothing left after this drought if you and the others don’t quit this range war!”

  “What war?”

  “You know what war! Who sent them rannies to steal her horses?”

  “Not me!”

  “By damn, you know who did it, though, don’t you!”

  “Nope!”

  “Wasn’t it enough it got your son killed?”

  “That ain’t none of your business!” Martin clung to the mill at the top of the ladder as Slocum approached.

  “I’m making it mine. Your son got gunshot trying to rustle C T X cattle, didn’the?”

  “That damn girl—she’s the one caused him to leave the first time.”

  “Dayton Taylor caused that.”

  “That what she told you?” Martin looked around with an uncomfortable scowl.

  “She
said Taylor tried to rape her. He couldn’t, and then he went and told your boy he had.”

  “Gawddamn you, Slocum, you’re lying about that.”

  “No. Afterwards, Taylor told your son that he’d laid her and she’d liked it.”

  “And?” Martin turned and frowned down as Slocum reached the base of the mill.

  “And Troy forced himself on her.”

  “I don’t believe that. I raised him different than that.”

  “Taylor told him she was free for the taking. Him and two cowboys got drunk, they rode up there, and your son raped her while the other two held her down. Then he rode away for a while.”

  “Ruined him. How long have I got to stay up here?”

  “Come down. Just step light when you do.”

  “Troy run off back then. I never knew why. Them two pards of his lit a shuck the same time. After that, he fell in with bad company out by the Davis Mountains. I always blamed her for scorning him. How do I know you ain’t lying?”

  “What the hell have I got to lie about?”

  “Plenty, if you think I can call off Dayton Taylor,” Martin said, coming down the ladder.

  “I can handle Taylor or have him jailed. I want her left alone period.”

  “Hell, I ain’t lifted a hand—”

  “You haven’t ever stopped them either.”

  “Damn!” Martin dropped to his butt on the ground, pushed his sweat-stained hat off, and then began to comb his fingers through his short silver hair.

  “Troy was eighteen that day when he came home with a burr in his tail,” Martin said. “Wanted three of my best horses to take with him, and then he went to putting on his bedroll. He kept looking back north and shaking his head like a man possessed.” Martin stared at his scuffed boot toes and shook his head.

  “His mother gave him her savings. Oh, hell, she’d give him the shirt off her back—he was her only living child. I asked him what was wrong. He never said much, except he was in trouble and needed to get away for a while. I accepted then that him and her had had a fight and he couldn’t stand to be in the same country with her.”

  “He raped a virgin.”

  “I heard you say that. Taylor told him to do it, huh?”

  “She said so.” Slocum waited for Martin to speak.

  “Aw, hell, I knowed Taylor was all flash and no do. His daddy was the same. Damn, my brother Ira acts like him too. Living with that slut in town. No, Slocum, I ain’t the one who sent them rannies to steal her horses.” Martin looked smaller seated on the ground not looking up.

  “Troy came back home—restless as hell,” Martin began again. “I knew he wasn’t keeping good company around here. He’d got in with some bad ones out there—I told you that. So I turned my back on what he did. He never told me a thing, but I suspected where he was getting his money from to go off whoring.

  “Slocum, you can’t stand to think your own flesh and blood has gone that bad. I couldn’t. Then he come in gutshot one night. His mother—she was about to go crazy, so I covered it up with a story.” Martin shut his eyes.

  “Who was with him when he got shot?”

  Martin shook his head. “He told me their names. I thought I’d never forget.”

  “Wayne Devereau and Doug Slade?”

  The sizzle of the cicadas fried the hot wind that swept grit in his face as Slocum stood with his feet apart and waited for the man’s answer. He watched Martin’s thin shoulders begin to shake, and then the unmistakable sobs came as he whipped the kerchief from around his untanned neck and began to mop his tears.

  “They shot Duncan,” Martin finally said. “Troy said he tried to stop them and they shot him. Them two still around? I figured they were long gone. How did you know them?”

  “Never mind. Why did he try to stop them? He was stealing cattle with them, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but near as I can tell”—he cleared his throat with a great effort, then spat—“he liked the old man, I guess. He keep saying, ‘Pa, I tried to stop them. I may have been no good, but Pa, I tried to stop them.’ ”

  “Devereau and Slade are back stealing her cattle.”

  “I heard they were in prison.”

  “They must have got out. They work for your sheriff.”

  “Aw, the hell you say.” He blinked his matted lashes in disbelief when he looked up at Slocum. “What’s Lester doing that for?”

  “Money.”

  “It gets most men in trouble.” Martin nodded his head as if he knew. “What’s your piece in this?”

  “Luther Clayton and I served together in the War Between the States.”

