by Jake Logan
Swain let out a sighing breath and sat down in his special chair.
He said nothing for a few minutes, then spoke to Penny.
“I brought you and Jethro some silver bars,” he said. “They’re out in my saddlebags.”
“That’s very kind of you, Uncle Obie.”
He waved a hand in the air.
“That’s no nevermind. I wonder if Jethro told that bunch at the saloon where I hang my hat.”
“No, Uncle,” she said. “Pa never told them where you lived.”
“Good,” Swain said, then turned his attention to Slocum.
“If we don’t nip this in the bud, that crowd in Socorro won’t give up. They’ll come after you and me both. There’s a big old snake in that saloon. And it’s run by a bastard name of Wilbur Scroggs. He’s the reason I took to smeltin’ my own silver ore. That bastard robbed me once when I come back from Albuquerque with a mule load of silver.”
“And he got away with it?” Slocum fished a cheroot from his pocket, but did not light it.
“I couldn’t prove it, but I recognized Willie as one of the men who held me up. Shadow was the other one, and I suspect Paddy Degnan was the third man. I built my own smeltering plant, hired some Mexes, and made a small fort out of my adobe hutch. But they know that by now, and I expect their greed is gnawing at their guts again.”
“Well,” Slocum said as he bit off the end of the cheroot, “I sure wish you luck.”
“Just like that, eh?” Swain said. “You ridin’ out?”
“I was on my way to Albuquerque to look over some horseflesh up there.”
“John, you can’t leave now,” Penny said, her face blanched to a bloodless frost.
“Why not? Might be better if I rode out today. If your uncle says I’m a target, that’s one less thing you have to worry about.”
Penny opened her mouth to say something, but Swain waved a hand to silence her.
“Yeah, Slocum, you can light a shuck, but if you think that’s the end of it, you’ve got another think a-comin’. Roger Degnan is a loose cannon with the brains of a weasel. He’s two pints short of a quart and will hunt you down wherever you go. And Sombra, he’s a back shooter, a sneaky bushwhacker who’ll mark your trail and lie in wait.”
“So, what are you suggesting, Obadiah?” Slocum said.
“Call me Obie, Slocum.”
“Call me John, Obie,” Slocum said in a gesture of friendliness.
“I’m suggesting that you and I ride into Socorro and have a drink at that saloon and see what flies out of the hornet’s nest.”
Penny gasped.
“Take the fight to them?” Slocum said. “Two against four or five or more?”
“Might be our best shot,” Swain said. “By now, Roger’s bought himself another two-dollar pistol and he’ll come gunning for you, sure as I’m sitting here.”
“You’re buying into my fight, seems like.”
“Don’t forget what those jaspers did to my brother. You weren’t the main target, Slocum, but you sure as hell stepped into their sights by shootin’ that little bastard Roger.”
Slocum spat the tip of his cheroot into an ashtray and worked a box of matches out of his shirt pocket. He lit the end of the cigar and waved the flame out of the match and set it in the ashtray. He took a deep puff and looked straight at Obie, stared hard into his lamplit eyes.
“You have a point, Obie,” Slocum said. “But to just walk into the lion’s den and start the ball doesn’t seem the right way to go about it.”
“All right, what do you suggest, then?”
Obie’s eyes were narrowed to feral points of light. His beard gave him an animal look, and Slocum decided he might well be a man to ride the river with. There was no yellow stripe down Obie’s back.
“We can talk about it on the way to Socorro,” Slocum said. “I’d like to take a look and see just what we’re up against.”
“John,” Penny said, “you can’t trust anybody in that saloon. They’re all in cahoots. Even the women, the loose women, who work there. And there’s one you have to look out for especially.”
Obie nodded.
“Yep, she’s right,” Swain said. “Littlepage is one dangerous woman. She’s as beautiful as all get-out, but I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw that blind horse out in the shed.”
“Who?” Slocum said.
“Linda Littlepage,” Penny said. “She’s a witch.”
“Beautiful as all get-out,” Obie said again.
