Slocum and the Cheyenne Princess Read online

  Fit for a Princess . . .

  “Why don’t you have a woman?” she asked, still breathing hard.

  “I have one tonight.”

  “Oh, you are more than any other man could ever be.”

  What a lovely female. God made some women to be loved, and she fit that role perfectly. No restraint, no superstitions, no guilt—she gave her all to the last moment and beyond.

  “What bothers me about you—”

  “No, you don’t know anything about me. I am a wanted man, and so I must change my job, identity, and location, without notice, to prevent my enemies from capturing me.”

  “I know places in western Montana and Idaho where no one could find us. Maybe they could find a tribe, but never find two lovers. Do you believe me?”

  “That place must be heaven.” He used his index finger to raise her chin and then softly kissed her lips. No place was safe. Wilderness or not, it wouldn’t be trackless for men who were anxious to find him. He was better on the move than pinned down. Someday, some drunk would say, “Oh, I saw him in Billings on Sunday,” and they’d rush to sniff out any trail.

  “My dear, you are the loveliest woman in bed I could ever imagine.” He kissed her and then started to get up.

  “No, sleep with me.”

  “We won’t sleep.”

  “Who cares? You have warmed my heart.”

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  SLOCUM AND THE CHEYENNE PRINCESS

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14503-0

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove mass-market edition / August 2014

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  All-Action Western Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  1

  War-painted bucks concealed behind juniper, elder brush, and boulders on the hillside fired their rifles, and puffs of gun smoke drifted upward. Every once in a while, one of their lead bullets struck a taut canvas wagon cover with a loud pop. The wagon train men were behind the circled thirty freight wagons, either on their bellies or swabbing out their rifle bores with brushes on long rods. The midday heat made Slocum remove his felt hat and wipe out the hatband sweat with his kerchief. Hell of a damn deal. At least his livestock was in the corral of circled rigs, and most were alive and none seriously wounded so far.

  One of the freighters took a shot, and at the loud explosion, Slocum swore out loud. “Damnit, if you can’t hit one of them red devils, save your ammo. We’re going to need those bullets, and they won’t come back for us to use them.”

  “Ira got him dead on with his Sharps fifty-caliber,” someone yelled from the north side.

  “I’m not complaining about that. I mean just dumb shooting.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “How long are they going to stay out there?” The question came from someone resting on his belly underneath a wagon bed, with just his dusty run-over boots showing. He, no doubt, was watching for any movement from the attackers.

  “Hell, if I knew that, I’d have joined Custer and saved his ass at the Little Big Horn.”

  “Hell, that sumbitch probably knocked up your daughter.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “How do you know? You may have had several. You’ve sowed enough seed out here.”

  Amused, Slocum shook his head. “Keep your eyes on them, men.”

  “Slocum, are these Arapahos?”

  “That, and Cheyenne.”

  “Who’s their chief?”

  “If I knew that, I’d call him out for a parley.”

  “Yeah, and he’d probably eat you for supper.”

  “Watch for them, boys. When they move on us, it will be quick.”

  If the Indians didn’t initiate another raid by sundown, he aimed to slip outside to spy on them and see what he could find out about his enemy. Indians were bad about having big war parties to celebrate before they struck the next day. If they had any firewater, they’d get drunk as hell, too. If they did, and he had a chance to kill them, several would never wake up to fight.

  In another day, the wagon train water supply would be used up out of the barrels strapped on the sides of each freight wagon. That meant Slocum needed to end this siege within the next twenty-four hours. Chances of an army patrol coming by to rescue them were slim to
none. He hadn’t expected such an active war party, but the Bozeman Trail hadn’t ever been a healthy road to Montana, not even a year after Custer’s demise.

  His train was loaded with farm equipment. He’d left out of Omaha late, hoping to reach the Billings country with the freight before fall. A riverboat on the Missouri River in early spring might have been a better choice to ship it, but they could haul settlers for more money than what the freight would pay for space.

