by Jake Logan
With his eyes still watering from the oil flames, he bent down and picked up the knife. More than a foot of Bowie had come near taking his life, or wounding him seriously. With the knife still in his hand, he went to the doorway to get some fresh air. The knife was the only clue he had as to his attacker’s identity now that the flames had consumed the giant’s body.
Who would came after him like this? he wondered. What had he done, or uncovered, that was worth killing over? It was someone who knew about events down at Red Oak Canyon. The giant had admitted as much, warning him to stay out of army business.
For the moment, he was unable to think of an answer.
He went downstairs to the hotel lobby, then outside to see what was left of the man who came to kill him.
One thing was abundantly clear. He had stepped on some very powerful toes in Cache—enough to make it worthwhile to silence him.
The giant wasn’t an Indian, though he might have expected Indian retribution for bringing Senatey back to the fort in such serious condition. This was something else, with some other motive behind it. The big man had a thick beard, but Indians had little or no facial hair. Slocum supposed he could have been a halfbreed. It had been impossible to get a good look at him in the dim light from the oil lamp. The wick had been turned down low while he was waiting for Fannie.
He walked up to the smoking remains of the body as more than a dozen men continued to pour buckets of water on the remains from nearby water troughs.
An old man in overalls spoke to some of the others standing around him. “One thing’s fer damn sure: This feller’s dead as a dead man gits. He ain’t nothin’ but burnt meat.”
“Who was he?” another man asked.
“Never saw him afore in my life. Big son of a bitch. How in tarnation did he catch hisself on fire like that?”
Slocum, standing away from the group, said nothing. He would give a full report to the sheriff when the time came. Until then, he needed to find out the dead man’s name, whom he had worked for, and—more than anything else—the motive that sent him to the second floor of the Grand Hotel bent on ending John Slocum’s life.
When it was clear nothing that more could be done, he made a turn for the hotel. He halted in his tracks when he saw a woman running toward him.
Fannie rushed up to him out of breath. “What happened, John? We all heard the fire bell.”
“Some guy came to my room with a gun.”
“But why? Why would anyone do that?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea yet, but I sure as hell aim to find out.”
Fannie clasped the front of his shirt. “Let’s get out of this town, John. I’ll go with you wherever you say. California can wait.”
“I’m not leaving till I find out what’s behind this, Fannie. I don’t take a kindly view of it when somebody tries to kill me. It’s just my stubborn nature, I reckon.”
“Please, John. Let’s go now. Tonight, before anything else happens.”
He gave the streets of Cache a glance. “I’ve got things to attend to first.”
She seemed to be avoiding his eyes. “I overheard something at the Wagon Wheel tonight. It may have something to do with what just happened.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. His words sounded sharper than he had intended. “I want to hear every word.”
17
Taking her arm, he escorted Fannie away from the alley, as the odor of burning flesh was replaced by clean night air on a crisp breeze from the north.
“So tell me,” he said, when they were well away from the crowd, “what did you overhear?”
Fannie made sure they were alone before she stopped at a dark street comer. “Only a few words. Something about how the Comanche Indians down at Red Oak Canyon got off without a really bad fight because a soldier named Watson rode back to the fort to talk to the Indian agent. The soldiers who were talking about it at the Wagon Wheel acted like they didn’t want me to hear what they were saying. They were whispering, and when I came over they stopped talking until I set down their drinks and left the table.”
“Sergeant Lee Watson?”
“I don’t know. Watson is the only name I heard. One of the soldiers said this Watson wasn’t sure what to do, so he came back to ask Tatum how to proceed with something or other. I didn’t get all of it.”
“Sergeant Watson was in charge of the patrol I sent down the tracks I found near the settlement. I sort of hoped he’d come back with something I could give Major Thompson, some destination for those hoofprints I found east of the cabins where those folks were killed.”
“It seems like Watson needed to talk to George Tatum about what you did. That’s all I heard them say before they stopped talking when I brought them their drinks.”
Slocum frowned. “It’s looking more and more like Tatum has some sort of stake in having Conas and his warriors punished for those scalpings. What isn’t clear yet is why.”
“Who was the man you threw out your window, John?”
“I didn’t throw him out. He jumped when his clothes caught on fire accidentally, after the lamp on the washstand fell on the floor and shattered. He came after me with a gun. I’m sure he was sent to kill me.”
“But why you? What do you have to do with any of this, or the murder of those homesteaders?”
“I ain’t got that part figured out yet. What’s real clear is that George Tatum is involved somehow. I’m gonna talk to him first thing in the morning. If I had something solid to go on, I’d get him out of bed right now. All I’ve got at this point is guesswork.”
Fannie placed her palms on his broad shoulders. “Let’s just leave this place,” she said, a plea in her voice. “Please take me with you, wherever you plan to go. I promise you I won’t get in the way.” A slow smile crossed her face. “I’ll keep you entertained. Even if I don’t get to San Francisco this winter, we’ll have some good times together, just you and me.”