  “I see.” Martin drew a deep breath, then exhaled heavily before he spoke again. “I didn’t have nothing to do with his death nor that girl’s father.”

  “Did Dayton Taylor?”

  Downcast, Martin shook his head as if the answer escaped him.

  “He sent the rannies to steal her remuda? Why?” Slocum asked.

  “Too hot to work cattle. Hell, you seen some of mine around here. They barely can find feed and get back to water. She’s always had the best grass up in those cedar breaks. There’s still lots of graze on her place.”

  “That’s why Taylor wants her ranch?”

  “I guess.”

  “Maybe he wants her to crawl to him on her belly and beg him to take her?”

  “Taylor’s vain.”

  “Martin, you better warn Franklin and Ira that several of their windmills are shut down and they won’t know the next time they climb up and turn them on whether I’ll have this Winchester trained on them or not.”

  “Mister, you act tough.”

  “Luther Clayton was tough. He missed getting hit by a thousand Damnyankee lead bullets in four years of hellacious fighting. Someone up here cut him down. I want justice. Sam Cottrel wants to ranch here and be left alone. When I get all that done, I’ll haul my freight.”

  “I ain’t done nothing to her.”

  “You’re a Martin. Your kin have.”

  “All right, I’ll go tell them about the mills and you and that rifle. I won’t say they will listen. And mister, I ain’t in this war anymore. Not on her side or Taylor’s.”

  “You sound like a man of your word, Buck Martin.” Slocum stuck out his hand and pulled him to his feet.

  “I don’t need her grass no way. Me and my hysterical old woman, we can—never mind. I can’t say I liked your story, but the way I figure it, you sort of leveled things out for me to see.”

  “Get your gun,” Slocum told him.

  “You don’t think I’d use it on you?” Martin blinked his lashes in disbelief. Then, shaking his head, he swept up his hat and set it back on.

  “Get your gun,” Slocum said again, and twirled the Winchester in a full circle. “You and me got a truce.”

  “I think we do.”

  Slocum stood back and watched him mount up with effort. Martin started to say something, then reconsidered and booted his horse into a long running walk headed east.

  One less enemy in a hostile land, but Slocum had also put the rest of them on their guard.

  23

  Slocum awoke from a sound sleep. Half sitting up on his bedroll, he listened in disbelief to the cannon’s roar that had awakened him. Thunder? Damn, grit sliced his face on the fresh wind. Dust swirled around the cottonwoods and cut his visibility to ten feet. On his feet, he searched around for the dun. Where in the hell had he gone? Hobbled, the pony couldn’t be far away, and Slocum had best get going. His midday rest under the grove of cottonwoods was over. Lightning cracked, followed by the low deep rumble that spread across the land like a blanket.

  He captured the dun and tightened up the cinch as great drops began to pelt his shoulders. He was still numb from his nap as his fingers fumbled to undo the slicker while the penetrating chill of the wetness sought his shoulders and back. A strong gust threatened his hat; he caught it and jerked it down by the brim. He’d best get back to the C T X headquarters. With light fing
ers, he touched the stitches in his face, and then considered Angela and her lithe body. Be a nice way to spend a rainy day, denned up in the house with either her or his voluptuous boss. He swung a leg over the saddle and headed north.

  This weather would put a damper on his plans to separate the others from Taylor. Still, they had windmills to fix, and they’d have to check many others to be sure he hadn’t stopped them too. Should keep them out of mischief for a while.

  Two hours later he rode up to the C T X headquarters and dismounted under the eaves of the roof. Teo looked sleepy as he came to meet him. Rain poured off the eaves in rivulets.

  “The drought, she is over?” Teo asked, setting down his rifle.

  “There’s an old joke about a rancher looking at a storm like this and telling another that he seen a drought start right after a rain like this.”

  “I hope not, for the señorita’s sake.”

  “It would be nice. No one showed up?”

  “No one.”

  “Good, but don’t you get lax. They could anytime.”

  “I watch all the time.”

  “She in the house? Angela?”

  “Sí.”

  “I’ll be riding out in a little while.” Lightning danced across the dark sky, and then thunder rumbled like pumpkins in a wagon. “It lets up, catch me a fresh horse,”

  “Sí.”Teo grinned at him as if he knew something.

  “She feeding you good?” Slocum asked.

  “Oh, sí.”

  Slocum stepped up on the porch.

  “That you, Teo?” Angela called out.

  “Slocum.”

  “Slocum!” she shouted, and rushed to hug him in the doorway. “I wasn’t expecting you. Well, what did you do?”

  “I think I’ve convinced Buck Martin to drop out of the range war.”