by Jake Logan
He neared the corral made from rope strung between mesquite trees. His mare trotted to him immediately, and he gentled her.
Seeing one of the herd cozying up to the newcomer silenced the rest of the horses. Slocum spent another few minutes with his horse, saddling her and wondering what he ought to do about the Tewksburys’ gear. There hardly seemed any point saddling horses that wouldn’t carry riders, since it would only slow them. Getting their horses back ought to be plenty good enough.
Slocum retrieved the lariat Lydia had used to lash at her attacker, thinking it was ironic justice that the same rope would be used to drive off the remainder of the horses. Gripping the rope, he started to mount. Foot in stirrup, Slocum had started to pull upward when his sixth sense warned him of danger. That hair-bristling-on-the-back-of-his-neck feeling had kept him alive through the war, and it did so now, too.
Rather than boosting himself into the saddle, Slocum used the stirrup to fling himself parallel to the horse and behind. He hit the ground hard and spooked the mare. She kicked out at him—and this saved him. The chief’s son had crept up behind him, knife in hand. If Slocum had tried to get into the saddle, he would have gotten a knife in the back halfway up.
As it was, the spooked horse reared and kicked, spun about and tossed its head, making it difficult for the brave to get at Slocum.
With a soundless cry of rage, the young warrior stepped back to let the horse get out of the way. This was all the time Slocum required to draw his Colt Navy and point it straight at the man.
They both froze, the Apache with a knife held high and Slocum with his empty six-shooter pointed at the warrior.
“No,” the Indian said.
Slocum got to his feet, keeping the six-gun leveled. The brave had no way of knowing the weapon was useless. If Slocum kept the bluff running long enough, he could get away.
The Apache’s rage outweighed any sense of survival. With a roar, the young man rushed Slocum. Not having time to draw his own knife, Slocum slipped to the side and let the descending knife slash past his head harmlessly. Swinging the six-shooter with all his might, Slocum landed the barrel on the Apache’s wrist. The knife went spinning away, but the Indian wasn’t giving up, even with a broken hand. He grappled with Slocum. The two of them crashed to the ground, with the younger man on top.
Slocum lost his grip on his Colt, but his right hand was free. He knew the fight couldn’t last very long. The ruckus would awaken the rest of the war party and his eventual death would not be very pretty or quick. He took a blow to his cheek that rattled him, but his fingers closed around the hilt of the knife sheathed at his boot top.
The fight ended as abruptly as it had started. Slocum slid the blade between the brave’s ribs and penetrated his heart. A convulsive shudder passed through the chief’s son, then he fell to one side, dead. Panting, Slocum got to his feet, grabbed his empty six-shooter and shoved it into his holster, vowing to get ammo and reload as soon as possible. He tracked down his mare and vaulted into the saddle, then used his knife one last time to slash the ropes forming the crude corral and make certain he cut out Lydia’s horse.
With a loud yell, Slocum got the horses running northward. Sooner than he would have liked, bullets sang in his direction through the burgeoning dawn. But he was away and had the Apaches’ horses. They could follow, but it would be on foot. He knew Apache warriors could run all day through the desert and then fight a fierce battle, but he wanted enough distance between him and them to make it less likely.
It took Slocum four days to finally leave the angry band of Tonto Apaches behind. They had run after him on foot, as he had feared, looking to avenge the multiple disgraces he had heaped on their heads. Killing the chief’s son had been bad, but worse was stealing their horses since it reflected so badly on all of them.
They were off the reservation and intent on raiding. An Apache on foot wasn’t able to execute the lightning-fast strikes he was accustomed to making. Slocum guessed the cavalry was also on their trail. This made the loss of the horses even more worrisome, but worst of all was the prick to their pride. Horses were wealth, and Slocum had impoverished them.
He had ridden hard and done what he could to cover the trail left by the two dozen horses he herded ever northward. He doubted his work amounted to a hill of beans with the sharp-eyed, trail-wise Indians, but he had to try. When he reached a double-rutted road leading into the Tonto Basin, he took it gladly.
