by Jake Logan
“He ain’t in here,” Slocum said, looking around.
“Who?” one of the women asked.
“A teamster works for us, named Kency Holmes.”
“Never heard of him,” the whore said. “I’d fuck any one of you for a dollar.”
Buster shook his bearded face. “I won’t give ten cents to see your asshole.”
“Fuck you,” she said sharply.
“I hope someone will,” the old barkeep said, and they left laughing.
The Tiger Saloon was busier. A big card game was going on in the center of the room. Several drunks lay facedown on tables, passed out. Buster went around and lifted up fallen faces by their scalps looking for Kency. He made the circle and then shook his head. The bartender asked what they wanted. Slocum ordered four beers and paid the man. “Now, last night, Kency Holmes was in here. One of my drivers. He picked up a breed whore named Pinky. Where can I find either one of them?”
“I don’t know any Pinky,” the bartender said.
“Listen, big man, I’ve got a Bowie knife that will carve you up,” Buster snarled at the man. “Answer the boss or you’ll lose your balls.”
“There ain’t no Pinky works in here.”
“Real easy, put that sawed-off shotgun on the counter,” Slocum said to him. “We’re all alive in here now. Let’s keep it that way.”
The bartender did as he was told and slapped his weapon on the bar, but his hand never moved to the trigger guard. Slocum took the shotgun and ejected both shells out of the breech, pocketed them in his vest, and put the weapon back.
“Now, where is she?” Slocum asked the man again.
“Her lodge, I guess, down on the river.”
“How can I find it?”
“Ask for her, I guess.” The bartender shook his head. “I don’t know shit about her.”
“Any of those cardplayers know her?” Slocum gave a toss of his head at the card game.
The barkeep spoke to a man in the game. “Talbot, these guys want to know where Pinky lives.”
The gambler turned and nodded at them. “Injun camp, big tepee with a buffalo herd painted on the side.”
Slocum thanked him, then they drank their beers and left.
He felt grateful to be out of the Tiger’s sour, smoky, stinking interior and on their way to Indian Town. Her tepee was easy to spot. Most of the camp housing consisted of buffalo hides tossed over round willow frames.
Slocum dismounted at the tepee site, and an Indian woman in buckskin rushed out the round opening of a door. He caught her by the scruff of her neck and stopped her. At the end of the struggle, he had her pinned facedown on the ground.
“I’m looking for Kency Holmes. He’s a boy works for me who you screwed last night.”
“Fuck you, white eyes. Let me up.”
He pressed her down hard for an answer. “I need to know where he is.”
“I don’t know him.”
Buster was there by then. He took her by her braids and jerked her to her bare feet. “You’re too damn nice, Slocum. I’ll get it out of her.”
Without another word, he dragged her kicking and wailing to the beach of the river and packed her out in the knee-deep water, clothes and all. He shoved her head underwater, and Slocum began to wonder if he’d drown her. But he jerked her up babbling, and she fought like a wildcat, though it was useless against his massive build and frame.
He doused her head underwater again. Her legs and feet kicked in the muddy sand until he pulled her back up. She’d had enough. Water running out of her mouth and nose, she gagged and tried to puke on Buster. At arm’s length, it all went in the river, and her face looked bleached in total fear.
“Where is he?”
“Dead. In the river.”
“Who killed him?”
“Two men.”
“Tell me who.”
“They will kill me if I do.”
“No. I’ll be first one to do that, if you don’t tell me,” Buster ordered.
“All right. All right. Britt Jones. Tom Hathaway.”
“Where are they?”
“How should I know?”
He started to force her back underwater again, but she screamed out, “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. Beck’s camp.”
“Anyone know where that is?” Slocum asked the onlookers.
“East of here.”
“Someone go get the crew. In the morning, I want everyone riding down the Yellowstone looking for that boy’s body.”
“What will the rest of us do?” Whethers asked Slocum.
“Take her along and go find that camp. I want those bastards that killed that boy.”
“I’ll go get the men,” Whethers said. “We’ll find his body.”
“Tell Lacey we’ll be coming back to help him look.”
“I can do that, Boss.”
Buster had Pinky on her knees on the grass. Her leather pants half-off exposed her bare butt, and Slocum could see that his scout planned to rape her. No need to stop him. He led Sitting Bull down and let him drink his fill. Behind his back, he could hear Buster Johnson’s grunting.
How long since he’d been in bed with a woman? Way too long. This skinny girl here hardly appealed to Slocum, but his scout must really be enjoying her by all his noise. When Johnson had completed his task, she sat bare-assed on the ground, looking completely exhausted.
“Get your pants on,” Slocum ordered her. “Show Indian Joe here where your horse is and get him.”
When she made no move, Slocum threatened to kick her and she moved swiftly then to dress. “I do it. I do it.”
She took his scout and went for a horse to ride. They returned shortly, with a thin horse wearing only a bridle. Grabbing a hank of mane, she lithely swung on his back and was ready to go. They moved down the trace along the river. Slocum saw no sign of any body in the fast-moving water beside them. He really hoped they could find that boy’s corpse. Holmes needed a proper burial.
