Slocum and the Misty Creek Massacre

by Jake Logan

  The man beside the well-dressed fellow wore the rumpled garb of a cowboy, complete with a leather vest that was kept open to display a double rig holster strapped around his waist. Mismatched pistols hung at his sides, both of which looked to have gotten plenty of use. Without any hair or whiskers to cover his face or scalp, a myriad of scars were on prominent display. Some raked across a cheek while others were left behind in spots where chunks of his chin or jaw had been cut or carved away by blade or bullet. He scowled at Slocum as if every last one of those scars still gave him a lingering pain.

  “Hello, John,” the third man said. “I thought you’d left town.” Unlike the other two, he didn’t move an inch in response to Slocum’s arrival. His suit was obviously more expensive than the first fellow’s and was tailored to hang perfectly over a pudgy body. Slocum didn’t need to see the bulge from a holster or scabbard to know the man was armed.

  “How am I supposed to leave, Cameron?” Slocum asked. “You stole my horse.”

  Reaching back to pat the animal directly behind him, the pudgy man said, “Won it. Just because you were drunk doesn’t mean your bets weren’t valid.”

  “And what about the money that was in my pockets?”

  “You lost that, too. Or don’t you recall?”

  At that moment, Slocum did recall digging into his pockets sometime during that game to remove some of his cash to cover a bet on a ten-high straight, which had been cracked by a luckier player. Slocum chalked that one up to the whiskey, but knew he could never get drunk enough to lose the money he’d stashed in his boot for expenses. “What about my pistol?” he asked. “You want to try and convince me I lost that on a bet as well?”

  Although the big man in the stolen suit began to say something, he was stopped when Cameron placed a hand upon his shoulder. “I didn’t see that happen during our game,” Cameron said. “But it was never my job to be your guardian angel.”

  “Yeah,” the bald fellow with the double rig proclaimed. “That’s me and Fitz’s job.”

  Fitz nodded and straightened lapels that had more elegance than he could ever hope to possess. “Milt and I made it our business to watch you real good, John. Or perhaps you don’t recall that either?”

  Milt and Fitz. Those names definitely rang a bell inside Slocum’s head. In fact, they made him wonder just how much he’d drunk that night for him to have forgotten them in the first place. There was no forgetting them anymore, however. “I recall you two lurking around the poker tables like a pair of ghouls. You also followed me outside when I left the game.”

  “Left in anything but a straight line, I should add,” Cameron said.

  Slocum nodded curtly. “Granted. But there’s no way in hell I would have left that game without my gun. Even a greener would know better than to walk around Dodge City without protection from assholes like these.”

  Those words caused Fitz and Milt to strut forward as if they meant to trample Slocum into the dirt.

  “Better watch your tone, mister,” Milt said as he stepped up to knock his chest against Slocum’s. “A greener don’t know nothin’ about anything, so they get some slack. Since that ain’t what you are, you don’t get an inch.”

  “Don’t need any,” Slocum replied as he snapped his hand out to pluck the gun from one of Milt’s holsters. The pistol was on Milt’s left, which meant it was the smaller of the two. Even so, the .38 fit nicely in Slocum’s hand as he flipped it to slide three fingers around its grip and another upon its trigger. “That green enough for you?”

  Although Milt’s eyes burned with an angry fire, his body knew better than to make another move. One hand hovered over the .44 holstered on his right hip while the other remained pressed tightly against the spot where the .38 had been.

  Suddenly, Fitz decided to speak like a man who belonged in the suit that hung on him. “No need for all of this, John. That was a hard night for a lot of folks.”

  “Shut the hell up,” Slocum snapped. “I’m also missing my watch, some money, and my gun. I may not recall everything that happened when I stepped out of the Dodge House, but I know I had my watch and gun. Perhaps I should ask around inside the Dodge House to see if anyone else remembers much from that night.”

