by Jake Logan
Bledsoe was just getting dressed when he heard a persistent and loud pounding on his door. He stiffened in alarm. He reached for the pistol that was lying on the nightstand next to his bed and snatched it up.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Jerry,” came the answer.
Bledsoe walked toward the door, pistol in hand.
“What the hell do you want?” Bledsoe demanded as he stood at the closed door.
“I got to talk to you. He’s here, Hiram, here in town.”
Bledsoe opened the door cautiously. He looked at Jerry, then past him down the empty hall.
“Get in,” he said. He waved his pistol at Jerry, then closed the door quickly and latched it.
Jerry Bassett walked to the table and stood there. His hands shook and he had the unmistakable look of fear on his face.
Hiram walked over to him.
“Sit down and tell me what the hell you’re talkin’ about, Jerry. I’m in no mood for bullshit.”
Bassett sat down. His hands still shook and they flew around like scared birds.
“That man in black,” Jerry said. “I saw him. The one who shot Cass. He’s the one who kilt Fidel and Carlos, but now he’s wearin’ black.”
“Where did you see him?” Bledsoe asked as he sat across the table from Bassett. He laid the pistol on the table within easy reach.
“At the café. He was there with Alvin. Tom Brody was a-settin’ there all by hisself and I saw Vernon and Lew Crane at the counter. I backed out of there real quick and run up here to tell you what’s what.”
“Are you sayin’ that the man in black is Dave Sinclair?” Bledsoe asked.
“It’s him all right. I didn’t need a second look. That Sinclair feller was wearin’ old duds, but it’s the same man. He’s dressed plumb in black now.”
“Jesus,” Bledsoe said. His brow knitted as he thought of what a fool he’d been. Alvin, too, unless he was in cahoots with the man in black. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Then he looked up at Bassett with his head lowered. Jerry looked like a man who had seen a ghost. His face was drained of color and his eyes were wide.
So, Bledsoe thought, who was this man who had killed three of his men? What was he doing in Sawtooth? What was he after?
“Do you think Tom knew who he was, this man in black?”
Jerry shook his head.
“I don’t think so. It looked like a showdown to me. Men don’t stand there like that. He had a rifle in his left hand and a black gun belt with a Colt stickin’ out of his holster. He was bracin’ Tom all right. And I think Alvin was fixin’ to plug Lew and Vernon.”
“This is a hell of a note.”
“What do you think we ought to do, boss?” Jerry asked.
“Go find some of the men, Jerry. Bring ’em up here. I got to think. Maybe them miners are fixin’ to come back to town with them new rifles.”
“All hell’s goin’ to break loose if that’s so,” Jerry said.
“You see that man again, you shoot him dead. Hear?” Bledsoe’s neck swelled and his face flushed. He picked up the pistol and looked at it with intensity. It was a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver. Small but deadly.
“You want the men on the roofs to come here, Hiram?” Jerry asked.
“Round up a half dozen. We got to keep men watchin’ for them gold grubbers. Find ’em quick. I’ll figger out somethin’.”
“I don’t know if I can find that many right close,” Jerry said.
“Find as many as you can. Go.”
Bledsoe waved Jerry away from his chair. Jerry rose and took quick steps to the door. He unlatched it and closed it behind him.
Bledsoe walked to the door, gripping his pistol.
He opened the door and saw the hind end of Jerry as he turned to go down the stairs. He closed the door quickly and latched it.
Hiram walked slowly back to the bar. He was hungry, but his nerves were jangling like a tote sack full of brass bells.
He laid the pistol on the bartop and reached for a glass. Then he poured three fingers of Scotch into the glass. It would be like medicine for him. It tasted like medicine anyway. He licked his lips and then drank, filling his mouth with the aromatic liquid.
He stood there and closed his eyes. Images began to jump around in his mind. Dark men in black clothes. Faces like wild beasts. They came at him in his twisted imagination, all rushing toward him with rifles and pistols and flashing knives.
