Slocum and the Tomboy

by Jake Logan

  " ’Cause he’s black and no one else would ever loan a black man money. There’s more,” Slocum said, standing over his shoulder. “Lots more.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  An hour later, they were both collapsed in chairs. Taylor’s own records showed the extent of his extortion.

  Brown used a clean kerchief to polish his glasses. His weak green eyes peered over at Slocum. “And none of them could afford to complain, could they?”

  “Right. In some cases, he loaned them bank funds to pay his demands.”

  “And I never realized this was happening. How could I have been so blind?”

  “He was a slick crook.”

  “Very slick. A man called Carter had a small print shop. Six months ago, he and Taylor got into a loud argument one day in this office. Now I think about it, it must have been over this type of deal.

  “Taylor was upset when the man left, and he said Carter was a deadbeat and would not pay his loan. They found Carter facedown in the Platte a few days later. Coroner’s jury called it suicide.” Brown exchanged a look with Slocum. “You thinking like I am?”

  “Score one up. You can bet the others learned the lesson, too. Talk too much and you end up dead.”

  Brown hooked the eyeglasses frame behind his ears. “I will call these people in in private and assure them that this kind of chicanery is over at this bank.”

  “Good. Now we wait for Taylor’s return.”

  “He should have been tarred and feathered.”

  “Too good for him.”

  “Oh, Slocum—” Brown said as he started to leave. “For all the real citizens in Ogallala, thanks for all your help.”

  Slocum thanked him as well and went down to Sonny’s Café. Rory was there waiting for him at a table.

  “I wondered if you got hung up,” she said, and smiled.

  “I did.” He took a seat and began telling her about Taylor’s shakedowns.

  “He never tried that on me,” she said with a scowl of disapproval. “But I heard Carter spouting off in the saloon one night before he fell in the river. I thought he was mad ’cause Taylor wouldn’t loan him any money. You know how folks get mad over that?”

  “Well, Brown’s going to assure all the folks that Taylor robbed that this is over from now on.”

  “Good for him. What do you figure is holding—” She lowered her voice. “Taylor up?”

  “Him and Yoakem may be arguing. No telling. But every day he doesn’t come makes me believe he may have cut his losses and simply run.”

  She shook her head. “I’d hate to see him get away scot-free.”

  “This deal isn’t over—yet.”

  The blood of sundown drowned the street when they finished supper and stepped outside. Slocum noticed several hip-shot horses at the saloon. “Stay here.”

  “What is—” She looked both ways while he started over and read the brand on the first horse. A large TY—Taylor’s?

  He crossed back to join her. “Those horses are bearing a TY brand.”

  “That’s Taylor’s brand all right.”

  “Go tell Sonny. I’ll get Bob and send word to Wakely. Then you get off the street.”

  “I will not. What will they try?”

  “First, they’ll try to get Yoakem’s men out of jail. Taylor has the key to the bank. So they won’t worry about that unless they know there’s an armed guard inside.”

  “I’ll tell Sonny.”

  “And send word to Wakely about the jailbreak I think is coming.”

  “I will. What are you going to do?”

  “Watch the bank with Bob,” he said. “Tell Wakely we can hold this end of town.”

  She nodded and took off in a run for the café.

  In minutes, Slocum and Bob had rifles ready and the bank’s front door across the street in their focus. The lights were turned out in the shop. They peered out the saddlery’s front window at the dark bank building, some lights reflected in the bank’s front window. Time clicked by slowly.

  Eleven o’clock struck on the shop’s clock. Slocum and Bob watched several men go to their horses and ride toward the jail—two blocks east of their location.

  “You might be right as rain here,” Bob said under his breath.

  Slocum nodded, but was more concerned with how ready Wakely would be for this show of force.

  “What’re you thinking?”

  “Oh, Taylor will show up. When his key don’t work on the back door, he’ll try the front one—”

  The sound of shots came from the direction of the jail. They niggled Slocum, who wished he’d gone up there to assist the deputy. Then two men rode up and dismounted in front of the bank. Obviously, one of them was Taylor, though he was not dressed in a suit. The second man had a rifle drawn, and swiveled around to cover everything in the dark street.

