Slocum and the Comanche Captive Read online

  “I’m worried,” she said, looking around at the gray sea of greasewood and dead brush.

  “We’ll take care of you.”

  “I know, but there could be many of them.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so. . . .”

  Paco soon disappeared in the heat wayes. Slocum could regret deciding to break the big horse before that day was over—it was not nearly as dependable as one of his string. Not even broken to rein worth much. Slocum had to plow-rein him around in a wide circle to get close enough to talk to Mary. It would be good to know the cause of the fire and the source.

  “What—what should we do?” she asked.

  “Keep moving that way. More than likely we’re too late to help them.”

  “Too late. You think they’re dead?”

  “Easy, easy, girl. Whatever was set on fire is burned by now is what I mean.”

  Her emphatic head shake and look showed him the fear and disappointment she felt. Maybe it would all turn out to be an innocent thing. But the rock in the pit of his stomach told him that whatever lay ahead was serious.

  He reined up at the sight of Paco coming back on the run. “What happened?”

  The grim look on his face answered half his question. “Boys are dead. Shot in their sleep—” He checked his hard-breathing horse dancing under him.

  “No one alive?”

  “I didn’t see Lopez or the colonel.”

  “We better go bury them.”

  Paco nodded.

  “Who did it?” she asked.

  “I ain’t sure it was Comanch—them boys was shot in the face at close range.”

  Slocum frowned. Who else could have done it? He motioned for Paco to lead the way and then looked at Mary. “Whoever did it—we’ll find ’em.”

  She agreed with a grim look and jerked on her pack string to make them come on. In a half hour, they’d know more.

  7

  Writing in his own blood with a finger for a pen, Lopez had scrawled MATT on a flour sack. Slocum held it in his hands and read it standing in the smoke of the smoldering yokes and wagon. They’d found the cook’s body on the far side of camp.

  “I never figured he could write,” Paco said, squatted down beside Slocum, looking over his shoulder at the man’s scrawl.

  “He passed first grade with this note.” Slocum shook it in his hands, filled with bitterness and rage. “Matt was mad at him for running him off. Came back and got his revenge. Man, he cut him up and left him to die a sorry death.”

  He averted his look from Lopez’s bloody body and the flies feeding on the black blood. The sight was more than upsetting—worse than the powder-burn-speckled faces of the crew members with round dark holes drilled in their un-sunbaked foreheads where hats had kept the skin shaded— two in the kid’s face inches apart. Slocum had closed the boy’s wide fear-filled eyes. Matt had aimed to be damn sure he was dead.

  “Wanted it to look like Indios did it,” Paco said.

  “Yeah, give them the blame. No sign of the colonel’s body?” Slocum asked him.

  “None.” Paco shook his head as if confused by not finding any sign of him. “I circled all around. He never crawled off where I can see.”

  “There’s a shovel that escaped the fire.” Slocum pushed off his knees to straighten up. “We better bury them.”

  “Sí. Maybe they know in Rio Frio where Matt is at?”

  “We can go see about him after the burying. Matt must’ve stolen the horses. No sign of them, is there?”

  “They were drove away from the tracks I’ve seen.”

  “Broke horses would sell easier than range cattle. The colonel had a few good ones. I liked the big gray he rode. He ever mention to you about having a wife or family?”

  Paco blinked his good eye and shook his head as if in deep consideration. “No.”

  With a blanket Mary brought him, Slocum covered the old man’s body. “Comanche ain’t the only ones that get brutal.”

  She acknowledged his words, looking pale and shaken by the turn of events. “I thought . . . only Indians did such things.”

  “The world’s full of savages in all colors.”

  “This was a real lesson in that. What do you think happened to the colonel?”

  “No telling, but the sight of this tells me it probably was not good.” Not good at all. “We better get them buried and ride into Rio Frio.”

