by Jake Logan
“First obstacle,” Slocum said to the man in his twenties.
“Yes, sir. Howdy, ma’am.” He swept his pancake wool cap off for Roberta.
“Good morning.” She twisted in the saddle to look back. “It’s still coming.”
“Oh, unless there’s a grand canyon in the way, we’ll make it fine,” Dan said, and went back to finishing his job. “That should do it, all right?”
Slocum agreed and remounted. He and Roberta rode ahead to where they planned to turn the rig around and then hitch the oxen to the end of the tongue. When they reined up, he leaned over and kissed her. “Be very careful,” she said.
“I will. You do the same.”
She short-loped southward to her place on the dim road he hoped to take this steam engine and its equipment over. Was it a fool’s mission? Perhaps, but if he could get it there and strike real water—she’d be set.
Finally, the rig was turned around and rehitched. They headed south, skirting a small range of blue granite hills. The crunch of gravel under the runners and the straining sounds as the load swayed with each tilt followed them. Smoothers’s cook came in a small wagon pulled by short mules. Smoothers and Dan drove ahead to look for washouts they could fill.
Slocum rode alongside them, pointing out the road’s path.
“Pretty good country,” Smoothers said, indicating the open land ahead. “For this job.”
They took a noon break and ate some jerky that Smoothers passed out.
“I sure want to thank you for your help,” Slocum said as the two squatted in some shade.
“I liked her old man. He helped me temper my first saw blade and showed me how to sharpen it better. He was smart. So I’m paying him back, plus that damn courthouse bunch ain’t my favorite. They act like they own this country.”
“What do you know about Worthington?”
“Acts like he has lots of money. Owes me for some lumber he got over nine months ago. Why?”
“He’s the one framed her brother along with the sheriff.” Smoothers made a scowl. “What do you reckon they’re up to?”
“See this rig here?”
“Yeah, I’m helping haul it.”
“If there’s artesian water under this ground and this rig can find it, this country will boom. I’m thinking it’s their plan, too.”
Smoothers looked hard at the distant purple hills. Then he agreed.
The rig creaked along well and by mid-afternoon when they stopped, Slocum estimated they’d come eight or so miles. A third of the way. Slocum dropped from the saddle and shook hands with Haney and then his two drivers, who grinned.
Slocum went to loosening his girth to unsaddle his horse and then hobble him. He’d watered him at the spring before they arrived, and he turned him loose to graze on the cured bunchgrass. With his saddle standing on the fork for the pads to dry, he spread out his bedroll. A short siesta, and then he’d ride on and check more of the road ahead.
He awoke to some loud words being exchanged. His first move was to close his fist on the redwood handles of his Colt. What was all the shouting about? Grabbing his hat, he rose and went to see about the commotion.
He saw Sheriff Gantry, with Haney and Smoothers both standing beside the sheriff’s buckboard. Hot words were flying back and forth.
“What’s going on with you all?” Slocum asked.
“I’m here to serve a restraining order against Haney here. He owes money to several people, and removing this drilling rig will make it impossible for them to collect.”
“Who’s he owe?” Slocum stepped over to the buggy.
“Right here. Landsworth Merchantile, two hundred dollars.”
Slocum turned to Haney.
Haney shook his head and turned up his palms. “I never heard of them. I never signed any bills with any store.”
“Who are they, Sheriff?” Slocum turned to the lawman.
“How should I know? I only serve the paper the court gives me.”
Slocum nodded. “What if that is fictitious and you’re only holding this man up from making a living?”
“Slocum, I just serve the papers. Park it here or I’ll bring my men out and we will take custody of it until this is settled.”
“Sheriff, you want to post a guard, fine, but they can just come along with us. By the way, how far away can Haney get this rig on a sled?”
“You refusing a direct order of a law enforcement officer?” Gantry’s face reddened and he looked ready to pop.
“We have work to do. Now get the hell out of here. I was taking a nap.”
