by Jake Logan
With a nod, he started for the door and then he paused. “I never caught your name.”
“Bob. That’s short for Roberta.”
“All right, Bob.”
“There should be hay in that manger for them. You can see if it’s there.”
“I’ll check.”
“You like scrambled eggs?”
“I’d eat them any way but raw.”
“Good.” She waved him on.
He stood outside and looked at the hillside bathed in the morning light. Maybe in time she’d tell him the rest. Sounded like she’d been through a tough ordeal. He swept up her pistol from the dust and jammed it in his waistband. To give her some time to recover, he took his own time unharnessing the horses and putting them in the corral. Then he heard her ringing a handheld schoolhouse bell.
Better go eat. His belly button was glued to his backbone. He washed up on the porch setup, dried his hands on the Minnesota Pride flour-sack towel, and went inside. He put his hat on a peg and turned to look at Roberta dressed in a riding skirt and a man’s collarless shirt. Her willowy figure made him realize she was an attractive young lady.
“Well, haven’t you ever seen a woman before?” She held a skillet in each hand and motioned for him to go to the table. “Sit down. We can eat.”
He took a seat, and she put the two cast-iron frying pans on the table. One was full of scrambled eggs and ham cut up. The other contained her brown-topped biscuits.
“That going to be enough?”
Looking at all the food, he shook his head. “I can’t eat half of that.”
“Better build your appetite. Three fourths of that is yours, mister.”
Through the meal, she told him about her brother Searle’s arrest and the unfair trial and his sentencing.
When she finished, he paused with half a biscuit in his hand and looked over at her. “You’ve had a world of hell around here.”
She nodded. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Them three threaten to come back?”
“If they do—” She clenched the fork handle in her fist and beat it on the table. “I’ll kill ’em.”
He rose in his chair, ready to go for a towel to sop up the coffee that had sloshed out of their cups. But she waved him down. “I’ll get a rag.”
Seated again, he watched her mop up the liquid. She turned and looked hard at him—her left eye was nearly swollen shut. “You afraid of them?” she asked.
“No.”
Then she straightened and wadded the rag in her hands. “You don’t look or act like a man who backs up from much.”
“I just wanted to know the cards I have and what to expect.”
She tossed the rag on the dry sink and sat down. “Yes, I figure they’ll come back again. Next time I’ll be ready. Next time . . .”
Tears began to roll down her cheeks and, sobbing, she rushed for the open door. “There won’t be a next time.”
He cradled the cup in his hand and studied the neat small kitchen. This was not the right moment to physically comfort her. She needed the time alone, but with her outside and crying, it made his belly hurt not to be able to do something. He went and squatted on his boot heels in the doorway.
The cool morning breeze swept his face. The Gambrel’s quail called from out in the chaparral. On the bench to his right, she sobbed in her hands.
“I never cry . . .”
He nodded. “Sometimes things get so bad it’s the only way out.”
“You said those bastards killed Ring?” she asked. “The dog?”
“Yes. He’s up the hill about fifty yards.”
“I must bury him.”
“I can do that—later.” He sipped on the rich coffee. Those three needed a real lesson. He wasn’t sure how to do it, but in his book they needed it.
“How well do you know this Phelps?” he asked.
“Know him? Before last night, I’d danced once or twice with him at community functions. Why do you ask?”
“Did he ever make any advances to you before yesterday? ’
“Are you saying did I encourage him?”
“No. I was wondering if he’d planned on doing it.”
“I’m not sure what you are getting at.”
He shifted his weight to his other leg and glanced over at her. “I think you scorned his advances one time too many and yesterday was payback.”
“Payback?” Behind her wet eyes, she cut an angry look at him.
“Hold on. I didn’t say you encouraged him, but by denying him sometime or other, you brought out another side of him.”
“I never liked him. He’s such a banty rooster.”
“What about the other two?”
“That conniving pair—”
“Are you planning to press charges against them?”
“What good would that do? It’s my word against them. They’re the law. Besides—”
He nodded. “I need to borrow a horse this morning. I’ve got my saddle here and there’s a bedroll I stashed on the trail after I put my horse down. He colicked and twisted a gut, I guess. Nothing else I could do.”
“I’m sorry. Go ahead. Either one of those horses you put up rides fine.”
“You’re going to be all right?”
“I guess so.” She blinked at him like she couldn’t believe he’d even ask. Maybe no one had ever asked her that before.
“Leave burying the dog to me,” he said. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Slocum—thanks.”
“Sure.” And he left her to get the pony and his saddle.
Two hours later, still backtracking himself, Slocum dropped off a ridge and smelled a fire. The scent came from a side canyon, and he decided to skirt it and try to see the source from the rim. Smoke in the middle of the morning usually meant a branding fire—it could be someone catching a late calf they’d missed, or it might be a rustler. Either way, he didn’t intend to walk right up on a situation that could erupt into a shooting.
He left the pony hitched out of sight and started off the hillside under the cover of some large rocks. At last he drew close enough to understand the two men’s words.
