Slocum and the Big Timber Belles

by Jake Logan

  “Yeah. He was countin’ on Mac to drop them two hunters what got away.”

  Cochran stood up. They left the cabin together and walked across the greensward to Valenti’s cabin. There was smoke coming from the tin chimney by then, and they could smell the burning pine. Lantern light shone through the worn-out, moth-eaten burlap that covered the windows.

  Pettibone and Cochran entered Valenti’s cabin with its thick musk of sweat and stale whiskey mingled with the aroma of burning firewood filling the crowded room with a masculine stench.

  “Close the door, Jimmy,” Valenti said.

  Cochran pulled the door shut and latched it.

  “It looks like we lost Angus last night,” Valenti said. “He didn’t come back and so I figure he either got himself killed or he’s lyin’ in the timber with a broken back.”

  “He might have decided to stay in town,” Crowley said.

  “No, not Mac. I told him to put out the lamps of them two hunters and get right back here. He wouldn’t buck me on that.”

  “Bruno’s right,” Wicks said in his thin quavery voice. “Mac was a good soldier.”

  They all looked at Wicks, who seldom spoke out. But they all knew that when he did speak, he had something to say.

  “No, something’s happened to Mac,” Valenti said. “And that means we can’t stay here no more. I don’t know no place what’s got old abandoned cabins, so we might have to sleep under the stars tonight.”

  There were murmurs and grumblings among the men, but none spoke out to object.

  “We’ve bunked out in the open before,” Valenti said, “and it would only be for one night.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll freeze our balls off up here in the mountains,” Cochran said.

  The men laughed. All but Valenti.

  “We might find us some caves along them limestone bluffs,” Valenti said. “Either way, we got to get the hell out of this place. If Mac didn’t kill them two hunters, and they’re still alive, they’ll tell the law just where their partner got killed. So we got to light a shuck and be pretty damned quick about it.”

  “How quick?” Crowley asked.

  “As soon as we can pack up. About daylight.”

  “Well, that shouldn’t take long,” Cochran said. “We ain’t none of us got a whole hell of a lot to pack.”

  “That’s right,” Pettibone said.

  “Keep your voices down,” Valenti said.

  They all stopped murmuring among themselves.

  “Before we pack out of here,” Valenti said, “there’s one more thing we have to do.”

  He let the words sink in. He waited several seconds, his gaze scanning each of their faces.

  “What thing?” Pettibone ventured, his voice pitched low and laden with apprehension.

  “We got some excess baggage,” Valenti said. “Baggage we got to get rid of.”

  “What baggage?” Crowley asked in all innocence.

  Valenti shook a ready-made cigarette out of a pack he had in his pocket. He picked up a shaved stick of kindling, opened the gate of the potbellied stove, stuck it in. When the faggot ignited it, he touched it to his cigarette and pulled smoke into his mouth and lungs.

  “The Crow,” he said.

  Murmurs broke out again. Valenti held up a hand to silence them.

  “We don’t need ’em no more,” he said. “And we can’t just turn ’em loose. We got to kill their red asses, every damned one.”

  “Jesus,” Cochran breathed, and there was a touch of the Irish brogue to the exclamation.

  The room went silent again.

  Valenti looked at each man and puffed on his cigarette. Crowley pulled a plug of tobacco from his shirt pocket and bit off a chunk. Pettibone shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Wicks seemed to turn pale under the light of the lantern hanging from a hook above him on a ceiling beam. Cochran swallowed and ran fingers through his tousled shock of red hair.

  “So, I want you all to get your rifles, real quiet-like, and come back here. We’re going to walk over to that Crow camp and surround them teepees. I’ll give a whistle when we’re all in place. You open up with your Winchesters and Henrys and blow holes in them teepees. Anybody who comes out, we drop him. No mercy. I want it quick and dirty. I want them Injuns to all go to the Happy Hunting Ground before daybreak. Got it?”

  The men all nodded and some grunted in assent.

  “Be back here in five minutes,” Valenti said. “Bring plenty of ammunition. They’re aren’t many of ’em, but I want ’em all dead.”

