Slocum and the Vengeful Widow

by Jake Logan

  “Who the hell—”

  Hurricane’s tough look and the poke of the shotgun muzzle cut off his protest as his face paled.

  “Who’s in there?” Hurricane demanded.

  “No one—”

  Hurricane jammed the gun barrels in his gut to enforce his question.

  “Nickel, Fred, Two-hoss—”

  A quick nod to Slocum, and Hurricane shoved the man down in the chair. “Don’t move.”

  “I-I won’t.” The man trembled in fear, grasping the arms of the rocker.

  A gray-haired man rushed out on the porch. “What the hell’s going on with the horses—”

  The man’s color drained from his face at the sight of the shotgun. He put his hands out as if to ward it off. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “The one came to kill you.”

  “God, no.”

  “Tell them we have them surrounded—come out or we’ll burn them up.”

  Slocum positioned himself beside the door. The first figure came out gun cocked. Slocum busted him so hard on the shoulder with his Colt, the outlaw fired his revolver into the floorboards. He went to his knees screaming in pain. Slocum wrenched the gun out of his hand and threw it way. With his boot, he shoved the crying man aside and faced the open door, his pistol cocked.

  Hearing shots in the back, he dove into the room and could see that the back door was open. He swore and tried to focus in the darkness. A pistol’s orange blast from the side of the room made him duck, emptying his own revolver in that direction. Acrid smoke boiled up in the room; he dared not move from the gritty floor. He could hear some spurs kicking the floor—no doubt in death throes.

  He lay on his belly, feeding fresh rounds into the Colt and listening.

  “Slocum?” It was Hurricane at the front door.

  “I’m fine. I don’t think he is.” Colt loaded at last, he rose slow to his knees and looked at the open back doorway. Where was she? “You okay, Wink?”

  “I think so,” she said in a small voice outside.

  “You hit?” he asked.

  “No. But he is.”

  “Who?”

  “Not Nickel.”

  “I think he’s in here.” He struck a match and lit a candle lamp. Carrying it, he went to where the pimple-faced kid was sprawled on his back. His blue eyes stared at the split-shingle ceiling—he wouldn’t shoot any more innocent boys. Slocum holstered his gun and went to the back door.

  Seated on the ground, .32 in her lap, she looked up at him with wet eyelashes. On the ground, facedown, was the body of a man with a pistol in his outstretched hand.

  “He came out to kill me.”

  Slocum nodded, went over and sat down beside her. He draped an arm over her shoulder. “I know that. This ain’t an easy business.”

  She holstered the pistol and rose into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder. “I’m learning. I’m learning.”

  “Nickel’s dead.” He rocked her in his hug and then raised her face to look at him.

  “That doesn’t even matter at the moment. I wanted to celebrate every one of them being sent to hell—it isn’t like that, is it?”

  Stabbed by her words, he held her tight and closed his eyes. “No, it never is.”

  She blinked her wet lashes at him. “I still want the rest of them.”

  “I understand.”

  9

  They left Fred’s Ranch after Fred and his man Carl buried Peter Two-horse and Nickel Malloy. Fred told them that the third member of Nickel’s gang, Amos Lanny, had quit the bunch and ran off the night before. The fact satisfied them, and they rode back to Jetter’s, arriving there at sundown.

  A tall man in a suit and a narrow-brim felt hat was introduced to them before Jetter’s wife Betty ran off to fix more food. Wink fell in to help her after learning the man’s name: Deputy U.S. Marshal Fred Burns, from Fort Smith.

  “So Nickel is dead?” he asked after shaking their hands.

  Slocum nodded. “So is Peter Two-horse.”

  “The Indian Territory is two better off,” he said. “I won’t fill that out in my report, but I’m grateful.”

  “There is an Indian called Indian Tee who was with the criminals that murdered her son and husband in Kansas,” Slocum said.

  “Willy Tee—likes to be called Black Hawk.”

