Slocum and the Big Horn Trail Page 2

  1

  Slocum’s ribs ached when he twisted in the saddle. Busted rib or two—the sharp pain caught his breath. He paused to look over the open country that was behind him before he went over the ridge and dropped down on the other side. No sign of those breeds. They’d be coming. He gave the paint horse his head and started off into the valley. In the distance, a small lake shone like a diamond in the midday sun. Hemmed in by the timbered sides, the green valley’s carpet looked like a good place to let Paint fill his belly with grass and to let his sore-sided rider rest awhile.

  He rode up to the edge of the water, and Paint drew back with a snort. He searched around with a frown. What had spooked Paint? Slocum could smell wood smoke, but saw no source of it. With a hard jerk on the bits, he tried to control the upset horse spinning around under him.

  “Easy. Easy.” He sent him off down the flat to try and get him over his fit. By the lake below, he saw the cause of the pony’s upset. A huge grizzly reared up and roared at him.

  He slid the Winchester out of the scabbard and levered a cartridge in the chamber. He turned Paint broadside, feeling the horse trembling under the saddle as he took aim. Stand still for a second. His finger squeezed off a shot at the galloping bruin. The bear, hit in the head, nosed down, pawing at his muzzle and issuing groans.

  Round two to the grizzly’s face made him raise his muzzle and give a last, loud moan. Then silence. Paint blew rollers out his nose. Shaking all over, he trembled, standing straddle-legged when Slocum stepped off him. Rifle reloaded, Slocum studied the pile of cinnamon-gold fur and a wave of relief washed over his tensed muscles. He had to be certain the bear was dead and not just stunned.

  At the sight of movement to his left, with the rifle against his hip, he whirled, ready to fire. To his shock, a young Indian woman armed with a hunting knife came off the rise, and the roof of a small cabin could be seen behind her.

  “That your pet?” he asked with a grin, indicating the grizzly.

  “No,” she said.

  “Good,” he said, acting relieved.

  She pointed with her knife. “Bear killed him.”

  “Who’s that?” He frowned, unable to see anything where she indicated.

  “Never say his name. He kidnap me on Wind River.”

  “Oh,” he said, taking a deep breath since the bear had not moved, except for his hind legs, which were jerking in the throes of death.

  “You know him?” she demanded.

  “No—I don’t think so. I’ll go look in a minute.”

  She spit in the direction of the dead man. “I am glad the bear killed him.”

  “Yes. I understand.” He uncocked the rifle and put it on safety. With it back in the scabbard, he stepped in the stirrup, swung aboard, and reined the still-spooked Paint toward the victim. Giving the smelly carcass a wide berth, Paint looked warily sideways at the bear until they were by it. A hundred yards across the grassy ground, Slocum spotted the bloody mauled body. He dismounted and, with Paint grasping mouthfuls of grass, stepped over to the dead man. His bloody face did not look familiar. Maybe if he hadn’t been so torn up—Slocum had to swallow hard to stand the obnoxious odors of the disemboweled body. He turned away from the horrible scene and met the brown eyes of the squaw, who’d walked up to join him.

  “Is there a shovel?”

  “Me get one.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Easter. They call me that at mission school.”

  “Slocum’s mine.”

  “You Bear Killer,” she said with a sly look, and threw out her breasts under the beaded blouse. “No one mess with you. Big man kill big bear, huh?”

  “Well, he’s dead anyway.”

  Shaking her head, she took his arm and shook it. “No, you Bear Killer.”

  The pain drove him to his knees and he bent over grimacing.

  “How I hurt you?” she asked with concern written in her brown eyes.

  “Ribs are broken—”

  “Come. I get your horse. I bury him later. Got whiskey for you.”

  She helped him up, then ran off to catch Paint and, leading him back, indicated the cabin. Slocum agreed, hugging his left side hard with his elbow.

  “What hurt you?”

  “Some men beat me up two days ago. I managed to get away from them, but they may come here looking for me.” He paused to catch his breath, and she turned back to look at him.

  “Maybe they end up dead like the grandfather bear.” She nodded like that would be no problem for him.

