Slocum and the Canyon Courtesans

by Jake Logan

  “I believed him when he showed me the little cemetery out yonder,” Del said. “He said the men who were buried there had all tried to light a shuck for other parts and wound up in Boot Hill.”

  Fanny gasped as Del led them all to the house. The door was unlocked and they walked inside. It was a large one-room dwelling with a pair of small cubicles, one of which had a cot where Del slept. The other was a storage room with nail kegs and a wall holding hammers, saws, and chisels.

  “I like to keep my hand in. Build furniture I sell to the Mexes in town when I ain’t workin’ as a guard out at the ’dobe town. Miss Fanny, you can sleep on that there cot. I got a little bed out back. I generally like to sleep under the stars. It’s cooler there. I got a little kitchen out back, too, that I’m framin’ in, but it’s got a woodstove and skillet, wash bowls and such.”

  Fanny walked through the room and out the back door.

  “It ain’t much,” Del said, “but I like to tinker and I was a-goin’ to add me another room later on. I been storin’ up old wagon sheets and side boards from broke-down rigs out at the diggings.”

  Fanny returned after a few moments.

  She was beaming.

  “What a charming little kitchen you got, Del. I mean, it’s got cabinets and a larder and a nice little cookstove. You got a pantry and was that a well I saw out back?”

  “Shore was,” Del said. “Bricked in with ’dobes I got from the Mexes in town.”

  “It looks like a wishing well, with its little shake roof and the rope and bucket.”

  Del held up his hands.

  “All these nicks and scrapes prove I done built most everything you see,” he said.

  “I’ll be just fine here, John. But don’t make me wait too long. I know you got things to do.”

  “I hope to bring your friends back here right quick,” Slocum said. “Especially Melissa. If I can find her.”

  “I’m counting on you, John,” she said. Then she ring-necked him with both arms and planted a juicy smack on his lips. She broke the embrace and started for Del, who retreated, holding up both hands to ward her off. His face took on a rosy hue and Fanny laughed.

  “Shoo,” she said with a smile, and waved the men out the door.

  The two men left and mounted their horses, rode back to town. They went straight to the gun shop. Jorge was waiting for them outside, talking to Tim, a gray-haired man in his early fifties, with a silver moustache and fluffy white sideburns. He wore horn-rimmed eyeglasses and a striped shirt made of muslin that had been recently redyed with a bluish tint.

  Del and Slocum dismounted and tied their horses to the hitch rail.

  Jorge introduced the gunsmith to Del and Slocum. The three men shook hands.

  “Let’s go inside,” Tim said, looking around furtively. There were a few people on the street, and most of the small shops were open. But it was still quiet in their vicinity, and no one seemed to be gawking at them. The four men entered the gun shop. Slocum adjusted his eyes to the light and saw that he was in a large workroom. There were just a few guns on display, rifles leaning on racks against the wall, a couple of old percussion pistols hanging from dowels by their trigger guards, and an old pirate’s flintlock pistol in a frame attached to the wall.

  There was a long worktable with a metal lathe at one end, a hurricane lamp in the center near one edge, and various tools arranged next to a Henry rifle, which was broken down into various sections: barrel, stock, receiver, lever, and magazine.

  “Jorge told me who you were, Slocum, and said that you could be trusted. Find yourselves stools and set down.”

  There were several small stools arranged around an unlit potbellied stove and a wood box full of kindling and wood scraps.

  The men sat down.

  “I’d like to see that vault you have here. I understand it’s full of old rifles and pistols.”

  Slocum pulled out a cheroot and offered it to Tim.

  “I don’t smoke,” Tim said. “I keep powder in the back room, where I do reloading and make up cartridges for various calibers of rifles and pistols.”

  “Then I won’t smoke either,” Slocum said.

  “I appreciate that. One stray spark and this place would go up like a volcano.”

  “About that vault,” Slocum repeated.

