Slocum and the Golden Girls

by Jake Logan

  Just then, Slocum saw one of the men sitting at that back corner table get up and start walking toward him. From his gait, from the way he carried himself, Slocum knew who it was.

  “Linda, you’d better find another place to sit and finish your drink,” he said.

  “Why, don’t you favor me no more?”

  “I think I’m going to be busy in a few minutes.”

  She followed his gaze and a hand flew to her mouth.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “That’s Hutch.”

  She scooted off the stool and carried her drink to the row of chairs next to the wall where she had been sitting.

  Hutch didn’t seem to have noticed Slocum. He was angling toward the doorway at the far end of the bar. He was probably going to relieve himself, Slocum thought.

  He sipped from his glass and watched as Hutch walked past several tables.

  Then Hutch stopped suddenly and looked straight at Slocum.

  Slocum returned the stare and smiled. Then he touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in a brief, somewhat mocking salute.

  Hutch’s face twisted into a scowl as Slocum kept smiling at him.

  But his eyes had narrowed to slits and his jawline had turned as hard as chiseled stone.

  15

  The waltz ended and the band struck up the first strains of “Camptown Races.” Laughter filled the room and cheers rose up from the bearded prospectors and hard-rock miners at the tables.

  Hutch changed directions and walked slowly toward Slocum.

  Slocum swung the top of the stool around so that he was facing the gunman. His right hand was free and his own pistol hung at his side, within easy reach.

  Hutch continued to walk toward Slocum, that same scowl plastered to his face like a dark scab.

  “You’re Slocum, ain’t ye?” Hutch said as he halted about ten feet away.

  “That’s right, Hutch.”

  Hutch flinched slightly at the mention of his name.

  “You got no business here in Halcyon Valley, Slocum. And from what I hear, you’re wanted for murder back in Georgia.”

  “Rumors are everywhere these days,” Slocum said.

  “I think you ought to clear out before something bad happens to you,” Hutch said.

  Slocum slid off the stool and stood with his legs apart a foot or two.

  “I saw something this afternoon that makes me want to stay,” Slocum said.

  “Yeah? What’s that?” Hutch appeared belligerent. He was no longer scowling, but he held his right hand a few inches above the pistol on his belt.

  “I saw a dead mule, Hutch.”

  “A dead mule?” Hutch’s face went blank.

  “That’s right. I was riding out to see a pard of mine and there were buzzards circling in the sky and I rode up on a bunch of them tearing into a dead mule.”

  “That’s just too damned bad, Slocum. Dead mules don’t mean nothin’.”

  “Oh, this one means a lot. I looked at him real close and he was full of buckshot.”

  “Mules die. People die. ’Specially if they don’t have no sense.”

  “On the road, I saw a bunch of boot tracks. I looked at those, too.”

  “Folks walk. They wear boots. They leave tracks. What are you drivin’ at?”

  “I saw those same tracks outside the window of my hotel room and in the alley. Same horse tracks, too. And outside here, those same two horses that left tracks where the mule was shot and in the alley behind the hotel. Makes me think you might be a bushwhacker, Hutch.”

  Hutch stiffened. His hand dropped another inch or two toward the butt of his pistol. His eyes narrowed to slits and his lips clamped together over a jutting chin.

  “You accusin’ me of somethin’, Slocum?”

  “No. I’m just here to remind you of the bill you owe.”

  “I don’t owe no bill. Leastwise, not to you.”

  “No, you don’t owe me anything, Hutch,” Slocum said, the shadow of a smile flickering on his face. “But you owe the Piper.”

  “The Piper?”

  “Yes.” Slocum’s right hand did not move, but it was waist high, in a direct line with his own holstered .45. It hovered there like a hawk in a painting, motionless, but open and ready to dive and pull his pistol.

  “I don’t know what in hell you’re talkin’ about,” Hutch spat, more annoyed than angry.

  “Well, you know the Piper has to be paid.”

