Slocum and the Cow Camp Killers

by Jake Logan

  A few hours later, they found a crude, thrown-up camp. There were some crossbars on some tall poles that someone had hung beef on. The dried blood and the hides were on the ground close by where some coyotes had dragged them off and tried to chew on them. There was a crude shade where they had probably cut the carcasses up, Shooter decided. No doubt it had had a canvas cover on a pole frame, which they could let down to conceal the wagonloads of meat when they pulled out with them.

  “How many wagons did they have?” Slocum asked Shooter.

  “Four, I figure. That’s what the tracks say.”

  Slocum was upset about the entire operation and rode in circles around the killing grounds. Then he saw a place where the coyotes had been digging at some freshly turned earth. He called Shooter over, and they used their skinning knives to dig deeper. Neither man spoke until Shooter hit something and gray wool thread came back on his knife’s point.

  “You thinking what I am?” Shooter asked grimly.

  “I was afraid so when we started. This is those boys’ grave.” The skin on Slocum’s cheeks drew tight, and he tried hard to swallow a knot that rose behind his tongue, but it would not go down. In minutes they were clearing the dirt from part of the snow-white complexion of Wolf’s face, his eyes that would see no more clogged with dirt.

  “Son of a bitch!” Shooter swore, rising up, about to puke, and throwing his large knife on the ground. “I’ll kill them damn rustlers with my bare hands.” Then he retched.

  Slocum stumbled forward on his hands and knees, and he upchucked too. Then the dry heaves took the rest out of him. Sourness ran out of his nose in tails of phlegm, and his eyes soon flooded with burning tears.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God. Why did this happen?” Seated on his butt, Shooter stomped his worn-out boot heels, raising dust in protest.

  “Someone needs to ride to the cow camp and get help. These boys need a better grave. I’ll go find the killers.”

  “After I get the boys down here, I’m coming after you, Slocum. When I get there, if you ain’t got them by then, I’ll help you kill ’em.” Shooter began bawling.

  “Listen—listen! Tell Darby that no matter what he does, keep the cattle on the range. He can hire some help, I’ll okay it. But we’ve got to do that.” With his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, he shook him. “You hear what I said?”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “What brand was on those horses our men rode?”

  Shooter shook his head. “I can’t recall.”

  “Think, man. Think. It may be all I can hold them on.”

  “Wolf rode a bay had a diamond on his right shoulder. I can’t—why can’t I? No, Bronc had a T Bar horse.”

  “Good, that may hang them.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “To get those bastards.” He swung up on Spook.

  Shooter swallowed and wavered. “Slocum, I’ll get the crew down here, then I’m coming to help you. I swear I want them dead!”

  Slocum nodded and set out eastbound. He hoped the man made it back to camp. The thing troubling him the most was where they could be taking that meat. He set his spurs to Spook to go faster; he had some more light left in this day. The deep wagon tracks told him that they were heavily loaded.

  In several hours, he found where they turned off and went north toward Kansas. Where were they going with that much meat? No big populace center up there.

  Later under the stars, his eyelids became so leaden that he stopped, hobbled Spook, and slept for a few hours. He sure didn’t need to stumble into them. By dawn he was in the saddle again and heard a train whistle.

  Stopping, he listened. The answer came to him easy. They were feeding a railroad construction crew.

  Slocum was in a new place for him; actually he figured it to be a tight spot—the railroad might not back him if he tried to arrest their meat contractor and his men. They had one job to do: build track. Where the beef came from was not their problem, but securing meat for their laborers would be. So he wondered how to handle the matter. This crime was about murder. A more serious crime than rustling.

  He dried his hands on the top of his legs and made Spook trot toward the operation he could see. At a distance he reined up to view the scene. Train cars of rails, ties, lots of dust, and a shuttle. Wagons, teams, lots of dust and activity was spread out across the prairie.

  No sign of the wagons that delivered the beef. Somewhere around there must be a “tent town” to support this many men. There was no doubt that if he rode east of the rail head, he’d find it. To feel out the situation, he decided that he’d go look at that operation. In order for the highly paid laborers making two dollars a day to stay on the job, there had to be gambling, prostitution, and booze close by. Then they didn’t get the yen to leave their jobs and go look for somewhere to spend their money. It all had to be close at hand.

  In a short while he rode up the dusty street of the tent city. They were unloading kegs of beer out of wagons—in a dry territory, that made him wonder what dispensation they got for that. Ladies of the night tramped around on the wooden boardwalks in bright, low-cut dresses. Several waved at him and openly invited him to come to some named place or the other where they worked.

  One even showed him her tit and then, covering it, said out loud, “I knew you’d like to see it.”

  He nodded. There was a livery ahead, and he wanted to see if the wagons were parked there. None of the vehicles parked there had been used to haul bloody beef. He could see by the dust on the floorboards that they had not been used lately. He rode Spook around the pens and saw no horses with brands he recognized.

  A man came out of the temporary building that severed as the office. “You needing a horse?” the man asked, then spit tobacco in the dust to the side.

  “I lost a few.”

  “Ain’t no stolen horses here.”

  “I haven’t seen them.”