  “I don’t know—but he was with Nickel, Colonel Bowdry, the leader, and Henny Williams at the murder-robbery.”

  “Willy Tee has some folks up by Choteau on the Grand River. We have some warrants for him. He’s a mean sumbitch, and they will hide him.”

  “All these guys are, and Bowdry is no exception.”

  Burns nodded. “Him and his gang robbed a mail car last spring. There’s a five hundred dollar reward on him.”

  “I think he may be back in Texas,” Slocum said.

  “Could be,” Burns agreed.

  “Henny Williams?” Hurricane asked.

  “That’s the skinny cowboy that murders women.” Burns shook his head with a wary set to his lips. “He can slip through a knothole. We had him cornered up on the Canadian and he got away. Two marshals captured him near Fen-ton, and at night he slipped his cuffs and got away.”

  “I guess we’ll go look for them,” Slocum said when Wink called them to come and eat.

  “Don’t envy you. Guess we owe you for stopping that damn Nickel from forming another gang and going on a rampage up here.”

  “No problem.”

  After the meal, Slocum shook hands with Burns, excused himself and joined Wink at their things. He took up their bedrolls and laughed looking at the stars. “No rain tonight. Guess we don’t need a tent.”

  She hooked her hand in his elbow, and they followed a silver path through the trees, to an open spot of grazed down grass. He unfurled the first bed and she caught his arm. “We only need one.”

  He smiled and toed off a boot, watching her undo the buttons on her shirt in the pearl light. She glanced up in the shadowy light and smiled as if embarrassed. “No modesty left in me, is there?”

  Out of a strong impulse, he swept her into his arms and kissed her. “Been a tough day. I’m here to make you forget it.”

  Her palms framed his face and she pulled him back. “Yes,” escaped her lips before they closed on his.

  Clothes melted away like peeling a fruit, until they soon stood naked in each other’s arms. They scrambled to lie on the bedroll, her knees raised and parted for him and her arms held open. Firm breasts soon poked his chest, and his hips ached to hunch into her in those moments before connection, when the urges of both for the attachment rose to a crescendo. Her hand shot down for the turgid shaft and directed the swollen head to her moist lips. He slid in with the power of a pile driver, and a new electricity struck his brain like lightning. The strong ring of fire closed on him like a vise, and she cried out in passion’s arms. Her legs widened to admit him deeper and he hunched hard for that position.

  Leaning forward on his braced arms, he began to feel her clit scratch the surface of his probe. His thrusts grew faster and her contractions tighter and tighter, until he and she were raging for their breath in a whirlwind of maddened pumping.

  She raised her hips for all of him. The skintight head of his dick ached. More and more, faster and faster, harder and harder, until he felt the fire rise in the depth of his balls. He moved as deep as he could go and she clutched him. The explosion fountained out of him like a hard shot, draining his strength and letting all things pass.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned and threw her arms out in surrender. “Oh, I’m sorry to keep talking about the poor man—but if Walter could see me now—he’d die. I can recall him fumbling around like it was something I must endure.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m such a slut—such a slut.”

  “Why?” he asked, slipping beside her silky body.

  “I like it. I love it. I could do it all the time.”

  “Hey, it’s for you to enjoy.”

  “I’ll
remember that. To enjoy.” She snuggled against him. “What next?”

  “Sleep some.”

  “I think I can now.” She raised up and kissed him. “Billy Bob never lied to me about hiring you. He said you were the man—I didn’t know then what he meant.”

  He hugged her and smiled.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked him, pushing the bay up close beside him. In the shadowy first light, soft purple doves, feeding on the ripe grass seed, burst into the air at their approach and caused her horse to spook some. But she held him in check and forced him back in place.

  “Guess all the information comes out of Fort Smith. I figured we’d go up there and check around. Bound to be a rumor about the others. Besides, it’s on the way to Choteau.”

  “Indian Tee,” she said, as if rolling the name over, and nodded slow in approval.

  “Or who else he calls himself.”

