Slocum and the Canyon Courtesans

by Jake Logan

  The dark sky was slowly paling, the stars turning dim. The moon was losing its bright radiance. José looked at the sky.

  “Time for you to go, Mr. Slocum. I must get my gloves and work boots.”

  “Before I go, José, tell me—are there any men like you here who will fight alongside me? Who will shoot to kill if they have to?”

  “There are such men, yes, but we have no guns. We do not even have machetes.”

  “If I brought you guns, would you and other men be able to load and shoot them?”

  “Yes. I myself am a good shot, and I know several others. Some hunted buffalo before the war and some killed the antelope and the deer. But we have no guns.”

  “How many men here will back me if I go up against Scud and his brother?”

  “Many,” José said. “At least one dozen. Maybe more. I will find out.”

  “I’ll be seeing you, José,” Slocum said, and rode away.

  “Go with God,” José said. “Come back with guns.”

  17

  On his way back to town, on the other side of the barrio, Slocum encountered a man on horseback. The man was carrying a rifle. He hailed Slocum with a wave of his arms, and Slocum reined up Ferro.

  “Hold on there,” the man said.

  “I’m holding on.”

  “State your business,” the man said when he rode up close and halted his horse.

  He was about thirty years old, Slocum figured, but his face had been ravaged by smallpox and was deeply pitted. He wore a small felt hat, and a bandanna around his neck that had faded from blue to a pale pink from many washings. His pistol was a converted Colt Navy, and only a few bullets were on his gun belt. He was thin, almost emaciated, and looked as if he might blow away in a strong wind if he didn’t have a couple of bricks in his pocket.

  “I’m just out for a morning ride,” Slocum said.

  “You got no business ’round these diggings,” the man said.

  “What diggings?” Slocum said.

  “I see you comin’ from that ravine yonder. Hell, you couldn’t miss it.”

  “Well, I did.”

  “What’re you doin’ around Polvo?”

  “I lost some horses. I’m looking for them.”

  The man snorted in disbelief.

  “Likely you come to the wrong place, mister. Ain’t no stray horses ’round here.”

  “My mistake,” Slocum said.

  “I ought to run you in,” the skinny man said.

  “For what?”

  “Trespassin’, that’s what.”

  Slocum dropped his attitude of amiability. He narrowed his eyes and hardened his jaw.

  “Far as I know,” Slocum said, “this is open range out here, and I’m just riding through it, looking for my lost horses.”

  The thin man reared back as if caught off guard. Which he was.

  “It ain’t open range. You see all them adobes back yonder? They’s a town there. And this land is owned by somebody.”

  “Who? Scud?”

  The man reacted as if Slocum had slapped him in the face. He stood up in the stirrups and started to lower his rifle.

  “You know Scud?”

  “Never met him,” Slocum replied.

  “Well, he owns all this land and he ain’t no man to dally with.”

  “Fine. I’m trespassing. What are you going to do about it?” Slocum paused, then continued, “If you level that Spenser at me, it’ll be the last thing you do on this earth.”

  The rifle stopped moving.

  “You push pretty hard for a man what’s breakin’ the law, mister.”

  “Turn your horse and ride back where you came from,” Slocum ordered.

  The man’s jaw dropped at this insolence, this haughtiness, the brazen act of defiance.

  “And if’n I don’t?”

  “That horse you’re on is going to have an empty saddle,” Slocum said.

  “You threatenin’ me, ain’t you?”

  “Could be I am. Could also be that I’m warning you. You want to keep breathing, don’t you?”

  The man thought it over for several seconds. He lifted his rifle to its former upright position, resting the butt on his right leg.

  “Well, you just skedaddle on outta here, mister, before I change my mind. We got us a right smart jail in Polvo and a sheriff that’s mean as a butcher shop dog.”

  “I’ll be on my way,” Slocum said, switching to his amiable tone. “Mighty nice to meet somebody who knows the lay of the land.”

  Slocum touched his index finger of his left hand to the brim of his hat and turned Ferro away from the rider. He banked on the man not shooting him in the back, but he was ready to hunch over the saddle horn, turn, and draw his pistol if he heard a rustle from the Spencer carbine the man carried.

  After he had ridden a hundred yards or so, he turned slowly in the saddle to look back at the guard he had encountered. The man was riding away, back toward the barrio. Slocum looked beyond at the paling sky, the fading stars, and the wan lusterless moon. It would be daybreak in a matter of minutes.

  Slocum rode down a side street, then turned toward the hotel. He tied Ferro across the street at a hitch ring in front of a small dry goods store and walked across the street to the Excelsior. There was a lamp burning in the lobby, and another behind the check-in counter. A burly man stood where Parsons had been the night before. He wore a porkpie hat and a string tie that was bright red. His shirt was blue with black stripes, and his trousers were well-worn. He was tall with a thick bulbous nose and folds of fat around his neck.

  “You checking in?” the man asked.

  “Nope. I have a room.”

  “Then I bid you good mornin’,” the man said with just a trace of an Irish brogue in his voice. Slocum nodded and proceeded to the stairs.