“. . . heard that horse. Sooner we get this one branded, the better it will be.”
“Quit worrying. We get this brand worked over, we can find a shady place and take a nap.”
Worked over? Slocum drew his gun and kept close to the side of the house-sized rock. They needed to brand the critter before he could move in. He could barely hear them talking about the iron. He waited. And waited. Sweat trickled down from under arms. Then he finally heard the steer bawl.
He stepped out in time to see one of them standing over the critter with a running iron and the other getting up with the wet tow sack in his hand. They were too busy examining their work to know he was there.
“Don’t do nothing fast,” Slocum said with the six-gun in his hand.
“Huh?” They both whirled. Their hands flew into the air.
“Who in the hell are you?” the short swarthy one demanded.
The tall lanky one cut Slocum a tough look and said to his partner, “Keep your mouth shut. He ain’t the law.”
“You boys ever hear of vigilante law?”
“Yeah,” Shorty said.
“That’s the law I’m enforcing. Who do you boys work for?”
“We don’t have to tell you nothing,” Lanky said.
“That’s right.” Slocum took the guns out of their holsters and tossed them aside.
He glanced at the steer on the ground with his four legs tied. “Who owns that XA brand you just put on him?”
“Ain’t none of your gawdamn business.”
“I’m making it mine. Now get on your bellies, I’m tying you up.”
“What in the hell’re you going do to us?” Lanky asked.
Slocum didn’t bother to answer them. He had the tall one’s hands tied and was kneeling down beside him. “Now tell me your name or I’m usin
g a running iron on your butt.”
“Guy Dawson.”
“And what’s this other asshole’s name?”
“Dun Manley.”
“This ain’t going to set well with some folks,” Dawson said in a threatening tone.
“Who? Your boss?” He moved over to tie Manley.
“You’ll see. You’ll see,”
When they were tied up, he went over to the steer lying on the ground, and tried to read the old brand on the two-year-old’s side. It looked like a B7, but he couldn’t tell with the new brand over it. There were B7 brands all over Roberta’s place on the lumber and other places. AX made a good brand to put over it.
He better take the the two rustlers to this sheriff that she’d talked about. It would eat up a whole day. But there had to be a showdown with these people—her brother was gone and they were declaring open range on her body and livestock. She might not want to prosecute the rapist, but rustling was another thing.
He turned the steer loose. The two-year-old got up stiff, but not on the prod. Slocum waved the lariat he was coiling at him, and the steer spooked away. With a quick glance around, Slocum mentally marked the country he was in. If there was evidence needed for a trial, he might have to locate that critter again.
No telling what he’d stepped into—but with her brother gone, they damn sure had wasted no time moving in.
When the pair was loaded on the two cow ponies with the WT brands on their shoulders, he put leads on their mounts to bring them along. Then he climbed on Roberta’s bay horse and headed back for the ranch.
It would be a lot of trouble to take the sullen-faced rustlers to the sheriff. Which was why the “lynch law” remained in effect and was still used frequently in the South-west. He came over the hill to the ranch in a short lope. He saw Roberta step out of the shed and shade her eyes looking in his direction.
When he reined up, he noticed she’d strapped on the sidearm. She frowned at the men with their hands tied and sitting on the horses. “What happened?”
“These two were using a running iron on a B7 two-year-old. Put an AX on him.”
“B7’s my brand.”
He nodded and stepped down. “You know them?”
“Yes, they work for Worthington. But you might as well turn them loose. The law won’t do anything about them.”
“Ma’am, we told him that,” said Dawson.
Slocum turned on his heel and gave Dawson a look cold enough to shut him up, then turned back to her. “We’ve got to start somewhere.”
She nodded. “You want me to hitch the buckboard?”
“I can.”
She checked the sun. “I better fix some lunch. It’ll be dark by the time we get there.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll unload them two and hitch the wagon.”
“The chestnut with the white star and the sorrel with the white hind hoof are fresh. Hitch them. I can show you.”
“No, you fix lunch. I can handle the rest.”
She scowled at the pair and stalked off for the house. One at a time, he jerked the men off their horses. “I’m untying you two, but I’ll shoot to kill if you try anything. Savvy?”
Both agreed. He undid the ropes, and they did lots of flexing of their hands and arms, then went inside the corral and emptied their bladders. He tossed them each a lead and ordered them to bring out the two horses she’d mentioned.
When they had the two ponies led out, he put the two men to currying them. He tossed the harness on the sorrel and motioned for Manley to buckle him up, then did the same on the chestnut with Dawson doing the job.
“You know you’re making a big mistake taking us in,” Dawson said when he finished. “You don’t know who runs this county.”
Slocum took the horse by the bridle and led him to the rig. “Maybe I’ll learn who that is. Won’t be my first mistake.”
“I was just warning you.”
“If you think I’m afraid, you better think again. I didn’t come in here on a load of pumpkins.”
“You don’t know how things operate in these parts.”
“Well, why don’t you shut up or I’ll retie you and gag your mouth.”
Dawson shut up.
