Slocum 421 (3 page)

The next man said he had three jacks and shook his head, tossing in his cards

The three-queen player was grinning like a possum eating shit when he looked over at Slocum. “What have you got?”

“A full house fours and aces.”

The expectant winner slumped in his chair. “I'll be a sumbitch. I had the best hand of the night and you beat me. Go tell Stowe to get off the pot. You're luckier than he is.”

Everyone laughed.

“Say, Slocum, you figure out who killed her?” an older man asked.

“No. They were stripped naked and not one small item was around them. Besides her, one of the men about thirty had prisoner-of-war numbers tattooed on his right arm.”

“Giles Gifford.”

“You knew him?”

“Hell, yes. He was a captain in the Mississippi Cavalry.”

“Well him and a dark-haired man was the other one. I figured they'd all been with Bradford and she ran off with them.”

“Or they kidnapped and took her.”

“I don't know,” Slocum said. “Bradford took her body back to bury her at his Camp something.”

“Washington,” the man said. “He has big plans to build a nation out here.”

“Hell, folks been planning those sort of things since they shot Alexander Hamilton,” another man said. “They never get nowhere. What made you think they kidnapped her?”

“I don't think she'd left there with Gifford.”

“Why not?”

“To be honest,” the old man said and picked up his new hand. “He was a real prick. No one liked him. He was mad all the time. Like he was still in prison. I doubt she'd even given him the time of day. There wasn't a black guy killed there too?”

“No. Why?”

“He had an ex-slave that grew up with him and still waited on him hand and foot. Some guys would tell him Lincoln set him free, and he'd say ‘Not me. My momma said long as I lived I was responsible for him and his safety. Lincoln don't make no never mind for me.'”

“What was his name?”

“Joshua Gifford. I figured that Gifford's father was one that sowed his seeds in his black mother, and that was why she did that.”

“He wasn't staked out there on the plains.”

“You ever see him, you won't miss him. He stands way over six feet tall, broad-backed and powerful as any bull.”

That was a new twist to the murders Slocum had found out there. There was or had been a black man in the deal somewhere. Hell only knew the story, and them dead folks weren't telling anyone.

He played three more hands and won the third one. Stowe came back to watch him rake in the pot.

“We better sell them hides in the morning to Crawford and Hull's yard. Start unloading at seven o'clock in the morning.”

“We will be there.”

“I can settle up with you and your men the next day. You are going back, aren't you?”

“Yeah, but it will be damn cold by then. Need to cut lots of firewood, which cuts down on our killing time.”

“I know that. But I think hides will go to ten dollars by spring.”

“Why's that?”

“Just a feeling. Them Germans ain't got no buffalo to run down over there. Hides are getting harder to find. Take along some more men to cut your firewood. We can afford them.”

Slocum nodded. “Good. I'll start looking for four more men to cut the firewood that we will need and to be camp helpers.”

“You did well this time. I hope you can get that many more of them hides.”

“We'll try our damndest.”

“Hey, I know I am lucky to have you in charge. I have three outfits out there. You beat them by fifty percent, and they try hard.”

“You heard about that killing?”

“I did. Sounded bad.”

“I think these Plains Indians are really going to explode one of these days. They ever join hands and do it as one, there won't be a buffalo hunter left alive between here and the Rockies.”

Stowe nodded like he fully understood Slocum's concern.

“We will see what happens.”

“Be careful. I need you.”

“As I said, I'll go look for some more help today.”

“My man Cayman will be at the unloading.”

“Good. He can argue with his grader about the hides.”

“He knows how. I better get going. You be careful. This camp is real hell. Two or three guys die every weekend, and more during the week.”

“I agree.”

Slocum went back to camp and checked on Murty. He swung her up behind him on the gray horse. They rode down to the river to see about some men he could hire to cut firewood. There were several Mexicans down there who'd come to find work. They lived in shack towns where the Indian whores camped and where some other breeds loafed around like buzzards and slept all the time.

Slocum spoke in Spanish to several young men who were looking for work.

“Where did you live before you came here?” he asked a young man who looked smarter than the others.

“Taos.”

“My name is Slocum.”

“Mine is Diego.”

“Why did you come here?”

“To work, señor. They said there were many jobs here.”

“Maybe they lied to you.”

He smiled. “
Sí
, maybe so.”

“Have you ever worked for the Comancheros?”

“Oh,
sí
.”

“Can you shoot a rifle?”

“Oh,
sí
.”

“This is very dangerous out there.”