  Cameron stepped to one side and swept an arm toward the back end of the hotel as if he’d been large enough to keep Slocum from getting to it before. “Go right ahead. Just about everyone in there knows me, so you shouldn’t have to search long for your answers.”

  Still keeping the .38 pointed at Milt, Slocum said, “I’m recalling more and more the longer I stand here. For one thing, I distinctly remember walking down Tin Pot Alley and not making it out before I found myself on the ground.”

  “You drank like there was a hole in your throat,” Fitz chuckled. “Any man tends to fall down a lot under them circumstances.”

  Slocum reached back with his free hand to touch the crusty spot on the back of his head. One careful fingertip upon that spot sent a stabbing jolt of pain through his skull that caused one eye to twitch. “Unless the whiskey busted me in the head, I’d say there’s another reason I took that tumble.”

  Growing comfortable behind his two enforcers, Cameron drew a cigar from a breast pocket and placed it between his teeth. “If you believe you were robbed, perhaps you should contact the authorities?”

  “No need for that. I’ll find out what happened soon enough and deal with the son of a bitch myself.”

  Fitz stepped up so he was shoulder to shoulder with Milt to form a veritable wall of meat in cheap clothing. “You sure you want to go down that road? Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through for a missing watch, a few dollars, and a pistol.”

  “I don’t give a damn if it was just the lint at the bottom of my pockets that was taken. I don’t like anyone thinking they can walk all over me and get away with it.”

  “I don’t like someone stealing from me neither,” Milt said. “Hand back my pistol.”

  Slocum didn’t so much as glance down at the beefy hand Milt extended toward him palm–up. “If I find out you had nothing to do with robbing me after I walked down Tin Pot Alley, I’ll deliver it to you myself. And if I find out something different,” he said with a wolfish grin, “I’ll jam it down your throat.”

  2

  When he stepped into the Dodge House, Slocum felt every second of the hours that had passed since his last visit. The ache in his head and stomach made it feel as if his night of drunken debauchery had worked him over with a shovel. Upon reaching the bar in the saloon, he grunted, “Coffee. Black.”

  The man who stepped up to fill the order had thinning brown hair and weighed no more than ninety pounds soaking wet.

  “You’re not the usual barkeep,” Slocum pointed out.

  “There’s a few of us that work here,” the little man said. “Which one are you thinking of?”

  “Can’t recall his name, but he was working Friday and Saturday night.”

  “That’d be Everett.”

  “Know how I could catch up with him?”

  “Come back on Friday or Saturday. That’s the only time he works here.” Having poured a cup of steaming brew from the pot behind the bar, the skinny fellow set the cup down without taking his hand from it. “Sorry, mister. Can’t open an account for one cup of coffee.”

  Slocum couldn’t decide which made him more cross: the fact that the barkeep assumed he couldn’t pay for the coffee or that the assumption was correct. “Do you know where I might find Everett now?”

  “Long as he shows up here when he’s supposed to, I don’t give a damn where he goes.”

  “All right, then,” Slocum said while doing his best not to stare longingly at the hot drink in front of him. “Guess I’ll just get my coffee elsewhere.”

  Obviously accustomed to dealing with men who were down on their luck without making them feel even worse, the bartender set the cup under the bar without any more fuss. “Feel free to stop by again if you like.”

  Slocum wa
s about to walk out through the door that opened onto Front Street when he diverted his path toward a desk where hotel business was conducted. An attractive woman in her late thirties sat behind it and brightened up the instant Slocum walked toward her. The pleasant expression on her face dimmed once she got a closer look at him. “Mr. Slocum?” she asked. “Where have you been?”

  “Long story.”

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “I feel worse. You wouldn’t happen to have the key to my room, would you?”

  She smiled and turned toward the pegboard behind her. “After your card game the other night, I heard you left the Dodge House and didn’t come back until…well…now. Did you find some more pleasant company?”