  The sun dying in the west cast the last long shadows of the day across the hot breathless land. Slocum sat cross-legged on the ground and reviewed the incident. The scene of carnage and the subsequent mass burial had filled him with many ill feelings. Matt had turned into a mad-dog killer. Those three cowboys had done nothing to him to deserve to be executed. The whole thing was the insane act of a rabid individual.

  Obviously, Matt must have recruited some others like ghouls to assist him in the slaughter of the outfit. Slocum would cross their path again and even the score for the outfit. He looked up as Paco dropped to squat on his boot heels close by him.

  “Mi amigo, what should we do?”

  “Go to the village and see if we can learn anything about the colonel.”

  “What if we learn nothing?”

  Slocum looked off in the dimming twilight. “I count between five and seven hundred head of cattle we could drive to Sedalia. If we could find some horses and cowboys, we could drive them up there.”

  “I could find some vaqueros across the border. But how would we feed them?”

  “On credit. With a herd of cattle we could get some credit.”

  Paco shook his head. “I don’t savvy . . . cred-it.”

  “It’s when they advance you money on the strength of your assets.”

  “Oh, that is even worse.” He clapped Slocum on the shoulder. “I leave that to you. You think the colonel is dead?”

  Slocum nodded slowly. “Or he would be here.”

  “Maybe so. But what if he is alive?”

  “Then we’ll get the cattle together for him.”

  Paco shifted his weight to his other leg. “You ever been to Missouri?”

  “No, but I’d never been to Texas before and I found you.”

  With a wide grin, Paco shook his head and pushed his sombrero back on his shoulders. “What will we do for horses?”

  “Catch them. They’re for free and all it takes is hard work.”

  “Whew!” He sliced the sweat off his forehead with his trigger finger. “Break wild horses. Borrow money. Find vaqueros. Go to Missouri. How far is it away?”

  “A couple of months.”

  “A couple of months? It must be a long ways.”

  Slocum agreed as Mary’s fire glow began to reflect from their faces. “But what else have we got to do?”

  “Nothing. I ride with you, mi amigo.”

  “Good,” Slocum said, and hoped the man never regretted it.

  “We’re going to town in the morning,” he said to Mary when she brought him a plate of steaming frijoles.

  She paused and then nodded, straightening her back as if stiff. “I’ll bring yours in a minute,” she said to Paco. “Then tonight I want to go down to the lake and bathe.”

  “I’ll go along,” said Slocum.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll still go—you can’t tell about Comanches.”

  “Fine.” With a swish of her blanket skirt, she went for Paco’s plate; after that, she joined them amid the sound of the creaking insects. Somewhere, a coyote cut the night with his yipping, then a chorus joined him.

  After they ate, she washed the tinware and came with a flour-sack towel to where he sat smoking a roll-your-own from Paco.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Fine,” he said, and rose to his feet. He could feel the stiffness from the grave-digging in his arms and shoulders. “We’ll be back, Paco.”

  “Sí. Have a good time getting wet.” His laughter shattered the starlit world. “Should we be on guard?”

&n
bsp; “Get some sleep. I’ll watch things for a while.”

  “I can do that. Wake me later. Thanks, Señora, for the meal.”

  “You’re welcome.” They were off through the knee-high greasewood headed for the lake.

  Slocum fell in behind her on the path. Over his shoulder, a quarter moon began to rise. He’d be grateful for the light.

  “This cattle business isn’t getting you home,” he said.

  She turned and shook her head to dismiss his concern. “I am so glad to be free, I don’t really care.”

  “It may be months before we are even close to your home.”

  “Don’t worry about me—I am at ease in your camp.”

  He nodded that he understood. Perhaps there was less at home for her, knowing that her husband and son were dead.

  That alone would be tough enough for her to go back and face, besides wondering how folks would react to learning of the repeated rapes by her captors.

