by Jake Logan
Maybe he had things twisted. No telling what was wrong, but he trusted his senses enough to know something was out of place. The wagon train would be there by nightfall. He needed to wire his boss, Sam Oliver. Find this killer Black somehow. Damn—he combed his hair through his fingers and wished he’d taken a bath, gotten a haircut and a shave. Maybe then he could think better. In the middle of the night, that was impossible.
He lay back down on the bed and stared at the dark tin ceiling tiles. Somehow, he needed to sort out his dreams and reality. By five in the morning, he was back at the café sipping coffee from a stone mug—without any answers. The fresh-brewed drink cleared some of the fog in his brain.
Wakely joined him and plopped down in the opposite chair. “You sleep any?”
“Nope.”
“Neither did I. Damn, and I was tired.”
“What do we need to do this morning?”
“I spoke to the mayor. He needs to hire a town marshal till Acuff recovers.”
“He going to recover?”
Wakely nodded. “Doc says so. None of the bullet wounds are real bad.”
“Some good news. I have to send a telegram to my boss in Texas.”
“I’m going to check on everything I can to find Black.”
Slocum cut his fried eggs with his fork and agreed. “Where can I meet you?”
“Jail, I guess. Those damn outlaws scared off the guy that Acuff had hired to guard them. Said they’d get out of there and they’d cut his ears and balls off.”
“Who’s down there guarding them now?”
“Buck Moore. He’s a shotgun guard and the bad thing is, he has to ride stage. But he’s there for now.”
“Those guys are trouble and plenty tough.” Slocum worried about the notion that Wakely had no better help than that guarding the robbers before this Black was caught.
“The circuit judge should be around in the next few weeks,” Wakely said.
“Be good when he gets here.”
“Yes, the sooner I get shed of them the better I’ll feel, especially with Acuff laid up. I been thinking. There’s a shack town down on the river. Black may be down there.” Wakely started to get up.
“Eat your breakfast.” Slocum pointed at the man’s hot plate of food that the waitress had just delivered. “You might miss some sleep, but you don’t need to miss any meals, not as good as this one is.”
“Right. Right.” Wakely punctuated his words with a fork.
After breakfast, they went down to the shack town on the river. Wakely told him it was mostly scum and riffraff that lived in the packing-crate shacks and tents. He had lots of trouble with them stealing chickens and the like.
They rode up to a fat woman standing in the doorway of a dilapidated building. Her melon-sized breasts with dark nipples were poking out of the wraparound robe she wore. Her hair hadn’t been combed or washed in ages, and she looked through it at Wakely when he stopped his horse before her and leaned on the saddle horn.
“Margaret, I’m looking for a guy in his thirties. Kinda stoop-shouldered with blond hair.”
“Clod buster?” she asked, looking at her nails like she contemplated cleaning them.
“Yeah. Where’s he’s from, Slocum?”
“Illinois.”
“I seed him yesterday. He was drunk, and cheap sumbitch wanted a free toss in the hay.”
“And?”
“I told him to go fuck himself. Ain’t nothing free in this gawdamn world.”
“He mention his wife or kids?”
She shook her head, and herded her boobs inside the robe like she thought she should be more respectable talking to the law. But gravity or the lack of material denied her the opportunity to hide them. “He never said nothing but what he wanted, and I told him what I thought. Why? What’s he done?”
“Murdered his wife and kids. He shot Marshal Acuff and he may be wounded.”
“Oh, damn.” Her thick shoulders shook with revulsion, and she swallowed hard behind her double chins. “If’n I’d let him poke me, he might have killed me.”
Amused at her words, Slocum thought Black might have done that very thing, but he never cracked a smile. “You hear anything or see him, send Wakely word. We don’t want him killing any more women.”
“You’re sure right about that. I’ll sure do that.”
Wakely thanked her and booted his horse on down the path through the tall willows. She told them to come back when they needed something.
