Slocum and the Comanche

by Jake Logan

  After half an hour passed without any sign of movement down at the ranch, Slocum swung his horse to ride among the trees down into a winding ravine that led to a brush-choked arroyo behind one of the cow sheds. What he needed was solid evidence, and this was the place where he’d be most likely to find it.

  Stepping softly through patches of dry bunchgrass, he came up to the rear of one of the sheds. He could hear voices inside. It was casual talk ... laughter, a few words he couldn’t quite make out.

  Slocum slid over to a comer of the shed and drew his Colt. He stood frozen for a few moments, listening to the conversation inside. The smells of blood and sour meat wafted from a crack in the shed wall.

  “Worst job I ever had,” someone said.

  “Ain’t no worse than Folsom prison,” another answered over the sounds of a bone saw.

  “I did my time in Huntsville. Worst food on earth an’ no way to escape work detail. If you lost a goddamn leg, they’d make you carry a shovel out them to fields anyways.”

  Laughter. “You’d make a pretty sight, Elmer. Hoppin’ on one foot to a cotton patch.”

  “Wasn’t nothin’ funny about it, Ray. They was goddamn serious ’bout showin’ up fer work detail. I had my head busted a time or two when I tried to act like I was sick. A man gets over sickness real quick when his skull’s bein’ whacked with a damn shotgun butt.”

  “There ain’t a damn thing you can tell me about prison, son. I done my share of time.”

  The saw went back to work for a few seconds.

  “How long did you do in Folsom?”

  “Ten of the longest years of my life. A man lays there at night, starin’ at that ceiling, wondering if he’s ever gonna breathe fresh air again.”

  “Ten years ain’t all that much. I done five at Huntsville an’ six more in Fort Smith. You learn to forgit about the years layin’ ahead of you inside them fuckin’ walls. You do it just one day at a time.”

  “Easy fer you to say now ...” The bellow of a cow interrupted the men as a sledgehammer struck a steer’s skull. Slocum took a peek through a crack in the boards to see a beeve being felled by a muscular man in leather leggings and a sleeveless shirt drenched in blood.

  The steer, with its head resting on wooden stocks, bellowed again and sank to its knees. Blood squirted from a wound between its ears as it fell.

  “Wish that coulda been that warden at Folsom,” the man said with his teeth clenched. “I used to dream about it at night, what I’d do to him if I got the chance.”

  “Hell, we all had dreams about breakin’ out an’ takin’ a few of them guards with us. The sumbitches at Huntsville wasn’t no damn better.”

  The man who felled the steer went over to the cow with a knife and slit the cow’s throat. “I never heard of no such thing as a good prison,” he said, wiping the blade on his pants leg.

  “We’re liable to get us another stretch if anybody gets wise to what’s goin’ on here, Ray. Soon as I git me a stake, I’m pullin’ out fer Texas. Maybe Mexico.”

  “Better watch that feller Barlow,” Elmer warned. “He’s damn sure good with a gun, an’ he’ll do whatever Anderson tells him to do. He’d as soon shoot a man in the back as sneeze.”

  Ray opened the stocks and let the dying steer fall on its side. “I wasn’t plannin’ on sendin’ out notices that I aimed to cut an’ run, Elmer. One of these days, when I git a few dollars ahead, I’m just gonna disappear.”

  “Just make damn sure nobody knows,” Elmer said, taking his saw to a beeve’s hindquarter on a butcher block. “The less you tell anybody with this outfit, the better off you’ll be if you decide to clear out.”

  “The only sumbitch I’m worried about is Barlow.”

  “You’d be makin’ a mistake. Bill Anderson is a tough son of a bitch in his own right. He’ll gun you down if you give him half a chance.”

  “That’s just it,” Ray said. “I ain’t givin’ nobody any kind of notice when I leave. I’ll be halfway to the Texas border before they know I’m gone ... maybe halfway to Mexico.”

  “I may not be far behind you,” Elmer added. “I hear tell there’s some stranger nosin’ around, tryin’ to pin the blame fer them killins we done down on the Red on somebody besides them Comanches. He could be a U.S. marshal. Hell, he could be damn near anybody. Anderson’s worried.”

