Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) (11 page)

“Aye, who would hire killers to find the likes of you?”

“A rich old man whose son came back drunk to a card game and accused me of cheating.”

“Money buys killers, doesn't it? Did you meet that pair that they got drunk?”

Slocum made a grim nod. “Once. Their names are Smith and Ward. Those two came by when Wilma was gone to get supplies. They told me that they were looking for Sundance to join his gang. I believe those two robbed and killed their Texas boss after he made a big cattle sale in Montana and they were started back home. He's still missing, best I know.”

“So they wanted to join Sundance's outfit, huh?” Houston nodded as if considering the matter.

“You know Sundance? Would he have taken them on?”

“I know some things about him. He's kinda choosy and stays with Mormon help, figures he can trust them better. You know more than that?”

“Yeah, I've met those famous outlaws, Cassidy and Sundance. They came by Wilma's place. Later, Smith and Ward showed up. Those two got caught in a bad storm and I met them when they came to the cabin for shelter. Montana law wants them. It sounds like they got drunk and told those two killers about me being up here.”

Houston agreed. “What now?”

“Bury them or feed them to the magpies.”

Houston frowned at his answer. “They must have horses nearby. Cowboys never walk far. We'll toss their corpses over them, tie them on, and I will deliver them to some authority,” Houston said. “Don't worry, I won't implicate either of you. Now, what are the two of you going to do?”

“Eat some supper,” Wilma said. “I've got some good beef to cook.”

“Wonderful,” Houston said.

“Sounds good,” Slocum said. “Tomorrow we're going to look for those two killers out in the badlands. I understand that they have a place out there near some hot springs.”

“A vast area. When you come back, look me up.”

“We will,” Wilma said, and Slocum agreed.

“My dear lady, how unfortunate that you had to be in the midst of all this bloodshed.”

“Pard.” She shook her head as she was on her knees making a fire. “I've been in lots worse places. Thank you anyway.”

“Of course, I imagine you have been. All the same, I regret their imposition on all of us.”

“You be careful too,” she said. “You two can go find their horses. Going to take me a half hour to get this cooking going.”

She made supper while Slocum found and brought in the two horses. Then the two men used the outlaws' bedding to wrap their bodies in. With the corpses laid out, they planned to load them onto the horses in the morning after breakfast.

Houston was shaken by the whole thing when he spoke during supper. “I don't mind taking them to the law, but why would men become killers for such trivial prices?”

Slocum shook his head “No telling. Sounded easy enough. I just appreciate you taking charge of them.”

“No problem, chap. It has been rather adventuresome.” Houston beamed.

 

After breakfast the next morning, Slocum and Wilma loaded the two bodies onto their owners' horses and tied them down, then parted with Houston. Slocum watched the Englishman ride off leading the corpse-bearing animals and his mule. Wilma slipped under Slocum's arm to join him. “Now, ain't he a dandy,”

“A real one.” Slocum laughed. Houston knew that Slocum had no business messing with the law up there, even if the shooting had been self-defense. The man had done him a big favor handling it and freeing them to go look for the pair of killers. Finding those two would not be easy, but Slocum was sure he'd find someone who knew where they were hiding.

“You know, you could go home and be safe,” he said to Wilma as he finished cinching his horse and dropping the stirrup. Jennifer's horse was packed and they were ready to ride off.

“I'd rather rough it with you.” She wrinkled her nose at him and grinned.

He smiled at her. Under her weather-beaten felt hat, her face beamed with a freshness and her brushed hair looked bright. No way was she going to be separated from her source of pride: him. With a knowing wink, he nodded that he understood and swung onto his horse. They were off.

The desert beyond Ten Sleep was barren, obviously a much drier land than the Bighorns. Far across this sagebrush desert land lay Yellowstone, the country's federal park and a sacred land to many natives. Still ten nights' sleep away, Slocum had no plans to go see it again. He recalled that the land of steam blowouts, mud pots, and wild game was a great adventure to explore, but he wanted those two killers run down. Someone out in this wasteland would know where they were located.