Past sundown, they reached the camp she’d spoken about. It was not a large one, and most of the inhabitants were at the large bonfire. Slocum made her dismount and go ahead of him.
Joe carried a rifle and Buster held his large Walker Colt .45 beside his leg. They walked a few feet apart from each other. At the fire, someone with a crock whiskey jug looked up. “Howdy, strangers. What’cha need?”
“Two killers,” Slocum said quietly, and a wave of shock shone in the men’s eyes. “Sit tight. Are they here, Pinky?” He indicated the circle of men.
She shook her head. “They have a small hut.”
“Johnson, make her a torch. Don’t anyone move. No need in anyone dying here. We only want two killers. Joe, watch them. Shoot anyone who tries to warn them or starts to leave.”
With her in front carrying a torch, he and Johnson started across the camp.
“Think they’re in there?” Slocum quietly asked when they stopped short of a shack. The light from her torch reflected off the closed door about twenty steps in front of them. He drew his Colt and cocked it.
“I’ll kick it in. Toss in the torch and stand back.”
At her hesitation, Buster wrenched it from her hand and joined him. Slocum’s boot flung the door open, and that was followed by the blazing pitch torch tossed inside.
Screams of horror from the occupants followed shortly. The first out was a naked squaw. Buster caught her arm, flung her facedown, and told her to stay there. The first man to follow her Slocum smashed over the head with his pistol barrel, and he went down like a poled steer. The second one ran out, tripped over his partner, and fired his pistol. When he tried to rise, Johnson whacked him on the head. He was out cold, too.
The big man dragged both of them about ten feet from the burning building. Hugging her nakedness, the squaw joined them, sat on the ground,
and looked back in distress at the burning cabin. The pair came to, groggy. While Slocum watched over the fire’s bright scene with six-gun in hand, his scout went and found rope to tie their hands behind their backs. Both men must have slept in their pants, and they had no shirts on.
“These men are the ones that killed my man, Kency?” he asked Pinky.
She nodded.
“Did you drug him?”
“No, they jumped him when we were in my bed.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. They stabbed him with their knives. I feared for my life, too.”
“He didn’t have any money. Why kill him?”
“Mean bastards.”
“I guess so.”
“What you going to do to us? You ain’t the gawdamn law,” the first man snarled.
“Yeah we are,” Slocum said. “Judge rope’s law.”
The pair didn’t say anything after that. Pinky found the woman an old dirty blanket to wrap up in. Then they made the two men walk barefooted back to the main camp and campfire.
“We need two long lariats to hang these bastards,” Slocum told the men still at the fire. “For you that don’t know, they killed a teamster of mine named Kency Holmes last night in Pinky’s tepee. He was making love with her, and they stole in and stabbed him to death. No one kills one of my men and gets away with it.”
Two ropes soon came for them to use. Slocum made hangman’s knots in each of them. Within thirty minutes, chairs were kicked out from under the men and two pairs of bare feet hung two feet off the ground. The killers had gone to hell. Slocum and party started back for Pinky’s place under the stars.
“You are damn sure tough men,” she said to them.
“No, we’re loyal men.”
“That, too.”
• • •
At noon the next day, they found Kency’s bloated body in the Yellowstone, far downstream, in a quiet swirl out of the main stream. They wrapped his naked form in a blanket, and they had a funeral that evening at camp. When they finished his service, there weren’t many dry eyes in the bunch.
Slocum gave the men two days’ leave to blow off steam and for him to finalize his hide-hauling contract. They’d replaced the bad wagon axle, and all the wagon axles were greased and in good shape. Two wheel spokes had had to be replaced, and the harness was all well oiled and in good repair. The horses and mules all were sound and would be shod if needed. They were grazing some good forage and had gained some weight. Good enough. Two of his men wanted to quit, plus he had the vacancy of the murdered one. He planned to interview prospects for the job. There were enough unemployed men around, since the railroad construction coming that way had stopped over in Dakota due to a Wall Street bust.
Back at the wagon, Snow sat on her cot. “You found his killers and hung them?”
“Yes, we did. They’re in hell. He was a good young man. They killed him because they were mean. He had no money.”
“You have not found a woman to bed here?”
He sat down and shook his head. She knelt down and pulled off his boots.
“Why have you not found one?”
“Haven’t had time.”
“That is not the reason.”
“Oh, what is the reason?”
Her smug smile gleamed in the light coming in the back donut of the canvas top. “You are too fussy about who you go to bed with.”
“I might be.” Her words amused him.
“Would you go to bed with me?”
When she finished stuffing his socks in his boots, he asked, “Would you like me to do that?”
She gave a small nod.
Gentle-like, he reached out and took her in his arms, then stood to hug her. She held him and began to sob. With care, he reached down to raise her dress. Standing a little apart from her, he lifted the garment higher. She raised her arms until the dress cleared her body. He set it aside on his cot, then bent over to kiss her mouth.
His lips on hers shocked her, and she froze, so he stopped. “Relax, I can help you.”
