Slocum and the Bixby Battle Page 9

“Get four horses saddled and we’ll go recover it,” he shouted to Montez.

  “The cannon?” the man asked in disbelief.

  Slocum nodded. “They can’t use what they ain’t got.”

  “But—” Amanda started to protest and then silenced herself with her fist pressed to her mouth.

  “I need the best shot in the place up here,” Slocum said, looking over the crew.

  A tough-faced part-Indian came forward. There was no need to quiz this man’s skill, for his eyes told Slocum enough. The powerful Sharp’s was no stranger to this one. He handed the rifle to him.

  “We’re going after that cannon. Shoot anyone that you can who tries to stop us.”

  The Indian’s coal black eyes were deep set. He took the rifle and then bent over to get a cartridge from the señora’s hand. “I will do that,” he said and nodded at Slocum before he climbed off the staging.

  A horse was brought up for Slocum. The cart was moved aside from the opening. “Use your pistols when you need to,” Slocum said to the other riders and bounded onto the back of the bay horse. In a flash, they were on the run for their goal. Riding four abreast, they charged the hill where the unattended artillery piece sat.

  Two men on horseback busted out of the live oaks, shooting at them, but the ranch sharpshooter’s bullets cut them down. Slocum reined up the bay at the big gun and booted his horse around in a circle to keep a close eye on the cedars for any more snipers or resistance. Both cannoneers lay facedown in the dirt with bloody backs from the .50-caliber. Lariats were quickly tied on the tongue, dallies taken, and the three charged off with the gun trailing after them. Slocum emptied his handgun at the brush and then set heels to the bay.

  A few sporadic shots were all the defense the rest of the gun crew offered as the ranch crew rushed back for the compound. Out of control, the wildly bouncing cannon rolled over three times before they reached the gate. With a roar, a half dozen men rushed out to secure it back on its wheels and guided it inside the gate. Their victory cries warmed Slocum as he looked back over his shoulder and saw no pursuit.

  He stepped off his bay before the pony had hardly stopped, and turned his head when the .50-caliber went off on the wall above him. He looked in time to see a rider in the distance pitched off his horse. The mount tucked his tail to his ass and doubled his stride to get away, busting into the cedars.

  “Anyone recognize that one?” Slocum asked.

  “One they called Thurman,” someone said.

  “Five down. They’re going to need some recruits if my guess is right,” he said out loud, patting the hot cannon like a pet animal. “One thing’s for certain, they’ll have hell using this on us again.”

  A cheer went up and he nodded, pleased. “It ain’t over yet, boys. Bixby is an old war horse, and they never know when to quit.”

  Sobered by his words, everyone nodded.

  “To celebrate tonight, we’ll have a fandango,” Amanda said to them and hugged Slocum’s arm.

  “Yes,” he said in approval and noticed the white-faced Pedro standing on the porch of his mother’s jacal—smiling in approval at him.

  “Get some rest,” he shouted at the youth.

  Pedro nodded he heard his words, then turned to talk to the others gathering around him to hear of his adventure and wounds.

  Slocum headed for the house, grateful he could eat some food, then sleep for the next few hours. Amanda hung tight to his arm as if he might escape her—or even wanted to.

  What would Bixby try the next time?

  15

  “They captured the cannon?” Bixby inhaled up his nose. “What about Younkers and Meeker?”

  “Dead. Shot them at long range. They must of had a fifty-caliber buffalo gun. They blowed holes in them like outdoors.”

  “I thought . . .” Bixby collapsed against the wall of the house. How could a cannon fail against simple, dumb Messikins? Oh, damn. There were more problems, too. Between windmill wrecks, the damn hair shearing and the wounded ones—he had four men still laid up from that cantina girth cutting. He should have gone along and been in command. He figured that those two, Younkers and Meeker, would fire a few rounds and them Messikins would scatter like sheep. Instead they opened with deadly sniper fire and took the cannon. One thing, they didn’t have many charges for it—cause he didn’t either. Of course, if they knew anything at all about cannons, they’d know a few kegs of black powder would do the same thing.