  “Where did you learn English?”

  “Mission school.”

  He nodded and set out again for the low-walled cabin that appeared at the top of the rise. At the front door he could hear the waterfall coming off the lake. She was undoing his horse’s girth when he turned back to her. Hurting too bad to assist her, he noted she soon had rope hobbles on Paint. With the saddle and pads in her arms, she came on the run.

  “Go inside,” she ordered.

  He nodded and ducked under the lintel to enter. He put his hat on a peg and looked around. Cozy enough place. She loaded his saddle on a rack built in the wall.

  “You sit on bed. I get whiskey.”

  He didn’t need any more invite than that. His side felt kicked in, and he dropped his butt on the bed. She brought him a tin cup and small crock jug. He took the cup and she poured until he said, “Whoa.”

  She was maybe five-five or -six. Her raven-black hair was wrapped in beaded leather on both sides of her face with a beaded red headband. She looked at him out of round eyes that were slanted in the corners. She had high cheekbones. Her nose, once broken, was thin for an Indian, and her mouth was generous with a pouty, full lower lip. She was in her late teens with a willowy figure.

  “Sit down.” He indicated the army blanket beside him.

  She did, and he took a sip of the whiskey. Tough stuff. It sure cut a path going down his throat. Even set his ears on fire—white lightning. He blinked and looked over at her.

  “You want to go home?”

  “No.”

  He frowned at her and turned back to try more of the painkiller. “Why not?”

  “I am soiled. No one would want me.”

  “What’s-his-name rape you?”

  “No.”

  She leaned back with her hands on the bed behind her. Her proud breasts pushed against the deerskin over them. “Who would believe me? Huh, some old man might want me. He wouldn’t care who I had slept with. So that he had a nurse, huh?”

  “I guess so. You ever bound anyone up who had broken ribs?”

  She scooted to the edge of the bed. “I can try.”

  “Good. We need some cloth. Wrap it around me and tie it off.” He hoped that might give him some relief.

  “Drink more whiskey. I find some.”

  He finished the liquor in the cup, and she brought some red cloth on a bolt. It would do fine, and they cut some off. He shed his shirt, wincing some, and when he finished that, she shoved another full cup in his hand. The whiskey was taking the edge off the pain, and he laughed when she wrapped him. But he gritted his teeth when she pulled the cloth tight and tied it off with all her might.

  “How that?” she asked, leaning forward to look at him.

  He nodded in approval, then downed some more firewater. In a moment, she was on her knees, easing off his boots. Then she swung him around by his feet so he was on the bed. She looked satisfied at her handiwork. “You sleep.”

  “I reckon I could, girl. Thanks,” he said with a wince at the pain his movement caused.

  Settled on his back, his discomfort eased some by the liquor, he closed his eyes, then realized he still wore his six-gun. He drew it out, placed it by his head, and fell off into a troubled sleep. There were nightmares that caused him to wake in a sweat. Smells of food cooking filled his nose, and he sat up on the edge of the bed in the candlelight.

  She looked back and smiled at him. “Bear tracks coming.”

  �
�Good,” he said, not thinking about the meaning. In his stocking feet, he stepped out into the cool night, realizing how good the stove heat had felt, emptied his bladder, and listened to the night sounds.

  When he stepped back inside and closed the door, she brought him some golden brown doughnuts on a tin plate. Bear tracks—it came to him. The doughnuts were still hot, and he shuffled one back and forth in his fingers until he could take a bite. The sweetness and rich flavor made the saliva fill his mouth. He nodded in approval. “Very good.”

  “Have plenty bear grease to make them all winter,” she announced.

  Maybe she thought he’d be there that long. He ever got well enough, he’d leave Wyoming and head south for San Antonio. He could bask in the winter sun and make love to all the brown-skinned señoritas that he wanted. No snow, no cold, just dancing girls stomping to trumpet music on the patio. Twisting like vines as they performed to seduce him, and shaking their breasts as their heels clacked across the rock pavement. Ah, to San Antonio. No wonder Davy Crockett gave his life for the place.

