Slocum and the Comanche Captive Read online

  “Yeah, we’ll get him some real snuffy ones,” Matt said, and laughed at his own words. “You hear me?”

  “Snuffy is my kind.”

  “Glad you ain’t deaf yet.”

  Busy masticating his food, Slocum wasn’t being dragged into Matt’s conversation. Matt was the kind who looked for a crack he could take offense at and have an outburst over— guns or knives. His species craved drawing blood for any reason or none at all—it fed his ego and thirst, especially doing it to weaker ones like the kid. Slocum would not turn his back on the man.

  “You can ride one of Paco’s horses tonight,” Banks said to him. “I’ll get you a lazo. We rope them, throw them, and tie their hind legs with the lazo. Then they’ll be there whenever we go back for them.

  “Who needs a lariat besides Slocum?” Banks asked, getting up and dumping his empty plate and utensils in the pail of hot water. No one answered.

  Slocum followed him to the wagon. He noticed all the sun-bleached ox yokes in a pile on the ground beside a two-wheel cart—obviously they yoked the cattle up after they caught them to make them gentle.

  “Paco’s a good hand. He can show you how we catch them,” Banks said. “There should be a full moon out tonight. We ought to get several head.”

  Slocum agreed as the colonel drew the rope off a roll in the wagon, handed him the end, and had him go to a post.

  “That’s sixty feet,” he announced and sliced off the end. “Can you tie a honda in the end.”

  Slocum coiled up the rope as he came back to the wagon. “Never tried. All mine came tied.”

  “I can show you. But Paco’s better at it.”

  “I’ll ask him then.”

  Banks nodded and spoke under his breath. “This bunch is tough. I don’t ask where a man comes from. It won’t hurt to keep that in mind.”

  In the bloody sunset, Slocum could see Paco leading a horse over for him. “Thanks. I’ve seen what you mean.”

  “Ah, mi amigo, you can ride Estrella.” The Mexican gave him the lead.

  “That mean Star? He ain’t got one in his forehead. Must mean he shoots for the stars.”

  Paco nodded and grinned. “You want a honda braided in the rope?”

  “It would help.”

  “No problema.” Paco took the coil and tucked it under his arm as they walked the horse back to Slocum’s gear. Paco’s deft brown fingers began to open a twist about six inches from the end. Next, he frayed that part and braided it in the opening. With a large pig-sticker from his boot, he trimmed off the fuzzy tails.

  “Now, amigo, we need some wax so the rope will slide through it.” Paco walked to the wagon, came back to him with a candle and the lariat still clamped under his arm. “Light it and we will drizzle the hot wax on the honda.”

  The operation only required minutes, and he used his thumb to rub it in the rope. “There’s one fine lariat.”

  “Gracias,” Slocum said, and took it from him.

  “You ever rope spooks before?”

  “No.”

  “These gringos, they rope tied hard and fast—” He shook his head in disapproval. “You don’t want that sometimes. I dally-rope, then when it gets too hot, you can toss the rope to them and ride out of the way.”

  “I savvy dally. Keep your fingers out of it.” Slocum tossed his pads on the bay, then the saddle. He walked around to let out the latigos drawn up to fit Judas, and Paco came on the other side to help him.

  “Better to lose a finger than your life. We have buried three men out here so far.”

  “I figured this was a tough business,” Slocum said. “How many steers can you rope in a month?”

  “I rope two or more a night if we can find them.”

  Slocum nodded and moved around to cinch the horse up. It would be twilight in another few minutes. At that rate, he could make some pocket change once he had his own string of horses broke to ride. Better learn all he could on this trip; they didn’t give second lessons in these outfits—but Paco sounded all right.

  “Gracias,” Slocum said as the man went for his own horse.

  Paco waved that he’d heard him and swung in the saddle. “Let’s ride. We need to go down by the big thicket.”

  “Bet you that I get more than you boys do tonight,” Matt said, riding past them in a long trot.

  “I bet you two bits,” Paco said.

  “Hell, make it worth my while,” Matt whined.

  “No more, hombre.”

  “I’ll take your two bits—the night I can’t outrope a spic, I’ll quit.” Matt put spurs to his horse and it started off in two crow hops and then began to run.

