Slocum and the Vengeful Widow

by Jake Logan

  In three long steps, Slocum kicked it away and looked down at the man. “Smith easy to capture?”

  “That . . .” He coughed and blood appeared in the corner of his mouth. “The guy you sent to find . . . me?”

  “Yeah, I thought he was tough.”

  “He was—got a knife in my leg.” Then Tee smiled and choked again. “Not as tough as you, huh?”

  “Where’s the others?”

  “You’ll have to find them—Henny’s killing ugly women, I bet . . . the colonel’s . . . screwing them in Fort Worth.”

  “Where’s Henny?”

  “Try Goose Creek—” His laughter cut off. He jerked from head to toe in death throes, and his entire body shook like he was trying to ward off the inevitable; then his brown eyes flew open like he’d seen the fires of hell—he stared forever at the circling buzzards.

  “That’s him,” she said, out of breath, looking down at him.

  “He said that Smith got a knife in him. Must be his left leg; it looks bandaged under his pants.”

  She nodded. “He say anything else?”

  “Henny may be on Goose Creek.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In the Seneca country,” Hurricane said, using a tree for support on the steep hillside and looking at the dead man.

  Slocum agreed and nodded. “He said the colonel was in Fort Worth.”

  “Will Blue wear his gold earring?” she asked.

  “I bet she would.” Hurricane bobbed his head and squatted, using a tree trunk for support.

  “You can have it for her.”

  He nodded as if in deep thought. “I wonder how many people will rejoice over his death.”

  “Many at Choteau,” Slocum said, bent over and searching the dead man’s vest. He tossed out two federal badges. “Bet those men were his victims.”

  “Yes,” Hurricane agreed. “I bet their families would like to know too.”

  “This was Smith’s,” Slocum said, pulling out the large elk tooth. “Supposed to bring you luck.”

  “He used all his; so did Tee,” Hurricane said. “Let’s drag him down to the foot of the hill. The Fort Smith law may pay a bounty for him with those two badges in his pocket.”

  “They might.” Slocum pocketed some change he found, then took off both of Tee’s boots. He smiled at the paper money that fluttered out of them. “He sure wasn’t broke.”

  “I’d say there’s several hundred dollars here.” Wink bent over and began gathering it.

  “It’s half Hurricane’s and half ours. No telling the source. Hurricane’s going to take the body in and get that reward too.”

  “Must be my lucky day.” The Cherokee smiled. “I’ll be so damned rich women won’t ever leave me alone.”

  “May not,” Slocum agreed as they began to drag Tee off the hillside.

  “Buzzards sure want him.” Hurricane indicated the birds overhead.

  “Yeah, but they don’t pay any bounty.” Slocum laughed.

  They caught their breath at the foot of the hill. Wink ran to get them a horse to carry the body to the cabin.

  “You need me to get Henny?” Hurricane asked.

  “No, I think we can handle him. I hope we get there before he’s murdered too many women.”

  “Then you going to Texas?”

  “I guess that’s her plan—she wants the ones killed her son and husband. He said the colonel is down there screwing whores in Fort Worth.”

  “Long as his money lasts, right?”

  “Long as it lasts,” Slocum agreed, and in those cases it usually didn’t last long.

  Wink led a horse back, and they hoisted the body over it to take to the house. Once there, Blue brought them out an old blanket and they wrapped Tee in it. The cover roped on good, Slocum and Hurricane left him on the porch, washed their hands and joined the women for breakfast.

  “Black Fox is the name of the man I know up there,” Hurricane said, passing the tin pan piled high with biscuits.

  “What’s he do?”

  “Good medicine man—he could tell you if Henny is up there.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “He has a farm. He will tell you if Henny is in that country.”

  “I’ll find him. Anything else?”

  Hurricane shook his head, but his eyes looked in deep meditation. “Be careful. The least mean dog can bite the hardest of them all.”

  “We’ll heed your advice.” He looked over at Wink and she nodded too.