  The fact of the matter was that he’d only just remembered that he had a hotel room at all. Between the whiskey and the knock to the head, his thoughts were taking their own sweet time to come into focus. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Perhaps I can do something about that.”

  Slocum would have needed to be hit on the head many more times for him to forget about Estrella. She was a smoky Mexican beauty with thick black hair and eyes that were as lively as they were promising. She’d been the one to check him into the Dodge House and wish him luck whenever he’d gone downstairs for a game. Since he’d been in Dodge City for only a week or so, the familiarity she used when addressing him spoke of something more than courtesy shown to a paying customer. “Yes,” Slocum replied. “Perhaps you can. I could use a bath.”

  “Should I tack that on to your bill?”

  “Only if you can guarantee the water won’t be cold.”

  “I think I can arrange that,” she told him in a way that made a good portion of Slocum’s pains melt away.

  “Do you know anything about the bartenders that work here?”

  “Some.”

  “What about Everett?”

  She considered that for a moment before shrugging and saying, “I don’t think he’s working right now. Did you check the next room?”

  Estrella may have been beautiful, but she wasn’t the brightest light in the sky. “Yeah. The bar was the first place I looked for the bartender.”

  “Then you should try Stella’s. It’s a steak place down on Railroad Street. That’s where I have to send for him when he’s late for work here.”

  “That’s very helpful. Can I have my key?”

  She handed it over with a promising smile. “What about that bath?”

  They hadn’t talked much, but Slocum had been sure to compliment her dress or engage in some form of flirtatious small talk every time he’d passed that desk. The night when he’d indulged in so much whiskey and cards would have been the one for him to invite her upstairs. Apparently, that wasn’t such an uncommon idea. “Since you can guarantee it’ll be hot, I suppose I can take one when I come back.”

  “Good,” she said with a distinct grimace, “because you smell like you slept in a trash heap.”

  So much for the groundwork of charm and flirtatious small talk.

  Stella’s Chop House was a fairly large place on Railroad Street that looked as if it had been built with some sort of warehouse in mind. The interior consisted of one large dining room with a back wall that was broken up by a small door and a long opening that must have looked into a kitchen. Although the bare wooden tables and irregularly shaped chairs weren’t appealing to the eye, the scents filling the place put a hungry smile onto Slocum’s face. The moment he took more than two steps inside, he was greeted by a smiling woman with a thick head of silver hair bound into a tight bun.

  “Welcome to Stella’s,” she said. “You here for lunch, early dinner, or late breakfast?”

  “I’m here to meet a man I was told might be found here. His name’s Everett.”

  “Sure, he’s one of my cooks. Works the early shift, but he should still be cleaning up.” Turning toward the back, she shouted, “Everett!”

  The man who responded to the summons was a few inches shorter than Slocum and younger by no more than six or seven years, but had the droopy eyes and slow shuffle of a man in his sixties. Slocum recognized him the moment Everett stepped out from the kitchen. He must have recognized Slocum as well because his eyes widened to almost comical proportions and he darted through the door, vaulted a table, and knocked over half a dozen chairs in his haste to get to an exit that was marked by a sign directing customers to the outhouses.

  Acting on raw instinct, Slocum tore after the cook. There were a few diners in the establishment, but they either stood up or scooted their chairs away to clear a path through the room. The folks wearing the blandest expressions in the midst of that sudden burst of excitement had more than likely been in Dodge City for the longest amount of time.

  Slocum charged through the restaurant fast enough to reach the side door before it had stopped rattling after Everett had burst through it. The cook bolted past the outhouses like his tail feathers were on fire, heading east toward the railroad depot. When he turned to get a quick look behind him, he was nearly trampled by a horse being ridden into town. Although he managed to avoid that undignified end, he was off balance and panicked enough to slam into the post of a general store’s awning. Everett bounced off that, cursing to high heaven, and moved on.

