by Jake Logan
He glanced back as Mia dragged the mules on their leads. Even without packs, they led stubbornly. Impatient with them and her, he turned his horse out and rode past her, flailing her with the quirt on his right wrist as he did so. She ducked over in the saddle and his lash fell on her leather shirt.
“Keep them moving!” He spurred his horse behind them, reached out, and quirted both mules on the their butts, spooking them so much they about overwhelmed Mia in their panic. She rode off in a high lope.
Standing in the stirrups, he realized he had to keep the mules out of sight at Cross Creek. That was why he hadn’t ridden one of the Texans’ good horses to town. No problem. Mia could stay with the mules at the outskirts. After dark, he’d load them and they’d be gone. The notion of being linked to the murders raised gooseflesh on the back of his arms despite the midday sun’s heat that even melted the snow under bushes.
He felt the thick wad bound around his waist and smiled. If that lazy bitch didn’t keep up from here on to town, he’d beat her good too. With his horse in a trot, he left the timber and started across the wide-open meadow. Nothing was in sight in the vast basin. He stood in the stirrups of the good saddle with M Bar stamped on the fenders, but he’d used part of a plaid blanket over it to hide the marks. Most Injuns did that anyway, covered their saddle with blankets. Where could he go to live out his life as a king?
Would the Sioux accept him at the Wounded Knee Reservation? He was their kin. No matter the full-bloods scowled at breeds. Maybe a rich one might be acceptable. Maybe?
They reached Cross Creek near sundown. He made Mia stay out of sight in the canyon by the small stream and went into the town. Before he’d left her, he’d promised her candy if all went well. Numbly, she’d nodded. He smiled to himself, riding down the narrow trail. At last she’d bowed her head to him. He would soon have her broken to his will. No more of that open laughing and show-off riding like she was some kind of a princess instead of his slave. She was learning her place. But with his money, he could buy a woman with pointed tits and a tighter pussy. Maybe he’d do that.
He tied his horse in back of the stables in the pines and checked his Colt in the half-light. Then he eased his way downhill and took a place at the side of the livery. A few horses were hitched at the racks. Several freight wagons were parked in the streets, and some men off-loaded one in front of the big store. Carrying hundred-pound sacks on their shoulders, they went into the lighted doorway.
He squatted in the growing darkness and rubbed his hands on his pants. Time to move. He strode across the street and fell in behind a clerk carrying a sack. Inside that store, which smelled of spices, leathers, and coal oil, he went to the counter in the rear.
The old man who owned the store wiped his hands on his apron and nodded to him from behind the counter. “What do you need?”
“Sack of flour, sack of dry beans, four slabs bacon—”
The man held out his hand. “That’s way over twenty dollars.”
Dog raised his chest and nodded—then in his best Injun voice said, “Me got money.”
“Fine, so you understand,” the owner said, and bent over with his pencil to write down the rest on the butcher paper.
“Coffee, baking powder…” Dog went on with his list, making the man look up and frown.
Angry at his suspicion, Dog slapped five twenty-dollar gold pieces on the counter.
“That’s fine,” the man said.
Dog nodded and went on listing things he needed, but a wave of revulsion went through him. He recalled snatching that other storekeeper’s hair from behind and slicing his throat when the man stepped out the back door of his store after cheating his mother of her wolf hides. Maybe he would kill this old man the same way.
“You want this tonight?” the owner asked.
Dog nodded. “I go get my mules.”
“Very good, sir.” He picked up one of the coins and then set it back. “Brand-new.”
“Good money,” Dog said, as if the man doubted it being real.
“Oh, yes, just don’t see much new money.”
“Good, I get mules.” Dog started to leave.
“Oh, mister, you only owe me twenty-two dollars.” He shoved three of the gold pieces back and opened the drawer to make change.
“I knew that,” Dog said, and waited for his change. The man must be honest—he for sure knew that Dog couldn’t count and could have cheated him. Maybe Dog wouldn’t kill him. His fingers closed on the paper money and coins the man gave him back and he nodded.