  So he told Charlie Hackett he’d do his best to get the implement freight up there before the snowflakes flew. The trip so far had been a hard, hot, dusty job, but they’d had hardly any breakdowns or setbacks while they crawled like ants westward and then northward. In fact, they were way ahead of what Slocum called his mental schedule when this band of two dozen or so warriors picked them out as a prime prize. If they knew the wagons were only carrying pitchforks and mowing machines, they’d never have stopped them. All the Indians he’d ever known weren’t interested in any such instruments of labor.

  • • •

  Before sundown, he talked to Indian Joe, a tough Sac-Fox Indian he’d hired in Omaha. There was also Buster Johnson, who he’d added in Fort Laramie, and an ex-army teamster who called himself Whethers. The four parleyed by themselves over some fresh coffee, squatting in the Wyoming dust to make plans for the night.

  “If they have a powwow tonight and get drunk, we should be able to cut enough throats to make them think about leaving or not charging us again. Either way, we damn sure need to get on up to that Tongue River.”

  Buster spit tobacco juice aside. “We sure do need to do that.”

  “I’m going to use a buffalo hide to conceal myself,” Slocum said. “Each man should have two revolvers, but don’t use them unless you can’t use a knife. If you get in trouble, we’ll try to come to your aid, but one gunshot will bring the camp down on whoever fires it.”

  “What if we can stampede their horses?” Joe asked.

  “That would damn sure work,” Slocum agreed. The loss of their horses would be a big blow to their plans.

  “They usually have boys wrangling them. They aren’t hard to sneak up on.”

  Slocum agreed. These three men knew their business. “Around three o’clock on the Big Dipper we all should be back here in camp. Each of us will slip out in different directions, so they don’t notice. You men know how to fight Injuns. Do it.”

  The three men nodded. They rose, drank the last of their coffee, and tossed their empty metals cups in the soapy wash water on the stand. Slocum got his buffalo robe out of the back of his supply wagon. He checked the loads in his Colt from the holster and the extra cap-and-ball .30-caliber model in his waistband. The second was a small gun, but it was effective at close range. Wild Bill Hickok liked that model. Said those big guns were unhandy and hard to get swung around when you needed firepower quick in your fist.

  His foreman, Jim Lacey, came by. They shared a nip apiece off a good pint of Kentucky whiskey. “You four got it planned?”

  “We hope. If I don’t come back, it will all be up to you.”

  “You better come back, Slocum. These damn Indians have me upset.”

  “Hell, they may be like smoke in the morning—gone. They do that.”

  “And they don’t, too.”

  “I’m going out the west way. See you, Lacey. Be back about three in the morning, if not sooner. I plan to come back in one piece.”

  “Lots of luck.”

  “Thanks. I figure I’ll need it.”

  Slocum left on all fours under the cover of the stinking, heavy hide. A rifle would have been nice, but he needed both hands to keep the buffalo robe over him. The skin would blend in better with the sagebrush than a blanket. He went a ways, then stopped and listened to the drums in the distance. They were having a big dance up there. Good. He and his men needed to get some of them eliminated to notch down their numbers.

  In a short while, he reached a sandy dry wash and used it to go north. He paused every little bit to listen for any sound. Stopped, he heard one or more people breathing damn hard. He cautiously rose up some to learn the direction of all the private grunting.

  Whoever it was, they sure were a long ways from their festivities. He climbed up the bank and kept low on the move with his Bowie knife in his fist. They weren’t far over the lip, but he couldn’t see them. Then he spotted a man’s powerful bare back in a sitting position. There must be a woman under him. He heard her moans of pleasure, but no need in risking his self getting any higher. No way he could see her until he stood over them.

  The man spoke in a deep bass voice, in the Cheyenne language. Slocum felt certain this man was a leader, extracting his pleasure from some squaw. He crept closer, concentrating on the man still seated on her belly, who rambled on unaware of being watched.

  Then Slocum made his charge. His Bowie blade in a downward strike went to the hilt deep in the middle of the Indian’s back, and a stifled scream died in his throat. The man pitched forward on top of the squaw under him. His knife had silenced the buck for good. It was her Slocum had to silence next. With a great effort, he heaved the Indian’s thick body aside and caught her by her heavy braids before she could scramble away from him.

  His other hand clamped tight over her mouth. Chills ran up the cheeks of his face. Naked as Eve, she was a slender-bodied young female and wild as any prairie chicken he ever caught under a gun-fired net. But he had suppressed her screams, for the moment.