A hard-eyed breed woman was washing in a wooden tub at the next place. At the first sight of them, she quickly rose and headed for the yellow canvas wall tent, wrapping the wash-worn dress tighter around her thin form.
“Red Moon, hold it,” Wakely said. “I am here looking for a killer.”
She paused at the flap and turned back to look at them. Her coal-black eyes were slanted in the back corners. Her bare brown arms were folded over her flat chest and her copper mouth was tightly compressed. She acted as if she was waiting for more information.
“A man called Black. Farmer in overalls. You seen him?”
She shook her head, and then the rising wind blew the shoulder-length black hair over her face. With her long brown fingers, she drew it back and looked blandly at them. “I didn’t see him.”
“He murdered his wife and kids. He may be wounded. He shot Marshal Acuff last night. Be careful.”
She agreed she would and they rode on.
Wakely looked back when they’d ridden a short ways up the willow-lined sandy trail. Then he turned forward and said, “Her old man’s in the pen for horse stealing. Should get out next year.”
Slocum acknowledged the information.
Their efforts asking others in the shack town about Black turned up nothing. Slocum felt the fugitive could have been hiding anywhere in those bushes and they’d miss him. He wished he had a better description of the man. Stooped-over blond farmer fit way too many folks in that area.
Wakely left Slocum at the telegraph office, then rode on to check on his jail.
SAM OLIVER KERRVILLE TEXAS STOP RANCH STOP GOOD SPREAD STOP WANTS TO SELL NOW STOP FIVE THOUSAND THREE SECTIONS LOTS OF WATER STOP BRING HORSES STOP TOM WHITE STOP OGALLALA NEBRASKA
Slocum handed the paper to the clerk under the green celluloid visor and started to dig in his pocket.
“You Tom White?” The man blinked at his signature.
Slocum nodded. “Code name so no one knows our business.”
“I see. Here’a telegram I’ve been holding for you. Didn’t know who you were.”
Slocum nodded and read the yellow sheet.
FOSTER HAS 2500 STEERS ON THE TRAIL STOP LEFT THREE WEEKS AGO STOP RANCH GOOD STOP YOU BUY STOP SEND NAME OF BANK STOP SEE YOU THERE IN THIRTY DAYS STOP SAM OLIVER
Slocum nodded and pointed to his message. “Add Thompson First National Bank here.”
“I kin do that. Be a dollar and thirty-five cents.”
Slocum paid the man. Oliver would shortly be on his way, coming up to Omaha by boat and across Nebraska by train. He thanked the telegrapher and went outside. He might ride up north and see how the wagon train was coming along. Wakely had enough problems to keep him occupied. Besides, there weren’t many gamblers in town, so finding a poker game might be hard.
Rory should be headed back south from the agency. Take her five days to get back without any trouble on the road. Clouds were gathering in the south. Looked like rain. He went by Sonny’s, washed his hands, and ordered the lunch special. Wakely joined him looking spirited.
“The county commissioners have given me a budget to hire around-the-clock guards at the jail.”
“That’s good news. Who’s the sheriff? Your boss?”
“Lonnie Decker got shot six months ago making an arrest. His widow, Marcy, would have been destitute without his salary. So they made her sheriff and me in charge.”
“What happens next election?”
Wakely shook his head. “I have no idea. Guess I’ll
run for it if you don’t.”
Slocum laughed out loud and then lowered his voice. “I ain’t running.” All he needed was a sheriff’s job. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?
Sonny came out of the kitchen and spoke to them. He hadn’t heard any word about Black, and earlier Doc had told him that Acuff had had a good night.
Wakely thanked him for the information and they ate their lunch in silence.
“Looks like rain’s coming,” Wakely said.
Slocum agreed. “Before I came in here, I saw that cloud bank in the south. I may ride up and see how the wagon train’s getting along. They should be close. Curious about the Indian trouble up there.”
“I’ll see you then,” Wakely said. “I’ll go look around some more for Black.”
Slocum reached across the table and caught his arm. “Remember, he shot Acuff. Don’t take no chances. He’s not worth it.”
