by Jake Logan
6
“You have to bring the gun down, see the target and shoot,” Slocum coached her, reaching around her to help support the heavy pistol in her hands. “Let’s try again.”
She raised the pistol, cocked it and made the downward arc—fired. The obvious hole in the newspaper target brought a shout from her and she twisted around to smile at him.
“See what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. I think I can handle it.” She shuffled her boots to take the sideways stand he’d taught her earlier, to make less of a target. The pistol cocked, she made the arc and fired it.
“Good shot. Do it again.”
“Yes, sir.” With a deep inhale, the Colt rose again, cocked, and she brought it down and fired.
“That’s three,” he said and nodded in approval. “Reload.”
“Why?”
“Always reload when you have the chance. Make it a habit; you might not get the chance again. I’ve seen men shoot five times and then get charged and killed because their opposition knew their gun was empty.”
She nodded, shoving a fresh load in the gate.
“The toughest part is I can teach you how to shoot, but facing a person and knowing you’re going to kill him is tougher.”
“It won’t be for me,” she said, replacing the last cartridge.
“We’ll see.”
“No,” she said, twisting to face him. “I won’t care. They shot my husband and son.”
Slocum nodded and studied the windswept grassy hills. They’d see.
In two weeks, her running became natural and she hardly lost her breath circling the home place ten times. Her arms and shoulders grew more powerful lifting half-filled feed sacks for hours. She shot fifteen rounds every morning, and the targets were riddled with her bullets. In a bound, she could get on a bareback horse and be galloping away.
“Lots to this business,” she said in his ear after they’d made fiery love in the bed later that night.
“Lots. I heard today that gang may be down in the Kiamish Mountains.”
“Oh, when can we go after them?” Propped up on her elbows, in the starlight strained by the board siding of the shack, she appeared deep in thought.
“Oh, soon.”
“How soon?”
His hand slid off her hip and he squeezed her rock-hard thigh under the thin shift. She raised up and kissed him. He rolled her over with his lips locked to her. In a flurry she raised her butt off the bed and pulled up the nightgown, spreading her legs apart. His recovering erection slipped in her slick gates and she gasped with pleasure as he drove it home. Her heels locked behind his knees, he began pumping it to her.
In minutes, she was deliriously lost in passion’s throes, humping to his every stroke, wilder and wilder until the bed ropes creaked in protest underneath them. Her face was lost in the tossed curls and her mouth was open—gasping and moaning—until he reached under her, clutched both cheeks of her ass in his powerful grasp and in a hard, deep thrust fired his gun. She fainted.
7
In the soft light of predawn, Slocum finished tying down the diamond hitch over the gray pack mule that Hurricane gave them. Wink and Blue talked to the side as he readied to part with his friends. A coolness in the air reminded him fall wasn’t far away. Shorter days. He’d planned all summer to winter in San Antonio—Kansas snowstorms held no appeal, nor did the Indian Nation’s north wind that swept off the other’s white stuff. High-breasted señoritas drumming on tambourines and dancing on the patios in the live oak- filtered sunshine were his idea of how to winter. Maybe he’d get there this time.
“Ready?” he asked, checking her cinch, then handing her the reins.
“Bye, Blue,” she said over her shoulder, getting in the saddle.
The Indian girl ran over and looked up at her. “I will miss you, Wink.”
“Heavens knows when I’ll be back, but I’ll come to see you if I am.”
Blue nodded and pursed her dark lips. Lots of emotion in her sad eyes. Slocum turned back, shook Hurricane’s hand and mounted up. It was not easy to leave those two.
He took the mule’s lead and set out in a long trot. The Kiamish Mountains were a week away and a vast area to have to locate anyone. Choctaw and Seminole lands were in that region. He tried to catalog the people he knew down there and who might help them. Lots of outlaws in the land that would shoot you in the back over small change. Hardscrabble country with the riffraff of the entire state ending up where law came infrequently out of Fort Smith. Last grounds for many escaped and untried felons on the dodge from the law. Desperate men that would shoot it out rather than surrender. Mixed with breeds, full-blood renegades and ex-slaves. The area they sought was without God and civil niceties. Slocum looked aside at her—he hoped she was tough enough for the job.
They crossed the Canadian River on a ferry. A small pocket of clapboard shacks and false-front buildings hugged the south bank. When they reached the far side and led their animals off, tightening the cinch on Red, he heard her gasp. His hand went to his gun butt and he shoved Red aside. The first thing he saw was the white sole of a black’s bare foot sticking almost into the road. A horde of flies sought the dead man’s open eyes, nostrils and mouth.
“Hey,” Slocum shouted at the ferryman. “There’s a dead man over here.”
“Yeah, that nigger’s been dead a day or so.”
He nodded to the concerned-faced Wink and then he spoke to the ferryman. “Ain’t anyone going to do anything about him?”
The man mopped his neck with his red kerchief and shook his head. “Ain’t my job.”
“Any law here?”
“Naw.”
“Thanks,” Slocum said and tossed his head for her to mount up.
“We can’t just—” Her face looked pale and close to tears; she gripped the saddle horn in her hand so tight her knuckles turned white.
