Slaughter's Way (A J.T. Edson Western) Page 7

  “Yes, sir, you, sir!”

  “Why not me, sah,” Coonskin replied. “And I wishes to state that whoever done it has my sympathy.”

  “Has, huh?”

  “Yes, sah. Massa John, sh—whoever it was sure has. Why we-all was worried plumb all ways when you never come back.”

  “I came back,” Slaughter pointed out.

  “Yes, sir. But not until after you got us all worrying.”

  With that Coonskin took his hurried departure. Slaughter watched his cook go and treated himself to one of his rare grins. While he could not see why his crew liked him, it seemed like they did. However, there was an important matter to be dealt with. Mrs. Slaughter must be taught that she could not get away with putting pepper in his stew.

  Taking up his gunbelt, Slaughter glanced at the blue-tick which had already settled down on a chair by the fire.

  “Don’t ever get married, Blue,” he advised and went to the table to blow out the lamp.

  The moment Slaughter entered his bedroom, he saw that Mrs. Slaughter expected stirring times. She only wore that flimsy nightdress when she wanted to take his mind off something; like when she bought a hat for more than it was worth, or fixed it that the local tailor was coming out to measure him for a fancy cutaway jacket and all the frills.

  Sitting on the bed and combing her hair, Bess looked about sixteen years and she still had a figure as good as any gal in the whole danged country. Nor did the nightdress do anything to hide the fact. Slaughter almost forgot his intentions as he placed his gunbelt on the dressing table and stripped off his bandana and shirt—which was what Bess hoped would happen when she put the nightdress on.

  Neither spoke as he jacked off his boots and stood them in the corner, then Slaughter turned and walked towards Bess. She had finished combing her hair and sat watching him advance across the room.

  “I’ve got a real mean wife,” he told her.

  “I bet she doesn’t understand you,” Bess replied, not relaxing and watching him warily.

  “Tell you something,” he grinned, “she understands me too damned well.”

  With that he jumped forward, meaning to grab her, put her over his knee, threaten to paddle her bare seat if she did not say she was sorry for putting the pepper in his stew.

  Only like he said, Bess knew him real good. Even as he jumped, she rocked over, rolling backwards and off the bed with a pair of shapely legs appearing as the nightdress hem slipped down in obedience to the laws of gravity. Showing a surprising agility, Bess turned a rear-roll and landed on her feet beyond the bed, while her husband landed face down upon the counterpane. Stepping forward, she grabbed a double handful of his hair and pulled it hard enough to make him yelp.

  “That’s for worrying me,” she told him.

  Coming to his feet, Slaughter bounded over the bed and advanced towards Bess as she backed off across the room. Of course it would not have done for him to catch her too quickly, as part of the pleasure of hunting was in the chase. So he let her slip by him a couple of times, getting closer to her each time.

  Only in such moments of privacy with his wife did Slaughter relax and show the warm, tender, friendly and good-hearted man under the grim exterior. At such a time Bess knew again the reason she married him. She had seen the true man beneath the outer shell and recognized the real John Slaughter. However, it was very pleasant to be reminded of why she loved her man.

  Suddenly Slaughter caught Bess’s right wrist as she tried to dart by him. With a pull, he turned her and brought her into his grasp. Instantly her arms went around his neck and her mouth crushed to his.

  “I love you, Bess Slaughter,” he told her as they separated mouths.

  “And I love you,” she replied, then remembered her grievance. “John, why didn’t you send word—”

  Having no wish to start explaining such things, Slaughter took an easy way out. Down came his head, his lips ending the question unsaid. However, Bess did not intend to be fobbed off so easily; or maybe she had an idea what Slaughter planned to do in revenge for the pepper in the stew.

  “You ought to have—” she began and he kissed again, easing her back a few steps in the direction of the bed. “You should have—” another kiss, another few steps towards safety, “Why did—”

  The goal was attained. Bess’s legs struck the edge of the bed and she fell backwards, her locked arms around Slaughter’s neck taking him down with her. At that moment the lamp, which had been turned down low, burned out.

