Slocum and the Gila River Hermit

by Jake Logan

  Slocum glanced at the paper.

  “She’s right. It says she was leaving with Deutsch to find Rolf Berenson.”

  “Like hell!”

  “When you opened the door, it blew onto the floor,” said Slocum.

  “There was no way I could see it there. I can’t bend over, not all trussed up like I am. My ribs . . .” Caleb Castle let out a small moan to emphasize his injury.

  “Looks as if I fetched you back for nothing,” Slocum said. “I apologize, Arlene.”

  “There’s no need to,” she said, favoring him with a quick, bright smile that reminded him more of the woman in the wagon train than the one he had just ridden back to Silver City with. The destination had been the same both times, but with the wagon train, even having lost both wagon and brother, she had been far more cheerful.

  “You got her back for me, Slocum. I . . . I reckon I should thank you.”

  “Arlene,” Slocum said, tipping his hat to her as he forced his way past Castle to leave the shed. “Don’t go signing any money over to him. That’s your inheritance, not his.”

  “He does have his land,” Arlene said, more to herself than either Slocum or her pa.

  Castle slammed the door, and Slocum heard their voices through the thin wall. This wasn’t any of his concern now. Arlene could do for herself. He had been paid for returning her to town, and the mystery of her having departed without telling her pa was settled. What remained a mystery to Slocum, and probably would forever, was why she had let Deutsch sweet talk her into going with him.

  He crossed the street and went into the Kicking Mule Saloon. The barkeep was busy cleaning the billiard table in the back. Someone had puked on it.

  “Be right with you, Slocum,” the barkeep called.

  Slocum settled down at a table. He didn’t cotton much to townspeople knowing his name like that. It was time to move on. After he brought back Rolf Berenson.

  “You up for an entire bottle again? You’re turnin’ into one of my best customers,” the barkeep said.

  “I hear that a lot around town,” Slocum said, remembering that the owner of the general store had said the same thing. He was beginning to feel the pressure of keeping the tides of commerce flowing through Silver City.

  As the barkeep put the whiskey in front of him, Slocum looked up. Hand on top of the swinging door, Edna Berenson stared at him hotly. He felt as if her eyes bored through him, but he shrugged it off. He had been through too much in the past week to be intimidated by her.

  The barkeep looked over at her and startled when Edna pushed through and sat boldly across the table from Slocum. Decent women did not enter saloons. But Slocum had a hard time thinking of Rolf Berenson’s wife as a decent woman.

  “Mr. Slocum,” she said, barely keeping her anger in check. “How long have you been back in town?”

  “An hour,” he said. “Probably less. Pleased to see you, too, Mrs. Berenson.”

  “Where is he? Where’s Rolf?”

  “Still out there. He’s a slippery one.”

  “That is not what I expected to hear. What am I paying you for, Mr. Slocum?”

  He took a drink and let it burn its way down to his belly. This time it did not soothe. It continued to burn like acid. Edna had that effect on him.

  “I’ll get him,” Slocum said. “You paid me for it, and I promised. Either’s good enough for me to keep trying until you either get your husband back or I’m dead.”

  “You make it sound as if that’s a possibility. Rolf is crazy. How hard can it be finding a lunatic and bringing him back to me?”

  Something about the way she spoke put Slocum on edge. Edna was not the grieving wife longing to have her missing husband returned to her hearth and home. In a way, she reminded him of Caleb Castle. They both wanted something not so obvious from their relatives.

  “There’s more ’n me out there hunting for him.”

  “What do you mean? Who else?”

  “You know. You have to know,” Slocum said, watching her closely. Edna averted her eyes and bit her lower lip as she fought to find the right lie. Slocum was getting to the point of not believing any woman who spoke. Edna was a liar and Arlene was deluded. Sorting out the truth in the midst of prevarication and delusion was becoming too much of a chore for him.

  “The sheriff wants Rolf back. Trumped up charges. He’s not dangerous.”

  “Only killed somebody. His brother, did you tell me?”

  “No, not that. Who’d the sheriff send after Rolf?”

