Slocum and the Cow Camp Killers

by Jake Logan

  “I ain’t got a horse.”

  “No problem. I’ve got horses. Walking Bird can haul you two out there tomorrow when he brings our supplies.”

  “My name’s Dean. This here’s my cousin Kent.” They pulled off their tattered gloves to shake his hand.

  “If you guys are coming, I’ll advance you two dollars to clean up. Shave, get a haircut, and wash those clothes. Don’t buy no beer. Bring a bedroll, a slicker, and a saddle with a bridle.”

  “We can do that.” Dean spoke to Hank. “Hate to leave you, sir. But real work calls.”

  The liveryman laughed. “I’ll still have shit to load when you two come back.”

  Both nodded and thanked him. Slocum gave them the money.

  “They’re good workers,” Hank promised him.

  Slocum also gave the man fifty cents to buy him some weak beer and mounted Spook to ride home. He had two more men, and that should help, and the bartender promised to send him more.

  His big concern was when the butchers would be coming back. That could be sooner or later. He hoped he was ready for them. No way he wanted to lose any more hands to them. The notion made his belly roil.

  Back in camp, he discovered they’d saved him some supper. He ate after dark with a lamp and the two women for company. Slocum and Katy parted with Hoosie and told her to get them up to help in the morning.

  So when they came in the dark the next morning before she even had a chance to wake them up, Hoosie met them, ready to get working.

  “I renamed Screwball today,” Hoosie said. “His new name is Buddy. That boy is good, and he really works hard.”

  Busy building a fire in her range, she stopped talking when her helper came in and said, “Hi, everyone. I’ll go get the coffee water.”

  “Morning, Buddy. Good, you go get it.”

  “Morning to each of you.” And he was gone to fetch the water.

  “I don’t know much about his origin. Buddy said the excook was his father.”

  “He did tell us that,” Katy added, “but he says he don’t know much about it.”

  “His mind can’t take much on at one time.” Slocum was grinding the roasted coffee beans. “Or he goes into being confused.”

  Hoosie agreed, busy slicing potatoes while Katy made the biscuit dough. The operation was well under way.

  “I hired two more young cowboys in town. They were cleaning out a livery barn there. I don’t know if they can even sit a horse.”

  They laughed. Buddy was back and put the gallon-size pots on the stove. “I’ll fill my wash tubs next.”

  “You’re doing good,” Hoosie said and laughed.

  He stopped in the doorway. “I like to hear you laugh. It makes me want to laugh too.”

  “Well, laugh away, Buddy. We’ve got lots to do.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “See what she means.” Katy said under her breath.

  “I’m glad he’s working out. You need his strength.” Slocum finished the coffee grinding. Next, he greased the Dutch oven and set the cast-iron pot on a pile of hot ashes. Katy brought him the ready-to-bake biscuits, and he started loading it with them. That done, he put on the lid and covered it in hot ashes. She went to make more biscuits, and he greased the second Dutch oven.

  The potatoes sizzled in the frying pans and Hoosie started grease and flour in the third one to make gravy. They were rolling along. The second set of biscuits were placed in the Dutch oven, then Slocum checked on the first set and whirled the top around to reset the upper heat. Then he went and helped Katy open some cans of peaches to set out on the table for the men.

  “You really spoil these guys,” Katy teased him.

  “I’d rather have spoiled help than griping ones. They work harder that way.”

  “It does work.” Katy winked at him.

  Hoosie added the ground coffee to the two pots and sighed. “Why, I’d have to get up an hour earlier if I didn’t have Katy and Buddy and you, boss man.”

  She hugged his neck and kissed him on the cheek as he sat on the bench opening cans. “You are something else. This is the best job I’ve ever had in my life.”

  “Good.” He was glad to have that team.

  “Buddy, it’s time to ring the bell,” Hoosie said.

  “I’ll do it.”

  With his hand wrapped in his kerchief, Slocum took a tin cup of hot coffee and went out on the porch as the sleepyheaded crew staggered up to wash their hands and faces.

  A round of “Morning, boss” sounded like a choir.

