Slocum and the Big Horn Trail

by Jake Logan

  She cleared her throat and scowled down at him. “You were raping me.”

  “Your husband do that to you?”

  “Yes, but I am his to rape whenever he wants it.”

  “I did it ’cause I thought you were pretty and had to have you.”

  “Same reason he does,” she said. “He gets horny.”

  “No—I thought you were pretty undressing for me.”

  “Oh—I should have kilt you. Now—now I can’t. But I know you’re lying—lying to me.”

  “We will go to Arizona and see your sister.”

  “How many people you killed already in your life?”

  “What’s that got to do with you and me?”

  “How many?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Not enough?”

  “I said that. They all needed killing and some others did too.”

  “’Cause they got in your way—right?”

  “No, ’cause they stole my money!” He gritted his teeth and strained at the ropes. Particles of grit ground on his molars from the floor dust and he tried to spit them away. It only ran down the side of his mouth. Damn, if he ever got loose, he’d strangle this bitch with his bare hands.

  “I may just leave you here. Hiram, that’s my husband, will never believe all this happened out here. I figure you’ll kill me and then go kill your so-called friends and get that money.”

  “No, I said—” He lowered his voice and raised his head up to hear her better. “I’d take you to Saint Whatever.”

  “St. David.” She snorted. “It never snows there. That’s what she said. Never snows. Never gets real cold.”

  “I’d like to live there with you.”

  “Me get a divorce from Hiram, huh?”

  “Sure, I get that money back, we can afford that.” He looked up at the open shake ceiling for answers on how to convince her. “I’d marry you and hire some Messicans to do all the work.”

  “How much money was there anyway?”

  “Hundreds, thousands.” Tired of holding it up, he dropped the side of his head on the hard floor. “More money than you could count in a day.”

  “I can count fast.”

  “Not that fast. They are getting away with it.”

  “Guess you’d buy me a new dress or two.”

  “I would. I would. Fanciest dress in St. David with lace and all that.”

  “How will I know I can trust you?”

  “You said you had two choices. Kill me or turn me loose. You said you can’t kill me, so turn me loose.”

  “How good’s your memory?”

  “Real good.”

  She was squatted on the floor in front of him holding a sharp-looking knife. The sight of that blade made his scrotum shrivel up tighter than the cold air had. No telling about a madwoman. He knew a buffalo shooter at Dodge that got drunk once and beat up his woman like usual. Later, when he passed out in the night, she used his own skinning knife on his bag and left him a gelding. What was this woman’s purpose?

  “List what you promised me. Go ahead.” She cut an impatient gaze at him.

  “To—ah, marry you—”

  “After you pay for a divorce.” She slapped the side of the knife blade on her other hand to keep time with each word.

  “Yes—yes, after I pay for the divorce, I’ll marry you and we’ll go to St. David and I’ll buy you a big house and hire lots of help. And—and I’ll buy you dresses. And it never snows there.”

  Had he convinced her to cut him loose?

  13

  “Halt!” Slocum fired his rifle at their heels.

  They jumped in the air to escape his bullets and turned, looking pale under their war paint. Hands high, they obeyed him, looking at one another as if to ask how this could happen.

  “What did you do with the Shoshone Indian girl?”

  The short, fatter one answered. “We do not have her. Who is she?”

  “The one at the trapper canyon.”

  “We don’t have her.” They spoke quickly among themselves in Sioux. All of them held out their empty brown palms and shook their heads.

  “Black man and breed have a woman with them,” the fat one said.

  Damn, they must have her. Slocum sat the anxious Paint, checked him with a tug on the bit, and considered his prisoners—they knew more than they were telling him. “You killed two hunters.”

  The fat one shook his head with a serious look on his dark face. “Black man and two breeds do that too. We never kill them.”

  Filled with disgust, Slocum scowled at them. “Then why in the hell were you after me and her?”

  “Need horses to go home. Need supplies.”

  “What about your quest?”

  Fat Boy looked at the ground in defeat and shook his head. “We never find it here. White eyes have spoiled this land too.”

  “Now you have one horse to ride home. What do you have to eat?”

  “This horse.” Fat Boy indicated one that Slocum had shot.

  “I think you better start for home. You’re lucky that posse didn’t find you. They would have hung all of you.” Slocum knew how much Indians hated the thought of being hung.

  “How can we go home on foot?”

  “Travel at night to the Powder River, then skirt the Black Hills. Once you reach the badlands, you’ll be home free. Don’t kill or attack anyone, or the army will sure find you.”

  Fat Boy spoke to the others in Sioux. His words made them all look at their moccasins for answers. Then they began to nod in agreement.

  “You know if that black man or the breed has the Shoshone woman?” Slocum asked Fat Boy.

  He turned and nodded. “It is the breed with him that has her. The one they call Snake. There are three of them and two women. We don’t know the third one.”

  “Red Dog,” Slocum said. “Where are they now?”

  “Rode south.” Fat Boy used his flat hand to show their direction of travel.

  Slocum nodded. “What’re you going to do?”

  Fat Boy looked displeased that he had asked. “Go home.”

  “That’s good. I won’t kill you then.”