Gantry’s dark eyes narrowed and he shook the buggy whip at Slocum. “I’ll—I’ll see you in prison.”
“You may be looking out through those bars yourself. Are those rustlers still in jail?”
“No.”
“Well, when the governor gets through with you, Yuma may be your next address, or Leavenworth, Kansas.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“The U.S. marshal will tell you all about it.”
Black with anger, Gantry shouted, “Move this rig and you will face the consequences.”
Then he drove off in a cloud of dust. Good riddance. Slocum watched him and could hear him cursing the buggy horse to go faster.
Smoothers laughed. “Mentioning the governor got him all shook up.”
“I’m wondering how he learned so much so quick,” Slocum said, bewildered by the man’s fast response. He had to have had a spy up at Barlowville to get word that fast that they were moving the drill rig.
Haney agreed. “Sure didn’t take him long to find out.”
Slocum wondered. Had they taken Roberta hostage? She wouldn’t tell them much. But if they tortured her? Sumbitch—he better go check on her.
“Haney, I want to go check on Bob. If you’d load my bedroll in your wagon, that would help. I’ll catch you later.”
“You need any help?” Smoothers asked.
He shook his head. “Keep it rolling. He can seize it when we get it set up on her place.”
Smoothers agreed and wished him luck Slocum caught the horse, saddled it, and rode for her place. He arrived in the late afternoon and found the windmill was creaking even louder in the wind. Checking his Colt, he dismounted. No horses were in sight. Nothing stirred, and he went to the door. “Bob? You here?”
No answer. He went inside and found chairs overturned. Broken dishes were on the floor. There had been a struggle. Then, in the shadows, he saw her bed had been stripped of the blankets. He squeezed his eyes shut. There had been someone there waiting for her return. Sumbitches. They’d jumped her when she came inside, and no doubt they’d raped her again from the look of the bedsheets.
Anger made him see red. He walked to the door and pounded the facing with his fist. Where had they taken her? Every hour that ticked by, she was receiving more of their abuse. He had to find her and quickly. He’d known a woman who the Comanche had raped over and over—she’d lost her mind and was never right again. Just sat in a rocker on the porch, reliving the horror even when she was awake.
“Don’t rape me! Don’t rape me!” she would scream until someone came outside to comfort her and tell her it was all right. That the danger for her was over. But she would be trembling by then and beside herself.
“I saw ’em. I saw ’em, they was coming for me. They had dicks big as horses. You won’t believe me, but I swear they’re three foot long, too.”
She embarrassed her poor husband with her ranting, but nothing could be done for her. Doctors told him her mind was locked on that incident. Her two young daughters cared for her, and the beautiful woman lived in her own world, rocking away her days humming a tuneless song.
Outside the ranch house, Slocum began searching the dust for tracks, wondering if that poor woman had ever recovered. Probably not. He should never have let Roberta come back here by herself. If anything more had happened to her, he’d have to take the blame.
The prints of three h
orses left the yard. Damnit. I’m coming, girl.
Chapter 7
The shadows grew longer and the trail dimmer. The horses he was tracking were headed back toward Antelope Springs. Soon he’d have to give up tracking and ride in there hoping to find someone who had seen her with them. He set in loping the horse, trying to figure out why they had taken her with them. Maybe as a hostage. Somehow, he had to find her, and the job wouldn’t be easy without tracks or some idea where she could be. If he could find those deputies, maybe he could separate them and get the truth out of one of them.
Phelps would be the tough egg to crack, but as mad as Slocum felt over the kidnapping, he could get a five-page confession out of him, too. It was late when he left the horse at the livery and spoke to the hostler.
“You know Miss Bakker?”
“Yeah, what about her?”
“You seen her in town tonight?”
The man shook his head in the lantern light. “Not tonight.”
“You seen Phelps around tonight?”
“No, not tonight. You need him?”
“No, I can find him when I do.”
“Sure, sure, mister.”
