Slocum and the Trick Shot Artist

by Jake Logan

  “Guess not.”

  “I was asking about what happened and I heard the sheriff was shot. I thought I’d go down and have a look, but knew you’d be there and would probably just tell me to go back.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . I went anyway. But I didn’t see much.”

  Slocum nodded, hearing what he’d expected to hear from her. He didn’t have much in the way of belongings, so it wasn’t long before his saddlebags were filled and hefted over one shoulder. Turning toward the door, he was stopped by a perturbed blond barrier.

  “So you’re leaving?” she asked.

  “Looks that way.”

  “Do I get to know why?”

  Slocum planted his feet and growled, “Did you think I was going to look for a nice piece of land, build a house, and stay here?”

  “No. I just thought you’d tell me before you rode off!”

  Once again, Slocum felt like an ass. Even though that was becoming an unwelcome habit, he wasn’t getting used to it. “Sorry, Tess. You’re right. I just . . . I watched a man die today. That’s not the sort of thing that sets well with me no matter how many damn times I have to do it.”

  “The sheriff?”

  He nodded.

  Her expression softened and she approached Slocum to gently rub the side of his arm. “I’m sorry. Did you know him?”

  “Not as such. In fact, I wouldn’t have had anything good to say about him if you asked me that question a little while ago. I still can’t say I know him . . .” Slocum winced and added, “Knew him . . . very well, but he wasn’t a bad man. I guess I’ve run across so many lawmen that were crooked, inept, or just plain worthless that my opinion of the whole lot has been sullied. In any event, this one didn’t deserve to be gunned down like a dog in his own front door.”

  “Nobody deserves that,” Tess said reverently.

  “Actually,” he chuckled, “some deserve it or worse. This one didn’t. He asked me to do something for him before he died and I’m inclined to do it.”

  Tess wrapped her arms around him and hugged Slocum as best she could with the bulky bags hanging off one shoulder. “That’s because you’re a good man, John. If you’d like, I can wait here for when you’re done.”

  “You better not wait,” he told her. “I don’t know how long it’ll take. For all I know, the bit of information he gave me won’t lead anywhere. Or it could lead to somewhere in another direction entirely. When I’m through with this, it’s best I move along. That’s what I was set to do before long anyway. You were, too, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “You’re right. I’ve got things to do as well.” She held him at arm’s length and smiled warmly while taking in the sight of him. “Fulfilling a dying man’s wish. You’re such a good man.”

  “I’m a sucker for a sob story,” he said. “This isn’t the first time it’s gotten me into trouble and it probably won’t be the last.”

  “Maybe there won’t be any trouble.”

  “There’s always trouble.”

  • • •

  Slocum collected his horse, saddled up, and rode out of town. Once Tarnish Mills was behind him, it was easy enough to focus on what lay ahead. All he had to go on were a few hints given by a dead man. Some could have been useless. Since dying men frequently spoke nonsense in their last few moments on earth, everything Sheriff Cass had said could have been worthless. As Slocum rode along a wooded trail leading toward higher country, he questioned his judgment on accepting the job in the first place.

  It was easy to be swayed at the right moment, especially when emotions were running high. Then there was the fact that he simply felt bad for having given the lawman a tough time. Slocum started to chuckle.

  He’d known plenty of men who’d been injured a lot worse than Cass in the war. Soldiers missing both legs, an arm or two, or any combination thereof tended to become tougher. The quickest way to piss one of those men off was to treat him like a helpless child in need of pity. Soldiers who were still trudging forward in their lives after surviving battle and the horrors of an amputation table were unlike normal men. They were stronger in spirit and harder than iron. Showing outward signs of pity toward men like that was a good way to get a crutch buried into some very delicate anatomy. Cass had survived his own hell and had become a functioning lawman. Perhaps he’d gotten a little lax in his efforts, but that didn’t mean he was a pathetic creature who couldn’t handle the harsh words Slocum had thrown at him. So Slocum allowed himself to let it go.

  Now that he was no longer feeling guilty, he thought about why he was heading out after two outlaws he barely knew. It wasn’t because of guilt or any sense of owing Cass anything. Something needed to be done and he was the man to do it.

  That was it.

  That was all he needed.

  And that, Slocum decided, was the last time he would look back.

  According to the liveryman in town who’d given him directions, Spencer Flats was still about another twenty or so miles in front of him.

  Fortunately, those were some beautiful miles. Perhaps witnessing one man’s last day on earth made Slocum more appreciative of such things. He soaked up the sights of all those trees and the sloping, rocky terrain beneath his horse’s hooves. If not for a washed-out bridge spanning a wide river, he might have made it all the way to town that day. Instead, he was forced to find another spot to cross several miles down the shore. That ate up a portion of the day’s remaining sunlight and put Spencer Flats effectively out of reach for the time being. Slocum found a good spot to build a fire, and after he’d eaten a supper of some salty ham and a can of pears, he stretched out and gazed up at the stars.

  It wasn’t too much longer before the day caught up to him in a rush. Once he grew too tired to keep his eyes open, he was snoring peacefully.