  “A man named Mayerling. Him and me, we go back a ways. He’s a hard case and dangerous.”

  Slocum saw that Edna knew Mayerling—or knew of him. She said nothing, but Slocum saw the calculations beginning behind those lovely eyes.

  “Then there’s Deutsch.” He might as well have stuck a pin in her rump. She jumped a foot. Her eyes narrowed and she came close to snorting fire.

  “He’s here? That egg-sucking dog had the nerve to actually come here after . . . after Rolf.”

  Slocum wondered what Edna was going to say before she caught herself.

  “The way I see it, Mayerling wants to take Rolf back for trial and Deutsch wants to kill him. You only want him to be locked up because he’s touched in the head.” Slocum saw waves of confusion and anger cross the woman’s lovely face. He should have spoken more carefully. He could not sort out which statement caused what reaction in her. But Slocum was reaching the point of not caring. He had plenty of money. The remainder of what Edna owed him could go for another fool to plunge into the Gila Wilderness and pry Rolf Berenson loose from his cliff dwelling.

  “You have to find him, John,” she said urgently. She laid her warm hand on his arm. He pulled back. She took no notice of his reaction and hurried on. “Rolf is sure to end up six feet under if they ever find him. I didn’t know they were here. Deutsch and Mayerling?”

  “If you believe in odds, that gives me only one chance in three of finding your husband before they do.”

  “I’ll double your pay, John. And there can be other rewards,” Edna said, batting her long lashes at him. That had worked its sexual magic on him once. Not this time. “And you promised. You promised me you would fetch him back to me so I could take him home where he can be helped. He’s a sick man, John, so sick.”

  “As long as he stays out along the Gila River he’s no danger to anyone else,” Slocum said. “He seems content to play hermit. Fact is, he told me he didn’t want to go home.”

  “He’s crazy. Of course he would say crazy things,” Edna said in such a rush that Slocum heard the lies dripping from every word. “Please, John. If not for me or Rolf, then for yourself. Can you stand being skunked like you have been by a crazy man? A poor, old, damned crazy man? What’s that going to do for your reputation?”

  “Don’t care about my reputation,” Slocum said. And he didn’t. He could only control what he thought about himself.How others saw him was their business. But Edna had hit a raw nerve. On every one of his excursions, Slocum had worked on new and more elaborate schemes for catching Rolf Berenson. He had promised Arlene he would bring in the man. And he had promised Edna, though how much store he wanted to put in that varied from minute to minute.

  “That’s all a man has in the West,” she said, trying to convince him.

  “His honor,” Slocum contradicted. “That’s all.” He shook his head, then said, “I’ll go after him in the morning. I’ve got a few ideas, and the last time I found where he was camped.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s in an abandoned Indian pueblo,” Slocum said, not knowing exactly how to describe the cliff dwellers’ abode. “He knows the land better than anyone in these parts could, so it’ll be tricky bringing him in.”

  “You can do it, John. I know you can.”

  For a moment Slocum thought she was going to lean across the table and kiss him, but Edna Berenson refrained. She pushed back from the table and vanished through the swinging doors. The last Slocum saw o
f her was her bustle swaying seductively. He poured himself one more drink, then took the bottle and left, heading for the general store again. The owner was pleased as punch to see him. And why not? John Slocum was his best customer.

  “Psst, hey, mister. You’re Slocum, ain’t you?”

  Slocum came awake, hand on his six-shooter. He sat up and pushed away some of the straw that had fallen over him as he slept in the horse stall. The stableman crouched a few feet away, looking around furtively.

  “I am. What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a gunman roarin’ around town, huntin’ fer ya. Says he’s gonna ventilate you. And he’s a lawman!”

  “Do tell,” Slocum said, reaching for his boots and pulling them on. “I’d best go talk to this gent.”

  “Uh, you want to settle accounts? Four bits.”

  “Here,” Slocum said, fishing around in his vest pocket for the coins. “Don’t go selling my horse, either. I’ll be back for him.”

  “Uh, all right, whatever you say, Mr. Slocum.”