  Ray made a deep cut into the steer’s belly and stood back to let the blood flow. “We got protection, Elmer. You worry too goddamn much.”

  “That skinny sheriff ain’t gonna protect nobody if the shit gets deep, an’ I don’t trust Tatum no farther than I could toss him into a high wind. A lawman can’t be trusted. Sooner you learn that, the less time you’ll spend behind bars.”

  “It’s the money they’s after, Elmer. So long as a man is gettin’ paid, he ain’t gonna say all that much. They could wind up in prison, same as us.”

  “I ain’t goin’ back to prison,” Elmer said emphatically, as he trimmed off another section of hindquarter. “I’ll die before I spend one more night behind bars lookin’ at striped moonlight. I made myself that promise a long time ago.”

  “You mean you’d rather be dead than in jail?” Ray asked.

  “Damn right I would. I done spent all the time I’m ever gonna spend in prison. It’s the same as bein’ dead to some men, an’ I’m damn sure one of ’em.”

  Slocum crept along behind the barn wall to an open rear door, where piles of intestines drew swarms of blowflies. He’d heard enough of the conversation between Elmer and Ray to convince him. This was an illegal operation, selling stolen beef to the United States government.

  He peered around a comer, gun in hand, ready to call for the surrender of both men, when a sound behind him made him whirl around.

  A stocky cowboy with a rifle cradled in the crook of his arm came around behind the shed.

  “What the hell are you doin’ here!” the man demanded, bringing up his rifle.

  Slocum had no selection in the matter. It was shoot or be killed. He turned his .44 on the cowboy and said in an even, quiet voice, “Don’t bring that gun on me or you’ll pay for it with your life.”

  The rifleman, his face hidden in the shadow below a dark felt hat, continued his motion upward with his Winchester until it was aimed at Slocum.

  Slocum triggered off a shot, aiming for the man’s belly. A clapping explosion accompanied Slocum’s pistol shot.

  The cowboy jerked, his body jolted backward by the entry of a lead slug below his breastbone. At the same time, his rifle went off with a booming concussion that seemed to shake the walls of the barn.

  “What the fuck was that?” a voice cried from inside.

  “A gun, you idiot!” another voice replied. “Run like hell for the bunkhouse so we can git our guns!”

  Slocum watched the gunman sink to his knees. There was a strange look on his face, a combination of pain and surprise, as his hat fell off the back of his head.

  The sound of running feet alerted Slocum to what was going on inside the barn. He lept to the doorway and aimed his gun into the butchering shed.

  Two figures raced out of the front doors. Impossible targets on the move. He made a rush foward along the side of the barn, listening to a groan coming from the man he’d shot at the rear of the shed.

  A man ran into view with his head bent forward in a full-tilt charge. Slocum couldn’t wait until the man reached his weapon. He took a shot at one of the man’s legs. The crack of gunpowder rang in his ears.

  The running man collapsed on the hardpan, falling in midstride, howling as he reached for his thigh with both hands.

  Suddenly another figure darted out of the shadows beneath the eaves of the barn.

  Slocum took careful aim and yelled, “Stop or I’ll kill you! You’ll never reach the bunkhouse. I’ve got you square in my sights!”

  The man skidded to a halt and looked over his shoulder. When he saw Slocum, his jaw fell open. “Don’t shoot me, mister. I ain’t the one you’re after
.”

  “Depends,” Slocum replied casually, freezing his trigger finger before he made a pull.

  “Depends on what?” the man stammered.

  “On what you tell me. It had damned sure better be the truth.”

  “I ain’t lookin’ to die, stranger. Just what is it you need to know?”

  “Where’s this Bob Barlow?”

  “In ... in town with Mr. Anderson. He don’t stay out here all that much. There’s this guy who’s been nosin’ around lately. I reckon that’d be you.”

  “A pretty good guess. Who else is here? Who’s in the ranch house?”

  “Jus’ Ol’ Man Grimes, the cook. A couple of others is out on the ranch some place.”

  “One of ’em was standin’ guard over them green hides, the ones with the different brands.”

  “That’ll be Shorty. Shorty Weeks. He’ll come a runnin’ soon as he hears them gunshots.”

  “I’ve already taken care of him,” Slocum replied, taking a quick glance over his shoulder.

