by Jake Logan
A Man Whose Business Is Death . . .
Slocum looked over his shoulder and saw his luck had run out. Throwing down on the revived shotgun-wielding man would result in death—the wrong one’s death, from Slocum’s point of view.
“Suppose I ought to talk to Hawkins.”
“That’s Mister Hawkins.”
Slocum saw the man’s finger curling back on the trigger and turning white with strain. He wasn’t going to crawl for anyone. Something in the set to Mac’s body—was it fear of disobeying Leonard Hawkins?—made Slocum relax just a little. When he stood, Mac motioned down the street with the muzzle of his shotgun. Aware that he might die at any instant in spite of the order to be brought in alive, Slocum set off. He saw how the townspeople hid. Fearful eyes peered out from around half-opened doors and through filmy curtains.
“Where are we going?”
“To the undertaker,” Mac said.
DON’T MISS THESE
ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES
FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
LONGARM by Tabor Evans
The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.
SLOCUM by Jake Logan
Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.
BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan
An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.
DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer
Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .
WILDGUN by Jack Hanson
The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!
TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun
J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.
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SLOCUM BURIED ALIVE
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PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / June 2014
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
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Version_1
Contents
All-Action Western Series
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
1
Riding into the small town at the western edge of the Texas Hill Country, Espero by name if he could believe the sign with the chipped paint lettering a quarter mile back along the road to San Antonio, sent shivers up and down John Slocum’s spine. He had ridden far enough and learned enough over the years to heed this silent feeling. Without being too obvious about it, he pushed back his battered tan canvas duster and flicked the leather thong off the Colt Navy’s hammer. He kept riding to the Six Feet Under Saloon and actually considered not stepping down to go inside for a drink to wet his whistle.
The trail across Texas had been long, wet with summer rains, and boring. Once he had seen what might have been a few Comanches halfheartedly being chased by a cavalry patrol. Another time he had passed a stagecoach rattling along at a breakneck speed behind an eight-horse team. The look he had gotten from the shotgun messenger told him there wouldn’t be any polite exchanges that day. He wondered if that put him on edge now. The driver and the guard on the stage had obviously been worried about road agents. He hadn’t seen another rider the rest of the day—yesterday?
Pondering the matter, he nodded and mumbled to himself. It had been yesterday, even if it seemed years ago. That chance encounter had warned him of outlaws, and he must have carried that worry into Espero.
The townspeople milling about in the hot afternoon looked prosperous enough. No one in sight carried a six-shooter. That meant the law kept a tight lid on thievery and mayhem. If the marshal hadn’t adhered strictly to the law, all the men would be packing side arms or hefting shotguns and rifles. Any lawman disarming the populace amid serious crime found himself out of a job or presiding over a ghost town. With so much of Texas vacant and waiting to be settled, it was easy to pull up stakes and move on until a more satisfactory town presented itself.
He looped the reins of his pinto through a rusty iron ring at the corner of the saloon, made sure the horse had enough lead to drink from a nearby water barrel, then went inside to satisfy his own thirst. Slocum stopped and looked around as he stepped into the cooler interior. Cigar smoke hung like fog inside. Only two men he saw puffed away but both worked furiously at their stogies. Clouds of blue-gray smoke wreathed them and hid their faces from sight, but he had no problem seeing what they were doing. Quick fingers shuffled a deck of cards and even more agile ones dealt seconds.
The two smokers had the look of tinhorn gamblers out to fleece the three others at the table with them. One player leaned so far to his right his partner had to prop him up. Another was so far in his cups that he peered across the table with one eye closed to keep perspective.
“You want to bet his hand, too?” the gambler next to the drunk cowpoke asked as he braced up his friend. Not a hint of sarcasm rang in those words. “I can help you figure the odds if you need.”
“Jed’s fine. Just a little under the weather today.”
“Got a snootful of Horace’s
damned whiskey’s what put him under. Lucky it don’t put him six feet under.”
The two gamblers laughed at this play on the saloon’s name. Jed’s eyes shot open in horror. He pushed back from the table and sat bolt upright.
“I ain’t dead. You can’t bury me. I’m not dead!” He looked around with such an expression of terror on his face that Slocum almost backed out of the saloon. Something about the suddenly sober man’s fear fit together with his own apprehension about Espero.
