Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens

by Jake Logan

  In the shadows, leaning against the whitewashed wall next to an Oriental tapestry, stood Hiram Littlepage, the shadow of a smile playing on his thin lips. He knew Linda could not see him, had not seen him yet, and that was the way he wanted it. He had never liked his brother and he disliked his niece even more. She had always treated him with contempt, if not outright loathing, and he didn’t care what Scroggs did to her. Her screams and her visible pain had no effect on him, just as the pain and anguish of others did not unsettle his mind or beget his compassion.

  Sheriff Degnan watched as Scroggs puffed on his cigar until the tip glowed an angry orange and red.

  Then, Scroggs stepped up to Linda and leaned down close to her face, so that they were eye to eye.

  “One last chance, dearie,” he said, his voice oily and nasty as slime oozing from an ugly metal pipe. “I want to know where Slocum is right now. Is he with Obadiah Swain? Is he at Jethro’s? You tell me and all this will be over.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Linda said.

  “But if you did know, you would gladly tell me, isn’t that so?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you shit,” she said, and her eyes blazed in angry defiance.

  A wry smile curled on Scroggs’s lips and then his expression changed.

  “You think you’re a damned queen, don’t you, Linda. But you’re nothing but a greedy whore, livin’ off the backs of other gals. Well, it’s about time you got what’s comin’ to you. You won’t talk, maybe, but you’ll scream, lady. You’ll scream your damned lungs out.”

  He puffed once more on his cigar until the tip raged with flame, then stabbed Linda’s left breast. Her skin sizzled as the hot cigar tip sucked up all the moisture and seared her tender flesh.

  Linda screamed.

  She kicked both legs, but the ropes only tightened around her ankles.

  Scroggs buried the tip of his cigar on the nipple of the other breast. Linda screamed again. She writhed in her chair as the pain shot through her nerve cells and electrified her brain. Tears gushed from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

  She moaned as the pain paralyzed her, robbed her of her senses.

  Scroggs smiled.

  “See how easy it is?” he said. “Fire is a wonderful thing. It can make you forget who you are. It can make you crawl and beg. It can eat you alive.”

  “You bastard,” Linda said, her voice laden with hatred, with loathing.

  “See? Fire can even make you talk.”

  “I hate you,” she said.

  “Just tell me what I want to know, Linda,” Scroggs said. “Then it will all be over. You can walk out of here and go home to your dog and cat, your pretty flowers, and your shady patio.”

  “You go to hell, Willie,” she said, biting off the pain that threatened to twist her into a knot.

  Hiram strode into view as if he had been just a casual passerby.

  “Hello, Linda,” he said in his most sarcastic tone of voice. “Enjoying yourself? My, what pretty breasts you have and I’ll bet there’s a big secret under those thin little panties of yours.”

  “Hiram, you scum,” she said.

  “Do it again, Willie. Burn her tits. I like hearing the bitch scream.”

  Scroggs held out his cigar to Littlepage.

  “Here, you burn her, Hiram,” he said. “You might enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. He took the cigar and held it close to Linda’s neck, so close that she could feel the heat of it on her skin. She tried to shrink away from her uncle, but she was trapped in that chair, roped and hogtied like a white-faced calf.

  “I know you won’t tell Willie what he wants to know, so I’ll give you something that might loosen your tongue.”

  Littlepage jabbed the cigar tip onto Linda’s throat and pressed hard. She gasped in pain and cried out in agony.

  “Now?” Littlepage asked and jabbed her again on her lips. Tears streamed from Linda’s eyes and she doubled up in pain as much as she could, drawing her knees up and straining against her bonds.

  They all heard a yell from upstairs in the saloon.

  Littlepage stepped away from Linda and handed Willie’s cigar back to him.

  “What’s that?” Scroggs asked.

  “It sounds like Roger,” Degnan said.

  “Roger? I thought he was laid up.”

  “He ain’t hurt so bad,” Degnan said. Then he looked up and yelled out. “Down here, Roger.”

  A moment later, Roger came bounding down the stairs, wide-eyed and flushed of face.

  “He’s a-comin’, I think,” he yelled. He had his pistol strapped on and his side bulged with thick bandages under his shirt.