  “I brought all these down from Kansas. Got sale papers on all of ’em.”

  Slocum shook his head, to dismiss the man’s concern. “I don’t see any of mine.”

  “My name’s Haught.”

  “Mine’s Howard.” He reined up Spook.

  “Good to meet you, Howard. What do you do up here?”

  “Run some cattle on a lease.”

  “I’ve got some good cow horses if you need some.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Right now I’d like those two back that were stolen.”

  Haught agreed.

  Slocum thanked him and rode off. He stopped at a saloon with a sign over the entrance on two posts. Wild West Saloon was the name, and he swept inside and studied the temporary bar, which was set up on sawhorses. A red-faced bartender smiled. “What do you need, my friend?”

  “A beer. Is it cold?”

  “Damn right. Where do you think we are? In some driedup hick town?” He laughed and drew a brew in a tall stein.

  The beer was cold and Slocum nodded his approval. The tent was lighted by wheels of candle lamps strung on cables so they could be pulled up and down. An increasing wind made the canvas roof and the walls snap.

  “You need something to eat?” the barman asked.

  “What are you serving?”

  “Corned beef and cold slaw on fresh rye bread.”

  Sounded good to him. “How much is it?”

  “It and that beer are twenty-five cents.”

  “Sure.” He’d only had some hard jerky to chew on in the past twenty-four hours.

  The sandwich that the barkeep delivered in a short while was huge and came with a large dill pickle.

  “And what be your business?” The man leaned his elbows on the bar.

  “I run cattle on a lease.”

  “Oh, you are a cowboy, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “Let me shake your hand. I ain’t never met a real cowboy. Me name’s Donagee.”

  “Howard’s mine.” They shook hands.

  “Aye, good to meet you. You looki
ng for work?”

  “No, someone stole two of my horses.”

  “Oh, and that’s a bad deal.”

  “It is.” He busied himself eating the thick sandwich. The best part of the whole business. Between bites, he asked, “Who’s the beef contractor?”

  The man shook his head, then called to another man down the bar polishing glasses. “Who supplies the beef?”

  “Rensler is the boss. I don’t know what they call the operation. They simply say see Rensler.”

  Slocum nodded. “I’ll find him.”

  “Where are they at?” Donagee asked his coworker.

  “I think east of here they have their headquarters. Some big ranch.”

  Slocum held up his hand that he heard him.

  One thing he knew. What his men had stumbled upon was not some lightning raid by a few drifting would-be felons. No doubt in his mind that the rustlers, like all these deals around the tent town, had an umbilical connection to the railroad contactor. Open beer sales in the Indian Territory meant some higher authority was involved. He suspected, as he considered how to cautiously approach the procurer of beef at the camp, that he’d find that the main railroad buyer might have a stake in this supplier too.

  He’d go look for the outfit providing the beef next. He hoped he hadn’t drawn any suspicion on himself from the railroad bulls or whoever kept this operation under wraps. These security people eliminated anyone, or even an entire outfit, that blocked or inhibited the rail construction. Every twenty-four hours were precious to such operations. Interest on the cost of building grew each day the rails weren’t being used for transport. This made some executives demand that nothing be allowed to halt construction or threaten the deal.

  Rather than ask anyone for directions to where the beef operation was located, he drifted along the road beside the tracks until he spotted several wagon tracks leading off to the north. By midday, he could see all the freight wagons parked around a place shaded by cottonwoods by a creek. There were lots of pens, crossbars to hang animals on after they were slaughtered. The strong copper smell of blood and guts intoxicated the huge flock of buzzards that circled lazily, floating high in the air.

  Through his field glasses at a distance, he observed the activity going on. Obviously the beef they were slaughtering so openly had been purchased from local sources. The cattle in the pens awaiting slaughter bawled in an upset fashion he expected. The “free beef’ they had stolen certainly added to their bottom line. But the operation was so big, how could he ever penetrate it and get to his men’s murderers?

  He could figure no way of finding the soft belly of these bastards except to slip in and become a part of them. How would he do it?

  He backed out slow-like, keeping down after recalling that Shooter had promised he’d track him down. In the draw, he mounted Spook and started back to head off the cowboy. Disappointment made his belly roil and turn sour. Lots to consider in this deal. There had to be a way to get to the murderers, but it looked like an impenetrable deal. He shook his head in grim upset and short loped his horse back toward his camp.

  He cut off on the tracks that the thieves came in on. It was late afternoon when he met Shooter on the trail.

  “You lose them?”

  “No, I ran into a much larger problem.”

  “Huh?”

  “This was no small rustler deal. The beef supplier for the railroad got those beefs. Throwing in ‘free beef’ goes to the profit of their business. I figure that the railroad contractor has his hand in that pocket. We can’t simply ride in there and do something to trip up their track laying without ending up in an unmarked grave.”

  “Damnit, besides Wolf, Bronc was in that grave too. They’d both been executed. Shot in the back of the head.”

  “Listen, I am as mad about those murders as you are, Shooter, but we can’t simply charge in there. We won’t last ten minutes. I know how these big outfits act.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Go back home and tighten up our part—they’ll try it again, so when they come, we’ll get them on our ground. Trust me, they will try it again. Free cattle are too much of a draw.”