They found a large flock of sheep and spoke to the shepherd, a scruffy older white man who eyed both of them as if he was suspicious of their interest in him. Slocum understood his fears—sheep people fought lots of opposition from stockmen who claimed that the woolies ruined the range.

“I'm looking for two killers,” Slocum said. “One wears a wolf skin cape, and they have a place out here somewhere.”

He nodded like he understood. “They came by here a few days ago. I figured they were crazy too. Made me concerned about them killing me for what little I have.”

“Deushay and Roberson are their names.” Slocum waited for the old man's validation.

“Yes, I met them last year. Their place is somewhere south of here near Red Canyon. You ever been down there?” he asked.

Slocum reined Red around and looked at Wilma. “You ever been there?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Head south.” The old man sliced the air with his right arm in that direction. “There's some reddish shades to the rocks. You can't miss them. I'd say they were living in that area.”

“Thanks. What can I do for you?”

The old man scratched the shaggy gray hair over his ear. “I don't need nothing. You two be careful. They ain't nice people.”

“Thanks for your warning. We'll be careful.”

The two of them rode on with little conversation, looking at the ground a lot for signs of fresh tracks. Slocum never felt that they were following any certain trail or tracks. Late in the evening they found a small stream coming from the towering mountains. Wood fuel and even cow pies were both in short supply. He found a dead bush and dragged it in for Wilma to add to their short supply of fuel.

“Thanks,” she said. “We'll have enough with that.”

He agreed and dismounted. “We still aren't in that red rock area that the old man talked about yet.”

She nodded as he undid Red's girth, unsaddled him, and turned him loose to join the other two. Grass was scarce in this land, but the three horses were finding some. Survivors were what he considered them. A fussy horse would never make it in places like this. He'd seen stable horses wilt away in such a cross-country ride. It required a real eager horse, one that wouldn't turn his head away from the available forage, to survive the harsh deserts.

“Think we're going to find them?” She poured him some bubbling coffee into a tin cup.

“I haven't given up. Have you?”

With a glance aside after putting her coffeepot back, she smiled at him. “Hell, I'd go chase boogers with you into never-never land.”

He laughed and squatted beside her. “That's what I call loyalty.”

Feeling his hand on her shoulder to comfort her, she acknowledged his words, then she rose to use a hook to turn the Dutch oven lid, covered in hot ashes, to more evenly brown her biscuits. A whiff of the sweet sourdough smell attacked his nose when she raised the lid—it would be a great evening.

Later, in the bedroll, he made hard love to her in the gathering coolness of the night. Then crickets set into a serenade for them as they fell asleep. He woke once under the bright stars, turned an ear to any odd sounds, and, satisfied, he went back to sleep till the predawn. In the chill of predawn, he dressed, pulled on his boots, and went to the edge of camp to empty his bladder. Pissing a stream off in the dim light, he heard horses—other than his. He ran for camp and scooped up his rifle.

“What's wrong?” she whispered.

“Horses out in the night.”

“Who in the hell are they?”

Then he heard the stallion's scream and laughed. “Mustangs who want to steal the pack mare.”

“Horny, huh?” Seated, she laughed, pulling on her boots.

“I guess. Well, we're up. Let's eat and ride some more.”

She stood on her toes and kissed him. “Whatever, boss man.”

After breakfast, they saddled, packed, and rode out to look for fresh tracks in the golden sun shining on the painted rocks. Crossing a ridge on a much-used trail, he reined up Red. He looked over the country that rolled out before them—they'd found the red rocks.

“Here's the red country,” she said, smiling proudly, and reined up beside him.

Disappointed, he shook his head. “A big land to look for them in.”

He found several fresh signs and they all came from the east.

“Is that the canyon?” she asked.