  The men filed out of the room, all but Pettibone. He went to the corner and grabbed his big Henry Yellow Boy. He worked the lever and a cartridge shot into the firing chamber.

  Valenti picked up his Winchester ’73, and chambered a round. He patted his six-gun and picked up a box of ammunition, stuck several cartridges in his pants and shirt pockets. Pettibone opened a fresh box of ammunition for his rifle and stuffed his pockets full.

  In the distance, a crow called, and both men stopped to listen.

  “Reckon that bird is a-tryin’ to warn them redskins?” Pettibone said.

  “It’s just a damned bird.”

  “It’s a crow.”

  “Crow or jay, them Injuns is sleepin’. And I aim to see they don’t none of ’em wake up.”

  The two stepped out of the cabin, into the chill. The sky was filled with stars and there was a fingernail of a moon just above the treetops. It was very quiet. In the distance, they looked at the teepees, all in a circle. No smoke rose from the smoke holes and there was no one on guard.

  It was so quiet, they could hear their own breathing, and the squawk of the flying crow died away in the faint glow of the dawn.

  22

  One by one, Valenti’s men all streamed back to where he and Pettibone were waiting. All were armed to the teeth, their jaws set tight and eyes glittering in their sockets like lambent coals on a banked fire. None of the men spoke, but stood with their rifles slung over their shoulders or standing at their sides, butts down.

  Valenti counted them without speaking.

  Then he nodded and began walking toward the teepees. The men trailed after him in V formation, like geese on the Mississippi Flyway. They tried to walk on the grass and avoid the rocks and gravel. One of the Crow ponies, grazing just inside the timber, lifted its head and whickered softly.

  Valenti’s face hardened and his lips moved with a silent single-word curse that none could see.

  He motioned to some of the men to surround the teepees. He stopped at the entrance to Two Knives’ lodge and directed, with a hand signal, for Pettibone to cover the entrance to another teepee.

  Then Valenti waited until he no longer heard any footfalls. He listened for any sound coming from Two Knives’ lodge. The teepee was as silent as a tomb.

  He put two fingers to his mouth, and let out a piercing whistle.

  Then he brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired a shot through the flap. Explosions boomed from all around the teepees. A man screamed in pain, one of the Crow.

  Valenti moved his barrel and fired again, then levered another cartridge into the chamber and fired at another place inside the teepee. He saw something move the entrance flap and he fired again. He heard a sound like a slap and then a hard thud as the brave fell back.

  The shooting was loud and long.

  Some of Valenti’s men shouted, and from one teepee came the sound of a Crow singing his death song. More shots and the song stopped. Blood seeped from beneath the skins of some of the teepees.

  The guns went silent.

  Valenti moved off to his left.

  “All right,” he shouted. “Now shoot their ponies.”

  The men walked into the timber and reloaded. They began firing at the paints, and the horses screamed like tortured women. Some of the men wept at the sight of the slaughter. There were loud thuds and angry whispers, and a deafening silence afterward.

  “Jake,” Valenti called out, “you and Jimmy
go back to my cabin and light some wood. Bring the torches back here and burn down these teepees.”

  “Ain’t you goin’ to check to see if we got ’em all?” Pettibone asked.

  “We got ’em all. Do it, and do it right now. I want to be riding out of here before that smoke tells everybody in creation where in hell we are.”

  “Come on, Jim, let’s light some torches,” Pettibone said. The two men took off at a run toward Valenti’s cabin.

  The other men came out of the timber and stood next to Valenti.

  “A hell of a thing,” Crowley said.

  “It’s awful quiet, ain’t it?” Wicks said.

  “We’ll just wait here until Jake and Jim get back and light up these wigwams,” Valenti said. “Then we’ll all saddle up and ride to the high country.”

  Wicks stood there, almost invisible, quiet and barely noticeable. His face was expressionless and his eyes as dull as dirty marbles.

  “The rifles are plumb hot,” Cochran said finally.

  “Piss on the barrel,” Valenti said.

  “Oh, I ain’t complainin’, Bruno,” Cochran said. “I ain’t had so much fun since the hogs ate my baby brother.”

