by Jake Logan
The tracks of the horse in the yard were distinct. His right front hoof made a slight twist. Plus he was shod, so the tracks stood out. Phelps had ridden south off into the real desert. Saguaros began to appear when the road dropped off the ridge into a lower elevation. Towering cactus plants, catclaw, mesquite, cholla, and beds of pancake cactus soon replaced the juniper and grass country. The country grew rougher. Volcanic rock and sharp chasms sliced the landscape. To his right, the tall range of mountains fled southward, while the main stage road wiggled off the heights he rode down.
The road carried no traffic, and he found where Phelps had taken a dim side trail with two ruts cutting the dry short foxtail grass. He looked at the broken country ahead. It soon fell off into a wide sandy dry wash, and there were signs that wagons and single horses had come and gone on this road in the past few days.
Every quarter mile, he stopped his horse and listened. In the confinement of the dry wash, he didn’t want to run into Phelps. A mile farther on, the road climbed out and went up a steep hillside. Once on top, he stopped the horse and let him catch his wind. He caught sight of some horses grazing down the long grassy slope.
He dug his telescope out of the saddlebags and scoped the area. In the eyepiece, he found some corrals, and then a jacal back in the lacy mesquite to the left of the large brown-grass meadow. Time to ditch his horse somewhere and advance on foot. There was no activity around the place. He collapsed the brass scope and put it away, then rode the horse off into the chaparral and down into a dry wash out of sight.
He dismounted, loosened the cinch, and used the lariat to tie the horse. He might need to leave there in a hurry—so he left the horse saddled and on a short tie so he didn’t get into any mischief. Then, wishing he had a rifle, he climbed up and began to skirt the clearing. Not having a long-range weapon always put someone at a disadvantage when scouting something out.
He came in behind the corrals and spotted a saddled horse in the pen. It must be Phelps’s bronc. Good, he must still be here. But who else was here? He eased around the pen to get closer to house, the .44 in his fist. At the back of the jacal, he tried to listen. He could hear someone coughing, but wasn’t certain who it was.
There was no one outside to slip up on him. Making each footfall soft, he worked his way around the eroded outside of the jacal with the adobe bricks exposed. It must have been an abandoned homestead. He paused at the corner, switched hands with revolver, and dried his right palm on the side of his pants.
He slipped around to the front, his back to the wall. The window was open and he could hear two men talking.
“Juarez will be here in two days to get her.” It was Phelps’s voice. “Go easy on the laudanum you give her. He only pays for good stuff.”
“You bringing him up here?”
“Yeah, have her all cleaned up and that dress on her.”
“I understand, Boss.”
“She’s worth three hundred in gold. Them Messikins really like that white pussy.”
“She won’t get away. I promise.”
“Good. I’ve got to get back and find out what that damned Slocum is up to. You just be sure you don’t lose her.”
“You say you knew him from Kansas?”
“Yeah, we had a slick deal going up there. We let them cowboys drive them cattle up there from Texas, then sixty miles or so south of Newton, we rustled ’em, sold ’em, and made all the money.” Phelps’s laughter made Slocum’s jaw muscles tighten.
“What did you do with the cowboys?”
“Killed ’em, of course.”
“What happened?”
“Slocum and his bunch jumped us one night in camp. Cut down Jake McKay, Max Miller, and got Hash Smith, the boss, and two others that him and his vigilantes hung. I barely got away.”
“He must be tough.”
Slocum stopped listening. He retreated into the brush and skirted the corral. That was where he knew Phelps from—Kansas. That no-good bunch of rustlers had sent his best friend Carl Dabbs to the grave along with six of his hands. Now Slocum hid in the chaparral and let Phelps fight with his broncy horse and ride off. There’d be plenty of time later to round up his worthless hide.
If they had Roberta doped up, Slocum would have real problems getting her out of there. Those worthless bastards—they all needed to be hung. He watched the short fat man come outside and look around. Then the man pissed a big golden stream in the bright sunshine, then went back inside.
