by Jake Logan
“Shot one of my new guards, Barclay, in the leg. Doc says he’ll live. Holy cripes, Slocum, that black bitch hit town, screwed a few good men, got the money to buy the damn guns, even lined up fresh horses for them by screwing the hustler down at Top Hat Livery, and did it all in less than a few hours.”
Off his horse, Slocum pulled his pants out of his crotch and arched his stiff back. “She’s what Harry called her, a black widow. Let’s get some breakfast. Sonny should be open.”
“I reckon so. Which way will they head?”
“South or west more than likely. Nothing north of here but Injuns in South Dakota. Use the telegraph. They may ditch their horses and jump on a train headed west.”
“I can do that.”
“Nothing to keep them from cutting across Kansas either. They don’t have any cattle to drive.”
“You’re right. I sure hated to bother you, but I knew you had some good ideas I couldn’t think of.” The two of them started on foot for the café.
“No problem. I’ll tell you about posses. You don’t catch this bunch in two days, send them home.”
“Huh?”
“Hell, they’re all soft guys. After the second day, shake each one’s hand, thank them individually, and send them home. Then, at election time next year, they’ll all vote for you. They’ll be part of your team. You keep them out there longer than that and still don’t get the bad ones, they’ll hate you and consider you inept.”
Wakely clapped him on the shoulder as they stepped up on the boardwalk in the predawn chill. “Thanks. I’m learning.”
Slocum stopped to stretch his arms over his head and test his stiff back muscles. A few more hours of sleep might have been nice. Worse, he hated missing Sue Ellen’s generous visit. Visions of her lithe body squirming under him to meet his every thrust, and riding his stiff dick like a bronc twister, filled his thoughts. Damn Yoakem anyway. With a deep exhale, he followed Wakely inside the brightly lighted eatery.
Where was Rory at? He hoped her freight wagons were safely unloaded and headed south. He had a feeling he’d have to move on from Ogallala shortly, and another reunion with her before he left wouldn’t be bad.
14
The posse of twelve men left town in the light of sunrise. They were armed with rifles, but Slocum knew they’d soon tire of carrying them across their laps. They had kissed and hugged their wives good-bye. Now, fresh-shaven and most wearing business suits, they were ready to capture the Yoakem gang and drag them back like dogs to the judge’s courtroom. But after one night of sleeping on the ground, eating hard jerky and then dust all day, washed down by chalk water—they’d soon weary of this law business.
Wakely had found out from a witness that the gang had ridden north. So they picked up their tracks on that side of town. Slocum was bothered by their direction as he spotted a track of one of the horses with a cracked shoe. He’d at least be easy to follow. Why had they ridden north?
The posse short-loped as if the gang was only a short ways ahead of them. Heads high, they were still fresh when they stopped by the wagon train. No one in that outfit had seen the outlaws pass by.
Slocum was unconcerned about that since the gang had swung wide of the wagons. In minutes, the posse was under way again. Many of the members had already put their rifles in scabbards—much easier to ride that way.
By dark, they were at the Lane ranch. Lane and his crew had gone back to roundup. Slocum wanted to talk to him, but Woman stonewalled him, so he left Lane a note saying he would be prepared to close the ranch deal for Oliver on his return.
They used her cooking facilities to prepare a fat deer they’d shot earlier, made biscuits, fixed German fried potatoes from spuds they bought from her, and sat down to eat a meal at her table. She refilled their coffee cups, and the spirit returned to the men. They joked, teased her some, and talked about the day.
Slocum was pleased. To have such a good setting revive the spirit of the men on the first night was lucky for Wakely. They’d go to bed full and happy. Might extend their worth another day. Slocum excused himself and went to fix a shoe on Bob Goodin’s horse. Bob was the harness and saddle maker in town.
In the stable end of the building, Slocum lifted the pony’s hoof and examined the right shoe under the lamplight. Both front plates were in poor condition, so he fired up the forge. Lane had a good supply of coal, plates, and nails, plus all the tools.
