Slocum at Hangdog

by Jake Logan

  The other two had stopped riding. He heard a voice say, “Stopes?” Then another shouted, “He’s done for. Save yourself.” The riders made a hard turn to the left and rode hard. The shot had startled the cattle. They were growing restless, ready to run. Slocum rode fast toward the herd, and when he was close enough to be heard, he called out to the cowboys, who had already drawn their weapons, “Hang onto the herd. I’ll get those bastards.” He rode after the remaining two rustlers.

  Huggy was riding hard toward the hills with Barber not far behind. Slocum tried another shot, but it was wasted, riding hard in the night like that, trying to hit a moving target. He shoved the rifle back into the boot and kept riding. Huggy made it to the hills and he started up a narrow trail. In the midst of large boulders, he stopped. Barber had no choice because of the terrain but to stop behind him.

  “What’re you doing, Huggy?” Barber said. “That son of a bitch is right behind us.”

  “We got to ambush him right here,” Huggy said. “Get off your horse and get behind that boulder. I’ll take this one over here.”

  Barber dismounted and moved into position behind the boulder that Huggy had indicated. He readied his rifle. Huggy, still on horseback, grabbed the reins of Barber’s mount and started riding fast up the hill. Barber turned around to look. He was astonished. Huggy was running away with his horse, leaving him to fight Slocum alone.

  “Huggy,” he shouted. “You bastard. Come back here.”

  Huggy was out of sight. Barber turned around again. Now he had no choice except to do what Huggy wanted. He had to ambush Slocum. He had to kill him. That goddamned Huggy, he thought. He cranked a shell into the chamber of his rifle and readied it over the top of the rock waiting for Slocum to appear.

  Up ahead, Huggy was riding for his life. That damned Slocum was smarter than he had thought. He was laying for them. Well, Barber would slow him down. Even if Slocum killed Barber, it would take a little time—time enough for Huggy to get away. He thought about riding back to the shack for the supplies, but he decided against that. He had to get away. His only regret was the money in Barber’s and Stopes’s pockets. He wished that he had that. But he still had his share, and it would last him a little while if he was careful. He reached the top of the hill and turned loose Barber’s horse. Then he started down the other side. At the bottom of the hill, he turned in the direction opposite the shack. He was leaving this part of the country forever.

  Slocum had seen the outlaws turn up the hill. In the moonlight, he could see the large boulders that flanked the trail going up. He saw it immediately as a good spot for an ambush. He stopped riding and secured his horse to a clump of brush. Then he walked toward the hill. He did not head for the trail. That was where they would be waiting for him. He moved a little left of the trail. When he reached the foot of the hill, he started climbing. It was a little tricky in the dark, making his way among all the rocks. He had to be careful of his footing. He had to be quiet. He listened as he moved, thinking that the horses might make some noise that would give them away, but he heard no noises. Now and then he stopped to listen. It was deathly quiet. He moved on.

  Then he spotted something too straight and smooth for nature poking across the top of a boulder. He moved a little closer. At last, he could make out the shape of a man with a rifle. He moved in some more, getting a good location. He slipped the Colt out of his holster. He pointed in the direction of the man. At the same time, he thumbed back the hammer and said in a loud and clear voice, “Drop the rifle and turn around.” Barber panicked. He whirled and fired, his shot echoing through the darkness but going wide of its mark. Slocum shot one time. Barber flopped and fell back, draped across the boulder. Slocum moved down cautiously. Barber was dead. But where was the other one?

  It took a few minutes for Slocum to realize that the other one was nowhere around, and there were no horses. It was hard to read tracks in the darkness, but he figured that the man had ridden to the top. He went back after his horse, and then he rode the trail to the ridge. There was no sign of the other rider. The sun was beginning to peek up over the far horizon. Slocum looked for tracks. Two horses had come to the top of the hill. One had ridden off along the ridge. The other had gone down the other side. He studied the tracks carefully before deciding that the man he was after had ridden down the hill. He rode after him.

