Slocum and the Canyon Courtesans Page 3

  “I just want to find those girls I was riding with and get to my destination,” she said.

  “You might as well be comfortable and lie down on my bedroll. I’m going to stand guard all night.”

  “Stand guard? Why?”

  “The Kiowa,” he said.

  “You think they know where we are?”

  “I’d be surprised if they didn’t.”

  “I don’t want to sleep inside that old adobe,” she said.

  “At least take my blanket, Melissa.”

  She went inside and picked up his blanket. The makeshift bed looked inviting, but there were too many dark corners in the ruins of the room, and the thought of sleeping inside made her skin crawl with goose bumps.

  She walked outside and lay down. She put her head on her carpetbag and pulled the blanket up around her, waist high.

  “Sleep tight,” Slocum said, and walked to the other side of the adobe, where Ferro was tethered. He patted the horse’s withers and then leaned against one of the standing walls of the adobe hut.

  The bullbats disappeared as suddenly as they had come. He heard the throaty call of an owl, and an hour or two later, coyotes sounded in the distance, their yodeling voices rising and falling like fountains of the crystalline notes of flutes. His eyelids grew heavy and he walked a circle around the adobe, then another, widening his course through a desolate and lonely world of starlight and a moonglow that gilded all the plants with the dull silver of pewter. It was on one of his circlings that he came upon what appeared to be a small water hole and a well with a rusted pump on it next to a wooden trough that was full of stagnant water. He rubbed the sides and saw that the gaps between the boards had been sealed with thick tar. He worked the pump. It squeaked and groaned, but after pumping it a few times, water spurted out and splashed into the tank.

  It was then that Slocum heard a furtive sound. It might have been the snort of a horse, or the cough of a puma, perhaps the rustle of wind in the fallen rafters of the adobe.

  He stiffened to a still position and slowly turned his head, straining his ears to pick up the slightest sound.

  Then there was another sound, and this time it was close.

  He swung his rifle around and turned to face the source of the slight noise. He touched a hand to the lever of the Winchester, ready to cock it and slide a cartridge into the firing chamber.

  The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he heard what sounded like sandpaper being rubbed across soft wood. A shape, a dark blob, rose out of the emptiness a few yards in front of him and he saw a flash of silver as moonlight glanced off the blade of a knife. He dropped the rifle and drew his own knife in the fraction of a second he had before the Kiowa charged straight at him, his knife held high as if to plunge it down into his chest.

  Slocum went into a fighting crouch and stepped to one side. He smelled the paint on the brave’s face, the grease in his hair, the sweat on his body. The knife in the Kiowa’s hand came slashing down, striking empty air in the spot where Slocum had stood. The brave’s feet clicked the rifle and it slid a few inches to one side.

  Slocum lashed out with his knife, a large Bowie, sharp as a razor on both sides of the blade, but the Kiowa bent double and, like a cat, hopped to one side. The Bowie knife carved a slice of empty air and Slocum danced to one side as the Kiowa bent low and came at him again, this time with his knife held just below his waist.

  Slocum sidestepped and kicked at the knife hand of the Kiowa. His boot struck the man’s wrist, but the Kiowa did not drop the knife. Instead, he whirled and dashed at Slocum, slashing from side to side. The two men grappled and Slocum felt a sharp stab in the upper part of his leg. He groaned in pain and wrestled the Kiowa to the ground as hot blood seeped from his wound and soaked his trouser leg.

  The two men rolled on the rocky ground, each trying to stab the other. The Kiowa was as silent as stone, but Slocum grunted with the effort. Finally, he slammed his left arm into the brave’s throat, knocking his head back. Slocum saw an opening and struck with the big Bowie, aiming straight at the soft spot beneath the Kiowa’s rib cage.

