Slocum and the Vengeful Widow

by Jake Logan

  Brower nodded and began again. “He went over to this guy’s house one night who lives up there, told him to make his wife take off all her clothes and get on the bed. Then he screwed her while he made the guy watch him do it.”

  “Did the husband do anything?”

  Bower shook his head. “He’s done it several times.”

  “Same guy?”

  “Yeah, and others.”

  “Why don’t someone kill him?” Slocum blew on the steam and considered sipping his coffee.

  “Afraid—very afraid.”

  “Would any of them help me?”

  “I don’t think so—too afraid.”

  “Anyone that mean around here for hire?”

  “No.”

  “Brower, you know them all. Surely there is one who for a price would go up there and help me.”

  “I’ll check. Where are you staying?”

  “Grand Hotel.”

  Brower made a face that he approved. “Traveling good this time.”

  “The queen of hearts has been kind to me, let’s say.”

  “But why Tee?” Brower shook his head in disapproval. “Why the fuck do you want him anyway?”

  “He was with a gang that killed a man and a boy in Kansas in a robbery and shooting spree.”

  “I see. I’ll look for someone, but promise nothing.”

  “Good. I have to get back.” He laid a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table before the man.

  Brower nodded in approval at the deposit. “See ya. I got the coffee.”

  Word came an hour later to the hotel. Slocum studied the message and nodded to himself.

  “Bad news?” she asked, seated on the bed, brushing her hair.

  “No, but I need to go meet a man.” Excusing himself, he left the room. The gunman Brower had found for him was to be waiting at a back table in Clauncy’s Saloon on Garrison.

  “Barkeep said your name was Smith.” Slocum stood over the man, who slouched his paunchy frame in a captain’s chair. Full-faced, his green eyes had never left Slocum since he’d entered the deserted place.

  “I’m Smith,” he drawled out the left side of his mouth, like he only used that half to speak. “You must be Slocum.” He motioned to another chair. “Whatcha got on your mind?”

  “An Indian named Tee up around Choteau.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You tailing along?”

  “I can, or I can meet you there if you decide you need help.”

  “I usually work alone. Like it that way; then I don’t got anyone to worry about. I’ll bring you his head for a hundred dollars—proof enough?” He fingered a large elk tooth on a gold chain that hung on his vest.

  “Proof enough. How much time you need?”

  “There’s a depot up there. I’ll meet you there at noon Friday if I get him.”

  “His corpse might get you a reward too.”

  “Fine. What’s that worth?”

  “I’ll check with the U.S. marshal.”

  Smith nodded. “Friday at the train depot. Have the cash.”

  Leaned back, Slocum nodded and shook his head at the bartender’s offer to get him a drink. “I’m leaving.”

  Smith reached out and tugged on his shirtsleeve. “Brower says you’ll pay me; otherwise I’d want the money up front.”

  “I’ll have it in cash.”

  A nod, and Smith rose, stretched, knifed in his shirttail with his flat hand and went out the swinging doors. By the time Slocum reached the sidewalk, he was gone. Brower knew the tough ones—Smith, or whatever his name was, fit the mold. Slocum went back to the hotel room.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “He says to meet him Friday at the depot up there. He asked for a hundred dollars.”

  “Think he can do it?”

  Slocum went to the window and looked down on the traffic. “He’s a man about thirty-five, who lives by his wits. I think he’ll be there.”

  “A hundred cash. That the going rate?”

  He turned back and shrugged. “I guess. This Tee is a tough guy. He gets by with lots of lawlessness up there.”

  She came over and hugged his arm. “What will we do?”

  He used his finger to turn her chin up and kissed her. Then he pushed the robe off her shoulders and exposed her naked body. His hand sought her right breast and gently squeezed it. “I think we can occupy our spare time in the meanwhile.”

  Friday, they rode into Choteau. Hurricane had gone home to check on Blue, so the two of them came up the road parallel to the Katy Tracks from Fort Gibson. The red train station loomed ahead, and a few scattered houses on the grassy prairie and some false-front stores huddled in a row made up the town.