  “Ain’t really a vault. More like a big safe, but it’s locked tight. Might be a tough nut to crack.”

  “How many guns do you have in there?” Slocum asked.

  “Maybe three dozen rifles and scatterguns, twice that many pistols, none of ’em new or worth havin’ in my estimation. There are some Colts, a Paterson or two, some Smith and Wessons, a few converted Navys and Armys, a derringer, some Remingtons, both percussion and conversions. Like the New Model Army with a top strap.”

  “I’m familiar with most of them. Will they shoot?”

  “I reckon. I keep some black powder and percussion caps in my little safe back there, some 3F and 2F powder.”

  “Just in case, eh?” Slocum said.

  Tim grinned. “A cap and ball kills just as good as a percussion Colt,” Tim said.

  “You know what I want the guns for, Tim?”

  “No, I don’t. Jorge just said you was interested.”

  “How would you feel if I got a bunch of Mexicans together, those who work out at the diggings, and gave them arms?”

  Tim scratched a small furrow in his gray hair.

  “I’d say you was plumb loco, Mr. Slocum.”

  “Why?” Slocum said.

  “Scud and his men pack the latest Colts and Winchesters. Most of ’em are crack shots and they sure don’t mind shootin’ Mexes, nor anybody else who bucks ’em.”

  “I can arm about a dozen men, and with Del here and my own weapons, I think we can even up the odds at least.”

  “Scud, he has many men who work for him,” Jorge said.

  “Yeah, he does,” Del added. “At least two dozen, by my count.”

  “Any of them likely to throw in with us, Del?” Slocum asked.

  Del shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t trust none of ’em. Yesterday I wouldn’t have trusted myself.”

  Tim looked at Del in surprise.

  “You must be loco, too,” Tim said.

  “I reckon I am, but when I run into Slocum here, I figgered he wasn’t a man to back down no matter what and I’m sick of workin’ for Scud and Oren. When I look at them poor Mexes slavin’ long days in those diggings, I can’t hardly live with my conscience.”

  Tim rocked back and forth on his stool, as if that triggered some mechanism in his mind that instigated serious thought.

  “Lessen you can get the combination to that gun safe from Scud, Slocum, you’ll have to blow it. And I don’t want to be around when you do it.”

  Slocum looked at Del.

  “I saw boxes of dynamite out at the diggings. Also caps and fuses. Think we can rustle up some of that to use on that safe, Del?”

  “At night the guards don’t watch over the diggings, so it wouldn’t be hard to grab some of those sticks and the fixin’s, I reckon.”

  “All right. Tim, we’ll get the dynamite tonight and blow the safe around midnight, if that’s all right. You might have to move your powder.”

  “I’ll have it out of here by nightfall,” Tim said. “You want to take a look at that safe?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to blow your building down, but I need to see what I’m facing.”

  The men got up with a scraping of stool legs on the hardwood floor. Tim led them through a door to another room. There, in the center, was a very large safe with a wheel lock in the center.

  “You have a drill with a large bit, Tim?” Slocum asked.

  “An inch bit is all. Be hard as hell to d
rill though that steel, though.”

  Slocum walked up to the safe and gripped the wheel. It did not turn when he applied pressure to it. He walked around the safe. It was at least four feet deep and over five foot in height. There was a gap between the bottom and the floor. The safe was on large iron casters so that it could be rolled if need be. He got down on his belly and reached a hand under the safe and felt the bottom of it.

  He crawled backward and stood up.

  “Might not need to drill,” he said.

  “Why not?” Tim asked.

  Slocum ran his fingers around the seam in the door.

  “You got glue here?” he asked Tim. “Strong glue?”

  “I got glue, strong as blacksmith’s glue. Why?”

  “I’ll need some. I have an idea how we can blow the door off this safe and not damage any of the weapons inside.”

  “You a powder man?” Tim asked.

  “I’ve handled dynamite before,” Slocum said. “I have a hell of a lot of respect for it and Mr. Du Pont.”