  He felt the knife puncture flesh and slide into the man’s stomach. Air escaped from the wound and Slocum wrenched his knife upward, toward the man’s heart. He heard the scrape of the blade on a rib and the Kiowa made a huffing noise and spasmed as the blade sliced through veins and arteries, the tip of it ramming into the bottom of the man’s heart. It felt to Slocum as if he were striking a sponge. He turned the blade and raked it sideways through the lungs on the man’s right side. More air escaped through the large gash in the Kiowa’s midsection. He kicked both legs, gasped, and then lay still. Blood gushed from the large opening in his stomach and then ceased as his heart stopped beating.

  Slocum ripped off the bandanna he wore around his neck and wrapped it just above the wound in his leg. He pulled it tight and tied it as a lassitude crept into his mind. He felt faint and stood up on shaky legs.

  The earth spun around him, and he felt as if he was going to faint.

  He wiped the bloody blade of his knife on his trousers and slipped it back into its sheath. He staggered toward his rifle and bent over to pick it up. The rifle quivered beneath his blurred gaze as his fingers grasped the barrel.

  The pain in his leg rippled up to his brain and shrieked with a blinding loudness that made him stumble toward the adobe, using only his sense of direction as stars whirled in the sky and the moon danced like a bouncing ball overhead.

  A shadow emerged out of a clump of sage and started toward him. He saw the lone feather sprouting from the man’s scalp, a white flash against the sky. John worked the lever on his Winchester and fired from the hip as the man rushed toward him. He caught a glimpse of the war club in the Kiowa’s hand as he was drawing it back to hurl it at him.

  Slocum squeezed the trigger when the brave was less than ten feet from him. The rifle roared and spat flame and lead from the muzzle. The Kiowa stumbled to a stop two feet from Slocum. There was a stain on his breastplate, a stain that widened before he fell forward. The war club fell from his hand as he hit the ground with a dull thud.

  Slocum heard a startled scream from somewhere near the adobe.

  He staggered past the fallen body of the Kiowa, the smoke from his rifle clinging to his nostrils. The smell of exploded powder was strong and helped to clear his head for a moment.

  “John,” Melissa called. “Was that you?”

  “Yeah,” he said and the stars collapsed over his head. The moon melted and he felt himself falling into a dark pit. He struggled to stay on his feet, but the earth pulled him down. He slid a half foot when he hit the ground and the darkness entered his brain and shut off his senses as if an iron door had slammed shut.

  He floated somewhere between light and dark, lost to the world, deaf to all sound, blind to all that had been visible, and frozen in some timeless limbo that existed between life and death.

  5

  Slocum awoke with the sound and sting of a hand slapping his face. He opened his eyes and saw a wavery image of Melissa’s face just above his.

  “John, John!” she shrieked. “Wake up!”

  “I’m awake,” he croaked. He felt light-headed and woozy.

  Melissa reared back and stopped slapping him.

  “My God, what happened?” she said as Slocum struggled to sit up. He felt a sharp pain in his left leg. The pain vanquished most of the shadows in his mind. His focus returned and he remembered all that had happened to him. The stars settled down into fixed points of light. The moon steadied and glowed against the velvet black sky.

  “Long story,” he said as he pulled himself to his feet. Melissa picked up his rifle and handed it to him.

  “You’re hurt,” she said.

  “A scratch, but I’ve got to lie down and put a compress on my wound.”

>   “Can you walk to the adobe?”

  “Yes, but stay close. I might need to steady myself. My left leg feels numb.”

  She glanced down at his leg and gasped.

  “You’re covered in blood.”

  “Dried blood, I hope.”

  She touched the bloody trousers with delicate fingers.

  “It’s wet, but drying, I think.”

  He made out the dim outlines of the adobe and limped toward it. Melissa held one elbow with her hand and walked with him. He went inside and sat down on his tarp, which was part of his bedroll. He removed one of his spurs while Melissa looked on. A shaft of moonlight gave him enough light to see. It shimmered with dust motes.