  “When will we leave?” she asked.

  “Going to rain this afternoon. Better wait till in the morning.”

  Wink smiled at him. “Glad you thought of that.”

  “He needs some sleep anyway.” Hurricane shrugged at her.

  Busy eating his biscuits and gravy, Slocum smiled to himself. He might be in bed the rest of the day—but not sleeping.

  11

  Sunlight shone through the cracks in the wall of the shed and danced on her snowy bare tits that quaked in motion. Slocum held her hips in his grasp as she raised and lowered herself on his stiff pole. A smile came across her face each time she went down and the ropes under the goose-down mattress creaked in protest. With the side of her hand she swept the curls back from her face and used the fingertips of her other hand to push off for balance.

  “This sure beats mopping floors and waiting on old women who can’t make their minds up.”

  “Guess you and him never . . . ?”

  “Never what?” Her hand flew to her mouth and she blushed. “We did it under covers even in the heat of the summertime, with most of our clothes on. I think Walter was afraid to look at me naked.”

  “Really?”

  “He wouldn’t look at me taking a bath. I wondered if his first wife had been pretty; then one day I discovered an old tintype of her and she was short and very fat—kinda barrel-shaped. Walter never would talk about her. He hardly talked to me except about store business. The first night he said, ‘This is what married people do. I’ll try not to hurt you, but it will, so don’t cry’.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “For a second—but I was lost and didn’t know anything except animals did it. I really thought barnyard animals had more fun doing it than we did.” She bent over and kissed him, then whispered. “You need to finish this business.”

  They changed positions, and in minutes their rasping breath reached new heights. His organ swelled to greater proportions, and her walls began to contract in spasms. Then from the depths of his scrotum came the charge that sent her into oblivion, as thunder rolled over the cabin’s roof

  Raindrops began to patter on the roof, then the rap of small hail. Eyes closed and body limp underneath him, she moaned. “Gawd, if Walter had ever known.”

  They left before daylight. All the vegetation dripped water, but they pushed north hard with their pack mule in tow. Two ferry crossings and by late afternoon they were in the country where Tee said they’d find Henny. A storekeeper directed them to Black Fox, and they reached his place as the sun died in a fiery ball.

  A gray-headed man wearing short braids came to the lighted door and nodded.

  “Hurricane Wilson sent us to see you,” Slocum said, leaning on his saddle horn.

  “If you are his friend, you are welcome here. Get down and put your horses up. We have much food and look for your company.”

  “We’re here,” Slocum said to Wink, and she smiled, more in relief than from being pleased; he realized he’d pushed it hard all day to reach this place.

  Fox took a candle lamp and showed them the pen with plenty of hay in the rack.

  He squatted down as they unloaded. “You came long ways today.”

  “I didn’t want the one we look for to know we are here. Henny Williams,” Slocum said.

  Fox shook his head. “I know of no one by that name.”

  “He is a real skinny cowboy, kinda stoop-shouldered,” she said, peeling the tarp off the packs. “Big nose and large mouth.�
��

  “Calls himself Joseph Wall now.”

  Slocum nodded and set his saddle on end. “He around here?”

  “Maybe ten miles over, at Big Shoat.”

  “He’s bad about murdering women,” Wink said.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what he’s wanted for,” she said.

  “Two Indian women been killed in the last few weeks. No one knows why or who did it.”

  “He’d be your chief suspect. He’s a woman killer,” said Slocum.

  Fox nodded. “I am glad that Hurricane sent you. I will send my son to find some leaders and have you tell them about this man.”

  “Be glad to,” Slocum said.

  Fox’s wife’s name was unpronounceable—so they called her Choe. A bright-faced woman, her beauty was well preserved in a society and way of life that took its toll on pretty females. Choe made them fry bread, and they ate it filled with slow-fire-cooked beef chunks, gravy and green beans. Slocum knew he had eaten too much, but he shook his head. “Why is he not fatter—your cooking is too good.”