  Grabbing his holster, Slocum stood and fastened it around his middle. He did not need a description of the man poking around Silver City looking for him to know it was Mayerling. The deputy must have wandered around in the forests for some time before eventually returning.

  “You tend the horses,” Slocum called to the stable hand, “which one’s Mayerling’s?”

  “That’s the strange part, Mr. Slocum,” the young man said. “He come back to town on foot.”

  Slocum had to laugh. Mayerling’s posse had gotten killed, and he escaped with nothing more than a pair of sore feet. His horse must have either died or gotten stolen by Rolf Berenson. Either way, Mayerling was not going to be a jolly person to be around.

  “He blames you fer it all. I heard him say so.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Slocum said. “Was he alone?”

  “Yup.”

  Slocum nodded. This was good. He worried that Mayerling might recruit more deputies to back him up. The ones that had ridden with him from Texas had proven themselves too slow or stupid to be of any help against Rolf Berenson. That wouldn’t stop Mayerling from either telegraphing for more men or hiring some locals. Slocum didn’t cotton much to the idea of having to shoot any of the citizens of Silver City just because Mayerling had lied to them about how easy or how profitable it was being a bounty hunter.

  “He’s down the road a ways. At the Broken Spur.”

  “Haven’t had time to dip my bill there,” Slocum said. “Is it any different?”

  “Than the other three? Naw. They charge too danged much everywhere.”

  The way the stableman fingered the coins Slocum had given him showed where that money would end up. Some barkeep’s till would be fifty cents to the good before dawn.

  Slocum settled the cross-draw holster, thrust his six-gun into it, and strode from the stables. The cold night air brought him entirely awake as he walked. It amused him that Mayerling had walked back to town. It wouldn’t humble him. Not anyone who had ridden with William Quantrill during the war. If anything, such a disgrace would make Mayerling even more dangerous. That didn’t bother Slocum much. As dangerous as Mayerling was, he was more so.

  He stopped in front of the Broken Spur Dance Hall and Drinking Emporium. In spite of the fancy name, the building was dilapidated and one window was busted out. The front door hung crooked off a broken hinge. Nothing about the place looked too appealing.

  “Just the sort of place Mayerling would haunt,” Slocum said. He made certain his six-shooter rested easy in his holster, then went inside to see if he couldn’t turn Mayerling into a ghost haunting this place from another world.

  The kerosene lamps inside sputtered and produced a choking cloud of black smoke. The wicks were in serious need of trimming, and the light was dubious. Slocum looked around until he settled on a man hunched over at the bar. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but everything else about him matched Slocum’s memory of the last time he had seen Mayerling.

  “Heard tell you’re looking for me, Mayerling,” he called. The man at the bar tensed and Slocum knew he had made the proper identification.

  “You left me out there to die, Slocum.” Mayerling didn’t turn. Slocum widened his stance and prepared to draw. He had seen Mayerling do this before. He would talk all friendly-like, then turn slowly. The last part of the turn would become a quick twist as he went for his pistol. Slocum figured to have a hunk of hot lead on its way to Mayerling’s heart before that happened.

  “Reckon I wanted you to suffer some first,” Slocum said. “Before I kill you.”

  As Mayerling started to turn, a shot rang out. Slocum’s hand was already curling around the butt of his Colt, but he hadn’t fired. Mayerling hadn’t, either. For a second everyone in the saloon froze. All sound vanished. Another shot rang out, hitting Mayerling again. The man slumped forward across the bar.

  Slocum whipped out his pistol as he turned toward the broken window. He saw the barrel of a six-gun disappearing. Someone had bushwhacked Mayerling.

  “Never thought you were a back-shooter, Slocum,” Mayerling grated out. He slid down. As he dropped, he got his six-shooter out. He got off three quick shots at Slocum, forcing him to dive for cover.

  “Somebody else shot you, Mayerling. I do my killing face-to-face.”

  Slocum popped up, looking over a table. Mayerling fired again, adding a new bullet hole to the battered hat Slocum wore. Slocum ducked back down, cocked his six-gun, and leaped out.

  Mayerling was gone.

  But he stared down the double barrel of a shotgun in the hands of the barkeep.

