Slocum and the Three Fugitives

by Jake Logan

  “You get to choose. Which cell?”

  Four cages stood empty. Slocum went into the one closest to the marshal’s desk. Donnelly might get careless and give him a chance to escape. All he had to do was wait out the alert deputy until the marshal came back on duty.

  “He’s out serving process,” the deputy said, reading Slocum’s intentions perfectly. “And I don’t get careless.” To emphasize the point, he shoved Slocum into the far cell, locked the door, stomped back, and made a big point of putting the key ring in the middle desk drawer. “Just in case you got ideas, forget them.” Deputy Locke used a smaller key to lock the center drawer, then tucked the key into his vest pocket. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip wagon.”

  “What did you say brings you to Taos, just in time to mistakenly think I killed Annabelle?”

  Locke scowled.

  “That was a pure coincidence. Some woman yelled out that there was a murder going on, and I found you with the body.” He pulled Slocum’s Colt from his belt and laid it on the desk. “Been fired. What are the odds the same caliber bullet’s in the woman?”

  Locke held up the six-shooter, peered at it a moment, then added, “This looks to be a .36 caliber. Most folks now carry .44s or .45s. Makes a distinctive murder weapon.”

  Slocum settled on the cot and looked around the cell. It had seen better days, but getting out would be a chore if he had to dig through an adobe wall or tunnel through the rock-hard floor. From what he could see, those were more productive pursuits than trying to pick the lock or otherwise force his way through the bars.

  “Hard to believe in coincidences,” Slocum finally said. “Annabelle was in bed with me when somebody came in, took my gun off the kitchen table, shot her, and then fled just as you were coming in to investigate.”

  “Took me a couple minutes to get there.”

  “She wasn’t dead but seconds.”

  “That’d mean somebody told me of the killing before it happened. How’s that possible?”

  “It’s possible because I crossed a powerful rancher and his murdering offspring,” Slocum said.

  “Who might they be?”

  Slocum told him of the Deutsch family, the old man and the two boys. When he started describing Timothy Deutsch, the deputy shoved Slocum’s Colt back into his belt and left in a rush. Slocum stared at the outer door. It didn’t quite shut and let in cold air. The stove hadn’t been lit, and it was getting mighty cold inside the jailhouse. He pulled the thin blanket around his shoulders and explored his cell.

  His first impression had been right. Getting free required someone to help him, and with Annabelle dead, there wasn’t a solitary soul in Taos who would do so much as give him the time of day, much less risk life and limb to break him out.

  “Tell me your side of the killing.”

  Slocum looked up. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t heard the door open and an older man come in. Heavyset with a neatly trimmed full beard shot with gray, the man stood with his feet apart and looked like he was ready to deliver a hellfire and brimstone sermon. He was dressed in a knee-length black duster that opened to show a plain vest and gold chain dangling across his belly, and his tone told Slocum he was used to instant obedience.

  The other thing Slocum noted was the lack of a gun belt strapped around his waist. That robbed him of any chance of grabbing the man’s weapon should he come close enough.

  “Might as well save my breath for the trial.”

  “For the damned hanging, you mean. The deputy got you dead to rights.”

  “You a man who doesn’t like hanging?” Slocum watched the expression on the weathered face and could not figure out what the answer might be.

  “I seen plenty kicking out their last dance at the end of a rope.”

  “You’ve sentenced a lot to that fate,” Slocum said. He finally pieced together the attitude and the tone. The man was a judge.

  “My boy’s right. You’re no dummy. Quick on the uptake. Now convince me you don’t think you’re so smart you could get away with murder.”

  Slocum felt he was anything but sharp as a tack. He had missed the family resemblance between deputy and judge until now. A father and son team roaming the West, hunting for criminals to hang. It looked even worse for him, but he had no choice. Slocum detailed everything that had happened from the time he and Annabelle left the Black Hole.

  “So you was buck naked when the deputy caught you with her?”