  Nobody laughed at his tired old joke.

  Pettibone and Crowley returned with makeshift torches and began to set fire to the hides covering the teepee poles. They went to each one and then tossed the faggots inside two of them.

  “All right,” Valenti said, “saddle up.”

  The men walked back to where their horses were hobbled. They gathered them up, saddled them. They brought their bedrolls and saddlebags from their cabins and attached rifle scabbards to their saddles.

  When they were all mounted, Valenti pointed to the ridge above them.

  He turned and saw the burning teepees. The lodge poles had caught fire and flames rippled up their lengths like some diabolical liquid. The dried hides crackled and fumed. White smoke billowed into the air and was caught by the breeze. Streamers of smoke spread out over the camp and rose above the tall pines in ghostly wisps and patterns.

  Valenti turned away and they all rode single file up a game trail to the top of the ridge. They rode in the general direction of Big Timber, but with no destination in mind.

  “Whoever comes up to that camp after us,” Valenti said to Pettibone, “they ain’t goin’ to find nothin’.”

  “I sure hated to shoot them Injun ponies,” Crowley said.

  “Shut up, Jimmy,” Valenti said. “It’s over. All of it. We got a bank to rob and a couple of gals to capture.”

  None of the men spoke from then on. They rode to a place where limestone bluffs broke the skyline and started looking for caves. They saw a she-bear and her cubs off in the distance, and the animals ran up into the timber, their hides glistening and rippling like balled-up water.

  The sun appeared on the horizon, yellow as butter, and the trees lit up, their green mantles shining with gold rays gilding the needles. A flock of crows hurtled past them, their cawing calls like the voices of lost children, or as one or two of the men thought, like the ghosts of the dead braves now turning to cinders under a smoky sky.

  Valenti found a flat ridge, timbered on three sides, with bluffs protruding from the hillside. There were a couple of small caves and plenty of bear scat and cougar tracks. No sign that any human had been there in centuries.

  “We’ll make camp here,” he said.

  He called over Wicks and Cochran, who rode up to him.

  He pointed a finger downward and took a map from his saddlebag.

  “Somewhere down there is Big Timber,” he said. “And somewhere near here, I think the Boulder River has got to be. I want you two to find that river, which cuts right through Big Timber, and find out where Big Timber is, exactly, and mark it on this map.”

  He made an X on the map with the stub of a pencil he drew from his pocket. He handed the map to Cochran.

  “That’s where I say we are, where that X is, Jimmy. Now you find me the Boulder and Big Timber. Try to get back by noon.”

  “All right,” Cochran said.

  “That river has got to be close, Bruno,” Wicks said. “And you’re right. It goes right to Big Timber then runs off into the Yellowstone.”

  “Okay, then. Find the river and you’ll find Big Timber. Don’t let nobody see you. You see anybody anywhere near here, you shoot ’em dead, you hear?”

  “I got you, boss,” Cochran said.

  The two men rode off and the others began to make camp. Jake climbed up to one of the caves while Valenti found an open spot in the timber where he could set out his bedroll and have a clear view of the ridge and the bluffs. They had plenty of mutton left and coffee for a week, with sugar and salt and moldy loaves of sourdough bread.

  The air warmed under the rays of the sun, and jays flocked to their camp with raucous cries. Chipmunks began to appear on the ledges, and buzzards floated in the sky above their old camp. A thin scrim of smoke hung over that place of death, but the winds were slicing through the streamers and blowing away the gray wisps.

  Valenti smiled as he reloaded his Winchester and fished his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

  All was well, as far as he was concerned, and tomorrow, he would have Jasmine and Lydia under his control.

  He smacked his lips in satisfaction and yelled at Crowley to build a fire and make some coffee.

  Jake stood on the bluff like some conquering hero, and Valenti beckoned for him to come down.

  The smoke from his cigarette scratched at his eyes like shaved onions.

  He made a gun of his hand and pointed it at a jay bobbing on a nearby limb. He squeezed the imaginary trigger.