  “Who’s comin’?” Paddy demanded.

  “That Slocum feller. I’m sure I seen him. He’s on a black horse and he’s pullin’ an old swayback behind him, and . . . and . . .”

  “And what?” Sombra asked, suddenly interested.

  “It looks like a dead man,” Roger said. “Fact is, I think it’s . . .”

  “Who?” Scroggs asked.

  “It—It looks a lot like Gus. Only he’s dead and all bunged up, like he was trampled or beat to death with a board or a damned rock.”

  “Well, get after him, Morg,” Scroggs said. “Don’t just stand there with your thumb up your butt. You, too, Paddy. Go on out there and shoot the bastard.”

  He paused as Sombra started for the stairs, followed by Sheriff Degnan.

  “Shoot the bastard dead,” Scroggs repeated.

  Then they all heard it. Hoofbeats sounded on the saloon floor above them.

  It sounded like a cavalry troop had entered the saloon. The thumps of iron-shod hooves pounded on the wooden floor that formed the basement ceiling.

  “Shit,” Sombra said as he drew his pistol.

  Just then, Linda screamed.

  It was not a scream of pain, but a cry for help.

  “John, I’m down here!” she shouted, and everyone in the room froze and looked at her as if she were the Angel Gabriel and he had just blown his horn.

  The horn that called all the living and the dead to judgment.

  Sombra wheeled and cocked his six-gun. He took quick aim and fired at Linda.

  She screamed again as the bullet smashed into her chest, right between her scarred breasts.

  She slumped over as blood gushed from her wound and spilled out of her mouth. Her head fell over her chest and her hair hung in long lifeless strands.

  The shot echoed in the room. The trio who were smoking opium looked for a place to hide.

  Wu Chen ran to a corner and crouched there in fear.

  Hiram swallowed hard and rested his palm on the grip of his sidearm.

  Sombra clambered up the stairs, smoke curling from the muzzle of his pistol.

  Right behind him came Paddy and Roger, both with guns drawn.

  And then, there was only a silence from the saloon. No more hoofbeats. Nothing.

  Nothing but that terrible silence that was as loud as a volcano’s roar. That same silence that engulfs an abyss on the edge of eternity.

  The silence of not knowing and not seeing.

  Just an empty, ominous silence above the sounds of boots on the stairs.

  24

  Slocum rode slowly down the street toward the Socorro Saloon. Passersby and shopkeepers stared at the strange sight of a man in black clothes leading a blind horse with a badly battered dead man tied on the saddleless horse’s back. Liquid Spanish phrases floated to Slocum’s ears, whispers between startled women and exclamations of surprise from men with carts or on foot, packing homemade pottery and colorful blankets on their backs.

  As he approached the saloon, he saw a familiar figure outside. The man stood there until Slocum drew close, staring at the dead body on the blind horse and at him.

  Slocum switched the reins to his left hand, raised his right, and pointed his index finger at Roger Degnan. Then he flexed his thumb so that it came down like a pistol hammer.

  Rog
er turned then, and ran into the saloon. Slocum noted that he was packing a sidearm and there was a bulge in his shirt on his right side.

  Slocum rode up to the batwing doors and touched his blunt spurs to Ferro’s flanks. He leaned to one side and pushed in on the left door. Ferro pushed through the doors and Moses followed. Their hooves resounded on the hardwood flooring, echoed throughout the saloon like drums in a hollow cave.

  He heard Roger’s footsteps sounding on distant stairs somewhere down a dark hallway.

  Then, he heard a woman’s scream, followed by a plea for help using his name.

  Slocum knew who it was the moment he heard her voice crying out for him to come to her rescue.

  His heart pumped fast as he rode toward the hallway. He reined up Ferro and dismounted. He dropped the halter rope and led Ferro back to the batwings and slapped him on the rump. Ferro pushed through the doors and stopped in the street. He turned his head to see if his master would follow him. But when Slocum didn’t, the horse stood there and waited, looking at the people standing in shop doorways or in the middle of the street. All stared at the front of the saloon with startled looks on their faces.

