by Jake Logan
He grabbed her firmly by the waist and flung her to the side in one quick motion so fluid she barely knew what was happening. Before her remark of surprise had even fully left her mouth, Slocum was on top of her.
“Now let’s see what we can do about you there, darlin’.”
Slocum inched himself down Katie’s body, licking and kissing as he went. He kissed and stroked her nipples, and when his hand reached down to explore her inner depths he discovered that she was wet and waiting. He lowered his lips to her moist mound and licked and sucked for all he was worth. Katie writhed underneath him, moaning and shivering. She lifted her hips to meet his questing tongue, driving him deeper into her.
He knew Katie was close, and he flipped her over once again so that she was straddling him. She smiled mischievously at him as she took a firm grip of his cock and guided it into her sopping wet opening. She eased herself down to take all of him inside of her and then began to move in short rhythmic bursts, up and down. She rocked her hips back and forth, stroking herself up and down his length. Slocum took advantage of his position and reached up to cup her firm and ample breasts. He caressed her hard, pink nipples and rubbed his hands all over her body as she rode him toward her peak.
Katie spasmed around him, and they came together, Slocum shooting his juices deep inside of her, flooding her already hot, pulsating core
She collapsed on top of him with a sigh of satisfaction, and they both slipped into a deep and sated sleep.
Slocum woke with a start some time later. He couldn’t see the clock, but outside, it was still dark as the inside of a black hog. Careful not to disturb Katie, he felt his way across the room, snagged his vest along the way, and sat down in the stuffed chair beside the table full of Katie’s knickknacks. In the dark, he rolled himself a quirlie and lit it, finding an ashtray before he shook out his match.
He heard a rustle across the room and then saw someone light a sulphur tip. It was Katie, of course. She lit the lantern on her side of the bed, then turned it up. “What’s happenin’?” she muttered groggily. “Slocum? Why’re you up?”
“It’s all right, baby,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Not until you come back to bed.”
Slocum shook his head. As he stubbed out his smoke, he grinned and said, “Anybody ever call you a bossy little tart?”
“Not until now,” she said, and motioned him to hurry up. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself. Don’t wanna be handin’ out free ammunition to the girls.”
“Yes’m,” he said sheepishly as he joined her in the bed.
9
When Wall Stevens rose, his little Mexican whore was long gone. He shrugged. Maybe she hadn’t liked his way of showing affection, or what passed for it in his mind anyway. He didn’t know it, but she had fled the little bar with a bruised eye, a bloody nose, and cradling a broken arm, vowing never to go with an Anglo again.
Stevens didn’t care what had or hadn’t happened. That was last night, and ancient history. Right now, all he wanted in the world was to get downstairs and get himself some breakfast and some beer. No whiskey, no sir. It was only eight thirty in the morning, if the clock was to be believed.
He wandered down the stairs and emerged in the bar, where he sat at his customary rear table and ordered his customary breakfast: chili, toasted bread, and a beer.
This was the life, he thought to himself as he wet his whistle before tackling any food. Not like traveling time, or working time. Traveling time, he was either on his way to or his way back from a job of work. And his working time, he had lately devoted to killing people. He didn’t know exactly how he’d fallen into the line of slinging his gun for cash—must have been while he was drunk or something, he thought—but it was surely paying off in a big way. He’d been busy lately, but the next thing he needed to do was to go up around Strawberry and kill somebody named Beau Martin, and he didn’t have to do it for another month. So here he sat in Phoenix, living the good life.
Well, the semigood life, he supposed. It wasn’t like Phoenix had an icehouse or anything. He really would’ve liked his beer cold. But he was used to it warm. It’d do. But it was almost gone.
“Cerveza. Una mas,” he said to the bartender. Then he turned to his breakfast.
Slocum was up and ready to go by ten o’clock, but it took until eleven for him to get Jack rousted out and ready to go. Well, almost ready to go anyway. Jack was still yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes as they walked the block to the livery and tacked up their horses. It wasn’t that long of a walk to Mex Town, only a mile or so, but going both ways and all the walking in between was tough on feet that were accustomed to riding.