  “Braggart. I beat him all the time and he never quits gouging me,” Paco said after him. “I wish he would quit.”

  Slocum and Paco sat on a ridge. Their ponies were hip-shot as Slocum studied the gloomy dark thicket that stretched for miles back to the east. Below them, the silver light shone on the knee-high greasewood sea emitting a smell of creosote on the night wind.

  Slocum rubbed his calloused palm over his mouth. Somewhere a coyote yipped and a big male answered with a throaty howl. They were out for the white-tailed deer that hid in the brush—soon one in the pack would find a fresh scent and they’d take off yapping and howling, sending chills up the spine of the does with their fawns about to be weaned.

  Like two coyotes, he and Paco waited for their prey to emerge. It would be a real long night with little rest. He could only hope the upsurge of excitement would keep him awake enough to do this job.

  “There,” Paco whispered and pointed. The dark shadows of the head-tossing cattle began to emerge from the black forest. Pausing to graze here and there, they went westward swishing their tails. The leader raised his six-foot horn span and paused to sniff the night air, but Slocum and Paco were downwind of them. Then the bunch marched on, snatching grass as they went across the open land, soon followed by others.

  No shortage of cattle this night. Slocum felt the weight of the two lazos strung around his neck. Maybe he could fill some before midnight.

  Paco held out his hand. “Not yet, mi amigo. We want them far away from the brush because once we chase them, they will head back for it.”

  Slocum acknowledged his words. His stomach churned. In his heart, he hoped he was up to the test. He damn sure needed this job.

  2

  They shook loose their lariats and rode as quietly as they could downhill. Slocum knew once they struck the cattle’s trail, they’d have to ride full tilt to ever get a rope on them. He stood in the stirrups to see better in the silver light and ease the jarring of the trot.

  “Rope it, then ride past it and throw the rope over its rump. Then you ride sideways and bust it on the ground. Once it’s down you must dismount, run over, and tie the hind legs fast, savvy?”

  “Savvy.”

  “Let’s vamoose,” Paco said, and they were off in hot pursuit.

  The longhorn silhouettes threw their horns in the air and flushed.

  “I got the one on my side,” Slocum said, feeding out rope to make a larger loop. Damn, his horns looked ten feet wide. Standing in his stirrups, guiding Star with one hand, he began to whirl the lariat over his head. Near the hard-running critter’s butt, he reached out and tossed the loop over one horn and the head. Good enough—he made the dally around the saddle horn and turned Star off in a sweeping arc to the left. The rope cut into the top of his leg when the steer hit the end and it about jerked Star over backward. The pony kept digging in, and Slocum slipped off his back and ran to the downed steer. In seconds, he had its hind feet tied and his first wild cattle catch was complete.

  His heart beating rapidly, he took his lariat off the head-slinging critter as it flopped on the ground bawling its head off in protest—because with its hind legs tied it couldn’t get up.

  On the run, Slocum coiled his rope as he headed back for Star, coaxing the loose horse not to run from him as he approached. The pony acted spooked, but Slocum finally caught a
rein and was on board again. They left in a flurry. Paco was nowhere in sight on the silver sea. Slocum spotted a single longhorn in a long trot headed back for the thicket.

  He set spurs to Star and the pony headed for the critter. In a dead run, Star stumbled once, but scrambled and quickly recovered his footing. With the greasewood whipping Slocum’s legs, he wished for chaps, but urged the gelding on faster, building a new loop as they flew over the flat and closed in on the galloping bovine.

  Up in the stirrups so his weight was over Star’s front end as he lunged forward to catch their prey, Slocum whistled the lariat over his head and then threw it. The catch was good. He jerked his slack, cinching the rope around half of the critter’s head and horn; then he dallied on the saddle and turned Star to the side.

  In an instant, he felt the pony lose his footing and stumble. Slocum managed to hold his dally and step down as the rope went tight. Star fell on his side and the maverick went flying on the other end. No time to check on the horse. Slocum sped on his boots though the brittle greasewood. Before the stunned critter could get up, he leaped on its thrashing hindquarters, which were seeking traction, and hitched the lazo around its heels before he could recover.