  “How’d your son just happen in so quick? Who was the woman who told him of the murder?”

  “I ask the questions.” Again came the sharp edge of a man who wielded power on a daily basis. “You were bare ass, the six-gun was in the other room, and the woman was on the floor beside the bed?”

  “Annabelle was on top, her back to the door, when somebody burst in and shot her. I saw a shadow moving and jerked us over onto the floor.”

  “Much of a report?”

  “No,” Slocum said. “That was curious. I know the sound of my own six-shooter. It might have been a punk round.”

  “Or shot through a rag to hold down the noise. A rag with a hole shot through it was found on the kitchen floor.”

  “Why’d anyone want to do that? I expected the killer to keep shooting until he got me, too.”

  “You’re all hog-tied and in a barrel of trouble now, aren’t you? Think this might not be more pleasurable than gunning you down?”

  Slocum remained silent. That much was obvious to a blind and deaf man.

  “Might be these Deutsch brothers you told Byron about worked this out all by themselves.”

  “Timothy’s not got the sense God gave a goose. Lucas is smarter, but he’s the kind to just walk up and shoot me in the back. Such scheming doesn’t match what I’ve seen of him.”

  “What about their pa? Rory Deutsch might be a sneaky cuss who’d take pleasure in killing two birds with one stone. The woman saloon owner’s dead and the man protecting her is set to swing for the crime. One bullet gets two deaths and a powerful lot of enjoyment.”

  “Talked with Rory Deutsch once. Can’t say if he’s that sneaky a son of a bitch. I can say he is certainly a son of a bitch with the manners of a rabid dog.”

  The judge laughed and then nodded slowly as he stroked his beard.

  “I don’t think you shot her. A guilty man would have jumped at the chance to indict Rory Deutsch or his sons.”

  “I may be many things, but I’m not a liar,” Slocum said.

  “You a killer?” Judge Locke eyed him hard.

  Slocum knew there wasn’t anything to say. One look at his Colt showed how hard it had been used. Likely, more than one slug had been fired at another human being.

  “Nope, not a liar,” the judge decided.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Judge Locke pulled the desk chair away and planted it a yard beyond Slocum’s reach, should he be foolish enough to make a grab for the man’s throat. He settled himself, took out a silver flask, took a snort, then recorked it. Even watching, Slocum failed to see where the flask disappeared to when the judge had finished. He added another detail to his impression of the jurist. He might be quick on the draw if he slung iron on his hip.

  “I don’t know how long you’ve been in Taos, but not long is my guess. I’ve been out on the trail chasing down three outlaws from up in Denver. They robbed a couple banks, killed a half-dozen people, a couple who posed no threat at all to them, and then they lit out southward. Can’t say but I think they robbed a train outside Colorado Springs.”

  “Judges don’t usually go after outlaws.”

  “My son’s empowered to do so, and I am a federal judge.”

  “What got you so riled?”

  “Knew you were a smart one. Byron said as much, and I see it myself. Yes, sir. One of the men killed in Denver was a town deput
y marshal.” Judge Locke turned grim, ground his teeth, and then spat out, “My youngest.”

  “You think the Deutsch brothers and their pa might be the three killers?”

  “They sound like the best suspects we’ve turned up in almost a month.”

  “They killed Tom Harris on the road to Denver.” Slocum considered it. “I’m not sure if they were coming to Taos or going back to the X Bar X ranch.”

  “Hard to see they’d know anyone carried that kind of money if they were coming south from Denver and he was just starting north.”

  Slocum had to agree.

  “Might be they reached the X Bar X and heard Tom was going to Denver to buy booze.”

  Slocum frowned and fell silent. Things didn’t set right. The killing of the whiskey peddler and the cornering of the whiskey sales in Taos had been going on while the trio was up north. Rather than poke a hole in his own theory, Slocum said, “They’ll be hard to catch. They have all the bar owners in town cowed.”

