Slocum and Little Britches

by Jake Logan

  The rifle’s roar made the troopers hold their ears and then cheer. “He’s ain’t dere no moe.”

  “Good. Get me another cartridge,” he said over his shoulder, and extracted the empty. Blue smoke came out of the bore.

  “How far can that gun shoot?” the noncom asked, impressed.

  “Clear into tomorrow,” Slocum said with the rifle laid over his leg as he reloaded it.

  “See that one on the hill?” a private said, looking through the one pair of field glasses they possessed. “One wearing that buffalo hat and sitting on that horse.”

  Slocum put his eye to the scope and saw the Apache he meant. He cocked the hammer back, steadied the stick. That must be an important one. The report of the shot rolled over the land and “Buffalo Hat” disappeared. His horse raced off, bucking and kicking under an empty saddle.

  The shout went up. “They’re leaving. They’re leaving.”

  “Where you’s come from?” the private asked.

  “Dragoon Springs.”

  A big smile spread over the three dusty dark faces around him. “Well, we sure proud you came to see us this morning.”

  “Better keep your guard up. They may only be reorganizing,” Slocum said to their leader.

  “All you men get back on your posts.” He turned back to Slocum. “This be your place?”

  Slocum shook his head. “No, but did you find two bodies?”

  “Yes, sir, we did. A scout from Fort Bowie found them, and they done sent us over here yesterday to bury them.”

  “Could you tell me if one of them looked like this man?” Slocum took out the locket and opened the cover for him to see the photograph.

  “Yes, that sure enough be one of ’em.” He handed the locket back to Slocum.

  “I need a death certificate for his . . . wife.”

  “I could send a man with you to swear to it to Fort Bowie and they could make you one, I guess.” The noncom looked uncomfortable about the matter.

  “I understand. That would be fine.” The fact that this man could not read was probably the reason he acted so upset about a certificate.

  “Good.” His black face smiled back in relief. “My name be Mahaffey and I sure am proud you came here this morning.”

  “Sergeant Mahaffey, you and your men would have whipped them in time.”

  “You just speeded that up a whole lot. I better see about my wounded man.”

  “Yes.” Slocum put his rifle and stick back in the scabbard. Then he took the reins from the soldier, a short boy who hardly looked old enough to be in the blue uniform.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Coffee, sir.”

  “How long’ve you been in the army, soldier?”

  “Six months, sir.”

  “How many firefights you been in so far?”

  “Makes my fourth one.”

  “Where’s your home?”

  “Here, sir.”

  Slocum nodded his head. “I understand. Thank you for holding Red.”

  “Yes, sir.” The short soldier saluted him and ran after his sergeant.

  “He may be small, but Coffee he sure be plenty tough,” one of the privates said before lighting his corncob pipe.

  A bob of dust-floured forage caps from the others backed the soldier’s words.

  “That sure be a mighty fine hoss you done got dere,” the pipe smoker said, appraising him.

  “Glad you didn’t shoot him,” Slocum said, loosening the girth. He slapped down the stirrup. “I held my breath riding in about it.”

  “Aw, we’s ain’t got that much ammunition.”

  They laughed. Then Mahaffey returned and sent them out to scout for any guns, ammo, or loot they could get off the field.

  “Sounds like you aren’t overrun with ammo either,” Slocum said.

  “We had ten rounds apiece at the start. We’d done used five and I was planning to let them get well in range to use the rest.”

  “Ten rounds?”

  Mahaffey shrugged his broad soldiers. “We’s on spring duty. You know, guarding some small spring over dere at the mountains so dem broncos going back and forth can’t get ’em no drink. Army don’t think we needs any more rounds.”

  “They sent you out to bury them, huh?”

  “Hey, we’s don’t mind that. Gets pretty boring sitting up there eating beans and having farting contests.”

  Slocum chuckled. Mahaffey would do. He and his dozen soldiers were real fighting men. “How is the wounded man?”

  “He be fine. He was only creased. Take a lot more’n than that to kill a buff soldier.”

