by Jake Logan
“Pick a table,” Fannie said, sweeping a hand around the empty room.
“This one’ll do,” he told her, drawing back a chair for her. “My name’s John Slocum, so we’ll be properly acquainted.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Slocum.” She took the chair he offered her, arranging the split in her skirt to show off the bulge of her thigh where a silk stocking met her garter belt.
He took a seat beside her while the bartender poured their drinks. “You’re a pretty girl, Fannie. That brandy is gonna taste a lot better keepin’ company with you.”
“You say the nicest things, Mr. Slocum. If I’m not being too forward, you’re a downright handsome man. Taller than most men I meet.”
“I was fed real good when I was a kid so I’d grow.”
She giggled, then her eyes strayed to his crotch for a moment. “Are you a married man?” she asked, fluttering her long eyelashes. Her eyes were a dark green that matched her velvet dress.
“I’m not good material for a husband. Never even tried my hand at being married.”
“Oh? Why do you say you aren’t good husband material?”
“I move around quite a bit. A woman wants a man who stays at home real regular. That just never was my style. Maybe I haven’t met the right woman yet.”
“It sounds to me like you aren’t really looking,” she said as their drinks arrived.
Slocum tossed a silver dollar on the table. The barman swept it into his palm and left. “I’m keeping an eye open for just the right one. I’m partial to redheads, only I’ve been told they have a bad temper.”
She smiled again. “That isn’t true. I’m good-natured and very passionate with the type of man I prefer.”
“What type is that?” he asked, pleased by the direction their conversation was taking.
“Tall men with black hair. Men like you,” she replied, taking a sip of brandy. “I have a few other requirements.”
“And what might those requirements be?” he asked, playing into her hands.
“I like men who are rough, but rough in a gentle way, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I understand,” he told her. He tasted his drink and found it to his liking. “You want a man who treats you like a lady until bedtime.”
“That’s a very brash way of putting it, Mr. Slocum.”
“I hope I’m not being too bold. If so, you have my apology. I can see you’re a real lady. I’m betting it’s only some misfortune that forced you to work in a saloon.”
“How true,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve had more than my share of misfortune. As soon as I get together enough money, I’m blowing this hayseed town. Cache isn’t what I’d call much of a town anyway. I hate this place.”
“How did you come to be stranded here?” he asked with as much sympathy in his voice as he could muster.
“It’s a long story. A gentleman friend and me were headed out to California. He was a gambler. And a heavy drinker. One night a few months ago, he lost all our money and took off with another woman. She had money, so I was told. He left me here to fend for myself. He was a rotten bastard, if you’ll pardon my unladylike language.”
“Perfectly understandable, under the circumstances. I don’t know anything about your gentleman friend, but it sounds to me like he was no kind of gentleman at all.”
“He wasn’t. Clyde was a no-good bastard for doing me this way. I hope he gets what he deserves one of these days. I hope she leaves him.”
Slocum sensed the nearness of a chance to bed Fannie. An angry woman, one who was angry at a man, was easy pickings. “If you care to dine with me later on, I’ll buy you the best meal Cache has to offer.”
She looked him up and down, toying with her glass. “I just may accept your invitation, Mr. Slocum. Let me think on it some. The best place in town is down the street. It’s called the Palace. I can’t usually afford to go there. The Wagon Wheel doesn’t exactly have the best clientele. Soldiers don’t spend much money. I make a dollar or two in tips on busy nights, and Oliver pays me two dollars a day to serve the drinks. My room at the boardinghouse is hardly bigger than a closet, but it’s all I can afford right now. I’m saving all I can to get out of this lousy town. Stagecoach to Santa Fe costs almost twenty dollars. Then I’m going to work somewhere until I can save enough to get to San Francisco. I’ve heard it’s the most beautiful city in the world.”
“I like San Francisco, only it’s too crowded for me. I like quieter places usually.”
“You’ve been to San Francisco? Oh, Mr. Slocum! Please tell me all about it—the opera houses and big hotels, the fancy dress shops. I want to hear all about it.”