He gave it no more than a moment’s thought. “This trouble with the Comanches and the scalpings isn’t my affair, but I’ve had this problem all my life, sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. Those Indians are getting a rough deal, and I’m sure someone wants to see them all killed. Or put in irons. I can’t prove it yet, but I think a dishonest Indian agent is behind every bit of this.”
“They’re just Indians, John. What could they mean to you? Why are you getting involved?”
“They’re human beings, Fannie. We’ve called them our enemies for more than a hundred years, when all they wanted was to roam around and live in their traditional homeland where they hunted buffalo and deer for a helluva long time before the white man came. What the government is doing to them now is wrong.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with you.”
“This is my country. I may not be one of its leading citizens, but I know right from wrong. What the army and the Bureau of Indian Affairs is doing to them is cruel. Most folks wouldn’t treat a dog the way we’re treating reservation Indians at this fort.”
“You can’t change the whole government’s policy toward Indians by yourself, John. Surely you know that. What can one man do? You have no part in what’s being done on this reservation.”
He turned his gaze toward the reservation. “I understand all that. But I know a few people with influence. I can send off a few telegrams. But first, I need hard evidence of what’s going on here.”
Fannie was clearly disappointed. “Then we won’t be leaving Cache until you do whatever you think you have to do, until you make up your mind or get things changed the way you think they ought to be,” she said softly.
“Sorry, pretty lady, but it’s just my nature. I reckon I acquired some of it during the war. I saw injustice of every imaginable kind coming from both sides. Never really got over it.”
“I suppose I should admire that in you. I haven’t known very many men with qualities I admire. Clyde was a card cheat and a thief. It’s hard to find anything to admire in any of t
hat.”
“Wasn’t askin’ for your admiration. Just statin’ a simple fact.”
She tilted her head slightly when she looked up at him. “You’re very different from my first impression of you. When we first met, I thought you were a drifter, a horse dealer like you said you were. But you’re more than that. Your head is full of unusual ideas.”
“Like I said, I figure it was the war that changed me. I saw more than I wanted ... more than any man wants to see in his lifetime.”
“And you can’t let it go?”
He thought about it. “I still dream about some of the bad parts at night, maybe. I lost my father and a brother to that war, and it still doesn’t make any sense. And it wasn’t long after that when my ma died of grief.”
“I’m sorry, John. You must want to forget about it.”
“There’s some things a man just can’t forget, no matter how hard he tries. The war wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t my brother’s or my pa’s. We fought on the side we believed in, and even that wasn’t so awful clear. We didn’t own any slaves, and a state’s rights was something none of us understood, as far as I could tell. We went to war along with our neighbors because it seemed like the only thing we could do, but we were in a fight with folks just like us ... men who didn’t really understand what all the killin’ was about. Mostly, I thing we fought it for the politicians. After four years, about the only difference I could see was the color of our uniforms. I killed Union soldiers who were hardly more’n boys, but they were wearing blue and that was all that mattered. Those were our orders, and most of us just followed ’em. I looked down at some of the faces of the boys and men I killed, and I can’t forget about it. Same goes for these Comanche Indians. Conas, the leader of that hunting party we met on the way to Cache, said his women and children were hungry, so they left the reservation to hunt for something to eat. That’s a damn hard thing to forget.”
She lowered her voice and snuggled against his chest. “Not even if I try to help you forget about them?”
He slipped his arms around her waist. “You are a beautiful distraction, Fannie, but that doesn’t change a thing. Some son of a bitch is tryin’ to blame those Kwahadies for things they didn’t do. I can’t just turn my back on it.”
“It’s the Indian girl, isn’t it? You said she was pretty, didn’t you?”
“That’s only a small part of it. It’s what’s happening to those starving women and children that sticks in my craw.”
“Maybe I can take your mind off it for a little while—at least until morning?”
Slocum chuckled. “My room is half-burnt. It wouldn’t be the most romantic place to spend the rest of the night. These wall and the bed caught fire. It’ll stink like the fire-place bellows at a blacksmith’s shop till morning.”
“I’ll show you another spot, down by the river. I can go to my boarding house and get a quilt. It won’t be as soft as a bed, but I might be able to take your mind off things... if you want me to.”
He stared down at her. “You can be a most convincing woman when you set your mind to it.”
“Follow me,” Fannie whispered, taking his hand. “It’s a pretty night. A little on the chilly side, but the stars are out.”
“Let me fetch that bottle from my room first. It’ll help us stay warm.”
“Get the bottle if you want, John, but I can keep you warm without it. All we need is a blanket.”
“I used mine to toss over that bastard who came up the stairs to kill me. Right now, I wish I hadn’t wasted a perfectly good blanket, now you’ve suggested another way we could use it.”
Her smile broadened. “Never mind suggesting it. Let me show you. Besides, I have blankets up in my room. It won’t take but a minute to get one.”
