by Jake Logan
That said, he hoped to hell they weren’t some other tribe. Most others hated the Apache, and any poor soul who was a friend to them.
He thought he heard a few hushed whispers, then a grumble and a grunt.
And then, a somewhat familiar voice spoke out, also in the Apache tongue. “Slocum! Is this truly you? It has been many years since our trails crossed.”
“Come and sit beside our fire, Geronimo. I will add more beef to the pot.”
“We come.”
Slocum lowered his rifle and signaled Jack to do the same. In fact, he told him to put it under his blanket.
“Underneath? Why?”
“Do it, if you still wanna have it in the morning, okay?” Slocum growled softly while he quickly stashed his own in the same manner.
When the Apache began to come in a few moments later, Jack was as scared as he ever had been in all his born days.
There were only five of them altogether, but they looked fierce, like wild animals caged too long and too cruelly. And they were on foot. He wondered how long they had been without horses, and slid a glance toward his mare. She was still all right, but he saw one of the braves give her the once-over.
Slocum was still talking to one of the men. Now, he remembered that he’d heard the name before—when Slocum had said it just a minute ago—but he would have recognized it in any case. It was Spanish for Jerome, but more than that, Geronimo was a name to be feared no matter who or where you were.
And especially, he thought, when you were trapped in an ancient adobe wreck of a pueblo with only one other white man there to help you. And that white man was, as Jack sat there, patting Geronimo on the back and taking a swig of some Apache drink or other.
Slocum turned toward him and held it out. “Real tiswin, and it’s mighty fine. Care for a swig?”
“N-No th-thanks,” Jack stuttered.
Slocum laughed, said something in Apache, then all the men—not including Jack—laughed.
He supposed he was being made fun of. Well, fine. Let them make sport of him. Just please, God, he silently urged, don’t let them scalp me.
4
The stew barely managed to go around, but Slocum supplemented it—with every damn thing he’d bought in Tucson for Jack and himself for the three-day trip, including half an apple pie.
He was especially annoyed to see that go.
But it appeared that the group hadn’t eaten in some time. They shoveled in the food like they were starving, at any rate.
There was no talk during dinner. Right after, though, Geronimo thanked Slocum for the food—and said that the stew was too salty. Slocum just smiled, although he cursed on the inside. Damn stupid Apache! That stew had been perfect! Well, as perfect as he could make it, stretched out like that anyway.
Geronimo offered to stand guard through the night—to have one of his men stand guard, that was—and although Slocum objected, Geronimo won the argument. It didn’t stop Slocum, though. He lay awake all through the night, keeping an eye on things, and didn’t doze off until the Apache quietly pulled out, predawn.
“Bastards didn’t even bother to say good-bye,” he grumbled before he fell asleep.
When Jack woke up, the first thing he did was check for his rifle, and the second thing was to look for his horse. They were both right where he’d left them, and he let out a long sigh of relief. There was no sign of the Apache. But there was no sign of Slocum either. He propped himself up on an elbow so he could see out a window. Nothing.
“Hey, Slocum!” he yelled.
Right in the middle of the word “Slocum,” there was a rifle shot—pretty close by, too—that had Jack up on his feet, rifle in hand, in a matter of seconds. He scurried across the ruin and peered out the doorway, his rifle up and ready, but he immediately relaxed. Slocum was walking toward him through the brush, a dead jackrabbit swinging from his hand.
Breakfast!
They rode throughout the day without further interruption from Indians, although Slocum noticed that Jack kept twisting his head like an owl, trying to scan all horizons at once. Slocum had to chuckle under his breath. He figured he ought to tell Jack that if he’d survived spending the night—and sharing a meal—with Geronimo, he wasn’t likely to be attacked.
He wasn’t likely to have a hair on his head so much as touched either. For one thing, Apache didn’t scalp. And for another, sharing a meal with Geronimo was, to the Apache, something like having a sandwich with Jesus.
But he’d wait until tonight to tell him. He was having too much fun watching the boy’s head twist back and forth, back and forth.