  Fat Boy’s brown eyes widened and he looked at Slocum in disbelief.

  Slocum checked Paint again with his left hand and pointed the Winchester at the Sioux for effect. “I came up here to kill all three of you. You understand that?”

  Fat Boy said something in Sioux to the others and they nodded in defeat.

  “It ain’t a good day to die or a good place. The gods might not find you. Go home. Leave no footprints.”

  “What is your name?” Fat Boy asked.

  “Slocum.”

  “You are a good grandfather, Slo-cum. We will use your wisdom and go back to our lodges.”

  Wind ruffled Paint’s short mane. Slocum checked his impatience and nodded to them. “May you live for the embrace of your own people.”

  “Ho,” they answered, and Slocum short-loped back to the cottonwoods and Lilly.

  She rushed out leading the mules and sorrel. “Are you all right, Slocum?”

  “Fine,” he said, and stuck the rifle in the scabbard, looking back to observe that the three had gone to see about the dead horse.

  “What about them?” she asked.

  “I think I talked them into going home. It was either that or kill them, and I wasn’t in the mood to do that.”

  “Will they follow us?” She looked warily in their direction before she mounted her horse and jerked up the mules’ heads from grazing.

  “No.” He gave a sigh and looked back toward the renegades. “I think I have them convinced to go home. They’re a little defeated and depressed. They came up here to find a high spiritual experience and have failed.”

  “Learn anything else?”

  “They said that Red Dog and his men killed your husband, and they also killed Cutter and Roland and have Easter.”

  She nodded. “Then we are on the right trail?”

  “Yes, L
illy, but those three will be lots tougher to take than these kids. Let’s ride.”

  They made camp beside a stream he had no name for. With a fishhook and some string tied on a willow baited with worms, he caught four small cutthroat. Meanwhile she made bread in the Dutch oven. With the fish frying and biscuits baking, they sat cross-legged on a blanket and sipped fresh coffee in the twilight.

  On the ridge above them, a throaty wolf howled for the moon to come up. His mournful voice went unanswered as Lilly scooted closer to Slocum.

  “They can sure make the gooseflesh run up my spine.”

  “Not much danger of them bothering us. They’ve got game to chase, and only in desperate times do they ever bother with humans.”

  “Still—” She moved forward on her knees to turn the fish in the bubbling fat. The done sides of the trout were a crisp brown in the fire’s rosy light. “I don’t like wolves.”

  “I guess there’s got to be wolves in this world. Like there’s outlaws, makes you appreciate the better things.”

  She laughed and settled back beside him. “You’re perfectly comfortable out here, aren’t you?”

  “Sure, got lucky. Caught some fish. And I have the company of a lovely lady to share this meal.”

  “I don’t know about that. But this is your home out here, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “No, you live easy out here. Places like this are your home. Inconveniences don’t bother you, do they?”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?” She swept the hair from her face and tied it back with a ribbon.

  “I can’t explain it. Times I love to be down on the square in San Antonio. Basking in the sun, drinking good mescal, and talking with people I like to share the day with, but there’s always someone lurking over my shoulder in the shadows. I am never totally safe there. Here I seldom have a problem.”

  “I see. But you need so little. Josh would have built a lean-to and gone to all kinds of preparation. I’m just not used to your easygoing ways—I don’t mean it upsets me. It’s much less frantic.” Then she laughed and reached over to clap him on the arm. “Thanks for putting up with a silly woman.”

  “No problem. How are those biscuits?”

  “Probably real brown. I am intoxicated by this country and all.” She struggled up to get her hook and lift the Dutch oven lid for inspection. “Done. Not burned either.”

  “I’ll put the fish on the tin plates and we can eat.”

  “Wonderful.” She spooned out some steaming bread, and he handed her a plate with two fish on it in exchange for two biscuits.

  They ate their supper as the stars began to spray the sky. An owl hooted and their horses shuffled in the dense silence, accompanied by the creek’s soft music. The meal completed, they washed their dishes in the stream and headed back to the glow of the fire.

  “It’ll be cold tonight,” he said.

  “Yes, it was last night. I am rather spoiled from having your warmth, if that is not too forward.”

  “No, ma’am, I feel the same.”

  “We better turn in then.”

  “Sure,” he said, and went to check on the animals. They were asleep, hitched on a picket line strung between two trees. He went past a gnarled trunk and emptied his bladder. He wondered about Easter and how they were treating her. If they’d hurt her…he’d beat the living hell out of ’em. Afraid that they might have hurt her, he shook his head. No way that bunch treated anything right. His pants rebuttoned, he went back and stoked the fire.

  “Anything wrong?” she called out from the bedroll.

  “No, just checking.” He brought the rifles over and set them close by.

  “Expecting trouble?” she asked from under the covers.

  “No, but I’m still not taking chances.”

  “Good, then I won’t worry.”

  He toed off his boots, removed his jumper, and undid his holster. He wrapped it up and put it close by where his head would be, then climbed under the soogans. On his back, he looked at the stars. Must have been ten million of them.

  She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I like your ceiling.”