  He walked down the hall to Room 220 and tapped softly on the door.

  No answer.

  He knocked again. Slightly louder this time and waited.

  He pressed his ear against the door and listened for any sounds of stirring within the room.

  He turned the doorknob, but the room was locked.

  He knocked again, loudly this time. Rap, rap, rap, rap.

  Still no one came to open the door.

  He shook the doorknob. And listened.

  Finally, he walked away and back down the stairs. He went to the counter and the man looked up from his desk.

  “Checking out?” the man said.

  “No. I need my key. Room 220.”

  The man stood up. But he did not look at the keys on the board.

  “Lady checked out about an hour ago. Are you Mr. Wilson?”

  “I am.”

  “Sheriff Scudder said you wouldn’t be needin’ that room no more, so I signed you out.”

  “So the sheriff took Miss Warren with him? Was he alone?”

  “Yep.”

  “Was Miss Warren his prisoner?”

  “Didn’t look like it. She had a carpetbag with her and I gathered she was here to work at the saloon. Pretty gal like that.”

  “Do you know where Scudder took her?”

  “Nope. Don’t know and don’t care. You aim to stay another night, you got to sign the register.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Slocum said. “The saloon open this time of day?”

  The man behind the counter looked out at the brightening street.

  “Nope. Too early. It don’t open until nigh noon. You want something to eat, there’s a little café a block or so away, past the Desert Rose. That’s where all the drunks go when the saloon closes. And I’d say it’s been closed a good hour or so judging by the sun out there on the street. My name’s Phil Dunegan, and I’ll be on du
ty here ’till dark. Plenty of rooms left.”

  “I’ll bet,” Slocum said.

  He walked out of the hotel and over to where Ferro was tied. He stood there for a few minutes. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he didn’t savor the idea of eating at a public place, even this early.

  He looked at a post nearby and saw a piece of paper fluttering in the morning breeze.

  He walked over and looked at the flyer.

  There was a drawing of him that was a replica of the ones he had seen before. But it showed him as he was now, with a stippled chin and black hat, black shirt.

  WANTED, the dodger stated. And underneath: For murder.

  Then below that: Dead or Alive.

  At the very bottom, there was this announcement in large block letters: $2000.00 REWARD.

  “You didn’t waste any time, did you, Scudder?” Slocum muttered.

  Then he untied his reins, mounted Ferro, and rode toward the stables.

  And the livery was right behind the sheriff’s office.

  Good, he thought. I can kill two birds with one good chunk.

  Morning seeped through the town, scrubbing up all the deep shadows and thinning them out like castoff garments of vanished people.

  If Sheriff Scudder was in, Slocum vowed, he was going to kill him.

  First, though, he would stuff that wanted dodger down his throat.

  The anger boiled in him like the sun rising over the eastern horizon, raw and raging like a fire released from the bowels of hell.

  18

  The sheriff’s office was dark inside when Slocum rode up to the hitch rail and reined in Ferro. He waited there for a few minutes, looked up and down the deserted street. A few doors beyond, and across the street, he saw lamps burning and a sign outside that read ROSITA’S CAFÉ. He could see shadowy figures sitting at tables near the front window and steamed edges on the upper part of the glass.

  His stomach churned and growled.

  Those damned flyers were posted on every building, every stanchion, every storefront. The ink was still wet on most of them. There was probably a printer in town, and Scudder had made him turn out those dodgers at a pretty fair clip and hired some kid to nail them up. Well, Slocum thought, that was one way to handle anger, and he wondered if Scudder had upped the reward money from $1,000 to $2,000, or if Georgia thought he was worth more after all these years.

  The café was too close to the jail to suit Slocum. Even a town this small must have more than one or two places where a man could buy hot grub. He tied his horse at a hitch rail at the end of the street and walked to another street in the next block. Each street was only about three blocks long, he figured, four at the most. He carried his rifle with him, just in case someone might be tempted to steal it.

  Most of the stores along Second Street were closed, but he was following his nose now and looking for a specific business that had nothing to do with food, except in a roundabout way. He passed little huts with signs that proclaimed that the owners did sewing or sold pottery. There was a harness maker near the stables on the same street nearly opposite the livery. There was even a silversmith and an apothecary with all kinds of bottles and tins of salve in its window. At the very end of the street, he found one of the places he was seeking. The board storefront had one window and one door. The sign read: TIM CHANDLER, GUNSMITH. OPEN 8:00 A.M. CLOSE AT DARK. He figured he would have about an hour to wait before the store opened.

  He kept walking, following his nose. He sniffed the air, turned a corner, and saw a little building where smoke was rising from a chimney. It was a homely adobe, and the aroma of meat and corn tortillas wafted to him on the morning air. There was no window, but a sign leaning against the building told him what was inside: Carne asada. Juevos rancheros. Bistec. Puerco, pollo y mas. Cerveza, café, y agua fresco. His stomach twisted into a knot and he went inside the café, which was twice as long as it was wide.