He nodded. “I know, we were attacked coming up here.”

“What did you do?”

“I shot a cap-and-ball rifle at them.”

“We have Winchesters. You ever shot one?”

“No, señor.”

“I can teach you how to do that. You will have to cut firewood and bring it to camp so we don't freeze this winter.”

“I can do that.”

“Can you find three more men who will work at doing that? If they don't work, you will have to do it all.”

“I can find three good men.”

“I pay fifty cents a day and food. You do good work, I will get you a bonus.”

He nodded. “When do we start?”

“My camp is north of the fort. Ask for Slocum. Bring all your clothes, 'cause it will be cold. You don't have warm clothes, I will advance you money to buy some.”

“Can we come today?”

“Yes. My cook will have supper in late afternoon.”

“We will be there.”

“See you there, Diego.”

He shook the man's hand and went back to where Murty was standing with the horse.

“He the new man?” she asked

“His name is Diego. He is getting three more to cut wood for us.”

“Nice-looking boy, isn't he?” She was watching Diego celebrate some with his friends over their good luck.

“He looked smart enough to do the job. He has been with the Comancheros. So he should be camp- wise. He'd never shot a Winchester, but had shot cap-and-ball weapons.”

“Good. We will have more men in camp to help defend us.”

“Yes, we will. Once we hit the bad weather, those Indians won't have the pony power to raid our camp. But killing buffalo will be harder too. We will take grain for our animals so we have them to use. Stowe knows these winter hunts are expensive, but he thinks hides will be ten dollars next spring, so he wants us to try to get as many as we can.”

“I would like to be where it is warm. Where is that?”

“San Antonio.”

“It never gets cold down there in winter?” she asked.

“Very seldom.”

“What can we do down there to make money?”

“I don't know or I'd be down there.”

“Make lots of money so we can go live there the next winter.”

He mounted and swung her up to go back to camp. “I will try.”

“We get the hides unloaded tomorrow and we'll have more help, huh?”

“Yes.” He clapped her leg beside his and they short loped to camp.

 * * * 

The men were rounded up and in camp for supper. The new crew members came and were introduced. They filed through the chow line and smiled, raising their plates to Murty and saying, “
Gracias, señora
.”

She just smiled. “They are eager-acting boys.”

“They also came to eat tonight, I bet, because they had little to eat down there.”

“What did they eat?”

“Ask them. I have no idea. I need to be sure they have clothes enough.”

“They will be better off with us, won't they?”

“I hope so. And four more guns if they can shoot them. We'll have target practice this week before we go out.”

“How far did they come to get up here?”

“Hundreds of miles, I would say, but they probably had no idea except someone said there was work up here. Diego said they fought Indians coming up here with that cap-and-ball rifle. I'll get some Winchesters and ammo for them tomorrow.”

“I'm ready to go to bed. Are you? Be a long day unloading tomorrow.”

They went to their bedroll, had a quick roll in the hay, and slept till before dawn. She woke him and quickly put on her old dress for the day's work.

Animals were harnessed and one man chosen to guard the camp and the supply wagons. They ate Murty's oatmeal and drove over to the Crawford and Hull hide yard.

A big Portuguese named Cayman, who worked for Stowe, met them. The buyers were two white men and still looked half-drunk as they staggered down to meet the sellers. They wanted two new piles, and they had to look at each robe to be sure it had no holes cut in it by the skinner. Whole hides were the most valuable. Others were going to be discounted. So Slocum made his men set aside any damaged hides to argue over later. He also had a man with a pencil and a cedar slab for a board to write on and to count with each of the buyers. His man used the five-count system of tally marks—four marks and then one slash across them for the fifth.

They had arguments with the buyers over the condition of some of the hides. Cayman had one hide buyer, Slocum the other, and the deal went on for hours, until every wagon and cart was empty. The sun had warmed the air a lot and the wind was out of the south.

They were down to ten hides to argue over. Weary of the bickering, Slocum stepped in. “Take them or we load up the rest. My men can reload them.”

“All right,” the buyer with the billy-goat beard said. “We'll take them too.”

“How many hides do you have down?” Slocum asked them.

“We've got to count.”

Murty had handed him a paper that said, “706.” She'd already added both lists up, and she was good at math.

“Six ninety-two,” the yard man said.

“Count them again. You are fourteen short. Want to restack them?”

“No.” He wrote Slocum's number on his report, and the Portuguese signed it for Stowe. He shook hands with Slocum. “I like you. Every time you sell your hides you have the numbers right.”