  She beamed and shook her head. “This is company food—I feed him cold cornbread.”

  “See why I was so glad you came,” Fox said and smiled at Wink.

  His teenage boy, who had ridden out earlier, returned with three men—all Indians. They came inside and nodded, taking seats that Choe found for them.

  “He is a friend of Hurricane who comes here to find a man kills woman,” Fox said and introduced the men. White Bear was the tallest, Red Hawk the oldest, with a deeply eroded, wrinkled face, and Come-Back, in his twenties, the only one with a conventional haircut.

  “He and others murdered my son and husband in Kansas,” she said and passed the poster around.

  “The one they described is like Joseph Wall. See there, he has killed women before, it says on the poster.”

  They nodded. “What should we do? Wait for the marshal to send someone?” Red Hawk asked.

  “I’ll arrest him and take him in if he doesn’t try anything. He goes to shooting, I’ll collect the bounty,” Slocum said.

  “What is the bounty?” White Bear reached over for the poster and studied it. “One hundred dollars, hmm.”

  “The money is not important. He was with the men killed her boy.”

  “I think we should go and ask him about the murder of the Seneca woman and my cousin Dora,” White Bear said.

  The others agreed.

  “When?” Slocum asked.

  “Now.”

  “Fine. I will saddle my horse and go along.” Slocum turned and looked at Wink as he rose. “You better stay here.”

  She agreed. “I’ll keep Choe company.”

  Slocum saddled Red and soon led him out to join the Indians. The bay nickered at him when he mounted and they rode off. Under a quarter moon they went through the open farmland and over the post-oak-clad hills. The country they entered was more rolling hills in tall bluestem, and soon went down a long, deep draw that was watered by a spring that flowed over the limestone rock ledges.

  When they halted, Fox pointed out a cabin and some pens. In the night, an owl hooted and the soft wind swept a soft song though the grass on the ridges. They dismounted and hitched their horses to some scrub brush. With their guns, they spread out at the base and Red Hawk sent White Bear to get close—obviously he was the quietest man, despite his size.

  Time ticked slow; Slocum shifted his weight from one leg to the other while squatted with the others. Then their scout shouted for them to come and lighted a lamp inside so they could see.

  “Something is wrong,” Black Fox said as they hurried downhill.

  Slocum agreed.

  They filed into the small one room, and Slocum could see the thick brown legs and bare ass of an Indian woman lying on the quilts on the bed, surrounded by men. Her body had been badly mutilated with a knife by a madman.

  “I’m sorry I came too late,” Slocum said to them, pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “When did this happen?” Black Fox asked.

  “A day ago,” an older man said. “Her killer is long gone.”

  “What will you do now?” Fox asked Slocum.

  “He is not a ghost. A man leaves tracks, signs. I’ll follow him until I find him.”

  The solemn-faced men nodded in the flickering candlelight.

  “Why does he kill women?” Come-Back asked.

  “He’s not man enough to kill a man,” Red Hawk said. “He is sick and there is no way to ever cure him except kill him—he will kill again and again until someone does. May you have success finding this mad one.” He clapped Slocum on the arm.

  “I’ll need it,” Slocum said.

  They left Black Fox and Choe after a day of rest and a chance to fix a shoe on Wink’s bay. He took a northwest course after White Bear came by and said the Henny had gone that way. Perhaps to follow the Arkansas River; so Slocum headed for Wichita.

  A storekeeper across the line remembered him. “Yeah, he was riding a thin paint and leading a gray and coyote-colored one.”

  “Agouti,” Slocum said and nodded. “He say where he was headed?”

  “Talked about Fort Dodge.”

  That might be a ploy, but not many men rode a paint and led a gray and coyote-colored horse. He tipped his hat to the man, and carried out the sack of hard candy for her he’d paid for.

  “He been here?” she asked, smiling at his gift. “Thanks.”

  “You needed something; we still got a long haul.”

  ‘Have I ever complained or slacked?”