  The oak door swung open on leather hinges. As soon as he entered, Slocum knew that he was in another world. There was a counter on the left, with handmade wooden stools. Round, rough-hewn tables were scattered in the center, with square tables, the larger ones, against the right wall. Some of these were separated by whipsawed boards acting as privacy partitions.

  Mexicans sat on the stools and at some of the tables. All of them looked at him when he stood there in the natural light. Beyond the counter, he saw open windows with shelves where food from the kitchen could be placed. Two young girls wearing dainty aprons carried food and drinks to the tables, and a man and woman, both with graying hair and heavily lined faces, served the men sitting on the stools. They both wore handmade aprons and white garments that appeared to have been starched and pressed.

  Slocum walked to a table, sat down, and took off his hat. He heard the whispers all around him. The single word that stood out was gringo. He looked around at the decorated walls. Colored tiles ran midway up the long wall where the square tables stood, and there were little shelves attached to the adobe with heavy dowels on which statues of religious figures were arranged. These were made of clay, fired in a kiln, and painted with bright colors. There were also crude paintings on the wall, one of a young bullfighter caping a roaring black bull and another of a young woman wearing a black mantilla, with large brown eyes and mahogany skin. Alongside the paintings were little miniature mosaics of dogs and cats, and a tintype of an old Mexican town, drab and tawny, with a church steeple rising above the humble rooftops.

  One of the young waitresses walked over to Slocum’s table. She looked at him with liquid eyes, her twin braids dangling over both shoulders, each tied with bright green, yellow, and white ribbons. She wore small silver earrings inset with polished jade stones.

  Slocum looked up at her and said in perfect Spanish: “Parece que estoy in Mejico.”

  The girl blushed and laughed shyly.

  “You are in a part of Mexico,” she said in English with a faint Spanish accent. “What once was Mexico.” Murmurs arose around them, commenting on the girl’s statement.

  “Me muero de hambre,” Slocum said.

  “You are dying of hunger,” she replied, and handed him a slate. The menu was written in Spanish and Slocum ordered eggs, bacon, and beef steak with beans, speaking in the Spanish tongue.

  “You understand Spanish,” he said to the girl, “but do you speak it? I have heard only English pass your lips.”

  “Yo hablo la langua de mis padres, pero yo hablo Ingles, tambien.”

  Slocum laughed and she laughed with him.

  “I will bring your order,” she said. The old man behind the counter opened a small door and walked over to Slocum’s table. He brought an empty cup and a pot of steaming coffee. Without asking, he set the cup down in front of Slocum and poured hot coffee clear to the brim.

  “You are a stranger here in Polvo,” the man said.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Jorge Alessandro, the owner of this place. I saw your picture in many places this morning when I came to open up.”

  “And you’re thinking about the two-thousand-dollar reward for my capture,” Slocum said evenly.

  “No, I do not think that,” Jorge said. “Because I was in the cantina last night when you marched the sheriff down the stairs and out the door. I thought you were a very brave man and I admire a brave man.”

  “You could probably be arrested for saying such things out loud, Jorge.”

  “Why do you come here to Polvo? It is not a town one visits or even passes through on his way to somewhere else.”

  “I came here because of four women. Three were kidnapped by Scud, and I found one near an overturned wagon with two dead men in it. Scud was with a small band of Kiowa, who scalped the two dead men and stole four horses I was taking to the Goodnight ranch.”

  “I see,” Jorge said. He nodded at the cof
fee cup and Slocum picked it up, blew on it, and took a sip.

  “Very good coffee,” he said.

  “It is the way we roast the beans, Mr. Slocum.”

  “Best coffee in Texas,” Slocum said. “Bar none.”

  “And the best in Mexico, as well.”

  The two men laughed and Slocum lifted a hand and extended it. The two shook hands.

  “Now you are a hunted man,” Alessandro said.

  “I am a hunted man hunting other men. I found one of the girls hiding in a ditch behind an adobe where the two other kidnapped women are being held against their will. And the one I brought here to Polvo was taken from the hotel by Sheriff Scudder.”

  “As I said, you are a brave man, but you fight against great odds, dangerous men. Scudder and those who work for his brother will shoot you on sight. The wanted paper says ‘dead or alive.’ I think Scudder would prefer you dead after you humiliated him in front of so many people.”

  The young waitress brought a tray with his food on it and set down the plates, silverware, and a large checkered napkin.

  “Is there anything else you wish?” she asked.

  “No, thank you,” Slocum said.

  “That is my daughter, Esperanza,” Jorge said. “We are allowed to work here in town because I pay Scud a large percentage of what we earn.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “I have two sons who were, how do you say it, attracted here by an advertisement in a San Antonio newspaper. They thought they were going to work on a cattle ranch, but one of my sons smuggled a letter out, which was mailed to me, and I learned that both sons were prisoners, forced to work in the mines and paid little or no money.”

  “Still, you came here and were not taken to the mines like all the others. I was out there this morning with a man named José Delgado. He showed me where he lived and I saw the diggings.”

  Jorge crouched over the table in an intimate exchange.

  “Then you know, Mr. Slocum,” he said.

  “I know. And I want to help those people. Your sons, if they are still there.”

  “They are still there. How will you help them?”