  “Good day, gents.”

  “You learn anything in town?” Shooter asked.

  “Nothing worth a dime.”

  “We’re watching for ’em.”

  “Trust me. They’ll come back. Greed is a powerful thing.”

  “I hear you,” Shooter said and went off to take his place.

  “Walking Bird coming today?” Frank asked, busy cleaning his eyeglasses.

  “Sure, what do you need?” Slocum asked.

  “Oh, I’m expecting a letter.”

  “You never write no letters,” someone quipped and then followed it up with a question. “Who’d write you?

  “My wife.”

  “You got a wife?” the Kid asked.

  “Sure, and she’s supposed to have a baby about now.”

  “Where is she at?” Slocum asked.

  “Arkansas. She lives on her folks’ farm.”

  “I could pay you and you could run home for a few days when I get more help in here,” Slocum offered.

  He hooked his glasses up and nodded. “I’d sure appreciate that.”

  “Remind me.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  Slocum nodded. “I hear Blue and the horses coming in. Tell him to cut out Spook for me.”

  “We’ll do it,” someone said as the men all dashed down their coffees and finished the last bits of peaches on their plates. All the sugary juice in the cans was gone. Slocum wanted to laugh. They were quite a crew. The missing two men were as good as any cowboys who’d ever straddled a horse. He owed them plenty. Shame they hadn’t ridden back for help. No one would ever know what had really happened to them. Outnumbered was what Slocum figured.

  He needed to spend a day working on the books. Who he’d hired, who he owed what to. How much of Austin’s money he’d spent. The cattle all looked great. They were putting on the weight on that good grass, which was the entire purpose of the project. Some rain would help, but he couldn’t help that. It had clouded up several evenings, then blown itself out.

  “Someone’s coming,” Katy said, sticking her head inside the door. The two women had been busy making apple pies.

  “Do I know them?”

  “They’re coming from the north.”

  He snuffed. “Hmm.” Then thanked her and rose to go meet them. There were three men in brown suits, headed for the cow camp. What did they want? Maybe they were Parker’s men. They were all dressed up.

  The rider in the middle looked to be in charge: a big man with hard eyes who surveyed things, then dismounted and handed the one on the right his reins.

  “This your headquarters?” the man asked, still inspecting.

  “It’s Jake Austin’s. I’m the manager.”

  “Where’s Austin?”

  “In San Antonio, Texas. What do you need?”

  “Ralph Rensler, the Great Western Provision Company.”

  “Slocum’s my name.” They shook hands.

  “I’m looking for beef to buy. We provide the Kansas City Iron and Steel Corporation with beef and food. What would you sell me some good beef for, that we’d take up to my slaughter operation northeast of here?”

  “I imagine fifteen cents a pound on some good scales.”

  “You do work for the man.” Rensler shook his head as if amazed he’d even ask that much. “I’m buying fat cattle every day for six cents up here.”

  “Better not quit buying from them.”

  “I might pay seven
if they were real good.”

  “That won’t buy these.” Slocum already had the notion that the pair on horseback were Rensler’s enforcers. Twice Rensler had thrown his hand up for them to stay out of it. The message was clear enough: Sell or get the hell beat out of you. He had no wish to be in a gunfight against three of them, but they’d do to watch.

  “How do I contact this Jake Austin? He might have other ideas about this falling beef market, since you are so remote from reality.”

  “Wire him at the Stockyards in San Antonio. He has an office there.”

  “Fine, I’ll do that. Don’t be surprised if you get orders to sell. He’s in the business and knows how tough times are right now.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Rensler was about to remount. “Tell those three employees of yours with those shotguns that I saw them and I don’t appreciate having a gun pointed at me.”

  “They feel that if they or anyone here is being threatened, they should shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “You know what you need?” he said, mounting and then sharply checking his horse.

  “I’m listening.”

  “A good lesson in manners.”

  Slocum’s eyelids were set in slits, and he drew in deep breaths through his nose. “Anytime you want to come and fight, just say so. We’ll see who does what. Now clear the hell out of here.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of me.” They galloped off with his last man twisted in the saddle, keeping his eyes on Slocum like he expected to be shot in the back.