  Some dark object sat atop a post at the end of the train platform. Slocum squinted at it in the distance. Unable to figure it out, he told Wink to stay there and loped ahead. When he drew close, he saw the reddish hair fluff in the wind. The mouth open like he spoke from it, his green eyes open too, it made a gruesome sight. Smith’s severed head was nailed on top of the post.

  Aghast, she screamed when she rode up before he could stop her. Pale-faced, she turned away. “Who is it?”

  “Our man Smith.”

  “How did Tee know?”

  “Probably tortured him until he had all the information.” He dismounted and tied Red at the rail. “I’ll check inside.”

  The man under the green celluloid visor at the telegraph key nodded. “Was he expecting you?”

  Slocum never replied to his question. “How long has he been out there?”

  “Must have put him up there last night. First I saw him was this morning when I got here. I wired the marshal in Fort Smith. He’s sending a deputy. You know him, mister?”

  “Night man know anything?”

  The operator shook his head to dismiss his question. “I never seen him before; he ain’t from around here. Who is he?”

  Slocum thanked him and answered the man’s request for the post resident’s name with “I’m not sure.”

  “What now?” she asked, looking around warily as they stood at the hitch rack and talked in low voices.

  No rigs at any of the stores, no one out in sight, not even children—no clothes even drying on lines. No dogs barked—all that made Slocum wonder.

  “I guess I need to find him. Maybe you should go up to Hurricane’s place and stay till it’s over.”

  She chewed on a knuckle and looked in deep despair over the situation. “Hurricane—he mentioned a ghost.”

  “Indians believe in them. But they usually are flesh and blood.”

  “Smith must have told him about us.”

  “No, Smith only knew about me. I never mentioned you.”

  “The robbery—murder?” She hugged her arms as the wind picked up and tousled her curls. The hat on her back, her worried face looked so fresh in the midday sunshine. Why couldn’t they be back at the hotel room making love? Her sleek skin pressed against him, wanton desire, the fiery blinding passion, the endless hunger of his mouth to kiss, suck, to tease her for more and more. The ache in his butt to drive inside her deeper for more and more. In the windswept street, with tiny puffs of dust blowing off the surface, all that seemed so far away, farther than Fort Smith.

  “We don’t have our camping gear,” he said. “He must know why we came. We better both head for Hurricane’s and regroup.”

  “You think he’s out there—watching us.”

  “He has eyes, he is.”

  “Kind of eerie, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. Damn eerie. After another check around, he helped her into the saddle. Then he stepped into his own stirrup and threw his leg over the cantle. He looked around the deserted country. Where was everyone? Hiding in fear of Tee? Be good to be out of this country. He gave her a head toss and booted Red up the road. Smith had been no fool—this one might be the toughest one of the bunch.

  That evening Hurricane came out on the
porch and smiled at the sight of Wink. Dismounted, she pecked him on the cheek and went in. She and Blue hugged in the doorway then, talking a hundred words a minute, went inside to fix some food. Hurricane came to where Slocum was uncinching the horses in the dying twilight.

  “Did you get him?”

  Slocum shook his head. “I hired a tough gunhand in Fort Smith. He was to meet me in Choteau at noon today.”

  “He meet you?”

  “His head nailed on a fence post did.”

  “Must be tough.”

  “The guy called himself Smith was tough. He’d been around.”

  “What now?”

  “You got any ideas?”

  “Maybe get Arkansas Tom and Jim Lowe to go with us. Plenty mean guys.”

  “This Tee is a mean SOB. He runs that town and country around there. Can we get them, those two you named?”

  “We can find them, we can.”

  “Good. Let’s go find them in the morning. I have an itch in my neck. He may have tortured all the information about me from Smith, since he tacked the head up at the station for me to see on the day I’d told Smith I’d meet him there.”

  “We go find them,” Hurricane agreed. “I think she gets prettier every time I see her.”

  “Wink?”

  “Sure, who else rides with you?” He laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should settle down with her. Sleeping alone on the ground can make you stiff and old before your time.”