  “Move an inch and I’ll blow you to hell and gone,” the bartender said.

  Slocum fumed but had no choice. He dropped his six-gun and lifted his hands over his head.

  13

  “Hope you don’t twitch,” Slocum said.

  “You cain’t come into a place like this and shoot a customer in the back. We got laws.”

  Slocum had not seen that law meant much in Silver City, but he knew better than to argue with a man holding a shotgun on him.

  “The window. The broken one. That’s where the shots came from.”

  “Liar. You cain’t lie your way outta this.”

  “Have someone check my gun. All six rounds are in the cylinder.”

  “I never seen him fire, Hez,” said a man off to Slocum’s side. “I was right where I could, too, and he never fired. He drawed, but—”

  “Shut up, Dog-ear,” the barkeep snapped. But Slocum saw how the shotgun wavered a mite now as doubt settled in. “Go on, check his iron,” Hez said.

  Slocum winced when Dog-ear picked up the Colt and began firing it into the ceiling. Plaster fell amid a shower of wood splinters. By the time he reached the fifth round, everyone in the saloon was calling out the number.

  As they hit six, Dog-ear fired the last round. He stared at the empty six-shooter, then at the barkeep.

  “It’s like he said, Hez. No shots outta this one.”

  “Sorry, mister. Didn’t mean nuthin’ by it, but you gotta see how it looked from back here.”

  Slocum took the time to reload, then silently went to the window and peered past the cracked pane. There were scuff marks outside. He pushed through the door, a half dozen patrons following him, all led by Dog-ear.

  “What you see, mister?”

  “The one who took a shot at Mayerling stood here,” Slocum said. He held the men back as he looked closely at the footprints in the dust. He couldn’t make out much, but he thought the shooter had a small foot. Standing, he looked around outside the saloon.

  “You fixin’ to go after him? You called him by name.”

  “I know him. And I’m sorry whoever shot at him missed putting a round through his heart,” Slocum said. But he began to think along other lines. Had someone tried to kill Mayerling because they were afraid he might say something that would help Slocum find Rolf Berenson? Or had the Texas deputy spawned enough hatre
d along his way to spark the attack? Long-standing enmity or new? Which? Both?

  “You want help? We kin help,” Dog-ear offered. Slocum saw two of the men peel off from the rear of the crowd and return to the safety of the saloon. Hunting a wounded deputy in the dark wasn’t for them.

  “It’s better if I do it alone,” Slocum said. “Don’t want to spook him more than he already is.”

  “That’s all right,” Dog-ear said, grinning. He had two broken front teeth. “We seen this kinda feud ’fore in Silver City. When you catch up with the varmint, let me know. Me and the undertaker are partners.”

  “I won’t be paying for his tombstone,” Slocum said.

  “Didn’t think so, but if you tell me, I kin git the town to pay for the funeral.”

  “Even if it’s in the potter’s field?”

  Dog-ear laughed. That was all the answer Slocum needed. Like most other towns, Silver City was corrupt to the core. It wouldn’t surprise him to find that the undertaker, Dog-ear, and the mayor were business partners—or even related by blood or marriage.

  Slocum circled the saloon and found the rear door from which Mayerling had run. The light leaking from inside was hardly enough to show the tracks, but Slocum found a drop of blood every few yards, indicating that Mayerling had come this way. He set out on the trail, using only starlight to illuminate the path. But when clouds began moving in and threatening rain, Slocum found the going even more difficult. By the time the first drops spattered against his hat, he knew keeping on Mayerling’s trail would be a fool’s errand. Turning his collar against the driving storm, he returned to the stable and settled down in the stall across from his horse.

  It had been a hell of a night. And in the morning he would be headed back into Gila River country to find Rolf Berenson. Slocum fell asleep thinking of ways to catch the elusive man.

  Four days. He had been lying in wait four days and had not even spotted Rolf Berenson, much less captured him. But Slocum was in no hurry. He had plenty of supplies left and could wait another week, if necessary. Rushing his trap would only send him back to the general store, where the owner would prattle on again about how Slocum was his best customer. That rankled more than Slocum wanted to admit, even to himself.