  His fist clenched so tight his fingernails bit into his palms, and he suppressed a scream. What would he do next? She would never beat him. He was going to run her and that whole bunch of greasers out of that country up there.

  You may have that cannon, Slocum, you bastard, but I’ll get you and her, too.

  16

  She stood by the drapes and looked at the sunset from the bedroom window. The orange light of sundown fired the wall across the room. Still half-asleep, he scrubbed his face in his palms and wondered how long he could have slept—without the need to get up and learn all he could about the day’s activities.

  “Montez says he thinks that Bixby has sent for more gunmen.”

  “Where—the border or San Antonio?”

  “I think he would hire gringos, bad as he speaks of Mexicans.”

  “Well, good, he won’t find many tough white men there.”

  “Where are the tough ones?”

  “Up in the Indian Nation or Arizona.”

  “Why there?” she asked.

  “The Hashknife has most of the Texas toughs hired to work on their holdings in northern Arizona. They’re trying to hold on up there against the Mormons and small ranchers stealing them blind. The rest of the real bad ones are hiding out up in the Indian Nation ’cause they ain’t bothered much by anything but a handful of deputy U.S. marshals out of Fort Smith and Judge Issac Parker’s court.”

  She crossed the room and swept back her robe. “Do you have time for me?”

  He gazed like a starved man at her firm, pointed breasts and smiled as the robe slid from her shoulders. A mild head shake to make him awake enough to realize this was really happening, and he drew a deep breath and reached out to pull her to him. His mouth sought her smooth skin and raised up in time to capture the quarter-size right nipple in his lips and suckle it as she let out an exhale of pleasure.

  Her fingers threaded through the hair above his ears, and she cried out when he changed nipples to the other one. In seconds she was sprawled beside him and their mouths sought to put out the fire consuming them. Pierced by his great erection, she shouted aloud and hunched her back toward his effort to give her all he had to give. When at last he reached the bottom of her shaft, she tossed her head from side to side and moaned.

  When he knew any second he would explode, he pressed deep and she clung to him in desperation. Then like a cannon’s blast he shot off his gun and a cry escaped her mouth. For a long while, they remained hard pressed, suspended in their desire’s red-hot ashes. Until at last they collapsed like an avalanche into the goose-down mattress.

  Spent, they napped in each other’s arms, and never awoke until starlight fell through the window, to the floor. In the hills to the west, a coyote yapped at the quarter moon rising slow-like out of the east, as if he could hasten its speed. Slocum smiled at the coyote’s efforts and washed at the pitcher and bowl on the nightstand. He considered his beard stubble and decided that it would have to wait until later when he had some hot water to scrape it off.

  She took him from behind and pressed her ripe body against his back. “You running away?”

  “Nope, but you know that someday—I’ll have to ride on. I hope that I can stay long enough to get rid of Bixby for you.”

  “Listen, they’ve started the music already,” she said, not answering him. She ran to the window and looked across the grounds. Someone was lighting the Chinese lanterns, and she snuggled in his arms when he wrapped them around her. The heat from their lovemaking and sleeping so tight was evaporating f
rom her skin.

  “You will dance with me?” She looked up for his answer.

  “Yes—but the days I can stay here grow shorter.”

  She twisted around so her breasts stabbed him. Her dark eyes looked up at him. “Yes. But I—”

  “We can’t do anything. The time will come and I’ll have to ride out. I may only send you a note. I can’t have anyone hurt over my personal problems.”

  “These people would defend you.”

  “And someone would get hurt. No, I’ll just drift on when they come for me.”

  “How can they know you’re here?”

  “I don’t know. One of those cowboys we stripped and sent out of here with only a raincoat to wear will talk about me in some saloon or cat house. They’ve got their ways, and nothing else to do but track me down.”

  She buried her face in his chest and hugged him. “I will burn candles at the sanctuary for you.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep, but thanks.”

