Slocum and the Vengeful Widow

by Jake Logan

  He laughed. “Hell, the colonel can wait that long.” He swept her up and kissed her hard. “I’m used to having to be somewhere. Guess we can take our own sweet time, huh?”

  She swept the hair back from her face and smiled up at him. “Exactly.”

  “Let’s find us a meal, then pick out some horses and a pack animal, then we can saunter back here.” He grinned.

  “Excellent.”

  The late breakfast in a café worked well, and they were soon out on the boardwalk headed for the livery down the street. The too bright noon sun shone down on them until they made the turn into the shaded alleyway and the pungent aroma of horse manure assailed them.

  “What kin I do fur ya?” the toothless man asked, leaning on the pitchfork.

  “You the man?”

  “Don’t look like a boy, do I?”

  “No, sir. I need a couple good saddle horses.”

  “Well, you come to the right place. I got them all prices.” The old man nodded, looking them over as if apprehending what they needed. “I got a stout bay, but he’s a little too much for her. You’d like him. And for her a nice brown mare.”

  “I’d rather have horses.”

  “This mare’s a handy one, but I savvy horses. Maybe there’s a white-stocking-legged Barb pony she might like.”

  “Let’s go look at them.”

  He set the fork aside and led the way back through the sour-smelling barn that was draped in cobwebs from the rafters under the loft floor. The old man brought the bay out of the stall and gave Slocum the lead rope. Then he trudged down the line and took a stocking-legged sorrel out ahead, into the area behind the barn where several horses were in pens.

  She caught up with Slocum and gave a head toss. “Don’t look too hard, but in the corral over there, isn’t that the Mexican’s roan that I rode down here on?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar ewe neck and face full of mane, then nodded. “That’s him.”

  The old man opened a gate and hitched the bay to the corral fence. “Look them over. You can ride them or whatever.”

  “That roan horse yours?” Slocum asked.

  “Nope, a fellar’s boarding him here, why?”

  “Couple weeks ago down in the Nation, someone stole him from her.”

  “Hmm, he’s a gambler named Kyle Jones. You can find him down at the Emporium Saloon. Never said how he got him. He’s a stout horse; I can tell looking at him.”

  Slocum nodded to her. “I’ll go see about him later. I lost a big dun the same time.”

  The old man shook his head. “Not seen one of them lately.”

  Slocum set in to checking the two horses and decided the stocking-legged, dish-faced horse should suit her needs. Maybe five, he appeared broke and handy. The bay acted full of fire, and by his teeth looked to be six. He had a few wire scars, but none of them appeared to hurt his movement or gait.

  “How much for the pair?” Slocum asked the old man.

  “Forty for the bay, and the Barb fifty.”

  “Sixty hard cash.”

  He took off his weatherbeaten hat and scratched his thin head of gray. “Can’t do that.”

  “Sixty-five or I’ll go look some more.”

  “Seventy. Them’s good ponies.”

  “Didn’t say they weren’t. Sixty-seven and half.”

  The old man straightened his back and shook his head. “Sixty-eight and you’re robbing me.”

  “If I wasn’t in a hurry—I’d’ve bought ’em for sixty bucks.”

  “No way, no way.”

  “Get the shoes on the Barb reset. His feet are too long.”

  “I ain’t—”

  “I’ll pay you. Get it done today. We’re heading out early in the morning.”

  “Lady, I don’t know where you found him, but he ain’t a bad hand at seeing horses.”

  She thanked him and smiled as Slocum counted him out the money.

  “That Jones ain’t no stranger to trouble,” he said, stuffing the money down his overall bib; then he snickered. “Guess you ain’t either.”

  “I’ll be wary.”

  Once out in front, he sent her back to the hotel with a kiss and a promise he would not be long, and then he walked the block to the Emporium. The large room was early afternoon quiet, and he stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer. A few men sat in the back of the room playing cards under lighted lamps on a wagon wheel overhead.

  “Kyle Jones back there?”

  “Yeah, you need him?” the bartender said and set the foaming mug down.

