Slocum and the Cow Camp Killers

by Jake Logan

She swept the curls back from her face and let the sheet drop, scooting over the bed to the edge. “No. I can eat anytime. What about you?”

  He toed off his left boot. “I think you have other ideas.”

  “After last night’s whirlwind, I want more of it.”

  “You know, you were hungry then, which made it keener than usual. The edge may be off of it today.”

  She ignored his words and was in his arms in a second. Their mouths meshed together, her hot tongue stirring him up. So they’d eat later. Her long, slender fingers pulled on his rod after he dropped his pants. As anxious as she was, he stomped them off his ankles, and they fell onto the bed with her trying to pull him up to her source. He closed his eyelids at the pleasure of his swift entry. Openmouthed, she gave a short cry and hunched her butt up to meet him. And so they coupled and uncoupled several times until they both lay on their backs, spent. In sheer exhaustion, they rolled back together and slept some more.

  In the late afternoon when they were dressed, she looked anxiously out the window. “I’m going to miss the damn train, aren’t I?”

  “Probably.”

  She frowned and then shook her head as she drew back in. “And you don’t give a damn, do you?”

  He threw his legs off the bed, mopped his face in his callused palms, and shook his head. “I could stay here for a long, long time with you.”

  She looked at the ceiling for help. “You are no help for me at all, are you?”

  “Not if you’re leaving me.”

  She wagged a long finger at him. “I bet the minute I leave, you’ll have a new woman in this bed before it gets cold.”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me.”

  In minutes, they were undressed and back on the mattress with springs squeaking underneath them. It was past five o’clock when they finally dressed and went out to eat. They were walking up the boardwalk toward a café a block away, where the desk clerk said they served great meals. He spotted three familiar riders coming down the street abreast and turned her toward a slot between two buildings to hide his face.

  “Tell me where those three men on horseback are going.”

  “They’ve dismounted at the Red Lion. Who are they?”

  “Three killers from the Indian Territory. One’s named Rensler. He’s the ringleader. The other two men I don’t know.”

  “That’s not who you want?”

  “Oh, I want them, but I want Hudson worse.”

  “They’re inside the Red Lion now and never even noticed you.” She straightened like a proper woman and smiled. “You amaze me more and more every hour.”

  “Thanks. Let’s go eat.”

  More things on his mind now with Rensler in town. He’d wire Hindman and ask for some assistance from the U.S. marshal’s office there. Deep in his own thoughts of what to do next, he showed Lea inside the café.

  They were seated in the restaurant and ordered coffee while they scanned the menu. Slocum was still uptight about Rensler being there.

  When he laid down the menu, she reached across the table and squeezed his wrists. “You are such an intense person in everything you do. I have never met a person quite like you.”

  “Sorry if I am distracted now. I must tell you I have really enjoyed your company.”

  “I hope so. It has been very heady for me. But now there are two killers in your life to arrest, or remove from society anyway. What will you—”

  The waiter returned and took their order. She ordered sliced roast beef, mashed potatoes, and farm fresh green beans. He ordered a large porterhouse steak and some potatoes. The waiter thanked them and promised to bring them back some fresh made coffee.

  After he’d gone, they resumed their conversation. Slocum had searched the room twice by then and no familiar faces showed up. “So you left society in New York to be with your husband and his ranching project?”

  “If I’d known he was going to haul me out here and stick me on some hilltop surrounded by sagebrush, I’d never have married him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. My first husband, Leon Swartz, was killed at Gettysburg. He was a rather charming man, I thought at the time. But”—she surveyed the diners around them as if to be certain they didn’t overhear her before she continued—“he was not a long-term lover. On our honeymoon, he usually became too excited and did not last long even if he didn’t miss doing it before he was inside of me. I soon discovered maids did not excite him so quickly and he could rip them off.

  “I thought the war might season him. Of course, he came home on furloughs twice, and I decided maybe he was seasoned enough—all I needed to do was wean him off the maids. Unfortunately, he was shot the first day of the battle.” She shook her head, dismissing him.