  “Not you. You’re not the kind to cut and run. You’re a fighter.” Judge Locke looked hard at Slocum. “More than that, you want revenge. I think you loved the woman they killed tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t hesitate pulling the trigger if any of the Deutsch family got into my sights. Does that mean you’re letting me out of jail?”

  “Nope, it means I just found you guilty of murder and sentenced you to hang for the murder of Annabelle Harris!”

  9

  “You believe in saving money on paying juries, don’t you?” Slocum said.

  Judge Locke’s eyes widened, then he laughed, slapped his thighs, and leaned forward. He kept just beyond Slocum’s grasp.

  “That’s quite a sense of humor you’ve got.”

  “You expect me to tie my own noose?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far with any man, though I heard tell of some judges making the family pay for the rope. When a family in Arkansas refused, the judge pulled out a pistol and shot the condemned man. Then he held the family at gunpoint while his bailiff collected money off them for the price of the bullet.”

  “That’s quite a standard to live up to,” Slocum said.

  “I’ll talk to the editor on the paper in the morning, but by then you’ll have escaped.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “My son’ll let you out when he’s sure you can ride out of town without drawing unwanted attention.”

  “Being on the run ought to make me tolerable to the Deutsches, is that it?”

  “You aren’t going to leave this neck of the woods. I see it in your face. You want revenge, and this is your chance to do it all legal. Get the goods on them, bring them in, and I’ll put them on trial in my court. Think of the bullets you’ll save doing it that way.”

  “That let’s both of us get our revenge.” Slocum wasn’t sure he liked the idea of a judge using the law for his own vengeance, though it wasn’t the first time he had run across such a notion. It was certainly better than returning to Slocum’s Stand and finding a carpetbagger judge ready to steal away his property. This way, he didn’t have to kill the Deutsches. The legal system would grind them to dust.

  He had no doubt they were guilty of a hill of crimes. Maybe a mountain, and probably one of them had shot Annabelle in the back while another alerted Deputy Locke to the crime.

  “Might be necessary for me to shoot the bastards.”

  Judge Locke nodded knowingly and then said, “Won’t hold that against you. In the eyes of the town, you’ll be a fugitive, but Byron won’t try overly hard to catch you. If you have to gun down any of them, I’ll exonerate you as an officer of the court working for me.”

  “Can you deputize me?”

  Slocum read the answer in the man’s face. He was on his own when he went after the Deutsch family, and Judge Locke wasn’t authorized to make him a federal deputy.

  “I’ll do it,” Slocum finally said.

  Judge Locke laughed again.

  “You don’t have any choice. You say no, you’re convicted of the woman’s death. A judge is impartial during a trial but that doesn’t mean I can’t influence the attorneys just a mite, just to keep them within the boundaries of the law.”

  Slocum had seen more than one judge browbeat a lawyer to get the verdict he wanted. It might take liquoring up the jury or ignoring protests from one lawyer or another, but a judge’s power in the courtroom was supreme.

  “When do you let it be known I’m a fugitive?”

  “About any time that suits you. You realize how hard it will be for you to get in with them to get the evidence necessary for a conviction?”

  Slocum knew. The Deutsches had tried to frame him for Annabelle’s murder. There wasn’t any good reason they would accept him into their gang. If anything, they’d be more inclined to catch him and turn him over to the deputy marshal. The same deal Judge Locke had outlined for Slocum appealed to them. They could get the law to remove an unwanted enemy. More than that, Rory Deutsch would see it as successfully completing his initial scheme since this was what he had wanted. Taking time to sort through all his impressions, Slocum thought the small man was the likely back shooter, though he had never seen his face. Rory Deutsch could as easily have killed Slocum when he gunned down Annabelle, but that took away the thrill of it.

  Slocum guessed Deutsch harbored about the same fondness for the law that he did.

  “How are you going to get cozy with them?” the judge asked.

  “They own the liquor trade in Taos. Somewhere in the mountains they have a still going full out. That’s a place to start.”