Once they got the horses ready and set off, they got there in no time. The town changed distinctly, from frame and brick buildings to small adobe, mud brick houses and businesses. The faces changed, too, from mostly Anglo to the darker skin of Mexicans. Slocum reined Rocky over to one side, stepped down, and tied him to a rail.
Jack followed suit. Of course.
They walked into a cantina called the Blue Heron—in Spanish anyway. It was typical. Small, one story, and filled with scarred tables and chairs, and a long bar. There weren’t many patrons. Slocum looked around, and saw no white faces. But he decided to give it a try.
He walked up to the bar, Jack at his heels, and waited. When the bartender got down to him, Slocum said in Spanish, “This fellow come in lately?” He unfolded the poster of Wall Stevens and laid it out flat on the bar.
The barkeep picked it up and stared at it. He shook his head. In perfect English, he said, “No, sir. No whites in maybe two years. You would like a beer? Maybe whiskey?”
Slocum and Jack both shook their heads. “Not today, thanks,” Jack offered.
The bartender turned to walk away, then suddenly stopped. He muttered, “Maria!” and turned back, calling, “Wait!”
Slocum and Jack turned back. “You remember something?” Slocum asked.
“I have not seen this man, but I know this reads ‘dead or alive.’ You must talk to Maria. Last night, she was . . . courted ... by an Anglo. He broke her arm and blackened her eye.”
Slocum nodded. He understood. “Where can I find her?”
“Two blocks south, on Ramona Street. The little casa with the red door and the green shutters. Oh, and her name is Maria Lopez.”
Slocum dug into his pocket and pulled out a gold eagle, which he placed on the bar. “Thanks, compadre. I appreciate it.”
While the barkeep studied the ten-dollar piece—and bit it, for good measure—Slocum and Jack slipped out the front doors.
As they remounted their horses and reined away from the rail, Jack, excited as usual, said, “What a stroke of luck! I can’t believe we’re gonna get him this easy!”
Slocum didn’t share his enthusiasm. “Don’t go throwin’ a party yet. Might not be Stevens. Even if it is, he might’a rode out this mornin’. Or last night. He could be halfway to Yuma by now.”
All Jack said was, “Oh,” and closed his mouth.
But when they came to Ramona Street, he got antsy again. “Which way now? Right or left?”
“Calm the hell down,” Slocum muttered. “He didn’t say, so we’re gonna look. All right?”
“Fine.”
Jack looked as if the bartender should have left them a trail of breadcrumbs or something. Slocum shook his head and reined Rocky to the left. They rode down about a block and a half to where the street ended. There was nothing beyond but a goat pen and somebody’s truck garden.
They turned around and headed back to the crossroads, then down the unsearched portion of Ramona Street.
“This is more like it,” Slocum said. It looked to him like the red light district he was expecting. All the little yards were well cared for, and the slouching adobes were brightly adorned, with colored fences, doors, and shutters.
“There!” Jack suddenly shouted. He was pointing to a white-fenced adobe, with a red
door and teal green shutters.
“I believe you’re right,” Slocum replied. They dismounted and tied their horses to the rail. “Careful,” he added, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “He might be in there.”
Jack nodded, and they went through the gate and up to the front door, which bore a small sign. PLEASE KNOCK, it said in Spanish.
Slocum raised his knuckles and knocked.
After a moment, the door was opened inward by a middle-aged Mexican woman, her jet-black hair in a plait that trailed over her shoulder and traveled nearly to her waist.
“Sí?” she said suspiciously. Slocum took it that Anglos weren’t common in this part of town.
In Spanish, he began, “Does Maria Lopez live here? We were told that—”
“Why do you want do know?” came the curt reply. “Did one of you break her arm?”
Slocum said, “No, ma’am. We’re out after the feller what did it. If he is who we think he is, she was lucky that her arm was the only thing he broke.”