  “I want to meet him. Which one is he?”

  “The guy in the white hat.”

  Slocum nodded and put two dimes down, one for the beer, one for the tip. The bartender thanked him. Slocum studied the man he figured to be in his forties. Gray around the ears, thin build, with the pale complexion under black stubble of a man that didn’t live outdoors.

  He sauntered over and stood back, beer in his hand.

  “Want to sit in, drover?” a big red-faced man asked, looking over his fresh hand.

  “I ain’t intruding?”

  Jones looked up like it was the first time he’d seen him. Slocum knew that was a lie—the man had watched his every move since he came in the place. “Have a chair.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Five card draw,” the big man on his right said, folding. “Earl Sandwich is my name.”

  “Tom White’s mine.”

  “I’ve seen you before,” Jones said.

  “I guess. I was here a couple years ago with a herd.”

  “No, not here, somewhere’s else. I’ll think of it.”

  “Been lots of places,” Slocum said and put some money on the table in front of himself.

  The next hand, the quiet man across from him, called Neal, dealt. He was behind a full beard and mustache that sprouted out in three directions, and the cards came to Slocum. Two treys, a jack, a six and an eight.

  Jones bid two dollars and Neal folded. Sandwich stayed in and drew three cards. Slocum did the same and drew three—no help. Pair of threes was not a big hand, but he watched Jones take one card. Did the gambler have two pair or was he trying to fill in a straight or flush?

  Jones bid two dollars, Sandwich folded, and Slocum called him.

  His eyes shifted and he looked over at Slocum. “What you got?”

  “I paid to see yours.”

  “Guess you can—ace high.” He spilled the cards out.

  “Pair of treys.”

  Jones leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Why have I got this idea you ain’t a drover?”

  “That was your assumption.”

  “We playing cards or jawing?” Sandwich asked.

  “What is your business in Wichita?” Jones put both hands on the table.

  “I’m looking for a buckskin and a roan that were stolen off me a few weeks back.”

  He frowned at Slocum. “Roan horse?”

  “Yes, the one that’s down in the stables.”

  “I bought him.”

  “Good, get out the papers.”

  “They’re in my room.”

  “No problem. I’ve got all day.”

  “Listen—you accusing me—”

  “I ain’t accusing anyone. That horse and the Mexican saddle were property of my wife’s.”

  “Mexican saddle?”

  “The one with the silver on it.”

  “I’ve seen you riding it,” Sandwich said.

  “Don’t anyone move.” Jones had a derringer in his hand and waved it at the three of them as he rose and started to back away. “Anyone follows me out of here is a dead sumbitch. That goes for you especially, White.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Slocum said.

  Jones backed across the room holding the gun steady on them. Then he turned and fled out the batwing doors.

  “That worthless outfit,” Sandwich said as he rose and frowned, looking over at Slocum. “What the hell’re you g
oing to do? He’s gone for that horse.”

  “Borrow that shotgun he keeps under the bar, walk down there and give him a chance to surrender.”

  “What if he don’t?”

  “Guess he’ll need to have a tombstone picked out.”

  “Clancy, give him your shotgun and loaded too,” Sandwich called out. “Why, that no-good outfit. You reckon he’s the one stole it in the first place?”

  Slocum shook his head. “But I think he knew it was stolen, which is just as bad.”

  “Amen. I hate a damn thief, especially a hoss thief.”

  Slocum took the sawed-off shotgun from Clancy, broke it open and inserted two high-brass shells. “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  “Probably won’t need it for days. It’s got a hair trigger.”

  Slocum nodded and headed for the batwing doors. If there was a way, he’d stop him. His boot heels strode the hollow-sounding boardwalk, holding the scattergun in both hands and drawing the shocked looks of several women on the way. He nodded politely to them and continued toward the sign marked “LIVERY.”

  In the alleyway of the barn, he could see Jones out back, busy saddling the roan. Slocum continued through the horse-piss-smelling barn until Jones whirled. Seeing Slocum, he started leading the horse away, but then gave up and ducked behind the corral, leaving the roan in Slocum’s way. On the run, he dodged a gelding and Jones was out of sight, but a shot from the side of an outhouse across the alley gave away his position.