Slocum left the livery and went several doors down. He slipped in between the saddlery and the laundry. He watched the livery doors, and in minutes the hostler came out into the starlit street and looked all around. Then, with a hitch in his walk, he hurried up the street.
In the deep shadows, Slocum shook his head. He’d suspected from the way the man had acted when he questioned him that he was one of the deputies’ snitches. From Slocum’s hideout, he watched the man hobble along on the boardwalk, clunking a bad foot on the hollow walkway. When the hostler was past him, Slocum slipped out and began to shadow him down the street from the opposite side.
When the man disappeared inside the lighted doorway of the jail, Slocum hurried across the street and slipped into the space between the jail and a dark store.
“Where’s Phelps?”
“He ain’t here.”
“Where’s he at?”
“His place, I guess. What the hell do you need him for this time of night?”
“None of your damn business.” The hostler appeared in the doorway and then he crossed the street, obviously headed for Phelps’s place. Slocum found himself smiling—the man might lead him to Roberta.
Concealed in the dark space, he allowed two drunks to come by him. They were slurring their words and holding each other up as they staggered by. Then, satisfied that no one was looking out the jail’s front door, he set in to follow the crippled liveryman. The job of tailing him wasn’t hard—but Slocum had to hiss off some town dogs. And he added some rocks to speed their way back to the safety of the buildings. Several houses lined the road, but they were merely dark shapes in the night.
Then the man disappeared from the road, and Slocum listened in the night for any sound of him. He must have left the street. In haste, Slocum crossed over, and managed to spot him moving through a grove of cottonwoods. There was a steep slope to maneuver down. How had the cripple managed to go down it? No telling.
As he moved through the deep shadows, Slocum heard some hard knocking.
“Phelps? Phelps? You better get up. I’ve got something you need to know.” The man was coughing and heaving for breath.
“Who in the hell is it?”
“Johnny. Johnny from the stables.”
“Are you crazy? What’s wrong?”
Phelps never turned a light on to answer the door. But Slocum could see the door was open and someone was standing there talking to “Johnny.”
“There was a fella came in town a short while ago asking about that Bakker woman and you.”
“What did he ask?”
“If’n I seed her or you.”
“And?”
“I told him I hadn’t seen none of you or her.”
“Good. Did he go in a bar?”
“Can’t say. I waited till he was gone and I went to the jail. Then I come down here like you told me to do if anyone showed up.”
“You did good.”
“Now will you tear that wanted poster up and burn it?”
“I may.”
“You promised me if I kept my eye out for you and did you a big favor, you’d do that.”
“All right, I will. But you better keep on looking out for me.”
“I will. I will. What’s that fella up to?”
“No good. You can count on that.”
“You gonna need any help?”
“Naw, Johnny, I can handle him. He’s just a drifting cowboy. You go back and look after things at the livery. I’ll get back to you.”
“I will, Phelps. Why, I can handle that fella with my hands tied behind my back.”
“Sure. Sure. See ya.” Then Phelps closed the door, and Johnny left talking to himself about Phelps tearing up the wanted poster.
Slocum eased himself behind a gnarled tree and let Johnny go by. He listened for the man’s grunting going up the hill and any sound of him possibly falling down. But coughing and breathing hard, the man soon disappeared into the night. Satisfied that Johnny was gone, Slocum advanced on the jacal. There was a light on inside. Through the open window, he could see Phelps was getting dressed. Slocum felt satisfied that they hadn’t brought Roberta to this location, but perhaps Phelps would lead him to her. It was what he hoped for as he squatted down in the shadows with the crickets chirping.
In a short while, Phelps came out and saddled a horse he kept in a small corral. The pony was a tail twister and it was all the man could do to keep him from bucking. They danced around sideways making passes in front of the jacal before Phelps could get him to leave. The air was hot with the man’s profanity, but he soon rode out of hearing.