And each time they stopped to rest the horses and water them, a sore-necked Jack was as jumpy as a jackrabbit, starting at every snap of a tortoise-crushed twig or flap of a sparrow’s wing.
Slocum just kept watching and grinning.
They made good time, and camped for the night around thirty miles south of the Rio Salado, called by some the Salt River. Slocum figured they’d make it into Phoenix on the morrow. In the meantime, they dined on what little hardtack Slocum had saved back, and drank coffee. Cup after cup of it, just to fill out the hollows.
And when it was time to go to sleep, neither man could.
“I got the solution,” said Slocum and dragged himself up out of his bedroll. He went to the horses, rummaged around in his saddlebags, and came back with a pint bottle of whiskey. He uncorked it. “Reckon we need to put this to some use,” he said, took a swig, and handed the bottle to Jack.
Jack drank long and hard from the bottle, handed it back, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good thinkin’,” he said. “Thanks.”
Slocum noted that half the bottle was gone. “No more for you, Jack Tandy. I ain’t gonna spend tomorrow ridin’ in circles with a drunk.”
Jack nodded and settled back down in his blanket while Slocum took another pull on the pint bottle, then tucked it away. He pulled his last cigar from his pocket and lit it. The whiskey had worked. On Jack anyway. He was already nodding off. But Slocum had enough wakefulness left in him to go through half a cigar and carefully stub it out for later.
A man never could tell when a good cigar—or half of one anyhow—was going to come in handy.
When he awoke, Jack was still sound asleep, and the sun’s morning rays—yellow, pink, and magenta—were just beginning to creep over the eastern horizon.
He lay there for a moment, allowing himself to drink in the beauty of it and wondering, not for the first time, why sunrises and sunsets in Arizona could be so glorious when the days were nothing but blistering hot.
At last, he got up, got the fire going again, and made coffee. He thought he could be excused. There was still a little nip in the air from the night before.
After he’d grained and watered the horses, he came back to the fire and gave Jack’s boot a kick. The kid woke with a start and reached for his gun, only to find Slocum’s booted foot stepping down on his wrist.
“Oh,” he said, looking up sheepishly. “Guess I’m still jumpy from those Apaches.”
“Those Apache,” corrected Slocum. “No s to it.”
“Oh,” Jack said again. “Sorry.”
“Don’t ’pologize to me. Apologize to the Apache.”
Jack was rubbing his wrist. “Don’t believe I will, if it’s the same to you.”
“Might want to reconsider that.” Slocum indicated off to the left.
“Oh, my God,” muttered Jack. Five braves, mounted this time, were riding toward them. “Not again!”
Slocum raised his hand in greeting. “Hope they ain’t lookin’ for breakfast. We’re fresh out.”
“Maybe they’re looking for scalps,” whispered Jack.
“Apache don’t take scalps.” Slocum figured that maybe it was time to straighten the kid out. But it would have to wait. Geronimo himself came trotting up to the camp, followed at a respectable distance by the rest of his small party.
He spoke Spanish to Slocum this time, and after
the requisite greetings were exchanged, Slocum admired his horse. “Nice gelding,” he said in Spanish. “Good legs.”
Geronimo nodded curtly. “He will do.”
“Step on down, step on down. You boys care for a cup of coffee?”
“You have food?”
Slocum shook his head sadly. “No, sorry. ’Fraid we ate it all the other night.” He expected the Indians to ride out, but instead, Geronimo dismounted.
As if he had signaled them permission, the other four dismounted, too. Geronimo said, “We will share with you, then.” In Apache, he told the other braves to come in, and to bring their game with them.
And into the camp they came, bearing quail by the string, rabbits, and a couple of snakes. Slocum noticed Jack making a face when the Apache brought out the snakes—rattlers, both of them—but he shot him a look that said, Shut up if you want to keep on livin’, and Jack let his face go blank and his gaze drop.
A wise young man, Slocum thought.