  “Black Hawk,” she added

  “He won’t be easy to catch,” Hurricane said. “He can be like a ghost.”

  She turned in the saddle and frowned at him bringing up the rear leading the pack mule. “There ain’t real ghosts.”

  “Don’t bet money,” Hurricane said. “He can become one.”

  “No way. What do you think, Slocum?”

  “I think ol’ Doc Hurricane says he’s a ghost, I wouldn’t bet against him.” He twisted in the saddle to look at the stone-faced Cherokee and then turned back.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said.

  “Guess we’ll see,” Slocum said.

  After camping one night at the base of the mountains and a dusty hot ride by late afternoon, they rode the ferry across the Arkansas and could see sunset shining on the brick buildings of downtown Fort Smith.

  “Is it dangerous for you to be here?” she whispered over the paddle wheel thrashing the water on the side of the barge.

  “No more than anywhere else,” he said, holding the bridle reins of the two horses so they didn’t spook.

  She rubbed her hands on the front of her pants. “I guess I need a dress.”

  “We can get one. How about a real bath?”

  “Maybe two to get the grit and the horse off me.” She smiled at the prospect. “Why did Hurricane insist on staying over there in that shack town across the river?”

  “Probably knew some woman.” Slocum laughed.

  She shook her head as if embarrassed and then laughed. “Plenty of smoke in his old chimney too.”

  They left their horses at Bell’s Livery and walked through the crowd with the barkers extolling the virtues of the saloons and eateries on Garrison Avenue. A few policemen strode the walks, along with drovers in Texas gear, river men who’d no doubt brought or come in on the paddle boats docked near the ferry crossing. Indians stood with their backs to the wall staring at nothing; squaws sat on the ground beside them. Some high-priced whores in their low-cut silk dresses, under parasols despite the twilight’s fleeting cast, walked like queens toward their places, perhaps to stand behind some big-betting gambler, or to lounge in a rich man’s suite, a man who could afford their outrageous fees.

  He guided her into a millinery shop. A woman came from the back and smiled looking her all over, and then frowned at her attire.

  “Good evening.”

  “Good evening. Do you have anything ready made I might fit in?” Wink asked, looking around at the various dresses.

  “Oh, yes, Miss . . .”

  “Mrs. White,” Wink corrected her.

  “I am so sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Fashion is not my interest. I need a dress.”

  The woman frowned. “You don’t want a bustle?”

  She looked at Slocum, who stood back, then shook her head—no bustle. He shrugged.

  “You know the fashion is—”

  “I know. I want a dress I can simply wear in town.”

  “I have a blue dress in back that might fit you with some work. Unfortunately the lady we made it for had to leave town, so I could sell it to you at a discount.”

  They waited. The woman soon returned and spread the deep blue dress out for Wink’s inspection. It buttoned to the throat, and the skirt portion was billowy.

  Wink looked to Slocum, who nodded.

  “I’ll try it on.”

  “You may go in the back. I’ll show you,” the woman said.

  “I’ll also need some unmentionables,” Wink said as they started for the curtained doorway.

  “Oh, yes, I have them.”

  Wink came back from the rear, and he nodded his approval at first sight. The dress fit well, and she looked very feminine carrying the hem. She spun around and laughed. “Walter would die if he was here. Me paying thirty dollars for a dress.”

  “So? It looks good.”

  “She is going to hem it high enough it won’t drag wearing my boots under it.”

  “Good idea.”

  Her mouth full of straight pins, the woman knelt and began testing the hem length. The distance set and pinned, she rose. “It will be ready in two hours, Mrs. White.”

  “You stay open that late?” Wink asked.

  “Oh, yes, especially for a customer.”

  “Better change,” he said. “So she can get started.”

  “I shall.” Wink swept away with the seamstress on her heels.