“Tell Stowe we will be ready for him to pay us in the morning.”

“He'll be there.”

From the yard, Slocum went to Vanwinkle's Trading Post and bought four used Winchesters. He was well versed on how to examine them. The rifles' breeches were made of brass and wore out fast; well-used ones were worthless. These guns were all right, in almost new condition, and he took them back to camp. Before he left, he'd told the boys to get two gunnysacks of old bottles together and they'd have target practice for everyone when he got back, and if their rifles were not clean, he said, they should clean them. Each man's weapon would be tested. If he couldn't shoot it, he might be fired. Slocum's rules having been set down, he ex-pected the men would be ready for their rifle practice when he returned.

Escatar had shown the new boys how to use a Winchester, so when Slocum issued them their new rifles, they were ready. Belly down, they each had a shot at the bottles.

“I will have to etch your name on the receiver today,” Slocum said. “You lose yours, you pay for it. You steal another man's gun, I will shoot you with it. When we get through, clean them. You don't do a good job cleaning it each time, the rifle will jam, and that endangers all of us. So don't let that happen. You shoot a man for no good reason, we will hang you. If you fight with another man working for me, you can walk home unarmed.”

The new men shot well and acted pleased to have their weapons. Escatar made them shoot again and again, one at a time. All but one man busted the bottles. He said he could not see them. Slocum remembered him and decided that he must need glasses, but he worked hard, so Slocum excused him. The man thanked him gratefully.

They ate Murty's lunch, then sat around and cleaned their rifles. It still stunk like hides around the place to Slocum, who etched the names of the new men on their guns. When Stowe came to pay them, he had two men armed with Greener shotguns. Cayman was one of them. Stowe introduced Slocum to the other man, named Holt.

They paid every man fifty dollars, and the men repaid Slocum his two-dollar advance. Then Stowe thanked the men in Spanish. That over, Slocum issued the order that two men must stay sober and guard the camp. Meanwhile his boss paid Murty one hundred and fifty for her three months. Then he paid Slocum three hundred.

“I appreciate all you do,” Stowe said, seated behind the table with Slocum beside him. “I can buy some two-pint crock jugs of firewater. Could you trade it to the Indians out there for hides? They cost me a dollar and a half apiece. If we can trade 'em for a good buff hide, I could make some real money.”

Slocum nodded.

“The deal is the U.S. marshal could fine us all if we get caught. This stuff has no tax stamp on it. What do you think?”

“Hide it under some trade blankets. What do the jugs cost?”

“Three dollars. Your idea is a good one. You've been swapping blankets for hides too, huh?”

“Yeah. You know drunk Indians can be tough customers to deal with.”

“Oh yeah. I'll cut you in for fifty cents apiece on both of the jugs.”

“Sounds good. How bad is that stuff?”

“Horse piss, but it will make them drunk.”

“Of course they will want to taste it. So we will use some for that purpose.”

“No problem. We can load it in the bed of one of your wagons, cover it with grain sacks for our animals, and then trade blankets. Those small crocks are harder to bust than glass. But in case of a wreck, we could lose them all.” Stowe shrugged.

“Now I'm a whiskey trader. Oh well, maybe we can make money with it all.”

“Hey, you got Murty. That is the cutest redhead in the whole country of Kansas. Man, when I saw her today in that new dress, I said, that sumbitch Slocum screws with her every night—whew.”

Slocum agreed with a nod. “Hell, you can trade some of your whiskey for some young squaw who hasn't got the clap. She'd keep you entertained.”

Stowe nodded. “I should do that. You find me one, I'll pay you for her.”

“I'll see.”
Trade for your own
was his unspoken answer. “We will leave in about four days. I want to shoe some of the horses. Some don't need it.”

“Day after tomorrow, I'll send a farrier out here who has a forge setup and blower. And you be careful. Send the wagon you aim to carry the whiskey and goods in with about four men to help load it.”

“I'll send the best driver too.”

Stowe laughed. “Do that. Good luck. Keep your head down.”

They parted. Stowe went and found Escatar, the broad-shouldered man who served as his foreman. He had been a seaman in his younger days and knew every trick in fist fighting and knives, and bore the scars to prove it. He smiled a lot while buffalo hunting—claimed it was so much better than being at sea. Slocum didn't know much about the sea except for some coastal sailing in the Gulf to get from New Orleans to Texas ports.

Slocum and Escatar stood off to the side. “We have a new problem we don't need to talk about out loud where the others can hear. Stowe wants to trade some whiskey for hides with the Indians. Keeping the men out of that supply will be hard. It is sorry whiskey, untaxed. If the federal agents find it, we will be fined. So it will be a new source of trouble, huh?”