Wakely nodded.
Slocum paid for both lunches, and picked his teeth while crossing the street to the bank. He hoped Wakely had heard him.
He found Taylor in his office and showed him the telegram. “My undercover name is Tom White. He’s sending me the money to buy a ranch.”
“Hmm,” Taylor said, looking at him over the telegram. “I’d’a sold him a ranch worth it for less money than this much.”
“You should have told me,” Slocum said. “The deal is cut.”
“May I ask who?”
“I guess bankers keep secrets. The Lane ranch.”
Taylor nodded, but Slocum read the disappointment in his eyes. He was like a man with three aces who gets beat by four deuces. “I can handle the money transfer all right.”
Slocum thanked the man, left the bank, tightened up the girth on Turk, rode out, and used the ferry to cross the Platte. He short-loped the big bay easy, heading north and looking for the wagon train.
13
They were already camped for the afternoon five miles north of town when he found them. He learned that Sergeant McCoy and the troopers had gone back to get Pony Boy and return with him to Camp Douglas, since there was no sign of any renegades in the area. Slocum accepted their hospitality to stay the night and to eat with them. He also noticed Sue Ellen helping the women cooking, but she made no sign to him—acting busy instead. Seated on a shipping crate, he held out his cup when she came by with the pot to refill it.
“You staying all night?” she asked in a low voice, pouring the steaming brew into his tin cup.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Later.”
He looked up, met her blue eyes, and gave her a short nod.
After supper, he told the men with the train about the murders and how Black had shot Acuff and then escaped. His story put grim faces even on the freighters, who’d probably seen enough Indian atrocities in their lives to fill a book.
“The man’s mad,” one called Finley said.
A loud agreement went up that Black needed to be hung.
“First, they’ve got to catch him.”
“Yes,” went around the circle.
In the firelight, seated on the ground, he tried to figure which one in the circle was Sue Ellen’s husband, but to no avail. The men’s features and looks were lost in the deep shadows and red flares. Thunder rumbled and lightning danced high in the southern sky, but he’d decided that the storm probably would not reach them.
“Where you headed next?” one man asked Slocum.
“I’ve got some business to do with Lane, then north.”
“I sure ain’t going back up there and live on the edge of them savages. There’s other farmland,” the man said.
Slocum learned that that was the concern of most of the families in the train. Living on the border was too close to trouble. He couldn’t blame them. They were farmers, not fighters.
Satisfied that the storm no longer threatened them for the evening, he took his bedroll out in the sagebrush near where he’d hobbled Turk, and flung it out to unroll it. In the camp, they were playing a fiddle and a mouth harp. Some couples were dancing. He could see them bobbing and swaying as he removed his boots, then his pants—in case. It was still a warm evening, but he knew that by dawn he’d want his blankets.
The crickets joined the chorus, and he soon was asleep under the burst of stars. He needed to make the deal with Lane— get it settled and move on. He’d been visible long enough around town for someone to recognize him and send word to Fort Scott—those two deputies would come on the run to any telegraph sent to the judge’s office about his whereabouts. He fell asleep.
He awoke when she crawled under the covers, squirmed her slinky body against him, and whispered, “It must be later.”
“Yes, much later,” he said, enjoying her kneading his privates with her busy fingers. “You in a hurry?”
“No. He’s drunk and passed out till morning.” She put Slocum’s hand on her breast for him to fondle it. “Gosh, you’re big,” she said about his privates.
“Too big.”
“No, not for me. Oh, that is a wonderful stick,” she said, bringing his erection up to her expectations.
He heard a hard-breathing horse coming in a dead run. The rider was shouting something. Curious, he put a finger to her lips and sat up to listen. “Something’s wrong. You better get back to the wagons.”
“Oh, shit. I know, I know, I’m going.” She ducked low and ran for the circle. He pulled on his britches over his swollen sore hard-on as he heard the rider clearly ask, “Where’s Slocum?”
Seated on the blankets, he pulled on his boots.
