Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) (9 page)

After the break, they rode beside a gurgling stream to Ten Sleep. The sun was almost down when they came up the dirt street and got a look at the businesses the town boasted: two saloons, two stores, a blacksmith shop, a livery, and a house of ill repute. Houston dismounted in front of the larger store, Farr's General Store, and told them he'd be right out—he needed to order some things, and he'd ask inside about the pair they were hunting.

Slocum agreed and looked around. Were those two killers here?

There were some lights on inside the store. A few women, obviously genteel, came out with cloth shopping bags and avoided looking at Slocum or Wilma.
Must be the society ladies of Ten Sleep,
he mused. Three cowboys rode by. They were laughing, obviously ready for a good time. They tipped their hats politely to Wilma. Farther down, the threesome hitched their horses at the rack and clunked up the stairs, spurs and all, to push in the batwing doors of Dutch's Saloon.

Wilma winked at him and looked over as Houston came outside. He said, “We can ride down that lane ahead and camp at Mr. Farr's place.”

Slocum nodded and waited for the man to get in the saddle and lead the way. “Sounds good to me.”

He wanted to go back to town later and scout the saloons and learn all he could about Jennifer's killers. If those two were in the area, someone had seen or smelled them. He wanted the chance to find them and hoped they wouldn't learn that Slocum and his group were in town looking for them, which could make them run.

After they unsaddled the animals, he and Houston took the stock to water them at the creek. Wilma busied herself building a fire. Slocum noticed there was a stack of split firewood and a stone fire ring.

“Mr. Farr, who owns the store, keeps this place for his customers. Ranchers who come from some distance camp here overnight with their families while they get goods. He even keeps firewood in supply too.”

“Smart man,” Slocum said. “You ask him about the pair we're looking for?”

“They were in his store two days ago.” Houston scowled. “Tried to sell him my field glasses.”

“He buy them?”

Houston shook his head. “He didn't know that they belonged to me and didn't know they had stolen them or he said he would have.”

“He have any idea where they went?”

“No, but he thinks they're still in the area.”

“Coffee is about ready,” Wilma said, looking up from where she squatted beside her fire.

Slocum dropped to his haunches. “Those two were in Houston's friend's store two days ago, trying to sell his field glasses.”

“Well, damn, they're stupid, aren't they?”

Houston agreed, the orange firelight reflecting off his smooth face. If the man had been enlisted in an army, he would have been a major or higher rank. Slocum wondered how many hours he'd spent pursuing higher education in the quiet halls of some old English university. No doubt Houston had been carefully trained to hold a lofty place in society. No one's fool, he bore himself proudly in the saddle or even in camp—no letdown.

Wilma poured them coffee in tin cups she had on hand. With her own steaming cup in one hand, she rose and toasted them. “Here's to finding them two killers.”

“Amen, my dear.” Houston held his cup high.

Slocum joined them in the salute. Good notion, but where were those men at? Somewhere out in the night, crickets creaked. Be a nice place here if he didn't feel such an urgency to round those two up before they weaseled out of his grasp. There were lots of places they could escape to from here. All the options gnawed at him.

After a meal of fried salt pork and potatoes cooked in a skillet, Slocum excused himself and hiked back to the village. On his hip he wore the .44, and he had carefully checked the caps on each nipple of the five loaded cylinders. The distance he covered in the starlight was perhaps a half mile. He passed the red light on the porch of the rambling house of ill repute. There was a loud piano tinkling away, the sound coming out of some open windows to invite any listeners into the den of iniquity. He recalled how, on a slow night in Texas, he had polkaed all night long with a bevy of wild ladies until he was exhausted. Then all three of those delightful doves physically forced him onto a bed and raped him. Oh, what an evening.

Dutch's Saloon hosted the same three cowboys he'd seen earlier, drinking whiskey at the bar. They turned and looked him over when he came inside. Then, as if disinterested, they went back to drinking from their glasses.