  Keeping his eyes focused intently on his target, Slocum cut through the pedestrian traffic like a hot knife through butter, weaving between the horses and carriages being driven down Railroad Street. Keeping one hand on the grip of his holstered .38, he used the other to reach for Everett’s shoulder as he closed in on the disoriented cook. Everett pulled his wits together quickly enough once he spotted Slocum bearing down on him. Shoving past a few concerned citizens who’d seen his collision with the post, Everett darted away as if he’d been launched from a catapult. Some of the people who’d seen Everett running like a madman after hurting himself stepped in to block Slocum’s progress. They tried to stop him or ask what he thought he was doing, but Slocum shoved past them without doing any harm.

  If Everett had had any sense, he would have headed toward the larger crowds on Front Street. His only concern was in running fast, which must have been why he chose Military Avenue for his escape route. There were fewer people there, which gave him more room to build up some steam. Of course, that meant Slocum had the same opportunity and he took full advantage of it by churning his legs as fast as they could go. After a dozen or so steps, he fell into a rhythm that allowed him to once again close the gap between him and the panicked cook.

  Everett knew better than to look over his shoulder again, but must have heard Slocum’s steps drawing closer like a train rolling over the nearby tracks. His feet pounded against the ground, kicking up dirt and gravel as his breath churned within his lungs. Even his arms flailed faster as though making a futile attempt to lift him off the ground and into the safety of the skies. High hopes weren’t going to do much good now, however. Slocum was within inches of him and the cook was running out of steam.

  Now that he was close enough, Slocum reached out with both hands and strained even harder to get a grip on Everett’s shirt. His first attempts came up short and the next few swipes made him wonder if the other man had eyes in the back of his head to let him know exactly when to squirm forward or dash a little faster. Slocum’s knees blazed with fiery pain as he pushed his aching body even harder. His arms strained with the effort of extending toward something that remained just out of their reach. When he made his next attempt to grab Everett, his fingers brushed against the cook’s back. That only served to ignite something else inside the fleeing man and he lurched forward into a series of steps that verged on spastic.

  Slocum pushed a bit harder as well while taking a quick survey of the road directly in front of Everett. There was a rough patch coming up, so he decided to try and add a little strategy into the mix.

  “Hey!” Slocum shouted. “I think this belongs to you!”

  There was nothing in Slocum’s hands or anything in his possessi
on that he thought could have belonged to Everett, but the claim sparked the other man’s interest just enough for him to glance back and take his eyes away from the path before him. By the time he turned around again, his feet were crossing the rough patch Slocum had picked out.

  Everett’s feet skidded. He stumbled forward, reached out with both hands to brace himself for a potential fall, and then regained his footing. The diversion hadn’t tripped him up, but his speed had dipped just enough for Slocum to make one last push. Channeling everything he could into his legs, Slocum lunged at Everett’s back with both arms outstretched. “Gotcha!” he said the moment his fingers closed around a sizable chunk of the other man’s shirt.

  No matter how badly Everett wanted to keep moving, Slocum’s grip was too strong for him to do so. His arms and legs continued to flail, but he wasn’t going anywhere. A few seconds later, Everett was swung to one side and tossed to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  “Why the…hell were you…” was all Slocum could say before Everett rolled over with enough force to twist his shirt free. The sudden jerking motion pulled Slocum in close enough to catch the wild fist that was thrown at his face. The other man’s knuckles glanced off Slocum’s jaw, snapping his head to one side.

  The swing may have connected, but it threw Everett once more off his balance, and he was all too willing to flop onto his belly and crawl away. As soon as Slocum started to chase after him again, he was discouraged by a few donkey kicks Everett threw directly behind him.

  His jaw still stinging from the punch, Slocum scurried around Everett and swatted aside one kick before it caught him below the belt. This time when he grabbed hold of Everett, he slammed him with enough force to drive the crawling man’s face into the gravel. As satisfying as it would have been to make him taste some more little rocks, Slocum pulled Everett up.

  “And don’t take another—”