With money in his pocket, Dog left to get the mules. He caught the horse, then stopped and listened in the growing darkness. Town noises filtered to him. A horse squealed in the livery pens, and the thumping of hind hooves bruising another thudded loudly.
He led his horse up the trail in the darkness. Overhead in the boughs, birds in their roosts fluttered and the stars began to shine. Best he took his goods and left the area. A breed with money might draw suspicion. That store man had been examining those coins with such interest. Dog’s senses had kept him alive for this long. He’d better follow them.
“Move a muscle and you’re dead, breed,” the coarse-sounding voice said.
Dog froze. Was it the law? His hands were quickly thrust tight behind his back in leather thongs and his captors also disarmed him. Rough hands shoved him ahead. Three white men had taken him prisoner. He could smell the cheap whiskey and tobacco on their breath. A big man with a long beard was in charge—the boys called him Rube.
“Build a fire,” Rube ordered, and the youngest of the outfit moved to obey.
Where was Mia? The powerful hand on his shoulder shoved him to sit down. Seated, he watched the flare of the matches catch the tinder and illuminate the area around them. He saw Mia with her hands tied. She was seated on a blanket across from him. When he caught her eye, he gave a head shake to tell her not to say anything. The whites knew nothing about the money belt—yet.
“Now how the fuck did you get them mules? They belonged to McCullem?” the big man asked.
Dog never answered.
“You can play that dumb-Injun stuff long as you want. I figure that fancy bitch’ll pay me big bucks for you and them mules.” Rube folded his arms over his chest. “Yes, sir, and the sheriff’ll hang your ass too.
“Get some food going,” Rube said to the boys. “You can squeeze these damn Injuns till their guts come out and not learn nothing. We got the goods—mules, and I bet that horse belonged to McCullem too.”
The older boy lifted the blanket and shouted, “Hell, it’s McCullem’s saddle. I seed this brand on it.”
“Whatcha say now?” Rube asked Dog, and dropped down beside Mia. He lounged on his side and laughed. “Cat got your tongue?”
Dog never answered.
“Here,” Rube said, and freed Mia’s wrists. He sat up to lift her leather blouse high enough to expose her small pointed breasts. “Guess I can have me a little Injun pussy while we wait on food, huh, breed?”
No reply. Dog’s gaze was concentrated on the fire’s flame. His hands behind his back were bound tight, but he intended to work them free. If he ever did, he’d feed that bastard his own dick.
Laughing at his good fortune, Rube got on his knees and removed Mia’s blouse over her head. She offered no resistance. Then he settled back on his legs and grinned before he fondled her breasts. At last, he forced her down on the blanket and ran his hand along her skirt.
“My, my, you’re going to be a mighty pretty fine piece,” he said as he probed her with his finger.
At last, he hurriedly undid the ties at her waist and stripped off the skirt, then tossed it aside. With his mouth open wide issuing streams of drool, he rolled over on his knees and studied her huddled naked figure under him. Not taking his eyes off her, he undid his galluses. He shoved the pants down to his knees so his mushroom ass shone in the firelight. Then with a growl, he roughly parted her legs, climbed on top of her, and poked his erection inside her.
The strings grew looser on Dog’s wrists, and the slippery blood from where the leather cut into Dog’s skin in his desperate effort to get loose helped him slip free at last. But he must not let them know of his success until he could grasp the six-gun in the holster lying only a few feet from the grunting Rube. A rifle leaning against a pine tree a few yards away was too awkward a weapon for him in such close quarters with three of them to kill.
The younger one was frying some bacon, and the middle one, called Jocko, sat to the side, jacking off his dick, getting ready to poke his prod to her when the old man finished. No one watched Dog. Certain of that—Dog moved. He scrambled on his hands and knees for the gun and holster. In a swift jump, he landed and whipped the Colt free of the leather holder and cocked it.
Jocko, with his dick in his hands, screamed like a girl, “Watch out!”
