Slocum's Revenge Trail

by Jake Logan

  “You’re out early, Slocum.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ready to go?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Will they be waiting for us, do you think?”

  “I think there’s a good chance of it, with Cash on their side. He’s a lot of things, but he’s no fool.”

  “You’re probably right about that. Slocum?”

  Slocum looked over at the old man. He was grizzled and rugged, but he looked tired. There was a long pause.

  “What is it?” Slocum asked.

  “Slocum, I’ve prepared some papers. If anything should happen to me out there this morning, I want you to take over the ranch.”

  “Mr. Townsend—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Slocum. Just listen. Like I said, if anything happens to me, I want you to take over. I got no son. All I have anymore is my niece, Julie. I drew up a paper giving you a half interest in the spread. That way, Julie won’t be disinherited, but she’ll have someone around to make sure that things go all right. I don’t want no arguments. I’m just telling you. That’s all. Here. Put this in your pocket.”

  Townsend handed Slocum a folded sheet of paper, which Slocum took. He held it a minute, looking at it without unfolding it. At last, he tucked it inside his shirt. “All right,” he said. Nothing more. Some of the hands came riding up, and Julie stepped out on the porch. Slocum stood up and took the hat off his head.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning.”

  The old man did not miss the looks that his niece and Slocum exchanged. That was fine with him. Maybe, he thought, if something should happen to him, his paper would keep Slocum around long enough for nature to take its course. That would be just fine. Other cowhands rode up. Townsend stood up and walked to the edge of the porch.

  “Someone bringing me a horse?” he asked.

  “Billy Boy’s saddling your favorite, boss,” answered a cowhand.

  “Soon as he brings it around, we’ll ride,” said Townsend.

  “Everyone know what to do?” Slocum asked.

  The answer from the waiting hands was affirmative. Julie put a hand on Slocum’s shoulder, while her uncle watched out of the corner of his eye. “Be careful,” she said.

  “I always am,” Slocum answered.

  Billy Boy came riding from the corral, leading an extra horse.

  “Uncle,” said Julie. Townsend looked directly at her then. “You don’t have to go with them, do you?” she asked him.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  She sighed, a long and weary sigh, and said, “All right then. You be careful too. I want you to come back.” Then she looked out over the crowd. “I want all of you to come back. All of you, watch yourselves. Be careful.” Then she turned and walked back inside the house. Townsend and Slocum walked down from the porch and mounted their horses. They took the lead, as the others all turned their mounts. Townsend looked at Slocum.

  “You’re in charge,” he said.

  “Let’s ride,” shouted Slocum, and the whole bunch took off at once, headed for the main gate.

  They did not ride fast. There was no need to wear out the horses. It was still early. The sun was not quite up in the sky. The far eastern horizon was just beginning to show some color. They rode at a leisurely but deliberate pace. The faces of the riders were all hard and determined. Each man knew what he was riding into. Each man knew that it could be his last day on earth. But each man was also determined that this would be the last day of the range war between the Townsend spread and the White Hat Ranch. When they came to the gate that would lead them onto the White Hat property, Slocum spotted a lookout.

  He jerked out his Colt and fired a shot that dropped the man instantly. The riders did not slow down. They kept on track toward the main house. About halfway down the lane, Slocum picked up the pace. As they drew close to the ranch house, a couple of cowhands came running out of the bunkhouse at the back. They were armed, and they ran toward the main house. Slocum dropped one with a shot, and Townsend dropped the other. Windows of the main house were thrown open. Guns were poked out of the windows and shots were fired.

  “Dismount and take cover,” Slocum shouted.

  It looked disorganized, as each man abandoned his mount and raced for the nearest protection. Bullets smacked into the ground around them as they ran. One Townsend horse was killed in the first volley, but no men were hurt. There were plenty of shots being fired, but they were all wasted. Crouched behind a tree, Slocum looked around for any sign of Cash. He saw none.