  “I wish you luck,” Chandler said.

  “Luck depends on planning, Tim,” Slocum said. “I’m a man who takes kindly to planning.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Tim said.

  “See you sometime after midnight, Tim,” Slocum said.

  “No, you won’t. I’ll be at the Desert Rose. The door to my shop will be unlocked. Just come on in and do what you have to do.”

  “All right. I don’t blame you. But why go to the saloon?”

  “Because if anything goes wrong, I want plenty of witnesses who will swear I was drinking at the bar and not touching off dynamite in my own shop.”

  Slocum laughed.

  Del frowned and Jorge nodded with approval.

  Slocum and Chandler shook hands.

  “Thanks,” Slocum said.

  “You’ll need a wagon to haul all those guns out of here if you do blow that safe,” Tim said.

  Slocum looked at Del.

  “They’s wagons out at the diggin’s,” he said. “I reckon we can hook one up and drag it here.”

  “Problem solved,” Slocum said. He looked at Jorge. “Thanks, Jorge,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

  “Suerte, amigo,” Jorge said. “Vaya con Dios.”

  “I’ll go with Del, Jorge. God can tag along after us.”

  Jorge laughed. Del didn’t get the joke.

  The two men walked out to their horses. Before they mounted up, they spoke in low tones.

  “Do you know who will be on night guard out at the adobe village, Del?”

  “I’m supposed to be one of ’em, but there should be two men working.”

  “Do I have to worry about them when we go after the dynamite and haul that wagon out?”

  “We might have do some work before we steal the dynamite and the wagon, John.”

  “You mean unsaddle them?”

  “I mean shoot ’em plumb dead. One of ’em is Faron Lawrence, a gunslinger from Waco, and the other’n is Jubal Gaston, from New Orleans, a back-shootin’ thief from way back. Handpicked by Scud and who do most of the killin’ around here.”

  “Handpicked, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, handpicked for pure meanness.”

  “Well, then, we’ll just have to unpick them, won’t we?”

  “Won’t be so easy in the dark. Them two are hard to sneak up on.”

  “Well, so is an elk or a deer,” Slocum said. “And unless these men have great big ears and a mighty keen sense of smell, I think I can manage a good stalk.”

  Del said nothing. Slocum could see that he wasn’t convinced. Del knew the men and Slocum did not. But he had met such men before.

  Slocum had fought with Quantrill during the war. He knew how to do battle with the enemy.

  And besides, he thought. It was two against two. Those were fair odds in his book.

  21

  Slocum knew he was taking a big chance by returning to the Desert Rose Saloon. It was a risk he was willing to take as long as he had Del with him to point out any of Scud’s gunslingers. He didn’t want to walk in cold, though, so he and Del left their horses hitched well away from the saloon and separate. They stood across the street from the saloon a long while, watching who went in and came out.

  “Most of the men who work for Scud come in the through the back door, but he don’t usually have nobody but the bartenders and the glitter gals a-workin’.”

  “Just tell me if you see any of the men you know going into the saloon,” Slocum said.

  “You aimin’ to take them gals out tonight?”

  “No, I just want to see them first. Especially Melissa. See if she’s started work in there.”

  “I could go in and check for you,” Del offered.

  “Just watch my back when we go in,” Slocum said.

  Several men and a few women on their arms went into the saloon over the next hour, but none were packing sidearms. There were several Mexicans and single white men who looked more like farm boys than gunslingers.

  “All right,” Slocum said. “I’ve seen enough. You go in first and see that I have a stool at this end of the bar near the doors. I’ll come in about five minutes later.”

  “Looks like the usual crowd to me,” Del said.

  “If you say so.”

  They could hear the lively music from the band as Del walked across the street and parted the batwing doors. A few more men in pairs and trios walked in, and then Slocum made his move.