“Maybe I can describe it to you over dinner at the Palace tonight,” he suggested.
“I accept. I can’t wait to hear about San Francisco. I’ll tell Oliver I’m going home early this evening. I’ll change into my best dress ... the only nice dress I have. I must confess I’m excited.”
Slocum felt excited looking at the high bulge of her breasts above her corset. “It would be my pleasure. Where should I call for you?”
Her smile fell into a frown. “I’ll have to meet you there. Miz Williams won’t allow single women at the boarding house to have gentleman callers.”
“I’ll meet you at the Palace at eight,” he agreed. “I noticed there’s only one hotel in Cache. I’ll get a room there and put my horse in the stable. I hope they have a bathhouse. Last time I had a real bath and a shave was back in Fort Worth.”
“I’m afraid the Grand Hotel isn’t very grand, Mr. Slocum, but the rooms aren’t all that bad. Ask for a room upstairs if they have one, which I’m sure they will. It’s a slow time of year for a frontier town. The cattle drives have already been through on their way to the Kansas railheads.”
“I’ll ask for an upstairs room.” He downed his brandy and signaled for another.
Again her gaze strayed to his crotch. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. He wondered what Fannie would be like in bed. His years of experience with women convinced him he would have his way with her tonight, if he went about it carefully. All day his mind had been on the beautiful Comanche maiden he saw with the Kwahadie hunting party. But with Fannie as a distraction, he soon forgot about the Indian girl.
“Where are you headed, Mr. Slocum?” she asked. “If I’m not being too nosy.”
“Not at all. I’m riding back to Denver, though I’ve given some thought to passing through Santa Fe first to see about a few good mares. I’m in the horse business from time to time. Good blooded stock.” He dangled the possibility of a side trip to Santa Fe as bait. Later tonight, she would ask him if she could accompany him. He was sure of it. Fannie wanted out of Cache. Having been a traveling gambler’s woman, she wouldn’t be coy or retiring when it came to getting what she wanted.
Her renewed smile showed him how right he was. “Santa Fe?! I’ve been dreaming of Santa Fe for months. I just know I could find work there. Then I could make enough money to get to San Francisco.”
“Santa Fe is a busy place,” he agreed. “Cache looks like a hard place to make a living.”
Now Fannie scowled. “All the soldiers at the fort are broke and so are the cowboys who come through with the herds. Was afraid I’d have to stay here all winter. Unless some piece of good luck came my way.” She looked directly at him as when she spoke.
“Good fortune comes when you least expect it. At least that’s been my experience.”
She brightened again. “And it comes in many different packages, I’ve learned. A smart person has to be able to recognize it when it comes along.”
“That’s true. It isn’t always easy to identify.”
“You have to look closer,” she said just above a whisper. She placed a palm on his forearm. “Sometimes it’s like a Christmas present. You have to take the outer wrapper off to be sure of what’s inside.”
Slocum recognized the suggestion she was making. He would enjoy taking off her outer wrapper�
�the green velvet dress—to see what was underneath. “I like unwrapping things,” he said in a matter-of-fact way.
The barman brought them two more drinks and hurried off as soon as the money was securely in his hand.
Fannie’s eyes settled on over the butt of his Colt. “Why do you carry a gun, Mr. Slocum? A man in the horse business doesn’t need a gun, I shouldn’t think.”
“There are men who might try to take advantage of a traveler carrying money. I use the gun to discourage them. I usually have to carry cash to pay for the horses I acquire. I won’t let any highwaymen take it from me.”
She let the subject drop after hearing his explanation. “I want you to tell me everything about California. And most of all, about San Francisco.”
“That’s a tall order,” he said. “California’s a big place, and so is San Francisco. It could take all night to tell you all about it.”
Fannie squeezed his arm. “I’ve got the time,” she told him.
3
His second-story hotel room was at the back and had a window overlooking the roof of a harness shop. The narrow room was furnished with a washstand, a cracked mirror, and a bed with a lumpy cotton-ticking mattress. He surveyed his accommodations with passing interest. At least it was better than sleeping on the ground, he told himself.