  The fight was going nowhere. Nothing was being accomplished except the fruitless expending of ammunition. He had to think of something else, some other way of bringing this whole thing to a head, and fast. Ducking low, he ran back farther into the trees in front of the big house. He ducked behind another tree and waited till he was sure that no one had a bead on him. Then he turned to his left and ran some more. He came to the edge of the trees and found himself perhaps twenty yards from the bunkhouse. He knew that there were still some hands in there. He wasn’t sure how many. In a crouch, he ran for it.

  Shots kicked up dirt around him as he sped across the empty space, but he reached the wall of the bunkhouse unhurt. Crashing against it to stop himself, he stood, holding his Colt ready and looking around. He could hear voices from inside.

  “It’s Slocum,” someone said. “He’s right outside.”

  “Well, go out and get the son of a bitch.”

  The second was the voice of Joe Cash. Slocum’s heart thrilled at the sound.

  “You go get him,” said the first voice. “You’re the goddamned gunfighter, ain’t you? He was your pardner, wasn’t he?”

  “I’ll go down to the far window there,” said Cash. “I’ll make some noise to get his attention. You go out the front door and shoot him in the back. Nothing to it. Go on now.”

  Then all was silent. Slocum had to act quickly. He wasn’t sure if those were the only two in the bunkhouse. Crouching down, he took a match out of his pocket and lit some dry grass along the base of the wall. He watched it for a few seconds as the flames took hold. Then he heard a window break to his left, and he knew that it was Cash trying to create a diversion for the other hand. He looked to his right, and in another instant, he saw the man come around the corner of the building, a rifle raised and ready to shoot. Slocum snapped off a round from his Colt. The man jerked and fell back. Slocum could see nothing but one boot showing from around the corner. He turned and ran toward the broken window.

  The flames had begun to lap at the wall and smoke was beginning to billow. Slocum could hear the sound of men running out the front door, shooting as they ran. He thought that he could distinguish the sound of bullets being returned by Townsend’s men. He had bigger prey on his mind. Reaching the broken window, he boldly stood up straight and looked inside. There was no one in sight. He could see a back door standing open. Quickly, he ran around to the back of the building. There was no sign of life. He stepped inside.

  One man who had been hidden from his view took a shot at him. It came close. He heard it whiz past his left ear. He fired back quickly, and his shot took the man in the chest, dropping him instantly. He stood ready, looking around. There was no one else. The flames were consuming the wall of the bunkhouse by then, and beginning to eat at the roof. Soon the building would be a heap of ashes. He went back outside and looked around. He could see no sign of life back there. He ran around the building to discover several bodies on the ground: the men who had run from the burning building had been picked off neatly by Townsend’s crew. Fighting was still raging around the main house. Slocum ran back over there, bullets dancing around him as he ran. Slocum hit the dirt behind some stacked bales of hay, winding up right beside old Townsend.

  “You all right?” Townsend asked.

  “Yeah. How about you?”

  “I’m just fine,” the old man said. “You fire that bunkhouse?”

  “I did.”


  “Damn good work.”

  “Any sign of Cash?” Slocum asked.

  “I ain’t seen him,” said Townsend.

  “Any of our boys hit?”

  “Two wounded. Not bad. What do we do now?”

  Slocum thought for a moment. “How about the same thing I did over there?”

  “Fire?”

  “Yeah. Only this time, I won’t leave a back door open. Have the men give me a hell of a cover.”

  “Boys,” Townsend shouted. “Hit them hard with all you got.”

  Everyone started firing at once, and Slocum ran again. He ran back to the bunkhouse, where he picked up two burning boards. Then he ran for the backside of the main house. He broke a window with one board and tossed it inside. Then he moved to the back door and carefully placed the second board at the bottom of the door. Then he backed off, Colt in hand, watching the door. The flames caught on nicely. Soon the door and the wall around it were blazing. He could also see through the window, fire building up inside. He did not think anyone would try to get out that way, but he couldn’t be sure. He decided to stay for a bit and be ready.