  • • •

  The next morning, Slocum moved like a well-oiled machine. With nobody along to talk or share a chore, he set about the task of breaking camp, preparing his horse for the day’s ride, and moving along. In some respects, it was quicker than if he had anyone there to help. Solitude meant there was no one around to complain, and that wasn’t a bad thing. It was early enough for the sun to be bright without being hot, which left the day spread out in front of him like a beautiful, richly colored blanket.

  It wasn’t all the time that Slocum got a chance to take in his surroundings just for the sheer enjoyment of what they had to offer. All too often, he was running away from something or running to something else. There was a sense of urgency in completing the job he’d taken on, but he wasn’t worried about getting it done. He had an ace in his pocket and its name was Rob Bensonn.

  Wherever Rob stopped, he would start talking. Since he’d been busted out of a jail cell, he would want to boast about that more than anything. If he was in the company of someone who’d gunned down a lawman to get him out of that jail, Rob would have some things to say about that as well. Even if Rob was enjoying lunch in a room full of folks who didn’t give a damn who he was or where he was headed, he’d still have plenty to say. As long as he kept flapping his gums, someone would hear. All Slocum had to do was find one or two locals whose ears were in proper working order and he would be pointed in the right direction.

  When Rob made another mistake, Slocum would find out about it one way or another. Besides, these weren’t the first men he’d hunted. Normally, he had much less to go on and he had faith in himself that he would find this man as well. Without that faith in himself, he would have been dead a long time ago.

  Having covered so much ground the previous day, Slocum caught his first glimpse of Spencer Flats well before noon. It was nestled in some rocky hills and a thick wall of pines to the north. Slocum followed the circling trail until he was set on a course that put the town directly in front of him. It was only then that he pulled ba
ck on the reins.

  Until now, Slocum had been cautious. He was always cautious. The caution needed when hunting a killer, on the other hand, was a whole different animal. Even though he’d been trying to come up with something that might help his cause, the name Far Eye hadn’t struck a chord. All he knew was what the witnesses to Sheriff Cass’s murder had told him, which was that the gunman was fast on the draw and had deadly aim. The freshly dug grave back in Tarnish Mills proved that much. And if a man as dangerous as that truly was bound for Spencer Flats, that meant Slocum had a new batch of worries to consider.

  During this entire ride, both yesterday and today, he hadn’t seen anything to make him think he was being followed. If Rob or his murderous partner had caught up with him, they would have made a move by now. That, however, was no reason to mosey into a strange town when he could be spotted from any number of angles.

  Slocum was looking straight down the trail to what appeared to be a main street through the town ahead. Trees surrounded the perimeter of the settlement along a sloping wall of rock to the east. The western edge of town was along a thin patch of woods. Slocum guessed he could get into Spencer Flats from that side without much trouble. He veered away from the trail and made his way through trees that formed a barrier which grew thicker every twenty yards or so. Before the trees became impassable, they thinned out to reveal another trail. This one wasn’t nearly as wide or well worn as the one he’d previously used, but his stallion was able to traverse it without brushing against too many branches. The trees thinned out quickly. More than likely, they’d been cleared away to provide lumber used to build the houses that were gathered in clusters on this side of town.

  After emerging from the trees, he was spotted almost immediately by a boy with sandy brown hair, striking blue eyes, and limbs that were skinny as string beans.

  “Howdy,” Slocum said to the boy.

  The kid looked back at him with his mouth hanging open.

  “Just passing through,” Slocum said.

  Before he could get past the kid, he heard, “I ain’t supposed to talk to strangers.”

  “That’s fine, then. I’ll be on my way.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to steer clear of strangers?” Slocum asked.

  The kid shook his head and scratched at his hip. “I just ain’t supposed to talk to ’em. I’m James.”

  “Pleased to meet you, James.”

  “You know them other men that come into town?”

  “I don’t know. I imagine plenty of men come through here.”

  Without hesitation, the boy replied, “No they don’t. You look like one of them.”

  “I do?”

  James kept up with the easy pace of Slocum’s horse. With one hand, he stroked the stallion’s side before reaching toward the boot containing Slocum’s rifle. “You look like ’em on account of all the guns you’re carrying. Them other men were carrying guns, too.”

  “Most men carry guns when they travel,” Slocum said. “For snakes and such.”

  “Them others were different. They weren’t huntin’ and they weren’t cowboys.”

  “You certain of that?”

  “Yes sir, I am,” James said proudly. “I watch everyone that comes and goes.”

  “That must keep you busy.”

  James shrugged. “School ain’t starting for another week and there ain’t many men that come through here.”

  “That’s right,” Slocum chuckled. “So you said. Have you seen enough men with guns to tell the hunters and cowboys from the rest?”

  After thinking about that while walking alongside Slocum’s horse, James winced and said, “I suppose not. All I know is that cowboys and hunters come into town using one of the main trails and they usually ain’t alone. Them other two could be cowboys, I guess.”

  “What made you think they were different?”