  Katy rushed out and hugged him. “I’m glad that you’re all right. Those men are mean.”

  “Not half as mean as I’ll be when they try to raid us again.”

  “That was one of them?” She looked aghast.

  “He’s the one that runs that whole outfit.”

  “No wonder you were so pissed.”

  “What will we do—I mean if they come back here?” Hoosie asked.

  “Shoot ’em.”

  “I guess we can do that.” Katy looked hard at Hoosie, who nodded.

  “Think hard. It’s their lives or yours that will be at stake,” Slocum said.

  Katy shook her head. “I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

  He hugged her shoulder. “So will I.”

  That evening, Shooter and Darby came in late. The crew was already eating. Slocum took his coffee and went to meet them.

  “What’s happening?” he asked, squatting on his boot heels.

  “There were four rustlers today. We discovered them moving some cattle easy to the south toward that slaughter site. They didn’t see us.” Darby said.

  “Their boss and two henchmen were here earlier, wanting to buy them for six cents a pound. I figure they were testing us and then bitched when Katy, Hoosie, and Buddy covered them with shotguns.”

  Shooter laughed. “Good for you girls. Wished you’d shot their damn asses off.”

  “He conveniently rode in here to test the water is all,” Slocum said.

  “What do we do next?’ Darby asked.

  “If they’re gathering another kill, we need to be ready to ride down there and confront them. They choose to fight, we’ll answer them with bullets.”

  “Last time they were in and out at lightning speed.” Shooter said.

  “We’ll be watching them this time. I’ll talk to the crew tonight.”

  Both men agreed.

  While his last two hands ate, he told the rest what was about to happen. “If anyone here is afraid or doesn’t want to ride down there, he can stay here and guard the camp.”

  No one answered his call. He nodded and went on. “Now, the two men they killed must have ridden in, and the rustlers got the drop on them. Then they were executed. Remember, these are killers. Cover your backside. We’ll ride down that way about 3 A.M. Blue, keep the horses ready. You women will need to have coffee ready and something to eat. It’ll be a long day.”

  He paused. “Any questions?”

  “Whew,” one cowboy said, filing out with the rest. “Sounds like a tough picnic.”

  It might be. But it was them or his outfit, Slocum decided, sipping on a fresh cup of coffee.

  Everyone turned in early. The seriousness of the pending deal made Slocum and Katy hold each other under the blanket until they fell asleep. Two A.M. came quickly, and Hoosie woke them to help her. Slocum was so absorbed in what he needed to do to lead his men that he was hardly present with them. All the ins and outs of the coming confrontation. What to expect. He didn’t need a train wreck to happen to his bunch either.

  After the meal, the men got up and caught their horses, saddled, and rode out. Slocum had handed out five rifles to the best shooters, along with plenty of ammo, and the rest had six-guns. Some had two. The ride was two hours long and Slocum could see that the lights were on at the killing camp. That was how they did the butchering: They strung coal oil lamps on the same poles the beef hung on. A flurry of activity was going on. His crew hid their horses in a draw at a good distance and hobbled them. Then he gave Darby half of the men to come in from the northwest; his bunch would sneak in from the northeast. They left their chaps and spurs on their saddles.

  Slocum saw no armed guards on horseback, but he told them all to watch for some. They ran low and only so far, then they dropped to their knees. There was enough starlight, but no moon. They had planned it that way. Still, no clouds and just stars were enough for him and his men with the rustlers’ lighting to guide them.

  Slocum could hear the rustlers’ cussing. They were close enough. He rose and cupped his hands. “Hands in the air. Anyone goes for a gun will die—”

  A shot went off from Darby’s side, and one of the rustlers who’d pulled a handgun was knocked over on his back.

  “Anyone else want to die?”

  No answer. Most of the rustlers held their hands up as Slocum’s crew hurried in to take charge of nearly two dozen men. Slocum spotted a man crouched on his knees behind a skinned carcass, preparing to come up shooting. Slocum paused and took aim down the sights of the .44/40 Winchester. Then he fired.