  “You have a woman?” she asked, busy frying more bear tracks.

  He shook his head. “I have no place for a woman on that paint horse.”

  “You could stay here.”

  “I need to be in Texas.”

  “I think you lie to me. What is in Texas?”

  He rubbed his palms on his britches. “San Antonio. Sunshine. No snow.”

  She wrinkled her nose and turned back to her frying. “I bet they don’t have bear grease or bear tracks.”

  “Why do they call it Bexar County then?”

  She laughed until it turned to giggles and bent her over. “You lie faster than I can think.”

  Carefully, she set her batch out to drain and took the kettle off the stove. Still amused, she crossed the room and stood before him. “I have never been with a man. But I would be with you, Bear Killer. If I am not to return to my people, then I wish you to show me the way.”

  He wanted to say he was too sore. He wanted to say lots of things to her. But he nodded and mumbled. “I am honored.”

  “Good,” she said, and stripped off the blouse over her head. “I have washed the smell of him off me for you. The water was very cold.”

  “He’s buried?”

  “Yes, and the bear is skinned. I will render the rest of the grease later.” She undid the waist strings and shed the pants. “A few hours ago, I thought I would be his woman forever. Now he is buried where two of his wives sleep.”

  Slocum shook his head. “How did you get the bear’s hide off?”

  “I used your horse to pull him over.”

  That impressed Slocum. Paint wouldn’t get close to the bear’s stinking mass for him. He rose and took his shirt and pants off as she drew back the blankets and scrambled onto the bed. The red-yellow flare of the candles shone on her smooth copper skin as she adjusted herself on the bed.

  As he went down beside her, he realized he ached in many places. Should he save this until he felt better? No.

  “Why did they beat you up?” She lay on her side facing him.

  “I hate for anyone to use a quirt on a woman. One of them was whipping her with one. I told him to stop. Him and his friends jumped me, and they thought I was dead when they got through. I wasn’t, so I stole their money and left them.”

  “Stole their money?”

  “They’d robbed some stages. It wasn’t much. Eighty dollars. But I figured that served them right for beating me up.”

  She laughed and eased herself closer. “Will this hurt you too much?”

  It might, but he shook his head, fondling her long firm breasts. If he only felt better. But when he tried to rise, he discovered he couldn’t—

  “I see you are too sore?”

  “Yes.” He lay back in relief and the cold chills ran through his body. My Gawd, what a baby I’ve become.

  He closed his eyes and passed off into sleep.

  When he half-awoke, he found her naked form curled to him and her arm thrown over him. Felt good. He went back to sleep. When he woke again, she was gone and the bed beside him felt cold enough to know she had been up for some time.

  When he stepped out to piss, he found her bent over a large kettle. She rushed over and hugged his waist. “You don’t have to go to Ontonio today, do you?”

  He laughed. “I couldn’t if I wanted to. No, I will stay with you for some time.”

  “Good.” She smiled, pleased, and rushed back to stir her rendering fat.

  He stood at the side of the cabin, pissing a great steaming stream. He’d hate to have to ride anywhere today. Besides, this hardworking woman wouldn’t be easy to leave. He could see she even had the bearskin stretched out with stakes driven in the ground.

  “Where did you bathe?” he asked.

  “At the falls.”

  “Oh.” He shivered at the thought. “I bet that was cold.”

  “I will do it today. Who wants a woman stinks like a bear?”

  “No one. Did this man ever say his name?”

  She shook her head. “I never said a word to him. I was so mad at him for taking me from my people. I acted like I never heard him. His horse’s name is Bay. ‘Whoa, Bay, gawdamn you.’”

  He laughed at her mimicking the man.

  “He said I was a watermelon and he would plug me.”

  Amused, Slocum shook his head. “But not till you got here, huh?”

  “Yes, and he went for water to make coffee and the bear got him.”

  “Well, he picked out a winner. Figure he watched you very long to know that?”

  She shrugged. “I only saw him coming on that horse and swinging that rope. I prayed to God for him to not catch me.”

  “I bet you prayed.”

  “Maybe God wanted me to come up here.”

