Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) (16 page)

He wanted to be in San Antonio when the snow fell on the Bighorns in the next six weeks. There were plenty of brown-skinned girls down there who danced and paraded their assets around the square across from the Alamo. They came in neat packages. All of them were easy to love and loved for someone to buy them drinks and watch their skills. Like minks in bed would best describe them. A winter spent like that would be more fun than stumbling through the deep snow in Wyoming. He could buy and sell enough cattle imported from below the border to finance his life of leisure down there.

The sun was down and the night insects chirped the evening away. Bats dove after insects. A coyote yapped and another answered. Wilma brought blankets for them to sit on and spread another over her shoulders while Slocum sat beside her.

“Where will you go,” she asked, “when you leave me?”

“Probably San Antonio. It's warm down there in the winter months.”

“You have a place down there?”

“No, I'll rent a room, buy some cattle in old Mexico, sell them up there to cover my expenses.”

“Sounds pretty leisurely. You like it down there?”

He nodded. No need to tell her that, besides the warm weather, the lovely females were the biggest draw.

“Guess we better take Jennifer's horse back too when we get to my place. Her old man will soon be coming up to bring her supplies and round up the yearlings he brought her last spring. He'll be disappointed with her dead. She told me he was usually horny by the time he got there. This year he'll go home horny.”

Slocum said, “He really will be.” He could recall making love to Jennifer in the bunk bed. That wasn't her first time having sex with a stranger, despite her disclaimer. But with a thirty-year-old healthy woman left all alone on a mountain for long stretches, one could expect such results.

After another rousing session under the covers, Slocum and Wilma slept hard and got up before sunup. He saddled and packed. She made coffee and oatmeal. They ate the hot cereal before the sun's first purple glow slipped over the Bighorns. Then, still stiff from sleeping on the ground, they climbed into their saddles and he took the lead up the canyon. She led the packhorse.

The towering cliffs rose straight up from beside the stream. He set Red onto the narrow trail, knowing his boot would be scuffing on the wall from time to time. He hoped they'd be on top by midday and have this narrow staircase behind them.

Soon the sun rose high enough to heat up the air, and he removed his hat long enough to wipe his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. Looking forward, he rode on, talking softly to Red on the worst parts. At a wide enough spot, he reined up and offered to help Wilma down.

Both relieved their bladders and then remounted. He couldn't think of much to say except, “Onward and upward.”

“Yeah,” she managed in a subdued voice.

He turned back and she looked fine. He gave her a smile and wink. By noon, they had safely reached the country where the wide saddle for the pass was a grassy meadow surrounded by pines. He dropped out of the saddle and hitched up his pants, then started over to help her.

“I'm fine,” she said, sounding confident, and dismounted by herself. “Damned if I don't think I'm getting tougher at this game.”

He hugged and kissed her. “You're a survivor.”

“Good. That was the best trip so far, up or down.”

“Let's go find Houston.”

“After I brush my hair. Do you think I'd look better in a dress or like I am?”

Good, she was thinking about making a good impression. “I'd save it for when we get there. Part of why I think he wants you for a housekeeper is you aren't afraid of the ways of this country.”

“Me, a housekeeper?” She shook her head. “I'll have to watch my tongue, and I guess I can sweep out a tent easy enough.”

Slocum laughed and they walked a good distance, leading the horses to get the kinks out of their tight muscles. In the saddle again, they soon found Houston's tent, but he wasn't in camp. Slocum went to busting up cooking wood and Wilma peeled some apples they'd found growing on a tree beside the road down at Ten Sleep.

“You know the choke cherries are about ripe down there?” she asked him.

“I'd noticed.”

“There's some on the east side of the Bighorns. I may go pick some over there.”

He laughed. “I thought you were over worrying about that trail.”

“Lord, no, I just made it back up here is all. That was enough for a while.”

Houston returned with his scoped rifle, almost out of breath. “How are you two? Did you get them?”

Slocum shook his head. “No telling where they went. We tracked them way up into the Yellowstone wilderness and finally ran out of supplies.”

“Worse than that,” she began. “They kidnapped a white woman, killed her husband and baby, and were dragging her around with them.”

“That is simply terrible.” Houston dropped into a canvas folding chair.

“Only so much you can do,” Slocum said over his shoulder, busy with the axe.

“Oh, I understand, but all that tracking and they still got away.”

“They'll turn up, and I'll eventually get them—if someone else doesn't lynch them before I do.”

Houston agreed. “Those bloody Pinkerton agents have been burning up this trail, looking for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

“They were in our camp down there last night asking about them,” Wilma said, looking up from her cooking.

“Well, missus. How are you?”

“You can call me Wilma. All my husbands are dead and I don't want them to come back and haunt me.”

Houston laughed. “Ah, Wilma, it is good to see you unscathed from all those mountains you crossed. You look very nice.”

“Oh, I'm sure a couple hundred miles in the saddle did that.”

“You do look very healthy. It must have agreed with you.”

“I'm fine. Have you found that big ram yet?”

Slocum hadn't paid much attention, but she'd switched her clothes and was wearing the housecoat that had made the Pinkerton agents gawk at her. Good girl. She did look extra shapely in it, and Houston hadn't missed seeing that as well. Anyway, so much for that. He hoped the man loosened up enough to ask her to become his housekeeper—and maybe even his housewife, eventually.

Things went well. Her apple dumplings were a big hit as a desert to crown the rest of her food. She was busy gathering dishes and Houston was helping. Slocum went off to leave them alone to talk. Houston was asking her about Yellowstone and they were sharing stories.

It was past midnight when she slipped into Slocum's bedroll.

