Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) (23 page)

Renny dismissed the matter and asked Rose about her farm. Rose told her that the she had some good sharecroppers on her place. Slocum had not thought about the widow being a large landowner, but obviously she owned some good bottomland.

 

The stew was delicious and, seated on a log, they both bragged on Renny's cooking. She poured them coffee and many people stopped by to talk to Rose. When Renny went off to get something, Slocum asked Rose privately if he should pay her for lunch.

With a smile, she dismissed the problem. No. Their horses hobbled, she took him around to meet more of her friends and relatives in the camp. There were sweets and treats and lots to eat. Some of the men talked to Slocum about their concerns. One older man said that Judge Parker would send his deputies there to arrest the whiskey traders—that he should be careful. Slocum promised him that he would be.

Rose took a towel and soap, then invited him to go take a bath with her. He agreed and in the warming sun, she led him to a more isolated place on the stream. By themselves, she looked at him, amused. “You have seen people naked. So you won't be shocked, will you?”

“No, I won't.”

“Then let's bathe.”

They undressed and waded into the cold water. “It won't take long to get washed,” she said with a laugh. After soaping herself, she tossed him the bar of soap, rinsed, and hurried to get out. He admired her figure and then got busy lathering up. Soon he finished and waded out. Wet and cold, he stood shaking in the warm sun. She only had on her skirt, but coming to his aid, she stepped over to dry him.

“Was it cold enough?” she asked, busy drying him, and he caught her face and kissed her. Her firm breasts pressed against him, and she dropped the towel and put her arms around his neck.

When they parted, she wouldn't look at him. “I didn't bring you up here to seduce you.”

“I guess we're both doing something we want to have happen.”

A look of dismay swept her face. She shook her head. “I wasn't going to let this happen.”

“It doesn't have to.”

“Ha,” she said. “It will happen, won't it?”

“You decide. Someone is coming,” he said, hearing the chatter of voices. They hurriedly dressed and picked up their things. Three giggling teenage girls hurried by them, going back toward camp. Rose frowned. “Maybe they spied on us. That is bad manners.”

“All they got was an eyeful,” he said and put his arm around her shoulder.

She reached up and squeezed the hand he'd draped over her. “I am glad you are a patient man. I worried that if I found one, he would go crazy.”

“I am really not patient,” he teased.

“No. You are very polite. And I appreciate that.”

“Where will we eat supper? I hate to bum food from your sister.”

“Don't worry, she would do that to me. Besides, she is fascinated about how I found you and got you to come with me.”

They both laughed.

A drunk came by her sister's camp while they were eating supper. “Why is there a white man here?”

Renny jumped up and pointed for him to go away. “Why is an impolite drunk in my camp asking questions he has no right to ask?”

He blinked at her. “Well, damn, aren't you bossy.”

But he obviously wanted no part of the sharp-speaking woman and went off, about to stumble on his face. They laughed at his bumbling ways.

“Don't mind him,” Renny said, sitting down again with her tall quiet husband.

“He is drunk. His tongue is too loose,” he said. “We are glad to have you and Rose here.”

“You bet.” Rose got up and went to get some more fried potatoes and onions they had cooked with some sliced cured ham on the side.

“You want more?” she asked Slocum.

“No, I'm full. It was good.”

At sundown, Rose led him toward the bonfire. She made a seat for them on a blanket and set another blanket close by in case it became cold during the night. Some friends came by and talked to her. She introduced Slocum to them. They were polite and then went on. He realized she was someone that many looked up to—her husband must have been a leader.

The drummers came and set up. Many wore traditional dress, and some had even painted their faces. Headdresses appeared, but none as spectacular as the ones the plains Indians wore. Most men wore eagle feathers attached to their unblocked hats. There were some women in deerskin-fringed dresses.

The dancing began slowly, and the special trains of men and women formed chains, and a chanter carried the rhythm of the song as they moved along at a very mesmerizing pace.

She leaned over to speak into his ear. “Are you watching them?”

He nodded.

“You think with your hands on my hips, we can do that?”

“I think so, if it doesn't get too fancy.”

“Oh, we don't get too carried away.” She pulled him to his feet. “This is social dancing, not war dances.”

In a short while, they were stomping in a chain, and he imitated what she did. His hands on her hips, he followed and imagined what this willowy woman would be like in bed. She was a sweet person and acted like she didn't expect too much of him. His opportunity to make love to her would come later on. The sweet image of rapture under the blankets pushed him along as they shuffled to the chanter and the drums. The stomping was a contagious thing, and after a few trips she took him out of the line.

“You would make a good Choctaw,” she whispered as they retrieved the blankets and went back to her sister's tent. “Could you and I sleep on one cot?”

“Would we sleep?” he asked her.

Amused, she shook her head. “Renny and her husband won't be back for hours. But we only have one cot.”

“I'll be fine sleeping on the ground.”

“No, you won't. Come on.”

In the dark tent, they undressed, and she beat him under the covers. His gun placed close by, he kneeled on the cot edge to get under the covers, which she held up for him. His cool skin slid against her silky skin, and he knew the night would be wonderful even wedged on a single cot with her. In a dreamy world, they gently coupled like waves breaking on the seashore and sought each other's core. Exploring each other until they finally reached a high point, then swept onto a gentle plateau.

“I want you to stay and hold me.”

“I'm not going anywhere tonight.”

“Good.” She kissed him, and they were back to working to get together again.

At dawn, he was up and dressed. He saw Renny under blankets on her side-by-side cot. She was holding her husband's fingers between them—both sound asleep.

Rose finished dressing and hurried to join Slocum. “I can make us coffee,” she said. “You are leaving today?”

“There are things I must see about.”