Then he kissed her again. She moaned softly as her mouth and tongue became involved. Her eyes fluttered shut, and long black eyelashes lay on her light brown cheeks. As their mouths grew more torrid, he began to undress. His shirt unbuttoned, he shed it. Then, unbuttoned and unbuckled, his pants fell. She gasped as if a stage curtain had been opened before her on a shocking scene. He stepped out of his pants and pressed her warm, supple body against his nakedness. Then he resumed kissing her and lifted her up to lay her on his cot.
Once there, she held her arms out for him to come down on top of her. With her knees raised and spread apart, he eased himself down between them. He entered her carefully, and they flew away to a raging sea of crashing waves, on the ultimate sex quest. Kisses fired them like Fourth of July rockets. Their movements drew them higher and higher, until the explosion blew out the fire and a gentle dive brought them back to numb reality.
“Why don’t you have a woman?” she asked, still breathing hard.
“I have one tonight.”
“Oh, you are more than any other man could ever be.”
He sipped on her rock-hard nipples, and even in the dark wagon he could see her smile. She playfully wrestled his head back to her chest. What a lovely female. He felt jealous of the pleasure that her man must have taken from her. God made some women to be loved, and she fit that role perfectly. No restraint, no superstitions, no guilt—she gave her all to the last moment and beyond.
“What bothers me about you—”
“No, you don’t know anything about me. I am a wanted man, and so I must change my job, identity, and location, without notice, to prevent my enemies from capturing me.”
“I know places in western Montana and Idaho where no one could find us. Maybe they could find a tribe, but never find two lovers. Do you believe me?”
“That place must be heaven.” He used his index finger to raise her chin and then softly kissed her lips. No place was safe. Wilderness or not, it wouldn’t be trackless for men who were anxious to find him. He was better on the move than pinned down. Someday, some drunk would say, “Oh, I saw him in Billings on Sunday,” and they’d rush to sniff out any trail.
“My dear, you are the loveliest woman in bed I could ever imagine.” He kissed her and then started to get up.
“No, sleep with me.”
He about laughed. “We won’t sleep.”
“Who cares? You have warmed my heart.”
He gave up and lay back down, and took her in his arms to hold her. Hell, where else could he find such thrilling excitement? Her body felt so good to hold. Go.
They slept, mostly out of exhaustion, but periods of passion woke them, and they used each other’s bodies to find more pleasure.
• • •
Before dawn, he discovered she was gone from his grasp and the cot empty. She’d gone to help Jasper prepare breakfast. He rubbed the back of his neck. What should he do with her? For one, she was too damn great to love to be anything but grateful for her presence and to go about his freighting business. Days were slipping by, and he didn’t yearn to be snowed in on the way back. Dressed, he went for breakfast. With a plate of flapjacks, he found a place to sit on a crate, and she soon joined him after bringing them coffee first.
“How are you?” she asked quietly.
“I am fine. How are you?”
“Still excited.”
“Oh?”
She looked around, then, seeing they were apart from anyone, in a low voice asked, “You are a real lover, is that the word?”
“You ain’t half-bad yourself.”
“When do you load hides?”
“Soon. I don’t aim to sleep in the snow.”
“Can I go along?”
He paused. “We’ll see. You’re a str
ong person, but you belong with your people. Mine are not nice to Indians, in places.”
“Good, but for now I can go with you then?”
“I hope we make contact with them going south on the Bozeman.”
“Maybe we will.”
“Eat. I am going to buy you some clothes to wear today.”
“I wish to please you until we must part.”
“Hell, girl, you have pleased me.”
• • •
They rode into town together. He went by and completed the hide hauling deal. If the Yellowstone River had been higher and shallow paddle wheelers had access to Billings, he’d not have gotten the hides to haul. But Griffin’s desire to sell them in the fall set it all up. They would start loading in two days. Both shipper and hauler were to provide the help. Griffin looked out the window and smiled at the sight of Snow.
“Who is she?”
“A Cheyenne princess.”
“I had an Injun wife—once, back a few years. Wildest piece of ass I ever had before or since. She wasn’t that pretty, but boy she about burned my bedroll up every night.” The hide buyer closed his eyes and almost shuddered standing there.
“What happened to her?”
“She didn’t like living here. She wanted to live the Indian way, and I couldn’t live in a tepee. I’d’ve been the laughing stock of the town. One day, she stomped her foot and told me if I loved her we’d leave here. I couldn’t. That night she left me and I cried.”
“You ever hear from her again?”
Sober-like, he nodded. “Her relatives told me she was killed later at Custer’s battle. Probably fighting beside some of the warriors down there. Some women you just never forget.”
“That’s right. Thursday we load hides?”
“Yes. Would you sell her?”
“She’s not mine to sell.”
“Okay, I understand.”
Slocum and Snow headed for the stores. He wanted her to have two dresses to wear when they headed on the trip south. The two ladies in the dress shop pulled the blinds when he told them he wanted two nice dresses made for Snow.
“What is wrong?”
“Don’t be offended, but some of our clients might quit us if they learned we were making dresses for . . . an Indian.”