Slocum closed in on the house. He knew the interior would be dark and his eyes wouldn’t be adjusted, so he needed to move quickly when he made his assault on the jacal. The .44 was cocked and ready. He needed to be certain he didn’t shoot her, too.
He came through the door. “Don’t move,” he said.
The man scrambled for something and Slocum shot him in the back. The room boiled with eye-stinging gun smoke. The kidnapper was down, and Slocum kicked his gun on the floor across the room.
“I’m—I’m dying.”
“Die hard, you sumbitch.” Slocum knelt by the bed and looked at Roberta’s naked figure sprawled on her back. Her hands and feet were tied.
“Don’t rape me,” she mumbled, and then she coughed on the smoke.
“It’s me. Slocum.” He cut loose her binds with his jackknife.
“I’m dying, I’m dying,” the outlaw screamed.
“Die, I don’t give a damn.” Slocum lifted her up. But she was limp in his arms and still mumbling, “Don’t rape me again.”
He hugged her. She felt like a rag doll. Where were her clothes? Best to take her outside. This gun smoke was bad and not getting better.
With a blanket he snatched off the bed, he swept her up in his arms and carried her through the open doorway. Under a mesquite, he spread the blanket as well as he could and laid her on it.
“I’ll be right back,” he told her, and went inside to search for her clothes. All he found was a dress. It must have been the one Phelps talked about. Where were her other clothes? He’d need to go back inside and look some more.
“Bob, can you hear me?” he asked, kneeling beside her.
“Yes.”
“Where did they put your clothes?”
“They took them from me—that first night—I don’t know.”
“Can you sit up?”
“I feel very drunk.”
“You are. They’ve been doping you.” He pulled her up to a sitting position. Her snowy breasts were shining in the sunlight. With his hand, he swept the hair back from her face. Then he began to dress her. It wasn’t easy, but at least she would be covered when she stood. The dress would fall and cover her bare legs and butt.
“They pinched my nose to make me swallow it, too,” she said.
“We need to get out of here.” No way that she could sit a horse.
With both hands braced behind her, she made the effort. “I can try.”
“Bob, I have to go get my horse and I’ll be right back. That bum in there won’t ever hurt you again. You’re safe now.” He considered the dress. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. “You’ll have to wear this till we can find better.”
“I never wear a dress.”
“Today you do.” He rose to his knees.
“How will we get out of here?”
He kissed her. She smiled. “I know you must have taken a big risk—oh, I’m dizzy.”
“Put your hands on my shoulder and I’ll button the rest of it.” He fumbled and she teetered, so he laid her down and finished buttoning the front of the dress with her on her back on the blanket.
“I’m so weak. I’m sorry.” She looked ready to cry.
“You lie here. I’m going for the pony. I’ll be right back.”
Her hand clasped his arm. “Please, please don’t leave me.”
“Just to get the horse.” No use. He’d have to carry her there.
He picked her up in his arms, the blanket wadded around her, then rose and started for the far end
of the open ground. It was a long ways, and he stopped several times to kneel and rest. When he reached the horse, he set her down with her back to a rock and tightened the cinch on the animal.
She was almost asleep again. Carrying her, he led the pony to another rock so he could step up on the animal with her in his arms. No way she could ride in front of him as limp as she was.
He set out. It would be a long ride back. On the road, a man in a buckboard came past him and stopped.
“That woman of yours dying?” the gray-haired man in his forties asked. He was wearing a new felt hat and suit.
“She’s pretty bad off,” Slocum said.
“Get her in here. I’ll tie that horse on behind.” The man tied his team off and jumped down.
Slocum dismounted, and the stranger took the horse’s reins.
“Is she alive?”
“Yes, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way to town.”
“Good. My name’s Jeff Harte. I own the Lone Star Ranch. We can shake hands later.”
“Slocum’s mine. Her name is Roberta Bakker. Everyone calls her Bob. She owns the B7 Ranch and was kidnapped two days ago. They fed her laudanum and planned to sell her to some Mexican whorehouse.”