  They left the millinery and headed up Garrison. The cowboy hat resting on her shoulders, she drew some looks in the dim light filtering out of stores and joints along the board sidewalk. Slocum heard “Texas gal” from several onlookers. He directed her into Phillip’s Chop House and the maître d’ frowned. Slocum shook his head. “A private booth for the Missus and me?”

  “Of course, sir.” And he showed them to one that was turned so no one except the service people could observe them.

  “I thought at first he would turn us away,” she said, sliding in opposite him.

  Slocum shook his head. “Hell, there’s probably a half dozen rich businessmen in here with their concubines.”

  “Concubine—my, I never thought about that word.” Then she put her hands over her mouth to laugh.

  “Wine, sir?” The waiter offered a bottle.

  “Ever had any good wine?” he asked her.

  “Had some elderberry once when I was little girl in Iowa.”

  “Ah, bring us a bottle of some French wine. We’re celebrating.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “What are we celebrating?” she hissed.

  “Ah, Malloy is off the slate and you’re getting a bath soon and a new dress.”

  “And we’ll sleep tonight in a bed.” Then she winked mischievously at him. “I bet it won’t be any better than the ground.”

  “Who knows?” He chuckled and reached over to squeeze both of her hands. Then he closed his eyes and thought about his dog days in the war, drinking out of cow tracks, eating wild mushrooms raw and grateful for them, maggots in the bacon they doled out to them and cooking it on sticks over an open fire, fields of the silent dead, the uncountable amputees, the hollow-eyed citizens raped and plundered, then burned out, who were lined along the roads. They looked like corpses standing there, no food and no hope.

  At last the waiter brought the wine and the fine crystal glasses. He poured a sample, swirled it and handed it to Slocum to taste.

  After the sip, he nodded his approval and the man filled their glasses and left. The wine mellowed them, so when their large platters of food came they both were laughing.

  “What is all this?” she asked, looking over it in amazement.

  “Eat,” he said and grinned. “I didn’t order the full portion.’

  “Oh, my. I couldn’t eat all this in two days.”

  “Fun to try,” he said and cut into the thick steak—tender, and in his mouth the richness drew the saliva in a flood. “Best place to eat on the border.”

  “Expensive dress, expensive meal—oh my, how will I ever go back to beans?”

  “You still have money?
”

  “Oh, yes. Why, will you need some?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want you to spend all of it.”

  “I owe you—”

  “Not yet, but we need to put some of that money in a safe deposit box.”

  “Good idea. I had no idea, and the way banks have failed—” She looked hard at him for her answer.

  He poured her some more wine. “If they can’t get their hands on it, it’ll be all right.”

  “Fine. We can do that here?”

  “In the morning, whenever we get up.”

  “Whenever,” she said, looking dreamily at him. “Oh, my, this food is so good.”

  “Whenever,” he said, cutting another bit off the browned steak.

  10

  Early the next morning, Slocum found Izzac Brower seated at a table in the Chinese café called Chow-Chow’s, in the basement of the Seaman’s building. Red-eyed and looking hungover, the man, in his forties, barely glanced up when Slocum entered the café, and only at last nodded for Slocum to join him.

  Slocum crossed the room that smelled of ginger and spices and took out a chair to sit on. The Asian waiter came over and bowed. “You want food?”

  “Just black coffee.”

  “Good. Me get you some.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I heard you were in town, Slocum,” Brower said, over the steaming crock mug he held in both hands.

  “You get lots of news.”

  “Some I do, some I don’t.”

  “Indian Tee?”

  Brower looked around as if to appraise the entire room, half-filled with the same sort of crowd on the street the night before, without any blacks or Indians. Finally Brower spoke. “He’s a mean sumbitch. Ain’t been a marshal able to arrest him yet. I bet he’s killed two of them at the least, but proving he done it might be hard.”

  “Then they want him?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Not that bad.”

  “What’s he do—thanks,” he said to the waiter who delivered his coffee.

  “He has lots of kin up there to hide him. Plus he scares the rest. Give you a good example.”

  Slocum looked up, wondering why he had stopped.