  “Maybe he did. But we must be watchful. Red Dog, Snake, and Tar Boy may be on my trail. Run for cover when they come. They’re mean men.”

  “I will watch for them. Day and night.”

  Good. He studied the high cloud shield. Snow or rain was coming in a few days. That would cover his trail, but they had plenty of time until then to find him. He hobbled back inside on his stocking feet. Hurt too bad for him to pull on his boots. Maybe she would put them on for him later.

  He’d sure hate being caught by them in his stocking feet.

  2

  Red Dog took a drink out of the neck of the bottle and shoved the Indian girl Mia at the bed. “Get undressed.”

  Where were Snake and Tar Boy? He’d sent them after that fella who rode in on the paint. They should have found him and cut his throat by this time. Sumbitch stole his money. He dropped his pants and grasped his throbbing dick. Time to burn her leather. Damn, someone just rode up. Who in the hell could that be? He pulled up his pants. “Get under the cover. We got someone here.”

  Stupid bitch just lay there on her back with her knees apart. He shook his head, buckling his belt. Uncomfortable with his hard-on, he grabbed the six-gun out of his holster and went to the front door.

  “Open up in there.”

  The voice wasn’t familiar. Sounded like the law. He used his left hand to undo the bar with the pistol cocked and ready in the right hand. When he cracked the door, a man in a tan coat hit the door with his shoulder, spilling Red Dog backward. Red Dog fell firing his .44 at the intruder. The man’s own pistol shot went into the floor. Black gunpowder smoke filled the room with a stinking sulfurous haze.

  Red Dog crawled outside on his hands and knees and coughed his guts up. Retching vomit, he tried to see through his blurred vision if there was anyone else around. His pistol was still in his hand. Nothing moved but the intruder’s sorrel horse, who raised his head with his mouth full of grass. When it went back to grazing, Red Dog uncocked the Colt. A sure sign there was no one else close.

  Naked, Mia leaped over the body in the doorway and ran several yards past him before turning back to stand with her hands pressed to her face in fear.r />
  “You kill him. You kill him.”

  “Shut up,” Red Dog said, wiping his sour-tasting mouth on the back of his hand. “Who is he?”

  “Law—man.”

  That was all he needed, a dead lawman on his hands. One damn fella steals all his money, and next he shoots a lawman. Holy Christmas, this was a mess.

  “Get to packing, we’ve got to get the hell out of here.” He rose to his feet and reholstered the pistol. What did this man have on him?

  He turned the body over and dragged him by the boots out of the doorway. Wide-eyed, Mia went around the corpse and rushed on inside. Down on his knees, Red Dog unpinned the silver badge. It was worth something. Inside the coat, he found the man’s wallet, and grinned at the sight of the folding money. He tucked it in his vest pocket. He looked at the bullet hole in the man’s chest that had burned his shirt around the entry place. Crimson blood had stained the white material. Dog rose and pulled off the man’s boots. Nothing need be wasted. Besides, this bastard would never miss ’em—he was stone dead.

  “You know him?” he shouted to the squaw, who was cramming things in the canvas pannier like the place was on fire.

  She shook her head.

  “Damn dumb bitch.” Scowling at her, he bent over, undid the man’s suspenders and the gun belt so he could shuck the pants off the corpse. Lots depended on how important the man was—that could affect how hard the law would look for his killers. When he got the things he wanted off the body, he’d make damn sure they never found it. He struggled while pulling on the pants legs, but the britches at last came off.

  Out of breath after sawing off the victim’s ring finger with his big knife to get the gold band, he noted when the sorrel jerked its head up and look hard to the east. “Aw, shit.” He dropped the knife and his hand went to the butt of his own handgun. Someone else was coming.

  When he saw the familiar black hat and coffee-colored face of Tar Boy riding the dun pony, he let his guard down again. They better have gotten his money back from that worthless thief and cut his throat from ear to ear. Then two eagle feathers twisting in the wind on the unblocked hat of Snake appeared, and the man came on his white stud horse. Both men reined up short, staring hard at the body in the flannel underwear on the ground.