With all the Apache plucking or skinning, then gutting the game, it was ready to cook in no time. Slocum brought out his skillets, Geronimo’s men made spits to roast most of the quail, and the meat was done in no time. As they had the other night, the Indians drank only water with their meal, so Slocum and Jack had the whole pot of coffee to themselves. Jack even took himself a small piece of snake—just to appear sociable, Slocum thought—and managed to down it without gagging. He did a whole lot better with the quail and jackrabbit, Slocum noticed.
And all the while, Slocum watched Geronimo’s horses. They were newly pilfered from some poor rancher, he figured. All the mounts were fat and healthy. It was his guess that Geronimo’s boys had picked out the best to butcher, while they were at it. Just in case.
“You stare at our horses, Slocum,” Geronimo said. “Why? Do you want to trade?”
Slocum shook his head. “Just wondering if you’d like some water for them.”
“No. We have water. We will see to it later.”
The horses looked parched to him, but he knew better than to argue with an Apache, especially this one. He just nodded and let it slide.
He was much relieved when Geronimo at last stood up—and all his men with him—and walked toward their horses. And even more relieved when they broke out their water and let their horses drink deep.
Afterward, they jumped on their mounts, waved good-bye, and took off toward the east.
Jack, who had remained silent throughout the visit, breathed, “Jesus God.”
Slocum looked at the mess of bones the Apache had left, and said, “Yup.” Ignoring the half cigar in his pocket, he rolled himself a quirlie, lit it with a twig from the fire, and settled back with his last cup of coffee.
“H-How can you be so c-calm?” stuttered Jack.
“Practice,” said Slocum after a draw on his quirlie. “Just practice.” He began clueing Jack in on Apache fundamentals.
“And so, you don’t need to be so skittish, long as Geronimo’s the one hauntin’ this particular plain,” Slocum said, by way of closing. He thought he’d remembered everything. “That’s all there is to it. Feel better now?”
Jack, who had sat silently through the explanation, grudgingly said, “Some, I guess. But that don’t change the fact that Apaches—I mean Apache—killed my uncle and his wife. They was good people. They didn’t deserve it.”
“Nobody deserves bein’ killed,” Slocum replied. He stared at the ground. “Especially by the Apache. But it happens, Jack.” He lifted his gaze. “And you, you’d best start learnin’ Spanish. They all speak it. The other night, I think Geronimo slipped up ’cause I started it. Talkin’ Apache, I mean. But generally, they think it dirties their tongue to talk it to an outsider. You followin’ ?”
“Yeah. I gotta learn Spanish.”
“Good man.” Slocum dumped out the last of his coffee, long gone cold, and hauled himself to his feet. “We’re burnin’ daylight. Best be goin’.”
As Slocum gathered up his bedding and headed toward the horses, he heard Jack coming up behind him, dragging his feet. He supposed that Jack wasn’t too happy about the visits from Apache, but there was nothing Slocum could do about it. Out here, you just had to deal with things as they happened. And you had no control over when and where they might take place.
Slocum decided to take one last piss, and as his urine spatted against a rock, he heard Jack behind him, relieving his bladder as well. Come to think of it, Jack hadn’t got up to take a leak since Slocum woke him up! The guy must have a cast-iron bladder—that was all he could figure.
Slocum was finished, buttoned up, and on his horse long before Jack was finished pissing, though. That cast-iron bladder of his must’ve had pleats in it, like an accordion.
Slocum waited until Jack was finished and up on his horse before he said, “Ready?”
When Jack nodded, Slocum reined Rocky around and said, “Well, let’s go!” At a lope, he set off north. Jack was right behind him.
5
Dusk was coming on when the two rode into Phoenix. The Territorial Capitol was up at Prescott—for the time being, at least—but Phoenix was getting along just fine. The U.S. Marshal’s Office was up at Prescott, too, but that didn’t mean that Phoenix wasn’t a center of strength in law enforcement. The Territorial Capitol, in fact, moved back and forth between Phoenix and Prescott with disturbing frequency, causing some to call it “the Capitol on wheels.”