Now that Slocum’s curiosity was piqued to a high level, he knew he had to ride with Obie into Socorro and see Linda Littlepage for himself. And, too, he would see who came out of the woodwork at that notorious saloon where evil seemed to lurk.
7
Swain walked outside and whistled. Juan Gomez appeared a moment later.
“Bring in the silver, Juan,” Swain said. He walked back inside.
“I’ll fix us some breakfast,” Penny said when her uncle came back inside. A few moments later, Juan knocked on the door. Swain let him in. He carried two bulging flower sacks.
“Set them on the dining table, Juan,” Swain said.
The sacks made a thunk on the dining table when Juan plopped them down.
“Thank you, Uncle Obie,” Penny said from the kitchen. “I’ll put those in our safe.”
“And hide the safe,” Swain said.
“Oh, it’s in a good safe place,” she said, and then there was the clatter of pots and pans, the creak of cabinet doors.
“It is quiet,” Juan said.
“That’s when you must take a knife and sharpen your eyes, Juan. I’ll get you and Carlos some grub pretty soon.”
“My stomach awaits your call, Obie,” Juan said. He grinned as he walked back outside to take up his post.
“Good man,” Swain said.
“You’re pretty careful, Obie,” Slocum said.
“If anybody’s riding this way, from any direction, I want to know in plenty of time.”
“White men don’t like to fight in the dark,” Slocum said. “And few of them come at you when the sun’s just coming up.”
“Out here, in the desert, you can never be sure,” Swain said.
Slocum had been aware that Swain had been studying him while giving the impression that he wasn’t staring a hole in him. Several times, he would look away from Swain, and when their eyes met, Swain would turn away with a suddenness that exposed his unusual interest.
There was a clatter down the hall and Slocum caught a glimpse of Penny carrying a bedpan out of her father’s sick room. He heard kitchen noises as he smoked a cheroot and drank coffee with Swain. Penny had left them two cups and a pot on a woven rope pad so they could get their own refills without having to call on her. Slocum saw her bring back the bedpan, which gleamed dully in the dim light of the hallway. More noises came from the sickroom, along with the soft undertones of her hushed voice.
Then she called them to the breakfast table, and the two men carried their cups with them when they entered the small dining room and sat down opposite each other.
Silently Penny served them huevos rancheros, tortillas, frijoles refritos, and salchiche, pork sausages that were fat and hot to the taste with chopped-up hot chili peppers. She served herself and sat down to eat with them, a fresh pot of coffee in the center of the floridly tiled table.
“Penny,” Swain said, “I’m going to leave the boys here to look after you and Jethro. Keep your guns loaded and don’t let nobody in while we’re gone.”
“You’re going into Socorro?” Penny said as she touched a fork to her food.
“This afternoon, yeah. How’s that hotel comin’?”
“It’s not finished,” she said. “I think he’s short of money. He’s got adobe bricks stacked all over, but only one floor is finished.”
Swain turned to Slocum as he chewed on a chunk of sausage.
“Willie Scroggs has big ideas. He wants to build a big hotel next to his saloon, wi
th a connecting hallway and a dining room. Three stories.”
“So, he needs more silver,” Slocum said.
“That’s hittin’ the nail square on the head, Slocum. Willie’s got the town in his pocket, but with no population to put profit in that pocket. He’s a schemer, that one.”
“And you think he’s behind the kidnapping and torture of your brother?” Slocum said.
“No question about it. Anything illegal in Socorro, you can bet Scroggs is behind it. The man has no scruples, no conscience, and no loyalty to anything except money.”
“He’s a dangerous man,” Penny said. “And he surrounds himself with gunslingers, like Shadow and the sheriff.”
Slocum forked some eggs into his mouth. Penny sipped her coffee. She looked pale and wan in the morning light streaming through the window. Her hair shone like spun gold in a single ray of sunshine that streamed through the open window.
“Degnan’s the big problem there. His deputies are on every wanted dodger from New Orleans to Bozeman,” Swain said. “Gunslingers, yeah, and, like Shadow and Roger, back shooters, dry gulchers.”
“Why do people stay in Socorro?” Slocum asked. “It doesn’t sound like a nice town to live in.”