  “Wish I could—they’d come; they always do.” He cast a look around the dark grounds that surrounded the lighted cabin, then nodded and went inside.

  The rich smell of Blue’s cooking filled the air. A breeze gently swayed the curtains, and he took a chair that Hurricane offered him, with his back to the wall. Gut feelings made him on edge—he followed them. This one about Indian Tee was knifing him more than the usual things he fretted over. Better not let down his guard.

  The beef stew Blue served them was piping hot and rich. The conversation over the meal was mostly about Fort Smith. Her fresh sourdough bread and butter added to the delight of her food, and Slocum buttered several pieces. They wouldn’t sleep in the shed—he better be more careful for Wink’s sake.

  At bedtime, they left the house, and, walking to the shed, he whispered, “We’ll get our bedrolls he left in there for us and sleep outside.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. Just uneasy about the whole deal. Just a precaution.”

  “You think he followed us up here?” she whispered, looking around.

  Slocum searched in the inky night. “It won’t hurt to be on guard.”

  “We need to take turns being on guard?”

  “I’ll take the first shift.”

  “Wake me up when you need to sleep.”

  “I will. Keep your gun ready. We may need it.”

  At last, their rolls spread under the low boughs of a cedar tree, and the pungent pitchy smell in his nose, he could see the shed well in the starlight. Anyone came looking for them, he’d have a good chance to make them out.

  The night insects sizzled in the trees, and a horse or mule snorted in the pen. Bats swooped by catching their nocturnal meals. A distant cow bawled for a separated calf. A distant hound bayed in the star-flecked night. Hours passed. Slocum let her sleep in peace close by. The vision of Smith’s head nailed on the post was lesson enough for him; this Tee was no simple renegade, and tough as any he’d ever had to face.

  Something moved near the house. Only a shadow, he thought, but he’d seen it only for a glimpse. He eased out from under the tree and crouched low, moved to the shed. Gun in his sweaty right hand, he tried to peer in the darkness for another move. Sweat ran into his eyes and stung them—nothing. Had he imagined it?

  This became a waiting game. Was the attacker checking the house for them? Could he be? Slocum’s heart beat loud enough to deafen him. His next move had to be to get into the open. Then he saw a foot and a leg as someone slipped into the starlighted side of the cabin. Hatless, he eased himself toward the side window, which would put him near Hurricane and Blue’s bed.

  “Hold it there!” Slocum shouted.

  The man whirled and fired a pistol point-blank at him. The orange blast from the gun muzzle flared in the night. Slocum answered with his own and knew the man was hit, but he ran off into the darkness toward the pens before Slocum could shoot him again.

  “What happened?” Hurricane shouted.

  “We’ve got company. He’s hit and he ran for the barn.” Slocum kept low, looking very hard for any sign.

  “I’ll come from this side,” Hurricane said, and the sound of his shotgun being locked was loud outside where Slocum crouched beside a small coop.

  The horses snorted and stomped around as if woken up. A gate creaked, and someone low on a horse screamed at the others to leave and be part of his cover. They raced by Slocum and separated, but the rider was gone into the night on one of them.

  “Where’s he hit?” Hurricane asked, joining him.

  “I’m not sure.” Slocum looked around the side of the cabin and came up with a pistol. “Maybe in the arm. Here’s his gun.”

  “You all right?” Wink asked from the side of the shed.

  “No one here’s hurt. He’s gone.” Slocum looked off in the inkiness and saw nothing but the outline of hills and trees.

  She rushed over and hugged his arm. “He’s the one killed Smith, isn’t he?”

  “I didn’t see him close enough. But I’m sure it was him.”

  “Sumbitch.” Hurricane swore under his breath. “I hate a damn horse thief.”

  “We can’t do anything tonight. We’ll round them up in the morning,” Slocum said.

  “Maybe he’ll bleed to death,” Hurricane said in disgust. “Some of them will come back by then.”

  “Good night,” Slocum said, punching an empty out and reloading his Colt. He spun the chamber around, holstered the gun and put his arm over Wink’s shoulder.