He piled his gear in the comer, leaning his rifle against the water-stained wall paper. After seeing to the stabling of his stud, he was ready for a hot bath, a close shave, and several deep pulls on the bottle of pale whiskey he had bought at the Wagon Wheel, even though the contents reminded him of linament mixed with gunpowder.
Slocum was headed downstairs for the bathhouse behind the hotel when a commotion out in the street caught his attention. Two uniformed cavalrymen were talking to an angular cowboy with a badge pinned to his shirtfront. A crowd of curious citizens had gathered around them. One of the soldiers was speaking.
“Scalped ‘em all, Sheriff, includin’ the women. Worst mess I ever saw in my life. The captain in charge of one of our patrols coming from the south said they ran into a big bunch of runaway Comanches, so Major Thompson is sure it was Comanches who done this. The Major is orderin’ three columns to divide up headed south. We’ll find the murderin’ redskins. Captain Carter said he’d recognize the bunch we run into. The Major wanted you to know we’ve got renegade Comanches on the loose, so you can warn folks to be on the lookout. Those Indians scalped five men an’ two women. They’ll be dangerous, so you might want to spread the word to settlers outside of town.”
“Damn,” the Sheriff muttered, balling his hands into fists. “I’ll deputize a few men. We’ll warn everybody to keep their guns handy. Just when it looks like most of the Indian troubles are over, somethin’ like this happens. You say it was Comanches?”
“Captain Carter said they was. He ran into ’em comin’ up from Childress, only they said they was just huntin’ deer and buffalo.”
“Thanks for the warning, Sergeant. I’ll get some men headed out to the ranches an’ farms right away.”
Slocum couldn’t believe his ears. The Kwahadies they met on the ride up to Fort Sill had not been looking for a fight, only something to feed their families. Slocum knew the Kwahadies and the other four Comanche tribes. When Comanches went on the warpath, they never took women along. The women he saw, including the beautiful Kwahadie chieftan’s daughter, would not have accompanied a war party under any circumstances. What the sergeant just told the sheriff had to be wrong ... unless another band of Comanches was the cause of the trouble.
Slocum turned back to the hotel. It couldn’t be a Comanche massacre. Comanches never scalped women of any race. It was considered dishonorable for a man, a warrior, to take the hair of a female. The report the soldiers had given the sheriff had to be way off target. It was probably that tinhorn Captain Carter who was responsible, he thought. Carter didn’t know one Indian from another. It had almost cost him and forty of his troopers their lives when Carter made ready to launch an attack on the Kwahadie hunting party.
With his clean clothes hanging on a wall peg, Slocum smoked a big cheroot and sipped at the bitter whiskey while seated in a cast-iron bathtub. He was enjoying himself. His thoughts strayed to the coming evening and the beautiful Fannie. He tried to imagine what she would look like naked. It had been too long without a woman in his bed, and an erection throbbed between his thighs. But pretty as Fannie was, she could not compare to the rare natural beauty of the Comanche girl. He wondered what she would be like making love beneath the stars. Try as he might, even with the anticipation of being with Fannie tonight, he couldn’t shake the image of the Indian girl’s from his mind.
But then his thoughts returned to the report he’d heard from the two troopers. Seven scalpings, including two women.
“No way Comanches did it,” he muttered to himself. He had the bathhouse all to himself because it was early in the day. A black girl brought him buckets of hot water from time to time, and he idled away more than an hour sitting in soapy water that smelled sweetly of lilacs.
Eventually he climbed out of the tub and toweled himself off before putting on a fresh shirt, clean socks, and his best denim pants. Last of all, he tucked his .32 inside his shirt and buckled on his gunbelt.
At the hotel desk he inquired about a barbershop and was given directions westward down Main Street. Sauntering outside, Slocum felt better than he had in many days.