“And who do you think he is?”
Slocum pulled out the poster again, and she studied it. She pointed at the name under WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE. “This is not the name,” she said.
Slocum turned the poster around and found the part with the aliases. He asked, “One of these, then?” He turned the paper back to face her, pointing at the pertinent paragraph.
She looked and looked and looked, and at last, her scowl curled up into a satisfied grin. “It is him. This Steve Wallace. I cannot say for the picture, though. I did not see him.”
“Can Maria check for us?”
She thought this over while, beside him, Jack shifted from foot to foot. Either he had to piss awful bad, or he was going crazy from not knowing what was going on. Knowing Jack, Slocum guessed the latter.
“Maria!” the woman shouted back into the little adobe house. “Is the doctor finished?”
A tired male voice answered in Spanish. “I am just finished. What do you wish of Maria? I gave her a sleeping powder and ordered her to stay in bed for the day.”
The man to whom the voice belonged appeared next to the woman at the door. To her, he said, “Your girls can clean up after me. I am tired. You’re lucky I even came.” When he realized she wasn’t alone, but was with two Americans, his manner changed. In English, he said, “Good morning, gentlemen. If you please?”
Slocum and Jack parted, making way for the doctor, black bag in hand, to exit the adobe. Again, Slocum asked, “Can we see her, please?”
The woman, who Slocum guessed to be the madam, gave a scowl, paused, then said, “Only if you pay.” She held out her hand, palm up.
Slocum sighed, but he dipped fingers into his pocket and pulled out another gold coin, which he placed in her palm.
She stared at it. “It is real?” she asked, then bit it. She smiled, self-satisfied, then stepped back, making way for them to enter. “Down the hall. Third door on the right side.”
Slocum was glad to be done with her. He was running out of Spanish, not to mention patience.
To Jack he said, “Maria’s down the hall. The madam said she recognizes one’a Stevens’s aliases, but she didn’t actually see him for herself. If the doc’s knockout stuff doesn’t work too fast, Maria can take a look at the picture.”
Excitement had overtaken Jack again. He rubbed his hands together anxiously.
Slocum muttered, “Knock it off,” without breaking stride until he reached the third door on the right. He knocked.
From within, he heard someone female mutter groggily, “Sí?”
In Spanish, Slocum asked if they might come in and speak with her. She said yes, and in they went.
She was a tiny thing, and beautiful, with long blackbrown hair that lay loose on the pillow as she reclined, staring out the window. Her left forearm had just been cast in plaster of Paris, and still glinted damply. “Sí?” she asked before she turned her head to look at them. Fear suddenly overtook her features, and she whispered, “Gringos!”
Right away, Slocum held up his hands to show that they were empty. “Miss Lopez?” he asked in English.
“Yes?” she answered in kind, although somewhat shakily.
“You speak English?” Jack asked hopefully.
“A little,” she replied, looking past them toward the door. Probably for help, Slocum thought.
“Miss Lopez, I’m hoping you can help us,” he said. “We’re lookin’ to find this man.” He held out the poster of Wall Stevens.
She didn’t need to answer. Her reaction—which was to shrink back and cover her mouth—said it for her.
Slocum sat on the side of her bed. “It’s all right now, Maria,” he said, his voice soothing. “It’s all right. We’re looking to arrest him.”
Her eyes went to Slocum’s face. “He . . . he has done this before?”
“Yes, and much, much worse. Is he still in town?”
“He had no plans to leave. He is staying at the Cantina Blanca,” she said, and then she nodded her head toward the north. “Saltillo, at the corner of Third Street. He is dangerous?”
“He has killed many men,” Slocum said gravely.
“You señors will do me the honor of a favor?” She looked back and forth, from Slocum to Jack and back again. “You will blacken his eye and break his arm for me?”
Before Jack could answer with an enthusiastic “Yes!”—and he was most likely to do just that—Slocum said, “I think the Territory of Arizona will more than oblige you, Maria. He’s wanted dead or alive, and that means they’re sure to hang him, no matter what.”