  “On account of what one of the men said. He could’a just been talking, I suppose.”

  Trying not to appear as interested as he was, Slocum asked, “What was he talking about?”

  “They was putting their horses up at my pa’s stable and one of them said he shouldn’t have to pay because he’s a damn killer and that this whole town’s lucky he don’t burn it down.”

  “Best watch the cussing, kid,” Slocum warned. “Your ma might hear.”

  James took a quick look over his shoulder and lowered his voice to a whisper. “My pa said them men are gunmen or outlaws.”

  “And you thought I was an outlaw, too?”

  “No,” the boy said as his cheeks flushed. “But I figured you might be a gunman seeing as how you snuck into town the way you did.”

  “You’ve got a good eye, James.” Seeing the way the boy gasped, Slocum quickly added, “But I’m no outlaw. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Introduce me to your pa.”

  The stable at the end of Main Street was marked by a simple sign with the words STALLS FOR RENT & HORSES FOR SALE painted in block letters. James led the way and Slocum followed with his head angled downward just enough for the brim of his hat to keep most of his face from being seen by casual observers. Fortunately, the town was quiet and there weren’t many observers, casual or otherwise, to worry about. Anyone looking down from the few buildings along the street would only see a boy leading a man and a horse to a stable. Nothing eye-catching about that.

  At least, that’s what Slocum hoped.

  When they got within a few yards of the stable’s large twin doors, James broke into a run and hollered, “Pa! Pa! I brought someone to see you.”

  Slocum resisted the temptation to look around for anyone taking interest in the short but suddenly loud procession.

  The man who stepped out to greet the boy wore battered jeans and a heavy blacksmith’s apron over a rumpled red and black checked shirt. It was plain to see where James got his height, but any string bean qualities the older man might have possessed had long since worn away. He clapped his boy on the shoulder and left his hand in place to keep James from bouncing around any further. “No need for shouting, son. You’ll scare away a customer. That is,” he added while showing Slocum a crooked smile, “if you’re here about renting a stall.”

  “I am, sir,” Slocum said. “But I’d also like to ask about some other customers you might have had lately.”

  The liveryman studied Slocum in much the same way his son had not too long ago. Like the boy, his eyes snagged on the weapons Slocum carried. His pockmarked face shifted beneath a thick beard, making his entire demeanor seem darker when he asked, “They friends of yours?”

  Slocum shook his head. “Not hardly, sir.” Then he peeled open his jacket to reveal the deputy’s badge he’d pinned to his shirt a few miles outside of town. The rusty star may have been small, but it made a world of difference to the liveryman.

  “You out to haul them two away from here?” the liveryman asked.

  “One way or another.”

  The other man’s grin returned. “Then I may be able to help you.”

  7

  The liveryman’s name was Andrew. Once he saw Slocum’s badge, he was more than happy to introduce himself, show Slocum around the stable, and answer any questions he could. Slocum wasn’t accustomed to someone being so cooperative without persuasion in the form of money or a threat. Either Andrew was a good man trying to do the right thing or he was shining Slocum on and setting him up for something else farther down the road. Although he drifted more toward the former of those possibilities, Slocum had acquired too many knife wounds in the back to discount the latter.

  “So the two men that rode these horses,” Slocum said while gazing at a pair of stalls near the back of the stable. “They just arrived?”

  “Late last night, yes
sir,” Andrew replied.

  “What did they look like?”

  Even though he wasn’t much for words, Andrew rattled off a good enough description of Rob. As for the other man, Andrew simply said he was old and had a full head of silver hair.

  “And you think they’re gunmen?” Slocum asked.

  “They were both carrying guns and both knew how to use ’em. I served six years in the army, so I’ve seen plenty of men carrying guns. The ones who enjoy pulling the trigger are easy to spot. These men had that look in their eyes.”

  Slocum knew that look all too well. “Where did they go after leaving here?”

  “I recommended they try one of the hotels in town. My wife rents out one of the rooms in our house, but I didn’t want them two assholes anywhere near my family.”

  Upon hearing his father curse, James laughed. He stopped the instant Andrew fixed him with a cold, hard glare.

  “So when will the rest of the lawmen be coming?” the liveryman asked.

  “Can’t say as there will be any others,” Slocum replied.

  “That’s a deputy’s badge. Weren’t you sent by a sheriff or marshal or someone like that?”

  “I was. He was killed.”

  “That’s a right shame, mister,” Andrew said in a genuinely heartfelt tone. “Are you from anywhere nearby?”

  Slocum’s first instinct was to be honest with Andrew since the liveryman seemed like a good man. However, there was more to consider than the other man’s character when he told him, “I’m from a town about three days west from here. Are you familiar with the territory?”

  “Not that part of it.”

  Since that meant less lying to Andrew, Slocum was glad to hear it. “Do you get much word from other towns?”

  “Not as such. Folks that pass through here do their fair amount of talking, but I don’t listen to what don’t concern me. Plenty of men make their rounds to sell or trade. You can find them at Jocelyn’s.”