“Who in the hell are they?”
“A deputy named Phelps and two more deputies, Carson and Yodder. There was one more of them. He’s up there dying where I shot him.”
“He deserves it. I’ve never liked that Phelps since Gantry hired him. He the leader?”
“I think so, but I can’t prove much about them, except that I took her away from their man at an abandoned house back there.”
“What will we do with her? Take her to the doc?”
“No, we can’t risk them finding out she’s all right. If we can skirt around town and no one sees us, she has a friend named Gloria Hansen and she’ll be safe with her.”
“The woman that runs the café?”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“We won’t get there till dark and I know a back way. How else can I help? She’s a pretty woman—hell, not much more than a kid. Those lousy no-accounts need to pay for this.”
“How well do you know Gantry?”
“I donated to his campaign. Why?”
“I don’t trust him. He works for Charles Worthington and that man is up to no good.”
“Hmm, you think so?”
“I’m certain I brought in two rustlers who were using a running iron on one of her yearlings. They confessed that they were working for Worthington. Gantry turned them loose.”
“Aw, the hell you say?”
“Mister, they been working over lots of brands in this country.”
Harte clucked to the horses and then he frowned at Slocum. “The Stockmen’s Association won’t stand for that.”
“Stockmen or no stockmen, he turned them loose. I guess by now they’re in Utah or California.”
“I can help you there. The chief brand inspector in Prescott also works as a range detective. I’ll have him here in a few days. He’ll be certain the law is enforced.”
“She wrote the governor asking for his intervention. They railroaded her brother.”
“Why don’t I know about all this?”
“Fear. They have everyone so afraid they won’t say a word. They had a special trial for her brother. Lasted two hours, she told me—the judge came in that morning, left at noon—on the day after his arrest on some trumped-up charges of stealing some of Worthington’s horses.”
“No one protested or did a thing?”
“She wrote the governor a letter ’cause there was no one else to turn to.”
“Hell, I’ll wire him when we get there.”
“She didn’t think they’d let her send it. In fact, she didn’t trust the post office either.”
He shifted her in his arms and she opened her eyes in slits. “Where—are—we?”
“Easy, Bob, we’re in Mr. Harte’s buckboard headed for Gloria’s.”
“They won’t find me there?” she asked in a mumble.
“No, they won’t. Go to sleep. You’re safe.”
“I—can’t stay awake.”
“You’re safe.”
Harte glanced over at her with an angry scowl. “They need to be hung.”
“Hanging might not be good enough for them.” Slocum looked at the saguaros on the hillside. Maybe stick one of them up their ass.
“What else can I do?” Harte asked.
“You can try to wire the governor to send some U.S. marshals down here. Tell him there’s anarchy going on. I’ll bet he never gets the wire. Don’t turn your back on them. If they feel cornered, they’ll shoot their way out of this. Phelps was once in a gang up in Kansas that murdered the drovers and stole their herds. We got all of them but him.”
“Murdered drovers?”
“Yes. The whole crew, shot them, or cut their throats in their bedrolls, and then stole the cattle herd just days out of Newton and sold ’em.”
“And they planned to sell this woman to a Mexican whorehouse.”
“And even before that, three of them raped her at the ranch the day they shipped her brother off to prison.”
“What did Gantry do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, son of a bitch, this has me upset.”
“Join the crowd. She hired a well driller up in Barlowville to drill her a deep well. Gantry served the man a court order to stop moving the rig toward her ranch.”
“On what grounds?”
“Some fictitious store owner said the well driller owed him money.”
“Did they stop?”
“They’re still moving it unless Gantry went back to stop ’em.”
Harte reined in at the top of the grade to let his team catch their breath. “How did you get hooked in on all this?”
“A week ago, my horse colicked bad and I had to destroy him. I walked all night packing my saddle looking for some help. I arrived thirty minutes after the rapists rode out from her place.”
