Free Slocum #395 : Slocum and the Trail to Yellowstone (9781101553640) by Jake Logan Page B

legs.
    â€œHow did you know I’d be this bad off?” she whispered, looking pale under her tanned face. Her large breasts were shoved into his chest, and she hugged him tight. “I’m getting better.”
    At last she kissed his mouth, then pushed on him and stood back on her own boot heels. “I’ll be fine.”
    He smiled and left her beside her horse. “Need help remounting, I’ll be back.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    With his stirrup hung on the horn, Slocum tightened his girth a smidge. Satisfied with his checkup of the saddle, he could smell Houston’s pipe smoke wafting back to him. The man had squatted down ahead of his horse and was using a brass telescope.
    â€œI hope those bastards still have my field glasses when we catch them,” Houston said after Slocum joined him.
    â€œWe can hope anyway. Seen any big sheep?” Slocum asked.
    â€œSeveral, but it’s hard to see with this old scope how big their horns really are.”
    â€œThose must have been good glasses.”
    â€œThey cost several hundred francs in Paris.”
    Slocum shook his head. Trophy hunters’ ambitions cost money, but everyone to his own hobby.
    â€œWe should be on the canyon floor in three more hours.”
    â€œGood. I’m ready to be on the lower level.”
    â€œHow is she?” Houston asked Slocum in a lowered voice.
    â€œShaken, but she’s tough.”
    â€œI noticed that. Do you think I could hire her when this is over? It would sure be nice to have a woman around the camp to help take care of things. I suppose I can ask her.”
    Slocum nodded. “Do that.”
    â€œI’d hate to be flat turned down.” Houston put the pipe back between his teeth and relit his bowl with a scratched wooden match and a few puffs.
    After a short rest, they all rose, ready to continue. Slocum went back to load Wilma onto her horse. She winked at him and bounded into the saddle. “I’m not done in.”
    â€œGood.” He clapped her leg, then edged back to Red. Once in the saddle, he waved that they were ready, and Houston’s mule began braying either in protest or simply as an ornery jackass complaining. The train was soon moving.
    Keeping to Houston’s time schedule, they ate a meal about two P.M. along the gurgling stream. Wilma boiled water for coffee, then served it with some cold biscuits and venison. They were seated on peeled logs around the well-used campsite—obviously a site to rest, and no doubt used by many travelers who took this route. Indian and white men alike had no other route they could go; this funnel forced people to use the narrow passage they had just gone over to cross the mountains.
    After the break, they rode beside a gurgling stream to Ten Sleep. The sun was almost down when they came up the dirt street and got a look at the businesses the town boasted: two saloons, two stores, a blacksmith shop, a livery, and a house of ill repute. Houston dismounted in front of the larger store, Farr’s General Store, and told them he’d be right out—he needed to order some things, and he’d ask inside about the pair they were hunting.
    Slocum agreed and looked around. Were those two killers here?
    There were some lights on inside the store. A few women, obviously genteel, came out with cloth shopping bags and avoided looking at Slocum or Wilma. Must be the society ladies of Ten Sleep, he mused. Three cowboys rode by. They were laughing, obviously ready for a good time. They tipped their hats politely to Wilma. Farther down, the threesome hitched their horses at the rack and clunked up the stairs, spurs and all, to push in the batwing doors of Dutch’s Saloon.
    Wilma winked at him and looked over as Houston came outside. He said, “We can ride down that lane ahead and camp at Mr. Farr’s place.”
    Slocum nodded and waited for the man to get in the saddle and lead the way. “Sounds good to