by Jake Logan
“One thing, neither you nor I can help them. Brighten up. You still have many miles before you face any more decisions.”
“I will try to work harder and lose myself in helping Jasper cook and feed the men.”
“They enjoy you.”
She shook her head. “They treat me very nice. I feel I am among friends.”
“You are.”
Days were long, and afternoons they stopped so the animals could graze and get ready for another hard pull the next day. Some men took naps. Others repaired harness or wagons. The scouts shot a buffalo every few days, and they were butchered and the meat brought back to camp. The men ate hearty meals of buffalo meat roasted over fires, stewed in vegetables from the garden of a homesteader’s wife they traded with, providing staples she needed or paying her in cash.
There were few fusses among the men. Slocum, like a sea captain, nipped them in the bud and separated the combatants with strong words. That chore as a leader was ever present when working single men, and Slocum had a good handle on the matter. He’d also buffaloed the ones he considered the tougher bullies into minding their own business or getting to walk home.
He spent his days keeping an ear out for any problems. His bed partner said little about the movement of her people and worked hard helping make meals and washing dishes and pots. Jasper considered her an angel sent to help him.
She and Slocum were in bed one night after enjoying the pleasures of their bodies. “Are you going to leave me in Fort Laramie?”
He kissed her proud nipple and smiled. “That’s up to you.”
“What will you do when you reach this village where the wagons belong?”
“Omaha?”
“Yes.” She wormed her nakedness suggestively against him.
“Oh, you are a thrilling woman, Snow. You spoil me. I won’t stay there long.”
“Good, I enjoy you, too.”
He kissed her again, and they went back to making love.
The next day, wheels rolled and a cold rain moved in again. Noontime, the large tent was put up, and everyone without a slicker was soaking wet. They started a fire to dry them out, and Jasper and Snow began the evening meal preparation. On the side of his preparations, he put her to making donuts they called bear tracks.
As the hail popped on the tent’s roof, she was the center of attention. With a long fork she raised each donut from the boiling grease and let it drip a little, then put it on a plate held out by a teamster. When the giant fry pan was empty, she reloaded it with the next ones.
Everyone stood patiently in line, waiting for her to cook the next batch. They teased her some, but all good-natured.
“Do squaws do that at your camp?” someone asked her.
“They would if they knew how and a white man furnished them with an iron pot like this and the lard,” she said.
One wise guy in line said, “I’d furnish it, if you’d marry me, Snow.”
She shook her head “no” and stirred the donuts. Amused, she waved her fork at them. “I don’t want to be your wife.”
“Aw, we’d spoil you.”
She waved them away and turned the donuts over. They were close to cooked.
Those forked out, she started anew on the next batch. A fresh set of wise guys teased her.
• • •
That night on the cot, she shook her head. “Those men could eat a ton of those bear tracks.”
“And flirt with you.” He kissed her, then fondled her hard breasts. The two of them quickly built up steam to join each other’s bodies. She spoiled him. As he entered her and she softly moaned, he knew every man in camp would have given an eyetooth to be in his position. Then they were swept away in passion’s arms and heavy breathing to a whirlpool of fire and, in the end, exhausted relief.
• • •
Travel was good the next day. They reached Fort Reno. There was water and good grazing. Slocum told them they could rest there for a day or so. His farrier wanted to re-shoe some horses, and the draft animals could rest after the long pull. They would soon be at Fort Laramie and then turn east.
He made half the force stay in camp and guard the herd. The other half had a day off to wander over to the fort, drink some liquor, screw a whore that hung around there, or simply sleep. Some did that under the big tent. One driver set up a folding chair and began cutting hair outside the tent. And did lots of business.
Slocum’s scouts had brought Jasper a fat buffalo carcass, and he hung it in a wet canvas wrap so the evaporation would cool it. The boys who helped had to carry buckets of water from the Laramie River and keep the carcass wet so it cooled.
Slocum and Snow saddled up and went to the Indian village east of the fort to talk to the blanket-ass crowd about where her people might be.
“Took . . . them . . . in many . . . wagons to place of Indian gods. They won’t go to Indian Territory until spring.” The old Indian’s halting speech was enough for Slocum.
“They are over in the Black Hills,” he said to Snow.
“How far is that away?”
“Maybe two hundred miles.”
“Could I go there?”
“It won’t be nice. Winter is close. Those people will be exposed, unless they have barracks built for them.”
“I might be able to help them.”
“They also may be miles from there. All he knows are rumors. At Fort Laramie they have a better telegraph connection, and when we get down there maybe I can find where they are.”
“They have one here.” She made an impatient face.
“It hardly works, getting through. Down there we can wire the Department of War and find out where they are.”
“We’d be farther away then, too, wouldn’t we?”
“If we went to find them, they might not be anywhere we look. Wait until we can get dependable contact and we know for sure what the army’s plans are for them.”
“I am impatient, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but you’re cute, acting like that.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You are a hard man to figure out. Maybe we should go to your cot and see what happens.”