“Must be.” A deep chasm cut into the rising mountains. Out of the cut, a small stream flowed, then quickly went underground in the sand. No telling about the two killers. They could have been watching Slocum and Wilma ride in, or they could have been sleeping, secure that no one was after them. The clack of the horses' shoes proved loud on the rocks when they began to enter the opening. Some fresher horse apples were strung up the trail and made him satisfied that the killers had either gone up or come down this route.

A few hours later, he smelled smoke. And when he twisted in the saddle, she nodded that she had detected it too. No sign of much here; there were bushy junipers in the canyon and the trail wound through them. A good place to get ambushed. At last the way opened to some grassland. He could see a few hide-covered lodges and the source of the smoke. Out of habit, his hand sought his gun butt.

“What is this?” she asked quietly from behind him.

“Must be a renegade camp. I never heard of any Indians over here until that bartender in Ten Sleep mentioned it.”

“Neither have I.”

A short old woman came out and shaded her eyes with her hand against the sun's glare to look them over.

He raised his hands in a peace sign and halted his horse. She came toward them, neither friendly nor unfriendly. When she drew closer, he saw she was very old and one of her eyes was stone white. Her buckskin clothing was glazed with dirt and gray with age. The leather looked as fragile as she appeared to be.

“I'm looking for Deushay and Roberson.”

“Them motherfuckers gone. I glad,” she said.

“I don't blame you. Where did they go?”

“Wellowstone.”

“Why there?” he asked, realizing she meant Yellowstone.

“Who knows? Bastards gone. Me glad. You got whiskey? Toothache.” She held her hand to her jaw.

Her left eye was a white marble, and he knew many considered such things bad medicine. “No whiskey. Who lives here?”

“Me.”

“No others?”

“Sometimes others come hunt sheep.”

She meant bighorns—he knew that. “Those two live here sometimes?”

She made a sour face. “Stay sometimes for many moons, then ride away. I like them stay away.”

Slocum nodded. “Who else is here?”

Her headshake told him no one. He turned to Wilma. “Let's camp here tonight and we can head for Yellowstone tomorrow. It's a good distance from here.”

“Ten plus days, huh?”

“Yes. They might not even be there, and we might not be able to find them. It is a huge place.” He shook his head in disappointment.

“Oh, we'll find them. You are too persistent not to.”

“Why you want them?” the old lady asked.

“They raped and killed a woman.”

She nodded. “Me lucky. They never kill me.”

“Holy cow!” Wilma said, sounding upset as she dismounted. “They raped you?”

“Many times.”

“They need a lance stuck up their asses.” Wilma took his reins and led the horses toward the creek to water them. “They don't deserve to live.”

Slocum laughed. Wilma was really boiling. Those worthless tramps raping an old Indian woman. It was a sorry thing, but it had her ire raised up to a hundred twenty degrees. She'd probably stomp around all day over that.

“Where are the hot springs?” he asked the old woman.

“No more,” the old woman said with a shrug. “Big roar and rumble and they go dry. Why they went to Wellowstone.”

Must have been an earthquake shut them down. “You hear that, Wilma? The hot springs are dry. Why they left, I bet.”

“I heard something about why they left.” Her hands on her hips, she forced her breasts forward to find some relief for the muscles in her back as the horses drank. He knew what the problem was. His back muscles were the same way—tender. Too much lovemaking at night—but maybe he could stand some more.

The next day they rode northwest, leaving the one-eyed old woman alone in her camp. They left her some coffee and sugar. At a trading post and store they came across the next day, Slocum purchased more supplies to get them to the park. Several families were homesteading along the small river. The storekeeper had seen the two passing by, but they hadn't stopped.

Supplies loaded on the pack mare, Slocum and Wilma rode north across the vast sagebrush sea. It was day two on their trail since leaving the settlement. He'd shot an antelope the day before and had taken the hind quarters. They cooked a big part of it and feasted on it yesterday. The balance would need to be cooked that evening. Days were heating up as the season moved into the hottest part of summer, and the desert was much hotter than the Bighorns' elevation.