by Jake Logan
He nodded to acknowledge her greeting. A piano player was tinkling the ivories to a snappy tune. Some fat woman in an equally low-cut dress was warbling the words to it. He felt several sharp eyes assessing him as he walked to the bar and ordered a beer. Hard to tell much for all the haze in the room—lots of shouting and women shrieking.
“Here’s your beer. Be ten cents, laddie,” the bartender said, and set down the glass with foam overflowing the rim.
He paid the man, then turned to look over the mob. No familiar hats were in sight. Snake wore an unblocked black hat with a trailing eagle feather, Tar Boy a Boss of the Plains Stetson, and Red Dog a battered hat with curled brim sides.
When the short red-faced bartender wasn’t busy, Slocum called him over.
“Whatcha need? Some pussy?”
“Not tonight.” He lowered his voice and put a silver dollar on the bar. With two fingers on top of it, he indicated the coin could belong to the man. Probably a day’s wages for him, or more.
“A black man been in here lately?” Slocum asked.
The man frowned as if thinking hard. Blacks were not that common in the West, except for the buffalo soldiers, and none were stationed close around Atlantic City. The man leaned forward and in a soft whisper said, “A black and a breed with two squaws rode into town yesterday or the day before—I thought it was a strange outfit when I seed it.”
Slocum nodded. Easter might be one of them. He hated that notion. “You know where they went?”
“No, but there’s a camp of blanket-ass Injuns and white trash west of here at Oatman Springs. More than likely, that’s where they’d land.”
“How far is it?”
“Three, four miles. Follow the wagon tracks, you can’t miss it. Shacks and lodges.”
Slocum slid the coin over. “Thanks.”
“Any time, laddie.” He quickly pocketed his reward.
Slocum finished his beer, and had started to go when one of the women tried to lure him into her bed. Inebriated, she stumbled into him on her high heels, spilling some champagne on his jumper.
“Oh, sorry—” she slurred, and used her hand to try and wipe away the liquid.
“No problem, ma’am.”
She laughed out loud at his words. “Oh, you’re so nice.” Then, in a clumsy fashion, she snuggled against him, and he took her by the arms so she didn’t fall.
With a toss of her brittle-looking hair, she flashed a smile. “I’m the best fuck in Atlantic City, cow—boy.”
He set her against the bar for support, and touched his hat brim to show her that he was leaving. “I don’t doubt that. Right now I am busy. Excuse me.”
“Go on, you son of a bitch,” she shouted after him. “Go screw your horse or some damn sheep!”
Her words drew a roar of laughter and comments. Slocum ignored them and rebuttoned his jumper against the night before he ducked outside. On the porch, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. There was some light spilling out the front windows.
If Tar Boy and Snake were at Oatman Springs, where was Red Dog? Perhaps he was there already. Slocum would sure have to cover his backside. Snake didn’t get his handle from his righteous ways. The other two were not Sunday-school students either. By themselves or apart, they all could be deadly.
He hiked up the hill listening to the sounds of the town dwindle. Maybe come daylight, he’d find them and end this business.
“It’s me,” he shouted at the shack’s door. “Don’t shoot.”
“Silly,” she said, and undid the bar to let him inside.
“Well, what did you learn?” she said as he took off his coat in the warm interior.
“They’re here or have been. I’ll find out in the morning.”
“Where are they?”
“A camp west of here.”
“I’m going.”
He took her in his arms and hugged her. “We’ll see.”
“I’m going with you.”
He looked up at the ceiling. He’d see about that.
18
Red Dog met an old Indian and his squaw on the road. The buck rode the horse that pulled the travois. His woman walked behind and carried a heavy pack.
“Ho,” he said to the man as he and Alma reined up.
“I am looking for a white man and woman. One rides a bald-faced horse.” He looked over, and Alma nodded that he was right about the horse.
The leather-faced old man nodded and then asked. “You got ’bacco?”
Dog shook his head. The old devil wanted payment for his answer. He’d probably done that all his life to white men—he didn’t think Dog was any more than that—a white man’s spawn.
Flush with anger, Dog pushed his horse in close to him and in Sioux said through his teeth, “If you wish to piss out your dick anymore, tell me about them and be quick, or I’ll cut it off right here.”
The old one’s brown eyes opened wide in shock. He held up his right palm to attest to what he spoke. “We see them riding south. Big man. Tall white woman.”
Dog nodded, and turned his horse away and spoke to Alma. “He knows nothing. Let’s go. They are still ahead of us.”
She moved out to join him. “Do you know him?”
He shook his head. “Some old Sioux that married that Shoshone woman.”
“I feel sorry for her.” She glanced back at the pair, already started out for the north.
“It is the Indian way.”
“That’s not any better than the Mormon way.”
“I won’t treat you like that.”
“Good.”
“Do you regret leaving that place with me?”
“Oh, no.” She smiled. “I just don’t want to have to ever go back.”
“Good.” He booted his horse into a trot. She could count the money for him. Be nice to know how much he had when he got it all back from those two. “Come on. We must be near Atlantic City. We will make camp soon and you can go in town and learn what you can.”
