Slocum and the Comanche

by Jake Logan

  “If you ride in there, Slocum, you’ll be undertaking it entirely on your own,” Thompson said warily. “Surely you understand the risks.”

  “I know the risks real well, Major. I’ve had plenty of hard experiences with Kwahadies. Conas and his people need to be told they can go back to the reservation without any more trouble. He has to be told about Senatey and the other women. When Lame Bear finds out what happened to his daughter, you can count on having more Comanche problems. These ain’t real peaceful people to start with. If Tatum was behind those murders near the Red, maybe that’s what he was counting on... that the Comanches would be blamed and the army would try to punish them, so there’d be a war in the making.”

  “It’s still only your assumption that Tatum is behind this in some manner,” Thompson said. “As military commander of Fort Sill, it’s my job to investigate any possible wrongdoing. What you suspect Tatum of doing will be hard to prove... unless those tracks lead Sergeant Watson to something tangible in the way of evidence.”

  Slocum tried to listen to the major, but his mind was elsewhere. He was already thinking about how dangerous it would be to try to talk to Conas. None of this was his affair, he told himself. If he had any sense, he’d just keep riding toward Denver.

  The soldiers were forming columns east of the dry wash, amid the rattle of curb chains and armament, the click of horseshoes on rock.

  “Soon as you pull out, I’ll try to ride up to that canyon, Major,” he said. “All I’m asking for is your word as an officer that those Indians won’t be punished for what happened here. In my book, all they did was try to defend themselves.”

  “You have my word, Mr. Slocum. No more will be done to them if they return to the reservation peacefully.”

  “One more thing,” Slocum added as he lifted his reins. “I’d like to be able to assure ’em they’ll get at least one good ration of beef and flour for every man, woman, and child after they go back.”

  “That doesn’t seem too much to ask. I know conditions are deplorable at times. I’ll make sure they get good meat and flour upon their return. I’ll see to it personally.”

  Slocum turned his horse toward the mouth of the canyon. “I’ll tell Conas what you said, Major. Now all I’ve gotta do is hope he’ll believe me.”

  He rode out of the wash, through deep oak forests, onto the edge of a broad grassy plain. Looping the reins around his saddlehorn, he began guiding the Palouse with his knees while holding his hands in the air, to prove to the Comanches he was not looking for a fight.

  “Habbe weichet!” a voice cried from the darkness near a rock at the base of the canyon wall. It was a warning to go no further unless he was seeking death.

  Slocum signaled the stud to halt by swinging his stirrups away from the horse’s ribs. He spoke in Comanche. “I want words with Conas. True words. I am a friend.”

  There was silence and no movement near the rock.

  Slocum tried again. “I want true words with Conas. The soldiers are leaving. They will fight the Sata Teichas no more at this place.”

  From the other side of the canyon entrance, another voice said, “I am Conas. Speak, Tosi Tivo. I will listen.”

  Slocum slowly lowered his hands to his saddlehorn, keeping them in plain sight. “The bluecoats know they fought the wrong enemy. They were looking for the men who scalped seven people near the great river, including two women. I told them the Sata Teichas do not scalp women, and the bluecoat chief believes me. He has promised not to fight. You will be given good meat and flour when you come back to the reservation, enough for every man and woman and child. The soldier chief speaks true words.”

  “All bluecoats speak with the tongue of the snake,” Conas snarled.

  “Many promises to the Sata Teichas have been broken. But this soldier chief will keep his word.”

  Another silence.

  “The daughter of Lame Bear has been injured,” Slocum continued. “I took her to the white medicine man, and then I will take her to Isa Tai.”

  “How was she injured?” Conas asked, his voice thick with anger.

  “Some men found your women on their way back to the fort. One of the women is dead.” He was afraid to try to explain now that the men were white soldiers.

  “There will be war,” Conas said. “When these words are given to Lame Bear, there will be war at the Stinking Place.”

  Slocum knew he had to do some fast thinking and fast talking to avoid angering Conas further. “Senatey told me you saw bad men, that this was the reason the women were sent back. She did not know the word in the white man’s tongue to tell me who those men were.”

