by Jake Logan
The mesa came into view. Slocum saw small teepees breaking the skyline and more trees, scrub pine and junipers, bushes that were still dark lumps in deep shadow. He halted and stared at the spaces in between the Kiowa lodges.
There was no sign of life.
Not yet.
He kept looking as the pale blue of the sky crept higher and more stars became invisible.
Finally, one of the teepee flaps opened and there was a rustle of stiff leather. A half-naked Kiowa brave stooped over, stepped out. He stood up and stretched his arms as he stood up, staring at the eastern sky. Then he walked over to the edge of the mesa, lifted his loincloth, and peed.
Slocum turned in the saddle and beckoned to José and the others to join him. He held a finger to his lips to indicate that they should make no noise.
The small caravan moved toward him, shadowy figures on horseback, rifles standing straight up, butts to their pommels. The leather creaked, and the muffled sounds of the horses’ hooves seemed deafening to Slocum.
When José drew near enough to hear him whisper, Slocum spoke to him.
“Fan out,” he said. “Surround both ends of the camp with your men. We’ll ride straight ahead.”
José nodded that he understood. He spoke to the men in whispers and they began to spread out, half going toward one end of the mesa, the other half to the opposite end. Carlos led one group. José stayed on Slocum’s left flank, his rifle at attention as if it were a soldier.
“Bueno, estoy listo,” he said as much to himself as to Slocum. “I am ready.”
The Kiowa brave dropped the flap on his loincloth and started to walk back toward his teepee.
Slocum pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and levered a cartridge into the firing chamber. The action made a loud metallic sound.
The Kiowa stopped and stared straight at him.
Slocum put the rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the lone brave. He figured the yardage at about one hundred yards. The rifle was sighted in at twenty-five yards, so he knew he could drop the man by aiming where he wanted the bullet to go.
He lined up the rear buckhorn with the front blade and settled the sights on the Kiowa’s chest. Just as the man started to walk, or run, Slocum squeezed the trigger.
In the silence, the roar of the rifle was like a thunder crack. The rifle bucked against his shoulder and the Kiowa took one step before the bullet caught him square in the chest. The Indian toppled forward, his right arm outstretched. A hole appeared on his naked chest and blood squirted out like a dark rope. He hit the ground without crying out a warning.
But the sound of the explosion lingered in Slocum’s ears for several seconds. Smoke wafted away like a thousand ruptured cobwebs. Slocum jacked another shell into the chamber.
The camp came alive.
Kiowa emerged from their teepees, carrying rifles or pistols, and Slocum could hear them talking to each other in their native tongue. Some of them used Spanish words. They all looked around for an enemy.
Rifle fire opened up on both ends of the small mesa. Del picked out a target and fired. An Indian went down. José, too, shot a Kiowa who was going into a knee squat to take aim with his rifle. The man threw up his arms. His rifle went flying and he toppled to one side, one leg twitching as blood gushed from his throat.
“Good shot,” Slocum said.
He tracked another Kiowa brave who was running toward a live oak for cover. He led him perfectly, squeezed the trigger, and the Indian went down, face forward in a long skid, still gripping his rifle.
Slocum stopped looking for Kiowa targets. He scanned the camp looking for a white man.
José and Del kept firing and now there were Kiowa bullets flying their way, high and wild.
Horses in camp began to mill around their rope enclosure. They whinnied and whined in terror.
A couple of braves ran toward the rope corral.
It was then that Slocum saw a white man step into view. He carried a rifle and wore a gun belt. He was tall and bent over as he crept toward a scrub pine where a Kiowa brave was kneeling with his rifle at his shoulder.
Slocum recognized the man. The last time he had seen Oren Scudder, he was as naked as a jaybird. Now he was fully dressed and armed.
Slocum sucked in a shallow breath and brought his rifle to bear on the skulking figure.
Just as he was lining up his sights, Scudder wheeled and looked in Slocum’s direction.
Scudder brought his rifle up and took aim.
Slocum let out his breath and dug his spurs into Ferro’s flanks. He hunched over the saddle horn and charged toward Scudder at full gallop, much to the surprise of Del and José, who stopped shooting for fear of hitting him.
Slocum rammed his rifle back into its scabbard and drew his pistol.
In that moment, he felt like had when he had ridden with Quantrill back in Kansas. He hugged his horse’s flank and cocked his pistol as he lay his head on Ferro’s neck.
Scudder fired his rifle.
Slocum saw the stream of sparks and flame, the puff of smoke spewing from the barrel.
Time teetered on tiptoe as Scudder’s bullet screamed through the air with a vicious high whine.
Rifle shots popped all around him.
Slocum knew, in that terrible instant, that he was on a battlefield.
And men were dying all around him, spilling their blood on dry, baked ground.
Just as they had in Kansas when Quantrill’s cavalry was in full charge along the Missouri border.
And still, the bullet from Scudder’s rifle was speeding toward him like an angry hornet.
27
Oren Scudder’s bullet.
It sizzled past Slocum’s ear close enough so that it raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
And then it caromed off a rock and whined into space, a scarred and deformed ball of lead.