He strolled casually down the boardwalk toward the barber. Several men with saddle horses had gathered in front of the sheriff’s office. They had holstered pistols and rifles in long-gun boots tied to their saddles. He counted almost a dozen men.
If it was a Comanche massacre, he thought, these cowboys and town folk didn’t stand a chance against them.
The barber’s name was Sam. He shaved Slocum’s chin carefully while they talked.
“That’s what everybody’s sayin’,” Sam said. “It was Comanches done it.”
“It ain’t likely,” Slocum told him.
“How’s that, mister?”
“I’ve had experience with Comanches over the years. They’re brave people. They believe in honor and honorable warfare. They’d never scalp women under any circumstances. My money says it’s somebody else who killed those settlers.”
“But this Cap’n Carter said he saw ’em south of here, an’ he swears it was Comanches.”
“I was with Carter when he saw them, and they were Kwahadie Comanches. Trouble is, they had women with ‘em. Comanches never take women along with a war party. I talked to the warrior who was leading them. I had to use sign language because that green captain didn’t understand it and he didn’t speak Comanche. The Indians told me how the army gives ’em spoiled meat, and it makes their children sick. They were hunting deer and buffalo when we ran into ’em, so their kids wouldn’t go hungry.”
“Did you tell that to Cap’n Carter?” Sam asked, scraping whisker stubble off Slocum’s neck.
“I did. Sounds to me like he didn’t believe it.”
“You oughta tell what you know to the post commander before they go after the wrong bunch of Indians.”
“It really isn’t any of my affair, though I’d probably be saving the lives of a few local citizens and soldiers. I don’t think either one wants to tangle with the Kwahadies if they’re armed.”
“But you said they was only huntin’ ...”
“They were. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been any women with ’em.”
“You should ride out to the fort an’ tell Major Thompson what you just told me. Even if, like you say, it ain’t none of your affair. Might keep a lot of blood from bein’ spilled over a mistake.”
“I suppose I could,” Slocum agreed. “I’ll give it some thought.”
Sam wiped the lather off his neck and cheeks. “We ain’t had no Indian troubles in quite a spell. Sure would be a shame if we did for the wrong reason.”
Smelling of bay rum hair tonic, Slocum got out of the chair and paid f
or his haircut and shave. “Keep the change,” he said on his way out the door, tugging his Stetson down in front.
“Sure wish you’d ride out to the fort an’ tell that major what you know,” Sam added, pocketing his money. “Be a damn shame if Cache had a bunch of funerals that wasn’t necessary.”
At a mercantile, he found a bottle of French wine and a bundle of rum-soaked cigars. Walking the streets of Cache, he tipped his hat to the ladies and took stock of the town. Cache served as a waystation for travelers and a place where the merchants who made their living off the Indian reservation kept stores and shops. The small town had a temporary look about it. Tents made up most of the business establishments, as if the proprietors were ready to move on at a moment’s notice.
Near the livery stable, he encountered a drummer in a bowler hat and rumpled brown suit who was taking his packs off the back of a mule.
“Howdy, mister,” the drummer said to Slocum as he was about to enter the barn to check on his stud. “Reckon you heard ’bout them scalpins south of here.”
“I heard,” Slocum replied.
“I saw it fer myself. Worst sight you ever saw. Blood all over the ground.”
Slocum hesitated near the stable doors. “Someone said two women were scalped.”
“It’s a fact. One was mighty young. She coulda been pretty, if it wasn’t fer her hair bein’ gone like it was. I seen her skullbone plain as day.”
“A soldier said the army thinks Comanches did it.”
“Ain’t no doubt, mister. They’s the worst of the lot of ’em in my book, an’ I’ve seen plenty.”
“Comanches don’t scalp women.” Slocum spoke his words deliberately, with authority.
The drummer turned his ruddy face toward Slocum as he took down a pack from the mule’s back. “Is that so? You don’t have the look of a feller who knows Injuns.”
“I’ve made the acquaintance of a few Comanches. Sometimes it was peaceable. Not always. They fight hard as hell, but they don’t scalp women.”