“First one’s on the house, mister, then you gotta pay,” called Horace, the barkeep. The man held up an empty beer mug in one hand and a shot glass in the other. “What’s your poison? Beer or whiskey? You won’t find cheaper booze anywhere in South Texas, and that’s a guarantee.”
For once in his life, Slocum had plenty of money, almost ten dollars left over from a season of wrangling at a huge spread east of San Antonio. He moved into the room, the lumpy sawdust scuffing along with his dirty boots. With his elbows on the bar, he leaned forward so his hand could move under his duster and remain near his ebony-handled Colt.
“Free is good,” he said.
“You got to pay for the second and I give you both at the same time.”
“Fair enough,” Slocum said, working around in his vest pocket with his left hand until his fingers teased out a dime. He dropped it on the counter, where it spun around on its rim, making a musical, silvery sound.
The barkeep’s move was faster than a striking rattler. The coin disappeared, and hardly slower, two shot glasses of whiskey appeared in its place. To Slocum’s surprise, the barkeep added two mugs of beer, as well.
“You weren’t joshing about the dirt cheap prices here,” Slocum said.
Instead of bragging on the Six Feet Under’s policy, Horace grunted and moved away. Slocum didn’t understand the reaction so he figured it must have been something he said. What that might have been was a true mystery since he was complimenting the barkeep on how he ran the saloon.
Slocum looked up into the mirror behind the bar and surveyed the crowd through the smoke. He had been in tougher drinking establishments than this, but the uneasy feeling persisted. During the war, he had learned to listen to this sixth sense. It had kept him alive over the years and up to this point, when he had just ridden into Espero and was given a free drink. And three cheap additional ones, to boot.
He stared into the murky amber fluid, then downed it in a single gulp. He took a half step back as it exploded in his mouth, burned his throat, and then turned into a raging fire in his belly. He shook his head to clear it.
“Best damn whiskey you’ll find in town,” the bartender said, edging back. He wiped his hands on his canvas apron, then twirled his long mustaches until they came to points sharper than the rowels on a Spanish vaquero’s spurs. “I mix it up myself with a special formula I learned tendin’ bar on a riverboat.”
“This has brandy in it,” Slocum said, his voice hoarse.
“You got a discerning taste, sir. I like customers who appreciate my mixing skills. What else is in it?”
Slocum rolled his tongue around his tormented mouth and caught the hint of red pepper. He told the barkeep this and added, “Might be a touch of nitric acid, too.”
“Mister, you pose a real problem for me. Do I kill you—”
Slocum tensed, his hand moving closer to the butt of his pistol.
“Or do I hire you? You nailed it with all my special ingredients.”
“Nails, too. Rusty nails to give it color,” Slocum said.
“Now I simply have to hire you. That’s the Gospel truth.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll poison myself again.” Slocum took the second glass and knocked it back. This time the potent whiskey failed to deliver the mule’s kick the first had. “That’s mighty good.” With quick gulps, Slocum drained the beers to put out the raging fire in his belly. The bitter brew proved exactly what was needed to quell the effects of alcohol laced with acid and hot pepper.
“Another? Still cheap at twice the price.” The barkeep held up the bottle, grinning enough to show a gold tooth, then his face sort of melted. He lowered the bottle and put it back under the bar and wiped his hands.
“I reckon another whiskey with a beer chaser would keep the others from getting too lonely,” Slocum said, patting his belly.
The barkeep backed up wordlessly, then busied himself wiping away nonexistent spots on the already highly polished cherrywood bar. In spite of this faked concentration, he leaned slightly as if eavesdropping on a conversation Slocum wasn’t having.
Slocum looked up into the mirror again and saw the reason for the barkeep’s sudden change of mind. The man looked around, then turned and stared straight at Slocum so their eyes met in the mirror. He walked over slowly, giving Slocum plenty of time to size him up.
“You’re the shootist that just rode into town.” The words were cold, and it wasn’t a question.
“No.” Slocum swirled the remaining drops of amber beer around the bottom of the mug.
“Shootist and a liar,” the man said.
“I’m not looking for a fight. Why are you?” Slocum shifted his elbows on the bar so his right hand moved closer to his cross-draw holster.
“He wants to hire you.”
