by Jake Logan
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Watch for
Tricked
“Hey, Fred!” he called.
The man turned, scowling. “What?”
“It’s me, Slocum. I run into you when I was passin’ through Flag, remember?”
“Nope.”
Of course he didn’t. They’d never met, but Slocum had at least remembered where he’d seen the poster.
Slocum shrugged, pulling his Colt free at the same time. He kept his gun hand low so that Fred Whatshisname couldn’t see it. “Must’a been someplace else, then. Sorry. I’ll think of it sooner or later.”
Fred turned to leave, muttering, “Yeah, you do that.”
Slocum vaulted out of the stall and was behind him before he could make the doorway. “Don’t move,” Slocum growled when the man tried to turn around. “Hands clasped behind your neck. Now!”
DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
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Jove edition / April 2011
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1
It was just coming spring when Slocum rode east, from California into the Arizona Territory. He hadn’t robbed a bank in a coon’s age, hadn’t held up a stage in longer. He’d just been going from job to job, working on ranches and breaking horses, and lying low.
It was almost ten years since the end of the war, and he’d decided to quit fighting by stealing the Union blind. About time, too. Some sheriff back in California had recognized him, and had been dogging him for thirty-odd miles of hard country. About a week ago, he’d finally had to shoot him. Hadn’t killed him, though. Just wounded him bad enough that he’d stop following.
Strangely, he felt kind of good about that part—the just wounding him part, that was. It made him feel sort of ... upright. And he liked it.
His mount was his usual favorite—an Appaloosa. This one was black—shiny, glossy black, black as a raven’s wing—with two white socks behind, a narrow blaze down the center of his face, and a blanket of snowy white over his rump. In the white patch were numerous spots, from the size of a big man’s palm to dots the size of small pebbles. The stallion’s name had been Rocky when he bought him, and Slocum had kept it.
Rocky had belonged to Slocum for three years now, and he’d never had a steadier mount. This was unusual for a stud horse. He was also a kind horse, if a horse can be said to be kind, and had saved Slocum’s bacon on several occasions. This was a thing a man didn’t easily forget, and Slocum hadn’t. Rocky received only the best of care, and Slocum carried a pocket full of lemon drops—Rocky’s sole weakness—at all times.
Well, Rocky had another weakness, too. Slocum guessed that he’d left behind about a half-dozen gravid mares in just the three years that Slocum had owned him. He chuckled to himself. Wasn’t any skin off his nose, but he’d bet that there were a few cowhands that came up surprised when their mares foaled Appys.
Slocum and Rocky were heading loosely in the direction of Tucson. It was a town with not much going on, but it’d make a decent stopover on his way up to Phoenix. Course, there wasn’t much going on up there either, but maybe there was some work to be found.
He was crossing the desert, west to east, had been for some time, he supposed. But he wasn’t missing company. He liked traveling on his own, hated the way other folks seemed to keep on yammering at him just to fill the air with sound. But the air was all right with him, just as it was. And it was plenty noisy already. The scuttle of desert quail and the flurry
of wings when he rode too close; the light, steady tread of a roadrunner on the hunt; the surprised slither and rattle of a snake ...
He knew which to avoid, and so did Rocky. They were turning into quite a twosome.
There wasn’t much country left between him and Tucson now, he realized. Just up around the tip of the Santa Ritas, then south a few miles. He wondered if the Presidio was still there, or if the town had grown over it the way it had grown most of the way over the swamp on its west end. There used to be a lot of malaria over there.
Rocky sensed his urgency, and moved into a slow jog trot. Slocum barely noticed. That was another thing about Rocky: he had the smoothest trot any man could ask for in a saddle mount.
He let Rocky jog on for a few miles, then slowed him back to a walk and started climbing. There was a little pass he knew of that would save them an hour or two of saddle time, and he was all for that. He knew that Rocky was, too.