  “Damnit! I’d like to take ’em now.”

  “What you and I want won’t work. Wait and hold back. They’ll be after more of our cattle in a short while. When they do, we’ll close the trap on them, and they will all be the ones in a shallow grave.”

  “I sure hope you’re right.”

  “I am, trust me. We’ll have two of our hands stationed on that side of the lease. They move back in on the old place or a fresh one, we’ll get them all in the trap and slam the damn door on ’em.”

  “You see them?”

  “I saw their slaughter operation. They’re killing cattle at a place over east of the railhead. Cattle like we lost were free. They deliver them to the railroad’s kitchen like they came from their place. They won’t resist coming back for more. All they had to do was kill two men to get them.”

  “Slocum, I want to be there on that trap day.”

  “You can, but we can’t act like we know anything or let the cat out of the bag.” He still had to wonder when and how many there would be when they came back again.

  “I want them sonsabitches so bad my teeth ache.” Shooter shook his head like a biting dog.

  “We’ll have our day. We get a notion they’re setting up, we’ll be ready to pounce on them.”

  Shooter nodded, a little calmer but depressed because he couldn’t go kill every one of them right then and there.

  They rode for the cow camp, not saying much, but Slocum had his mind set. They’d get the killers—it was simply a matter of time. He turned in the saddle and looked eastward. You’ll get what you’ve got coming.

  8

  Long past dark, they arrived in camp on their exhausted horses. The two women were the first to notice their return, and Katy came on the fly, screaming, “Oh, Slocum, I thought you were dead!”

  He hugged and kissed her, then he swung her around. With all the shouting and laughter, it brought all the men out of their bedrolls. The girls ran to set up food for them and light some of the lamps in the sod house so Slocum and Shooter could tell them about the pursuit.

  When Slocum finished his story, he told them in a soft voice. “Darby, you and Shooter are going to watch for them. Don’t make a move against them. We’ll go back in force and wipe them off the slate of this earth.”

  The crew agreed.

  He needed to head for Vinita in the morning. He wanted to hire four more hands and buy thirty new horses. At last, after all of them had gone to bed, he finally stood up, tired as all get out, and Katy dragged him to their tent.

  Undressed, she pushed him down on the cot she’d set up and began to take off his boots and pants. He could tell by the excitement in her breathing what she wanted to do. The nicest damn thing he could imagine. In a minute, she pounced on top of him on the cot.

  “I don’t need no warming up, I need you in me right now. Oh, Slocum, I was so damn worried they’d kilt you too. I have been in such pain—”

  His entrance inside her silenced her, and she clung to him and sobbed. He pumped away and she grew wilder with every stroke. Soon her sobbing turned to moaning, and the muscles inside her began to crush his skintight erection. Harder and harder, until he at last exploded, and she half fainted.

  “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop, I’ll catch you, I—will.”

  Later, they fell from their passion into a deep sleep, still in each other’s arms. In the predawn, Hoosie’s hissing woke them. He told her that they were coming. His eyes felt like sandpits as he sat on the edge of the bed pulling on his socks. Vinita came next. After breakfast and the crew had gone, he kissed Katy good-bye and headed for town.

  He went by the mercantile with the list of supplies the women had made for Walking Bird to bring out, plus another wood order too. Things were going well, and while he sipped on a warm beer in the Lion’s Bar, he asked the barte
nder if there were any unemployed hands around worth hiring.

  “A few. Where are you at?”

  “The Triple A outfit, out beyond Honeycutt Creek.”

  “I’ll send you some if I think they’ll work.”

  “Two bucks a head for who I hire.”

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  “Where’s this railroad I hear about headed?”

  “Comes out of Missouri and heading for Enid. Missed us—we’d like to have been the cross tracks here.”

  Slocum nodded. “There will be tracks all over someday.”

  “Yeah, they say they’re really building that one.”

  Slocum finished his beer and nodded. “Anyone around here ever work for them?”

  “What did you need to know?”

  “I’m missing a few horses. They may have wandered off in that direction, I simply wondered about them. Maybe they’d seen them.”

  The barkeep leaned over the bar to whisper, “They told me even Parker’s men are not allowed up there.” He looked around to be certain no one could hear him. “They run that deal with a steel fist.”

  “Most of those big outfits do.”

  “They’ve got connections clear back to D.C.”

  “How do you sell beer here?”

  “It’s only 2.2. You won’t get drunk on it. We don’t have any whiskey or wine either.”

  “I see.” Slocum smiled and agreed, learning something else.

  “I’ll send you some help.”

  “Good deal.” He wondered if that was all that they were serving in the railroad camp, but he doubted it. “Thanks.”

  Slocum spoke to the liveryman, Hank, about needing men, and Hank called up two young men who were pitching manure out of the barn into a wagon.

  “This guy runs the Triple A cow camp on Honeycutt Creek. Either of you want to go to work for him?”

  The two looked pretty shabby. Hadn’t shaved or had a haircut in a while. Both were in their late teens.

  “Is it shoveling shit?” the tall one asked.

  “No, it’s riding a horse all day, keeping those cattle on the lease land.”