  “Glad he’s okay. Maybe we can catch a loose Injun pony for your man to ride to Bowie with me.”

  “Coffee. Go tell them we needs a hoss.”

  “I’m be going, Sarge.” The short one took off, his bare feet churning dust for the hillside where the men were checking for anything.

  “We got some coffee made,” Mahaffey offered.

  “Good, I’ll take some.” With a last look at their reconnaissance, he fell in with the noncom headed for the small fire and the black man squatted beside it.

  “Coffee for the man,” Mahaffey ordered.

  The corporal smiled up at Slocum. “My, my. You sure did make a fine sight dis morning coming out of that draw on dat red hoss. You pistol smoking and that big hat—I said here comes de man going to help us.” He laughed and handed Slocum the cup.

  “Corporal Johnson here,” Mahaffey said. “He was going whoopee when you rode in.”

  “Thanks and thanks for the coffee.” Slocum blew on it. Maybe he’d get this death certificate done for Silver.

  “Where you going next?” he asked Mahaffey.

  “Oh, back to our spring at the dee base of dem mountains.” He indicated the Chiricahuas across the wide valley.

  “I’ll deliver your man back to the spring tomorrow.”

  “We’s be a back dere then.”

  “Who’s going with me?”

  “I’s guess Coffee, if’n it be okay?”

  “He’ll be fine. Who should I report this incident to?”

  “Cap’n Green. He be in charge of us now we’s so far away from our fort.”

  Slocum agreed and sipped the bitter coffee. Mostly roasted barley, but he tried to hold his tongue. These men put up with it every day, so he could for one cup.

  The trooper found three loose horses. The Apaches took their dead if there were any. One of the ponies had a small bullet wound, but they’d use him for a pack animal and another to carry the wounded man. Coffee was awarded the third, a black paint, and he was promptly tossed into the saddle, ready to go to Bowie with Slocum.

  A little past noon by the sun, the two reached the desert mining town of Dos Cabezas. Slocum bought them some meat and bean burritos from a vendor. He left Coffee to eat his lunch and watch the horses while he went inside O’Banyon’s Store and Saloon. The dust-floured interior reeked of sour booze and cigar smoke. A grizzly man in an apron met him at the counter side of the business.

  “I want two pounds of Arbuckle coffee.”

  Rubbing his untrimmed mustache with his index finger, the man nodded and went to the shelf for two packages. “You know, I got cheaper coffee.”

  Slocum nodded, and looked around at the scarred empty tables and the trophy deer and elk horns nailed on the wall over the bar. The whole place was saturated in the gray-blue dust of the mining operations that mushroomed on the hillsides above the cluster of jacales and small adobe businesses.

  “Be two dollars.”

  Slocum paid the man, took his purchases, and headed for the open door.

  “That nigger midget out there your servant?”

  With a shake of his head, Slocum kept walking. Then he stopped, infuriated at the man’s ungrateful comment, and turned to look at the man. “That young man is a soldier who every day risks his life to save your sorry ass.”

  The man laughed. “I’ll sleep better knowing that.”

  �
�No, you won’t. But some night when a bronco Apache slips up on you sleeping in your bed, in that instant before he slices your throat open, you can always think—where is that buffalo soldier?”

  Slocum walked on out, put the coffee in his saddlebags, and nodded to his companion. “Let’s head for Bowie.”

  A hundred yards later, Coffee began to chuckle. “That man back there don’t know, but he sure know now.”

  “How is that?”

  “You done told him all about us buffalo soldiers.”

  Slocum hunched his stiff shoulders and shook his head. “Those folks don’t listen.”

  “They’d been at that ranch dis morning they’d listened.”

  “Hell, they’d’ve cussed out General Crook for letting it happen.”

  In a long trot, they both laughed. Fort Bowie was a few hours ahead. Slocum would be glad to have this matter over with and be on his way. The Apache War wasn’t his to worry about anymore. As he looked over the dry bunchgrass and greasewood, he didn’t miss it either. He wondered how Miss Skinny was getting along back at Dragoon Springs. Maybe he’d have her paper and be headed back soon.