  “Two years later, I met Thomas at a polo match. He’s older than I am by fifteen years. But he looked so stable and rich—he’s an athletic man. So I played very demure and we had a very large wedding. On our wedding night, I discovered he was more concerned about his own physical condition than my body. Oh well. I soon fit well in his society and enjoyed it. I was Mrs. Thomas Malloy of Highland Estates. Opportunities exist in that society to suit my taste in other men since my husband was absent so much, either playing polo or worried about his ranch in Wyoming.

  “And when I have the opportunity, I encourage him by telling him that he is such a lover, how could I want any more?” The waiter interrupted her with their food.

  They ate their food, exchanging pleasantries. “I knew when you came to sit beside me on the coach that you were exactly what I needed. But I wondered then if I had the courage and looks to attract you.”

  “You had all the power.”

  She nearly blushed, and he winked at her between bites he’d cut off his large steak. Perhaps with needs like she had for sex, it was hard for her to find men with enough discretion to suit her. My, my, what they had missed.

  “What shall you do about this second man, Rensler?” she asked.

  “I think the U.S. marshal here can handle him. Several of Rensler’s men are in the Fort Smith, Arkansas, jail awaiting trial on murder and rustling charges. There is a federal warrant sworn out for his arrest.”

  She nodded that she understood. “There is a train leaving for Cheyenne at nine tonight. We’d still have time to go—play. If you wanted to?”

  “With a woman like you, my dear? Finish your meal. Where do you stay in Cheyenne? I’ll be very discrete.”

  “I trust you. We have a residence there called Grand Manor. It sits on a ridge north of town. Thomas must have been a military commander in the war. He likes to be positioned on high places. Same as the New York residence. However, I understand he has it up for sale.”

  “So you will be stuck in Wyoming Territory?”

  She gave him a peeved smile. “Yes.”

  After the meal they went back to the hotel and frolicked in the bed. She capped it off with a wild blow job on him and looked shocked when he came in her mouth.

  Half gagging, she laughed and fought for her breath. “I thought your gun would be empty.”

  On the train platform, Slocum stood beside her as the black porter took her bags onto the train. They kissed and she let her arms drop slowly to her sides, then she shook her head. “I shall cry until you come to see me. Good luck, big man.”

  They parted and he watched the red lantern on the back railcar swinging off into the sunset in a curtain of coal smoke.

  Oh well. Fashionable women like Lea were not easy to find in his world. Now, where was Penelope Granger? That would be his next move after he wired Hindman in Vinita about Rensler.

  He went inside the train depot and wrote out a telegraph message for U.S. Marshal Hindman in Vinita, Indian Territory.

  OUR MAN RENSLER IS IN OGALLALA, NEBRASKA. SAW HIM ON THE STREET TODAY. IF YOU HAVE A WARRANT FOR HIS ARREST, SEND IT TO THE LOCAL FEDERAL MARSHAL. I WILL TRY TO HELP HIM APPREHEND THE MAN. SLOCUM

  Slocum then lef
t the office after paying the telegrapher.

  At the hotel, he learned from the clerk that his “wife” had paid for another ten days’ stay at the Grand for him and then he found two hundred dollars in paper money under his pillow. Where could he find Penelope Granger? He was unsure if she was a high-priced dove in a fancy house, a street hooker, or some tramp in the alley. So his quest began in the Texas Palace. There he got into a poker game and played cards. While he wasn’t really playing as hard as usual, Lady Luck smiled on him and he won several large pots against two freighters, one who called himself Swain and another who gave his handle as Brock, and a Mr. Claude, who looked like a businessman but had already drunk too much to be engaged in competitive poker. The four men played cards with little conversation. Slocum had answered some of their questions about his business in town and then wondered aloud if any of them knew Penelope Granger. A cousin he was supposed to look up for his family.

