Slocum had been on a long, hard ride. He had been across the desert and over tall-grass prairie. He had been through more small, one-horse towns than he had ever believed existed. He was amazed at how people would find an out-of-the-way place and build a fucking town there, for no apparent reason. He had run across several of those places. He was hunting a man. When he came across the son of a bitch, he meant to kill him. Kill him dead. Kill him once and for all. The man needed killing. He had done Slocum dirty, and Slocum’s only purpose in life for the time being was to get the son of a bitch. He had been after this bastard for a long stretch now. He was hot and dusty and hungry and thirsty. He was thirsty not just for water. He wanted a drink of good bourbon whiskey. It would be really nice to have a room with a soft bed, a bottle of good whiskey, a pocket full of cigars, a steak dinner, a warm bath, and a warmer woman. All of that would be good, but all of that would wait. It would wait until Slocum had finished this task, this self-appointed job for no pay, this mission, currently his primary mission in life.
He knew he was on the right trail, for the story was always the same. Such a man had been in town not long ago. His description was easy enough. He was a man of average height and build, nothing particularly noticeable about him, except his clothes. He always wore black. Everything about his clothing was black. Tall, black shiny boots, black trousers, black belt, black shirt, black vest, black jacket, black hat. His gun belt was made of black leather. Even his two guns were black. All black. Slocum figured that his long underwear must be black as well. His horse and saddle were black. His hair was dark brown. Slocum thought that must have been a source of major frustration to the man. He wore it long, down on his shoulders, and he wore a handlebar mustache. It was as if he were trying to look like Wild Bill Hickok. He was easy to describe and easy to spot. And Slocum was not far behind him.
The country was rough, Texas’s hill country, and it was sparsely settled. The day was getting short with the sun low in the western sky. Slocum topped a rise and looked ahead. There was no sign of human life in front of him. He did spot a grove of trees down below and to his right. It looked to be a likely spot to spend the night, so he urged the tired Appaloosa onward. It was a bit cooler in the grove. The grass was green, and water trickled out of the hillside to form a clear pool. Slocum dismounted and unsaddled the big stallion, allowing him to drink and graze freely. Then he rolled out his blankets on the ground.
He pulled off his shirt and his boots and went to the stream to wash his face and to drink. Then he went back to his blanket and lay down for a much-needed rest and hopefully a good night’s sleep. His Colt and his Winchester were close by his side. He was about to doze off when he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. He eased the Colt out of the holster and cocked it. In another moment, a rider came into the grove.
“That’s close enough, mister,” Slocum said.
“Whoa! You damn near scared the shit out of me, pard. I didn’t know no one was in here. Didn’t see no fire.”
“I never built one,” said Slocum. “It ain’t cold, and I ain’t cooking.”
“Say,” said the stranger, “I need me a place to camp for the night. There ain’t a better site anywheres around here. What say you let me climb down and we build us a fire. I got some fresh venison here. Got some coffee too. Be glad to share it with you.”
Slocum thought for a moment. He did not like the idea of sharing his campsite with a stranger, but the thought of fresh-killed deer meat and coffee appealed to him in a real compelling way. “Come on in,” he said, but he kept his Colt in his hand. The stranger moved in a little closer and dismounted. In a few minutes, they had a fire going and meat cooking. The coffee was boiling in a pan. Slocum sat on one side of the fire with his Colt still in his hand.
“You’re a mighty cautious one,” the stranger said.
“It pays,” said Slocum. “I’m alive.”
“Yeah, well, this coffee’s about ready, I’d say. Have a cup?”
“Thanks.”
The stranger poured a tin cup full and reached across the fire toward Slocum with it. “Just put it down there,” Slocum told him, and the man did. Slocum picked it up with his left hand and took a tentative sip. It was hot, but it was damn good. The stranger poured a second cup for himself. In a few more minutes, the meat was cooked, and the stranger parceled it out. Slocum ate heartily. By this time, he had laid his Colt on the ground beside him, but he kept an eye on the stranger as he ate. He was beginning to think that the stranger might be all right.
When they were done with the meal and had drunk all the coffee they wanted, they let the fire burn itself down. The night was warm, and they had no more need of it. Slocum told the stranger where to throw out his blanket, and watched carefully as the man prepared his bed. Then both men stretched out for the night.
It was late, and Slocum was asleep, but he was a light sleeper. He heard the sounds of the stranger saddling his horse. He opened one eye to watch. The stranger packed up all his belongings and seemed ready to hit the trail. Well, that would be all right with Slocum. But then, as Slocum watched him, the stranger took up Slocum’s saddle and moved to the big Appaloosa. The spotted stallion snorted and backed away. The stranger hesitated, looked back at Slocum, then turned to the horse again.