  “Go on,” Slaughter breathed as he separated from a silencing kiss. “Say something.”

  She looked up at him through the darkness and smiled. Her body felt warm and inviting and her hands left his neck.

  “Do we need to talk anymore?” she asked.

  “Never was one for talking,” he replied.

  ~*~

  The ringing bellow of the blue-tick’s bugle baying jerked the Slaughters awake at two in the morning. Extracting himself from Bess’s arms, Slaughter swung himself out of bed and went to the window, raising its sash so he could both look out-and listen to the noises of the range.

  “Rider coming up fast!” he said.

  Whoever the approaching rider might be, he was burning grass up under his horse’s belly, and a man did not risk galloping his horse through the night unless he bore urgent or important news.

  Not until her husband left the window did Bess leave the bed. She lit the lamp and picked up her discarded nightdress to don it. Slaughter grabbed up his pants and drew them on, then he slid out his Colt and ignored the shirt. This was no time to worry about appearances and a loaded Colt might be less embarrassing than being seen with a naked chest. Bess wriggled into the nightdress and put on her long woolen dressing gown, watching her husband leave the room. Having been born in the range country, Bess knew better than pick up the lamp and follow. John knew his way around the house well enough not to need lighting downstairs; and until he knew who the approaching rider might be and what brought him to the ranch at such an hour, it would be better if he did not offer a clear target by being illuminated from behind.

  Going downstairs, Slaughter made his way along the hall to the front door. Already the blue-tick stood by it, but was neither growling nor keeping its black hair held up. From the lack of those signs, and the fact that the hound’s tail wagged from side to side, Slaughter knew it must be a friend approaching. Nor did it take much thinking which friend came in such a hurry. While there were four men riding night herd on the petalta and the cut-out bunch, and Insomny Sam was out with the remuda, the rider came from the wrong direction for it to be one of them.

  Slaughter opened the door and stepped out on to the porch, thrusting the Colt into his waistband. Behind him, Bess had drawn her own conclusions from the hound’s actions. She knew the rider to be a friend and one who might need lighting into the house, so returned to their bedroom, collected the lamp and hurried to her husband’s side.

  “Boss!” Burt Alvord yelled, bringing his lathered, leg-weary Appaloosa to a halt before the house. “It’s Chisum!”

  Drawn by the sound of the fast running horse, Insomny Sam rode up and John Slaughter turned to the old man. “Tend to Burt’s horse, Insomny,” he ordered.

  “I—in my bedroll,” Alvord gasped, dropping from the saddle.

  “I’ll get it,” Slaughter promised. “What’s wrong with Chisum?”

  “He’s coming with twenty men in the morning, fixing to get back the hundred head.”

  Chapter Seven – Nobody Makes a Fool of Me Twice And Lives

  Burt Alvord felt puzzled as he trailed along behind the Long Rail herd in the late afternoon. He had been following them from varying distances ever since they left the J.S. trap down on the south line and had been unseen and undetected all the time. While he did not profess to be a top cowhand, Alvord knew enough about cattle and trail-driving work to wonder what Chisum’s game was.

  For the first couple of miles after passing through the watching circ
le of J.S. rifles, the Long Rail men kept their cattle moving at a good pace. Then, as they slowed down to a more normal trail walk, their scout made a circle around the herd as if to check that nobody was following them. Although the scout at one time passed within a hundred yards of the hidden Alvord, he did not detect the young man’s presence and, apparently deciding that Slaughter was showing no further interest in the Long Rail’s activities, headed back to the herd and reported to his boss.

  Shortly after the scout’s return, Alvord saw eight men, working in pairs, leave the winding line of cattle and ride off across the range in different directions. None of the cattle had broken out of the line, so the men could not be hunting for strays. With that thought in mind, Alvord left the herd and followed one of the pairs, selecting a high point from which he could watch their activities without them knowing he did so. The men acted like cowhands working a circle on a round up, riding along and checking on any place where hidden cattle might be.