Slocum rode up the steep road until he reached a summit overlooking what might have been the most beautiful country he had ever laid eyes on. The grassland and rolling hills stretched as far as he could see, green and lush and inviting. He didn’t have to urge the horses on after he saw this pastureland. They raced one another to the grass. He let them graze for an entire day before moving them on, wondering how he was going to find the Circle T Ranch. It turned out that there wasn’t much to it. As he rode along the rutted road, he saw a wooden sign shot full of bullet holes. In spite of the destruction, he gleaned the directions to the Circle T.
He dropped a rope over the neck of Lydia’s horse to be sure it didn’t wander off now that it was getting close to home. He wanted to be the one who presented her with the prancing horse. He had to admit that the gelding was a beautiful piece of horseflesh—and he remembered the way Lydia had kissed him before rushing back to her pa and brother. While it might be out of the question for any more reward than this, he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to find out exactly how grateful the auburn-haired beauty could be for the return of her prize horse.
Another hour riding brought Slocum to a gate that hung open, partly ripped from its hinges. Again the Circle T sign had been shot up, worrying Slocum a mite. Someone in the Tonto Basin had a quarrel with Tewksbury. Over the years Slocum had found that wasting ammo on a sign eventually led to bullets being exchanged with the person putting up the sign.
“Come on, you mangy cayuses,” Slocum shouted, circling his small remuda and getting the stolen horses headed toward a stand of trees where he suspected the Circle T ranch house might be hidden away. He hadn’t ridden a quarter mile when he heard gunfire. His hand jerked toward his Colt Navy, then slipped away. Whatever the squabble, he wasn’t going to be able to help out, unless he threw his six-shooter at someone.
Slocum considered finding some safe spot and waiting for the gunfire to die down, but after the first shot, there wasn’t any more.
“Might be a rancher shooting a varmint,” Slocum said, but the evidence of the blown-apart signs made him doubt that. He kept a steady pace up the road that wound about and finally gave him a good view of a modest house about where he expected it at the edge of the stand of pines.
Two men stood nose to nose. One held a six-gun in his hand and the other gripped a long-barreled shotgun. Slocum recognized Tewksbury as the one holding the scattergun.
He rode closer and stopped a dozen yards away. He didn’t want to intrude, but it was impossible not to spy on their hot words. Both were shouting.
“You done it, Tewksbury, I know you did, and I want ’em back. Every last one!”
“I didn’t steal none of your scrawny cows, Tom. I don’t have to. I got plenty of my own.”
“You rustled them cattle. I know you did. Where’d you go? Where’d you get back from if you didn’t take my stolen cattle to sell outside the Basin?”
“I was after strays, Tom,” Tewksbury said, glaring. “Me and my kids were out.”
“Caleb? Who else? Which of your other worthless spawn was with you?”
“You callin’ my daughter worthless?”
“She’s nuthin’ but a cheap whore! Ain’t she? Admit it, Tewksbury. Lydia’s a nickel-a-tumble whore!”
Slocum rode forward, dismounted and went to stand beside Tewksbury. Neither of the other men noticed him until he squared off, facing the man who had just called Lydia Tewksbury a whore.
“I brought back Miss Lydia’s horse,” Slocum said. His cold eyes locked with Tom’s startl
ed, wide-set brown eyes.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Could ask the same,” Slocum said.
“Tom Graham, that’s who this is, Slocum,” Tewksbury said.
“Sorry to hear about your forthcoming condition, Graham,” Slocum said.
This confused Tom Graham.
“What are you saying?”
“It’s mighty hard to ride with a bullet through your heart. Apologize to Mr. Tewksbury for calling Miss Lydia names, then be on your way.”
“You—” Graham made the mistake of trying to lift the six-gun and shoot Slocum. A single quick step forward let Slocum grab the man’s brawny wrist. Slocum twisted the gun away as it discharged. Then he punched Graham as hard as he could in the middle of his face. His nose broke and sent a shower of blood everywhere, but Slocum ignored that. He had been riding with pent-up emotions after coming on Tewksbury and his brood almost a week earlier, and this gave him the opportunity to vent.