This seemed to satisfy her. Also, Slocum figured the medication was kicking in. She turned away from them and lay on her right side. “Thank you, miss,” Slocum said softly, slipped two double eagles under her pillow, and stood up. Jack on his heels, he went back up the hall and out the front door.
Immediately, Jack practically shouted, “We got ’im now! Oh boy, we surely got ’im!”
Slocum was just plain disgusted by this time. He snarled, “You always celebrate before your birthday, too?”
“Oh,” said Jack. “Sorry. You always pay that much for information? You gave her forty dollars!”
“Quiet! You want that madam to hear and take it away from her?”
Jack blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”
They mounted up and set off for the Cantina Blanca.
10
Cantina Blanca was set along Saltillo Street with a barber’s shop on one side, and a string of other businesses—a grocer, a textiles shop, a hardware, etc.—on the other. Unlike the other buildings, however, it had a second story. Slocum figured that Stevens was staying up there, if he was still in town.
He and Jack dismounted and tied their horses, while Slocum said, “Listen, Jack, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll act normal. Keep your hands away from your guns. Smile. Okay?”
“Okay,” came the sluggish reply. Then, “You sure know how to take all the fun outta this, Slocum.”
He turned toward Jack and said, “I’m just tryin’ to keep you alive. Now mind.”
The two men entered the cantina, and Slocum paused beside the door for a moment, scanning the scant crowd. No Stevens in sight. Next, he walked up to the bar and asked the barkeep if he knew the man on the poster. The bartender nodded and informed them—well, Slocum anyway—that he was staying in a room upstairs, but that he was out for the moment.
In Spanish, Slocum told the bartender just who Stevens really was, and not to let on that they’d spoken with him. He was to just act normally. They would take care of the rest.
The bartender agreed—more enthusiastically when Slocum slipped him a ten-dollar gold piece—and Slocum led Jack to a rear table, where they sat down.
Slocum signaled the barkeep. “Dos cervezas, por favor .” Then to Jack, he said, “Might’s well have a drink before we get ourselves killed.”
Jack made a face. “Stop it. We been real lucky so far. What makes you figure our luck’s gonna
change?”
“Luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, Jack. Remember that. It’s keepin’ the upper hand, always. Thinkin’ ahead of your man. Bein’ ready for anythin’, ’cause anything can happen.”
Jack didn’t answer, because just then, the barkeep brought their drinks. Jack sat there, his fingers loosely through the handle on the mug, swinging it in slow circles over the damp tabletop. Finally, he said, “If you say so.”
Slocum nodded and took the first draw on his beer. It was warm and watery, but it still tasted good. Stevens had found a nice place to hole up. He’d bet cash money that no one had so much as thought about looking for him down here. And that was including the sheriff. They—town sheriffs, that was—mostly figured that they had enough to do already, and that the Mexicans could take care of themselves.
Slocum patted his pockets until he found the one with the playing cards in it, then pulled them out. “Might’s well play a hand or two of poker while we wait. Okay?”
Jack perked up a little. “Sure.”
Slocum began to shuffle and asked, “Five-card draw fine by you?”
Jack nodded, and Slocum began to deal. The front doors swung open, letting in a fan of light, and Slocum’s eyes barely flicked up. A tad more loudly than usual, he said, “Sure wish we had a third man. More of a game that way.”
Jack lifted his gaze to meet Slocum’s, and nodded. He got the picture. Good.
Both men sat back and opened their cards. “Bet a dime,” said Jack.
“Well, you’re just Mr. Money Bags, ain’t you?” Slocum said with a chuckle. “I’ll see that and raise you a nickel.” He flipped two coins out on the tabletop.
Jack saw the raise, and then it was Slocum’s turn. “How many cards?”
Jack pursed his lips, then lay three of his hand cards facedown on the table. “Three,” he said, and Slocum dealt them out.