  A rare grin creased Alvord’s face as he watched the search. The Long Rail hands were welcome to look for cattle in this area, for it had been very thoroughly combed by his boss’s round up crew. All Long Rail were likely to get was saddle-blisters, fresh air and exercise for their horses.

  After searching for a time, the Long Rail pair appeared to reach the same conclusion, for they swung their horses and headed back to the herd. Following them from a distance, Alvord watched their return to the herd, where Chisum galloped up to speak with them. Even at that distance, Alvord could see the news brought in by the hands did not please the Cattle King. It would seem likely that Chisum hoped to save his face—and his three hundred dollars—by collecting a further hundred head of Slaughter’s stock and adding it to his herd. Only Slaughter had acted first by having his hands sweep the trail drive area and clear out all his stock.

  Chisum then yelled some orders to his men, but Alvord was too far behind to hear what was said. However, he could see what happened and guess at the command given by the Cattle King.

  The men around the herd closed in, bunching the cattle and causing them to increase their speed, instead of allowing the animals to make their own pace and graze as they ambled along.

  Although folks talked of a cattle drive, only rarely was any actual driving done. A certain amount of driving might be necessary to get the cattle off their home range, but once beyond familiar ground the animals were for the most part contented to head in whatever direction the hands points them and to walk along from ten to twelve miles a day, grazing as they went, under good conditions.

  Instead of allowing the herd to behave in a normal manner, the Long Rail hands kept it bunched all day, keeping up a more rapid pace which puzzled Alvord. It did not seem to fit all he had heard about the Cattle King that Chisum would deliberately hold his herd to such a pace, causing them to miss food and maybe lose valuable weight, without a real good cause. Yet, for the life of him, Alvord could not see any reason for the hurrying of the herd.

  Long Rail made around sixteen miles during the day, according to Alvord’s calculations, and passed over the J.S.’s north line before they reached a bed ground. At sundown the hands brought their herd down to a stream and let the animals water on its banks. From the leg-weary way in which they stood, the herd would not need much watching during the night, nor be over-eager to go anyplace the following day.

  At that point in his thoughts, Alvord began to see the light and form a vague idea of what might lay behind Chisum’s actions. Alvord had not failed to notice that the Long Rail’s scout rode off in a southwesterly direction during the afternoon and had not returned to perform his usual function of selecting the herd’s bed ground. The J.S. ranch house lay roughly to the southwestern point of the compass from the spot where the scout left the trail drive.

  Alvord decided it might pay him to move close enough to the camp so that he could hear what the trail crew talked about. If his suspicions should prove to be correct, his boss might find his information most interesting.

  Many men would have thought twice before attempting to move in and spy on Chisum’s private conversation. If one was caught in the act, certain death would be the penalty. Yet Alvord felt he could take a chance. Born with Kaddo blood in his veins, Alvord had stalked Indians and come through it alive. He reckoned he ought to be able to repeat the process with white men.

  Waiting until after dark, he left the Appaloosa downstream half a mile from the camp. He could rely on the horse to stay around and not roam too far as long as it had water and good grazing, nor would it make any noise to give away its presence. The horse had been well trained by its previous owner, a Cheyenne war chief with a fair assortment of prime white scalps on his coup stick; all taken from grown men’s heads with not a woman, boy or gray-haired oldster’s trophy among them. Burt Alvord bought the horse with a flat-nosed .44 Winchester bullet, planting it into the till between the Cheyenne’s eyes at the end of a deadly stalking game. Give him his due, that Cheyenne knew how to train a horse, and Alvord had never let it forget its learning.

  So he left the horse on a loose hobble, leaving the saddle on and his rifle in its boot. A mission such as he aimed to go on did not call for a rifle, and he reckoned to be better than fair with his Army Colts.

  While the hands bedded down their herd, the Long Rail’s cook and his louse set up camp. By the time Burt Alvord came drifting down out of the night, they had the wagons unhitched, a fire going and stew and coffee both bubbling on the flames. The cook’s louse had turned the crew’s sleeping rolls out of the bed wagon and they were piled on the ground waiting for the hands to come and collect their own.