Harte shook his head. “A helluva deal.”
“That’s right.” He shifted her in his arms and she moaned. A helluva deal wasn’t the half of it all.
Chapter 8
They arrived after dark at Gloria’s. Slocum was glad a light was on and she was home. She came rushing out when she saw him carrying Roberta in his arms headed for her house.
“What happened?”
“They were drugging her at some abandoned shack. She’s had a lot of laudanum. Maybe a doc should see her, but we can’t let Phelps know.”
Gloria shook her head. “Doc Burns is an old drunk. We better not use him. He’d blabber it all over town when he got in the bottle.”
“You know Jeff Harte?”
“Yes. Good to see you. Are you helping?” She led them inside and pointed at the bed.
“I was just the driver today,” said Harte.
When Roberta was out of his stiff arms and safe on the bed at last, Slocum stood back and flexed his sore limbs. “She needs to let that dope wear off. She also needs to eat. She’ll have a helluva headache when she comes out of it. And she may hallucinate. Act out of her head. Is there someone can stay with her?”
“Yes, I can get someone during the day,” said Gloria.
“What about a guard for her?” Harte asked.
“Good idea. But he’d have to be tough as nails if they learn she’s here, and he can’t be one of Gantry’s men.”
“Where does Sam Kent live?” Harte asked Gloria.
Busy with a wet cloth washing Roberta’s face, Gloria looked up. “Down by the creek. He’d make a good one.”
“He’s a tough old man who use to ride shotgun on the stage,” Harte explained to Slocum.
“How much will he cost?” Slocum asked.
Harte waved him off. “I’ll hire him.”
“She wants you,” Gloria told Slocum.
He knelt down and squeezed Roberta’s hand. “You’ll be safe her
e, Bob. You’ll have a guard and I’m going after Phelps.”
She nodded. “Thanks—I know you risked your life for me. But I felt safer in your arms. Be careful.” Then she forced a smile on her pale face and squeezed his fingers.
“Rest. Get your strength back.”
“I will.”
Slocum rose and spoke to Harte. “If you can manage guarding her, I need to go and check on the well-drilling crew.”
“I can handle this. What about Phelps?” Harte asked.
“I have a notion he may be out at the ranch trying to stop the drilling. You make sure they don’t harm her. I’ll be back in a day. Try and send that message out to the governor.”
“I’ll do that. You think they’re—” He lowered his voice. “Attacking the drill crew?”
Slocum nodded. If the writ didn’t stop them, they’d use force and Phelps would be in charge of that.
Gloria handed him a cup of coffee and a cold burrito full of meat and beans. “Sorry it isn’t hot, but you needed some food.”
He thanked her. It would help. After his quick meal, he left Harte and Gloria to tend to Roberta and rode for the ranch. Pushing the pony hard, he planned to switch mounts at the ranch and ride a fresh one to the rig.
Coming off the steep hill in the cool predawn, he flushed quail dusting in the road. No sign of anyone around the place. At the mill, he stripped off latigos, jerked off the saddle and wet pads, then turned the pony into the lot. They still had hay in the bunker and water in the tank. Then he went with the lariat in his hand to catch Baldy.
His second loop went over his ears and the horse stopped. Outside the pen, Slocum saddled him, led him to the house, lit a lamp, and checked things. The room looked like it did the last time—messed up. Satisfied, he went out and rode north on the spunky cow horse.
The sound of gunshots came from ahead. He heard the pop of them. Was he too late? He set Baldy hard off in that direction and when he came over the next rise, he slid him to a stop. From there, he could see the drill rig and the shooters that were on some high ground to his left. Gun smoke marked the places in the large boulders the attackers were firing from.
Sporadic firing came from the drill rig, too. He reined Baldy up a draw, regretting again that he had no rifle. In a rush, he headed Baldy westward, hoping not to attract the shooters. When he saw their horses standing hip-shot in the wash, he knew what to do. Gather their ponies and put them afoot—that might unnerve them enough to surrender.