He looked around. Clouds were gathering and it would probably rain that afternoon. Good, they could work this out with her on her back. Suited him fine.
And they did that very thing in a fiery fashion in their bare flesh.
Small hail pecked on the tight canvas cover over the wagon’s hoops. Slocum squeezed the cheeks of her small ass and let fly inside of her. Then they kissed like hungry wolves and slept wrapped together as the deluge ran off the canvas sides. He wasn’t interested in giving her up. But he knew that day would come. Oh, hell, he would miss her bad when she left him. But that was his life.
6
Someone outside called his name. “Slocum. Slocum. I need to talk to you.”
“Coming.” He laid a hand on Snow and told her to stay, that he would see what they wanted. Quickly pulling on his pants, he moved the flap aside. “What do you need?”
“Some guy shot two of our men in a fight about thirty minutes ago in a saloon in town.”
“Are they hurt bad and who shot them?”
“Bad enough. He got away.”
“Aw, hell. Saddle my horse and I’ll go see what happened.” He turned back to Snow while the man ran to get a horse for him to ride. “You stay here. You’re safe in camp. I’ll go see what the hell happened down there and be back when I can.” He buttoned up his shirt and tucked it in. She handed him his gun belt and he kissed her for doing that. Then he swept her up and kissed her hard.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” he promised, then pulled on his boots and put on his slicker.
One more quick kiss and he climbed out of the wagon. Two more drivers on horses were bringing him Sitting Bull on the run.
Once he
was mounted, he rode up to the canvas donut in the back of the wagon cover. “Give me the rifle, Snow.”
She had on one of his shirts and smiled when she handed out the long gun. “I will be here waiting.”
With thanks and a wave of his gun, he reined off to join the others. The men led the way, and once in town, Slocum saw the crowd in the street before the false-front saloon. He and his men reined up, and Slocum dismounted and waded through the crowd.
“What happened here?” he asked the noncom in uniform who looked to be in charge.
“Had a shooting, best I can tell. Those two your men?” He pointed across the room.
Slocum saw Arnold Beavers and Harold Sorrel both bandaged up and the doc working on a third.
“Two I can see are. Why?”
“They said some cardsharp was cheating. There was a scramble for guns. The gambler shot them both with his two-shot derringer, then shot that last guy with a .30-caliber Colt from inside his coat. He raked up all the money on the table and headed for hell knows where.”
“He have any backup?”
Arnold shook his head, holding his bandaged arm. “Sumbitch was damn sure quick with that little pistol.”
“What did he look like?” Slocum asked, not worried about his fast draw.
“Forty years old, white sideburns, blue eyes, thick mustache.”
“He talked like he was from back east. He damn sure ain’t Southern.” Harold looked like it hurt him to even talk.
Slocum turned to the men who had brought him there. “One of you can learn the direction he went, one of you go back to camp, send my scouts in here. Tell Snow I went to find this shooter and tell Lacey to watch her till I get back.”
“Come on, there’s a horse taxi out here,” he said to the wounded pair. “Jasper has some painkiller. He’ll take care of you. How much money did he get?”
“We didn’t have much, but the other guy he shot had a few hundred on the table.”
When he looked over at the wounded man, Slocum saw he was too bad off to talk to. The doc was still working hard on saving him.
Slocum spoke to the bartender next. “What happened?”
“Someone won and that gambler flew off the handle, went to cussing and used his hidden pistols on those two, then he dropped them and drew a .38, shot the other guy. His name’s Don Ackers and he owns several ranches and businesses up here.”
“What made him that mad?”
“I don’t know.”
“He ride in on a horse?”
“I think he stole a cowboy’s horse out there at the hitch rail.” The barkeep shouted at the three men on the end of the bar. “Did he get one of your horses?”
One of them answered, “Yeah, and my saddle, too. He’s a watch-eyed bay horse. Gelding, about six years old. Has a YX brand on his right shoulder. That saddle was made in Texas and cost me two months’ pay.”
“What way did he ride?” Slocum asked
“West.”
Slocum shook his head at the man. “Big help. I never met him on the road coming in.”
“He rode off to the west. I saw him.”
Slocum turned to the bartender. “Give me a beer. My scouts will be here shortly, and they can track a pissant.”
“Get a sandwich over on the free bar.”
The man served him a foamy mug, and Slocum took it to the free lunch counter. There was lots of coarse bread. He chose the rye bread, cheese, sliced ham, and put some mustard on it. The first bite was good.
A town marshal arrived in his black suit and tie. “What the hell happened in here?”
“They took the worst one up to Doc’s,” the bartender said. “They stole that cowboy’s horse and saddle.”
“Who did it?”
“Hell, ask them. He must be halfway to Montana by now,” the bartender said.
“Listen, I can pull your damn license in one sweep of my pen.”
“Do it. See how long you wear that badge. These men know what happened. Ask them.”
The marshal stepped over to where Slocum stood eating his sandwich. “What do you know about this?”