He screamed in the corridors of his mind and began to crumple as if he’d just gone into some kind of spasm. He jerked upright and opened his eyes. The afterimages still remained and he began to shake with fear.
It was all closing in on him. The man in black. Traitors in his midst. He could trust no one. He trusted no one. They were all after him. They all wanted to kill him.
Well, he’d show them. He would kill them before they could blink an eye.
He would kill every damned one of them.
Then, he would piss on their graves.
24
Alvin and Slocum stored the outlaw guns under Slocum’s bed in his hotel room.
“Better take one of those rifles, Alvin,” Slocum said. “You might need it.”
“For what?”
“Roof tops and rimrock riders.”
“You really do mean business, don’t you, Slocum?”
“I do.”
“Where to now?” Alvin followed Slocum out the door.
Slocum locked his door and they walked toward the hotel lobby.
“To the Chinese bunkhouse. If they’re all still there,” Slocum said.
“How come?” The two men walked out onto the street, rifles in hand. Slocum scanned the nearby rooftops. He didn’t see anyone.
“I want to warn them to sit tight until all this is over.”
Alvin led Slocum to the bunkhouse near the edge of town where the Chinese were staying. It was still early and the sentries on the rooftops were out of sight, if they were there at all. Nor did they see any of Bledsoe’s men standing watch in between any of the buildings. Slocum figured there was a gap between guard changes. It was eerie on the empty street.
The two men entered the bunkhouse, made of logs. It was large enough for two dozen men. There was a long table in the center of the room and the interior smelled of boiled rice, fried pork, and assorted seasonings. Men sat at the long table, eating food out of wooden bowls with their chopsticks clacking, their mouths full of food, their teeth crunching. They all looked up as Alvin and Slocum entered.
“I came to see Chan Woo Han,” Slocum said.
There was excited talk in Chinese from the men at the table. One of them stood up, a look of surprise on his face.
“Sinclair?” Chan asked. “You look much different.”
“The name is Slocum, Chan. Can we talk?”
“Oh, yes. One minute.”
Chan rose from the bench and walked toward Slocum and Alvin.
“You come with rifles,” he said.
Slocum took him aside and wrapped an arm over the Chinese man’s shoulders.
“Listen, Chan,” Slocum said. “Alvin and I are going to do some shooting. Some of Bledsoe’s men will be killed. I want you and your friends to stay away from the mines today. It will be too dangerous for you.”
“The guards will come for us,” Chan said. “They will take us to work.”
The men at the table had stopped eating. They were all staring at Chan Woo Han and the two white men.
“I’ll try to see that no guards will come here for you,” Slocum said.
“Can you do that?”
Slocum hefted the rifle in his hand. “I think so,” he said.
“You will kill them?”
“If they don’t throw down their guns and ride out of town, I will,” Slocum said.
“This is a bad place, no?” Chan said.
“Yes. A very bad place. Bledsoe has made you into slaves. He is a greedy and ruthless man.”
“We know. It is not good here.”
“Just stay inside. Lock the door. Do any of you have guns?”
“No, we have no guns, Slocum.”
“Here’s a key to my room at the hotel. It’s number 100. Send some men there. There are two pistols and a rifle under my bed. Have them bring the guns back here. I will get more for you if you need them.”
“We are not gunfighters,” Chan Woo Han said.
“But you can shoot, can’t you? To protect yourselves?”
“We can shoot, yes. But I do not want your key. I do not want to bring guns here. We will lock the door and put the beds against it. We will be safe.”
Slocum put his room key back in his pocket.
“That’s fine, Chan. I respect your decision. I will check on you later. Do you have enough food and water in here?”
Chan Woo Han nodded. “We have all we need,” he said.
“Then, I’ll say good-bye for now. Take care, Chan.”
“May Heaven watch over you, Slocum.”
Alvin and Slocum walked outside. They heard the door being bolted and then Chan speaking in rapid Chinese to the others.