  “Will you ever ride by here again?” She threw her head back, and he could see the diamond-shaped tears on her cheeks.

  “No.”

  She nodded that she’d heard his answer and swallowed hard. “Goddammit!” Then she halfheartedly hit him on the shoulder with her fist. “You’re so damn stubborn.”

  “We better get dressed. I can hear the fandango has started down there.”

  “Yes, they will expect us.” She lighted a candle lamp for them to see by.

  “Rafael should be in San Antonio by now,” he said, pulling on his britches. He hooked the galluses over his shoulder and watched her put her arms in her dress and then shake it down over her figure. Damn shame he’d ever have to leave such a torrid woman. Maybe he would cut up through the Nation. He knew a dark-eyed Creek widow up on the Arkansas. Where he could rest his horse, reset the shoes on his pony and cut her some firewood—’less she’d found herself a man since the last time.

  Index fingers hooked in the mule ears, he stuffed his toes in his boot with some effort and at last stomped his foot in it. She came across the room brushing her dark hair as he pulled on the second one.

  “Will you leave when the Ranger arrives?”

  He shook his head. “You ever seen an Appaloosa horse?”

  “No.”

  “Well, this Kansas deputy’s horse I’m talking about is mostly black and he has a white blanket with black spots over his rump. Big, good-looking, powerful animal that carries his head a little high—you can’t miss him. Belongs to the Kansas deputy Ferd Abbott.”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes. With her hands, she swept her hair together and had him tie it in a ribbon.

  “Will I look all right?”

  “You look beautiful. Why?”

  “Sometimes you wonder living on the inside of this body.”

  “I didn’t tell you that to ruin your evening. I wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking his arm and looking back over the room. “Come, my ghost man. I want as much of you as I can get before you leave. I hope you’re rested.”

  He grinned at her. “Ready for the war.”

  “You’ll think war.” Then she elbowed him in the ribs.

  Montez came by and with a head toss drew him back in the shadows of the yard.

  “This is Señor Penta.” He motioned at a shorter man dressed in a suit. “He saw Rafael on the road. He was riding hard for San Antonio.”

  “Good.”

  The man nodded then spoke softly. “But behind him a couple of hours were two of McKlein’s deputies on sweaty horses. I think they were after him.”

  “Shit.” Slocum looked at the dark sky for help.

  “What should we do?” Montez asked.

  “I better ride for San Antonio. Saddle the big gray horse; he’s the fastest and hottest blooded one.” He turned to the man and shook his hand. “I appreciate the information, amigo. Thanks.”

  “Be careful. All these people around here are counting on you.”

  “I will be.” He wet his cracked lips. Damn, he’d have to tell her. He dreaded that more than anything else. Already upset over the mention of his having to ride out one day, she’d not take this trip that he must make as a good thing either.

  He swept her up by the arm and steered her back in the shadows beside the main house. Montez had already sent a boy to saddle the gray for him.

  “What’s wrong?” She frowned at him.

  “I just got word that Rafael may not have made it to San Antonio.”

  “Huh?”

  “Señor Penta is here. He saw two of McKlein’s deputies riding hard on Rafael’s backtrail.”

  “What are you—oh, no. Slocum, send someone else—please?”

  “No, I’ll get through. You keep the main crew here at the ranch and the gates guarded. Bixby may get some help hired and be desperate enough to charge in here anyday.”

  “Oh, please?”

  “Is that rifle on him loaded?” he asked Montez, indicating one in the scabbard of the high-strung gray dancing around at the edge of the crowd.

  The foreman went to check it. He nodded as they made small talk.

  “Will I ever see you again?” she asked in the voice of a schoolgirl.

  “I can’t promise you anything. But I swear I’ll do my damndest to get back here and see you again.”

  She hugged him, the wetness of her tears soaking into his shirt. Others gathered around and he nodded to them. “We have word that Rafael may have been ambushed or arrested.”