Muscled arms folded over his chest, his man shook his head under the knit cap. “I will explain a hands-off policy.”

“Good. Farrier is coming tomorrow to shoe the horses that need shoes. We will load the wagon I spoke about tomorrow too.”

“I will take it in to his warehouse.”

“Yes. You will need four men to load it.”

“No problem.”

“I think we can have our supplies loaded and be back out on the plains in four days.”

“Those were four good men you hired. They will work.”

“I thought so. Existing down there in that river camp taught them a job is good fortune.”

“Her cooking too.”

Slocum agreed.

He went to town and played cards that night in the rowdy Oxbow Saloon. Stowe wasn't there. Lots of gossip was passed around about the Indians and their uprisings. His gambling luck held, and he won enough to break even. When he started out of the batwing doors into the night, he heard a shot. Then, in the dark street, he saw the figure of the man who had made the shot from his horse. Slocum's gun drawn, he aimed it at the shooter and shot the one threatening everyone. Hard-hit in the chest, his gun went off harmlessly into the air and he pitched off the horse and down on his face in the dirt.

Customers rushed outside to join those on the street. Slocum was kneeling down by the man the shooter had fired at.

“You all right?”

“No. I'm gonna die. He got me.” The man strained against the pain.

“What was this about?”

“Spanish treasure. Get the map out of my saddlebags. There's a fortune out there.”

“Where is your horse?”

“The bay under the Mexican saddle.”

A glance up, and Slocum saw the wooden saddle horn shining in the light from the saloon. “What is your name?”

“John Trent—” Slocum knew at that point that the man would soon die.

“You know this guy that you shot?” one man called, standing over by the shooter.

Slocum shook his head.

“He's Miles Hampton. Missouri congressman Horace Hampton's son.”

“What the hell was he shooting John Trent for?” He let the crowd think he knew Trent. He'd planned to get the man's horse and map and then bury him.

No one had an answer. There was no sign of any law showing up. They helped Slocum load Trent's corpse on his horse. He mounted the gray and took the lead. The other dead man's body was being loaded up by a funeral man in a black suit, who put him into a hearse. No doubt the undertaker expected to get paid by the father.

Once Slocum was back in camp, Escatar came to see about the body over the horse. Others joined him to help. Murty brought a candle lamp for them to see by.

Escatar sent the men for shovels. Slocum found the map and stuck it inside his shirt. He also found several letters, which he retrieved. Escatar went through the rest of Trent's pockets, taking his money and personal things out. There was not much. His clothing was threadbare like most men's on the frontier. His boots needed repair, but they and the rest of his wardrobe were handed out to the men who needed them, and Trent was buried in his underwear.

At a table with only Murty and his Escatar, Slocum spread out the map. In the lamplight he could see the care the mapmaker had taken with a pen. A compass drawing showed the direction at the top of the map to be north.

“What does it show?”

“Where some Spanish treasure was buried according to the dead man. He gave it to me.”

“Where is this at?” Murty asked.

“Western Kansas. I would say along the Arkansas.”

“Tell me, why would they have lots of gold or whatever way the hell out there?” Murty shook her head in disgust and disbelief.

“Good question. But the treasure has been a rumor for years. They said it was hidden by a column of Mexican soldiers who were guarding the treasure when they were attacked by Indians. They buried the treasure so no one could find it. One boy snuck away in the fury of the battle, and it took him over a year to make his way home.”

“Did the boy come back to find it?”

“The say he did, but he was unsure where exactly it was buried, and they dug many places and never found anything.”

“So how did this dead man tonight find it?” Murty asked, still not sounding convinced it was all real.

“Hell, I don't know. But that son of a bitch shot him for a real reason. He too may have had a map to lead him there and maybe didn't want Trent to find the treasure first. Or else he hoped to get the map off Trent after he was dead.”

“So then two parties will be going to look for it? Us and the rest of the gang from the man you shot?”

“I don't know about the man I shot. I figure the congressman's son's bunch might give up now that he's dead. They probably needed his daddy's money to outfit such an expedition.”

“Can we go out there and look for it and still kill buffalo?” Murty asked.

“Sure. It is right out there where they graze.”

“Good, let's find it so I can go live in a fancy two-story house somewhere and have tea with people.”

“You'd be bored to death, Murty.”

“I am bored to death now every night. But I love it.” Then she laughed at her own joke.