  “Open the door,” Slocum whispered. “Real quiet.”

  “I’ll be right out—” Taylor hissed loud enough across the street while his guard turned toward the bank.

  “Now!” Slocum said, and dove on his belly, took aim out the saddlery’s open doorway, and the man in the street whirled back. Too late. The .44/40 slug took him in the chest and spooked the two horses at the rack. They broke loose and fled.

  Taylor swore and ducked inside the bank.

  “Put your hands up or die!” the bank guard inside ordered.

  Slocum kicked away the rifle of the man in the street, then rushed to the dark doorway where Taylor stood hands high.

  “You’ll never get away with this, Slocum. My men get those others out of jail, they’ll be right back here for the money.”

  Slocum disarmed him and shoved him against the wall. “They haven’t taken the jail yet. Sounds to me like that battle is over, too.”

  “I offered you good money—”

  In disgust, Slocum shoved him through the doorway.

  “I don’t need your blood money. Now let’s head for that jail and we’ll see who’s in charge up there. Get to walking right up Main Street.” Slocum turned to the bank guard. “You better stay here in case we missed one.”

  “The one you shot ain’t going to jail,” Bob said from the doorway. “He’s dead.”

  Slocum acknowledged he’d heard him, and looked back at the bank guard for his answer.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sure glad you got that sumbitch. I’ll lock the door again.”

  “Good. You did your part in here.” Slocum nodded to Bob on his right, who was armed with a rifle, and they walked up dark Main Street behind their prisoner with his hands on top of his head.

  Maybe this whole thing was over. The shooting down by the jail had stopped. Several drunk saloon customers came out to heckle and boo at Taylor when Slocum and Bob marched him past.

  “Taylor—you old sumbitch. I hope you rot in jail.”

  “Yeah, rot in jail, you no-good fucker.”

  “I can see he’s pretty well loved around here,” Slocum said to Bob.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m pleased I won’t be making any more payments to him.”

  “You bastards—I loaned you money when no one else would,” Taylor said under his breath.

  “Yeah, but your interest was too damn high.”

  “Slocum! Slocum! That you?” It was Rory.

  “Yes, ma’am. How’s things at the jail?” He hugged her when she ran up and joined them.

  “Wakely got scratched by a bullet. He’s fine. Those so-called gunfighters rode off when the shooting started, and Yoakem got away, too. Prisoners are still inside. I see you have the ex-banker.”

  “You see Yoakem?”

  “No, it was dark and when the shooting broke out, they weren’t ready for the barrage of rifles that opened up on them from the jail. There’s three of them Texans shot up and two dead horses in the street.”

  “One dead bank robber and Taylor here.” Slocum indicated him.

  “You tell him we’d changed the combination anyway?”

  “Not yet. I was saving th
at for later. He’s had so much good news already tonight.”

  “Tell me one thing,” Taylor said, hands on his head. “How in the hell did you ever find the damn money?”

  “Me and Rory, we were looking for a place to live and she said it had to have a fraidy hole on it or we weren’t moving there. And I’ll be damned, there was the money.”

  “Aw, shit—”

  “I’d say shit to you, too, mister. I’d say it all the way to the gallows for you drowning Carter the printer.”

  Taylor shut up. They walked through the street past the dead horses. Wakely came out of the lighted jailhouse doorway, hat on the back of his head and his arm in a sling. “Well, well, if it ain’t the man himself.”

  “Looks like you had hell down here,” Slocum said, looking around.

  “Not bad. But I hate the fact Yoakem got away.”

  “He won’t get far. No gang. No money.”

  Wakely nodded. “Thanks to you and Rory.”

  “We were just doing our part. You handled this well. How does the new sheriff feel now?”

  “I’m ready to run for office.”

  “Good, see you in the morning.”

  “I guess I’ll buy you some breakfast—at Sonny’s.” The café owner joined them in the street with his rifle in hand.

