Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) (10 page)

“Ship them out.” Slocum shook his head at the hanging notion.

The short one gave a long exhale of relief. His partner nodded that he'd heard Houston's decision and Slocum's choice.

“What're your names?” Houston asked.

“Mine's Skip Hogan,” said the short one, “and he's Lay McCoy.”

“I don't want to read how a posse shot you, 'cause I don't think you're gun handy enough to be outlaws anyway. I'm staking you ten dollars to get the hell out of Wyoming.”

“Why do that?” McCoy asked, looking hard at Houston.

“'Cause, I can afford to.” Houston acted affronted by the tall man's question.

“I didn't aim to make you mad—sir. Thanks.”

“Now get on your horses and get out of the territory,” Slocum said, weary of the pair.

They rose and Slocum handed them back their uncapped pistols. “Don't waste time. You've got enough money to go somewhere.”

They soon rode out, and Wilma laughed, shaking her head over the deal. “Are there lots of unemployed men around?”

Houston nodded. “Too many. Makes for mischief like this gang business.”

“And I guess we're camped on the way in and out of the Bighorns,” Slocum added. What was the world coming to?

“Where are those two killers?” Houston asked.

“Somewhere around here. I may find out something about them by checking around.”

“I need to stay here,” Wilma said. “Wash dishes and clean up.”

“I'm going back up in the canyon and look for a trophy for the day until you find them,” Houston said. “If you don't need me.”

Slocum shook his head. “I can look around myself. You find that grand buck.”

“Oh, I'd like to before they break off a trophy horn fighting.”

So they parted. Wilma to wash dishes, her clothes, hair, and body, and to get the camp set up to suit her better. Houston went ram scouting, and Slocum went off to find out where the killers had gone.

Ten Sleep's farrier and blacksmith, a big man, was beating on a red-hot iron rod. When Slocum entered, the smell of burning coal assaulted his nose. The man halted his work. “What can I do to help you?”

“A little information.”

The man stuck the rod back in the red coals of his forge and shed his gloves. “What's that?”

“Two hermits recently killed a woman up in the Bighorns. Their names are Deushay and Roberson. They were headed down here.”

The big burly man nodded, turning his handiwork over in the red coals and fire in his forge. His face was blackened by the coal stains and smoke.

“I know them. Weird bastards. They came by here two days ago. They were headed for the badlands west of here. They have a place out there. Somewhere west and south of the main road. I heard they have hot water springs they take baths in.”

“No idea where their place is located?”

“I've never been out there, but it's a ways beyond the canyon mouth. If you've never been out there, it is
malpaís
country. Won't grow weeds in a rainy season. Lots of different colored bare rocks.”

“You sure their place is south of the main road?”

“They said south—sorry I can't tell you more. Why did they kill her?”

“Raped her and I guess didn't want any witnesses left behind. Smothered her with a pillow.”

“Damn, they need to be hung.”

Slocum agreed with a nod. But no one was going to do that—but him. There were no lawmen to pursue them, no wanted posters with their mugs on them. Slocum was the only witness. His shoulder was still tender where their bullet had struck him. Lucky they'd thought they'd killed him that day.

Slocum talked to some others around town and learned little else. Midday he rode back to camp with some fresh beef. The storekeeper had butchered beef for several of his customers; most would keep a portion of theirs in an evaporative cooler of wet canvas and cook the rest. The fresh meat should be welcome in his camp. It had been a while since he'd had any, and he liked it lots better than venison.

Wilma looked all fresh, smiling at his arrival when he dropped out of the saddle.

“Got some fresh beef,” he said, and she rushed over, excited.

He hitched up his pants and gun, then dug the paper-wrapped meat out of his saddlebags.

“Good and fresh all right,” she said, smelling it. “You learn anything?”

“I did. Those killers have got a place out in the badlands with some hot springs.”

“Where's that?”

“That's the problem. We're going to have to find it.”

She looked him in the eye and winked with a smile. “I bet we can find it.”

He agreed and unsaddled his horse, then hobbled him and sent him out to graze. “Reckon I'll shave and take a bath. It's warm enough today.”

“That crick ain't warm enough to stay in very long.”

“Heat some shaving water for me. And we'll be all clean when we go find those two in the morning.”

“Reckon Houston will come along?”

He turned up his hands. No telling what the remittance man would do. Slocum liked him, but Houston had his own world. With a bar of soap in hand, a towel she gave him slung over his shoulder, and a quick kiss, he headed for the stream. The rushing sound of it forewarned him. It would be sharply colder than the sunlight he'd spotted in the clearing.

The water was brisk and quickly shriveled up his sac, but he soaped and rinsed and then went to the sunny spot to dry.
Cold
was not the word.
Damn cold
better described it. On the verge of shaking, he dressed, strapped on his gun belt, and pulled on his socks and boots. Still freezing, he set off in a jog for camp. Goose bumps popped out on his shoulders as he ran into camp.

“Everything all right?” She shaded her eyes to look up at him.

“Cold is all.”

She laughed and brushed her shoulder-length brown hair, which shone in the shafts of sunlight. “I warned you. Your shaving water's hot.”

He could hardly believe the changes he saw in her from the first day they met. She wore a fresh man's shirt that her large breasts filled out and a divided skirt. No old dirty men's jeans and stained shirt. Her hair glistened with highlights from all the brushing, and her tan complexion looked smooth. Big changes from the ugly witch he'd first laid eyes on. Better said, she had taken some pride in herself. What had she said? Something like he was the first man who had not come home to raw screw her or beat her for screwing up something she had no control over.

He used a hog hair brush and soap to lather up his face, and using a small mirror, he scraped the whiskers from his cheeks with his sharp, straight-edge razor. The job was soon completed, and she came over and rinsed the rest of the soap off his face with a wet towel.