  “I’ll take my hand away if you won’t scream. Otherwise, I will gag you.”

  “. . . you bastard. My father will kill you for what you have done to him and me.” Her voice in a whisper, he figured she didn’t want to be gagged.

  “Darlin’, he’d’ve killed me if he’d had the chance. What’s your name?”

  Her back straightened. “I am a Cheyenne princess. My name is Snow Flake.”

  “Mine’s Slocum, Snow. I better get you back to camp. Who was he?”

  “Bull of Thunder. My husband-to-be, of course.” She was dressing in her snowy buckskin dress.

  “Who is your father?”

  “Man of Pipes.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Maybe, if he wants you bad enough, he might trade with me. Now, no tricks from you. Head for that ring of wagons.”

  “Are you the chief of those wagons?”

  “I am.” He took the man’s ammunition belt to sling over his shoulder, and the buck’s new Winchester. It was a much better gun than most of the men in his camp had.

  Knelt down on one knee, with his left hand he wrenched the big knife out of Thunder’s back and then holstered it behind his back. He wouldn’t get much more killing done that night. But he did have a strong trade item—the chief’s daughter.

  On their approach to the wagons, Slocum alerted the night guards. “Hold your fire. It’s me,” he warned.

  “Well, who in the hell is she?” a guard asked.

  “Watch her,” Slocum said, giving one of his men the rifle and ammo belt. “She’s the chief’s daughter. Her name’s Snow. His name is Man of Pipes.”

  “Get any of them?”

  “Her husband to be—he’s dead now.”

  “What we going to do with her?” Kimes, the lead driver, asked.

  Slocum frowned at him. “Quit licking your chops. She is damn sure not here for you to rape or torture. Anyone lays a hand on her, I’ll cut that hand off. Am I clear?”

  “Sure, sure, I was just asking.”

  “If she acts tame, let her loose. If she tries to escape, tie her up. You savvy that, Snow? Being tied up will hurt you.”

  She nodded and sat on the ground near the glowing coals that reflected on her light tan adolescent face. There was a cool night wind and the fire’s heat must have felt good. Her husband-to-be lay dead. She must realize that her life would change quickly in the hands of her worst e
nemies, who had no respect for her rank.

  Slocum went and looked for his foreman.

  His man, Lacey, appeared sleepy-eyed when he joined Slocum, and he looked hard at her. “What did you fetch back?”

  “The chief’s daughter. We will have to wait to see how they react to our efforts tonight.”

  “She’s a pretty good catch.”

  “I thought so. Her husband-to-be, who may have been a main warrior, is dead.”

  “We’ll know something by dawn, won’t we?”

  “Yes. I don’t want her raped or mishandled. Assign some men to be responsible for her. I told her as long as she didn’t try to run off, I wouldn’t tie her up.”

  “I can do that.” Lacey yawned.

  Slocum went off to find his bedroll to get a few hours of sleep before the others returned. On his back, under his soogans, he stared at the million stars. Thanks, Lord, for another day . . .

  2

  Lacey woke him. Kneeling beside Slocum’s bedroll, his man spoke softly. “Everyone is back. They had some success.”

  “Good.” Slocum threw back his covers and buckled on his six-gun rig while getting up. “Where are they?”

  “Over at the campfire.”

  His boots pulled on, he said, “Better go see. How’s my princess?”

  “Wrapped in a blanket and sleeping, or playing possum.”

  “Good.” He put on his hat as they hurried to the campfire.

  “Anyone run off their horses?” Slocum looked the men over for an answer.

  Joe nodded. “They won’t have many to ride today. I scattered them best I could.”

  “I managed to send about three to the happy hunting grounds for good Injuns,” the buck skinner, Johnson, said and spit tobacco aside. “That means there are considerable less to whoop around and shoot at us.”

  “We did well.”

  The sun had slipped up over the horizon when someone called out, “Hey, I think we have a deal coming. There’s a buck with a white flag riding this way.”

  Slocum went to see who it was. Sure enough, he had a large white flag. No doubt a part of the bedding from some less fortunate settler that they’d killed. “I think we can do some swapping.”