  Determined to either take him in custody or send him to hell, Slocum kept coming, hoping the gambler would expose himself. He used the corral for cover as long as he dared, then broke for the last place the man had shot from. Reaching the outhouse, he went to the left of it, thinking Jones might have a gun trained on the right side.

  He caught sight of Jones at the back of a store, arm extended and pointing to the right.

  “Drop the gun!”

  Jones whirled, gun in hand, and took the right-hand barrel of the shotgun’s blast in the chest. The revolver rolled forward then dropped from his fingers and his knees buckled. Slocum walked across the yard and looked at the blood on his white shirt.

  “Who sold you that roan?” He gazed at him as the man tried to get up.

  “I’m . . . dying . . .”

  “Who sold you the horse?”

  “Get a doctor . . .”

  “When you tell me who sold you that horse.”

  “Yates . . . Cy . . . Yates . . .” His eyes went blank.

  “What’s going on here?” a frock-coated lawman demanded, out of breath from running.

  “Man stole my horse.”

  “You ain’t got any right to shoot up the town. This is not the damn cow town days, Mr. . . .”

  “Tom White, Fort Worth, Texas.”

  “Buck Davenport, assistant town marshal, and my boss Ollie Acres ain’t going to like this shooting business—no sir, not one bit.”

  “Better have an undertaker pick him up.” Slocum motioned to the dead man. “My roan horse is loose and may run off. I’m staying at the Cattleman’s Hotel.”

  “Where you going with that shotgun? We have a gun—”

  “I know. That’s why I had to borrow it from Clancy at the Emporium. He wants it back.”

  “There will be a hearing over this . . . ah, White.”

  Slocum nodded that he had heard the man, and leading the roan in one hand, gun in the other, he headed for the livery. Who the hell was Cy Yates?

  16

  Slocum stood by the window and looked at the street traffic. “Wish I knew who Cy Yates was.”

  “I never heard of him. Hadn’t we better get down in the Nation before some Kansas lawman learns who you are?” she asked, pulling on her canvas pants and then standing up to tuck in her shirt, button the fly and put up the suspenders.

  “Not a bad idea. We better wait till dark. Then we can outmaneuver the law. Broad daylight, they might see us.”

  She agreed. “You stay here and I’ll go see about having the horses ready, so they don’t see you. Can we trust the stables man?”

  “I think so. Sell him back the Barb. Price is no issue. We won’t need him with the roan back.”

  “Good. I can do that and not draw much attention.”

  “Hmm.” He slipped up behind her and ran his hand over her butt. “You better go out the back way; every loafer in town may be ogling this.”

  She blushed and nodded. “I guess I don’t care anymore how it looks, I kinda like wearing pants. Beats riding a horse in a skirt.”

  “Looks good too. Be careful.” He kissed her and twisted her around until her ripe figure was pressed to him.

  She came up for air in his arms. “Whew, I better go or we’ll be in the bed again.”

  They both laughed.

  Wink headed for the stables, and he stretched out on the bed to read the newspaper:

  The Missouri Western passenger train was held up at gunpoint by members of the vicious Bowdry Gang, Monday at noon, Towbridge Station. The outlaws are headed by Colonel Charles Bowdry, a former Confederate officer. Several former members of the Jesse James Gang are also aligned with Bowdry according to rumors.

  At 12:15 pm Central Standard Time, Thursday, September 30, the gang of eight commandeered the express car of the Number Twenty-Seven passenger train at the Towbridge Station, wounding two Wells Fargo guards and dynamiting the safe. No passengers were injured in the incident. The safe contents included five thousand in cash and a thousand in silver dollars that the gang scattered all over in their escape. Sheriff Buck Davenport said it was the most lucrative tracking any posse ever did. But the gang split near the Grand River and no further money could be located.

  Wells Fargo has offered a five hundred dollar reward for Bowdry dead or alive and two-fifty apiece for his henchmen in like condition.