“You busted my nose!”
Slocum twisted a little harder and pried the pistol from Graham’s hand. He thrust the cold bore into the man’s forehead.
“I can make all the pain go away. Or you can tuck your tail between your legs and get the hell off the Circle T. Fact is, it doesn’t matter to me which it is.”
Graham grabbed for his pistol, but Slocum pulled it back just far enough for the man to miss.
“I’ll keep this as payment for all those shot-up signs along the road.”
“I didn’t blow them into splinters. It was other ranchers, other good folks who’ve had their beeves rustled by—”
Slocum stepped forward and Tom Graham let out a yelp. He grabbed his horse’s reins and left, shouting curses as he went.
“Mighty friendly neighbors you got,” Slocum said, keeping his eye on Graham as the man rode away.
“Tom?” Tewksbury laughed harshly. “He’s the friendliest of the lot. You ought to see the rest.”
Slocum suspected that he just might before he left the Tonto Basin.
4
“You didn’t have to git yerself involved in this squabble, Slocum,” Tewksbury said, shaking his head. He lifted his shotgun, sighted along the barrels, then lowered it. “Too far fer a good shot,” he explained.
“Did you rustle his cattle?” Slocum asked. He didn’t care if Tewksbury had or not. That would have been the pot calling the kettle black if he did, since he had been known to drive off a few extra head from time to time himself.
“This is ’bout the best grazin’ land in the world, Slocum,” Tewksbury said. “Fences get knocked down now and agin, and some of them beeves don’t carry much in the way of brands.”
“I understand,” Slocum said, and he did. Not every rancher followed his cattle around open range close enough to brand the calves. While the law might say those calves belonged to whoever owned the cow, Slocum saw it a bit differently—and so did Tewksbury.
“Looks like you been keepin’ busy since you left us,” Tewksbury said. “ ’Fore I go on, and I do at great lengths, I want to thank you fer knockin’ some sense into that bull-headed girl of mine. Tryin’ to save that horse of hers the way she did was ’bout the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
“I’ll go you one better. I stole the horse back from the Apaches. Fact is, I got some Indian ponies to sell, too. You in the market for a few head of horses?”
“Indian ponies, eh?” Tewksbury said. He went to one horse and ran his hand over its back, then down its flanks. “Needs fleshin’ out. Kinda skinny. Always hard to saddle-break ’em, too. Damned Indians don’t use saddles too often, though this bunch must have. Or maybe they just stole these swayback nags from settlers.”
Tewksbury’s fingers lingered over the brand on the horse’s rump. He looked at Slocum.
“Stole all of them from the Apaches,” Slocum said. “Where they got ’em doesn’t matter a whole lot.” He shrugged. He knew they were all stolen from settlers or travelers along Arizona byways, because no reasonable Indian agent would ever allow his wards to keep their horses. Otherwise, the Apaches would be riding off on raids every morning. As it was, they seemed to slip away with distressing regularity.
“Them Apaches likely to come here huntin’ fer their horses?”
Slocum didn’t answer. He thought the chief could figure out where his stolen horses had been taken, but if the cavalry caught up with the war party, the chief would have bigger worries. Slocum hoped that by now the chief had his hands full with every soldier from Fort Apache, though the cavalry from that post usually dealt with keeping the Coyotero Apaches under control. It wasn’t much of a stretch to think that company would be called out to go after the Tontos.
“Don’t make no never mind,” Tewksbury said.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Ten dollars a head,” Tewksbury said.
“What am I offered for that one?”
“God in Heaven, you got Star! I thought you was jist flappin’ yer gums when you said you went after Lydia’s horse.” Tewksbury pushed his way through the herd and got to the gelding, still carrying Slocum’s lariat around the neck. Tewksbury scooped up the rope and tugged.
“Will this change what you’ll offer for the rest of the horses? Including yours?”