  “No, ma’am, and don’t start now.” He threw a leg over Red and they went north.

  He left her at the hotel at Wichita and checked out several of the saloons around cow town, or what was left of the old cattle shipping area. The herds had gone farther west by this time—tick fever and honyockers plowing up the grass. They were even talking prohibition in Kansas. No place for a cowboy—though they were grateful for a hot bath, a good meal and a night in a real bed to frolic. They rode on the next day.

  West of Wichita, a crossroads storekeeper, sweeping off his porch, scratched his bushy sideburns and nodded at Slocum’s questions. Had he seen a man on a paint horse? A skinny cowboy?

  “Went through here two days ago. Going west.”

  Slocum tipped his hat to the man, then looked at her. She nodded with a grim look and booted the bay on.

  The homesteads grew farther apart. Soddies with rusty stovepipes. Hill corn on once sod land roughly plowed and sheaths rustling in the dry wind. Late afternoon they stopped at a place, hoping to buy a meal. The door was open when Slocum knocked with no answer. No one in the sparsely furnished room when he stuck his head inside to check.

  “No one’s here.”

  Still in the saddle, she narrowed her eyes and searched across the rolling country. “Why go away and leave the door open?”

  “Three horses been here,” he said and knelt to study the tracks in the matted grass.

  “We better search around.” She booted her horse for the draw. After a check around the homestead, he swung into the saddle and turned at her call.

  “Slocum, come quick. We’re too late.”

  He drove Red to where she sat her horse and was trying to look away. Reined up short, he saw the naked woman’s body in the grass. The stark, bare white skin against the still-red blood all over her carved torso—sprawled on her back—a young woman, in her teens.

  “Why must he kill them?” she screamed and broke into tears.

  “I don’t know.” He dismounted and handed her the reins. “We’ve got to bury her.”

  “Where is her man? Children?”

  “No way of knowing. All we can do is bury her and leave a note.”

  “I’m sorry. It is getting to me.”

  “Me too, Wink, me too.” He lifted the young woman’s body in his arms, trying to ignore the damage to her.

  Wink rode to the house, dismounted and burst inside. She returned, bli
nking against the sun, with a worn green blanket. On her knees she fought the wind to spread it out for him with a head shake. “They sure ain’t got much, have they?”

  With care he laid the blanket out and they wrapped the girl in it. He shoved off his knees to go and look for a shovel. Long past dark, he said a short prayer over her. Then he covered her up.

  Wink made some cornbread in a skillet with red beans, and they ate in the silence of some flickering mutton-fat candles that emitted a strong sheep aroma in the room.

  “I ain’t sure what’s the worst—cooking with dry cowpies or them candles,” she said.

  “I can’t help you,” he said and shook his head half-amused.

  To whom it may concern,

  A killer rode by here and murdered your wife. We are on his trail but so far he has avoided capture—his name is Henny Williams. But he uses other names. We paused and gave her a Christian funeral and pray that you will find some solace in that arrangement.

  J. Slocum

  They left the next morning and rode on for Dodge. Somehow the death of the young woman had taken the fun out of their travels; they both acted downcast and spent the day in their own minds crossing the prairie. Slocum wondered if he’d only pushed harder, maybe they could have saved her. Wink seemed locked up in her own guilt, and when they found a small place with a store, saloon and freight yard, they stopped before sundown.

  The saloon man told Slocum to bring “his wife” inside, that no one would embarrass her, and he had some fresh steaks he’d have cooked for them. The prospect of real food restored his energy, and they put the horses in the freight yard.

  “Anyone around here see him pass through?” she asked as they came back up the dusty ruts to the saloon in the twilight.

  “Guess I never asked.”

  “Guess it can wait too,” she said. She hugged his arm and laid her forehead on his shoulder. “Hold me for minute before we go in there.”

  “I could do it all night.”

  “No, we’d miss those steaks he promised you.”

  “You know,” he said, “you’re right.”

  12