“That’s mighty vague. Even if I was a gunslinger, I wouldn’t be interested since I’m just passing through.”
“Mr. Hawkins don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Ever.”
“Do tell.” Slocum knocked back the remnants of the second beer and spun about, smashing the mug into the center of the man’s forehead.
The vessel shattered and shards slashed at weathered skin. Blood spewed forth, but the sudden attack had done as Slocum intended. The man had been pushing back his duster to lift a scattergun slung over his shoulder from a leather strap. The wound made him reach up with both hands, the shotgun forgotten.
Slocum grabbed the man by the shoulders and drove his knee into the man’s groin. Air rushed from his lungs, and he made tiny mewling sounds as he sank to the sawdust-covered floor. Slocum gauged distances again and used his knee once more. This time he caught the man’s chin and snapped his head back. With a loud crash, the man stretched out flat on his back, unconscious.
“Mister, you shouldna done that,” Horace said. The barkeep had blanched whiter than a muslin sheet. “You don’t rile Mr. Hawkins.”
“I’m not a gunfighter, and I don’t kill people for no reason. Or for pay.” Slocum stepped over the fallen man, then looked back at the bartender. “Sometimes they give me a reason.”
He went to the saloon doors and found himself staring down the muzzles of a half-dozen guns. Five of them trembled. One man held his six-shooter in both hands and even that didn’t stop the shaking. The only one with a steady grip wore a shiny marshal’s badge on his chest.
“Mister, you just made a whale of a mistake.”
“Are you arresting me for defending myself? He was going to shoot me in the back with a shotgun.”
“Mac wasn’t gonna do any such thing. Leonard requested the honor of your presence, and you showed no civility at all. And I know Mac’d have asked you real nice. He’s that sorta fellow.”
“Leonard Hawkins?”
The marshal grinned crookedly.
“Good that you done heard of him. Can’t imagine why you’d refuse his offer of a job.”
“I don’t know anybody in Espero,” Slocum said carefully. He discounted everyone but the marshal. Already some of the men’s aims wavered. One even looked to have pissed himself and there hadn’t been any gunplay. “The name Hawkins doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
“Come on along. I’ll let Leonard tell you what he wants.” The marshal snickered.
As he stepped back to usher Slocum ahead of him, the marshal gasped and bent double, holding his gut. Slocum knew it wasn’t an excuse
to shoot his hostage when he saw blood oozing out of the lawman’s nose, dripping down to stain his vest. A quick step brought Slocum to the marshal’s side and a quick blow with his elbow caught him in the diaphragm. The marshal dropped to the ground as much out of the fight as the man laid out inside the saloon.
“He needs a doctor. Why don’t you all go fetch one?” When no one moved, Slocum snapped, “Now!” His years as a captain in the CSA had given him the voice required to motivate men who otherwise stood around too shocked by what they saw to act.
The five with the marshal scurried off like cockroaches in sudden daylight.
“You’d be a dead man right now if Mr. Hawkins hadn’t asked to talk to you.”
Slocum looked over his shoulder and saw his luck had run out. Throwing down on the revived shotgun-wielding man would result in death—the wrong one’s death, from Slocum’s point of view.
“Suppose I ought to talk to Hawkins.”
“That’s Mister Hawkins.”
Slocum saw the man’s finger curling back on the trigger and turning white with strain. He wasn’t going to crawl for anyone. Something in the set to Mac’s body—was it fear of disobeying Leonard Hawkins?—made Slocum relax just a little. When he stood, Mac motioned down the street with the muzzle of his shotgun. Aware that he might die at any instant in spite of the order to be brought in alive, Slocum set off. He saw how the townspeople hid. Fearful eyes peered out from around half-opened doors and through filmy curtains.
“Where are we going?”
“To the undertaker,” Mac said.
Slocum considered this fitting. He was itching to resolve this standoff. If lead started flying, one of them would die. He looked for a watering trough or a wagon to use as shelter from the rain of lead pellets due to come his way. As luck would have it, Slocum saw nothing to protect him from gunfire, much less the discharge from a double-barreled shotgun.
“Go on in. He’s waiting for you.”
“Mister Hawkins?” Slocum asked. He put as much sarcasm into the question as he could, wanting a response from his captor.
“You—”