  “You mean you killed Shorty?”

  “I only said I’d taken care of him. He isn’t all that good with a gun. I imagine by now he’s halfway to Lawton, to tell Anderson and Barlow there’s trouble out here at his stolen beef operation.”

  “How’d you know they was stole?”

  “Do I look like a fool?”

  “No sir. Wasn’t sayin’ that at all.

  “Just an assumption. All those brands could mean the cows had different owners. If there’s a bill of sale for ’em, we’ve got no problem.”

  “Maybe there is an’ maybe there ain’t. I don’t know a damn thing, mister.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. I overheard what the two of you were saying in the shed a while ago.”

  Now the wounded man began to writhe on the ground, making sounds of agony. He lay only a few feet from the spot where Slocum had the drop on the other butcher.

  “You heard what we said?” the man asked, taking a quick look at his friend. “Then you know he’d rather die than go back to prison.”

  “The choice is his. If he gets up and wants a little more fight, I’ll be glad to oblige him.” Slocum aimed for the man’s head. “Answer me with the truth. You get just one chance. If I don’t hear what I’m expecting to hear, I’m gonna kill you now and swear it was self-defense.”

  “Honest, stranger, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about anything.”

  “Is the Indian agent George Tatum in on the stolen cattle operation?”

  The butcher rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “He takes money from Mr. Anderson. Honest to God, that’s all I know.”

  “It’s enough,” Slocum said, lowering his pistol. “Help get your friend on his feet. We’re taking a little ride out to the fort, so you can repeat what you just said to Major Thompson.”

  22

  The young butcher named Ray sat a horse in an unnatural way, with his hands glued to the saddlehorn and his eyes turned back toward Slocum as they rode away from the Anderson spread. The ranch cook had given himself up to a rope binding his wrists without a fight, and Elmer, with a bullet wound in his thigh, merely grimmaced as Slocum tied the pair to the base of a tree. The rifleman he shot behind the barn died while Slocum was tying up the other two. Ray was all Slocum needed now. He would tell the story of Bill Anderson’s crooked dealings to the sheriff and Major Thompson.

  But as they were riding away from the ranch with Ray on a borrowed horse, Slocum saw trouble on the skyline. A lone rider was headed into the valley where the Anderson operation sat. Ray stiffened in the saddle when he saw him.

  “That’s Barlow,” Ray said. There was a noticeable change in his demeanor. “You may be wishin’ you hadn’t showed up here today. Barlow’s one bad hombre with a gun.”

  “I reckon we’re about to find out,” Slocum replied. He took the hammer thong from his holstered Colt, lifting it a little higher in his cross-pull for a quicker draw. “Could work the other way. Mr. Barlow may be wishing he’d stayed in Lawton, if he’s got time to do any wishin’.”

  “You’d better be fast, stranger.”

  Slocum watched the horseman start down a grassy slope. He was still a good half mile away. “Bein’ fast is a part of it. Hittin’ what you aim at is a helluva lot more important when it’s over. I’ve seen plenty of fast-draw artists buried in shallow holes because their eyesight wasn’t all it shoulda been. Aimin’ true is sometimes better’n bein’ fast.”

  “Barlow’s got a bunch of notches in his pistol grips, mister.”

  “Could mean nothing more than he owns a sharp knife and likes to whittle on walnut handles in his spare time,” Slocum answered. He was judging the distance between himself and the approaching gunman.

  Barlow slowed his horse, then reined it to a halt as though he sensed something was wrong.

  “He’s seen you,” Ray said. “Now there’s gonna be hell to pay, an’ I figure you’re the one who’s gonna be payin’ it, sooner or later.”

  Slocum watched Barlow pull a rifle from a boot below one stirrup leather. “That’s what makes a poker game,” he said, reaching for his own Winchester. “When the cards get shuffled and the ante money goes down, everybody has reason to think he’s gonna be a winner. Then the cards start coming. Dreams die real hard in poker or a gunfight. Some fellers just ain’t built the right way, to understand they’ve got a losin’ hand. But when a lead slug passes through ’em, they get a real short glimpse of what it is like to bet it all on a hand that can’t win.”

  Ray glanced over at Slocum. “You sure as hell sound like you know your business, mister.”