“Hold on there,” he said in a low and soothing voice. “I ain’t going to hurt you, big fella. Come on now. Ease up.”
As the stranger moved toward him again, the Appaloosa again backed away, and again he snorted, this time louder than before. There was no doubt now regarding the intentions of the stranger. Slocum picked up his Colt and thumbed back the hammer. The stranger stopped still at the ominous sound.
“Now, hold on there,” he said. “This ain’t at all like what you think it is.”
“You tell me then,” said Slocum.
“Well, I was just—”
“On second thought,” Slocum interrupted, “just climb on your horse and ride away from here.”
“Yeah. Sure. I’ll do that.”
The stranger dropped Slocum’s saddle to the ground, but as he turned toward his own saddled horse, he went for his gun. Slocum pulled the trigger. The roar of the Colt in the grove of trees filled the still night, and the stranger jerked. His eyes opened wide as his fingers relaxed, and the gun dropped from his hand. Then his knees buckled, and he fell forward on his face.
Slocum stood up and walked over to check the body, but he knew that the man was dead before he touched him. He tucked the Colt into his britches and walked over to the stranger’s horse to begin unsaddling the animal. “It ain’t your fault,” he told it as he dropped the saddle to the ground. Then he took off the bridle and tossed it aside. “Maybe you can find some strays or wild horses around these parts to play with.” He took the stranger’s blanket and threw it over the body, and then he went back to bed.
In the morning, Slocum rebuilt the fire. He boiled some more of the man’s coffee and heated up what was left of the venison. When he was all done, he scraped out a shallow grave and buried the stranger. Then he saddled the Appaloosa, mounted up, and headed on toward the next town. This part of the country was full of hard cases. He knew it—he had just met one—and he knew that he had to stay ready for them.
He rode away most of the rest of that day, and when it was getting toward evening again, he saw the town ahead. Maybe, he thought, this will be the one. He figured that he had about enough cash for one good night in town, so when he rode in, the first thing he did was find the stable. He paid in advance and told the man to take particularly good care of the Appaloosa. Then he walked out and down the street to the first hotel he found. He got himself a room for the night, pocketed the key, and went out again. It was a small town, so it did not take long to find the saloon. He went in and ordered a shot of whiskey. The bartender was not too busy, so Slocum delivered the lines that had become standard with him, giving the bartender the description of the man he was hunting.
“There was a feller here,” the barkeep said, “couple of days ago, I think. He fit that description pretty good.”
“Two days ago?” Slocum asked.
“I believe so.”
“He head on south, did he?”
“Can’t say,” the barkeep answered. “I seen him when he come in here. I never watched him leave.”
Slocum finished his drink, went back to the hotel, and had a good night’s sleep. He woke up the next morning and checked what was left of his cash. Just enough for a breakfast. He decided to use it that way. A full belly would make it a lot easier to hit the trail again. He got dressed and went out to find a diner, and he had a good breakfast of steak and eggs. After he had paid for it, he had one dime left. He slapped it on the counter for a tip, then walked out of the place.
He stood on the board sidewalk for a moment thinking. He wanted to be back on the trail. The man he was hunting was still two days ahead of him. But he knew that he wouldn’t get too far without any cash in his jeans. For one thing, he was low on bullets, and that was the one thing he could not afford to do without. He pondered his situation. Then he walked back to the stable.
He got his Appaloosa saddled and ready to go, but before mounting up, he turned to the grizzled stable hand. “You know of anyone around here that could use a good hand? Just temporary.”
“For what?”
“Most anything. I’m traveling, and I’m broke. I’d like to stop for a short spell and get some more money in my jeans before I head on.”
“Orvel Patterson out at the Switchback just got hisself a string of new horses,” the man said. “I don’t know, but maybe he could use someone to gentle them up some.”
Slocum got directions from the man, then rode out toward the Switchback. It was a short ride from town, and Slocum noticed upon reaching it that it was a neat and clean spread. He rode straight up to the main house, and as he drew close, a man about fifty stepped out the front door. Slocum touched the brim of his hat.
“Howdy, stranger,” said the man. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Orvel Patterson,” Slocum said.
“Well, you found him.”
“Man in town told me that you got some new horses you might need some help with. I just need some temporary work is all.”
“What’s your name?”
“John Slocum.”
“You a bronc buster, Slocum?”
“I have been. Could be again.”
“You feel up to showing me?”
“Now?”
“You know a better time?”
“Right now is just fine,” said Slocum.
“Follow me.”
Patterson led the way around the house to a corral filled with horses. “See that roan over there by the fence?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You get that son of a bitch ready for me to ride into town this afternoon, and you got the job.”