Penny spoke up between bites of food.
“The town has mostly Mexicans in it, and they’re scared of Scroggs and Degnan. The church is powerless. Scroggs pays good wages when he’s flush with money, and that gives him power.”
“The few men who have stood up to Scroggs are dead,” Swain said. “He makes sure everybody who lives there knows it.”
“What about the law?” Slocum asked. “Federal marshals? State troopers? The Army, for that matter?”
“The law requires proof, Slocum,” Swain said. “And Scroggs covers his tracks like a fox.”
“He gets away with murder,” Penny said.
“Any questions, Slocum?” Swain asked.
Slocum looked at Penny.
“Yes. Where do you get eggs like these, and the pork?”
Penny laughed.
“Oh, you don’t know, do you?” she said. “In back of Uncle Obie’s stables, there’s a garden and a henhouse that’s fenced in with chicken wire.”
“Jethro’s got a good twenty acres,” Swain said. “And a couple of springs, good irrigation. I have twice that much land and five times as much fresh water.”
“I’m surprised,” Slocum said.
“The desert is full of surprises,” Penny said. “When you and Uncle Obie come back, I’ll make some biscuits and maybe some bear claws.”
“I can’t wait,” Slocum said.
As the two men were leaving the adobe house, Penny drew Slocum aside.
“Thank you for last night,” she whispered in a conspiratorial tone of voice.
“Thank you, Penny,” he said, and pecked her on the cheek with an avuncular kiss as fleeting as summer dew on cactus flowers. She squeezed his hand as the horses outside switched their tails and pawed the ground with impatience.
He and Swain left late that same afternoon. Slocum wondered what they were getting into since Obie wasn’t exactly a font of information. But he knew the man had something on his mind because he kept looking at Slocum, stealing sidelong glances when he thought Slocum wasn’t aware of his scrutiny.
“No use getting to town much before sunset,” Obie said when they were clear of his brother’s spread. “Town is dead until after sundown.”
“I don’t see much reason for there to be a town there at all,” Slocum said.
“The Mexes take siestas during the heat of the day and don’t do much work. Saloon caters to card players and drunks most of the day. At night, the ranchers come in to drink and take their pleasure with the whores. Ebb and flow, Slocum, ebb and flow. Like clockwork.”
“Sounds like most folks around here have a pretty miserable existence.”
“Them what don’t have farms or ranches weave blankets and make pottery to sell in Albuquerque, Santa Fe, or Taos. They don’t make much money, but they manage to stay alive.”
Swain rode away from the road onto rough ground. His horse stepped around prickly pear, Spanish bayonets, and cholla.
“We don’t want to ride the road,” Swain said. “Too much of a target.”
“A hell of a way to live, Obie.”
“Yeah, but you live longer. I don’t expect anybody’s lookin’ for us just yet, but you never know.”
Slocum said nothing. They rode farther away from the road over a desolate landscape. The sun was sliding toward the horizon behind them, and their shadows stretched long and rumpled over the harsh ground. There was something about the way Obie rode that jogged a memory, a distant memory, in John’s mind. Obie’s back was straight and stiff. He held the reins loosely in his left hand and seemed part of his horse, a sorrel gelding that stood at least fifteen hands tall, with small feet. Slocum thought the horse must be part Arabian, perhaps part Morgan. A fine animal. Then, it struck him. Obie rode like a cavalry officer, and that brought back even more memories. Painful memories.
Swain looked at Slocum and then said something that made Slocum wonder if the man was reading his thoughts.
“I knew your older brother, John,” Swain said. “Robert and I were in the same outfit at Gettysburg. I saw him go down. Couldn’t help him.”
“You rode with Pickett?”
“I did,” Swain said. “Old George knew that Lee was wrong, orderin’ us across that empty plain straight into the Yankee guns. It was brutal and senseless. Pickett knew it, but he charged up that hill anyway. Robert was brave and he talked about you a lot. He said you were a sharpshooter, made Captain.”
“I found Robert on that battlefield,” Slocum said. “He was already dead. He lay with a bunch of others cut down by grapeshot, like wheat cut with a scythe.”