Of course, none of this mattered much to Slocum. He still considered most of Arizona to be wild country. They had cavalry chasing Apache, Apache chasing cavalry and everybody else who happened to be in the way, rustlers robbing ranchers blind, wild mining towns still springing up all over the place and dying just as quickly, and everybody shooting each other with wild abandon.
In short, it was wild and it was woolly—just the way Slocum liked it.
When in a new town, it had become his policy to always pick a good whorehouse and settle in there before he did anything else, and so he led Jack down whorehouse row—a street lined with grand Victorian houses and adobe casitas alike whose inhabitants all had two things in common: they were all female, and they were for sale.
He stopped in front of a big Victorian that was new—at least, it hadn’t been there the last time he was in town—dismounted, and tied Rocky to the rail.
“What you doin’?” asked Jack, who had been silent for a very long time.
“I’m gonna to go get m’self laid,” Slocum replied. “What’d you think?”
“Oh. Well, hell, I can afford it this time!” Jack was off his horse in two shakes, and headed for the front door in three.
The house was painted in full Victorian getup, with a pink body and the fancy bits done in red and green and white and purple. It looked like a four-star whorehouse to Slocum anyway. He smiled as he followed Jack, who was busy ringing the bell and trying to peer through the curtains on the door’s window.
At right about the time that Slocum started up the steps, a comely young lady, dressed in nothing but pantaloons and a wrapper, opened the door. He heard her say, “Well, hello, handsome.”
He heard Jack say, “Holy cow!”
He couldn’t agree more. He came up behind Jack, and said, “You open for business?”
“Oh, you’re handsome, too! This must be our lucky day.” She stepped backward, swung the door in wide, and ushered them into a garish but well-appointed parlor. Several girls, all in various states of undress, lounged in the stuffed chairs and settees that ringed the walls, and on the ottoman at the room’s center.
Again, Jack muttered, “Holy cow!” and clumsily—and belatedly—took off his hat.
Slocum grinned. To the gal who’d opened the door, he said, “This place new? Don’t recall seein’ it last time I was through town.”
“Yessir,” she replied, all doe-eyed. “We had our grand opening ’bout a year and a half back. Course, now we’re under new management.”
“New management?”
“Yessir, Miss Katie runs the place now. Mrs. Sloan went back East. She was before Miss Katie.” The girl batted her eyes at Slocum, and beside her, Jack’s posture stiffened.
“This Katie. She have a last name?”
“Sullivan, I think. Is it Katie Sullivan, Marcy?”
A blond girl on the ottoman sat forward. “Who’s askin’?”
Slocum nodded, smiling. “Name’s Slocum, miss. Like to know who I’m doin’ business with, that’s all.”
“Might be Sullivan. Might be Dogturd. All I know’s she pays me every week.”
“Watch your mouth or it won’t flap for much longer,” said a new voice, which belonged to a buxom, leggy woman who was just coming up the hall from the back of the house. Redheaded and freckled, her blue eyes danced from girl to girl to girl as if she were tallying them up.
Maybe she was.
Slocum took a step toward her. “Miss Katie Sullivan, I assume?” He took her hand and kissed it. It was as pale and freckled as the rest of her, and she had the prettiest long fingers.
She tipped her head as she studied him. “I take it you’re Mr. Slocum?”
“It’s just Slocum, if you don’t mind, miss.”
“And it’s just Katie, all right?”
“All right, Katie,” Slocum replied with a smooth smile. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jack watching him, open-mouthed. Slocum supposed he had the right. He’d said more to Katie in the last three minutes than he’d said all day on the trail. “I wonder ... Would you do me the honor of goin’ upstairs with me?”
Two of the girls slapped hands over their own mouths, and another dropped her cigarette on the floor.
“Don’t mind if I do, Slocum,” Katie said, smiling warmly, and put her arm through his. “Don’t you burn my rug, Charlene.”
Halfway up the stair, and blocked from the sight of the girls, Katie whispered, “Slocum, you old liar! How come you didn’t want the gals to know we knew each other?”