“Sorry I’m so much trouble,” Bob said from the doorway. “I never was much good at blacksmithing.”
“We all have something we can do,” Slocum said, bent over, the left hoof in his lap as he pried off the plate. “I watched you do your part today fixing a couple of girths and a bridle. We’ll put some new shoes on him and you’ll be ready to ride.”
Bob walked back and squatted on the ground by him. “You’re a different guy, Slocum. You could stay here and be elected sheriff. I don’t know what you want to do, but there ain’t much you can’t do. This would never have happened if they’d listened to you. Those guys were bound to break out.”
“Wakely’s all right. He’s sincere.”
“I’m saying you should be our next sheriff.”
“Not running,” Slocum said, and rose holding the old shoe bristling with bent nails.
“I’ll pull the other one off to help you. I can do that,” Bob said, putting on a leather apron.
Slocum grinned. “I won’t argue with you about that. Let me measure one of these new shoes I got out of Lane’s supply, and then I can heat and shape it while you do that.”
“Sooner we get done, sooner we can go to bed. I won’t need anyone to rock me tonight.”
“Not many of the others will either, I’d bet.”
“Where’s this Yoakem headed?”
“Montana, I figure, or Deadwood. Surprised me in the first place they even went north.”
“Man, Montana, that’s a far piece.”
Slocum nodded, looked at the new shoe and hoof he held, and decided it needed to be narrowed to fit Bob’s horse. The strong smell of coal smoke filled the stables. With the new shoe shoved in the red coals, he used the hand-powered blower to feed the fire more air.
Bob soon had the other shoe off, and was shaping the left hoof with a rasp in preparation for Slocum shoeing him. With tongs, Slocum removed the heated shoe and beat on it to close the gap, then carried it over and measured it. Still too wide. He plunged it back in the coals.
“Can I ask one thing?” Bob said, hands on his hips and working out the obvious strain as he went around in circles. “Why you helping us get ’em?”
“Yoakem and his bunch are part of the worthless trash out here. Won’t ever be worth living out here till all of ’em’s gone. Yoakem’s shot up towns. Killed a friend of mine in Kansas once during a holdup down there. Arthur Duncan.”
“But Yoakem’s a Southerner like you are. Bet you and him fought side by side.”
Slocum shook his head, drew the shoe out, and pounded it on the anvil. “War’s been over for years. They ain’t fighting a war, they’re making one.”
“Right. There’s no room for them in the scheme of things.”
“They’re like a rabid dog. You don’t stop ’em, they’ll spread the disease.”
In a short while, he was hammering on the plate and had the nails bent over. Looking at how the horse stood on it, he shared a nod of approval with Bob.
“One more to go.”
Bob went to rasping down the other hoof and Slocum shaped the shoe. It was close to midnight when Slocum went outside and checked the Big Dipper. His nose was full of the acrid coal smoke, and it was good to smell the grassy sweetness on the night wind.
If they didn’t overtake the gang by the next day, this bunch would be gone. Releasing the posse, as he’d told Wakely earlier, would be the best thing to do. Then he and the lawman could decide how they wanted to handle the situation.
“Better get some sleep,” Slocum said as Bob led his horse along.
&nb
sp; “I’m grateful. You ever need a saddle fixed, it’s on me.”
“No problem.”
They parted, and Slocum took his bedroll out into the night. Most of the posse slept inside under a roof. He liked the stars over his own soogans. In a short while, he was asleep, and when the triangle rang, he figured he’d not slept any at all. In the predawn coolness, he rolled up his things and headed for the house. Another long hard day in the saddle was ahead for them. His back and hips complained, but they’d work out. Maybe the posse would catch the outlaws after all.
He went inside the main room to smell the fried ham, sourdough flapjacks, and rich coffee. He needed hot, eye-opening strong coffee to clear the cobwebs out of his brain. The men moaned and groaned, and Wakely took him aside.
“I see what you mean.” He indicated his crew at the long table.
Slocum agreed. This was the day to win or lose.
