Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) (5 page)

One day two men showed up. One was blond-headed and looked like a real lady-killer. His partner was dark-eyed and didn't miss a thing. Both were in their thirties and dressed in suits.

No names were shared. The blond one seemed very open and talked with a pretty smile. His partner said little.

“What in hell happened to Jennifer Duncan?” the blond asked, showing a big smile.

“Tell them about what they did,” Wilma said with toss of her head at Slocum.

“A couple of crazy men, Deushay and Roberson, shot me and then raped her. Then they smothered her with a pillow.”

“Those lousy bastards,” the blond said and looked at his partner with a scowl.

“Ain't they in that shack up on the mountain?” his partner asked.

Blondie nodded with a grim look on his face. “I get them in my rifle sights, they won't have to worry about anything ever again.”

“Maybe we need to pay them a visit?” his partner asked him.

Blondie agreed and they each shook Slocum's hand. The blond one hugged Wilma and promised some action. They mounted their thoroughbred horses and galloped off.

“You know them two?” she asked after they rode away.

“Not sure.”

“That's the Sundance Kid and Butch Cassidy, who're in the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang.”

“I guessed so.” He'd had the notion through their whole visit who they were.

“There were some breeds who were really bothering a woman and her daughters who ran a small hotel and café over by Yellowstone. That gal sent word to them two about the breeds bothering them and folks say that in a few weeks, those troublemakers disappeared from the earth.” Wilma laughed. “I expect them two to have the same experience.”

“If they ain't too busy lining their pockets, they may get to it.”

“Aw, hell, them boys are just living off robbing the fucking railroads and banks. Who loves either of them institutions?”

“No one, I guess.” He still didn't take any threat by the outlaws toward those two killers as very serious.

Then she stretched her arms over her head. “I know I ain't pretty or neat like some gals, but you get hard up, give me a nod.”

“I will,” he said.

She sent a coy smile at him. “You'd be surprised as hell at how good I am in bed.”

“I don't doubt it.”

“I ain't in no rush.”

She left him and went inside. He'd noticed she'd done a few things about herself. She'd taken to brushing her graying hair and she even wore a better dress around the cabin and took daily sponge baths. All this time while he'd been trying to get back his strength, he had not really suspected her agenda. The cabin looked more orderly. Dishes were done after every meal. The blankets from the bed were aired out on the line several days a week. They didn't smell so sour.

The next few days, she sawed blocks off several logs and rolled them to Slocum's chopping area for him to bust into firewood. Amazed by her strength, he kept to his firewood project. He resharpened her one-man crosscut saw, and she beamed when the teeth grabbed the first log she cut with it.

“That's twice as easy as before,” she said, going back and forth with her long saw. “I'd swear that was a miracle.”

He agreed and went back to making kindling. At the sound of horses, he looked up. He hissed to her and rested his hand on his .44. The saw stopped behind him. Three Indian bucks came out of the pines and approached.

“Know them?” he asked over his shoulder.

“No. Never seen them before.” She joined him.

“Wonder what they want.”

“Damned if I know.”

“Ho,” the older one said and slid off his paint horse. He landed on his moccasins and held a single-shot rifle in the crook of his arm. “We want buy whiskey.”

“I ain't got none,” Wilma said. Shaking her head at them, she made a shooing motion with her hands.

“No. We want buy whiskey.”

“She don't have any,” Slocum said to the brave.

“All white men have whiskey.”

“No, we're Mormons,” Slocum said to him.

“Mormons,” the Indian said in disgust to his partners. The other two shook their heads with frowns.

The leader bounded back onto his horse and jerked his mount's head around, and the Indians galloped away. Slocum shook his head and hugged Wilma's shoulder with his good arm, just about ready to laugh. “First time I ever said that to anyone.”

“Quick thinking,” she said and kissed him hard. He held her buxom form against his body while their mouths sought each other's. The effects of the kiss began to spark reactions inside him.

Pulling apart at last, they gained their breath, still holding on to each other, and he looked to see if the bucks had kept going. They'd disappeared in the timber. No doubt they were renegades, off of some reservation where they belonged. Relieved that he and Wilma didn't have to fight them, Slocum sighed, and his breathing came easier.

“Let's go into the house,” she said. “I'm still trembling inside.”

He agreed and picked up the axes, and she carried the crosscut saw on her shoulder. Before they reached her cabin, he looked back to be sure. No sight of them.

She heated water for coffee and he had to agree they'd been lucky. Seated on the ladder-back chair, he felt lots of anxiety as she built a hotter fire under her coffeepot, which was hanging on a hook over the blaze in the fireplace. In a short while, the water boiled and she added real ground coffee. Something she'd hoarded, kept back for special occasions. Digging around in a trunk, she found a bottle and, sweeping the hair back from her face, she laughed.

“I knew I had some lightning.”

“I think we both need a shot of that.”

“Amen,” she said, gathering up her dress and heading for the dry sink. After pouring the liquor into tin cups, she delivered Slocum's to him. They clunked cups and tossed their drinks down.

With a smile written on her fresh-looking face, she looked him in the eye. “I think we've earned a toss in the hay.”

“And waste that real coffee?” He grinned at her.

“It won't spoil.” She began unbuttoning her dress. Slocum got to his feet and toed off his boots. The inevitable was coming and he aimed to make the best of it. Besides, it had been more than two weeks since his last bed adventure.

Undressed, she tied her hair behind her head with a leather thong and turned the bedcovers back. He stripped off his clothing, then stepped over and slapped her bare butt to herd her into the bed.

She obeyed with a nervous laugh and settled on her back, waiting for him to climb in on top. Under the covers, he rested on top of her belly, and she raised her knees on either side of him.