She nodded and went to work getting a fire going. “Saddle your horse. I will have it ready by then, I hope.”

He bent over and kissed her. “Thanks.”

With Ghost saddled and his bedroll tied on, he came back and squatted by her on the ground.

“When you ride back through here again, my place is on the Red River west of Nickmore in the bottoms. You can find me?”

“I can't say when, but if I get the chance, I will find you, Rose.”

He ate her oatmeal sweetened with honey, which drew the saliva into his mouth. Sometimes it is better to ride off than linger, but he found Rose's company sincere and undemanding. Finished, he handed her the bowl, and they stood so he could hug and kiss her good-bye.

“Will you come by?” she asked.

“I can remember west of Nickmore. Thank you.” He kissed her again and went for his horse. Magnets pulled at him, but it was time to go on. Leaving always was the hardest. But he rode on north that morning.

The latest cow town railhead was Newton, Kansas, right at Cottonwood Falls and about twenty miles north of the Arkansas River crossing. On the river there was a small place called Wichita where two whorehouses and that many saloons fed off the cattle herds going by and sold booze to the dry country across the river in the Indian Territory.

In Newton he found the banker he knew, Harvey Manning, in a tent with the fancy sign First Bank of Kansas. After explaining to Manning what he needed regarding the cattle money deposit and how to send Raúl his money, he visited a bar—also in a nearby tent—and had a beer. He was there way too early for any drovers to have arrived. The first cattle herds were still more than a month away, no doubt grazing down on the Trinity River and waiting for the grass to bust out.

After noticing all the temporary businesses, he asked Manning if there were plans for any permanent buildings to be built. The banker shook his head. “We won't be here that long. Newton hates cowboys and all their hell-raising so much that the city council is paying for half of the bond to move the railroad down to Wichita.”

“Are you serious?”

“Two years is all I figure, and there won't be a railhead for loading cattle here.”

Slocum frowned. “Man, folks got rich in Abilene.”

“I know, but they won't listen.”

He shook Manning's hand and thanked him. “I'm heading on.”

There wasn't much wagon trade going west of York, Nebraska. The railroad was built clear to Cheyenne and headed west from there. But he followed the Platte River across Nebraska and looked at the desolate country wiped bare all along the old wagon route. No trees left, not even on the islands. All cut down for firewood. Places where the bluestems once grew head high were now dirt bare. Even many things like broken-down wagons had been salvaged until there weren't as many as when he was through there the last time. Lots of great grass plowed under and being homesteaded.

There was talk north of Ogallala that the government was going to buy out the Sioux and make it all homestead land to the South Dakota border. Word was they weren't using it anyway and white men would. He looked up his friend the sheriff in that town—once considered an outpost on the frontier and presently populated by more foreign-talking people than he ever knew. His sheriff friend complained about the horse thieves rustling every living animal they could. According to him, it was an obsession for them to steal any horse.

He thought about taking the train on to Cheyenne, but he'd much rather have the gray horse to ride when he got there. It wasn't late enough in the spring for the new grass—maybe three weeks short. So when his visit was over, he headed for Cheyenne on horseback.

The next town in western Nebraska was Lodgepole. He heard the whistle of a slow-moving freight train going east. He crossed the tracks and started up the main block of businesses. Things here looked less busy than they did in Ogallala. He stopped at a saloon, went inside, and bought a beer, then went and ate at the lunch counter. If you bought a beer in such a place, they set food out for their customers. Rich-tasting rye bread, cold cuts of roast beef and mustard, with a side of sauerkraut. Tasted much better than the jerky left in his saddlebags, and the beer washed it down.

“You going west?” the bartender asked, taking a break from polishing glasses.

“I'm headed for Cheyenne.”

“Busy place? I've thought about looking for a job up there, but they treat me nice here. You a cattle man?”

“Yes, I have a herd coming up to the Kansas shipping yard.”

“I thought you were one.”

Slocum paid him for the beer and decided to ride on. Not much happening in the small town. He went out on the porch and watched two men come riding by. The man on the right wore an eye patch and his partner had on eyeglasses. He stepped back inside the batwing doors and signaled to the bartender to be quiet when he spoke to him.

“What's going on?” the man whispered, coming over, knowing something was wrong.

“Those two men getting off over at the bank. You know them?”

The man made a face watching them out the front window. “Never seen them before. Who are they?”

“I'm not sure, but when they pull their bandanas up, I'd say they were bank robbers.”

“Holy shit!” He ran behind the bar for his shotgun.

Slocum saw the two pull up their bandanas, draw their guns, and go inside. “They're robbing the bank.”

“You take the far side, I'll take this side of the street,” the bartender said, holding the sawed-off scattergun beside his leg.

Slocum nodded and walked out of the saloon and directly for the saddle repair shop. A man came out the front door and greeted him.

Under his breath Slocum told him, “There are two masked men just went inside the bank.”

A quick nod and the other man ducked inside the shop, then came out with a rifle. Slocum waved for him to stay close to the storefront. The door on the bank busted open, and the one with the eye patch came out and fired a shot in the air. His partner came behind him with two heavy sacks.

“Drop your guns,” Slocum ordered and drew a bead on the money man. The man dropped both sacks and went for his gun. A blast of the bartender's shotgun and the one with the patch was knocked backward. Their horses, peppered no doubt by the shot, broke the hitch rail and trampled both of the two robbers, then tore out, dragging and stumbling over the rail until a bystander caught them.

A bald-headed banker in a suit rushed out the door. He and a clerk wearing a celluloid visor were frantically chasing greenbacks being blown around by the swirling wind. A man wearing a shining star on his long black coat came running with his gun drawn.

The two shot-up would-be bank robbers were on the ground, moaning over their wounds and the horse attack, when Slocum tossed their guns aside.