“Ain’t no one here to do it. I’ll get a shovel and come back.”
“Thanks,” she said, relieved.
He pushed up the hill to the first store and dismounted. “Watch yourself. This place ain’t two steps out of hell.” Looking around, he mounted the steps and went though the open doors, seeing nothing out of place. The grit on the unswept floor ground under his boot soles and an unshaven man in a soiled apron looked up at his approach.
“Whatcha need?”
“Dead man up at the ferry. He belong around here?”
The man shook his head. “Just another dead nigger.”
“He didn’t live here?”
“Aw, he come from over at that settlement called Fish Camp.”
“What was his name?”
“Jim Duncan.”
“Who killed him?”
The man shrugged, not looking up, busy making scribbles on some butcher paper. “I don’t know.”
“Get me a ground cloth.”
“Cost you seventy-five cents.”
“I have the money, and a short-handled shovel too.”
“That’s another buck.” He stretched and yawned open-mouthed.
“You don’t get your ass in gear, maybe there’ll be a double funeral.”
“You don’t have to get touchy, I’m going. But I can tell you one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You move that dead nigger, Frank Schade might not take it lightly.”
“Why?” he said after the man’s back as he moved to fill the order.
“You’ll see. Frank Schade don’t take to folks nosing into his business.”
“He kill Duncan?”
“I don’t know,” the storekeeper said, laying the spade and sheet of canvas on the counter. “Buck seventy-five.”
“You ain’t very smart,” Slocum said with an echo of irritation in his voice. “Where’s Fish Camp?”
“Upstream a couple of miles; you can find plenty more of them lazy ones up there just like Duncan.”
“That why he got shot?”
“Mister, with your attitude
you won’t last long around here.”
“We’ll see about that. What do they call this hog wallow?”
“Schadeville.”
He gathered up his purchases. “Tell the mayor I took the body home.”
“He’ll find out fast enough.”
Slocum never turned; he went out in the bright sun to where she sat in the saddle holding the horses and mule. Three young men were standing around her, and with their hats on the back of their heads, they looked like they came confidence-filled.
“Can I help you?” Slocum said, sharp enough that the straw-chewing one turned and grinned at him.
“All we want is a little pussy out of her—”
Without a blink, Slocum smashed him in the face with the spade and struck the second one in the gut so hard, his wind came out his O-shaped mouth. The third one fell over his boot heels backing up and, wide-eyed, scooted on his butt like a scorpion to escape Slocum’s wrath. He finally made it to his feet and rushed off screaming about a madman.
“Which one of you’s Frank Schade?” Slocum demanded.
“He ain’t here,” the one holding his bloody nose said.
“You tell him he better be careful. Killing blacks is as big a crime as killing whites in Judge Parker’s court.” Slocum swept up the ground cloth and handed it as well as the spade to Wink in exchange for his reins and the mule’s lead rope.
“Thanks,” she said under her breath.
A short bob of his head and he mounted. “Let’s go get that body. He belongs at a place called Fish Camp.”
She looked in disgust at the pair moaning on the ground, then booted her bay after him. He saw her shoulders quake with revulsion under the shirt.
“These folks in the Nation ain’t polite cowboys like you met off the trail. They meant to rape you if you didn’t go along with them.”
“What should I have done?”
“Been ready to shoot them when they stepped in. If you’d hesitated, they’d’ve tore you off that horse and had their way with you.”
She rubbed her left hand on the top of her pants leg as they trotted back to the ferry landing. “You said it wouldn’t be easy.”
“Could you have shot the first one?”
“I sure wasn’t ready for that.”
“You think about three studs poking you to death, you damn sure better think about killing the first one reached for you, anyway.”
“I will,” she said, reining up as he stopped and dismounted beside the corpse.
“Will what?” He looked hard at her for an answer.
A hard swallow and she nodded. “Blow them away like you said for me to do.”
The body had begun to smell of death’s putrefaction. He rolled Duncan up in the canvas sheet, then tied the shroud around him with rope. When he finished and straightened, she let the other two animals graze and ran over to help him put Duncan over her horse.
“We can ride double,” he said, fastening the ropes to each stirrup to keep the body over the saddle.
She looked around as if anxious to be on their way. “You learn much in the store?”
“Frank Schade owns this place, and he won’t like us taking Duncan’s body to his people.”
“He—I mean Duncan have a wife?”
Slocum skipped a flat rock four times over the muddy red Canadian water, until it sunk in the choppy waves. Grateful the surly-talking ferryman was across at the other side, he gave a weary shake of his head and looked at her. “I don’t know. We’ll have to find out.”
Mounted, he leaned over with his arm in a crook and hoisted her up behind him. Red acted spooky about the deal of two aboard him, but Slocum talked him out of any foolishness and they were off leading the other two.
“Keep your heels out of his flank,” he said.
“I understand,” she assured him close to his ear, as she hugged his waist.
He turned down a path that followed the river and avoided reentering Schadeville, and hoped that meant no more confrontation with any of Schade’s men. Through the white-barked sycamore, walnuts and patches of bamboo cane flats, he moved upstream. Be good to have this grim task over and be on their way again. They were still several days from his goal.