At noon, Slocum found fresh horse apples and the place where the gang had camped the night before. The notion that they were that close raised his hopes. Squatted beside the small stream, he read the cracked hoofprint. That horse might break down. As scarce as horses were up there, unless they ran into a roundup crew, they’d be riding double or someone would be on foot.
“What’re you thinking?” Wakely asked, walking over after watering his horse.
“Push harder. We may jump them in camp tonight.
“Boys,” Slocum said to the crew. “They were here in the past hour or two. I think they’re going to lose a horse today. That’ll slow them down. If we don’t overtake them by tonight, I think we need to quit. Otherwise, our horses will be too done in to carry us home.”
A grim set of nods agreed. Eyes a little deeper set, jaws clenched, they remounted and left in a trot. Weary horses snorted in the grass, and riders jerked their heads up and rode on.
By late afternoon, Slocum caught some whiffs of cow-chip smoke on the wind. He stood in the stirrups and studied the waving green sea. Had they ridden by them? That smell was coming from behind them.
“What’s wrong?” Wakely asked, pulling his horse up beside him.
“I smelled a campfire. Anyone else do the same?”
“I thought so, too,” Nat Burns said with a thoughtful nod.
“It might be their fire. We need to go back and see what’s up that draw.” Slocum held the horn and shook the saddle astride Turk.
“Could be a settler,” Wakely said.
“Could be anything,” Slocum agreed. “But odds are it’s them.”
“You have a plan?” Wakely asked.
“Circle west. So we can go down there with the sun over our shoulders.”
“I guess they’ll fight?” Bob asked.
Slocum nodded and swung in the saddle. “They ain’t going to prison easy. When we get on the ridge, we’ll form a line and spread out if we think it may be them.”
“Let’s go,” Wakely said, and they rode out.
The jingle of spur rowels and the creak of saddle leather filled the air. Some meadowlarks sang and the shy pokes ran ahead of them darting after insects in the windswept grass. The horses snorted wearily and the men had to urge them, but they soon were near the top of the crest. Slocum told Wakely that they needed to halt and take a look before they rode into sight.
Wakely stopped the posse. “Slocum wants to use his telescope on them.”
Everyone agreed and dropped out of their saddles, gathering reins as Slocum and Wakely hiked for the ridgeline.
Hatless, the two of them bellied down side by side. Several jaded horses stood around hip-shot beneath them. Men lounged on the ground, and a small chip fire made smoke that swirled around whoever stirred it.
“How many are you seeing down there?” Wakely asked.
“Three.” All Slocum could see were Willy Brant, Runt Marley, and Sherman Davis in the eyepiece. No Yoakem. No black widow.
“Yoakem ain’t there?”
“No, and the black widow isn’t here either.”
“They must have split up.”
Slocum began scoping the area around them for any sign. “Or they’re off by themselves.”
“If it was me, I’d have her off by myself, too.” Wakely chuckled. “She was one of those women sucked your breath away.”
“Here, you look. I don’t see a thing.” He gave the man the telescope.
“They look more tired than the posse.”
“We were lucky to get to Lane’s last night or we’d be like them.”
“You’re right. I never thought about that. Next time, I’m taking supplies and some pack animals.”
“Still, two days is enough.”
Wakely took the brass scope from his eye and raised up on his knees. “I won’t ever forget that. Let’s round them up.”
“Let’s.”
The posse formed a line before they went over the ridge, and then with their rifles in hand, they crossed the top with the riders twenty feet apart. They were only to shoot if shot at. With the horses coughing and bobbing their heads, they were over the top and starting downhill before someone in the camp jumped up and pointed at them.
“Throw down your guns,” Wakely ordered. “And raise your hands or die.”
The moment of decision passed through the three outlaws as they considered their odds. Slocum could hear them cursing their luck—but the wide line of riders coming downhill, all armed with rifles, must have dampened their will.
They raised their hands and waited.
“Where’s Yoakem?” Wakely asked, riding up and dismounting with his Colt drawn.
“We ain’t seen him since we left Ogallala.”