  “See you then,” Slocum said to all of them, and one of the guards took Taylor inside. Slocum shook Sonny’s hand and thanked Bob as well. Then he and Rory started back down the street for her place.

  “I got some news I been dreading since Wakely handed it to me an hour ago,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Telegram came from Omaha about an hour ago. Said for the sheriff to apprehend one John Slocum and hold him on unspecified criminal charges until two deputies from the circuit court in Fort Scott, Kansas, could arrive here.”

  “What did Wakely say?”

  “We better get him the hell out of here.” She hugged his arm tight as they walked on.

  Slocum nodded and waved at the drunks on the saloon porch. “Night, boys. He’s in jail now.”

  “Yeah,” they slurred loudly.

  “Guess I better pack my bags.”

  “Not till the morning.” She squeezed his arm.

  He laughed and smiled. What the hell? He knew he’d overstayed his welcome. Thoughts of one more night in bed with her receptive body cushioned his disappointment some— better get moving on his mind.

  21

  Under a lantern’s light in the dreary predawn, his plans were to saddle Turk and head west. He left word with Rory for Brown to handle the Lane/Oliver deal. It was raining lightly and windy outside as she helped him in the livery aisle to fill the panniers on the frosty-colored red roan packhorse she’d given him along with Turk.

  “I could pay you,” he said. He came behind her and put his arms around her, resting his forehead on the back of her head.

  “No way. No way. I figure that with you riding him and leading Salty here, you may not forget me right away.”

  “That wouldn’t be easy if I was on board that westbound freight train sounding the whistle.”

  She twisted around and kissed him. “You take good care of yourself.”

  “I always do.”

  “If you ever, I mean ever, need money or help—wire me.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “You won’t, but I still made the offer. You ever get in jail, I’ll bake you a cake with a file.”

  “Can’t tell what I may need.”

  “Don’t pass through here and not stop. That would really make me mad.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Aw, damn, get on that horse and ride before I cry—”

  He slipped on the slicker, stepped up, ducking under the rafters, and took the lead. Bent over in the saddle, he rode out the front doors and into the mist. The dampness swept his face. He never looked back. In a jig trot, he left Ogallala on the road for South Platte. In a day or so, he’d be there. He was moving on up the Platte River Road.

  Two day later, he left no tracks in South Platte’s streets, avoiding the town, and struck out for Fort Laramie. He intended to take the stage road into Deadwood from there. The fort, he knew, was still active, and several settlers’ wagons were camped in the Platte bottoms when he rode through.

  “Slocum? Slocum? That you?”

  He turned in the saddle and recognized Sue Ellen as the woman carrying her dress tail out of the dust. He checked his horses, removed his hat, and wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve.

  “How are you, ma’am?”

  She chewed on her lower lip and looked off in the distance at the rolling hills. “Not good. My worthless husband, Josh, left me—day before yesterday, he pulled out.”

  Slocum dismounted. “Where did he go?”

  “Deadwood, I think.” She dropped her chin and shook her head warily.

  “He say why?”

  “Does a man need a reason to leave a woman when he’s made up his mind to go off?”

  “Guess not. What will you do?”

  She looked around and then back at him. “There sure ain’t nothing here. These folks we came here with are thinking they’d go down into Colorado and look for some land.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I guess go to Deadwood.”

  “You going to try to convince him to take you back?”

  “That’s a woman’s job, ain’t it?”

  “Not if he rode off and left you to fend for yourself.”

  “I can sell the wagon and the mules, get a saddle horse. But—well, are you going up there?”

  “I had thought about it,” he said, slapping his leg with his hat and considering her.

  “Take me along. You won’t regret it.”

  “How hard will it be to sell the wagon and mules?”

  She swallowed. “I’ve been offered a hundred dollars. It ain’t enough, but money’s short.”

  “Better sell them if you’ve made up your mind. I’ll go down to Squaw Town and buy you a horse. Remember, you can’t take much on my packhorse.”