  Hit in the face, the man flew backward. His pistol went off in the sky. The crew wasted no time moving in and disarming the rest of them. The butchering crew was soon seated on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs. Three of Slocum’s men were on guard, and the rest were searching the prairie for any sign of opposition.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Slocum asked.

  “You’re going to regret this, mister,” spoke up one man. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

  “Sorry, but I do. The Great Western Provision Company. A Mr. Rensler. Met him yesterday.

  “We’re not going to mess with you long. You’ll be in Fort Smith in Judge Parker’s courtroom. He hates killers and rustlers. You killed two of our men.”

  “You won’t ever get us there.”

  “That’ll be your choice because if you think we’re going to turn you loose, you all are dreaming. We’re going to gun all of you down if you make one move.”

  “You don’t have any authority—”

  “You better shut up or I’ll gag you. Darby, check the wagons. They’re all tied up. I want a fresh hide with a Triple A brand on it as evidence. We’ll need two wagons to haul these men in. We’ll take the rest of the teams and saddle horses with us. We’ll burn the balance of the wagons.”

  “Yes, sir. Shooter, take two men and get our saddle horses up here.”

  “I’ve got them.”

  “Good,” Slocum said. “I want to be on the road to Vinita as quick as we can.”

  “Listen,” one of the outlaws shouted. “Whoever you are, you better turn us loose or you won’t ever live through this.”

  Same mouthy leader. Slocum went over to the wagon where the man sat on his butt in the wagon bed. “What’s your name?”

  “Pauly.”

  “Pauly, you better save your breath, for the last one you’ll take will be
on that scaffold beside the Arkansas River. Gag him. I’m tired of hearing him.”

  “I’ve got him,” one of his men said. In seconds the leader was gagged with his own neckerchief.

  With one of his cowboys on each spring seat to drive the teams, the extra teams still in harness as well as several saddled horses were driven in a bunch. The Kid took charge of herding the loose ones. Slocum left Darby and two others to burn the remaining wagons. The outfit would damn sure be short on conveyances after this.

  They left in a trot headed east. The sun was about to light the sky.

  “They may send someone to check on them or guard their return. Be ready for anything,” Slocum told his men, riding up and down the line of wagons and horses. Smoke streaked the sky over his shoulder. Darby and the other two would soon catch up. Destroying those wagons meant fewer wagons for the rustlers’ operation to haul off their ill-gotten meat next time. The cowboys rode in a long trot as the sun heated the day. Shooter scouted ahead and soon came riding back.

  “I counted five riders headed this way,” Shooter said with a frown.

  Slocum held up his arm to halt the men. “Put the wagons in a V up there on that rise so they’ll have to shoot their own men to get to us. When all hell breaks loose, we have to be certain that none escape to go back for help.”

  The five men came closer and then stopped within easy rifle range. Each of Slocum’s men who had a rifle rested his barrel on a wagon box and had targets that Darby had chosen for them.

  “Halt,” the man on the dun horse shouted.

  “Throw your guns down,” Slocum ordered. “If you shoot, you will kill your own men, who I have in these wagons. Get Pauly up, so they can see him.”

  The driver, Kelsey, jumped over in back, forced Pauly to his feet, and took off the gag. “Tell them.”

  “Hold your fire. He’s got all of us in here,” Pauly shouted.

  One of the riders aimed a rifle at them. He never got to squeeze the trigger. The barrage of gunshots from the wagons leveled the field, save for one rider, and he jerked his horse around to escape.

  “I’ll get him,” Slocum said and put the spurs to Spook.

  The rider discarded his rifle and swept back his coat to try to get to his pistol, not watching where his horse was headed and fighting the pistol that he drew. The sight hung on his flapping coat. His horse darted left, shying from something that the animal saw or imagined. The rider spilled off onto the ground. He rolled over and tried to fire his handgun at Slocum—too late, too shaky a shot. Slocum’s second bullet struck him in the chest. Slocum never stopped—catching the horse was his next task. He didn’t need the beast to run home and let them know something was wrong.