  At the edge of the shiny water, she began to undress. He found a place to scrape aside the rocks and sticks and sit on the ground. Since she didn’t seem to mind him viewing her, he took in her movements in the silver light. Clear of the blouse and skirt, she went gingerly over the deep pocks of dried cow tracks to the edge. Then, like an otter, she waded in and began to swim. Her wet shoulders glowed as her arms reached out for each stroke. At last, she stood on the far side and wiped her face with her hands.

  “Come on. Join me.” She waved to him.

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “Come on. I’m not afraid.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  “All I worry about is being accepted at home.”

  He nodded and rose to toe off his boots. “I understand.”

  Then, standing on one foot at a time, he shed his socks. Next came his shirt, and he slid off his pants exposing his skin to the still-hot night air. His clothes hung over a bush, he set out like a sore-toed bear over the stiff obstacles. Damn, how did she go about so easy barefoot all the time? He’d have to find her some footwear in town.

  Sandy mud oozed between his toes as he waded toward her in the warm water. She never moved. She stood there as if waiting for him. When he drew close, she put out her arms and he swept her into his own. Her firm, teardrop breasts pressed into his lower chest and he savored their closeness.

  He bent over and kissed her. Their lips locked and their hungry tongues sought each other. They were alone on another planet, aeons away from the memory of brutal murders and all the troubles that plagued them.

  When at last they separated, out of breath, she softly laughed at him. “You forgot to bring a blanket.”

  “I did,” he said, hugging her tight in his arms. “What shall I do?”

  “Dry off and go find one,” she said in a small voice.

  They slipped into camp and carried his bedroll away from the snoring Paco to a place apart where Slocum scraped the trash and sticks clear with the side of his boot. She unfurled the bedroll and made certain it was devoid of any lumps under the ground cloth. While she did that, he toed off his boots and shucked his clothing.

  Realizing he was undressed, she sat up on her knees and undid the shirt’s buttons. “I have waited for this time.”

  “I have waited until you were sure.” He dropped down in front of her and took her in his arms as she fought loose the strings at her waist. She rose and shed the skirt, then hurried back to face him.

  “I am never sure of—of anything in my life since that day.” She sniffed and then buried her face on his shoulder. “But I have tried to forget—oh, don’t worry if I cry. I need to cry a lot—not about you and me—I mean here, tonight. . . .”

  “It’s all right.” He squeezed her tight. She felt good in his arms. He knew many fears had consumed her since he’d found her—maybe from here on she could recover and find her place in life.

  “Love me and have me. Oh, I am so wanton, God forgive me.”

  He covered her mouth with his. Her breasts hard against him, he sought the fire of her tongue. Set afire, they both could not get enough oral attention. Then he spilled her on the bedroll and tasted her left nipple. Traces of the water’s gyp taste filled his mouth as he devoured her breasts and she squirmed in pleasure. Soft moans escaped her lips as she clutched his head to her.

  His tongue traced a downward path on her body, and she gasped in recognition of his purpose. Her fingers combed anxiously through his hair, clutching and releasing him to flatten and then hunch her shoulders in wild expectation of his lips on her skin.

  A sharp cry escaped her lips when he gathered her legs up and began to kiss her gates. Unable to stand it a moment longer, she pulled him upward. “Now. Now.”

  Her body trembled in anticipation of his entry. He moved forward over her, heady drunk on wanting to take her. Underneath him, he eased his erection into her wet gates and she spread her legs wider. Her strong hands clutched him when the swollen head passed her tight ring. With her bare heels beating a tattoo on the back of his calves, he felt the waves of her contractions with each plunge into her nest. Harder and harder, his buttocks ached to be completely inside her. Again and again he sought the depth of her, until she hunched up and gave a short groan— she’d come.

  For a second she went limp; then, shaking free of the delirium, she reached up and cupped his face in her hands to kiss him on the mouth.