  He heard more shots from the front of the building, but he could not know whether or not they meant that the men in the house were trying to escape. He waited until he was sure the flames in back were large enough to prevent escape that way. Then he ran around the house again. He saw some bodies on the ground out there: men who had tried to get out. As he stood watching, another man came running out the front door, screaming and firing as he ran. He staggered and fell from several shots.

  Slocum ducked low and ran again, back to the bales of hay that covered Townsend. He threw himself down again beside the old man. He was panting for breath. Townsend ducked low behind the bales and looked at Slocum.

  “Not hurt?”

  “No.”

  “You got them, all right,” Townsend said. “Most of them’s come out already. Most of them’s dead.”

  “What about Bob Amos?”

  “Ain’t seen him yet.”

  “What about Cash?”

  “Nope.”

  Having caught his breath again, Slocum turned and peered up over the bales. He could tell that there were at least two men left in the burning house. They continued to fire out the windows. Townsend’s men returned fire.

  “They won’t be in there for long now,” Slocum said.

  “They got to come out or burn,” said Townsend.

  “Yeah.”

  Suddenly a man came running through the already opened front door. He was holding a six-gun in each hand, and he fired both as he appeared. He was firing in any direction. He did not have a target. He was frantic, desperate. He did not have a chance, but the men who were opposed to him had no mercy. He staggered and then crumpled in a heap, at least six bullets in him.

  “Townsend. Slocum.”

  The shouting came from inside the burning house. Slocum answered it.

  “What do you want?”

  “Don’t shoot. I’m coming out.”

  “That you, Amos?” yelled Townsend.

  “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”

  “Who else is in there with you?” Slocum called out.

  “No one. Just me.”

  “Come out with your hands up high,” said Slocum. “Nobody shoots.”

  It was silent except for the roaring and crackling of the flames. All eyes were on the front door as Bob Amos, his hands held high, stepped out. He walked slowly forward to escape the heat from inside his burning ranch house. Slocum and Townsend, holding their guns ready, stood up.

  “Keep him covered,” said Slocum, and he walked over to meet Amos. He looked him over quickly and determined that he was not armed. Then he glanced at the house. It was nearly consumed. No one alive was in there. He called over his shoulder to the others.

  “Come on out,” he said. “It’s all over here.”

  As Townsend and the rest of the crew came out of hiding, Slocum looked Amos in the face. “Where’s Cash?”

  “I don’t know,” said Amos. “He was out in the bunkhouse. I ain’t seen him since you showed up. Likely you burned him.”

  Slocum knew better than that, but he didn’t say anything about it. As far as Townsend was concerned, the war was over. They would deliver Amos to the sheriff in town and let the law handle it from here. But Slocum’s war was not over, and it would not be until he had found Cash. He could take it that Cash had switched sides. There were lots of gunmen who would do that for a reason. It didn’t bother him that Cash would have taken a shot at him for money after having pretended to be his friend. He had saved Cash’s life, and Cash had turned on him. He could let all that go. What he could not forgive was Cash’s turning the young cowhand, Monkey, into a gunslinger and siccing him on Slocum. He could not forgive Cash for having made him kill the kid. He knew that he would have to go after Cash.

  Two of the cowhands had tied Amos’s hands behind his back, and Slocum said, “Get him on his horse. We’ll take him to town.”

  “Why bother?” someone said. “Let’s just hang him.”

  13

  Slocum considered protesting, but then he reconsidered. He figured there was really nothing he could do about it. Old Townsend was obviously all for it, and besides, what difference would it make in the end? Amos might have been killed in the fight. If he were to be arrested and tried, he might be hanged anyway, and if by some chance he should get off free after the trial, likely someone from Townsend’s bunch would be waiting to kill him. Maybe even Slocum. He stood back and let it happen.