  “Yoh Hobit,” Conas replied.

  Conas was describing dark-skinned men from the south, Mexicans. “The men who hunt for Indian scalps,” Slocum said.

  “We see them from far away, coming north. Only a few, but with many-shoot guns.”

  The Comanche hunters had sighted a party of Mexican scalp hunters with Winchester rifles. Now the tracks he found east of the log cabins made sense. “I will tell the soldier chief. He does not know the Yoh Hobit were here. The Sata Teichas are being blamed for what the Yoh Hobit did to the seven Tosi Tivo above the river. Now the soldier chief will send his soldiers to look for the Yoh Hobit. There will be no more war between the Sata Teichas and the soldiers.”

  Conas was taking his time before he answered. “This is for Chief Lame Bear to decide. When he hears what was done to the women and Senatey, he will want war.”

  “More of your people will be killed. The bluecoat soldiers are many and the Sata Teichas are few. I am a friend to Quannah. I will speak these same words to him. Let there be peace between us. There has been enough war, enough killing.”

  Just when it was beginning to seem Conas would not talk any more, he said, “Tell the soldier chief to keep his word. We will go back to the Stinking Place. Tell the soldier chief to bring meat and flour. Tell him our women and children are hungry. He has seen the worms and smelled our rotten meat. I will only believe he brings us good meat when my eyes see it.”

  “He will keep his word,” Slocum assured him. “It’s the man called Indian agent who gives you bad meat, not the soldier chief you fought today.”

  “Man who gives meat is Mo Pe.”

  Slocum chuckled. “I will tell the soldier chief you will come back. Suvate. Our talk is ended.”

  “Suvate, ” Conas said.

  Slocum turned his horse and rode off at a walk. A slow grin twisted his mouth in spite of the seriousness of the situation he had just been in. The Comanches had given Indian agent George Tatum a name of their own, and from what Slocum had heard about Tatum, the name fit. Mo Pe meant “coyote shit” in Comanche.

  It was past midnight when he returned to Cache. He put his horse away at the livery after stopping off for a few shots of brandy at the Wagon Wheel just before closing time. Fannie almost rushed into his arms when she saw him.

  “I’ve been so worried,” she said. “Wounded soldiers have been coming back to the fort all day.”

  “It’s over for now,” he told her, “but the peace may not last very long.”

  “Would you like some company tonight? I’ve missed you so terribly, John.”

  Despite his weariness he agreed to have her come up the back stairs to his room after the Wagon Wheel closed. It was hard to turn down a woman like Fannie.

  As he sat on the edge of his bed in the lamplight and sipped from the fresh bottle of brandy he had bought at the saloon, he heard light footsteps in the hallway.

  “It’s gonna be another long night,” he whispered.

  He got up slowly and went to the door with the bottle still in his hand, mildly puzzled when Fannie did not knock or ask to be let in. Then a sixth sense suddenly warned him of danger.

  Slocum stepped to one side just as the wood of the door-frame splintered. The door exploded inward, driven open by a bulky man in a dark coat and stovepipe boots. He had a pistol in his fist.

  As t
he door and its broken frame fell to the floor with a loud crash, the gunman aimed his revolver at Slocum’s empty bed and thumbed back the hammer. He hesitated when he saw that the bed was vacant.

  That moment of hesitation was all the time Slocum needed. He clawed his Colt .44 free of its holster and stuck the barrel of the gun into the man’s left ear.

  “Freeze, shithead, or I’m gonna plaster your brains all over that wall beside you!”

  The gunman tensed, rolling his eyes in Slocum’s direction as his bearded jaw dropped open.

  “You heard what I said, shithead. Be real still, and drop your gun on the floor. If you so much as twitch, I’m gonna decorate this hotel wall with chunks of your head.”

  “Shit!” the man hissed. He did not move.

  “That’s right, pardner,” Slocum said evenly. “You just shit in your own bowl of soup, and I’m gonna make you eat it. You’ve got another choice. You can make a play for me with that piece of iron you’re carrying, but I’d strongly advise against it. I’m a good shot, but I don’t have to be any good with my gun stickin’ in your ear. All I gotta do is pull the trigger. I can kill you with my eyes closed if I take the notion.”