  Out of breath and in a sweat, he sat for a moment on the bawling critter’s rump and drew in some night air. Fifty feet away in the moonlight, Star was on his feet, rattling the stirrups as he shook himself in a cloud of dust. Maybe the pony was all right. Slocum was out of lazos and there was still time to rope some more. Coiling his lariat, he headed for Star. Better go find Paco.

  When he rode Star off, the cow pony felt sound under him, and Slocum pushed his hat back to thank the heavens one more time for his good fortune. He stood in the stirrups as they headed westerly searching the landscape for any sign of a horse and rider. Several determined-acting cattle skirted him headed in a long trot for the thicket. Their great horns shone in the starlight.

  He rode past a bawling tied-up maverick, obviously the work of Paco. Digging up dust with its right horn and propelling itself around in a circle on the ground, the critter made plenty of dust.

  Over the next rise, Slocum spotted the rider under the sombrero-shaped hat closing in on another one. The catch made, Paco’s horse swung left and the steer went ass over teakettle in the air. Paco ran for him and shouted “Viva!” after he tied him.

  “Ah, you get one?” Paco asked, coiling his rope.

  Slocum caught his horse and led him back. “Two. I’m out of ties.”

  “Two? Man, you are a real vaquero. I will have to work hard to beat you.”

  “Beginner’s luck. I need another lazo. They’re all headed for the brush.” He nodded behind them, and caught the short rope that Paco tossed to him.

  They charged over the flats, hoping to find more cattle before they escaped into the thicket.

  “There!” Paco shouted as two head split in front of them; one went to Slocum’s side, the other to Paco’s. Standing in the stirrups, Slocum shook loose his rope and urged Star on. The ground they crossed made a rise that slowed the steer, and then the animal tried to cut back toward the other steer. Without a choice, Slocum roped him off-handed and gave him some slack before he dallied to give Star a chance to get his feet under him.

  The longhorn stopped with a hard jerk on the end. Slocum bailed the pony right at him. Screaming like a banshee to make him run aside instead of charging them, Slocum tossed the slack over his hip and then sent Star sideways. His action flipped the steer in the air. In a flash, Slocum was out of the saddle and running to make it number three. Out of breath on his knees beside his prey, he jerked his tie rope tight and fell backward on his butt to avoid the two kicking hooves. That made three.

  “Get some good horses and you will beat my record,” Paco said, riding up, coiling his rope. “We better get back or we won’t get no sleep.”

  “And I damn sure need some.” Slocum bounced off his toes into the saddle and reined Star around. One thing for certain, he’d have a tough time repeating his score on green horses.

  The colonel took the tally when they came into camp.

  “Six,” Paco said. “Me and him.”

  “Damn, you boys done all right.”

  “How many Matt get?”

  “He ain’t in yet.”

  Paco turned in the saddle to look into the night for him. “He will do anything to beat me.”

  “Nice job, Slocum,” Banks said.

  “I got lucky.”

  “Luck must trail you then.” Banks laughed.

  “How many did them others catch?” Paco asked, dropping heavily from the saddle with a crash of his spur rowels.

  “Three between them.”

  “We’ll need a new place tonight. Those vacas get plenty smart about us.”

  “Yeah,” Banks agreed. “We need some tiger dogs to bay them.”

  Slocum stopped unsaddling. “What’s that?”

  “Them folks in east Texas use brindle dogs that tree them. I tried to buy some before we came out here. They won’t even sell me a pup.”

  “I’ll remember that. Brindle dogs that tree cattle.” He’d never heard of them.

  “Sunup we roll out,” Banks reminded them as they dragged off to their bedrolls.

  Later, on the ground in his bedding set aside from the others, Slocum listened to the insects creaking. Good to have found work—tough bunch, but he’d survived tougher ones. His thoughts went back to the good-looking, naked women he could recall, and he rolled over on his side, a little disappointed there wasn’t one in his blankets to share the rising erection.