“Vat vill it be?” the small, mustached man with sharp features asked.

“A beer.”

“Ah, you are new here.”

“You don't have beer?”

“Na, I have beer. I just don't know you. My name is Dutch.” He extended a thin hand and they shook.

“Slocum is mine.”

“You look for vork?”

“No.” He lowered his voice. “I'm looking for two killers. One's name is Deushay, the other Roberson.”

“Dey are trash, I don't allow dem in here.” The man drew a mug of beer at the spout. He set the foam-topped glass before Slocum. “Dey were in town two days ago.”

“Where are they hiding?”

“Dere are a few digger Indians down on the creek. Dey may be dere.”

“Upstream or down?”

“Downstream. What did dey do?”

“Murdered and raped a woman up in the Bighorns.”

“I hope you catch dem.”

Slocum slapped a dime on the bar. The man shook his head. “To be rid of dem for good, I give you da beer.”

“Much obliged,” Slocum said.

Dutch moved down the bar and must have told the three cowboys about Slocum's mission. The big talker in the group nodded at him. “I hope you string them camp robbers up. They stole our grub last spring while we were out rounding up cattle.”

Slocum nodded and raised his beer toward them. “I'll add it to the charges I have.”

“We ain't seen them or we'd've blistered their asses with our ropes.”

Slocum smiled. “I'll find them.”

His beer finished, he thanked them all and went out on the porch. In the morning, he'd check the Indian camp out. Two men rode by without glancing aside at him. They both wore suits and cowboy hats, and Slocum wondered about their business. Obviously they had come down through the canyon in order to get here. Something about them made Slocum uneasy.

What was their business in this isolated corner of the world? He needed to keep in mind that there still might be men looking for him on account of that Townsend kid he'd killed during that card game. They'd be tough hired guns. Were these such men? He'd been wandering around a lot since the shooting in Montana, all the time hoping his traipsing had masked his trail. Maybe those two had nothing to do with any of his concerns. He'd better head back to camp. They'd be lucky if they found any tracks those madmen had left for them to follow.

Wilma covered her mouth with a yawn when he came back to camp. “You learn anything?”

“They might be in some Indian camp downstream.” He dropped onto the log where she had been seated.

Quickly she joined him. “Do you think they're there?”

He shrugged and then bent over to kiss her. His action brought a smile to her face in the firelight.

“No telling, I'll take a look in the morning.”

“Damn.” Her forehead pressed to his. “You must be the sweetest guy I ever met.”

“Must be.” He laughed softly.

“Our bedrolls are over on the opposite side of the camp,” she whispered. “Let's go find them. Houston's gone to bed already.”

“Sounds wonderful.” They stole off with her holding his arm tight against her full breast.

In minutes, they were coupled together under the covers against the cooling air sweeping over them. Each one's hungry need became an aggressive desire to become one. His hard pumping grew in force, the vise inside her tightening with each plunge, and she moaned in pleasure. Then he felt a deep squeeze in his testicles. The rising force blew out of the swollen head of his dick, and she collapsed underneath him.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered in his ear. “I must have come. I heard about doing that, but I never—oh, hell, that was neat. Whew.”

They slept in each other's arms and woke up before daylight even pinked the horizon. He dressed and went off to relieve his bladder. Cool morning air swept his face. Where were Jennifer's killers?

Then he heard some horses, and Houston's mule brayed.

What in the hell was going on back in their camp? He rushed back and unsheathed his six-gun from its holster. Wilma's voice sounded sleepy in the starlight as she hurried to finish dressing and hissed, “Who in the hell is here?”

“I'm not certain. Keep down.” Then he set out through the lodgepoles to try and get behind them.

He heard some other horses stomping away from their hobbled stock.