He could smell cooking smoke and hear children screaming in play long before they rounded a bend and could see them. When they emerged from the brush, he could make out the rail fences, crops and crude log cabins.
Children went silent. Wide brown eyes followed them. Even the dogs didn’t make a sound, as if trained not to dare bark at a white man. When they reached the center of the shacks, he reined up. Several black men and women began to appear, wringing their hands.
“Anyone kin to Jim Duncan?”
A full-faced woman stepped out. “I be his aunt. My name’s Sally.”
Slocum nodded and let Wink down. Then he dismounted. “Jim’s dead.”
“We’s knowed that—why you’s brung him back?”
“He needs to be properly laid to rest”
“What Masa Schade say about it.”
“I didn’t ask him.”
His words drew a titter of voices behind black hands, in concerned whispers.
“You’s know he ain’t gonna be happy. Not by his orders and all.” Sally shook her head as if the worst could be expected.
“Is there a preacher?”
“Not one to say any words over Jim Duncan.”
“Then I will,” Slocum said.
The grave was hastily dug, and people began to come out of the shadows. More and more until their voices singing hymns resonated in the glen. A short man with a bible came and told Slocum he would do the services, if he didn’t care.
“I don’t care, but you people need to seek the law in Fort Smith. Judge Parker will defend you from the Schades in this world.”
“We will, sir,” an older black man said. “We have lived in fear long enough.”
“See that you do.” Slocum turned and started to leave. A hush fell over the crowd of sad faces. “Get the horses,” he said to Wink, then turned to the crowd. “All of you are free and citizens. Stand up or the Schades in this world will always make you bow.”
“Will they do what you told them?” she asked as they rode out.
He looked back. “I sure hope so.”
In late evening, they rode into a small village called Delf. After looking it over, they set up camp at the edge of the town along a creek and she cooked them supper. The next morning he rode in to town to buy some coffee. Still sleepy-eyed, he blinked in disbelief at the sight he beheld. Coming across the settlement’s dusty street with his limp hat brim turned down all around and unblocked, Hurricane hobbled his way.
“Some hoot owl tell you I was here?”
Hurricane looked around. “Where is she?”
“She’s in camp. You must have rode by her.”
“I was in Fort Smith and heard the colonel is in Dallas. So I rode down here to look for you.”
“You get any word on a kid named Malloy?”
Hurricane shook his head. “No word on him or the breed.”
“Reckon they still may be in this area?”
“I can help you look.”
“Good, bees don’t tell me much.”
He looked hard at Slocum. “She won’t mind if I go along?”
“No, she wants them caught.”
“When we leave?”
“We can be ready in an hour.”
Hurricane nodded that it suited him. “I got to see this women.” He indicated up the way. “Then I will be ready.”
“We’ll be ready. Don’t get in no trouble.” Slocum grinned as Hurricane stood up stiff-like. “Your back bothering you?”
Without any expression on his bronze face, he shook his head. Then he looked around to be certain they were alone. “Last night she bucked harder than a horse.”
“Be careful, she may stomp you.”
Hurricane acted like he never heard him, and limped off. Slocum needed to get back an
d tell Wink she should be ready to go too. Whew, his back hurt too. And not from “bucking” either.
With the coffee he bought in a poke, he rode back to camp and found her busy cooking breakfast over the fire.
“Hurricane’s here. Got information on the colonel. Supposed to be in Dallas.”
She swept the curls back from her face. “He’s here now?”
“No—he’s busy right now. But he’ll be ready to go in an hour or so.”
She covered a yawn. “Blue here?”
“She may be home milking his cow.”
“Oh.”
He shrugged. “Who knows about Hurricane?”
She slipped off her perch and pulled on her boots. “He’d make a good Mormon.”
Slocum chuckled. “I’m ready for some breakfast.”
“It’s ready.”
He stepped over and hugged her. “I know it’s been tough on you.”
She wrapped her arms around him. “You said it would be tough, and I had to be too.”
“You’re doing good.”
“Except yesterday.”
“Huh?” He frowned at her.
“Remember those three shots I made at the tin cans yesterday? Well, I never reloaded my gun when I had the chance.” She shook her head in dismay.
He squeezed her. “At least you remembered.”
“Oh, I did. I got up last night and did it.”
“Good girl.”
She snuggled against him until he kissed her. They’d never get anywhere . . . Who gave a damn?
With Slocum full of her good food and coffee, the threesome pulled out leading the pack mule, Hurricane’s red one wringing his tail and the medicine man scolding him out of bucking—though he did cow kick a few times to show off.
Slocum laughed, any moment expecting the mule to pile his old friend in a heap.
“Where we headed?” he asked him.
“Place called Curly’s. He sells bad whiskey.”
“Isn’t it illegal to sell whiskey in the Nation?” she asked.
“Only when you get caught.” Hurricane laughed and then checked his dancing mule.
“We saw Yellow Deer bring some whiskey in by paying a fine.”
“She’s a rich old woman too. I should marry her.”