  5

  Slocum waited in the main office for Captain Luther Green. A private had retrieved the officer from his quarters. Bowie headquarters was in a log building, the only one in sight. The officer quarters were wood-frame-and-sided houses that looked like they came from a Midwestern town. The long barracks, the stockade, and the stables were Spanish adobe-style. Apache Peak rose above the fort to the south.

  When Green, a man in his forties, arrived on the porch, Coffee stood at attention and saluted him.

  “What’s this about?” Green demanded of the lieutenant behind the desk.

  “Sir, Mr. Slocum wants a death certificate for one of the white men that the buffalo soldiers buried today.”

  “How in the hell can I do that?”

  “Private Coffee is here to testify that one of the men they buried is the same as the one in the picture that Mr. Slocum has.”

  “What’s that man doing away from his post?”

  “He came to testify.”

  “I don’t give a gawdamn about any death certificate—”

  “Captain, my name is Slocum.”

  With a red-faced scowl, Green glared at Slocum. “I don’t care who the fuck you are, mister.”

  “Maybe General Crook will.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “I don’t have to threaten anyone. But at the court-martial, I’ll damn sure testify you reeked of cheap whiskey.”

  Green breathed heavily as if considering his options. “What do you need?”

  “Your signature on that sheet.”

  He scowled at Slocum and then he bent over, took the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and scrawled his name on it. “That do?”

  “No. I want you to requisition some ammo for Sergeant Mahaffey’s Company C. They used theirs fighting Apaches at the burial site this morning.”

  “What in the hell was that all about?” Green asked.

  “Major Norman ordered them over there late yesterday to bury two dead white men,” the lieutenant said.

  “Lieutenant, Company C has a spring to guard.”

  “Sir, I explained that to the major.”

  Green turned back to Slocum with a scowl on his face. “Well, citizen, you have your death certificate.”

  “The ammo?”

  “You don’t understand about the army—”

  “Bullshit. I spent three years with Crook on the Verde. You have a packer tonight take them enough ammo so they can defend themselves.”

  “You heard the man, Lieutenant, handle it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Whatever Green mumbled going out the door, Slocum only caught part of it. The silence in the office was loud. Some crickets creaked. The lieutenant cleared his throat. “Reason he didn’t know they were sent over there, he was indisposed yesterday evening when the scout came in, and the major handled it.”

  “Send them eighty rounds per man.”

  “Eighty?”

  “Yes, they fight better with bullets than sticks. Who sends them their rations?”

  “Quartermaster, Sergeant Hicks, sir.”

  “How do I speak to him?”

  “Regarding?”

  “Rations for Company C.”

  “Exactly what rations?”

  “The beans.”

  “The army runs on beans, sir.”

  “Every meal here at Bowie is beans?” He looked hard at the fresh shavetail.

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s all they’ve had to eat.”

  “What should be done?”

  “They need some better rations sent down there. Am I clear?” Slocum reared back and folded his arms over his vest.

  “That can be handled, I am certain.”

  “I do know the general and well. The army has been charged for full rations for Company C and, I imagine, others. Someone is making lots of money off this.”

  “I’m only a—”

  “Lieutenant, I know all about the army.”

  “Yes, sir. You know these buffalo soldiers don’t—”

  “Get the attention they deserve. They’re fighting men and deserve much more than that. I’m taking Coffee back to his outfit. Thanks for the death certificate.”

  “At night?”

  “Yes, it might be the safest time to go.”

  “Well, that’s right.”

  Slocum strode out on the porch. “Ready, soldier?”

  “I sure be, Mr. Slocum.”

  At their horses, Coffee leaped on his pony. “You sure done told them about our food.”

  Slocum laughed and reined his horse around. “No telling, you may get some beef every so often now.”

  “You reckon so?”

  “No guarantee.”

  Coffee laughed out loud. “No, siree, but it sure made me feel good someone told ’em.”