  16

  The bearded giant dropped his gun on the floorboards. “Looks like you got me cold... this time,” he said. His deep voice was rasping with anger and fear.

  Slocum took his pistol barrel from the gunman’s ear. “You showed good sense, mister,” he said. “Now tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

  “You’re stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong, Slocum. It’s the army’s affair to track down them murderin’ redskins. I came here to make damn sure you stayed out of it. You talked that major into lettin’ them Injuns go down at Red Oak, claimin’ it wasn’t them who took them scalps. I was gonna give you an invitation to leave town an’ mind your own goddamn business.”

  “You meant to kill me. You were aiming for the bed when I caught you off guard. That ain’t exactly my idea of a polite invitation to leave town.”

  “You was mistaken. I was only gonna wake you up an’ give you a warnin’.”

  “That’s bullshit, stranger, but right now it don’t matter because I’ve got the drop on you. You didn’t answer all of my question. Who the hell are you, and who sent you to deliver this so-called invitation to pull out?”

  “I ain’t talkin’. You can’t prove a goddamn thing on me. I broke down a door, so I’ll pay fer it. I’ll swear to the law I stumbled in that dark hallway an’ just happened to fall against your door. It’ll be your word against mine.”

  Slocum gave what might pass for a grin. “There’s two ways it can be your word against mine, asshole. If I shoot you, and show the sheriff this busted door, I’ll say I thought you were trying to rob me. It won’t matter what you have to say about it, ’cause you’ll be dead.”

  The man swallowed. He turned his head and gave Slocum a guarded look. “Sheriff Wall ain’t gonna believe no shit like that. He’ll see to it that you hang.”

  “I’ll take my chances ... unless you start talking, and it had better be the truth. I’m real peculiar about being lied to. If I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll come looking for you, and the whole Indian Nations won’t be big enough for you to hide. Think it over before you let a lie cross your lips.”

  In the poor light from the oil lamp, Slocum had only a fraction of a second to see the glint of a knife blade. The giant whirled and swung a Bowie from somewhere inside his coat in a sweeping arc toward Slocum’s face.

  Slocum took a half step back, just beyond the reach of the deadly blade. He blocked its passage with his forearm, catching his assailant’s lightning move with his wrist.

  At the same instant, Slocum fired point-blank into the man’s chest, but his aim was a bit wide. The crashing blow to his forearm, as the hand wielding the knife struck powerfully just below his elbow, had taken him by surprise.

  The thunder of a .44-caliber bullet filled the four walls with a deafening noise. Inside his tiny room, the sound seemed magnified.

  Slocum was knocked backward against the wall, but the giant lunged forward again.

  “You son of a bitch!” the bearded assassin snarled, making another swipe with his knife.

  Slocum’s head bounced off the wallboard behind him. He was momentarily stunned but still able to duck away from the tip of the gleaming blade. It missed his throat by a matter of inches. He felt its breath whisper across his neck.

  The giant roared like a mountain cougar when he missed his target again. There was just enough time for Slocum to make a swing of his own with the barrel of his six-gun.

  He felt the .44 slam into his attacker’s skull. The shock of the blow went all the way to his shoulder.

  “Auugh,” the giant groaned, staggering back a step or two. His free hand clawed for his cheek where the barrel of the gun struck him. The Bowie knife dropped between his boots with a dull clatter.

  It was all the time Slocum needed. It would have been easy to kill the knife-wielding attacker with his pistol, but Slocum wanted information more than he wanted revenge. Who had sent this killer to his room?

  Slocum tossed the bottle of brandy onto the bed. He tucked his .44 into his belt, doubled his fists, and lept forward, swinging vicious right hooks and left crosses, slamming his knuckles into the man’s face and jaw.

  The giant was able to take more punishment than Slocum reckoned. In spite of a series of heavy blows to his head, he staggered but would not go down.