Ahead, the slope of the mesa loomed. Slocum fired his pistol at Scudder before he reached that obstacle. Then Ferro was climbing, scrambling and scrabbling up the slope to reach the top of the plateau.
Slocum lost sight of Scudder for a few seconds as Ferro climbed to the top. Then he saw Scudder waddling around in a circle like some demented man looking for a lost watch somewhere on the ground.
As Slocum galloped toward him, Scudder straightened up. His rifle lay on the ground. He pawed for his pistol and was drawing when Slocum hammered back and fired a second shot.
There was a word on Scudder’s lips. There was a snarl there, too. Then the bullet from Slocum’s Colt struck him high on the left side of his chest and spun him around in a half circle. Slocum rode right up on him and fired another shot into his left side, smashing through his lung, nicking the tip of his heart, and blowing a fist-sized hole on the other side, ripping out lungs and flesh, smashing through veins and arteries like some demonic pellet fired from the bowels of hell.
Scudder belched blood from his mouth and crashed to the ground. He voided as his sphincter muscle relaxed and sent up a stench in a cloud of invisible vapor.
Then to his right, something caught his eye. Men were yelling, Kiowa yipping at the tops of their lungs. But a man was in the corral and he was climbing aboard a horse. He slashed one of the ropes with his knife and rode through.
He headed straight for Slocum.
Jesse Scudder bore a striking resemblance to his brother, Oren, just as Melissa had told him.
Carlos saw Scud and ran in front of his horse, blood in his eye.
To Slocum’s horror, Scud fired his pistol at Carlos just as a Kiowa was about to smash Carlos with his tomahawk. Scud’s bullet ripped into Carlos’s temple and his head burst open like an exploding melon. Brains and blood flew back and struck the Kiowa full in the face. Slocum shot the Kiowa and then turned his pistol on Scud’s horse.
He could not get a clear shot at Scud.
Slocum fired and his bullet smacked into the horse’s chest. The animal stumbled and his forelegs crumpled and collapsed. Scud bailed off the horse’s bare back and hit the ground standing up.
The horse thrashed and kicked for several seconds as blood spurted from its shattered chest.
Scud regained his footing and swung his pistol to bear on Slocum, who reined up Ferro a half a dozen yards away.
“Slocum, you’re a dead man,” Scud spat.
Scud cocked his pistol and his arm started to rise.
“Not quite,” Slocum said as he aimed his Colt at Scud.
Before Scud could get off a shot, Slocum squeezed the trigger. His pistol boomed loud and a streak of flame and smoke burst from the barrel.
Scud’s finger touched his trigger, but the bullet from Slocum’s gun caught him in the shoulder and knocked him off balance. Enough to spoil Scud’s aim. He fired, but his bullet flew wide of its mark and whizzed over Slocum’s head with a whoosh of air.
Slocum rode up on Scud and looked down at him. Blood dripped down left Scud’s arm, and the man winced with pain.
Slocum stuck his pistol in Scud’s face, within less than a foot. Scud stared at the snout of the Colt as he brought his own pistol up level to a line of sight leading directly to Slocum. He seemed to know that he was too slow and that death was staring him right in the face. His mouth contorted into a snarl. His eyes flashed with hatred.
Slocum squeezed the trigger as rifle fire erupted all around him.
Scud’s mouth opened as Slocum’s bullet creased his forehead, shattering bone and blowing his brains to a bloody mush. His pistol dropped from his hands. His eyes lost their glisten and turned dull as smoke-tarnished pennies. His legs turned to jelly and he fell in a heap.
“You should have been roped and dragged,” Slocum said to the lifeless man, “then hanged for good measure.”
Slocum knew that Scud could not hear him. The man was dead. But it gave him a small amount of satisfaction to say those words over his corpse.
The firing died down and Slocum glanced around him. Del had a peculiar look on his face. There were dead Kiowa all around Carlos’s body and a couple of Mexicans were bleeding from wounds. Some were kicking the dead Kiowa with rifles pointed at their heads in case they showed any signs of life.
Slocum ejected the empty hulls from the cylinder of his Colt and inserted fresh rounds. Then he holstered his pistol and looked around for José.
“You seen José?” he asked Del.
“Last I saw he was chasin’ two Kiowa toward the canyon,” Del said.
A moment later, they saw José riding toward them. Smoke still curled from the muzzle of his rifle barrel and he had a look of satisfaction on his face.
Slocum waved at him.
José waved a weary hand in reply.
Loose horses and Indian ponies were trotting around in circles. The smell of burnt powder lingered in the air. The dead began to give off their sickly sweet scents. The sun cleared the horizon and vanquished all the heavy shadows, turned the landscape into a rainbow of bright colors, its angry tongues lashing from a brilliant orange disk.
“Now what?” Del asked. “I don’t see no live Kiowa and you killed Scud and Oren.”
José rode up and halted his horse. He looked tired, but elated.
“Burn all these lodges,” Slocum said to Del. “After you help me catch my four horses.”
“You see ’em?” Del asked.
“Yeah, they’re over at the creek, still wearing their halters.”
“Should be easy to catch,” Del said.
“I will help you,” José said.