  “Huh?” There was that blank look of puzzlement on Hutch’s face again.

  “The Piper has to be paid. You killed Lonnie Taylor, Caleb Butterbean. You tried to kill me. And you killed his mule, Josie.”

  “You’re full of bull crap, Slocum.”

  “I’m here to collect for the Piper, Hutch. Make your move or I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  “Why, you dumb sonofabitch,” Hutch said and his hand dropped to the butt of his pistol. His hand closed around the wooden grip.

  Slocum’s hand dove toward his own pistol. His movement was so fast, his hand was just a blur. Before Hutch had cleared his pistol from its holster, Slocum’s Colt was level at his hip and aimed straight at Hutch.

  Hutch heard the click as Slocum thumbed the hammer back all in one smooth motion.

  The band stopped playing.

  The card games stopped.

  Dancers froze on the dance floor.

  Every head was turned toward the two men facing each other.

  The click of the hammer engaging the trigger mechanism was like a thunderclap in the silence of the saloon.

  Duke froze, a glass and towel in his hand.

  The other bartender, whose name was Russ Cooley, never set the glass of beer in his hand down on the bar and swallowed silently as his body turned as rigid as a statue.

  Joe Creek stood up in the back of the room and tried to see what was happening.

  All he saw was Hutch’s back and that he was facing a man in the shadows at the end of the bar.

  Slocum held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

  His Colt bucked against the palm of his right hand. Sparking powder, bright orange streaks, spurted from the barrel of his six-gun, followed by a cloud of white smoke. His thumb hammered back before the bullet struck Hutch in the center of his chest.

  The barrel of Hutch’s gun was still inside the top of the holster when the lead ball struck his breastbone, shattering it like a brittle piece of crockery. A black hole appeared next to a button on his shirt, and blood, lung blood, spurted through that hole and drenched his striped shirt. His knees collapsed and he sank to the floor, his mouth opened to scream as blood gushed up his throat and spewed through his teeth in a thick red spray. His eyes glazed over as he appeared to be staring at Slocum in surprise. He tumbled forward onto his face and twitched a couple of times and then lay still, not breathing, dead as a stone.

  Slocum eased the hammer of his pistol down to half-cock but did not holster it.

  He looked, instead, at the crowd and beyond to the far right corner of the saloon.

  Joe Creek felt all alone and exposed.

  Slocum stepped forward and stood under one of the candlelit chandeliers, where he knew his face could be seen by all who were there.

  He raised his left hand and beckoned to Joe Creek.

  “Creek,” Slocum said in a loud deep voice that carried clear across the room, “I opened the ball. You want to dance?”

  Creek’s face blanched. He went to the window and pulled it open. As everyone watched, he climbed through the opening and vanished into the night.

  Slocum ran to the door, sprang through the batwings. He knew where Creek’s horse was tied.

  But Creek was not there.

  Instead, Slocum saw him running down the street, a shadow in the darkness.

  He called after him.

  “You can run, Creek,” Slocum shouted, “but I’ll track you straight to your grave.”

  The shadow disappeared into heavier shadows and Slocum holstered his pistol.

>   He walked over to the two horses owned by Creek and Hutch. He slid a sawed-off shotgun from the scabbard of one horse, then removed the one from the other horse.

  Then he walked over to the circle of stones around the arrastre and bashed first one barrel and then the other on the rocks until the barrels were bent and crushed. He threw them into the center of the arrastre, where there was a large hole filled with crushed rocks.

  Then he walked next door to the Polygon and entered it as if he had not a care in the world.

  The desk clerk looked up at him.

  “I heard shots from the saloon next door,” the clerk said. “What’s goin’ on over there?”

  “Somebody just paid the Piper,” Slocum said.

  The clerk, a man in his forties who looked as if he had missed more than one meal at the chuck wagon, stood there, his sallow face twisted in puzzlement.

  Slocum pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and laid it on the counter.