  “Oh—” Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “I know that. I swear you won’t regret it.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour. I don’t want to camp here tonight.” He hoped he’d not regret taking her along. He mounted up. Squaw Town was on the west side of the fort. He nodded to her and set off in a long trot for the village.

  He stopped a breed wearing an eagle feather in a bowler. “Who has a squaw horse for sale?”

  The men gave him a somber look. “You got any fucking whiskey?”

  “Some. You got a squaw horse?”

  “Best gawdamn squaw horse in the whole country.”

  “Show her to me.”

  “Show me the whiskey.”

  Slocum undid the saddlebag tie-downs and drew out the bottle of bonded whiskey.

  “You got best damned—pony in camp.” The breed did an about-face and began a half run in his moccasins across the green grass and small flowers to the lodges and tepees down on the riverbank.

  Every so often, he’d look back to be certain that Slocum was still coming, and then go faster. He went to a black and mostly white piebald and unhitched it from a stake to lead it over. “Gawdamn good squaw pony.”

  Slocum dropped to the ground and walked around the mare. She didn’t look too springy, but she’d have a colt in a few months. He ran his hand over her legs for splints. There were none. He mouthed her and decided she was probably six and she acted broke.

  “Trade you even for her. My whiskey for her.” That was giving ten bucks for her and she wasn’t worth much more. A horse, maybe two bottles, but for a potbellied mare, one whiskey was enough.

  “Need two whiskey for her.”

  “I ain’t giving two for no pregnant mare.”

  “She is open.”

  “Open to what? I bet I can even bump a colt in her.”

  “She not bred
.”

  “Then the devil got her in foal and that’s worse. One whiskey bottle.” Slocum held up the bottle in one hand. “This’s all.”

  “Take her,” the breed said, and stepped over to hand him the lead rope.

  “This your wife’s horse?”

  “No.”

  Slocum handed him the bottle and started to lead away his purchase. Any minute, he expected some squaw to start a tirade over the sale. Little doubt that for a mare she was a good enough buy. He swung by the sutler’s store, bought a saddle blanket, a well-used saddle with new girths and latigo leathers, a headstall, snaffle bit, reins, two bottles of bonded whiskey, and some hard peppermint candy.

  Outside, he tossed the kac on the pony and cinched it down. He finished the job and dropped the stirrup about the time someone stepped behind him.

  “Don’t make a move.”

  His heart stopped. He did not recognize the voice. “All right, what’s your game?”

  “Nothing, you no-good sumbitch. What in hell’re you doing in Fort Laramie?”

  “That you, Jules?” He peered at the unfamiliar snow-white beard.

  Jules pulled some on the white chin whiskers. “It ain’t Mr. Christmas.”

  Slocum cut a hard frown at him. “You didn’t see me here.” “All right, I kin keep a secret.”

  “I can’t say much more than you ain’t seen me to no one. Now, I have a lady waiting on me.”

  “Shit-fire, if that’s so, you get the hell out of here.”

  Slocum nodded quickly. “Another day, another time.”

  “Right, ole pard, and stick it in her for me, too.”

  Slocum mounted up and leaned over to get the mare’s lead. “I will, you old boar hog.” And he rode off.

  With her bedroll and small war bag at her feet, she waited a hundred yards apart from the wagons.

  She turned her head to the side to study the mare. “Wow, how much did she cost me?”

  He stepped down and handed her the leads. “Nothing. We can sell her in Deadwood and make money. Did you sell your mules and wagon?”

  “Yes, and they’re all mad at me for going after him.”

  “Guess it ain’t any of their business.” He glanced in that direction and saw no one as he undid the diamond hitch, put her things on the roan’s packsaddle, re-covered them with the tarp, and snugged it back down again. In minutes, he boosted her on the mare and they left Fort Laramie in a long trot. His shortest stay in the place that he could ever recall. Once across the bridge over the Platte River, he headed north by northeast on the Cheyenne-to-Deadwood stage road. Deadwood was two hundred miles or so away.