Then he spoke to his men, who were starting to head their way, on foot and on horseback. A couple were soaked with blood. Blood dripped from their fingers, but they were all ginning with the glow of victory on their faces.
“Burn down all these tents,” José told the men gathering around him. “Then we go.”
Slocum, Del, and José rode to the creek and started catching up the horses. They grabbed their halters and led them away from the creek. José and Del cut portions of ropes and affixed them to the halters.
“What do you do with these horses, John?” José asked.
“I’m taking them to Charlie Goodnight on the Palo Duro.”
“Do you need help?” José asked.
“It’s always good to have company on a long trail,” Slocum said.
“I wouldn’t mind makin’ that ride with you either, John,” Del said. “Maybe old Charlie Goodnight might have a job for me.”
“He’s a fine cattleman,” Slocum said.
They watched as the Mexicans set fire to the Kiowa lodges. They put some of the dead Indians inside the teepees and gathered up the ponies to take back to town with them.
“Looks like we’ve got a bunch of fine horseflesh in our cadre,” Slocum said as they rode away from the burning Indian village.
“Some of the poor of my people are no longer poor,” José said. He was packing Carlos’s body on the horse he was leading. “I wish Carlos could be here to see what we’ve done.”
“He may be watchin’,” Del said. He pointed a thumb skyward. “From up yonder.”
As they rode into town, they could still see the smoke from the burning teepees, but of more interest were the number of loaded wagons leaving Polvo. People waved at them and they all bore smiles on their faces.
“This might become a ghost town,” Slocum said.
“I hope it does,” Del said. “Wait until the rest of them hear that Scud and Oren are dead. I wonder if they’ll stay or go.”
“Did those mines produce any real wealth?” Slocum asked.
Del shook his head. “I doubt it. No mother lode, no big nuggets, just a peck or two of dust.”
“Maybe that’s why Scud named the town Polvo,” Slocum said. “Dust. Gold or dirt, it didn’t seem to make much difference in the prosperity of Polvo.”
“Yeah, it don’t seem to matter none now,” Del said.
As they rode toward the Excelsior Hotel, they saw people loading wagons in front of their stores. Others seemed to be strolling like sleepwalkers in a daze, asking questions, looking for people they knew.
“Maybe you ought to tell some of these people that Scud and his brother are dead, Del,” Slocum said.
José turned in the saddle and looked behind him. The Mexicans with the ponies and horses were talking to the people in the street, telling them about how Slocum killed Scud and Oren. They spoke in both the Mexican and English tongues.
“The news will travel,” José said. “This is a small town.”
Slocum listened to the Mexicans and smiled. Some of them were already tearing down the wanted posters with his likeness. They wadded them up and threw them down in the street like so much trash.
He smiled when he saw people leaving the hotel with their valises and bags. Mr. Parsons stood outside like a man dumbstruck at all the activity.
Slocum waved to him, but Parsons let his head droop and did not wave back.
“Del, you and José take my horses to the livery. There’s somebody I’ve got to see before we leave town.”
“Where you goin’?” Del asked.
“To the Desert Rose. I might have one last drink before I ride out.”
“And maybe you want to say good-bye to that purty gal you talked to last night.”
“Maybe,” Slocum said. “If she’s still there.”
He handed the rope to Del and rode off toward the saloon.
People on the street waved torn-down flyers at him and grinned with pleasure.
Slocum felt a little like a conquering hero, but he also felt a great sense of loss. Scud and his cohorts had built a town, but
ruined many lives in the process. He would like nothing better than to set a torch to Polvo and leave it like the Kiowa village, in ashes.
But he had had his fill of destruction.
All he wanted now was to drink some good Kentucky bourbon and to see a pretty girl smile one last time.
28
As Slocum was tying Ferro to the hitch rail in front of the Desert Rose Saloon, he saw Tim Chandler heading toward him on a loaded wagon. Tim waved. Behind came Jorge Alessandro and his family, all wearing hats and waving to him.
The wagons pulled to a stop and tied up. Slocum walked through the batwings of the saloon.
The saloon was doing business. Jack Akers looked up at Slocum when he walked in, a wide grin on his face. Slocum walked over.
“I’ve got some Old Taylor for you, Slocum. On the house. And we’re usin’ them wanted dodgers for ass wipes.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Slocum said, pulling out a stool and pushing his hat onto the back of his head.
Akers got the bottle and a glass, set them down in front of Slocum. He inclined his head toward a table and pointed a thumb in that direction.
“The gals over there have been waitin’ for you. Seems like the men guarding them got shot about an hour ago by some Mexes when those boys were headin’ out of town.”
Jack poured the drink into the shot glass.
Slocum turned to look at the girls sitting at the table like a bunch of women at a sewing circle.
He toasted them silently, then slid off the stool and walked over.
Melissa arose from her chair and kissed him on the cheek. Then he was accosted by Fanny, who hugged him and peppered his face and neck with kisses.
Slocum extricated himself and looked at the other women, who were gazing up at him with worshipping eyes.
“I’m Susan Lindale,” one woman said. “We haven’t met, but if you’re John Slocum, you’re my hero.”
“I haven’t met him either,” Darla said, “but I liked him the first moment I set eyes on him.”