  “I want a room and I want Linda Lee,” he said. “Pronto. And I’m not signing your register and you don’t know who I am or what room I’m in. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s highly irregular, but there’s some who can’t sign their names and—”

  “If anybody but Linda Lee opens my door, you’re going to hear more gunshots.”

  “Yes, that will be ten dollars. I’ll get your change.”

  “And you’d better give me a bottle of whiskey to take up with me.”

  “Yes, sir. Twenty dollars. A double sawbuck.”

  “Take it out of the fifty and give me the change.”

  The clerk bent down and opened a cabinet. He took out a bottle of whiskey. It was not Kentucky bourbon, but Slocum didn’t care. He wasn’t going to drink any of it.

  “I don’t want to be disturbed by anybody but Linda Lee,” he told the clerk. “Or you’ll pay the Piper yourself.” He really had no intention of harming the quivering man, but he had made his point.

  The clerk, one Jasper Naylor, gulped and set a key on the counter with the rest of the unspent bills.

  Slocum took his change and a key to one of the upstairs rooms, number 45. The clerk told him which wing it was in and Slocum ascended the stairs.

  He heard the band strike up again as he walked to his room. Somehow, the music did not seem as lively or joyous, and instead of a guitar, he heard the plink of a banjo.

  Life goes on, he thought as he unlocked the door to his room and went inside. For some of us anyway.

  He lit the lamp that was on the center table. There was another next to the bed, but he left it unlit.

  He locked the door and waited. The music, lackluster and dreary, drifted up to his room through the window.

  He wondered if Linda Lee would show up after what had happened.

  If not, so be it.

  He set the whiskey bottle on the dresser and stretched out on the bed.

  When he heard the key turn in the lock, he sat up.

  The door opened.

  Very slowly.

  A woman stepped inside.

  The woman was not Linda Lee.

  She was someone Slocum had never seen before.

  But she was so beautiful, he was sure his heart had stopped beating.

  “Hello, John Slocum,” the woman said. “I’m Ruby Dawson. I hope you don’t mind that Linda Lee couldn’t come. She’s indisposed.”

  With that, Ruby turned and locked the door.

  She dropped the key on the table and strode toward Slocum.

  “No charge for my visit,” she said, her voice low and husky. “In fact, from what I see of you, I may pay you.”

  Slocum was sure his heart had stopped as she approached him. She was all black lace and red trim with a gold beret in her sleek black hair. She had an hourglass figure and her long dress was slit on both sides so that her legs flashed, legs encased in silk mesh stockings that gleamed like satin in the lamplight.

  The music from the saloon faded and Slocum’s scalp prickled as he caught the scent of Ruby’s heady perfume and the faint musk of her as she stopped in front of him and put slender hands on his cheeks, then bent down and kissed him before he could brace himself.

  She made a low moan in her throat and Slocum felt the rush of blood to his loins.

  Then she grasped the swelling lump of his manhood and kneaded it between her fingers until it grew and hardened into a thick torpedo that stretched his crotch to the breaking point.

  16

  Ruby Dawson patted the bulge in Slocum’s trousers and took a small step backward.

  Her dark brown eyes glittered as she looked directly into Slocum’s. His green eyes took on a glazed cast as he stared at Ruby’s unblemished face, her elegant patrician nose, firm pointed chin, and ample bosom. She was tall, with radiant black hair, slender arms and legs. She wore little makeup, just a touch of vermilion rouge on her cheeks, a light red hue on her lips, and a dusting of mascara on her long eyelashes.

  “Your little man is easily aroused,” she said, staring down at Slocum’s crotch. “I think he wants to get out.”

  “I think he wants to get out and then get into something,” Slocum husked.

  “Let’s free him together,” she said, and dropped to her knees. She knelt in front of Slocum and inched to a place between his legs. Her long delicate fingers began to unbutton his fly, expertly working the buttons through the slits. She reached in and drew his cock out of his undershorts. It sprang to attention like the stalk of some exotic plant that grew out of a matted jungle.

  “My, my,” she cooed, “he’s a dandy.”