  The men and women bobbing their heads at him wore solemn looks. The music stopped. Only the creaking sizzle of the locusts cut the night.

  “I’m going to get your vest,” Amanda said and started for the house. “Don’t leave until I get it?”

  “I won’t.” He turned to the crowd. “There is a time to dance and sing, the psalms say. Start the music and dance, my friends. Tonight we dance and sing. I’ll be back in three days with a Texas Ranger. He will stop this crazy man and you can go back to your work. Now dance! Sing!”

  He led the gray toward the house, and the fandango started again, but he could hear none of the excitement of before. It pained him, but there was nothing he could do. If he hadn’t been there when Bixby brought the cannon, the cannoneers might have leveled the ranch headquarters. He hoped they could defend the place till he returned. Damn.

  17

  Bixby began to pace the porch. His man Kerby Jones was sitting his horse waiting for his orders.

  “Jones, I want every man armed and ready to ride in the morning. We’re taking that damn Debaca place tomorrow.”

  Bixby coughed up a big hocker from his throat and spat in the dirt. “How many men can we have?”

  “Call in the windmill guards, too?”

  In rage, he scowled at his man. “I want everyone can sit a damn horse.”

  “Thirty.”

  “Have them ready to ride at daylight. We’ll kill every one of them if they resist us.”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel.”

  With a nod of approval, Bixby headed for the front door. Lots to think about and plan. He went to study the map of that area on the wall in his office. He was back in his commander days again as the shaft of sunlight came through a field of dancing dust. McKlein should be there to help him. This hacienda he had promised to the sheriff. Why that lawman was so fascinated with owning that two-story house he would never know. But he had been, ever since they first talked about dividing the spoils of this country. Maybe McKlein had changed his mind about the place, but Bixby doubted it.

  A glass of whiskey in his hand, he backed away from the map. As he leaned back in his chair, the springs creaked. For him the greatest prize would be Bonito Creek—then he would hold the entire country—and ah, Señora Debaca for his own plaything. Speaking of play-things, where was his Edora?

  “Edora!” he shouted.

  No answer.

  He called her name again.

  No answer. He shrugged
his shoulders and got up to pour himself another whiskey. The new drink in his hand, he went back to the kitchen.

  “Lupe, where is that girl?”

  “I haven’t seen her all morning long, señor.”

  “You see her, tell her to get her ass in there.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  That little bitch was hiding. He’d find her and beat her bare ass with a quirt. She needed a good lesson anyway. He looked out the window and wondered where she could be. Never mind, he had business to do. She’d show up in a few hours—if she’d been out screwing one of his gunhands, he would beat her butt till it was raw. Damn her, where was she?

  No one had seen Edora all day when he took his supper. At least that’s what they told him. The notion of her disappearance niggled him. But he was busy meeting with Jones and getting his plans all set for the action against Debaca’s place. Past ten o’clock, he dropped in bed, even more angry that Edora wasn’t there to service his throbbing erection. Where had she run off to?

  Dawn, he awoke and strained to empty his bladder through his turgid shaft. No time to find anyone. The kitchen help were so old or ugly—damn, he would beat that little whore until she’d know better than to ever leave him again.

  He dressed in a good business suit for his position as their leader. A toothless old hag brought his breakfast on a tray and interrupted his thinking about the glory of his victory over the ranch defenders. The food turned to paste in his mouth. Sunbeams coming through the front door crept across the worn floorboards. He choked down some too hot coffee and shoved the food aside. This plan to take the place had to work.

  When his army left the ranch, he rode at the front of the column. Jones had sent two men ahead to scout the place. Good man, that Jones. He had more men like him, this job would be over. A fresh breath of the cedar’s pungent aroma swept Bixby’s face. He could taste his victory. Men, guns and plenty of ammo—it would be a sweet day.

  “Someone’s coming,” Jones said, riding in at his side.

  His hand on his pistol butt, Bixby nodded.

  “My scouts,” Jones said and booted his horse forward to meet the pair.