With the horses hitched, he herded the pair toward the house and told them to sit down on the porch. Roberta came to the door. “All I have are some beans.”
“Put some on a couple of plates and they can eat out here.”
Dawson took off his hat for her and started to say something. Slocum caught him by the shirt collar and jerked him back. “Sit down and shut up.”
They sat down. She returned with two tins plates heaping with frijoles and with spoons to eat them. Both men thanked her.
Slocum washed up, dried his hands, and went inside. “Sorry, I know you didn’t need this.” He stood where he could see the men and still talk to her. “But we have to start someplace.”
She dried her palms on the skirt and nodded. “There’s just you and me. I’m sorry. I can pay you and give you a horse right now to ride on out of here. I don’t know how this rustler thing will go. But that bunch runs this county and the courts.”
“Time for a change.”
“Searle thought so, too. Sam Lander did and they drygulched him.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
She nodded and brought him a plate of beans. “I hate to involve you in all this.”
“I’ve had worse deals handed me before. I’m just upset that you have to face them—those deputies. I imagine they’ll be there in town.”
“I have to live here. Sooner or later, my path will cross theirs anyway. I’ll just have to face the fact.”
He nodded sharply. She would have to do that. There was no way that he could protect her forever. At least he was there to help for the time being.
“You want some coffee?” she asked.
The sadness in her good brown eye looked deep. How long had it been since they’d raped her? Not twenty-four hours. Damn, maybe this rustler business was going to be too tough on her. “Yes, I want the coffee. I’m sorry, my mind is on them two.”
“I know. But I’m just not certain this is the way to handle it.”
“We can lynch them,” he said.
She shook her head at that notion, then swept the wave of light brown hair back from her face. “I’ll set this coffee on a chair. Then you can stand here and watch them.”
He said, “Fine.” And saluted her with his spoonful of beans.
After lunch, he had her write out confessions for both of the men to sign. That they did use a running iron on a B7 steer, changing the brand to AX. That they also marked other range livestock in the same manner. That they were employed by Charles Worthington to do it.
Slocum made them both sit at the table. “Now you can sign this or if you don’t, the last judge you will see is a cottonwood tree.”
“You—you can’t lynch us,” Manley said, looking at Roberta for help.
“Slocum’s the man. He says hang, you hang. Isn’t that right?”
Slocum nodded in the silence.
“All right, I ain’t hanging. But I’m probably signing my own damn death warrant.” He dipped the pen and wrote his name on it.
Dawson did the same. When they were through, Slocum blew on the ink, then folded the papers and put them in his inside vest pocket. With a nod to Roberta standing with her arms folded in the doorway, he said to the pair, “Get in the rig. We’re going to town.”
Both men sat in the back of the buckboard as Roberta drove. Slocum rode a bald-faced horse. She’d told him it was her brother’s favorite horse. He soon learned why. Baldy single-footed instead of trotted, which made for an easy ride as he brought the rustlers’ two horses on leads—one on each side. Riding behind the rig, he kept a close watch on the two men.
They’d silenced up, but he still expected them to try something. It would be the last thing they ever did. No telling what would happen in town—he’d need to be ready for anything. Ho
w would she take it? No telling. He’d better enjoy his good horse. It was the only good thing that was going to happen to him this day.
Antelope Springs was close to a river with the same name. Save for some gnarled cottonwoods on the banks, the small stream of water that snaked down the sandy riverbed looked unimpressive when the buckboard rumbled over the wooden plank bridge. The town’s buildings were of wood and adobe, and save for some freight wagons and teams of oxen, the place looked quiet in the late afternoon.
A few town dogs ran out to bark, but kept a respectable distance. Roberta reined up before the jail and he dismounted behind the rig.
“Get down,” he said to the pair, and they scooted off the buckboard.
“Get inside.” He motioned toward the adobe building.
A tall man stood in the doorway. Curly black hair framed his face. He looked about thirty years old, with hard eyes and a tough jaw. For an instant, Slocum wondered where he knew the man from—somewhere in the past—him or a man just like him. The man stood like a barrier and nodded to the two men before he spoke. “What have we got here?”
“Two rustlers.”
“You the law?” The man looked past them at Slocum.
“I take it you are.”
“Damn right I’m the law. What’re you going to do about it?”
“Lock them up. I’m signing a warrant for their arrest for rustling.”
Unmoved, the deputy laughed. “You ain’t even a registered voter.”
“Nope. Are you going to stand there with your thumb in your ass all day or do something?”
“Listen, mister.” The deputy started from the door—
The metallic click of a cartridge being levered into a rifle chamber stopped him.
“That’s far enough, Phelps,” Roberta said. “He’s my man and he caught those two working over a brand on one of my steers. Now get in there and do your job.”
“Listen—”
“Move,” she ordered, and drew the rifle up to her shoulder.
“You two are going to regret this.”
Phelps went inside. Slocum hustled the pair in after him. He nodded toward the open cell and they went in—Manley protesting. “I told him. I told him. He couldn’t arrest us.”