“What now, Slocum?” Alvin asked.
“Let’s see who’s riding the rimrock,” Slocum said.
“They won’t run like the others.”
“I’ll make them the same offer.”
Slocum wondered why he had not seen any of Bledsoe’s men in town. Perhaps they were meeting with Bledsoe. Maybe Bledsoe knew that Slocum was in town and had killed more of his men. He had heard the door of the café open and then quickly close. He just caught a glimpse of a man walking away through the steamed-up window. A glimpse only, and then the man was gone. Perhaps he had reported to Bledsoe and so all of the town sentries were being given orders from their boss to shoot Slocum on sight.
If so, that would make it easier for him. If Bledsoe’s men came after him, he would not have to give them warning.
He would kill in self-defense.
Slocum walked across the valley toward the bluffs. He saw one man on horseback, but he was not moving. He sat his horse above the mines the Chinese had worked the day before.
Waiting for them.
“Know who that is up there, Alvin?” Slocum asked.
“Too far. But it’s probably Joe Toomey or Hal Coster. Since only the Chinese are working, Bledsoe only needs one man up there to watch them.”
“What about me?” Slocum asked. “He had a rider with a rifle looking down on me when I was panning.”
“Umm. That’s right. Same thing, then. Either Toomey or Coster. There may be men back in the timber waiting for any of the miners to show. I just don’t know for sure.”
“They’ll wait a long time. The miners won’t come back that way.”
They drew closer to the bluffs.
The man on horseback raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. They were pointed toward Alvin and Slocum.
“That’s Toomey,” Alvin said when they were closer. “And he’s spotted us.”
“He must wonder what we’re up to,” Slocum said.
“Well, he sure as hell won’t mistake us for Chinese laborers,” Alvin said.
They got closer and Slocum could make out the man’s features. He had taken the binoculars from his eyes and they dangled on his chest.
“That you, Alvin?” Toomey called down to them.
“Yep, Joe, it’s me.”
“Who you got with you?”
“Someone who wants to talk to you, Joe,” Alvin said.
Toomey’s rifle was still in its scabbard, Slocum noticed. He did not seem suspicious at that point.
“Talk away,” Toomey said as he drew his rifle from its scabbard.
Slocum stopped and so did Alvin.
“What you got to talk to me about, mister?” Toomey asked.
Slocum gauged the distance from where they stood to where Toomey sat his horse.
Slocum lifted his rifle and held it at the ready.
Toomey worked the lever on his Winchester and jacked a cartridge into the firing chamber. But he did not aim the rifle at Slocum.
“I’m going to give you the same choice I gave Tom Brody before I killed him,” Slocum shouted.
“Huh? What’s that? You killed Brody? That right, Alvin?”
“That’s right, Joe.”
“What the hell for?” Toomey shouted down. He moved his rifle slightly and rested the barrel atop the pommel of his saddle.
“This here’s John Slocum, Joe. He’s come to take down Hiram and anybody else who won’t leave town.”
“Joe,” Slocum called out, “you can ride out of town right now. The Chinese won’t be here today. I’m the man who shot down Carlos and Fidel in the saloon.”
“The hell you say,” Toomey said. He moved the rifle again, but did not put it to his shoulder. He was all ears.
“That’s right, Joe,” Slocum said. “Just slip that Winchester back in its boot and ride out of town.”
“Why should I listen to you, Slocum?”
“Because I’m offering you a chance to live,” Slocum said. “It’s that simple.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I don’t take orders from nobody but Hiram.”
“He’s on a short string, too, Joe,” Slocum said. “Not long for this world.”
“I don’t believe you. Alvin. Why are you takin’ sides with this popinjay? Where in hell is your loyalty?”
“I left my loyalty in my other pants pocket, Joe. Take my advice and do what the man says.”
Toomey lifted the barrel of his rifle from the pommel.
Slocum raised his Winchester to his shoulder. He levered a shell into the chamber and sighted down the barrel at Toomey.