“Lee thought he would win that day. He truly did.”
“Pickett knew better,” Slocum said.
“George was pretty broken up afterwards. He didn’t whine or whimper, but I could see the pain in his eyes. The man was grievin’ real bad inside.”
“So were we all,” Slocum said.
“Your brother set great store by you, John.”
“I still think about him a lot, and our pa, William, our ma, Opal. There are some empty places in the world where they were.”
“True. I lost many friends in the war. And I still miss most of ’em.”
The dark western horizon was a funeral bier blazing with the fire from the sun. A jackrabbit jumped from a clump of nopal and hopped in front of them, then froze against a rock, almost invisible in its shadow. In the distance, a quail piped and doves flew through the saguaros like gray darts, their gray wings whistling like tiny flutes, the notes fading as they twisted out of sight.
As they rode into the gathering dusk toward the town of Socorro, Slocum wondered whether Obie’s talk of the distant War Between the States was not a warning to him of what might lie ahead, a veiled augur that they were riding to another war, a war where death could come with a single lead bullet from an impregnable fortress, not of rock walls and trees, but from drab adobe walls and incorporeal shadows.
Socorro was an unknown region to Slocum, a place of danger, where sharpshooting skills were useless and a man’s back had a bull’s-eye painted on it for every wily gunslinger to see.
It was dusk when they entered the town, the sounds of their horses’ hooves thudding on dusty streets that crawled with vermicular shadows. The sonorous melodies of a guitar floated on the evening air in a minor key. A hush seemed to envelop the city until they turned down the main street toward the lamplit hulk of the Socorro Saloon, where riderless horses and mules stood at the hitch rails like mourners at a funeral.
8
Paddy Degnan strode into the hospital room. He carried a package under his arm. He walked to the farthest bed in the room, where a Mexican doctor stood next to Roger Degnan. The doctor, Alonzo Jimenez, was stooped over, his head close to the bandaged wound in Roger�
�s side.
“No sign of blood poisoning,” Jimenez said. “You are lucky. The bullet passed through the flesh and did not strike a vital organ.”
Paddy heard the doctor’s words as he stood at the foot of his brother’s bed.
“It is good that you have a little fat around your middle,” Jimenez said. “Or that you are the victim of a man who shoots poorly.”
Jimenez, a young man in his mid-thirties, stood up and looked at Paddy.
“So, Roger can come home?” Paddy said.
“He wears stitches in his side. As long as he does not become an acrobat for two or three weeks, his wound will heal very soon.”
Roger flashed a weak grin at his brother. His face was pale, his blue eyes slightly bloodshot.
“Well, Roger, was the man who did this to you a poor shot?”
“He was a quick shot,” Roger said. “He sure buffaloed the hell out of me.” This last sentence was delivered in a wry tone as Roger remembered the incident. “I should have plugged him, but his hand was like lightning.”
Both men had pale orange hair. Roger’s hair was wiry, tousled, unruly. Paddy’s was pasted down flat with pomade and covered by his Stetson. The two resembled each other, although Paddy’s features were scarred and distorted by previous fistfights, while Roger’s face was smooth and still bore the copper coinage of freckles, though these were faded and few.
“Roger,” Jimenez said, “you can go home, but you walk very slow, do not ride a horse. You might pull those stitches loose. Keep the wound dry and the nurse will give you some salve to put on it once or twice a day.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Roger said. He looked at his brother. “Will you walk me home, Paddy?”
“I ought to kick your sorry ass home,” Paddy said. “I got something to show you.”
“I’ll have the nurse ready for you when you leave,” Jimenez said. He had been educated in the East and his Mexican accent was slight. He was from a privileged family in Mexico City. His mother took him to New York when he was small so that he could learn to speak English and improve his lot in life. But he had encountered prejudice and had come out West, where he could live among his own people and the whites and speak his native language. He wasn’t bitter about his rejection at the Eastern hospitals but, under his mother’s influence, was practical about it. He was content to practice medicine in this desolate place, which was still more prosperous than most of the small towns in Mexico.