  Lamps still glowed on the wall behind the bar and in corners of the saloon. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, spraying the floor with a misty haze of gold. Dust motes danced in the rays like ghostly fireflies and the room settled into a deep stillness.

  Slocum heard frantic voices from downstairs. Then there was another scream, followed by a single gunshot that seemed as final as a vault door slamming shut on a tomb.

  There were no more screams.

  The sound of the gunshot filtered up through the floor and he heard its echoes from somewhere below him.

  Then he heard the ring and thud of boots on the stairs. Many boots, at least a half dozen. The sounds grew louder.

  Slocum tiptoed toward Moses. He reached for the halter and turned the blind horse sideways so that the horse was now between him and the hallway. Moses drooped his head and stood like a statue, unmoving, giving Slocum cover, protection against gunfire from whomever came down the hallway and into the saloon.

  He peered under the horse’s neck and saw shadowy figures heading his way. The lamps in the hallway cast light on drawn pistols. The first man stopped just short of entering the main hall of the saloon and went into a fighting crouch.

  “Slocum, you sonofabitch, you in there?” the man called out.

  He recognized the voice. It was Sombra’s voice. Two men crowded up behind Sombra. He saw the light glint off the bluing of their pistols.

  “Yeah, Sombra, I’m here,” Slocum replied. “Along with Adler. He’s not breathing.”

  “Bastard,” Sombra spat.

  “Get him, Morg,” Roger said.

  “Blow the bastard to kingdom come,” Sheriff Degnan said in a loud, throaty whisper.

  “I’ll get him,” Roger said, and pushed past Sombra.

  Once in the room, Roger halted and looked around.

  “He’s behind that old blind horse,” he yelled. He raised his pistol and Slocum heard him cock the hammer. Roger took aim at Moses and pulled the trigger.

  The bullet from his pistol slammed into Moses’s neck. It sounded like a flat hand slapping a chunk of raw meet.

  Moses staggered a step or two from the impact. Blood spurted from the wound as if the projectile had struck a major artery.

  Slocum knew that Moses was mortally wounded and would go down. He backed away, crouched, and ran toward the end of the bar nearest the street. Roger fired at him, a quick shot at a running figure. The bullet whined as it struck a nail in the front of the bar and caromed off to shatter one of the front windows.

  Slocum ducked behind the corner of the bar.

  Sombra and Sheriff Degnan pushed Roger out of the way and stepped into the room, both hunched over and ready to shoot.

  “So long, Roger,” Slocum said in a loud voice. He squeezed the trigger of his Colt and saw Roger buckle as the bullet tore a hole at the base of the young man’s throat.

  Roger clutched at the wound and blood spurted into his palm and through his fingers. He made a gurgling sound and his legs collapsed beneath him. He dropped to his knees, flailing his gun in the air, gulping for a breath that would never come through the crimson lake of blood that now clogged his throat.

  Sombra fired a shot at Slocum and the bullet gouged a furrow in the corner near Slocum’s face. Splinters flew and the bullet passed into the wall, striking the adobe clay with a dull thud.

  Roger folded up and fell face forward. His pistol fell from his limp hand and clattered on the floor.

  Sheriff Degnan screamed in grief as he saw his brother twitch and heard the death rattle in the young man’s throat.

  He fired off a wild shot that struck the mirror behind the bar, shattering it into dozens of piece that shot sparkles of light on the back wall until they fell to the floor with a tinkling of glass shards.

  Moses twisted in a half-circle. His forelegs bent and the horse dropped to its knees like some equine supplicant kneeling to pray. Then his rear end collapsed and the horse fell to its side. Blood from its neck ceased, but there was a pool of it soaking into the floor, bright as barn paint.

  Degnan and Sombra, their attention diverted for that moment, watched the horse go down.

  They both saw the grisly sight of Gustav Adler, still roped to the dead horse, lying in a grotesque heap, his battered and sightless eyes closed, his arms broken and hideously angled like scattered sticks of kindling.

  Degnan’s jaw hardened and lights flashed in his eyes as he turned his attention back to his dead brother and to Slocum.

  “I’m gonna get the sonofabitch,” Degnan said to Sombra.

