Slocum and the Bandit Cucaracha Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  SLOCUM AND THE BIG TIMBER BELLES

  Who Is La Cucaracha?

  “Who do you work for?”

  A silence spread over everyone. Except for the raucous braying of some mules, the valley was shrouded in quiet.

  The man barely managed to say, “La Cucaracha.”

  Slocum pointed at him. “Who is he? Tell us who he is?”

  The man shook his head and shouted out loud, “I don’t know. I never met him. Only the big bosses see him.”

  Don Carlos, lying on a blanket, nodded at the stone-faced Slocum standing above him. “See, I told you so.”

  No one had seen him—yet he led many gangs.

  Unbelievable.

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  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.

  SLOCUM AND THE BANDIT CUCARACHA

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / June 2011

  All rights reserved.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-51526-6

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  Prologue

  Many simpleminded people worked for him on his hacienda. That was the reason he was overseeing the work being done in the corral with his livestock crew. He wanted to be sure they made no mistakes neutering the yearling colts. Mitch McCarty tossed back the lock of reddish hair in his face, reset his sombrero, then gripped the ropes along with the others standing behind a large yearling colt. They would soon gently lay the colt down on his side with the running W, a series of ropes tied to the colt’s legs that two men standing behind the colt would use to gently pull the legs out from underneath him. Then Lano, the expert animal doctor, could operate on him. Mitch saw the fear in the yearling’s eyes, as though the horse knew that they were about to take his future stallionhood away from him.

  Two men eased back on the running W ropes, and the blood bay began to crumple despite his resistance. Lano and a stout boy were keeping him from falling down hard. The dust in the corral soon found Mitch’s nose as he strained with the others.

  “Easy. Easy now,” he shouted. His horses were valuable products of his hacienda, and to lose one meant no dinero went into his coffers. To own and operate such a large holding, meet the payroll and the upkeep, was no cheap matter. For him every horse, sheep, goat or cow and calf were important elements to his survival in this land of sharp cactus and rattlesnakes.

  After the horse was eased onto the ground, he was quickly four-footed with large, soft, cotton ropes. Two ranch hands were on hand to be sure the horse did not strain or hurt himself. Their job was to distract him from fighting his binds.

  “Good work. Good work,” he told the crew. “Every yearling must be worked as easy as that. Do you see? No hurry. Work them easy.”

  Like children, the men began to bob their dust-coated sombreros in agreement, and white teeth flashed at him from many sun-dark faces. “Sí, patrón.”

  “Save my colts, mis amigos.”

  Lano pushed back the tall, dust-coated sombrero on his head as he knelt behind the horse’s butt and looked at the exposed area. One man held the tail aside for him while a young boy scrubbed the area of the horse’s genitals with soap and water on the bulge of the scrotum.

  “Wash it good.”

  The youth told Lano he understood. Then another brought several knives and surgical tools on a Turkish towel for Lano’s inspection. The veteran of a thousand such operations selected his surgical instrument and motioned for more men to sit on his patient so the horse would not strain.

  His helpers in place, Lano made the first incision and the pink flesh peeled open, exposing the purple seed on the right side. He worked the walnut-sized nut and the trailing coiled cord out from the incision. Two men watched
him closely as his understudies.

  “Now, see how high he goes,” Mitch said from over their shoulders. “If you do this wrong, you will have a proud cut horse who still thinks he’s a stallion. That’s no good. He will never have a colt either, but in his mind he thinks he can and will try.”

  “So you must cut off those ideas from the brain up there,” Lano said, showing them the place on the cord. With a surgical clamp, he pinched down on the cord. The horse screamed for a short second, then his head collapsed on the dirt.

  Next, Lano made a new slit and drew the other testicle out of the scrotum. Its connection too was pinched shut, and then both cords were sliced off behind the clamps. The double prizes were taken by a youth for the big fiesta planned for that night.

  Another boy brought a pail of special paint and a brush to smear the contents over the entire surgical region. The wound dressing, which a bruja on the ranch had concocted for them, contained a repellant for flies and something to kill the germs.