“Your last chance, Joe,” Slocum said in a loud voice.
There was a silence for a few moments. They all could hear the breeze in the trees, feel the warming sunlight on their faces, the rustle of pine needles in the timber, the soft swish of spruce boughs brushing against each other.
Slocum could see Toomey’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. The man licked dry lips with a quick swipe of his tongue.
“You goddamned traitor, Alvin,” Toomey blurted out, and put his rifle to his shoulder.
Slocum figured the trajectory, the drop of his bullet, and lined up the front blade sight with the rear buckhorn and aimed at Toomey’s chest. He had a clear shot.
Toomey was just settling the stock of his rifle into the hollow between his shoulder and his chest.
Slocum held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle butt slammed against its nesting place as the cartridge exploded. Smoke, flame, sparks, and lead spewed from the blued muzzle. The bullet sped to its mark in the middle of Toomey’s chest.
The bullet made a loud clap as it smashed into Toomey’s chest. It split his breastbone, releasing a heavy spurt of blood. The soft lead of the projectile flattened as it passed between his lungs and blew a fist-sized hole in his back.
Toomey slumped in the saddle, let out a strangled grunt. His arms went slack and the rifle dropped from his shoulder. It struck the ground, unfired, and clattered on the shale before it fell prone and silent.
“God, what a shot, Slocum,” Alvin breathed.
“Too bad Toomey didn’t listen,” Slocum said. Gun smoke rose in a wispy plume from the muzzle of his rifle. The timber went silent as jays flew away from the boom of the rifle and crows flapped through the trees to escape the danger.
“I never took to Joe much. He was a smug sonofabitch.”
“He’ll be smug no more,” Slocum said softly.
“No, he’s w
olf meat,” Alvin said.
Slocum scanned the skyline just in case his shot drew any attention or curiosity from another rider. He levered another bullet into the chamber and eased the hammer down to half cock.
“See anybody else, Alvin?”
Alvin looked both ways along the top of the bluff.
He shook his head.
“Nope. Looks like Toomey was the only one up there.”
Toomey’s horse sidled away from the dead body, its neck arched, eyes wide, and ears flattened. It sidestepped two or three yards away from Toomey’s corpse, then stood still, its tail switching back and forth at deerflies.
“Now what, Slocum?” Alvin asked.
“Back to town. Keep your rifle handy. Better jack a shell into the chamber. We might have long shots from here on in.”
“Where are we goin’? Back to the hotel? To Ronnie’s?”
“Saloon open?”
“Sometimes it opens early. What is it? About ten o’clock?”
“Thereabouts maybe,” Slocum replied.
He laid the barrel of his rife over his shoulder, nestled the butt in the palm of his left hand. No need to put another cartridge in the magazine. He still had plenty of shots left, since the magazine had been fully loaded.
“I could use a drink myself,” Alvin said.
“It’s a good place to hunt, too. Like a deer stand. We can just sit there and wait. If a thirsty man comes in, we’ll see him before he sees us.”
“Jesus, Slocum you plumb give me the shivers.”
“Or maybe we’ll get lucky and have the place to ourselves. Who opens the saloon anyway?”
“Sometimes Ronnie and the swamper, name of Jake Hornsby. If she don’t open, then Jake unlocks the doors and sweeps up. Barkeep usually comes right after that and starts wipin’ down the bar, getting the bottles and glasses set up.”
“Sounds like you’ve been an early bird a time or two,” Slocum said.
“I like a morning shot now and again,” Alvin said.
“Good for the constitution,” Slocum said.
Alvin laughed.
The two walked into the glaring sun, their heads lowered to pick up the shade from their hat brims. Every so often, Slocum glanced up toward town. Just in case.
Alvin worked the lever on his rifle and a cartridge slid into the firing chamber. Then he lowered the hammer to half cock and mirrored Slocum when he put the barrel atop his left shoulder.