They camped on a dry creek. He found water by digging out the sand and letting it seep into the pit. Meanwhile, she gathered firewood under the gnarled cottonwoods and soon had a smoky fire going. The horses drank from the pit, and then he fed them the last of the grain in nose feeders. Then he tied their leads to a tree and brought her a canvas pail of water for cooking.
He warmed his hands at the fire and nodded his approval. “We should find those thieves tomorrow.”
She nodded, putting the kettle of dry beans and water over the fire. “Could we just go on and forget them?”
“No.”
“I didn’t suppose so.”
“They have all my money. My head is still sore from them beating on it.”
“It says in the Bible that revenge is mine saith the Lord.”
“It ain’t his money either that they stole.” He forced down his anger at her.
She nodded and huddled under a blanket while seated on the ground. “I don’t want you hurt.”
“I won’t get hurt.”
“You will if you mess with them again. They would have shot you if there had not been those men watching it happen. I don’t know what I would do without you. I’ve never been in this place before. I turned my back on them when I left up there.”
He moved beside her and hugged her. “I will care for you.”
She nodded to show she’d heard him, but never raised her chin.
“In the blankets tonight I’ll make you forget your worries,” he said.
With a forced smile for him, she agreed. “I need that. Thank you.”
He tossed a handful of twigs on the fire. The dry cottonwood sticks made a smoky blaze. The beans would be a while.
“The beans can cook,” he said, and motioned to the bedroll.
She needed no second urging. She rose and hurried over, taking off her moccasins and shedding her skirt, then ducking under the blankets. He removed his footgear and took down his galluses, unbuttoning his fly. Under the cold blankets, they quickly
were in each other’s arms. He fit between her knees, and his rising probe touched her smooth warm legs on its route to her source. The lubrication felt cool, but the head of his dick was soon buried in her warm oven and he was pumping into her.
She pulled the covers over his shoulders and shut out the chill. In the starlight, he could see her eyes dissolve into pleasure’s glassy glare. He was going after her hard and her walls responded by contracting. When she began to softly moan in the arms of passion, he grew even more excited. Then he knew that he would soon explode and thrust himself to the depth of her well, and fired point-blank against it.
A soft cry came from her throat as she threw her head back and gasped aloud. “Oh. God—”
They lay for a long while coupled—savoring the time silently. At last she asked to check on her cooking and he let her go. She rushed back and snuggled against him. The cold skin of her legs pressed to his warm surface.
“It will be a while,” she said, out of breath.
“Good,” he said, and climbed over on top of her. “I have more.”
Dawn came in an icy silence. Dog ate some beans still warm in the kettle over the ashes. A thick frost was on everything. Handing her the empty bowl, he told her to stay warm, he’d be back. He saddled his horse, huffing great clouds of breath as he worked. In the saddle, he waved to her and rode off to the south. When he had that money back, they could go to St. David and live in a big house and have lots of help.
With her, he could have respect. He made his horse trot. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could leave this cold place. His resolve to have them all in his gun sights was strong. They’d know better than to mess with him when they went to hell. Before he was done, he’d kill Tom White too.
In town, he found an old drunk Indian in the alley. He questioned him in sign language, and the old man was not very clear. Talked about some springs west of there. They were there. The black man and the breed with an eagle feather on his new hat and two squaws. Dog paid him two bits.
He went back to his horse, mounted him, and rode around the town to get on the road. By mid-morning, he could see the camp from where he lay on his belly. Smoke from cooking fires settled around the lodges, and he noticed something else. The red piebald horse from that bitch’s corral was hobbled in a draw. Tom White.
He drew back. His skin felt clammy despite the cold. Where was White? He must be watching the camp too. Or was he watching him? Dog slowly moved backward. Let White kill them and then he’d kill White. He looked carefully right and left. No sign of White, but Dog didn’t want him to know that he wasn’t in the camp with the others. He kept to his belly until he slipped in to the wash, and then, bent low, he ran for his horse.
He’d go back to the town, buy some whiskey, and then return to Alma and his own camp later. He deserved a drink. Tom White—that sumbitch needed killing too. He would catch him unaware. That white man was no ghost, he’d get him. Dog’s hands were shaking as he rode east in the cold wind. The low sun was no help. Shivering under the blanket on his shoulders, he wondered how he’d ever learn if White had killed them.
He’d have the old Injun buy him some whiskey. Back at Atlantic City, he found him in the same alley.
“Go buy two pints of good whiskey,” he said, giving the old man four dollars in silver. That should be enough even for an Indian to buy that much whiskey.
The old man agreed and got up stiffly. Huddled under the blanket, Dog noticed the rider and the sorrel bald-face horse coming back to town. He wrapped himself deeper so White would not recognize him. Then Dog watched him put his horse in the livery, and moments later go out the front and hurry away.
His fingers itched for the pistol in the holster on his hip. Had White shot the others? Dog bet he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have came back to town so fast. Good thing Dog saw that horse—White and his woman could wait, he’d get all of them.
The whiskey was better than most he’d had to drink in his life. Sitting on their butts in the sunshine, he and the old drunk shared the alley space side by side. The liquor even warmed Dog’s cold ears as he sipped it. With a nod of approval to his partner, he soon finished it feeling mellow.