  Bearing the fresh, dark brown Flying M brand on his right shoulder, the gelding was released and soon stood hipshot, shaking off the dust in a cloud that engulfed everyone. He paused and then began to limp off as if in some discomfort, but after a few steps, he threw his head up and looked for his compañeros , giving a strong whinny. In a nearby pen they answered, and the gelding took leave of the corral in a run to join them. The workers cheered, closing the tall gate after him.

  “Next.”

  Mitch told his segundo, Francisco, to watch that they did it right and started for the house.

  Shouts and shots popping off made Mitch start and sent him up the corral rails to look for the source. From his perch, he could make out several armed men on horseback charging the hacienda with their guns blazing. He reached for his Colt revolver on his hip, but knew he could not do much with five shots to stop them.

  “Bandidos! Bandidos!” he shouted and scrambled over the fence. His goal was to reach the big house. His wife, Martina, and his son, Reginald, were there. Son of a bitch, there must be a hundred raiders. Who were they? With giant steps, Mitch churned dust with his boots. Then at the sight of an attacker, he drew his Colt and fired into the face of the rider trying to cut him off.

  The bandit flew off his mount. As the horse went by him, Mitch took hold of the horn, vaulted into the saddle and drew up the reins to turn for the casa. With four shots left in his pistol, he found his way fraught with parked wagons and circled on the crazed horse. Then at his urging the mount flew over a wagon tongue. Mitch kept his seat and raced for the porch. Men were running all about. Women were bringing them guns and ammo. His army was trying to assemble, but the enemy was stinging them like mad hornets.

  Whoever was doing this would pay with his life, Mitch swore on his mother’s grave. His horse tripped and went nose down. He flew off over the horse’s ears and rolled. Halfway to his feet, something struck his left arm, and the pain shot to his brain. Then another bullet found him in the shoulder. He went facedown and blacked out.

  Waking up with his face in the dust, Mitch could smell smoke. A fiery pain ran up his left arm, which he discovered was not usable. His mouth was full of sand, but he could not spit, and the grit clung to his teeth. Wiggling his toes in his socks, he realized the bastards had even stolen his expensive handmade boots, leaving him for dead.

  “Don’t move, patrón. The men are coming for you,” Francisco said, and Mitch tried to turn to see the man squatting beside him.

  “They shot me. What else did those bastards do?”

  “Some of the men are putting out a fire in the casa.”

  “Martina? The boy?” He felt helpless lying on his belly.

  “They took her. The boy is fine, the women hid him somehow.”

  “Damnit to hell, who was it?”

  “They call him La Cucaracha, the Cockroach.”

  “Where does he come from?”

  “I am not sure, patrón.”

  “Get some boys on horses. Give them some money. Tell them to go find my amigo Slocum and tell him I need him to go find my wife.”

  “Where will they find Slocum, patrón?”

  “San Antonio. Or the coast. Sometimes he stays up on the Sabine. Send several of them in all directions and tell them to be quick—we need him now.”

  1

  Small birds flittered in the mesquite tree limbs above Slocum’s table on the patio. Consuela, a shapely young woman in a low-cut red dress, shook her hips as she danced and clacked castanets for him. Two Mexicans played soft guitar music to accompany her graceful shuffling and twirling. He raised his glass to salute her dance steps and shouted, “Olé,” to send her spinning away like a double eagle coin on a polished bar.

  When she finished entertaining him, she made a deep bow. He set down his glass and congratulated her in Spanish. “Ah, Consuela, you are such a dream of a woman. Come join me for a drink. Paco, bring those musicians a glass of cerveza, and bring Consuela one too.”

  Slocum reached over and patted her smooth brown forearm when she took a chair across the scarred table from him. “You are most generous to spend your afternoons with me, my love.”

  Regaining her breath, she beamed at his attention and words. “I love to dance for you.”

  “I realize that. You are so beautiful when you dance, I can feel it.” He grasped the warm air in his fist as if he had captured some of her dancing in his grip. “Magnificent.”