About that time, Rube came and shoved his dick hard up in Mia. “Huh?”
Before Rube could turn and look over his shoulder, the six-gun belched an orange blast in the night and hot lead struck him in the back. He grunted and fell on top of her. Dog rolled to his left side and shot Jocko in the face. In an instant, Dog bounded to his feet and took off after the already fleeing younger one. He didn’t want him to escape and go for help.
Pungent sticky evergreen needles swept his arms and face as he ran through the darkness. He could hear the boy moaning as he ran down the canyon through woods, bouncing off stiff boughs and falling down. “No—no—no—don’t kill me.” His raucous breathing caused a telltale racket. That sound led the fleet-footed Dog to the starlit glen where the boy had collapsed on the ground, holding up his hands and begging for his life.
Dog stopped on the heels of his moccasins, took aim down the blade sight, and shot him. First bullet in the chest and the second at close range in the horrified face.
In the pearl starlight, Dog stood over the thrashing legs of the dying boy. The .45 was like a great sack of rocks in his right hand as he kicked the body when it fell still at last. “Sumbitch.”
After all this, he’d sure have to leave the Big Horns. A breed had no right to kill a white man—let alone three of them. No matter that they’d raped his woman and planned to kill him too.
He knew when he shot that bully in Deadwood that he had to flee or be lynched. Now he must run again. Not without the flour, beans, coffee—maybe they hadn’t heard the shots in town. He rushed back to camp.
Naked, Mia sat huddled and crying—feeling sorry for herself. He kicked her swiftly in her bare butt. He ignored her complaining. “Get dressed. We must run for the mountains.” He found his own gun and holstered it. “Get going!”
“Where?” she cried, tears running down her face.
“To the mountains like all blanket-ass Indians do.”
She acted as if she’d lost her mind as he gathered all the horses. At least she finally was dressing.
With all of them in tow, he handed her the reins and gathered all their guns and ammo. He hung the holsters over saddle horns and put the two rifles in scabbards on their horses. Then he went over to where the facedown Rube’s bare ass stuck up in the dying firelight, and rolled him on his back.
He jerked his recovered knife from the sheath, bent over, and grasped all of Rube’s genitals in one hand and sawed them off. Then he used the blade to pry open Rube’s mouth and stuffed them inside. Then he scalped him. Finished, he stepped over to Jocko and did the same to him.
“You won’t fuck any more women in the next world,” he said to the two dead men, and then bailed on his horse. No time to get those supplies he’d ordered. This place would soon be crawling with white people who’d heard the shooting.
“Bring them,” he said to her about the horses and mules. “We must hurry.”
Then he booted his horse for the mountains. Damn those three sumbitches anyway.
7
Earlier that day, Slocum and his new employer, Lilly McCullem, left Cross Creek for the mountains. They went north along the face of the range toward the Elk Creek Trail to check on where she thought her husband might have made his camp.
“Mr. White,” she said, pushing her good sorrel horse up beside his. “I really am concerned Josh hasn’t returned. It is very unlike him. He’s not unreliable.”
Slocum looked over at the handsome woman trotting beside him, dressed in men’s clothing, including tucking most of her curls under a Boss of the Plains Stetson. Except for her figure, which filled the shirt quite well, she looked more like a boy than the society woman he saw in town. But she was not just a society woman. She could ride.
“I have to tell you something. My name is not White, it’s Slocum.”
She nodded. “I see.”
“Too long for me to explain here, but sometime I will. So call me Slocum.”
“Lilly will be fine. I understand that formality in this country is a little out of place.” Then she laughed for the first time.
He glanced over at her. “As to your husband—we’ll find him.”
“I hope so.” She chewed on her lower lip, looking straight ahead. “I’ve prayed a lot that he’ll be okay.”
“I understand.”