  Slocum flipped his repeating rifle in a road agent’s spin to send a load into the firing chamber without taking his eyes off Barlow.

  “I missed part of what you said,” Slocum told him, his eyelids narrowing in the sun.

  “I said it sure does sound like you know you can take him down. Maybe it’s ’cause you ain’t never heard of Bob Barlow or his shootin’ reputation.”

  “I never was inclined to listen to gossip or loose talk,” Slocum replied.

  “It ain’t loose talk, stranger. I seen them notches in the handles of his gun.”

  “Notches ain’t nothing but notches. Grave markers are what I’d call proof of a man’s steady hand.”

  “Can’t believe you never heard of Bob Barlow,” Ray said again, softer this time. He was watching Barlow raise his rifle as the sunlight glinted off its barrel. “He’s one of the fastest shootists in Indian Territory ... maybe this side of the Mississippi River.”

  Slocum rested the butt of his Winchester on his thigh, all the while watching Barlow, waiting for his next move. “I try not to listen to things that don’t concern me,” he said under his breath. “Right now, it’s beginning to look like I’m gonna be forced to find out if Barlow is as good as you say he is. Until our business with each other is finished, it’s just loose talk and speculation.”

  “He’ll take a shot at you with his rifle,” Ray warned. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to ride off for a ways, just in case there’s a stray bullet.”

  Slocum chuckled humorlessly. “If this Barlow is as good as you claim, there’s no reason for you to be worried about a shot that goes wide.”

  “Just bein’ on the safe side,” Ray answered back, taking a look uphill at Barlow.

  “Stay right where you are or I’ll save you all that extra worryin’,” Slocum warned. “If you ride any direction besides straight up that hill, I’ll kill you. I’m taking you to Major Thompson so you can tell your story about that stolen beef and anything else you know about Bill Anderson’s dealings with the army.”

  “You wouldn’t just shoot an unarmed man,” Ray said, sounding sure of it.

  Slocum’s gaze wandered to Ray a moment. “One way to find out if I’m bluffing. Turn that horse and try ridin’ off. If you don’t hear a gunshot, you can draw two conclusions. One is that you’re already dead and a dead man’s ear
s don’t work. Or you can figure I didn’t have the nerve to gun you down. It’s like that poker game I was talking about. You gamble and it can go either way. You win or you lose.”

  Ray passed his tongue across his dry lips. “I reckon I’ll stay, mister. Can’t tell if you’re bluffin’ or not, but I ain’t looking to occupy no six-foot hole if’n I’m wrong.”

  “You made a smart decision,” Slocum said, heeling his stud forward at a walk. “But just so you’ll know, I’ve never bluffed a man in my life.”

  Barlow urged his horse forward and they rode toward each other at an almost casual pace their horse’s in a walk.

  “I’ll hand you one thing, stranger,” Ray said. His cheeks lost some of their color. “You ain’t the least bit short when it comes to nerve.”

  Slocum ignored the remark. All his attention was focused on Barlow, waiting for the moment when the gunman’s rifle barrel tipped down. Even the best marksman would have difficulty making this sort of shot at long range aboard the back of a moving horse. If he was any judge of experienced gunmen, Slocum guessed, Barlow would choose the right moment to halt his horse suddenly and take aim. All Slocum had to do was to be ready for it, and to be just a fraction of a second faster when he took his own shot.

  “Jesus,” Ray whispered. His knuckles turned white where he gripped his saddlehorn. His hands had been bound together by a piece of rope. “The two of you are gonna ride right up to each other before a shot gets fired.”

  “He’ll pick the time and the place,” Slocum assured Ray, as the horses came closer.

  “I sure as hell could use a shot of strong whiskey right about now,” Ray said. “I hope like hell Barlow’s aim ain’t off to his left by a yard or two.”

  “You won’t feel a thing,” Slocum promised, guiding his Palouse with his knees. “If you catch a bullet from a forty-four Winchester rifle, it’ll pass right through you like a dose of castor oil. I’ve heard some men say it stings a little, but that was just before they died. Maybe the slug won’t hit any vital organs. You’ll bleed some, but you might live through it. But like I told you before, don’t try runnin’ out on me when the shootin’ starts. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s puttin’ a bullet in the right spot when the need arises.”