A deep rusty voice said, “You gawdamn Injuns are drunk again, huh?”
Dog realized he’d soon be in jail. Alma would be alone out there. She’d think he’d abandoned her. He needed to do something.
“Guess a couple days in the pokey are what you need.” The red-faced man wearing the silver badge looked huge as he bent over to pull them both up by their collars.
He wasn’t ready for the muzzle of the .45 that Dog drove into his big gut. The lawman straightened and released them. His blue eyes opened wide and the shocked look paled his ruddy complexion. “Put-put that gun away—”
The .45 spoke in Dog’s hand, and the deputy grabbed for his belly. Shot number two took him in the face. He staggered back and then slumped to his knees, and fell facedown at Dog’s feet. Good enough for him.
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” the old Indian said, wrapping his filthy blanket tightly around him. “Big trouble now.”
“For you maybe. I’m leaving.” He holstered his gun, then balled up his blanket, and headed for the far end of the alley in a run. Ignoring the shouts after him to come back, he ducked to the left at the back of the livery, then ran down the wash and mounted his horse.
He was racing hard for his camp. Looking back for pursuit. He needed to get Alma and be gone. Shooting a lawman was bad business. When he topped the ridge, he saw no smoke.
Where was that woman? Why no fire? Why no sign of the other horse? Had she left him?
He slid the horse to a stop and bolted off the saddle. She was on the ground facedown—not moving. She’d been scalped. No—no—no. He turned her stiff body over and saw her knife-mutilated breasts and the large stick jammed into her privates. Only one man could do such a vile act.
He screamed at the sky, “Snake, I will find you and eat your liver!”
Then, realizing there might be a posse coming after him any minute, he rummaged for a few things to eat—crackers, dry cheese, some candy. With shaking hands, he put them in his saddlebags. Snake had stolen her horse too. Damn. He needed to be gone. The next place where they could hide was Green River. He’d have to find them there.
Tears streaked his face. His jaw trembled. Snake must have come right after he left, or had been waiting for him to leave. Shame that worthless breed didn’t die up there with Yellow Hair.
Dog started to mount, but stopped and staggered around as he retched. The vile fumes filled his nose and triggered more reactions as he bent over puking and then having dry heaves that gagged him. Finally, weak and depleted, he rode out of camp, his vision blurred by the wetness.
Alma.
19
“There’s a man on horseback coming up here,” Lilly said, standing at the window and turning back toward him.
Slocum rose and buckled on his gun belt. “Wonder what he wants.”
He put on his jumper and hat and she unbarred the door. He stood on the weathered gray boards that made a mud stoop to greet the man.
“Howdy. Can I help you?”
“Withers my name.” The clean-shaven man in his thirties sat his bay horse in the slump of no stranger to the saddle. “A deputy sheriff was shot about twenty minutes ago by a breed in the alley. Old Sam said you were asking about one.”
Slocum nodded. “What did he look like?”
“Can’t tell you. No one seen him but an old drunk Injun, and he’s pretty drunk.”
“What can I do?”
“Thought you might throw in with us. We’re going after him. Charlie—the deputy—had a wife and some kids.”
Slocum considered a moment. Tar Boy and two women with a pack string had left the springs at dawn headed west. No one seemed to know where Snake went—they’d not seen him since the day before. Nor had anyone up there seen anyone answering Dog’s description. This breed who shot the deputy could be either of them.
“I’ll get my rifle. My horse—”
“I’ll go get him at the livery, be right back.” Withers turned and rode off in a lope.
“Who do you think it is?” Lilly asked.
Slocum shrugged. “Might be either of them. Or none. But for a drunk breed to shoot a deputy makes me think it could be either of them.”
With a proud grin, she straightened his jumper collar. “Just be sure to come back for me.”
“I promise.”
She hugged him and rested her forehead on his. “Good.”
“I have no idea how long we’ll be gone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Shoot first.”
“I will.” She turned at the sound of a horse returning. “Didn’t take him long.”
He winked, kissed her, and went outside with his rifle.
“Never caught your name,” Withers said, holding out the reins to Baldy. “Call me Joe.”
“Tom, Tom White,” Slocum said, and waved to her from the saddle.
“That your wife?” Joe asked, looking impressed.
“These breeds I am looking for killed her husband up in the Big Horns. She wanted to come along. It was that or take three days getting her back to civilization.”
“Nice job,” Joe said, and they sent their horses into a lope. “Posse has a lead on us. I thought you might help.”
“Glad to.” They rode on hard until the five riders ahead came in sight and they joined them.
“Sheriff,” Joe said to the taller man riding stirrup to stirrup in a hard trot. “Tom White. He thinks he knows the killer. He was looking for him too.”
“Glad you came, White. His tracks are easy to follow right now, but a breed can sure hide them if he tries. Where you reckon he’s headed?”
“No idea, Sheriff.”
“Still glad to have you all the same.” He nodded, drew down the brim of his hat, and faced the fresh wind.
“There’s a camp up there!” Someone pointed.