By midafternoon, he had crossed through the Santa Ritas and was starting to follow the old riverbed that would lead him to Tucson, when he noticed that the birds had stopped singing. He reined in Rocky and sat there for a moment, scowling while he looked around. There was nothing that could have startled the wildlife into silence. Nothing he saw right away anyhow. But he did spot a covey of quail in the distance, a covey that had taken flight, and then he heard a rifle’s blast.
One of the birds, a black speck in the distance, spiraled down.
It took the time for the bird to hit the ground before Slocum realized the shot had come from somewhere between himself and the birds. Scowling, he cursed himself under his breath. You could’a been shot in that time, you jughead, he thought, and reined Rocky forward. Despite what he’d been thinking, if the guy shooting birds up there had wanted to kill him, he’d be dead already.
He might as well go on in and be neighborly. Say howdy and all that.
He hadn’t gone more than fifty feet ahead when he spied the shooter. Dressed in jeans, a blue shirt, and a leather vest, he was kneeling down, making a small fire. The quail he’d just shot was at his side, and a sorrel and white pinto was ground-tied back a ways, eating from a nosebag.
Slocum didn’t recognize him, but he called, “Hello, the camp!” anyway.
The man looked up, saw him, and waved him in. He’s friendly anyhow, Slocum thought as he rode toward the man and his scanty campsite. He rode up to the fledgling fire, reined in Rocky, and said, “Howdy.”
“Howdy, your own self,” the cowhand replied. “I’d ask you to stay and share, but I only shot me the one,” he added apologetically, and indicated the quail on the ground.
“Don’t fret over it,” Slocum replied with a soft grin. “I was plannin’ on makin’ Tucson before dark anyhow. Havin’ a hotel meal.”
The cowhand’s head tipped. “Is Tucson that close? Been ridin’ down from Phoenix, and I ain’t never been this way before.”
Slocum nodded. “You can ride down with me, if you want. It’s only about five miles or so.”
The man, about six or eight years Slocum’s junior, stood up and began to kick dirt over his little fire. “Sure, you bet! Didn’t know I was so near to it. By the way, my name’s Tandy. Jack Tandy.” He stepped closer and stuck up his hand.
Slocum reached down, took it, and gave it a firm shake. “I’m Slocum. Just Slocum. What takes you to Tucson, Jack?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Work, I guess. If I can find me some, that is. How ’bout you?”
Slocum leaned forward in the saddle and rested his palms on the saddle horn. “Same thing, I reckon. What kind’a work you lookin’ for?”
“Whatever I can get,” Jack replied as he saddled his mare. “I’d like ranch work, but I’ll take whatever comes along. I worked on a ranch up near Strawberry for a long time, did time workin’ in a mercantile in Flag for a spell. Took a job of work down to Prescott for a little while, too, brandin’ calves. In Phoenix, I done a bunch of stuff. Tended bar, waited tables, you name it.”
Slocum smiled. “Jack of all trades, then.”
Jack grinned. “Reckon so, reckon so.” His horse was ready to go. He swept up the dead quail, tucked it in his saddlebag, then swung up on the pinto. “I’m ready if you are.”
Slocum nodded. They set off for Tucson at a jog.
Jack Tandy proved to be an affable companion on the trail, Slocum decided. He didn’t carp or rattle on about nothing, only asked questions when he really needed an answer, and seemed grateful to be riding alongside Slocum.
And surprisingly, Slocum was actually glad for the company.
They rode into Tucson just before dark, put their horses up at the livery, then moseyed on over to the nearest saloon, which also offered victuals. They both ordered beer with dinner. They didn’t have much choice in the menu. It seemed this particular establishment served only one entrée a day, and today it was beef stew and biscuits.
Jack offered his quail to the waiter, figuring that they were more likely than he was to do something with it before it spoiled, and the waiter grinned. “Reckon we can slip it into the stew,” he said. “Cook’s always lookin’ for filler meat.” Which left Slocum wondering just what they were already getting in the beef stew.