  Taking advantage of every bit of cover, Alvord moved towards the camp. He passed the tethered outline of night horses and came to a halt in the shadows at the end of the bed wagon, studying the scene before him.

  For a time nothing happened. There was none of the good-natured cheerfulness shown by Slaughter’s men about the Long Rail trail crew. They squatted around the fire, eating their food in surly silence and watching each other with cold and alert eyes. Chisum perched on a chuck box among his men, looking about as happy as a gunshot buzzard and casting glance after glance into the darkness.

  The sound of an approaching horse came to Alvord’s ears. He gave a low hiss of annoyance, for the horse was closer than he liked to think about, coming through the night towards the camp, and headed towards the line of night horses. Just as Alvord thought of moving off to safety, one of the men from by the fire rose and walked towards the bed wagon. To move now would mean being detected by the man, but to wait might make it too late to avoid the approaching rider. Alvord did not panic. Standing like a statue, he watched the man root among the bedrolls, take one up and walk to the fire carrying it.

  There would be no time to slip away now. The rider was too close for that. Gripping the tailboard of the bed wagon, Alvord swung himself up and into the shelter of the vehicle. Moving his feet cautiously, he felt his way through the spare saddlery, a couple of kegs of ready-made horseshoes for temporary repairs if needed, and the other stuff the wagon carried. Then Alvord flattened himself down alongside a comfortable bed at one side of the wagon.

  After tending to his horse at the picket line, the newcomer walked towards the camp. From the soft-footed manner in which the man moved, Alvord figured him to be the scout returned from wherever Chisum sent him.

  Not knowing that every word spoken around his fire was being overheard, Chisum looked at his returning scout who slouched from the darkness and set down his saddle on its side, then walked forward to take a cup of coffee from the cook.

  “How about it?” asked Chisum, barely giving the scout a chance to sip at the steaming hot coffee.

  “Slaughter’s got his petalta on a nice level piece of ground ’bout a mile from the house. His crew were cutting out stock like it was going out of style when I got there. They’ve split out a fair number for the trail and are holding ’em separate.”

  “That’s what I
wanted to hear. Cookie, you go dig that barrel of whisky out of the chuck wagon, the boys’ve done real well today and I figure they deserve a lil drink.”

  Giving the Cattle King a calculating glance, the cook rose and went to his wagon, fetching out a full keg of whisky and setting it up on the table formed of the lowered tail board supported by a couple of stout stakes. Eagerly the hands headed after the cook, throwing aside their coffee in a manner which would have broken Mr. Arbuckle’s iv heart had he been there to see it.

  “Did I ever tell you about that time Frank’s boss, feller who had him afore he come to me, got married?” Chisum asked as his men gathered around the fire nursing their mugs of whisky.

  The Long Rail hands all looked at each other and exchanged nudges and winks. Uncle John was getting set for one of his fun-making sessions, so they could expect free liquor and plenty of laughs. Not one of the men thought of other times when he gathered them around, set them drinking and laughing at his stories. On those previous occasions the men mostly wound up in some dangerous situation right after, one they would have avoided happen they’d been left free to think it over.

  “Tell us about it, boss,” suggested the hard-case who had taken over the late—possibly but not probably—lamented Big Tag’s place as segundo.

  “Well this here feller was reservation agent for the Waco Injuns, and he went and married up with a schoolmarm who had a fair bit of money of her own. Anyways on the wedding night ole Frank goes up to his boss and asks him what he had to do now the feller was married. ‘Just carry on like as usual, Frank,’ says the feller. So early next morning old Frank comes into the bedroom, puts a cup of java down on the chair by his boss, goes round, slaps his wife on the rump and says, ‘All right, gal, time you-all was headed back to the tipi’.”

  The hands all bellowed their laughter, for Chisum had a wonderfully deadpanned delivery and might have made a fortune as a comedian on the stage. He knew the secret of telling a funny story was not to begin by saying, “Did I ever tell you the joke about … ” for doing so built up a resistance among the listeners and gave them a feeling of “All right, let’s see how funny it is.” By dropping a story out as if it actually happened, one could get more laughs with less effort.