At the start of the Elk Creek Trail, he reined them up to let the horses breathe before they started into the canyon. After they cooled, he watered them in the small stream. She went apart from him and with her back to a pine, she looked up at the towering range of granite and pine-clad slopes. Idly, she slapped at her leg with the small quirt on her wrist. He knew she must be in a lot of mental turmoil over the mission ahead.
He led the horses over and motioned toward the yawning seam in the Big Horns. “She’s waiting for us.”
“Why call it ‘she’?” she asked with a smile.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Seems more like a woman’s job to sit there in one place and hold the rest of the world together.”
“I think you’re right, Slocum. A woman’s job is to hold it all together.” She took the reins and started to mount. In one bound, she was in the saddle and nodded to him. “Best we went on.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gathered the mules’ leads, mounted, and with a nod sent her on ahead.
The trail crossed and recrossed the stream. With her in the lead, they soon left the streambed and took a narrow trail that skirted the tall gray bluff face. Small landslides on the pathway made her sorrel pick his way carefully over them.
“No hurry,” Slocum said from behind her, and surveyed the yawning gap behind them. On the opposite slope, a blacktail doe raised her head from grazing and stared across at them. Two weaned fawns nearby also gave them a sharp look, then bolted away stiff-legged into the leafless aspens.
“Trouble ahead,” she said, and reined her horse up. He tied the first mule’s lead to his saddle horn, knowing Paint would ground-tie. Then, after a glance off to the side into the shadowy depths, he eased down, found enough footing to slip by Paint, and walked up the trail to where the sorrel’s butt blocked his way.
She twisted in the saddle to face him. “There’s been some falling rock ahead. Is there a wider spot?”
He shook his head. Paint and those mules would stand. If her sorrel got restless and tried to turn, she and the horse would topple off a thousand feet into the canyon. He tried to look past her to see if it was wider ahead. No room.
“Sit tight,” he said, spotting a pine snag growing out of the face of the cliff some fifteen feet above her that looked stout enough. He eased back and undid his lariat off the saddle, talking softly to Paint. “I need to get up there and clean enough off to get over it. You sit tight.”
He shook out the rope and made a loop. Not wanting to spook the animals, he knew he had to flip it up and over the stubby tree. Whirling the lariat was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Talk to them. “Easy, Paint,” he said, and fli
pped the rope up. No luck. Still talking to the animals in a calm voice, he gathered his lariat and made a new loop and tossed it. This time it went over the tree. Then he went closer to the pine and tried to move the rope farther down toward its base. But his loop closed about halfway down and nothing he did at his end made any difference. He cinched it tight. Tree hold.
Hand over hand, he began to climb it, testing the strength. It felt springy under his weight. The sorrel acted snorty with him working so close to his butt.
“I’m going to try it,” he said to Lilly. “When I get over you, try to make him back up a few steps and I’ll be able to come down ahead of you.” I hope.
“He’s usually good to back up.”
“Fine.” Just as long as he didn’t turn.
Slocum began to climb with his boot soles on the slick rock face as, hand over hand, he pulled himself up the rope. He glanced down at her and decided he needed to be another foot higher to clear the horse. That accomplished, his arms ached and his footing became precarious.
“Back him easy.”
He looked down and saw the horse hesitate. No, don’t do that. Then the sorrel eased some and started to turn to look back. Lilly forced him to look ahead and pulled on the reins, and he resumed his easy shuffle in retreat, his iron shoes scraping on the rock surface.
“Good. Talk to him,” Slocum said, anxious to get off the side of the mountain.
Hand over hand, he came down until his boot soles were on solid ground. The sorrel snorted at him, but held his place under her. Out of breath and standing on the ledge at last, Slocum drew deep breaths of air. He nodded his approval at her. Then he turned to the slide.
It was more than ten feet long and he could not see how far around the face of the mountain it went. He began to toss off the large rocks, making a way for their animals. It was slow, tedious work that strained his back and ate up his gloveless hands. He talked to her and assured her she was better in the saddle than off at this point due to the narrowness of the ledge. His work began to show progress, but the sunset was his enemy and it was threatening in the west.