  “Go,” she whispered, and settled back. In minutes she was wild again, head tossing her hair in her face. Raising her butt off the blankets to meet his charge, she hunched hard at him in total abandonment. Her fingernails raked his back and she even bit him on the chest—then he drove deep and the tickling in his scrotum began. With a hard effort, he drove himself against her pubic bone, grinding their coarse hair between them and exploding inside her.

  She fainted under him. Braced over her, he could do nothing but smile down on her in the starlight. “You all right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Think so?”

  She pulled him down on top of her. “How would I know? How can I feel so—so fulfilled and still want more?”

  “Your womanhood has blossomed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You found out you’re a woman.”

  “But I was married—had a nice husband—even had a son.” She shook her head in dismay. “And here I am. Wanting more of you and what you have done to me tonight.”

  “We have to savor life as we go—it’s a short time here.”

  “Trust me. I won’t waste any ever again.” She reached underneath him and squeezed his half-hard dick in her fingers. “Let’s not talk about it—now.”

  “Fine,” he said, scooting his blanket-burned knees forward to follow her reinsertion.

  “Send me away again,” she said, and threw her arms out in abandonment for him to take her.

  And he did.

  8

  A low profile of jacales sat on the flat land. Rio Frio huddled on the dusty plains bathed in heat waves under the mid-morning sun.

  “What if the killers are there?” Paco motioned with a head toss toward the village.

  “I guess we can deal with them.”

  “You have no bad feelings about this—no worries that they might be waiting for us?” Paco shrugged under his vest.

  “There is no one to buy his stolen horses there.”

  “Ah, you make a good notion, mi amigo. No horse buyers in Rio Frio. Why did I not think of that?”

  “You aren’t a money man.”

  Paco slapped his great saddle horn with his palm. “You are my banker. Huh, Señora, he is our banker?”

  “We’re leaving all that to Slocum.” She smiled at the Mexican.

  “Good. You have any money?” Slocum asked him.

  “A few pesos, why?”

  “I have some too. We need to pool our money here and now.”

  She threw her hands up, riding between the two. “I have none.”

  “Here is mine,
” Paco said, and tossed him the leather purse. “There is not much there.”

  Slocum nodded that he understood. “Let’s trot. We have much to do in this place.”

  “What about the colonel?” Paco asked, holding up his horse before they took off.

  “If he’s not in the village, I’m not sure what happened to him.”

  “Nor me. Let’s ride.”

  Slocum met the man who owned the dusty store, Herman Goeserman. A man with dark hard eyes and stiff black hair, Goeserman spoke with a German accent whether in Spanish or English.

  “No, the colonel, he owes me no money. He was a very good customer. Paid cash. Vere is he?”

  “We don’t know. Some killers murdered the rest of the crew while we were up north unyoking cattle. We never found his body.”

  “Vot they do with it?”

  “I ain’t certain, but if he was alive, I figured he’d’ve shown up by now.”

  Grim-faced, Goeserman nodded. “Ja.”

  “Paco and I want to take those cattle to Missouri. But we’d need some supplies to ever get there.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough frijoles, rice, lard, baking powder, flour, cornmeal, raisons, sugar, and coffee for a crew.”

  Goeserman squeezed his pointed beard and nodded as if in deep thought over the matter. “Maybe several hundred pesos, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you own no land around here. Why would you come back and pay me?”

  “’Cause I always pay my debts.”

  The German shook his head. “But I don’t know you. What if you fall off your horse and drown going there?”

  “Then Paco or Mary will bring you your money.” Slocum glanced at them and they both nodded.

  With a suspicious cut of his black eyes, Goeserman nodded slowly. “I expect to double my money for such a risk.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So what now?”

  Slocum hooked a thumb at Mary. “She needs a riding skirt and a few blouses, a hairbrush, a new straw hat, and some footwear.”

  The storekeeper made a “hmmm” sound from his nose and nodded. Then he called out, “Gresalda.”

  A short Mexican woman appeared, and he talked in Spanish to her about Mary’s needs.