  Slocum took the spur and untied the knot in his bandanna. Then he placed the tong of the spur in the center and retied the knot. As Melissa looked on, he twisted the spur, shutting off the blood flow to his wound. He had no idea how deep it was, or if the Kiowa’s blade had struck an artery, but he knew that if it had, he would probably be dead by now. That leg artery could drain a man’s blood in a few minutes.

  “That’s a tourniquet, right?” Melissa said.

  “Just to make sure the bleeding stops.”

  “It must hurt a lot,” she said.

  “Some. Not much. I might be in shock.”

  “Oh, no,” she breathed, then she knelt beside him, worried.

  “We’ll see,” he said, and lay down.

  “I’ll bring your blanket in, John.”

  “I feel pretty hot right now. You keep it.”

  She stood up, brushed dirt off her dress.

  “I’m not leaving you alone. Do you want a drink of water?”

  “When you get time,” he said, and there was a weariness in his voice that she detected.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was weak, he knew, and there was a throbbing pain in his leg right under the knot in his bandanna. The spur gleamed silver in the beam of moonlight.

  Melissa was not right back. She was gone for several minutes. Slocum loosened the tourniquet, waited five minutes, then tightened it again. He felt the cloth of the bandanna, and noted that it was drying out where it covered the wound. That was a good sign.

  He heard the patter of footsteps outside the decrepit adobe and, a moment later, a rustle of cloth. Then Melissa walked in with the blanket all balled up in her arms.

  “I saw him,” she said. “I saw the Injun you killed. He’s plumb dead, but still scary with all that paint on his face.”

  She unfurled the blanket and placed it over Slocum’s legs, pulled it up to just below his chin.

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” he said.

  “I—I was curious. I couldn’t help it. I had to know. I had to see for myself.”

  “There’s another dead one out there. I found a spring with a pump. There’s fresh water to be had.”

  “Water,” she said, and picked up one of the wooden canteens. She knelt beside Slocum and took the cork out of the canteen. She tilted the wooden flash and held it to his lips. Slocum drank and nearly choked when she lifted the canteen bottom and more water poured through the spout.

  He spluttered and gasped for breath as water entered his windpipe.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  He waved her away.

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  As she watched, he loosened the tourniquet again, removed the spur.

  He reached in his pocket and drew out a box of wooden matches.

  “Here, strike one of these so I can get a look at this wound.”

  He unwrapped the bandanna and exposed the wound. Melissa lit a match and held it over the slice in his pants. He pulled on both sides of the fabric and exposed the wound under the glare of the match flame. The blood had coagulated and there was a thin patina over the slit.

  The match burned her fingers and she shook it out.

  “It looks okay to me,” he said. “If it doesn’t get infected, it ought to heal up pretty fast.”

  “Do you want me to light another match?”

  “No. You might burn your fingers off,” he said.

  “Well, you don’t need to be so critical. I wasn’t looking at the match. I was looking at the wound in your leg. Do you have another pair of trousers?”

  “No. I travel light. But I’ve got a needle and thread to patch it in the morning.”

  “I can sew it for you,” she said.

  “I’ve got to find that creek, though. I want to pack this with mud and some moss so it will heal quick.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I’ve done it before,” he said.

  “Were you in the war?” she asked.

  “Sort of.”

  She cocked her head in a quizzical pose, but Slocum didn’t elaborate.

  “I know,” she said. “I ask too many questions.”

  “Can you handle a rifle or a six-gun, Melissa?”

  “Yes. My daddy taught me to shoot. He taught all us kids to shoot both rifle and pistol.”

  “I need some shut-eye. Keep that rifle handy. It’s ready to shoot. Just pull the hammer back. I left it on half cock.”

  “I’ll stand guard,” she said.

  “You’d better stay inside with me. At least you’ll have some wall between you and whoever might try to sneak up on us.”

  “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. I’ll get my bag and find a place to sit or lie down.”

  Slocum closed his eyes and threw an arm across his face to block the starlight and the glow of the moon.