He kissed her on the mouth. Her eyes flew open as if she was shocked, but she soon clutched his face for more and rocked underneath him. His half-filled shaft found her deep, wet pussy and soon slid in the gates.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Then her mouth fell open in pleasure when he found her ring of fire and passed through it. She flattened her legs wide open and hunched toward his efforts. His fury grew and hers flared in response. There was a lot of woman underneath him, and he wasn't missing any of her as her muscles inside began to contract around his thick tool. Her clit began to scratch the top side of his erection. Her breath came in deep draws, and the result was all a part of their intercourse. Despite his effort to hold his weight off of her with one arm, her large breasts shook under him.

Then he knew his time drew toward the end. A tingling in his balls said he was about to come. He gave her a deep shove, and she clutched him tight enough that his shoulder complained. Then he exploded inside her, and she cried out, “Yes, yes.”

She pulled him down and smothered him with kisses.

When they had untangled at last, he sat on the edge of the bed, spent and pleased.

She took two tries to get up and soon was sitting beside him. Her calloused hand squeezed his leg and shook it. “I never thought something that good would ever happen to me. It was better than any of my honeymoons with any of them others.”

He reached around and forced her to look at him so he could kiss her. He just about laughed at her wide-eyed look of shock. Good for her.

No way could Slocum leave Wilma at home. When he mentioned that he wanted to go check on those two killers' location, she told him she had to go along. They caught her thickset horse and saddled him along with Red. With some deer jerky tucked away for him to gnaw on, Slocum planned to make a quick run up to Deushay and Roberson's place and observe them.

He tied on his bedroll in case the errand ran over into the night. He took his .44/40 rifle that shared his pistol cartridges, loaded it, and slammed it into the scabbard under his right leg. Wilma wore men's waist overalls under her dress. Her part-workhorse jogged beside Red, who trotted. They left Wilma's before daybreak and crossed over the crown of the Bighorn Pass by the time the sun came over the Black Hills far to the east. They traveled through brushland covered in sage, and she led him across the mountains and took a path off to the west.

“That valley far over there is where the army and the Cheyenne fought.” She tightened the string that held her felt hat on against the growing wind and pounded her horse with her heels to move on.

“Their place is in this valley ahead and back to the right up a canyon at the base. There's no good way to cross over to get to them, so we'll need to approach it from the mouth of the canyon.”

“Sounds good enough.”

She smiled. “They could be gone or out roaming around looking for more mischief.”

He nodded that he'd heard her. Two worthless tramps had murdered and raped a good woman. As long as they breathed free air, Slocum aimed to dog them down. Besides, since they'd shot him in the back, he owed them enough lead to stop their breathing.

Slocum and Wilma dropped off the slope and took a dim, twisty road down through the pine timber. He kept his hand close to his sidearm and studied the evergreen-covered slopes for any sign of a threat. They emerged on a flat, and she tossed her head to the right.

“They up there?” he asked.

“That's where the small lake and spring are, as well as their cabin.”

He dismounted and took the field glasses from his saddlebags. “I'll go take a look.”

With Red's reins safely clutched in Wilma's hand, Slocum started up the canyon on foot. There were some tracks in the dirt of the two ruts, but none looked very fresh. He continued the hike up until he could see the low-walled cabin. He focused his field glasses on the small structure—he saw no smoke, which meant they either were not cooking or were gone. Since there was no sign of any saddle stock, he doubted they were home.

He moved in to examine the area at closer range, staying next to the timber, and made his way toward their camp. After a half hour spent lingering near the cabin, he could not see any activity, nor any stock. He found the back door barred on the outside. He removed the lock, then pushed open the door to a room that stank of green hides and trash. Opened tin cans were piled around and left where they had been emptied. Nothing looked worth a damn in the dimly lighted interior—pigs lived better than this. He went out and reblocked the door.

He caught the sound of water falling, which made him wonder, so he went to see the source. The fall of a sheet of water over a rock rim held back a couple of acres of lake. Shame that such bastards had control of such a neat place. If he rooted them out and Wilma wanted to move here, he'd help her do that. He slid downhill on his boot heels and headed back for her and the horses. Where were the grubby residents?

“They weren't home?” She rode up to hand him the reins to Red.

He shook his head. “Place is a mess. They haven't been there in several days. But it's a nice enough site.”

She nodded, looking disappointed at the distant cabin. “It would stink like them two for a long time.”

“It could be resettled.”

“I'd burn it down.” She turned away and shook her head.

So much for thinking she'd like this place for herself. They headed back for her place. They would not get back there before dark.

“We may need to find a campsite and ride on back to your place in the morning.”

“You disappointed that they weren't home?”

“Yes. I'd like to settle with them.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “You may never see them again.”

“Oh, I will. I'll hound them down.”

“You may have to.”

He turned in the saddle and looked over the open sagebrush. A mule deer was headed for the timber and soon disappeared.

“He'd've been good eating,” she said, riding her horse close to him.

“We'll shoot one before we get back to your place.”

“That'll be fine. There's a small stream to water our horses ahead. Plenty of grass for them to eat. We can camp there tonight.”

“Good. Lead the way there.”

The valley she took them to was lined with fir trees on the slopes. The water looked like a silver stream when they rode up the flat valley beside it. A couple of moose threw up their heads and moved out from where they must have been grazing in some marshy spots. The male looked like a trophy.

“Glad you didn't shoot him,” she said, dropping out of the saddle at the campsite. “That sumbitch would have taken all summer to make jerky out of.”

They both laughed, stripping out of their latigo straps and unsaddling. He rolled out his bedroll and she gathered some sticks to build a fire. They gnawed on her jerky and later drank some tea made from shavings off the bar he located in his saddlebags. Seated side by side on the ground with their backs to the log, the reflective heat in their faces as the high country temperatures dropped, they savored the hot tea.