  This robbery and other similar criminal acts are certainly removing the Indian Territory from any congressional consideration of statehood. On the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives, Missouri Congressman Hack Thorton has called for a full congressional appraisal of the federal law enforcement issue in the Indian Territory. Thorton claims his constituents in southwest Missouri live under the threat of the violent lawlessness that spills over his state’s border.

  Perhaps the congressman does not realize that Missouri spawned Jesse James and his infamous gang. When more reports are available, our reporter in the field, Mark Allen, who is currently investigating the illegal liquor trade in the Nations, will forward them.

  Slocum rose and went to the open window. The red orange rays of sundown speared the smudged glass on the upper half. Through the open half he could see the traffic and the gentle wind fluttering clothing and some dust. Summer was starting to pass, with the intense heat letting up. His mind was still on wintering in San Antonio—he could almost hear the soft guitars’ music, and see a dark-eyed señorita beating time on castanets. Her defiant dark eyes flashing, she held the castanets high, her olive arms intertwining above her head as she stomped to the music.

  A key clicked in the lock and he glanced at the door. Her fresh face shone as she slipped in. He turned back to study the buggies and rigs moving down the street. “Any problem?”

  “I don’t think so. He paid me twenty-five for the Barb. Ours will be ready when we are.”

  “We’ll wait until twilight is about over before we ease out of here. Your man’s robbed a train this week in the Nation.” He indicated the paper on the bed.

  “Bowdry?”

  “Yes. They say there’s eight men in the gang. Some members of the old James gang.”

  “We may need help.”

  He agreed and took her in his arms and hugged her. “We may.”

  “We going to Hurricane’s?”

  “Yes, I figure we can headquarter there as easy as any place.”

  She looked up at him. “Fine. I’m no longer afraid of medicine men, and I like him and Blue.”

  “It’ll take two day
s, if we don’t have our horses stolen.”

  “We better not let that happen.”

  He checked the sun’s fast disappearing light, then gave her a squeeze and let her go. “We’ll go out the back way in ten minutes. Grab your things.”

  They eased out the rear door of the Cattleman’s Hotel and shared the alley with yowling tomcats on the make. A screaming female went whizzing by them with her mounted lover attached, humping away.

  “She doesn’t like it,” Slocum said, amused, carrying both canvas bags.

  “And from the looks of things, he may not be the first one she’s had to endure tonight,” she said and shook her head. Slocum laughed and directed her around a rig parked behind a store. “You may be right; there are plenty of suitors.”

  He checked the girths and then boosted her up on the roan. She had the lead to the roan and the brown pack horse. With the headstall in his left hand, he checked the bay horse, holding his head close to his leg while he mounted—in case. A boot toe in each stirrup, he let go. The big horse walked carefully as they went out the alley headed for the ferry over the Arkansas.

  His coaxing and chastising needed to work. Last thing he needed was a buck off or the horse crashing into something in the gathering darkness. “Damn you, get that out of your head.”

  She laughed softly at his plight. “He really wants to buck, doesn’t he?”

  “He’ll get better,” he promised her, checking him close with the reins.

  The sleepy ferryman took their money—ten cents apiece for horses and people. Then he began winding the windlass that powered them over. When they were halfway across, Slocum looked back at the twinkling lights of town. He held the bay and the roan by the bridles—they acted the most upset by the hollow-sounding barge underneath their hooves.

  Wichita had come a long ways since the railhead days when they drove cattle up there less than five years earlier. It had been wide open, rip-snorting wild—the guns went off all night and the music never stopped until the ragtime kid fell off the stool stone drunk. One night, full of rotgut whiskey, Billy Muggs rode his Ten Bears horse into the Buffalo Wallow Saloon and put him on the pool table. Caused a helluva fight with the owner, who disliked the horse poop on his velvet. The Williams Brothers, Marl and Matt, who owned the cattle outfit, would have rather fought than danced with good-looking women. If they couldn’t find a fight, they went to fists with each other. So one little Irish saloon keeper and his two goons were just like having eggs on toast for them.