  There was an empty stool at the end of the bar, and Jack Akers was serving a man about midway down the bar. So Slocum slipped onto the stool and waited to catch the barkeep’s attention. A few stools away sat Del, a beer in front of him. He did not nod to Slocum but assumed an air of complete indifference when Slocum scanned the others at the bar, which included Del.

  He saw Jack pouring a drink for a new arrival, then turned to look out over the tables. He saw a tall graceful woman wearing the outfit of a glitter gal, and another, shorter, but just as pretty. At the far end, he caught a glimpse of Melissa. She was smiling and patronizing a middle-aged gentleman who looked like a banker, with his gray suit, brownish-gold vest, and dangling watch chain. The top of his balding head shone like a small moon under the candlelit chandelier.

  Akers approached and stood looking at Slocum.

  “I guess it’s no more Mr. Wilson, is it, Slocum?” Akers said.

  “Take your pick, Jack.”

  “You got more nerve than my mother-in-law, Slocum.”

  “That’s Mr. Slocum to you, Jack,” Slocum said.

  “My mistake. But after last night, I never expected to see you again. Some Kentucky bourbon, Mr. Slocum?”

  “Not tonight, Jack. Just draw me a beer. Any kind. I’m not particular.”

  “I guess it’s good for you that Sheriff Scudder is not in town tonight.”

  “I’m always grateful for small favors,” Slocum said.

  As Jack turned to pour Slocum a beer, Slocum called to him. “Have Melissa come over here when she’s not too busy, will you?”

  “Sure,” Akers said, and gave a signal to Melissa at the back of the room.

  Apparently, she had been trained, like the other girls, to keep an eye on the bartenders for just such requests. The Mexican girl slinked by at a nearby table and gave Slocum the eye. He winked at her and she winked back.

  Slocum saw Melissa leave her table and walk slowly toward the bar, smiling at those patrons she passed, who all looked up at her with admiring glances.

  Akers set a beer down in front of Slocum.

  “Two bits,” he said.

  Slocum put a quarter on the bartop.

  “I’m supposed to show you a flyer,” Akers said. “But I reckon yo
u already know you got a price on your head. Scudder’s hoppin’ mad.”

  “I’ve had a price on my head a good long time, Jack,” Slocum said.

  “One thousand of that two thousand is bein’ put up by Scud. He wants to tack your hide to the barn door and set the door on fire.”

  “You’re a regular information bureau, Jack. Maybe you ought to think about starting up a newspaper.”

  “Here’s your gal, Slocum. Buy her a drink or she’s gone to greener pastures.”

  “Bring her what she wants,” Slocum said as Melissa sidled up and sat down on an empty stool.

  “Buy me a drink, John?” she said. “That’s what they told me to say to anyone who wants to talk to me.”

  “On the way, Melissa.”

  “Well, how do I look?” she said.

  “You look like a two-bit whore,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  She reacted as if he had slapped her.

  “That’s not a nice thing to say, John.”

  “You asked. Don’t tell me you like working here.”

  “Scud was real nice to me. He told me I could make a lot of money and that he would put most of it into a savings account for me in case I ever wanted to leave Polvo or get married.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Scud is a damned liar.”

  Akers brought a glass that looked like whiskey but Slocum knew was mostly tea. He set it down and Slocum dug out two one-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. Akers snatched up the bills and started to walk back to his station at the bar’s center.

  “If you or the other barkeep even reach for a weapon, you’ll wind up in a pine box, Jack.”

  “Scudder will take care of you when he gets back in town. Or so he said.”

  “No reward for you, then,” Slocum said.

  “That’s the luck of the draw, Slocum.”

  Akers walked away, a slight swagger to his gait.

  “I saw the flyers, John,” Melissa said. “You killed some judge, didn’t you?”

  Slocum shrugged.

  “That shoe don’t fit,” he said, assuming his Georgia drawl as if he had just left the farm.

  “Who’s the tall gal?” Slocum asked. He sipped his beer and inclined his head toward one of the glitter gals.