“A man needs you, Slocum,” one of the freighters said, running out to see about him.
“I heard him. What’s wrong?” He strained to get the second boot on as another hard-breathing guy joined the first one.
“Jailbreak. The Yoakem gang busted out or someone helped them do it. They shot things up.”
“How’s Wakely?” Slocum asked, finally getting the other boot on.
“Fine, but he sent me after you to come help him.”
“I’ll be ready in a minute. Need to catch my horse.”
“I’ll roll your bedroll up,” the one from camp said.
“Thanks. I’ll saddle my horse and be ready.”
“Anyone got a fresh horse?” the messenger asked. “I’ll leave him at the livery. Mine’s run in the ground.”
“We’ll get you one.”
On the ride to town, Slocum quizzed the man about the jailbreak. “Did someone come help them get out?”
“Yeah,” the man, named Harry, said as they trotted side by side in the starlight. “A black widow.”
“Huh?” Slocum asked with frown.
“Good-looking wench showed up about yesterday. I mean the Yellow Rose of Texas kind.”
Slocum nodded. “Yeah. I’ve known some.”
“Well, she turned some tricks for twenty dollars.”
“Who in the hell could afford to pay that much?”
“The banker Taylor, Judge Martin, and a rancher named Carey. She must ’a wrung them out. Anyway, she ended up buying guns with the money and must have got them to the Yoakems in jail.”
“Judge Martin? He the circuit judge?”
“Yeah, he came right after you left. Wakely was getting ready for the trial.”
Pained at the manner of the escape, Slocum frowned at the man. “She screwed all three of them in one afternoon and evening?”
“And best I can tell she got twenty bucks apiece.”
“She come in on the train?”
“Slocum, I ain’t sure. There was another stranger, I think, with her. A young guy. But she was so gawdamn good-looking, there ought to be a law against her even being loose.”
“You get her name?”
“Jasmine—Jasmine Carr.”
The name was familiar. Did he know her? New Orleans? Shreveport? Might not have been her name then. Galveston? Why would a high yellow come get those birds out? No telling. Charlie Yoakem might have had a good way o
f getting on and off.
That’s what they always said about a short cowboy named Dike who ran off with a rich rancher’s younger wife down by Austin—he must have had a neat way of getting on and off. Big Tom McRey owned a big spread, was into banking, and had lots of influence in the Texas legislature. They almost put him in as a U.S. senator. After his second wife died, he married a pretty girl named Lisa Bakker from Fredricksburg—her folks weren’t poor.
Big Tom must have been fifty by then and she was just out of her teens. Tom had seven kids, most of them towheaded and by wife number two. So wife number three, Lisa, inherited a family to raise.
Dike Moore was in his early thirties maybe, and five feet two on a tall day. He ran Big Tom’s T Bar outfit on the Pedernales River. No one ran over Dike despite his size. He’d fight like a buzz saw. The ranch hands on the place used to snicker and say behind his back that Dike had a pecker bigger than a stud horse.
Anyway, Big Tom was often off tending to monkey business, besides the fact that he kept two other women in Austin. Dike moved in on him at the ranch house. The next spring, Lisa climbed on the chuck wagon seat with Dike’s newly hired celestial cook Wong after Dike quit Big Tom and signed on to take the Hortons’ herd to Abilene.
When they asked her why she left her rich husband, she’d look around to be sure no one could see her and then show them a bent finger—like a dead pecker. Then she’d smile from ear to ear. “I got me a real one now.”
Besides that, black whores of high class were not uncommon in the West. There weren’t many of them. Most were free spirits anyway. So if Charlie Yoakem had kindled a friendship with some fancy tar-baby-dove, and spent some robbery money on her, she owed him. Besides, men of means, even ill-gotten means, were not that available.
Slocum and Harry reined up at the log jail, and Wakely came out with his hat off, scratching his head, to meet him. “I hate it, but you were right as rain. They must of gotten guns and broke out. I’ll have a posse ready to ride at daybreak.”
“They kill anyone?”