“Where was he going to meet you?” Slocum asked, jerking Sherman Davis’s handgun out of his holster.
“Never said.” Davis curled his lip like a snarling dog.
“I ain’t interested in hearing your damn lies. Whether this bunch with me stretches your neck or not between here and town depends on how well you act toward them. They want to know where he’s at.”
“With that black bitch.”
“You ain’t talking nice about a woman who risked her neck to break you boys out.” Slocum found a knife in Davis’s boot and tossed it aside.
“I don’t care. She don’t mean shit to me.”
Slocum took a fistful of Davis’s shirt and drew him up to his face. “I ain’t taking that tough talk from you. I can smash your balls between two rocks and then you’ll sing like a canary up there in the state pen. Where did he go?”
“I’m telling—”
Slocum’s rough shaking cut his protest off.
“We were supposed to meet him in Sheridan.”
“Sorry, you won’t be there.” Slocum shoved him down on his butt. “You three want to live, don’t try anything. These men will shoot you. The guy you shot at the jail was a friend of theirs.”
The subdued trio nodded, and the last two sat down with Davis.
“What next?” Wakely asked Slocum.
“We better go to Camp Douglas tomorrow and arrange transport. They only have two horses to ride.”
Wakely frowned at him.
Slocum indicated the dun horse holding up his front hoof.
“That’s the one we’ve been following?”
“Yes.”
“He’d been sound, you’d never seen us,” Davis said.
“That’s the breaks,” Slocum said. “Wakely, you better figure out a guard shift. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up for mine.”
They left early the next morning. Clouds were threatening rain, and passing showers drenched them throughout the day. The prisoners took turns riding double with Runt Marley, who was the smallest. They grumbled a lot, since they had no slickers, but Slocum shed their complaints like a duck did water. All the misery they had they’d brought on themselves.
Dog-tired, both the men and animals reached Camp Douglas past sundown. Captain Nichols hurried out to meet them.
“You get those outlaws?” he asked.
; “Most of them,” Wakely said, sounding all in. “I’d trade my horse for a hot cup of coffee now I’m here.”
“No problem. Sarge, take these men’s horses. Tell the camp cook we have guests. To rustle up some grub for them.” He looked at the sky in the light of the lantern. “This rain should be by us soon.”
“Well,” Rory drawled. “Ain’t you all a fine kettle of fish.”
“Howdy,” Wakely said, and removed his hat in the light rain.
“You still doing all right?” Slocum asked with a smile.
“Hell, yes, don’t I look it?”
“Sure do.”
“Let’s go to the mess tent,” Nichols said. “My men can take charge of the prisoners.”
The large mess tent was lighted, and the noncom cook and his men were hustling about to prepare a meal. Rory took a seat beside Slocum and the posse filed in behind them.
“How was White River?” Slocum asked Rory.
“That dumb agent up there don’t know anything about Injuns, and it’s a good thing the troopers are up there. He doesn’t trust his Indian police and if it weren’t for Nichols’s noncoms, he’d really have problems. So far, they’ve managed to keep order.”
“Well, that’s good.”
She nodded. “You buy Lane’s ranch yet?”
“No, but I intend to close it soon.”
She nodded as if she understood and turned to Wakely across the table. “Did you get all of them? I couldn’t see in the dark.”
Wakely shook his head. “Yoakem and some black gal split off and they went on.”
“How far away is he?”
“They said he was supposed to meet them in Sheridan.”
“Lord, that’s way over in Wyoming.”
Wakely nodded. “I think Slocum got the straight on that out of them.”
She looked at Slocum and he nodded. Holding his cup of steaming coffee in both hands, he blew gently on the surface. “But I’d about bet good money he goes by way of Deadwood.”
“You going after him?”
“No. I’ve got a job to finish here.”
“I’ll post a reward,” Wakely said. “And I’ll send the posters up there.”
“Why, they’ve got enough wanted posters floating around out here now to wallpaper a twenty-room mansion.” She shook her head in disgust. “He’ll just rob some more banks. Kill some more people. You guys should have got him.”