  Four hours later under the stars, they were coming up the canyon to the spring.

  “Halt. Who goes there?”

  “Private Coffee and Mr. Slocum, Roscoe, you dummy.”

  “Sarge he say I supposed to challenge anyone comes up here.”

  “Can’t you tell us from Apaches?”

  “It’s dark, Coffee. You don’t understand.”

  “Never mind. Bet we’s can find us some beans. That jerky you gave me was good, but my old belly wants some beans.”

  Mahaffey was up and met them by the campfire. Coffee brought Slocum a plate of beans. Slocum was busy giving Mahaffey the Arbuckle coffee he’d bought them.

  “Wow,” the noncom said, sounding impressed. “This almost be better than good whiskey.”

  “Almost,” Slocum said, and took the plate of hot beans. Then he sat cross-legged on the ground eating his midnight meal, and told the sergeant about his experience at Bowie and his complaints about their rations.

  “Don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I tried,” said Slocum.

  “My, my, ammo and food. Guess we gets all that, we be like kings up here.” Then Mahaffey laughed. “By the way, the men think the one with the buffalo hat you shot was their medicine man named Carron or something like that.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “We ain’t sure he was killed, but he sure be plenty wounded, huh?”

  “Yes, he sure could be,” Slocum agreed between spoonfuls of his food. The beans weren’t bad when seasoned, but as a steady diet they could get tiresome as hell. “I’m going to get a few hours’ sleep and get back to Dragoon. I have the certificate. Thanks.”

  “You ever want to help us again, you ride right in.”

  “I hope they bring ammo tomorrow with the food.”

  “Oh, they will—someday.” Mahaffey laughed.

  “I told them fighting Apaches with sticks wasn’t the answer.”

  “We sure appreciate you.”

  “No, I appreciate you and your men. This isn’t great duty. But d
enying them the springs makes it that much harder for the broncos to go back and recruit more young bucks.”

  “That be our job.”

  “Thanks for the food. I’ll get a few hours’ shut-eye.”

  After a day of lounging in their camp, a little past sundown he was short-loping westward across the Sulfur Springs Valley, the moon slowly coming from behind the vast Chiricuhua range.

  He wondered about Donada. Maybe she got up in time today to help Consuela bake her bread. At least he had Silver’s certificate for Hyrum’s father. Something was unsettling about hearing a loved one is dead and not ever getting proof. Bereaved people can think all kinds of things, like maybe their loved ones were not really dead.

  He arrived at Dragoon Springs before daylight. The morning star over his left shoulder told him dawn was over an hour away. Dry-eyed and numb, he unlaced the girth, swept off the saddle and blankets, then put Red in the corral with some of the stage line horses. He slung his saddle on a rack in the tack room, leaving the saddle blankets unfolded on top to dry. He stopped at the water trough, took off his hat, and used handfuls of water to rinse his sore face. Then, with his kerchief, he dried off. The morning coolness found him and swept his cheeks as he started for the main building.

  He paused in the doorway and noted that one lone candle lit the kitchen. No one was in sight when he stepped inside.

  “Ah, you have returned,” Consuela said, carrying a sack of flour into the room from the pantry. Setting it on the table, she swept the white powder off her sleeves with her hands.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  She nodded and motioned at him to follow her. She went down the steep stairs and he followed. The cellar reeked of onions and peppers. Some slabs of salt pork wrapped in cheesecloth hung on hooks.

  He almost collided with her. She blew out the candle on the shelf, then slipped her arms around him. She pressed her large breasts into him, the swell of her belly keeping him from pressing his privates at her.

  Her fingers fumbled with his gun belt and she set it on the ground. She moved back against him, her open mouth covered his, and her hot tongue began to lash his mouth until their lips separated so they could catch their breath.

  “You have been away for too long, my darling,” she said. “Our time is short, others will be coming soon.” Her palm rubbed over the mound under his pants between them. With a wink at her discovery, she dropped to her knees before him, unbuckling and tearing open his fly.