  It seemed that the man was riding his horse too hard, Slocum thought. He wouldn’t last long at that pace. Slocum took it easy. He would find the man. He had no doubt. The farther he rode, the lower the hills to his right became. Around midmorning, there were no hills left. The man had moved back over onto the road. Slocum kept after him. Eventually, he had to stop and rest his horse. Slocum took the opportunity to have a smoke, lighting one of his good cigars. A little farther down the trail, he stopped again, this time beside a small stream. He allowed the horse to drink and to graze a little. Then he mounted up and continued his way along the road. It wasn’t long before the tracks were obliterated by other tracks. Suddenly, the road was more heavily traveled. Slocum figured there must be a settlement of some kind ahead. He rode on.

  Then he came to a sign that read, SLAPDASH, 5 MI. He’d never heard of it. He rode on. A wagon came from the opposite direction, and as it passed him by, the driver tipped his hat and said, “Howdy, stranger.” Slocum returned the greeting and continued on his way. A couple of cowhands came riding. They greeted Slocum as well. This time he stopped riding. The cowhands did too.

  “Say,” said Slocum, “did you fellows see a man riding this way about to kill his horse?”

  “Sure did,” said the one. “A scruffy-looking rascal wearing overhauls.”

  “That’s him,” Slocum said.

  “You after him?”

  “He’s a rustler and a killer,” said Slocum.

  “Yeah. He had that look about him.”

  “Is there a sheriff in Slapdash?” Slocum asked.

  Both cowboys laughed at that. Finally, one of them said, “Mister, Slapdash ain’t hardly even a town. It just sprang up here not too long ago. It’s got a saloon and a store.”

  “That’s it,” the other said.

  “Much obliged,” Slocum said, and he rode on. The cowhands continued on their way in the opposite direction. Soon Slocum saw Slapdash. Two buildings. That was it. The cowboys had sure told the truth about it. There were several horses on the street, a few people going into or out of the saloon and the store, but it wasn’t a big crowd. It wouldn’t be hard to locate the man in this place.

  Slocum rode up to the saloon. There was just room for one more horse at the hitch rail, and he took it. He looked over the horses tied there, and he spotted the wretched animal that Huggy had been riding. The poor neglected beast was nearly ridden to death. It was caked with sweat, and it stood there panting for breath. Ducking under the rail, he went inside. It was a hastily thrown together building with a false front. Inside the walls were bare boards, the outside light showing here and there through their cracks. It had to be a cold son of a bitch in the winter months, Slocum thought. There was no ceiling, just the bare underside of the roof slats. The bar was thrown together, as were the shelves behind it, which held a myriad of booze bottles. The tables were all mismatched as were the chairs. It was noisy, rowdy inside, what with all the cowhands in for a good time. Slocum stood for a spell just inside the door looking around. A couple of cowhands at the bar glanced at him, a stranger in their midst. At last he spotted Huggy, sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the room, a glass and a bottle on the table in front of him. Slocum headed for that table.

  When he had made his way through the roomful of crowded tables about halfway to the corner table, Huggy looked up and spotted him. Fumbling to his feet backward, he tipped over his chair, reaching for the six-gun at his side. Slocum’s Colt was out in an instant and leveled at Huggy’s gut. Huggy’s gun was not halfway out yet. “I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” Slocum said. Huggy stood still, staring at the barrel of t
he Colt. He loosened his grip on his own weapon, letting it drop back down, and he spread his arms wide.

  “What do you want with me?” he said. “I’m just setting here minding my own business.”

  The crowd in the room grew quiet, all eyes on Slocum and Huggy.

  “I’m taking you back to Hangdog,” Slocum said. “Alive or dead. It don’t matter to me.”

  “I’m clean out of that county,” said Huggy. “You can’t touch me over here.”

  “I’m no lawman,” said Slocum. “Finish your drink. We’ve got a ride ahead of us.”