“Where are they?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

The speaker was farther east from where Slocum weaved through the trees, hoping to get closer to them before they discovered him. His way wasn't easy, but unlike as in most of the forest, the deadwood from fallen trees in the immediate area had already been gathered by campers. Then he saw the outline of a hat. Another figure joined that one.

“Hands in the air,” Slocum ordered, his pistol cocked and ready for anything.

“Don't shoot!”

“Put your hands in the air!”

“We are, we are.”

Cautiously, Slocum moved toward them, uncertain of who they were—but they gave up quickly.

“I got them covered with a shotgun,” Wilma said.

“Gawdamn it, we've got our hands in the air.”

“Better not flinch,” she said.

Slocum disarmed them, but still couldn't read their faces in the darkness. “March over by the light.”

“Hell,” the shorter one cussed. “She ain't got no shotgun.”

“Good thing she don't,” Slocum said. “You'd've been magpie bait.” He gave the taller one a shove.

Houston was building up the fire when they reached the ring of light. He gave the parade a scowl. “Who did you get?”

“Two sneaky horse thieves,” Slocum said.

“We ain't no damn horse thieves,” the tall one protested.

“Then what were you doing messing around our damn camp for?” Slocum demanded.

“We heard there were some Hole-in-the-Wall Gang members out here.”

Slocum laughed. “What were you going to do with them?”

“Join them. There ain't no damn work up here.”

“Sit down,” Slocum said in disgust. What in the hell was there about this band of merry outlaws that made so many men want to join them? Best answer he could find was the amount of money stolen by them. The numbers would intrigue anyone. A hundred thousand taken in a Montana train robbery. Even a small share of that would make a twenty-five-dollars-a-month cowboy feel like a millionaire. Those two Texans who had dropped by Wilma's place wanted to join them. Sounded like they'd already committed a murder-robbery featuring their former boss. If they had committed the crime, then they hadn't even had a chance yet to spend the loot. So why join the gang?

No answer in any of it.

When the two strangers were seated on the ground, Slocum uncocked the .44, spun the cylinder around so his hammer was over an empty chamber, and holstered it.

Wilma was making coffee and preparing food for breakfast. Houston was squatting on the ground, still seeming amazed that the two wanted to join outlaws.

“You two have any experience at this train and bank robbing?” he asked them.

“No.”

“You know robbers get killed?”

The tall one shook his head. “You don't understand. There ain't no jobs for us. We been from Montana to Colorado and back riding the chuck line and no one will hire us. No money, they say.”

“You ever been inside a prison?” Houston asked them, like he was some kinda judge interrogating convicted felons before his bench.

“We ain't been in jail for long,” the short one said.

“Prison is a dark, cold cave you can't escape. Food is bad and, over any revolt, you face punishment. They whip people until they break, stick them in a dark hole for months. Chain you to a wall.”

“But they ain't getting caught,” the tall one said.

“The hell you say. They caught six of them in Denver last month in a raid on a whorehouse. All of them were boys from Utah, shunned by church people and forced to leave Utah. Out of work, they were enlisted to do the hard part of these crimes, while the gang leaders sat on their horses and watched them.”

“You ain't been looking for a job.” The short one, staring at his boots, shook his head in defeat.

“We've been told no by so damn many people, you'd never believe it.”

“Maybe you ought to try sheepherding,” Houston said.

“Naw,” the tall one said. “They only hire Messicans to do that.”

“Maybe you should become miners,” Houston said.

Slocum about laughed at Houston's suggestions of jobs for them to try. Those two wanted to do work on horseback—not unloading freight, or pushing a broom, and being under their boss's constant attention. They'd have to change vocations—things were changing in the West. The whole region was getting civilized. Fewer cross-country cattle drives. Trains were replacing them.

These kinds of cowboys were a dying breed, no doubt.

Wilma made bacon, fried potatoes and onions, biscuits in a Dutch oven, and plenty of coffee. The would-be outlaws ate like starving dogs, and when they finished, Houston looked at Slocum. “Hang them or send them down the road?”