“You got my Sunfisher, too? I’ll be damned, Slocum. You do! And Caleb’s horse, too. You robbed them red varmints of the lot of our horses.” Tewksbury turned and faced Slocum. “I’ll go you one better’n buyin’ the horses off you. I’ll offer you a damn job, Slocum. You’re better than good.”
“Would that put me in the middle of a range war?” Slocum glanced over his shoulder in the direction Tom Graham had ridden. “Right about now, I’m more interested in some peace and quiet.”
“Oh, don’t worry yer head none ’bout Graham. He’s full of hot air. He’s got some nervy relatives, but they don’t get too het up over what goes on out on the range.”
“Why’s that?” Slocum saw the answer on Tewksbury’s face. Graham’s relatives were inclined to ride on the wrong side of the law and didn’t want to stir up too much of a dust cloud where they hid out. This made Slocum all the more eager to ride on through the Tonto Basin and head north into Utah or even Montana. It was cooler there, and he’d had his fill of desert heat and Apache bullets.
Though the Tonto Basin was mighty inviting country.
It became even more so when he saw Lydia Tewksbury come from the house. She stopped, stared and then dropped her load of laundry and ran out to fling her arms around Star’s neck, kissing him. Slocum felt a twinge of jealousy.
She led the horse to within a few feet of where Slocum stood with her father. The woman stared at him, her beguiling reddish brown eyes shining with an inner glow.
“You kept your promise. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“You don’t know me,” Slocum said, “but my word’s my bond.”
“I can see that, Mr. Slocum,” she said. All the while she spoke, she kept her arms around the horse’s neck, as if releasing him might cause the Apaches to steal him once more.
“I jist offered Slocum here a job. He ain’t said if he’d take it yet.” Tewksbury eyed him slyly. “What’ll it take to make you stay? Fer a spell?”
“I was heading north,” Slocum said.
“That’s across country Graham owns. You might find that a bit hard to ride over since that run-in with him.”
“Run-in?” demanded Lydia. “What happened? I didn’t know Tom was here.”
“Slocum ran him off. Good thing, too, or I’d’ve filled his worthless hide with buckshot. Waste of good lead.”
“I can always ride west,” Slocum said.
“Graham’s got relatives that way.”
“East?”
Tewksbury shrugged. “Don’t rightly know what you’d find that direction.”
“And south are the Indians,” Lydia said, getting into the spirit of the dickering. “Why don’t you pitch your gear in the bunkhouse, at least for a day or two? See if
you like the Circle T.” The look she gave him made Slocum wonder if it would be possible not to like what the Circle T had to offer. Against his better judgment he heard himself saying he would stay.
“Oh, good!” cried Lydia. He thought she was going to throw her arms around his neck and give him a kiss like she had her horse, but she refrained. Slocum wondered how itchy a trigger finger her pa had when it came to defending her virtue. The Tewksburys all had minds of their own, and a kiss might not set well with the patriarch running the ranch.
“You kin ride around fer a day or two and get the lay of the land. While you’re out there—to the west—look for strays. There are a couple ponds where they gather when they wander off.”
Slocum led his mare to the corral and got the rest of the Apache remuda into the corral, also. He stowed his gear in the bunkhouse, wondering where the rest of the hands were.
“Come on up to the house for dinner, won’t you, Mr. Slocum?”
He looked up from tending his boots to see Lydia outlined in the doorway. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought she wasn’t wearing any clothes. Then he realized her blouse was skintight and she wore a man’s jeans, though better than any man Slocum had ever seen.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” he said. “Where’re the others?” He indicated the empty bunks.
“Out on the range. Pa’s always got them riding fence or looking for strays. Hardly anybody stays around the ranch house to keep me company.”
Slocum heard more than the woman’s words. She got a little breathless, and he saw how her chest rose and fell faster than usual. Lydia saw how he stared at her and turned sideways, outlining herself at a different angle. This way he saw tiny hard nubs pressing into the thin cotton blouse. She was getting excited.
So was Slocum.
“Might be I should do as your pa said.”
“What’s that?”
“Go look around a mite. Find the watering holes. Look for strays.”