“I’ll take him on,” Slocum said. He took the rope off his saddle and paid out a loop. Then he climbed over the fence and began easing his way toward the roan. The horse saw him coming and kept moving away, but Slocum kept after him. He had to move in between the other horses, all nervous by this time. At last he saw his chance, and he tossed his loop. As it snugged around the neck of the roan, the horse began to rear and whinny and stomp. Slocum quickly lashed the other end of his rope around one of the fence posts. He let the roan carry on for a while.
There was an adjacent corral, separated from the first by a gate, and Slocum moved to open the gate. He began waving his hat and yelling, and in a few moments, he had all the other horses driven into the adjacent corral. He shut the gate, and then he turned back to the roan. It was still jerking its head and pulling at the rope. Slocum moved to the rope and caught hold of it, pulling it toward himself. When he got a little slack, he lapped it around the post.
In a short while, he had the roan snubbed up tight against the fence post. He found a saddle and blanket and bridle and soon had the creature ready to ride. Well, he at least had it ready to try to ride. He moved in close to its head as he took up the reins. “Now, listen here, ole pardner,” he said. “You and me are fixing to have us a ride.” He mounted up quickly, and then he loosed the rope from around its neck and tossed it aside. Immediately, the roan leaped forward. Slocum hung on.
The animal kicked up its heels in an attempt to throw Slocum over its head, but Slocum stuck. It fishtailed. It reared. It jumped high in the air and came down hard on all fours, jarring everything in Slocum’s body. But Slocum stayed in the saddle. When it had done all the bucking and jumping it could take, the horse started running in fast circles around the corral, and it tried to rake Slocum off its back by scraping the fence. Even then, Slocum stayed stuck. At long last, the roan was worn out.
Slocum rode it around and around the corral at a walk. He turned it this way and that. He stopped it, and then he made it go again. He talked to it as he did these things. Finally, he rode to the fence where Patterson stood waiting and watching. He patted the horse on the neck and looked down at Patterson.
“You did say you just wanted temporary work, didn’t you?” Patterson asked him.
“That’s right.”
“You’ll do,” said Patterson.
Slocum unsaddled the roan and turned it loose. Then he followed Patterson to the bunkhouse. Patterson showed him where to stow his gear and where he would sleep.
“Work at your own pace,” he said. “I’ll pay you for each horse you break, not by your time.”
“All right,” Slocum said, “but I won’t be lazy.”
He was thinking about the trail he was following, and he knew that the more time he took with the horses, the farther ahead his prey would get. He couldn’t allow the man to get too far away from him. He stashed his gear and walked back to the corral. Now and then, cowhands stopped by the corral to watch him and cheer him on. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of Patterson watching, but mostly the old man was off doing something else. No one cowhand stood around for too long at a time. It seemed to be a pretty smooth-running outfit. Everyone knew his job and stayed busy with it.
Slocum rode down three more horses before he was called to lunch. The cook was good too, and Slocum really enjoyed his meal. He ate all he could hold, recalling all those long and hungry days on the trail. In a way, he was glad to have that other thing nagging at him, for if he had nothing else to do, he might hate to think of having to give up this job. Actually, he wouldn’t have wanted to keep this job for long. He was really thinking of an ordinary cowhand’s job. Busting broncs was rough work. He was already feeling sore. Well, he would just have to live with it for a while, till he could line his pockets some.
When lunch was over, he was back at the corral again. He tackled four more of the brutes that afternoon, and again, he only quit when he was called to dinner. He thought the lunch had been good, but the dinner was even better, and he was beginning to get acquainted with some of the hands. They seemed like a pretty nice bunch of boys, and Slocum had noticed that old Patterson ate in the cookhouse with the crew. He wondered if the old man was a bachelor or just a hell of a democrat.
When dinner was over, Slocum headed for the bunkhouse. A young cowboy called Saddler stepped alongside him. “You’re doing a heck of a job out there, Mr. Slocum,” he said.
“You can drop the mister,” Slocum said, “and thanks.”
“I never seen anyone ride like that.”
“It comes with practice,” Slocum said. “You worked here long?”
“A few months.”
“I guess old Patterson is a bachelor, huh?”
“Well, he’s a widower, I guess you call it,” Saddler said.
“He live alone in that big ranch house?”
“He’s got a niece living there with him. His sister’s daughter, I think.”
“How come he eats with the crew? Or how come she don’t?”
“Oh? I get it. He don’t usually eat with us like that. Beverly, that’s his niece, she’s off visiting somewhere just now. Ordinarily, they eat together in the big house.”
“I see,” Slocum said.
“What you planning on doing for the rest of the evening, Mr.—uh, Slocum?”
“I’m hitting the hay early,” Slocum said. “Those damn broncs have got me plumb sore all over.”