“He shot two of my teamsters. The doctor treated them and I sent them back to our camp. My scouts are coming. You don’t shoot my men and get away with it.”
“This is a matter for the law to handle, mister.”
“The sumbitch rode off with that cowboy’s horse. How’re you going to get him back standing here?”
“I’ll put a wire out and they will get him.”
“Yeah, that will really help.” Slocum shook his head in disgust and took another bite. The man was crazy. He hoped his scouts came soon and that they’d learn where the gambler went. The law wasn’t about to apprehend him. He finished the beer and put the mug on the bar. The lawman had gone outside, and when Slocum stepped onto the porch, he was chewing out a person on the boardwalk.
His sandwich consumed, Slocum went across the street and spoke to an old Indian sitting on the ground. He squatted down on his haunches. “Chief, you speak English?”
The man nodded.
“The man who ran out and stole the watch-eyed horse, where did he go?”
The old man leaned forward. “That way. Him turn at second street and go north.”
Slocum gave him three quarters and thanked him. The wrinkle-faced old man smiled at his reward. Then he sat back and closed his eyes.
Hearing riders coming, Slocum went over to his own horse. He swung into the saddle as they reined up.
“Where’s the shooter?” Buster asked.
“He rode a stolen watch-eyed horse, went west to the second street and turned north.”
They nodded and hurried in that direction. The gambler must have gone toward the Bozeman Trail. The four charged up the street, headed north. On the way, they stopped several men on the road and learned he was an hour or so ahead of them. No surprise to Slocum.
He and his men pushed their horses. They had four hours left until sundown. To close the gap, he kept the horses in a long trot, and they reached a fork in the road. Johnson pointed east and they followed his lead. The team split up in the small settlement they came to, to see if they could find the gambler and the horse. Indian Joe whistled, and they all tore out to find him on the north side of the cluster of buildings.
Slocum reined up and saw the man holding a pistol to a woman’s head and dragging her out in the yard of a house.
“She’ll die. She’ll die.”
“Put the gun down,” Slocum ordered. “You kill her, we’ll kill you in less than thirty seconds.”
“I’ll kill her, if you don’t drop your guns.”
“We aren’t going to do as you say. Drop your gun.”
“Please, mister, he’ll kill me,” the woman cried.
“Take that gun off her.” Slocum kept coming
“I’m going to kill her, if you come one step closer—”
Slocum shoved the kidnapper backward, and the woman broke loose. The pistol went off in the air. Slocum got hold of the man’s gun-hand wrist and carried him to the ground. From on top of the man, he wrenched the revolver from his hand. His men helped the sobbing woman to her feet. Whethers brought a rope to tie the captive’s hands behind his back. They soon had him trussed up and facedown on the ground.
“Slocum, you had lots of nerve taking him on,” Whethers said.
He shrugged off the comment. “He wasn’t going to shoot anyone.”
“He shot those boys of ours.”
“Where he wounded them wasn’t where a real killer would have shot them.”
“What do we do with him?” Buster Johnson asked.
“He’s a damn horse thief.”
“I’ll make a noose.”
“Good. There are some cottonwoods up the valley. Whethers, get the money he has on him.
Most belongs to the man he shot, is what I understand.” Then Slocum removed his hat. “Did you know this man, ma’am?”
“No. He busted into my house.”
“He tell you anything?”
“Said he was on the lam and I must hide him. I was so scared I am still shaking.”
“I am very sorry, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Mrs. Kelly. My husband is up in Nebraska. He’s a freighter.”
“This man won’t ever bother you again. I promise you, Mrs. Kelly.”
“Could I thank you? I thought both of us would die in my yard.”
“No need. He shot two of my men back by the fort.”
In a small voice she asked, “Could you hold me, so I stop shaking?”
“Yes.”
“Let us go inside, so gossips don’t see us.”
He had to duck his head to enter through her low front door. There was a kitchen chair lying on the floor. Otherwise, it was a neatly kept house. In his arms, he could feel her trembling.
“I’m sorry that he picked on you to scare.”
“Oh.” She shivered as he held her tight to him. “I don’t know what I will do. Kelly won’t be back for several weeks.”
“I can stay awhile, if you want me to.”
“I feel much more secure in your arms. Please stay.”
“My men have work to do. Excuse me for a minute?”
“Surely.”
Buster had the prisoner on a horse, and the others mounted up.
“Return the money to the man at the doctor’s or to his family, and return the cowboy’s horse. She’s very shaky. I plan to comfort her for a while. Meet you later back at camp.”
“She’s very upset,” Johnson agreed. “We can handle this.”
The three men nodded.
“Your horse is in her barn, unsaddled and fed,” Indian Joe said. The three scouts rode off.
The sun was setting as they headed for the cottonwood gallows. Slocum stepped back inside, and Mrs. Kelly hugged him with a shudder.
“What will they do with him?”
“He’s a horse thief. The law says hang him.”
“I understand.”
He closed the door.
“Are you married?” she asked.