  Huggy looked around the room in desperation. “Say, boys,” he said. “You ain’t going to let this here stranger come into your town acting like some kind of bounty hunter, are you? Why, he’s got nothing on me. I ain’t bothered no one in this town. Make him leave me alone.”

  A cowhand at a nearby table looked up at Slocum. “What do you want him for, mister?” he asked.

  “My name’s Slocum. No mister.”

  “All right then, Slocum,” said the cowboy. “What do you want with this fellow?”

  “He’s rustler and a horse thief,” Slocum said, “and he killed a cowhand while he was running off cattle.”

  “I never—”

  “He ran off cattle from James Ritchie’s ranch and horses from my friend Davey Mix’s place. He and his two pards killed a rider called Billy Boy over at Ritchie’s.”

  “Hey,” said a cowhand at another table. “I knew Billy Boy. I rode with him at Old Man Farnum’s place a couple of seasons back. He was a good hand and a good pard.”

  “We’re all cowhands in here,” said someone else. “We got no use for rustlers and horse thiefs.”

  “Nor no one that kills good cowboys!”

  “Wait a minute,” Huggy said. “Wait a minute. You got nothing on me but just his word.”

  The cowboys were too rowdy by this time to listen to what Huggy or anyone else was saying. Billy Boy suddenly became everyone’s best friend. They had ridden with him somewhere. They were on their feet, crowding around Huggy, pressing on him and shouting.

  “Dirty son of a bitch,” someone shouted. “Kill a kid like that.”

  “I’ll just take him back—”

  Slocum had started to speak, but no one was listening. He knew what was coming. He backed away out of the crowd and went to the bar. The bartender had joined the crowd shouting insults and threats at Huggy, but he was still behind the bar. Slocum had to yell to get his attention. He called for a drink of whiskey. The bartender put a bottle and a glass hastily on the counter and turned away again, paying no more attention to Slocum. Slocum dug out a coin and put it on the bar. He poured himself a drink and turned it down. Then he poured another. He turned around, but he could no longer see Huggy. The crowd had closed around him. He could hear only a large crowd noise. He could not make out anyone’s voice or anything anyone was saying. Then he watched as the crowd seemed to turn all at once. It started moving toward the door. At last he could see several cowboys dragging and pushing Huggy toward the door. The crowd parted just enough to let them through; then it moved along with them. Everyone was shouting, waving fists. When Slocum at last got another glimpse of Huggy, he could see the terror on the man’s face. He could see that his mouth was wide open. He was screaming, but his voice could not be heard above the voice of the crowd. As he passed by on his way to the door, he looked at Slocum with a pleading in his eyes. It was ironic. He was pleading with the very man who had followed him to this place to kill him. Slocum turned up the glass and drank his second drink down as the crowd pressed through the door. When everyone was at last outside, Slocum could see that one of the batwing doors had been broken off and was hanging by one hinge. Slocum turned back around as the crowd vanished and the noise subsided a bit. The bartender was looking anxiously after them.

  “Take care of yourself, mister,” he said, ripping off his apron and hurrying after the excitement. Slocum poured another drink. He heard a voice behind him.

  “You ain’t going to watch?”

  He turned and saw that one man besides himself was left in the saloon. The man had the look of a gambler.

  “No,” said Slocum. “You?”

  “I’ve seen men hanged before,” said the gambler. “Have you?”

  “Yeah. A few times. It ain’t pretty.”

  “You came after the fellow,” said the gambler.

  “Not for this,” said Slocum.

  “What’s the difference?”