  “What she look like?” Brock asked, tossing in his hand.

  “I have no idea,” Slocum said. “You know about these look-up-family-members deals.”

  Brock chewed hard on his dry cigar and got ready to deal the next hand. “I’d bet there’s twenty women by that name in these parts.”

  “I bet you’re right,” Slocum said. “Two more hands to beat me and I’m going to bed.”

  The players moaned that he had all their money and now he was going to leave them. He quipped, “That’s simply how life goes.”

  When he left the Texas Palace, he sauntered up to the third saloon, Getner’s. The place was fogged in tight with cigar smoke. And many of the men inside were coughing on it, standing three deep at the bar. He decided against entering the veiled saloon, went back to his room, and undressed—then lay awake on the bed for a couple of hours—it was no fun there without Lea.

  Where in the hell could he find Penelope Granger? And what would he do about Rensler? He’d look up the local U.S. marshal in the morning. Finally he went to sleep, but it was not restful—he felt simply suspended between the real and almost, from which he awoke several times during the night finding he’d only had had his eyes shut for thirty minutes.

  15

  At dawn, Slocum was in a small café, crowded with unwashed workingmen gobbling down their food in a rush before they reported to work. The waitress swept a lock of blond hair from her face to take his order. Six feet tall, she looked like an Amazon woman he’d once seen in a historical book—only she wasn’t bare breasted.

  “What kin ah get’cha?” she asked.

  “Ham good?” he asked.

  “I guess. It ain’t got any maggots in it.”

  “Good. Ham, fried eggs, biscuits, gravy, and black coffee.”

  “You’re new here?” she drawled.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll turn this in for ya. It’ll be come’n.”

  “Good, my first appointment isn’t until noon.”

  “Hell, honey, I’ll beat the dog shit out of that.” Then she sashayed out to the kitchen, hollering his order at the cook. “Don’t be long on it either.”

  On her way back, she brought the coffeepot and poured him a steaming mug. “What’s your business in this place?”

  “Cattle.”

  “Yeah, I see that by your Texas clothes.”

  Slocum nodded and noticed that most of the customers were fast leaving for their jobs. In minutes the place was near empty.

  She soon came back by and checked on his coffee again. “I’ll refill it. Your food is next. Married, single, or just act like it?”

  “I guess I act like it. I have no wife.”

  “She die or you left her?”

  “Never been married.”

  She gave him an I-don’t-believe-that look, readjusted the lead pencil behind her ear, and shook her head, going after his food. “Ya tell a good tale anyway.”

  In a few moments she returned with his platter of food. “Anyway, tomorrow if you’re still around, let that damn crowd get out of here and you’ll get much better service.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He cut his eggs with the side of his fork and considered her.

  She nodded. “That’s number one. Two, I don’t get off here until three this afternoon.”

  He lowered his voice. “I need to find a Penelope Granger.”

  With a questioning look on her face, she asked, “Would she be called Lupe?”

  “All I know is her name.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  “I’ll be off at three, like I said. Maybe we can find her.”

  “That’s our secret, huh?”

  She agreed and then grinned at him. “See you then.”

  He paid and tipped her good, then left to find the U.S. marshal’s office. What was Rensler up to anyway? In the bright sunlight, he walked the wooden boardwalk and nodded to the ladies, both housewives and doves, who strode the same path. He asked a business suited man on the corner where the federal offices were located and was pointed toward the courthouse: a hastily thrown up two-story building still under construction with many rigs parked and horses tied around it. He could hear the handsaws as he smelled the fresh-cut wood.

  “Marshal’s office?” Slocum asked a young clerk amid the farmers and foreigners in the lobby.

  “Second floor.”

  He thanked him and flowed with the crowd to the second floor. He went in the door marked U. S. Marshal. Slocum found himself away from the crowd when he entered the room. A man wearing glasses looked up from his desk. “Can I help you?”

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Marshal Pense.”

  “May I talk to him?”

