Slocum 297: Holding Down the Ranch

Slocum stood on the porch, one hand to his stinging cheek, staring after Becky. “What was that for?” he demanded of Tia Juanita.

“Plumb loco, more like,” Slocum growled as he yanked open the screen and walked past her, into the house. Becky had disappeared into the back someplace, and after he had a moment to think about it, he figured that right now wouldn’t exactly be the time to go and fetch her. Not if he didn’t want his face smacked again.

Besides, Tia Juanita was already guiding him toward a dining room chair. The big oak table was set for one, but she quickly whisked away the plate of enchiladas before he could launch himself at it.

“It is cold,” she said, wagging a finger. “I will make you a new plate. And then, if Becky has not come out from her room, we will talk.”

“At least somebody’s talkin’ to me,” Slocum grumbled. He took off his sweat-stained hat and tossed it across the table, where it hooked over the backrest of a chair, twirled twice, then came to rest.

Immediately, he rose and stepped forward, hand out. “Pete!” he said. “Glad to see you! How’s that head a’yours?”

The big blond man gripped his hand with equal enthusiasm and shook it vigorously. “Never thought we’d see the likes of you again, you old dog. Oh, my head’s fine. It’s took worse hits than that. My ol’ daddy used to say it was thicker’n a two by four, anyhow. How you been, you ol’ brush popper?”

Both men pulled out chairs at the table and sat down. “Pretty good,” admitted Slocum, “right up until about five minutes ago. What the hell’s goin’ on with Becky? And who were those fellers?”

“Hold on a second,” Pete said, his face screwed up. “You mean you didn’t hear nothin’? ’Bout Miss Becky, I mean.”

Pete took off his hat and began feeling his scalp for a bump. “I’ll have to start puttin’ more cash into the collection plate come next Sunday,” he said, wincing when he found one. “The Lord surely does work in mysterious ways, all right.”

Slocum hooked his elbow over the back of his chair. “You wanna start talkin’ American, Pete?”

From the front door, somebody called, “Hey, Pete? Who’s this nice Appaloosa belong to? Found him tied to the back of the house, and—”

“He’s mine,” Slocum hollered. “That Dave Shepherd I hear out there?”

The screen door creaked open and a head, curly with red hair, peeked in, then lit up. “By God!” he said. “Slocum?”

“Get your lazy ass in here, Dave,” Pete called, still feeling his head.

Slocum started to rise. “I’d best tend my horse,” he said. “And you’d better get a cold compress on your noggin, buddy. That’s startin’ to swell.”

But Pete put a hand on his shoulder. “Set back down. Dave’ll get somebody to see to your horse. You still ridin’ a Palouse horse?”

“Nothin’ but,” replied Slocum as he sat again. Outside, he heard Dave hollering toward the barn. Slocum asked Pete, “Where were all these hands when Becky was in trouble out there?”

Pete shrugged. “Hidin’ in the barn, probably.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Hey, Tia Juanita! Can I have somethin’ cold for my head?”

A salty grumbling issued from the kitchen, but that was all. Pete seemed unnerved by it, though, and turned back to Slocum.

“Dave was up checkin’ the north pasture, though, or he would’a been right out there with me, gettin’ himself buffaloed like a blame fool,” he said. “You can’t blame them boys for hidin’, Slocum. Most folks round these parts are plumb scared of Tate McMahon. Least, the ranchers are. He holds most of the paper on the property around Indian Springs.”

Tia Juanita stepped from the kitchen, a steaming plate in her hand. She slid it in front of Slocum, handed a folded, damp cloth to Pete, indicating he was to put in on his head, and said, “Was one, is now two. You invite anybody else, Pete?”

“Dave, I reckon,” Pete replied with a grin. “Gonna take at least two of us to bring old Slocum up to date.”

“Three for dinner!” the housekeeper grumbled. “All right. I suppose you will save me the trouble of explaining. But you men, you take your spurs off right now. You will not scratch my floors!”

While Pete and Dave were busy enlightening Slocum—and swallowing a surplus of goat cheese-covered enchiladas, beans, and rice and washing it down with limeade by the pitcherful—Tia Juanita carried a tray back to Becky Jamison’s bedroom. She stood in the hall and shifted the tray to one hand, hesitated slightly, then softly rapped.

The door cracked open and one of Becky’s tear-swollen eyes appeared. “Sure,” she said, and sniffled. “Come on in.”

Tia Juanita carried the tray to the window and slid it onto the top of a low desk, then turned toward Becky and folded her arms.

Becky wiped her nose and, with the familiarity that comes from time and shared secrets, said, “Why can’t you just be like a servant?”

“Because I know you too well, my Becky. And your papa.” The housekeeper shook her head. “Why did you slap Slocum? I know there must be some bad feelings, but you were just about to have to take Mr. McMahon as your husband. I think Slocum showing up is a very good thing, no?”