  Slocum turned his drink up and finished it in one long swallow. He put the glass down on the counter and turned to leave. “I guess there ain’t any,” he said as he walked out the door. He unwrapped the reins from around the hitching rail, ducked under the rail, and mounted his horse. He did not intend to look, but the noises of the crowd were too much for him to ignore. In spite of himself, he glanced across the street as he was riding by. He could see the crowd. He could not see Huggy. They were gathered in front of the other building in town, a building with a false front and a board sidewalk in front of it. A roof overhung the sidewalk, and beams held up the roof. Someone had gotten a rope over one of the beams. Slocum could see that it had been pulled tight. It was not very high. As he watched, he saw Huggy being dragged up by the rope around his neck. They hadn’t bothered putting him on a horse. They hadn’t gone out to find a tree with a high branch. They had simply strung him up to the nearest thing that would hold a rope, even though it was not high enough for a good drop, and they were pulling him off his feet, slowly and deliberately. Slocum thought that he was too far away for such a clear view, but he could clearly see Huggy’s face, his tongue sticking out, his eyes bulging, horror written bold. Slocum tried to pull his own eyes away from the sickening sight, but his head turned as he rode by. At last, he was far enough down the street that he could no longer see clearly. He could still hear the crowd, though. He kicked his horse in the sides and rode hurriedly away from the town with no law.

  A couple of miles out, he slowed his pace. The grisly scene was stamped on his brain, and he could not get it out. Huggy and his two companions had been disgusting, sorry excuses for human beings. Slocum had killed the other two and would have casually shot down Huggy as well, but he would not have sent him away like that. As he rode on his way back to Hangdog, the words of the gambler echoed in his mind. “What’s the difference?”

  11

  Back at the Mix spread, Helen had gotten herself ready for bed. She had just blown out the lamp and was pulling the heavy quilts back on her large four-poster when her door opened, startling her. She turned quickly to see her husband, Dave, standing silhouetted in the doorway. He was wearing a bathrobe. She could not see the expression on his face in the darkness.

  “Dave,” she said, her voice surprised. “What are you doing in here?”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re my wife, ain’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course. But you’re not well. You—”

  “I’m well enough to handle you all right,” he said.

  “Dave, I don’t think—”

  “You don’t have to think,” he said, striding across the room to catch her in his arms and plant a firm kiss on her mouth. For an instant, her arms flailed loose. Then they reached around his shoulders to caress him, gently, for she was still worried about his shoulder wound. In another moment, Dave let her go. He pulled off his robe and let it drop to the floor. He had nothing else on.

  “Dave,” she said.

  He started to pull her nightdress down off her shoulders.

  “Dave,” she protested.

  “That’s my name,” he said. “I like the way it sounds coming out of your mouth.”

  He caused the nightdress to fall to the floor around her feet. He looked at her for a moment, then reached out to place a hand on each of her firm breasts. Her nipples hardened under his touch.

  “Dave,” she said, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “Then you’d better not s
truggle,” he said, “or you might hurt me.”

  He pushed her backward slowly until she ran into the bed and lost her balance, falling into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. He kept coming at her, and she scampered onto the bed, moving to the center. He crawled in on top of her, and he kissed her again. This time, his tongue probed the inside of her mouth. Soon, she responded in kind. They dueled in this manner for a long moment, and then she felt the hardening member between his legs begin to poke at her between her legs.

  “Oh,” she said, and she reached down with both hands, grasping the rod with one and the heavy balls with the other. She placed the head of the rod against her wet pussy and rubbed it up and down. Then she guided it into her deep hole, and Dave thrust forward and downward with all his might.

  “Oh,” she said again. “Oh. Oh.”

  He began pounding with all his might, too eager to worry about her needs. He felt the pressure welling up inside him, and then he spewed forth. In another moment, he rolled off her, lying beside her panting.

  “I was afraid it might be too much for you,” she said.

  “You think so?” he said. He rolled back on her, but this time he moved lower, pressing his face between her thighs, and his tongue darted out and flicked at her tender spot.

  “Oh, Dave,” she said. “Oh. Oh, yes.”

  Slocum rode back into Hangdog early the next morning, but it was not so early that Thaddeus Speer was not up and about already. Slocum found the sheriff walking across the street headed for Brenda’s Place. He rode up beside the lawman. Speer looked up at him.

  “You look like you been riding all night,” he said.

  “I have,” Slocum answered. “You going to breakfast?”