  He was asleep by the time Melissa came back with her carpetbag. She set it down and picked up the Winchester, held it to her shoulder. It was not as heavy as the Henry her father had owned and made her shoot. She looked down the barrel at the front sight and swung the rifle in a slow arc to get the feel of it.

  Then she sat down in a corner after inspecting it with her hands to see if there was anything alive there. She leaned back and looked at the sleeping Slocum. He was a shadow beneath the blanket, but at least he did not snore. Soon, she closed her eyes and dozed off, the rifle in her lap, one hand on the stock, the other on the barrel.

  An hour later, Melissa awoke with a start. The rifle had slid from her lap and was lying on the floor. A large rat sat on the stock, its tiny eyes gleaming like jewels. Melissa stifled a scream and drew back against the corners of the wall. The rat’s whiskers twitched and it sat up, rubbed its forepaws together. She eased one leg around and raised it. She kicked at the rat and it squealed as it scurried away, its tail wagging a meaningless semaphore, its fur bristling under the shine of moonlight.

  Melissa rose to her feet and shuddered as she thought of how close the rat had been to her. It must have pulled the rifle off her lap, she thought, or sat on the stock so that the rifle tilted and slid from her grasp.

  She looked at Slocum asleep on the floor and walked over to him. His blanket had slid off and was lying rumpled next to him. She lay down beside him, snuggled up close, and pulled the blanket over her legs and onto Slocum. She quivered against him, terrified that the rat might return and crawl under the blanket. She snuggled even closer to Slocum and lay her arm across his chest.

  She closed her eyes but could not sleep. She kept thinking about the rat and then she thought about Slocum, how close he was, how warm he felt. One of her breasts touched his arm and she felt the nipple harden without any willingness of her own. He was a big man, and she felt safe lying next to him. She also felt stirrings in her own body and emotions. She had longed for such a man back in Illinois, a strong man who was self-sufficient and handsome.

  Did such dreams really come true? she wondered.

  But now,
she lay next to such a man, a man who had rescued her and killed two Kiowa to protect her. She owed him something, she reasoned.

  She owed him her life, for one thing.

  Perhaps she owed him much more. Did she dare to make the first move? What would John Slocum think of her if she showed him affection and more? Would he treat her like a slattern and have nothing more to do with her? Or was there a tenderness in him that might make him want to hold her tight and perhaps kiss her on the lips? And where would that lead?

  She reached up and touched Slocum’s face. She felt the wiry bristles of his beard, stroked his chin. A small thrill coursed through her body and his stillness emboldened her.

  She propped herself up on one elbow and leaned over his face. She gazed down at him, at his closed eyes, the square chin, the strong jaw, and became overcome with a rising passion that she could not stem. She kissed him lightly on the lips and electricity shot through her body and stirred her loins, generated a heat between her legs that warmed her entire body.

  She reached down with one hand and found the bulge in Slocum’s crotch. She stroked and caressed it, felt the slow hardening as blood began to engorge his cock.

  She continued to fondle his member until it grew long and hard as it lay on his abdomen. Her desire turned to lust and she crawled atop him. She lifted her dress and slid onto him, with only her panties touching his member inside his pants. She scooted back and forth, gently at first, and touched his lips with her fingers, wanting him, wanting him so badly, she could scream.

  She began to gyrate her hips and she felt Slocum’s hips respond, rising to meet her loins as if connected with invisible threads or sinew. He grew still harder and she pressed her pussy down on him until the fire rose to a feverish pitch.

  With frantic fingers, Melissa unbuckled Slocum’s belt as she arched above him. She unbuttoned his fly and exposed him. He was not wearing undershorts and his cock rose up like a mighty staff, inviting, throbbing, swollen to huge proportions.

  Melissa slipped out of her panties and lowered herself onto Slocum’s cock, sliding it into her steaming portal, which was slick with the oils of desire.