Becky gave her nose a last wipe, then stuck the handkerchief down into her skirt pocket with a sharp, jabbing motion. She crossed the room and sat down at the desk, then lifted the napkin from the tray.

“You don’t like it, you should cook more often,” Tia Juanita said stubbornly, arms still crossed. “My cooking was good enough for your papa, and good enough for you for the past three years! And you are changing the subject.”

The knife and fork in Becky’s hands sagged down to the desk top. “I don’t know why I did it, Tia Juanita. I mean, his showing up, just at that moment? It was like a . . . like a miracle or something.”

Tia Juanita said nothing, but genuflected, an action that Becky, staring blankly at her plate of enchiladas, did not see. Tia Juanita had been praying for just such a thing without cease since the death of Jack Jamison. “So you strike him because he is sent from God?”

Becky ignored her facetious tone. “It was just,” Becky continued, “that once I actually saw him I remembered the way he lit out last time, and . . . hell, I know that’s not reason enough. I know I should be grateful. I mean, he got rid of Roy Wheeler for us, didn’t he?”

“And now, with God’s help, he will make Mr. McMahon go away,” replied Tia Juanita, adding gently, “and you always knew he would go, little one.”

Becky turned in her chair and cocked her head. She had always been a sweet thing, one that Tia Juanita would have been proud to call her own daughter. That was, had Becky Sawyer Jamison possessed the sense to be born a Mexican, and not in some far-flung, foreign place called Massachusetts.

At last, with a sniffle, Becky said, “Did you find out how . . . how he knew to come? How he knew I was in trouble?”

“He did not know,” replied Tia Juanita. “He just came.” She did not add that she was certain Slocum had come directly because of her prayers. Of course, she hadn’t mentioned Slocum specifically, but then, the Lord worked in His own time and in His own way. She would not question it.

She picked up the napkin and dropped it into Becky’s lap. “Now, cry the last of those tears and eat your dinner, little one. And then you will wash out your pretty eyes and come greet your guest in a more fitting manner.”

Slocum leaned back and tossed his napkin on the table. It had been a good meal.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out his fixings pouch as he said, “So how come you figure this McMahon turned tail, Dave? Can’t see as how I outnumbered him. By much.”

Dave said, “Well, I reckon they lit out for the same reason you been tellin’ us all them dandies has been callin’ you out.”

Pete nodded. “Whatever rumor got them fellers goin’ is catchin’. Looks like we got it here, too. Least, that’s how I see it.”

“Yup,” said Dave. “ ’Cept none of them fellers had the guts to try’n snooker you into skinnin’ that smokewagon.”

Slocum licked his quirlie a last time and stuck it between his lips. “Wish I knew who the hell started this whole thing,” he said as he pulled out a lucifer and struck it into flame. “Like to pop him one upside the jaw,” he continued. “I mean, I’m sort’a used to some’a that shit, but this is too much. Gets on a feller’s nerves.”

“Likely,” Pete interjected, “that rumor started out a whole lot different than what’s gettin’ passed around by this time.” With a thumb, he tamped his pipe. “It’s like that game we used to play when we was kids. You remember, Dave?”

“I do,” Dave said, nodding. Dave and Pete had grown up together back in Kansas, as Slocum recalled. “The one where you got in a line and started whisperin’ down it?”

Pete struck a match and nodded. “And what started out as ‘Bob’s got him a new pup’ ended up as—”

“—‘A mad dog killed Bob with an axe,’ ” Slocum quipped, even though he didn’t feel much like laughing. He took a long drag on his smoke while Dave brayed and slapped his knee.

“Well,” said Pete, puffing smoke, “all’s I know is Tate McMahon’s two times as bad as your old friend Roy Wheeler ever was. And I, for one, was plumb glad to see him ridin’ out of here this morning.”

Slocum ignored him. “Afternoon, Becky,” he said carefully. He wasn’t about to coax her into flying off the handle again.

She waved them back down into their seats. Slocum remained on his feet, though.

She looked beautiful, despite the fact that she’d obviously been crying. Her face was heart-shaped, her lips lush and naturally deep pink. Her eyes were huge, round, deep blue, and lushly fringed with sooty lashes. Fine, arched brows the color of smoke rode over them.

She was of moderate height, with hair the color of sweet clover honey and skin like pale, tawny silk—skin that Slocum longed to touch. Firm, round breasts rode above a tiny waist which belled into round hips tapering into coltish legs.

She crossed to the table and plucked his hat from its hook on the chair. She turned it over in her hands, studying it, then abruptly tossed it to him over Pete and Dave.

They both ducked, but she paid them no mind and said, “I’d be pleased, Slocum.”