  3

  They located a band of wild horses and Banks gave the riders their orders, sending them to encircle the bunch so the mustangs were forced to flee into the trap. Riding a dun horse that belonged in Hadley’s string, Slocum slid it off a loose bank into a dry wash, waving his coil of rope and shouting to turn some undecided horses toward the pen. The aggregate of man and beast boiled up lots of dust that rose high into the sky, and a lack of wind did little to dissipate it. Everyone pulled up their kerchiefs to filter it out, and fought hard to turn back the suspicious mustangs into the pen. Horses broke right—thwarted, they tried left, but the loop drawn in by the riders soon cut off any exit and they thundered into the large trap.

  Corky ran up and dragged the gate closed.

  In the suspended dust, the crew reined up with only their eyes not floured by the tan-gray dust.

  “Go get some sleep. They’re his now,” Banks shouted, and turned his horse toward camp.

  Slocum nodded, dismounted, and tied the dun to a post. He went and found a place in the meager lacy shade of a mesquite, and sat cross-legged on the ground. No reason to try and go into that pen yet; let them churn around until the afternoon wind came up. That would clear the dust out so he could see what he had. Twenty, thirty head, some mares and colts to cut out, maybe a stud, but he’d not seen or heard one.

  If the right stallion was in there, he might just cut him and ride him. Late-cut horses made powerful mounts, with more muscle than a fantailed gelding castrated as a yearling and turned out. Of course, that depended on whether the horse survived the surgery. Cattle were no problem to neuter— horses required some skills. Especially castrating older ones. His curiosity aroused, Slocum wondered about his new cavvy and how breaking them would go.

  He didn’t have long to wait. The rising hot wind soon swept the dust cloud away. He leaned his arms on the gate and looked the bunch over. Four mares with colts, and the rest were older horses. Two geldings bore saddle sores and looked gaunt. He led the dun into the pen, mounted up, and roped one.

  The first captured pony acted a little spooky. One white sock, and he wore a Diamond A brand on his right shoulder. When Slocum rode in and made a halter on his head, he calmed some. He was smooth-mouthed, but solid enough— obviously the horse had been born before the war and been broken. Maybe stolen by raiding Comanche and had escaped them. Slocum decided to try him. He hobbled the dun and toss
ed his pack on the new bay—christened him Diamond as he cinched him up. He acted like it had been a while since he’d been handled, but Slocum ignored the fact. Too much to do and too little time to do it.

  He cheeked Diamond from his head to his leg and piled on. With both Slocum’s feet in the stirrups, Diamond bogged his nose between his knees. He bucked across the pen and back before Slocum wrenched his head up and forced him to lope in tight circles. Then he set spurs to Diamond and charged him hard across the pen, sliding him to a hard halt. Diamond would do. Numero uno—good.

  He used Diamond to catch the horse with white gall marks on his withers. Another tall gelding that could use a hundred or more pounds on him. A bay with no markings, he bore some scars on his chest. The brand had been a hair one and was closed over, but Slocum traced it with his finger—a U. His cow-kicking, squealing pony became Ute after Slocum mouthed him—ten to twelve years old, but sound enough. He’d break him of that cow-kicking quicklike if he had to wear a boot toe out kicking his belly.

  Slocum used a rope around the horse’s neck, and then with the other end pulled his hind foot up and tied it, so if he dared kick he’d become unbalanced and fall over. Saddle in place, Slocum used a sack on him to get the spook out of him. With his foot up, all Ute could do was flinch uncomfortably, until he finally stopped worrying about the sack being waved and slapped at him.

  There was water in the trap so the horses could stay there for a day or so until Slocum got his string cut out. Then Slocum saw him—looking square at the big blue roan with the long tangling black mane that concealed his eyes. The stud—a real bulldog of a horse, broad and stout. He pawed his right hoof in the dust and squealed out of his nose in defiance. You’ll do just fine.

  Two broke horses and there were two others that acted sound, but carried no brands. A high-headed pacer that looked like a dirty buckskin, and a shorter big-eyed chestnut. Both needed cut. So if Slocum had three to geld—he’d not get much roping done with them till they healed. Take them a while too, so that they’d be sore enough to break some easier. He’d talk to Paco about doing the job—if anyone was a hand at it, the Mexican might be.