  Degnan charged out onto the saloon floor. He squeezed the trigger of his pistol and sent a shot flying over Slocum’s head. He ran another three feet and fired his weapon again, blind to the danger, so angry about the killing of Roger that he abandoned all reason.

  That was a fatal mistake.

  Slocum shot Degnan between the eyes at six paces.

  The back of the sheriff’s skull fractured and exploded into a cloud of rosy spray, bits of skull bone, and grayishblue brain matter. Some of Degnan’s brains spattered on the front of Sombra’s shirt. He brushed the gristly mass away with his left hand.

  “You come on out, Slocum, where I can see you. I got a bullet in my gun with your fucking name on it.”

  “Funny,” Slocum yelled back, “I got a .45 slug that says ‘Sombra’ on it.”

  “Fuck you, Slocum,” Sombra shouted.

  Sheriff Degnan made a noise in his throat as his pistol dropped from his hand and he collapsed into a pile of clothing, voiding his intestinal contents into his undershorts. His eyes locked open in a sightless stare. His mouth stood agape and a quiver of leftover nerve electricity rippled down his spine and prompted one leg to kick out then go still.

  Sombra gauged the distance between him and Slocum, taking in the body of Sheriff Degnan. Then his gaze shifted to the dead horse and the body of Gus Adler.

  Slocum could see only a portion of Sombra’s body and the snout of the pistol in the gunman’s hand. He had four bullets left in the cylinder of his .45. He also had his belly gun as a backup firearm if he ran out of cartridges in his Colt. But he doubted if it would come to that, and if it did, it would be at close quarters. He, too, looked over at Moses and then at Degnan. Both offered some cover if he made it either place and might draw Sombra out into the open.

  For now, though, it was a standoff. Until Sombra made a move, neither man had the advantage. Both had some cover and both were just waiting for the other to make a false move.

  There was a lighted oil lamp on the wall just to the right of the hallway. Its flame flickered enticingly as Slocum wondered if he might shoot down the lamp and cause Sombra to come out of hiding.

  It was worth a try, he decided. But that would leave him only three bullets left and he didn’t know where Scroggs was, nor
how many more men were down in the basement.

  “What’s goin’ on up there, Morg?” Scroggs shouted.

  An answer to my question, Slocum thought.

  The voice did not come from down in the basement, but from a room somewhere down the hall.

  “I got Slocum where I want him,” Sombra boasted. He turned his head to throw his voice down the hallway. “It won’t be long now, Willie.”

  “Well, go on and kill the sonofabitch,” Scroggs yelled. “Me’n Hiram are right behind you.”

  So, Slocum thought, two more men waited close by, down the hall. Linda’s uncle and Scroggs.

  He looked again at the lamp near the hallway.

  Worth the chance? And another bullet?

  Slocum thought so.

  He swung his pistol to bear on the lamp’s glowing glass chimney. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger. His Colt boomed and he saw the bullet shatter the glass, hurling flame, the burning wick, and shining pieces of glass upward and outward. The wick, still aflame, tumbled a few inches. Then its quivering flame began to eat at the wooden floor.

  Sombra jumped back, then poked his head out to see what had been broken. He saw the shattered glass gleaming on the floor and the little flame streaking out from the wick in both directions.

  “Shit,” he muttered and turned to see if Slocum was still where he had last seen him.

  “If my bullet doesn’t find you, this saloon will be an inferno right quick,” Slocum said.

  He took off his hat and slid it atop the bar.

  Sombra reacted to the move. He fired his pistol and the bullet dug a furrow in the bar top. The hat moved as if touched by a gust of wind.

  Slocum stepped to the side of the V joint in the bar and fired at Sombra. As soon as the bullet was on its way, Slocum ran toward him in a zigzag pattern.

  Two bullets left in the Colt.

  Sombra stepped out of the hallway and tracked Slocum with the barrel of his pistol. He fired once and missed. Then he fired again and went back into a crouch.

  Slocum swung his pistol to bear on Sombra and squeezed the trigger. Orange flame and brilliant white sparks flew from the muzzle in a stream of exploded and burning powder. The bullet caught Sombra near the bottom of his right lung, and the force blew him sideways just as he squeezed off another shot at Slocum.