  “You understand what’s at stake?” Judge Locke looked over his shoulder as his son came in. Byron Locke carried his sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm.

  “He agree, Judge?”

  “He’s not a dull boy, son. Of course he did.”

  Slocum watched as the deputy unlocked the desk drawer and took out the keys. He spun and tossed the jangling ring to Slocum. Only a quick step forward and a grab through the bars rescued the keys. As judge and deputy watched, he opened the cell door. The plan was risky, and Slocum suspected a double-cross on the part of the lawman and his father, but Byron Locke handed over Slocum’s Colt Navy without a word.

  The gun belt felt good around his waist again. He balanced the six-shooter in his hand for a second, then crammed it into the holster.

  “Give me an hour. I need supplies and a plausible story how I broke out.”

  “You overpowered Byron,” the judge said. “Does it have to be more complicated than that?”

  “Yeah,” the deputy chimed in. “They don’t know us. With the contempt they have for the law, they’ll believe a drifter got the drop on me and lit out for the high country.”

  “Why didn’t I kill you when I escaped?” Slocum held up his hand before either judge or deputy could answer. “I’ll figure out a story to cover that. You tell about my escape and don’t repeat yourself.”

  “Good idea,” Judge Locke said. “Make it appear as to how we’re covering up our own carelessness.”

  “Don’t forget this is your scheme. I don’t want to get gunned down when I bring in the three of them.”

  Slocum left quickly, hurrying through the gray dawn to fetch his horse. He rode to the Black Hole and got what supplies he needed from the storeroom but didn’t ride out of town immediately. Instead, he stopped by Pete’s. The owner of the Santa Fe Drinking Emporium slept in the rear. Slocum went around, eased open the door, and stepped into a small storage room filled with the scent of spilled beer and the sound of loud snoring.

  He slipped around a pile of crates and sat on the cot next to Pete. The bar owner’s eyelids flickered then snapped open. In the same instant he reached for a six-gun on the floor by him. Slocum made sure he couldn’t reach it.

  “Got a request of you,” Sl
ocum said. “I’m leaving town for a week or two. If you run the Black Hole, you can keep whatever profits you make.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you, Slocum. What about Annabelle?” Then Pete grinned broadly, a gold tooth glinting in the sunlight struggling through a dirty window above his cot. “Her and you’re goin’ off together. Might this be a honeymoon? Ain’t been a good hitchin’ in town since the Armijo wedding four months back.”

  “Not possible now,” Slocum said, shaking his head, but he didn’t elaborate. “Here’re the keys to the place. I’ll expect everything to still be standing when I get back.” Slocum started to go, then asked, “How’d the place get the name? Black Hole?”

  “’Twarn’t Tom’s doin’. Him and Annabelle bought the place from a limey name of Cruikshank. Bugger claimed to have been in the British Army over in India. Imagine that. Another place where they call the locals Indians. Anyway, Crook, as we called ’im ’cuz that was what he was mainly, said he named it after some place in India where a passel of limeys died in a prison, all jammed up together more ’n a hunnerd years ago. Crook shoved his customers in shoulder to shoulder, so I suppose it was apt.”

  “Remember,” Slocum said. “I’ll be back.”

  Without another word, he made his way back through the maze of crates and got to his horse. The sun had risen far enough to bestir the town and get its citizens moving about for another day’s commerce. As he settled into the saddle, he heard a loud cry.

  He looked up and saw a man with a rifle drawing a bead on him. Slocum reacted instinctively. That saved his life. The bullet tore past and vanished into the cold morning air behind him.

  “I got him. Here he is! The killer what murdered Annabelle Harris. I got him!”

  The man worked furiously to chamber another round but the rifle jammed. The man cursed, looked up, worked more frantically as Slocum rode up and drew his six-shooter. Making a big production out of cocking it, Slocum pointed the muzzle at the top of the man’s head.

  “Don’t go disturbing folks this early in the morning,” Slocum said.