  She stroked the crown of his cock, the velvet head that appeared when she stripped back the foreskin.

  She stroked his organ up and down, then bent over and lightly kissed the smooth warhead. Slocum felt a streak of electricity shoot through his loins, and it took every bit of mental effort to keep from shooting his seed right then and there.

  “Oh, I almost got you to spurt, John. We wouldn’t want to waste it now, would we?”

  “The little guy has a mind of his own,” Slocum said. “He’s hard to manage sometimes.”

  “Well, I’ve toyed with him long enough. I must have him for my treasure chest. Is that all right with you, Mr. Slocum?”

  “He goes where he’s needed,” Slocum said.

  “I like that,” Ruby said. “Is he always on call then?”

  “He stands ready to obey your bidding, pretty lady.”

  “Call me Ruby,” she said. “The name matches my lips, don’t you think?”

  “Which ones?” Slocum asked, flashing her a wry smile.

  “Oh, you. You have a sense of humor, I see.”

  Slocum said nothing as she stepped back from the bed and started slipping out of her dress. He began to unbutton his shirt. He bared his chest and pulled off his black shirt while she worked her panties down her long legs. She stepped out of her shoes, but did not take off her silk mesh stockings, which were attached to a black lace garter belt. Slocum took off his gun belt, but did not wrap the cartridges around his holster. He lifted a pillow and placed his rig underneath it. He unbuttoned the top button of his trousers as he worked his stovepipe boots off. They hit the floor with a couple of dull thumps and he pulled his pants down and left them in a puddle atop his boots.

  Ruby stood before him, fully naked except for her black stockings and garter belt. She stepped up to him and pulled off his undershorts. He stiffened his legs and she tossed the garment atop his pants.

  “Must you have your pistol in the same bed with us?” she asked as Slocum scooted to the other side to make room for her.

  “You never know who might come through that door next,” he said. “I was expecting Linda Lee and you showed up. Could be there’s still another key down at the desk.”

  “Well, we won’t worry about that now, will we?”

  Ruby slid into bed next to Slocum and enveloped him with her arms. He clasped her in a strong embrace and the two kissed. It was a long and lingerin
g kiss and he felt her tongue exploring the inside of his mouth. He inched his own tongue into her mouth and the two engaged in loving oral combat, their tongues probing and lashing at one another’s as if they were blind fencers.

  He rolled over on top of her and they broke the kiss as she spread her legs. Her hand reached down and grasped his rock-hard stalk and guided it to her labia. She guided him through the portal and he slid inside her, laved with the hot juices of her cunt.

  Ruby sighed and dug fingernails into his back as he penetrated deeper. He moved in and out of her with slow, smooth stroking. The warmth inside increased and the juices flowed. She pushed upward with her hips as he lowered his own. They smacked together like a pair of flounders on the beach and the bedsprings rang with the intensity of their bodies’ thrashings.

  “It’s good, John,” she moaned. “So very, very good. You could hire out as a stud.”

  “In your stable?” he said.

  Ruby laughed. It was a mirthful laugh husky with lust. He pushed in hard, and her body bucked with a shuddering orgasm. She opened her mouth and let out a soft scream as her fingernails dug into his back with the intensity of her climax.

  “What makes you think I have a stable?”

  “All the Golden Girls. Don’t they work for you?”

  “No, they don’t work for me, John. I’m like a house mother to them.”

  “You’re too young to be a house mother.”

  Ruby laughed and bucked beneath him.

  “They’re mostly ignorant waifs who have lost their way,” Ruby said. “I see to it that they bathe and dress properly, are fed and made to look nice.”

  “And you give them jobs as glitter gals,” he said.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “The Jubilee Saloon hires them until they get on their feet and perhaps find husbands.”

  He stroked her slow and deep and Ruby responded with matching undulations. It felt good to be inside her, to see her eyes shine and her body respond to his plunging cock.

  “And who owns the Jubilee?” he asked.