  “He’s downstairs in the courtroom. They are finishing construction on it. Can anyone else help you?”

  “There is a wanted man in town who’s responsible for the killing of several people down in the Indian Territory.”

  “What’s his name?” The clerk looked bored by their conversation.

  “Ralph Rensler.”

  The young man drew in his breath and then sighed in defeat. “There are several wanted men in this town. Why don’t you have the local sheriff arrest him?”

  Slocum reined in his anger and impatience. “I believe you have a request from the law down in the Indian Territory to arrest him.”

  “Hell, mister, we have a thousand requests a day for that around here.”

  “What is your business in this office?” Slocum looked around the room, bare of pictures or even a flag.

  “You want an appointment or not?”

  “I’ll go find him.” He turned on his heel and started to leave. He paused at the door. “I suppose I can tell all the people with federal warrants against them to enjoy their stay in Ogallala. The U.S. marshal’s office doesn’t give a damn.”

  Slocum never gave the boy a chance to answer his comments and closed the ill-fitting door behind himself. He found a balding man wearing a white shirt with his tie pulled loose talking to someone who was obviously a superintendent of construction about the jury box being built.

  “The fence is too tall.”

  “Marshal, that’s in the plan.”

  “Too tall. Cut it down six inches.”

  “That’s not in the—”

  “I don’t give a damn. Cut it down six inches.” A vein on the side of his face pulsed. He turned and looked mildly at Slocum. “What do you need?”

  “A fugitive arrested.”

  “Who?’

  “His name is Rensler. He’s responsible for killing two of my men in the Indian Territory.”

  Pense nodded. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Slocum.”

  Pense shook his head and extended his hand to shake with him. “I am undermanned here. I am patching what I can do. This courtroom has to be completed in two weeks. Wait—Deputy Marshal Joe Day is at home. I’ll draw you a map to his place and you can find him. He’ll arrest this guy, and we’ll have one less fugi
tive in town.”

  “He’s a tough guy.”

  “So is Joe. Turn it over to him.” Pense found a paper and drew a map to the deputy’s place. On the back he wrote for Joe to arrest this guy Rensler and that Slocum could identify him.

  “Thanks,” Slocum said.

  “You must be sincere to have tracked him this far.”

  “I am.”

  Slocum found Joe Day nailing up the board fence on his milk cow’s pen. Nails in his mouth, he nodded at Slocum’s appearance, then went back to finish his nailing. That completed, he turned, took the remaining nails out of his mouth, and asked Slocum his business.

  “Your boss wants you to arrest a fugitive who had two of my hands killed.”

  “Who’s he?” He hung the hammer on the fence.

  “Ralph Rensler.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Yesterday, he was in a saloon in town.”

  “He on the run?” Day recovered his brown coat from the fence. Looking over his workmanship, he said, “I hope that holds her.”

  Slocum nodded and introduced himself.

  “Where do you think Rensler is at?”

  “I saw him in town yesterday with two men I don’t know. He was running a beef slaughter company in the Indian Territory.”

  “Let’s go track him down.”

  “Fine.” This man looked all business as they walked into his house and he told his wife what he was going to do. Slocum exchanged words with her, and then Slocum and Day hiked back to town. In the first saloon, Getner’s, they found some card players in the dark interior. The bartender didn’t recall anyone new who matched Slocum’s description of a fortysomething big man in an expensive suit with two sidekicks. They left Getner’s for the Texas Palace. The bartender in there, a man called Hal, said they’d been in there the day before and had stayed to themselves most of the time at a back table.

  “They say where they were going or anything?” Day asked.

  “Asked who was the cattle buyer for the Indian reservations in the north.”

  Day nodded. “You tell him?”

  “Yeah, Ward Provisions Company, north of town.”

  “Across the river, isn’t it?” Day asked.

  “Yeah. Some senator from back East is supposed to own it. This guy acted like he knew the outfit. They left and I ain’t seen them since.”