  A looping fist came at Slocum’s head. He ducked it easily and drove a powerful punch into the man’s stomach.

  The man groaned and doubled over, offering Slocum the perfect opportunity for an uppercut that, if aimed correctly, would land squarely on the giant’s bearded jaw.

  With all his might, Slocum brought a driving uppercut from below his waist to the point of the man’s chin. The cracking noise that followed could have been either Slocum’s knuckles or the jawbone of his midnight intruder.

  But following a punch that should have dropped him cold, the huge man shook his head, blinked to clear his addled brain, and rushed forward again.

  Slocum came from behind his shoulder with a right hook, employing every ounce of strength he possessed, his feet planted firmly to add his full weight to the blow. He caught the giant just in front of his left ear, a spot that would have rendered any other man unconscious.

  The man’s knees sagged, yet he would not go down. He wavered, eyelids fluttering. He stared at Slocum through slightly glassy eyes. “You hit like a goddamn mule’s kick, only you ain’t never tangled with me before.”

  He charged Slocum once more, windmilling wild punches in a flurry, staggering toward him on unsteady legs.

  Slocum had no time to ponder the wisdom of putting his gun away to test the stranger’s jaw. He threw a straight right jab at the giant’s throat. His knuckles dug deep into the soft flesh and cartilage around the man’s windpipe just as a looping left caught Slocum’s uplifted forearm.

  The giant fell backward, toppling into the washstand where the coal oil lamp stood. Its glass globe shattered, and a ball of flame erupted from the oil spilling onto the floor.

  The flash of light blinded Slocum briefly. He shielded his eyes with his hand.

  “Holy shit!” a bellowing voice cried amid the sounds of stamping boots.

  Slocum drew his arm away in time to see his attacker engulfed in tongues of fire. The legs of his pants turned into torches, and then his shirtfront ignited. He screamed and pawed at his chest as the flames set his beard on fire. Then his tangle of shoulder-length hair crackled with fingers of orange and yellow as the flames surged upward, creating the grisly silhouette of a man standing inside a fireball, pawing feebly to put out the inferno encircling his entire body.

  “Help me, you bastard!” the giant shrieked.

  The ceramic pitcher of water that had been on the washstand beside the oil lamp lay shattered on the floor, its contents wasted. He jerked th
e blanket off the bed and tried to toss it over the man’s burning body to suffocate the flames.

  But just as the blanket fell over him, the giant made a sudden turn for the open window. Screams of agony erupted from his mouth in rapid bursts. He made a dive for the window, which was one floor above street level, and flew across the windowsill, a burning mass of clothing and flesh and flaming hair and beard. He left a trail of fire and smoke in his wake as he flew headfirst toward the ground.

  Slocum rushed to the window as the man hit the ground. Flames licked at every inch of his body, consuming him while he shrieked with pain, kicking wildly and thrashing back and forth in the dirt.

  A noise behind Slocum drew his attention from the window. The spilled lamp oil had set one of the walls of his room on fire.

  He ran from the window and jerked the sheets off his bed to beat out the flames. Smoke from the burning coal oil burned his eyes and filled his nostrils. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he found it hard to breathe as the combination of smoke and heat singed his lungs.

  For several minutes, he ignored the cries coming from the street below, until he put out the fire in his room. The sheets and pieces of peeling wallpaper were still smoldering, but the flames were out and only a few sparks remained.

  When he finally looked out the window, he saw only a lump of flaming human tissue and clothing lying just beneath his room at the comer of Main Street and the alley-way that separated the hotel from the other buildings in the business district of Cache.

  Close by, he heard someone yell, “Fire! Ring the fire bell an’ everybody come a-runnin’ to form a bucket brigade!”

  Other voices took up the cry at both ends of Main Street. Soon he heard the sounds of running feet. Then, off in the distance, he heard the fire bell.

  He turned from the window to make sure the fire in his room was fully extinguished.

  “Damn close call,” he told himself, inspecting his traveling gear and saddle in the comer of the room. His knuckles throbbed with pain from the blows he’d just delivered to a man who would not go down no matter how hard or in what spot Slocum hit him.