  “You never woke me.”

  “I was saving that for better things,”

  She looked up and laughed. “I bet you were.”

  In a few minutes they were in the bed, naked and bodies intertwined. His hips pushed his erection in and out of her while she shoved her rock-hard nipples on stems into his chest.

  “Oh, how could something so horrible turn out to be sooo nice,” she moaned, and raised her hips for him to go deeper.

  “Soooo nice,” he repeated, and went faster.

  Dawn came on a cool wind. Slocum stood in the door, listened to the rooster’s crowing and studied the gray outlines of the loose horses and mules who had returned and were grazing across the flat. It was too peaceful. The animals were too close together, like they’d been herded back to there—not loose like stragglers. He recalled his buffalo hunter days; Indians under wolf skins could creep close enough to the herd to make a shot with their smaller rifles because wolves were always at the outskirts of the herd.

  In the doorway, he squatted and waited. In the next few minutes, the light would increase perhaps enough to expose anyone concealed on the ground. He saw movement behind a bush. It could have been a wren flitting on the branches. But he doubted it. With his right hand, he eased out the six-gun and cocked the hammer close to his side. A rifle would be the weapon of choice at this distance—but no time to get one.

  Slocum stared hard and waited. Time clicked by and nothing happened. The temperature began to replace the night’s coolness. Light flooded the meadow, and the horses lifted their heads to look to the east. Tee must be leaving.

  Slocum set out in a trot. The animals parted and he reached the bushes and brambles. Fresh red blood on the ground. Tee could hide his tracks, but not the blood. He must have headed for the timber, a grove of post oak on the hillside. Slocum kept his eyes open and reached the edge, searching the tangle of tree trunks. On his haunches, he could make out the disturbed leaves and a crossed violet stem on the grou
nd. His quarry had gone in there, perhaps to draw him into a trap. Slocum was no fool; he wouldn’t be outwitted in the game of cat and mouse. With care and his gun ready, he moved to the right. The smell of spent powder in his nose, he held the gun close to his face, hoping for a flicker of movement.

  Sawbriar vines forced him to detour more to the side, his vision glued on the steep hill above him. Higher up some room-sized rocks might conceal his man. No telling how far or how strong he was after being shot the night before—still he came back for revenge.

  A figure appeared on the biggest outcropping, and smoke came from the muzzle of his gun. Slocum hit the deck. Bark flew and leaves were cut down in a shower. On his stomach, he used both hands to take aim and emptied his .45 at the figure. The last two made the target jerk as if hit, and then he pitched forward off the rock. Landing on his back after a twenty-foot fall, he slid downhill ten feet or so, before he managed to roll over and begin to crawl for cover.

  His Colt reloaded, Slocum yelled at him to stop. But turtle-like he kept on, and Slocum took aim. His first shot shattered bark over him as a warning. The killer kept crawling. Slocum’s next shot stopped him and he collapsed facedown. Getting his breath, Slocum leaned against a rough-barked oak and reloaded.

  A big yawn gapped his mouth as he slipped new rounds in the chamber. This deal was finally over, he might sleep all day, but many a stilled sidewinder could manage to bite his enemy before he died. He squatted on his heels and watched for any movement. Though he was facedown fifty feet uphill, Tee’s outstretched right hand still held his handgun—whether he could use it or not was the question.

  Slocum eased himself up a step at a time, staying to the right, figuring if Tee rolled over it would be in that direction and he’d have to bring the gun across his body to shoot at him. No sound, no movement; in the distance a mule brayed and honked. Slocum swept a spiderweb out of his face with his left hand.

  Then, in fury, Tee spun on his back, making a hate-filled face, but the strength in his gun arm had expired and he couldn’t raise the pistol high enough.

  “Drop it or die.” Slocum aimed his gun at the dark face with white teeth clenched and lips pulled back to expose them. A shaft of sunshine danced on the gold earring, and Tee at last dropped the gun out of his fingers and collapsed on his back.