He didn’t have long to wait. Plates of the concoction were slid in front of them before he had time to take a long, thirsty draw on his beer, and after a bite of the stew, he was pretty certain there was nothing in it but beef, potatoes, and an assortment of vegetables. It was pretty damned good actually.
He had just begun to scout the bar area for attractive hookers—of which there didn’t seem to be any—when Jack spoke up. “You been in this place before, Slocum?”
Slocum grunted. “Once, I think. ’Bout five years back.” He didn’t mention that the other time, five years past, he had shot and killed a fellow called Vance Granger in this very saloon. He tried to put it out of his mind, and shoveled another bite of stew into his mouth.
“They got rooms to rent?”
Slocum had to crack a smile. “Only by the hour, Jack, if you get my meaning.”
Jack colored slightly, then said, “Oh, okay. Never mind. Don’t believe I can afford that right now.”
“Bein’ broke’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
After they finished their meal, they each had another beer, then ambled up the street to a place where Slocum remembered a clean but cheap hotel. It was still there, and they checked in, taking rooms across the hall from one another.
Jack said he was almost too tired to breathe, and bade Slocum good night in the hall. And once Slocum got inside his own room, he discovered that he wasn’t much more awake than Jack claimed to be. He fell asleep fully clothed, lying on the quilt-covered bed.
He woke to somebody banging on his door. Light streamed in through the window, telling him it was well past ten the next morning, and he stumbled to the door, muttering, “Hang on, hang on ...”
He opened it to reveal Jack Tandy, with a gun in his hand and a very serious expression on his face.
Slocum made a face. “Whad’you think you’re up to?”
“There’s a bounty on your head, Slocum, and I aim to bring you in.” The boy looked as serious as a heart attack, and Slocum figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to test him. He figured fine, he’d just go along to the sheriff’s office and let them explain it.
He said, “Lemme get my hat.” He swooped it up and settled it on his head. “You’re sure you wanna do this now, Jack?”
Jack nodded curtly. The gun in his hand shook a little, but he held his ground.
“C’mon,” he said, and motioned Slocum toward the door to the hall.
2
Apparently, Jack had risen early and done a walking tour of the town, because he marched Slocum straight to the sheriff’s office and through the open door. Bud MacGregor, Tucson’s longtime lawman, was sitting behind the desk, and looked up when they walked in.
He recognized half the team right off. “Hey there, Slocum ! Where you been keep
in’ yourself?” He stood up and stuck out his hand.
Slocum took it and gave it a firm shake. “All over the place, Bud. I see you finally got promoted to the big badge.” Five years ago, Bud had only been one of the deputies.
“Yeah,” Bud replied, “How ’bout that? Ol’ Sheriff Richter finally retired, and nobody else wanted the job.” He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Nice to write back home that you won in a landslide, though.”
A gun barrel poked into Slocum’s back, reminding him why he was here in the first place. “Seems we’ve got somethin’ to clear up, Bud.”
“What’s that?”
“Feller behind me is Jack Tandy. Believe he’s turnin’ me in for the reward.”
Bud’s face screwed up. “What reward?”
Slocum found himself elbowed out of the way as Jack moved forward, so he slumped down in a chair. He wished they’d stopped at an outhouse. He had to piss like a racehorse.
“I’m Jack Tandy,” the boy asserted, his gun still leveled at Slocum. “And I got paper on him.” He fumbled in his pocket until he finally pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it across the desk. “He’s wanted for murder, and I want my thousand dollars now.”
Bud had the paper unfolded by then, and looked up. “Where’d you find this?” he asked Jack.
“In a little mountain town up north, name’a Fern Gully. And why’s that matter anyhow? I got him, he’s here, and I want my money.”
Sheriff Bud MacGregor sighed long and hard. “Well, you can put away that gun’a yours, buddy. Them papers was rescinded just about two days after they was sent out. Thought they’d all been throwed out long ago.” He turned toward Slocum. “Sorry. Guess somebody didn’t follow instructions too good.”