  Paco delivered a fresh beer to Slocum as well as to the others. The older musician took off his sombrero and asked to be excused. Slocum dismissed him with an affirmative nod.

  “Certainly, señor,” he said. “But you must hurry back. We love your music.”

  “Oh, I won’t be gone for long. Let no one drink my cerveza.” They all laughed, knowing his intention was to empty his bladder.

  “We will guard it with our lives,” Slocum promised. Then he laughed as the talented man hurried away into the cantina.

  Slocum stretched his arms out and absorbed the warm afternoon sun, glancing across the street at the dusty ruins of the old mission—the Alamo. If there was any parcel of land he wished to own, it would be someplace in south central Texas in the wintertime.

  “Such a beautiful day to spend in such talented company. You, Consuela, one of the finest ladies I know, and these two great musicians. This one’s name is Sid—and the older man?”

  “Notcho,” Sid said.

  Slocum nodded. How much of this good life could he stand? He inhaled the smells of the city. Even the town’s air smelled fresh. Soon the many buds would bloom and the bees would return. Under the table he felt the soft sole of Consuela’s slipper teasing his shin. He winked at her, then glanced at the sun time. “Don’t worry, my darling, we will soon go take a siesta—or whatever.”

  A horse’s hooves clapped hard on the stone street as the animal and a young rider came into sight from around the Congress Hotel and galloped into the square. A hatless boy reined up his lathered mount and bailed off him in front of Slocum’s table.

  “Señor Slocum! Señor McCarty asks you to come at once to his hacienda.”

  “What’s wrong, little one?” Slocum asked him in Spanish, rising to his feet.

  “Bandidos have kidnapped Señora McCarty.”

  “Do you know their names? These bandidos.” Slocum was shocked that anyone would bother anything that Mitch McCarty owned.

  “Señor, they call him La Cucaracha.”

  Slocum considered the matter with his eyes closed. The Cockroach. The name meant nothing to him. But Mexican bandit leaders sprouted like mushrooms after a spring rain.

  “What will you do?” Consuela asked, looking wide-eyed at him.

  He collapsed in the chair and shook his head. His palms turned up in defeat. “I must get my horse now and go see my amigo McCarty in Mexico at once.”

  “But what about me?” She turned her lower lip out to show her disappointment.

  “Cross your legs for a few days, my dear.” He wi
nked at her. “I won’t be gone very long.”

  He tossed two silver dollars to Sid for him and the old man, then spilled a wad of folding money from his pocket on the table for Consuela. She shoved the bills down the front of her dress between her glorious cleavage and then she flew over to kiss him good-bye. ...

  Two days later, Slocum wondered if the whole episode in San Antonio had been a dream. In his mind he tried to revisit those moments in the Alamo Square, but the desert conditions around him blocked out the reality of the peaceful times he’d spent there. In his vision now, Consuela appeared fat, lethargic and lazy, with legs as thick as an elephant’s and a huge butt that she rolled around rather than whirled, hardly able to move the great expanse of flab.

  He tried to shake all the morbid images that lingered with him while he studied the heat-wave distorted desert that made the faraway hills appear fuzzy. Nothing in his mind made good sense with what he recalled. One thing he felt certain about: He had not taken a drink of anything but canteen water and a single shot or two of whiskey in two days of travel. He began to wonder if there was something else going on, if perhaps he was under a spell.

  Late in the afternoon he rode up on a dusty cluster of jacals populated with bleating goats and shrill-sounding children. He stopped to see if he could find a bruja in the population. Only a witch could have cast such a spell on him, and that meant only another could remove it.

  At the first jacal, he stopped and dismounted before the doorway. A woman in her twenties came to the door, holding back her small children with her hands.

  “Sí, señor?”

  His hat in hand, he nodded. “I am looking for a bruja.”

  “Bastardo,” she spat at him. “You would come and ask for such a thing with my children here? Have you no manners? Have you no decency?” Then she closed the canvas curtain door. From behind it she shouted obscenities at him. “Get away from me. Are you mad?”