  “It ain’t bad,” he said, and rolled over on his side. Soon he was nested against her back. He put his arm over her, hugged her to him, and felt a little heady. Lots of woman there—her husband must have really enjoyed her—damn sure not whiny about anything either.

  The mules pitching a fit awoke him. He scrambled to pull on his cold boots.

  “What’s wrong?” she hissed.

  “Horse thieves it sounds like.” He picked up his six-gun. “Stay low.”

  He ran for the picket line, hearing pounding hooves leaving. If he only could stop them—that had to be those boys. Damn their mangy hides. In the moonlight, he saw them in the distance leading off the two horses. Too far off away already to bother to shoot at them. He stuck the Colt in his belt and rushed about gathering mule leads. Obviously, the mules had an aversion to Indians or they’d have gotten them too.

  Those sonsabitches weren’t going to walk home after all. He stomped his foot. Blast their rotten hides anyway.

  “What did they get?” she asked, out of breath as she ran up to hug his arm.

  “Your sorrel and Paint.”

  “Why not the mules?”

  “They had a fit and didn’t want to go.”

  “Really?”

  “Mules aren’t dumb. Ornery and cussed mean, but they’re probably smarter than horses.”

  “Can we ride them?”

  “After daybreak I’ll try them out. They’ve been packed enough they should ride, but that’s not a guarantee.”

  “It was those Sioux boys, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m certain it was them. You heard them kyacking like coyotes leaving here, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was them all right. I regret not leaving them dead for the magpies.” He double-tied the mules. “Let’s get some sleep. Morning will come soon enough.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “That’s coming, let’s sleep awhile.”

  “Josh would have been up all night planning his revenge.” She hung on his arm as they went back to the bedroll.

  At last, when they were settled back under the covers, she raised up, bent over, and kissed him. She swept her hair back and smiled. “Thanks, you’re a neat guy.”

  He snuggled over on his side. “Not neat enough to ward off rustlers.”

  She backed into him and laughed. “No way you can stay awake all night.”

  “I should have been more alert.”

  She reached back and patted his leg. “Go to sleep.”

  While she made breakfast the next morning, he saddled the mules. They stomped a lot and acted up, but they did that on a regular basis. He decided to try One Ear first, so named because a portion of his right ear was missing. Perhaps bitten off by a man earring the mule down in his earlier life.

  In the saddle, holding the reins out and booting him with his heel, Slocum spoke to One Ear. After some hesitation, the mule finally stepped out like he was walking on eggs. Slocum rode him around in circles and discovered he didn’t rein good, but never offered to buck. He felt satisfied One Ear would do for Lilly. Braying and dancing around the tree on his tether, Phillipe, the other jackass, was upset to be separated from his buddy.

  She called Slocum to breakfast. He dismounted close by and retied his mule to a tree with rope, not trusting the reins. After washing his hands in the creek, he flung them dry in the cold air and joined her. He accepted the tin cup of steaming coffee.

  “Maybe we should go back to Cross Creek and get more horses?” she asked.

  “Aw, the mules will do. That trip back there would put us five days further behind them.”

  “I’m with you.”

  “It won’t be as easy riding mules, but if they keep heading south, I bet we can buy some horses off those ranchers on the way.”

  She dished him out some fried
potatoes and biscuits on a tin plate. “How much of this foodstuff and gear will we need to leave here?”

  “I guess the Dutch oven and those things. We can tie on the coffeepot and one frying pan, then make us a few small sacks of coffee and food. That and our bedding is all we can pack out. One Ear acts like you can ride him.”

  “I think I can do that while you ride Phillipe.”

  He scratched his sideburns and shook his head. “Sorry, it won’t be handy.”

  “Eat. I don’t need it handy. I want those killers.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He sat with his plate near the small fire and absorbed the heat on his face. They needed to be down in lower country. A big snow could sweep out of Canada down the spine and bury them here.

  “And quit the ‘yes, ma’am.’ We aren’t that formal.”

  He chuckled. “All day on that mule and it will be formal.”

  “They are that bad?”

  He held half a biscuit ready to pop in his mouth. “They don’t neck-rein and they can be hard to manage.”

  “Only a small bump in the road.”

  He glanced over at her and shook his head. When sundown came, she’d sure know all about mules.

  14

  She held out his pants to him as he sat on his bare butt. He rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut deep into skin and left them raw.

  “Here, put them on.”

  He nodded and started to get up. “What do they call you?”

  “Alma.”

  “My name is Dog, Red Dog.”

  “Fine. How you got that name, I’ll never know.”

  He pulled the pants up. “An Indian gets a name from what his parent sees outside the lodge. She saw a red dog. How do white people do it?”

  “They get lots of names out of the Bible.”

  “I would call you Pretty Water.”

  She shrugged as if uncomfortable about his attention. “Call me whatever. I’ll dish you up some mush.” With that said, she started for the fireplace.

  “Those horses in the barn—we can ride them?”

  “They’re broke.” She bent over and used a wooden spoon to fill the bowl from the iron kettle.

  He was behind her, and rubbed his hands on the dress material over the sides of her hips. Hesitating to straighten up, she cleared her throat. He took a half step back and his arms encircled her waist. With his mouth close to her ear, he whispered, “I meant what I promised.”