“What have you done in your life?” She stared hard at him.

“Tried to stay alive and meet pretty women. You're one of them.”

She curled her lip in disbelief and impatience. “You had your eyesight checked lately?”

“Nothing wrong with my vision.”

She blushed like a young girl and turned away to chew on her lip. “The day I'm pretty, the world will end.”

He hugged her shoulder. “Well then, what should we do first?”

“What do you mean?” She frowned hard at him.

“Hell, if the world's going to end, I want to go out in pleasure's arms. You savvy that?”

“Dang right I do.” Then she looked around, checking for sight of anyone. Not wasting another second, they were off in a jog, pedaling side by side. He swept up the bedroll. Soon behind the screen of some willows, he began clearing the ground with the side of his boot. Seated on her butt, she heaved off her boots. Then, quick as a cat, she got to her feet and began hanging her clothes on the limber pine branches nearby. Naked as Adam and Eve they hugged and kissed. With the warm wind sweeping over his bare butt, he felt his erection beginning to unfold.

At last with her under him on the blanket, he braced his arms to hold himself over her large treasures and his body positioned between her wide-spread knees. The suggestive wiggling under him raised the bar, and her lips parted in a grin. “Get me!”

He gave her no verbal answer, but his rigid tool soon found her wet gates and slipped inside her like a fine glove. A moan of pleasure escaped her lips and she squeezed him hard against her. His easy pumping opened the way through her ring and soon they were moving like a steam engine out of control—no brakes, racing off a mountain grade. Practically hearing a whistle screaming in his ears, they went faster and faster. The clutches of her inner surfaces her grew spasmodic, and his efforts to plunge into her grew harder and harder until the skin on the swollen head of his dick threatened to explode, and then he came.

Her arms around him tightened, and he felt the rush of her fluids flowing over his balls. They collapsed in a pile, both of them groggy. He tried to recover from the stupor at the whisper of some unseen man close by.

“They must be around here—somewhere. Their saddle horses are here.”

Slocum's steady hand drew his .44 from the sheath of leather beside the bedroll. She lay on her stomach, still breathing hard. Her face blanched as she looked at him with an unspoken question. The hammer cocked on his .44 while he lay on his belly behind the willows, he could not see the two men who, from the sounds, were obviously searching for their camp.

“They can't be far.”

“His horse is hobbled. I see it out there with the others.”

“Where are they?”

Wilma frowned at Slocum as he held out his free hand for her to be still. He wanted to surprise the hell out of them. But first, he needed to be certain how many of them there were. A posse or some bounty hunters—two would be no problem, but three or more individuals could mean the odds were not good enough for him to try to take them.

Seconds went by like minutes or even hours.

“I thought you said this getting him would be easy—”

“Shut up.”

They must have passed by and missed Slocum and Wilma in their cozy hiding place. They were centered on Houston's tent. Slocum decided they were farther away. After shaking his head at her offer of his pants, he eased his way through the willows. He could see a pair of men standing in front of Houston's tent, their backs to him.

“Hands in the air or die,” Slocum shouted.

“What the hell—?” The older one cocked his hammer, but when he jerked around, Slocum shot him in the chest and he spilled over onto his back. His loaded gun went off in the air, and the second one raised the muzzle of his pistol—obviously shaken by the surprise attack of a naked man—and then a shotgun blast from the side cut him down.

Houston rushed outside, the shotgun butt held tight to his shoulder. “Hey, lad, are you all right?”

Slocum chuckled. “Thanks, they were disturbing my nap.”

“I'll check on them if you'd like to dress for the occasion?”

“Handle it. They ain't going anywhere. You know them?”

“No, I have never seen them before. Why did they attack us?”

“They may be hired killers looking for me.”

“I must say that business is growing lax if they are. Why, those two couldn't have snuck up on a deaf duck.”

“Check them out,” Slocum said and went back for his clothing.

In the bright sunlight, Wilma rushed up whispering, “Was that Houston talking?”

Her skirt was on, and she was rapidly tucking her breasts out of sight and buttoning up the shirt. “What will he think? I mean of us being undressed?”

“He'll probably think we were having sex.” Slocum buttoned his shirt, then took his pants from her.

“I mean—oh, who in the hell cares, right?”

“For my part, we foiled those two men from killing us. That's all that matters. Act normal. Like we stop killers every day like this.”

She laughed and then covered her mouth. With a
no
head-shake for his answer, she looked in disbelief at him. When his gun was strapped on, he went over and kissed her, then hugged her shoulder. “We do this all the time.”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “Sex, maybe, but not shooting people when you're bare-ass naked.”

“Let's go see what we have.”

“Fine.” She looked to the setting sun for help.

Somberly, he went to where Houston was squatting beside the second gunman. The man nodded, then filled him in. “Says he's Newton. Raddison is the dead man. Says they're horse traders. Wanted to buy our good horses.”

Slocum dropped to his knee and took the wounded man's vest in both hands to half raise him off the ground. “You're lying. You came here to kill me. Who hired you?”

“All right. All right. My name's Coleman.”

“Who hired you?”

“Jesse did.”

“Who's he?”

“Runs a bar in Deadwood.” The man shook his head. “I didn't know him. Raddison did. He made the deal.”

“For how much?”

“Gave us a three hundred to find and kill you.”

“He must have been rich. How did you find me?”

“We paid for all the beer that these two cowboys could drink. Texas ones—we met 'em in a saloon on the road to Cheyenne. Said you was shacking up with some woman up here.”

“How did you find us here?”

“Some guy in town said an English guy, some cowboy, and a woman were down here camping on the crick—” He coughed up some blood and then passed out, drowning in his own blood.