He woke up sleepyheaded, realizing she was naked, and she kissed him. “Aren't you going to ask?”

“Did he hire you?”

“He asked me to come work for him. Said he wasn't looking for a slave. That he'd help me like he did tonight. He'd pay me thirty dollars a month and supply me with a new tent for myself while we lived in the wilds, as he called it. Said he planned to settle down someday and we'd live in a real house in Buffalo or Sheridan.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I'd let him know my decision in the morning.” Her hand had found his half-full pecker and was gently pulling on it. “He can wait that long. I told him I'd need to borrow his mule to haul my few possessions over here if I decided to take the job.”

He rolled over and eased himself on top of her. Kissing her and sipping on her left breast, he finally came up for air. “Good for you.”

“I hope so.”

He rose up enough for her to spread her legs apart, and he slipped his dick inside her. Whew, he'd damn sure miss her body. But he didn't dare winter up there in the Bighorns. Word would get out and his past—in the form of some bounty hunter—would come to find him. He needed to move on. Besides, he shivered at the thought of winter up here. Even in a bed under thick covers with Wilma tucked close for body heat, he'd get goose bumps.

Ah, she sure was like silk to ride.

They parted at Wilma's place after spending a day and long night together there while the north wind slapped heavy rain on her shack. The dawn brought clearing skies, and he was ready to take Jennifer's horse back to her place. He and Wilma kissed for a long time in the doorway. It was hard to separate from her, but there would be small talk in a bar somewhere in Montana or Wyoming, and his name would come up.
“Oh, he's down in the Bighorns.”

That would send some bounty hunter or hired gun in his direction. No, he'd been in the region long enough. He'd also thought lots about the letter he'd leave this time for Jennifer's husband. Bad deal, those killers getting away from him. Nothing he could have done for the poor woman they held hostage. He turned in the saddle and waved to Wilma. She was back there crying—nothing he could do about it. At least she had Houston to look after her, or her to look after him.

He settled into the saddle and, leading the packhorse, headed for Jennifer's place. Before he rode into to the yard, he surveyed the place from afar. Seeing no activity, he rode on down and turned the horse loose. With Red hitched, he went inside the house and added more to the back of the calendar on which he'd written his first note.

He left the small ranch and moved on, knowing he wouldn't reach Buffalo before dark, but he felt he needed to escape any more reminders of his grief and concern about his failure over Jennifer. Late that night he arrived in Buffalo, left his horse at the livery, and found a room in the brick hotel. He had a late supper in the hotel restaurant and went upstairs to bed.

In the morning, he took breakfast in a diner after checking out of the hotel. At the stables, he asked the liveryman to appraise Red. At this point, he wanted to take the afternoon stage to Cheyenne. The sooner he shook this country off his coattails, the better he would feel—or at least, he hoped that new country might clear his head.

“I'd give you fifty dollars for him.” The liveryman straightened from checking Red's front legs for splints.

“He's worth more than that.”

“I agree, but I have to make some money too.”

Slocum agreed. “I'll take it. He's a sound pony. You've got a bargain. I'm taking my saddle and gear to the stage office. I'll be back with him shortly

The man shook his hand. “Fine. I'll be here and pay you then.”

The stage depot was run by a man under a celluloid visor, who looked up from the counter when Slocum came inside the empty office and put his rig on the floor. “How far you going, mister?”

“Cheyenne.”

“Fare one way is thirty dollars.”

“That's fine. I'll be right back. When does it leave?”

“At two-thirty this afternoon.”

“I'll be back. Hold me a seat.” Slocum waved to him and walked back up the street, leading Red. He collected the money for the horse, thanked the man, clapped Red on the neck, and turned his back on the good horse, much as he had the day before with Wilma. Both separations cut deep, but they were simply an everyday reality in his life.

Saddle and bedroll loaded in the boot on the back of the stage, he took a front seat facing back and nodded to the two sleepy drummers seated in the one opposite. A nice-looking woman in her twenties showed up. She wore an expensive black velvet dress and a wide hat with balls on the fringe of the brim, and the station clerk and bowlegged stage driver started falling all over themselves to get her on board. She gave Slocum a poised smile at her entry and then took the seat beside him in a rustle of her layered dress. A rich-smelling perfume soon wound up his nose.

They left Buffalo in a charge and crack of a whip. The coach rocked and threw them together. On the way, it swung on the leather strap suspension and rocked them some more. But soon it was one with the dusty road and smoothed out some.

“My name is Carley Adams,” the woman said softly to Slocum in a smoky voice.

“Nice to meet you, ma'am. Slocum's my name.”

She unpinned the distracting hat, removed it, and shook her long dark curls out as if she was glad to be free. “I don't need this hat for the duration of this trip. How far are you going?”

“Cheyenne.”

“I'm going there as well. What business are you in, sir?”

“Livestock dealer.”

“Where are your offices?”

“Brownwood, Texas,” he lied to her.

“Oh, you live way down on the border.”

He nodded. “You on business or other?”

“Well.” She stretched her hands out in the long black gloves and then turned to look at him. “I'm coming from my husband's funeral in Billings.”

“Oh, so sorry. I apologize for asking.”

She didn't look at him, merely shook her head as if to dismiss his concern. “He was hung.”

“It is very long story and maybe I should take some time to explain the entire matter.”

“If you choose, ma'am.” He tried to act attentive, wanting to hear her story.

“Why don't you call me Carley?”

“Whatever you like to be called.” He noticed two streaking antelope race off across the rolling grassland. To the west was the outstanding range of the Bighorns. He turned back and met her gaze.