Her enticing smile convinced him. “All right. We’ll forget the bottle tonight. I may have broken it during the fight anyway. I’ll walk you to your boarding house and stay outside until you bring the blanket out.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
He was grinning from ear to ear as she led him down the street. “I’m quite sure you won’t disappoint me, Fannie.”
The quiet riverbank was aglow with starlight. They lay side by side on Fannie’s woolen blanket, gazing up at the sky with the sounds of the river and the scent of damp grass all around them.
“You see?” she asked him, after taking a sip of the peach brandy she had removed from a downstairs cupboard at the boarding house while everyone else was asleep. “This is one of the prettiest places in Cache.”
“And you’re the prettiest girl in Cache,” he said, taking a slow sip of the sweet brandy.
She turned on her side. “I know I’m not all that pretty, John, but it’s nice of you to say it. We’re both alone in a place we’d rather not be in. Somehow, we found each other. If you’ll take me with you, wherever you’re going, I’ll be so glad to leave this town it won’t matter.”
“I have to go back to Denver, after I ride over to Santa Fe to look at those mares. Business has to come first. If you want company as far as Santa Fe, you’re welcome to it. But not until I get to the bottom of this Indian thing. I can’t turn my back on it.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand that part. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Maybe,” he replied, taking another swallow of brandy, “or maybe I’m here at the right time because I’m supposed to be. I ain’t sure I believe all that much in the hand of Fate or Lady Luck, but I won’t ride off till I find out why Conas and his warriors are being framed for something I know damned well they didn’t do.”
Fannie reached for the crotch of his pants. “I’ve got an idea that might take your mind off it until morning.”
“I like the direction your idea seems to be taking us right now,” he said.
She stroked his member through his pants leg for a moment, then she stopped. “I’m only asking for one thing from you, John. Take me with you when you’re finished with this Indian business. I don’t care what direction we go.”
“You’ve got my promise. I’ll either take you with me as far as Santa Fe, or I’ll see to it that you get on a train to San Francisco.”
“That makes it sound like there’s nothing permanent about our ... arrangement.”
He looked up at the stars. “A long time ago I gave up on the notion of making permanent plans, Fannie. They never seem to work out.”
“It could be different this time.”
“I can’t make a good argument against it, but I know my own nature pretty damn well. Seems like women have a hankering to get settled in a particular spot. Some men just can’t do it no matter how hard they try.”
“You’re warning me that you’ll leave me sooner or later, aren’t you?”
He took a slow breath. “I’m only telling you the truth when it comes to me. Don’t seem like I’m able to change. Comes a time when I see a new sunrise and I’ve got to know what’s on the other side of the hills where that sun comes up. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
“The right woman could make you change your mind, I think, if you gave her a chance.”
“I’ve tried it a few times. For some reason or other, it just never worked out.”
She nestled her cheek against his neck. “Maybe it’s because you’ve never known a woman like me.”
18
The right woman, Fannie had said. He recalled the only girl he’d known in his life who had seemed like the “right woman” at the time. It was the summer of his fourteenth birthday.
Not far from their Allegheny Mountain home in Calhoun County, Georgia, in an isolated valley at the end of a two-rut road across rough country, John and his brother Robert were fishing in the creek on a sunny spring day. Robert allowed as how he’d had enough of fishing. He took his cane pole and tin of worms and headed back to the house.
John sat on the bank of the creek, alone with his thoughts, until he heard a rustling in the brush nearby. His attention strayed fro
m the cork tied to his fishing line.
He glanced over his shoulder. Melinda Carter, a slender freckle-faced girl from across the ridge to the south, the daughter of a sharecropper family even poorer than the Slocums, came toward him through waist-high thistles and briars.
“Seen you fishin’,” she said, smiling.
At fourteen, John didn’t care much for girls. He thought about them at night sometimes, but not all that often. “So? How come you sneak up on me like that?”
“Just curious.”
“Curious? Ain’t you ever seen any fishin’ before?”
She came to the spot where he sat with his legs dangling over the stream. She was wearing a dress made of flour sacking and no shoes. “Curious to see what you was doin’.”
“I already said I was fishin’. Ain’t you got eyes in your head, Melinda?”
She sat down beside him without an invitation. Lately, it seemed her homemade dresses had begun to fill out in certain places. He was vaguely aware of the swell of budding bosoms, a hint of rounding at the tops of her hips.
“I’ll tell you what I was really curious about,” she said in a soft voice, “but only if you’ll swear on a blue robin’s egg you won’t tell nobody, not even your brother.”
He sighed. “How come it’s gotta be a secret?”
She looked away. “Cause it’s somethin’ real personal. If Robert knowed I was interested in ... somethin’ like this he’d tell everybody at the schoolhouse.”
“What’s so all-fired special about this personal thing you’s so curious about?”
Melinda’s face turned a deep shade of pink. She waited a moment before she answered him. “It’s got to do with what a man an’ a woman does in bed at night. Last night, I heard my ma an’ pa in the bed, making funny noises. It ain’t like I never heard them same noises before, only I never got so curious as I did last night.”