  Amos’s hands were tied behind his back, and he was forced into a saddle. In the meantime, a cowhand tossed a rope over a tree branch. The horse bearing the doomed man was led to the tree, and the noose placed around the neck of Amos.

  “You can’t do this,” Amos protested. “Stop it. Take me to jail.”

  No one paid any attention to him. In the minds of the Townsend hands, the war would be over with this one simple act. Someone slapped the horse on the rear, and it bolted. Amos was jerked back out of the saddle in mid-sentence. He gagged. His tongue stuck out. His face turned blue as he kicked and squirmed and twisted. His cock got hard and bulged in his jeans, and his bowels relaxed. He shit his pants. With one last kick of both legs, he expired. Slocum mounted his Appaloosa and turned to ride away. The rest were still standing around the corpse. Slocum did not look back.

  He rode straight to town and stopped in front of the saloon. He tied his horse there at the hitch rail and went inside. At the bar, he ordered a bottle of bourbon and a glass. He paid for it and took it to a table. He turned the first glass down, drinking it almost all at once. Then he poured a second glass. There was a bad taste in his mouth that he had to get rid of. He had no good feelings for Bob Amos. He might easily have killed the son of a bitch himself, but the way in which Amos had met his end disgusted him.

  He finished his second glass of whiskey and poured a third. Honey Pot came down the stairs and saw him. She smiled and moved to his table.

  “Like some company?” she said.

  Slocum looked up at her. He thought about sending her away, but he did not have the energy. “Suit yourself,” he said.

  “I ain’t seen you in here for a while,” she said. “How come you be here drinking all by yourself?”

  “It’s a long story, Honey Pot,” Slocum said. “I don’t think you’d be interested.”

  “You might be surprised,” she said.

  “Yeah? Well, I ain’t interested in talking about it.”

  “Where are your two buddies?”

  “Buddies?”

  “You know, Monkey and Cash.”

  “One’s dead,” he said. “The other one’s run off.”

  “What?”

  “I think you heard me right.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “I told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Have a drink, Honey Pot. If you want t
o talk, let’s talk about something else.”

  Honey Pot waved a hand at the barkeep, who brought her a glass. Slocum poured it full of whiskey. Honey Pot picked it up and sipped from it.

  “Say,” she said, “why don’t we take this bottle and go upstairs?” She waited, but got no response. “You’re in some kind of a low mood, ain’t you? We don’t have to do nothing but sit and drink. We can talk if you want. It’s more private than down here.”

  Slocum thought for a moment. He looked around the room. It occurred to him that Townsend or some of his crew might come in to celebrate. Taking the bottle in one hand and his glass in the other, he stood up. “Let’s go,” he said. Honey Pot took her glass and stood up to walk with him. They went up the stairs and into a room. Honey Pot shut the door behind them. Slocum took a chair, placing the bottle on the small table there. There was one other chair in the room, and Honey Pot pulled it over to the table. She sat across from Slocum. Slocum finished his drink and poured himself another. Honey Pot still had some in her glass.

  “Slocum?” said Honey Pot.

  He looked up at her over his glass.

  “I wish you’d say something.”

  “I’m going to be moving on,” he said.

  “How come?”

  “The war’s over. They hanged Bob Amos this morning.”

  “Hanged him? You mean—”

  “Lynched.”

  “Oh, God. And Monkey and Cash?”

  “Monkey’s dead. I killed him.”

  “Jesus,” she said. “How come?”

  He didn’t know what it was that had finally loosened his tongue, maybe the whiskey, maybe Honey Pot’s sympathetic attitude. Likely her good looks had something to do with it. Whatever it was, he kept talking. “Cash took Monkey and went over to the other side. More money. Excitement. Hell, I don’t know, but they went. Then Monkey forced me into a showdown. I killed him.”

  “God. That’s awful.”

  “We raided the White Hat this morning. Wiped them out. All except Amos and Cash. The crew strung Amos up right off. We never did see Cash. He’s run off.”

  “Then it really is over?”