  “Bang,” he said, and the jay squawked and flew away into the silence of the timber.

  23

  Slocum was grateful for the coffee Jenner had in his office. He had saddled up Ferro, filled one saddlebag with hardtack, jerky, and a half-dozen cheroots. Jenner, too, was ready to ride once daylight began to dissolve the shadows that filled the streets of Big Timber.

  The two men stood outside Jenner’s office, steaming cups of coffee in their hands, waiting for the three deputies.

  Hoofbeats sounded down the street in the lower part of the town where the Yellowstone ran. Out of the funnel of night rode a lone horseman.

  “That would be Cass Lindsey,” Jenner said. “He raises horses about five miles out, beyond the river. He lost his young wife about three years ago and lives by himself.”

  “Mornin’, Dave,” Lindsey said when he rode up. “I hope you got more of that coffee.”

  “Light down, Cass. Shake hands with John Slocum then help yourself to a cup inside.”

  Lindsey dismounted, wrapped his reins around the hitchrail, and shook Slocum’s hand.

  “Howdy,” he said.

  “Howdy to you, Cass,” Slocum said. Lindsey walked into the sheriff’s office, blocking the lamplight for a brief moment. Slocum heard the clank of tin cups as Lindsey poured himself some hot coffee.

  Two more riders approached from upper Main Street, the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves muffled somewhat by the dirt of the avenue. They passed under the misty cone of gaslight from the streetlamp, their figures distorted like quivering mirages on a desert landscape.

  “Here comes the other two deputies,” Jenner said. “Jubal Voorhees on the left, on the bay mare, and Luke Chesney on the Appaloosa. They both ride for the Lazy L Ranch west of the Boulder. Feller named Wiggins owns the cattle ranch and he’s about as sociable as a tarantula, hardly ever comes to town.”

  “But he can spare those two men?” Slocum said.

  “Calving’s over with and the spring gather. They won’t brand for another week, so I guess he let those two help me out.”

  The two men dismounted and tied their horses to the hitchrail. Jenner introduced them to Slocum.

  “You like that ’Paloosa?” Slocum asked Chesney.

  “Sure. Me’n Jubal left the Lazy L a little after midnight to get
here. Speck kept us on the road when it was pitch dark.”

  “Coffee’s inside,” Jenner said, and the two men entered the sheriff’s office.

  Lindsey stood with Slocum and Jenner, blowing the steam off his coffee each time before he drank from his cup.

  “Be light soon,” he said.

  “We’ll be riding in dark for a ways,” Jenner said. “Soon as those boys finish burnin’ their insides.”

  “How far do we ride?” Lindsey asked.

  “Oh, less’n ten mile, I reckon,” Jenner said. “Some of it uphill.”

  “How much uphill?”

  “ ’Bout five mile,” Jenner said.

  “Whooeee. And how many guns are we facin’?”

  “Hard to say,” Jenner said guardedly. “Maybe a few arrows.”

  “Arrows?”

  “There are some renegade Crow off the reservation in Wyoming.”

  “Shit,” Lindsey said.

  “We have the advantage,” Jenner said.

  Chesney and Voorhees came out of the office and leaned against the hitchrail, cups in hand.

  “How do you figure that, Dave?” Lindsey asked.

  “They don’t know we’re comin’ and we have five guns. If we take out five of them with our first shots, why, there can’t be more’n one or two left.”

  “White men or red?”

  “White men first. I figure the redskins might light a shuck. Anyways, what I hear is that the Injuns don’t have guns.”

  “I’d hate to have a Crow arrow hit me in the chest,” Lindsey said. He drank another swallow of coffee.

  “I can get you a skillet to dangle from your neck,” Jenner said.

  Lindsey laughed.

  Fifteen minutes later, the five men rode out of town. They headed east into the washed-out sky of dawn, and by the time they got to the old logging road, the sun was high and bright as a burnished shield of gold. They turned off past the road and climbed the small ridge where the bushwhackers had waited for the coach and wagons that fateful day.

  “Lots of tracks,” Voorhees said as he scanned the ground. “Some of ’em yours, Dave?”