Slocum walked back to town. Took a room in the small hotel and slept a few hours. In the predawn, he sat on a chair in the kitchen of Gloria Hansen’s Café, cradling a cup of fresh hot coffee and watching her slice smoked ham. The aroma was good. He’d already explained to her about Roberta’s earlier rape and her disappearance from the ranch.
Gloria talked in a low voice though the café itself was still dark and empty, “Where do you think they have her?”
“I’m going to track down where Phelps went last night.”
“Be careful. Oh, that poor girl and those bastards. Someone needs to kill the whole lot of them.”
“You have no idea where they might be hiding her?”
She swept a fallen lock away from her red face with the back of her hand, and then stretched her back with a wince. “No idea, but I have my sources, too. I’ll find out in case you don’t.”
“Good.”
“Next time you need a place to sleep or hide out, use my place. First street you come to from the east. Coming in from her place. Go right, count three houses, and mine is the fourth one on the right.” She shook her head and smiled. “Ain’t fancy, but there ain’t any bugs.”
“I’ll remember that.”
A frown wrinkled her forehead. “Wonder what Johnny’s wanted for.”
“No idea.”
“That damn Phelps made a pass at me once. Must have been horny. I was cleaning up late that evening, and he came in the kitchen chewing on a straw like God’s answer to women.
“He came strolling over where I was and caught my arm. Jerked me around and said, ‘I’m ready for some.’ I picked up a butcher knife with my other hand and shoved it to his throat.
“ ‘So am I,’ I said. ‘Fried mountain oysters. Yours, I presume. ’
“He let go of me and I pushed him out the back door at knifepoint. He ain’t been back since.” She laughed and set the long sharp knife down. “I may not be the Queen of Sheba. But I don’t have to bed down with the likes of him.”
“Gloria, learn what you can, but be careful. I fear they’ll be more dangerous in the days ahead.”
She nodded and bent over to check on her biscuits in the oven. With a towel for a holder, she remo
ved the large pan and placed it on the range top. “Have some biscuits and butter. I’ll fry you some ham and make some eggs. When did you eat last?”
“Oh, noon yesterday.”
“I thought so.” She fished out three large brown-top biscuits with a fork and handed them to him on a plate. “Go out at the counter and eat. I hear Josie coming. She can do the cooking now. I’ll light some lamps and we’ll be open.”
The older woman under a shawl nodded to him. “Morning.”
“This is Slocum, Bob’s cowboy. Whip him up some ham and eggs.”
“I can do that. Nice to meet you, sir.” She hung up her shawl.
“My pleasure,” he said. Then Gloria herded him out into the café. As he tasted the hot bread and she lit the lamps, gritty soles began to shuffle on the boardwalk out front, along with sleepy voices.
“Come in, guys, coffee’s made,” said Gloria.
An assortment of workers filed in, taking seats at the counter and at tables. Gloria began delivering cups, packing a coffeepot in the other hand. Her cheerful voice welcomed the crowd as she sashayed around the room.
She passed Slocum once and refilled his cup. “Find her,” she said. “I’ll be praying for the two of you.”
He acknowledged her soft-spoken words. The eggs and ham and more biscuits came. He feasted, and left fifty cents by the plate, knowing full well Gloria would turn him down if he went to pay. With a wave of good-bye, he left the crowd of men who were talking and eating the food she delivered.
From the front doorway, he saw the rawboned woman staring with a serious look at him. She’d be worried until he recovered Roberta. He went to the stables, and Johnny wasn’t around.
A gray-whiskered man inside took his two bits and spat tobacco. “Might rain today. My rheumatism was bad last night.”
“I guess we’ll see.” Slocum checked the sky when he went outside. Only a fool predicted rain in this country. He rechecked the girth and swung aboard. In a few minutes, he was in the cottonwoods near Phelps’s jacal. No horses were in the corral. Meant Phelps must not have came back—Slocum would have to be careful and not run into him returning. Not that he feared the man, but it might push his hand. Getting Roberta out of his clutches came first. Then he’d settle with him.
