by Jake Logan
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Slocum, sayin’ Anna had enemies,” the marshal said. “You go poking around and bothering any of their families and I’ll clap you in jail for disturbing the peace so fast your head will spin.”
“Even if it means Clabber would get mad at you?” Slocum read the expression perfectly. He guessed that the marshal usually did as Clabber said—but wouldn’t this time. There was a limit to Clabber’s power and this was it.
“You get on back to your hole and crawl into it, Slocum. Don’t go asking questions because folks in town don’t like it.”
“You don’t like it. What if you’re right that Anna didn’t kill herself but was murdered? Solving that would be quite a feather in your cap, Marshal. It might make you eager to pin it on me because I’ve just come to town. Do that and you’ll never find out what happened to her since you’ll stop looking.” Everything Marshal Dunbar said pointed to him wanting a quick and easy arrest and Slocum fit that bill perfectly.
“You got any wanted posters out on you, Slocum? Might take a while for me to go through the big stacks I have inside. Could be locking you up while I look through them would be in the best interest of town safety.”
“No need. I’m on my way. If you want me, you know where you can find me. I’m crawling back into my hole.” Slocum saw the combination of anger and fear mingling on the lawman’s face. Before the marshal could think of a reason to arrest him, Slocum walked off, heading back in the direction of Severigne’s whorehouse.
He didn’t go far before he ducked down an alley and spent the next hour trying to overhear conversations or find out anything he could about Anna and the men who frequented her bed. Expecting to learn much this way was a fool’s errand and Slocum gave up and finally did head back to the house. If he wanted to know any more, he would have to ask Clyde Clabber—but for some reason he was leery about doing that. Towns like this were run with an iron hand. Anything that happened in town had to be approved in advance, which meant Clabber knew as much about the woman’s death as anyone. Slocum wondered if he could be responsible, though the motive for such a murder wasn’t obvious.
A man as rich and powerful, at least in the region, as Clyde Clabber didn’t need to kill a woman and make her death look like either an accident or suicide. He remembered how Severigne had acted around the town’s founder. She and Clabber were partners in the cathouse. That much was obvious yet her concern for Anna was even more obvious. If Clabber had anything to do with Anna’s death, Severigne would not cover it up. Or if she wanted to, why ask Slocum to find out how her soiled dove had come to meet her maker?
Slocum took his hat off to run his hand through his sweat-plastered hair. This saved his life since somebody was sighting in on his hat. He had it lifted six inches off his head and this was how much the bullet was off target. The hat went flying from his hand, and Slocum reacted instinctively by diving into the drainage ditch running parallel to the road.
He scrambled about, got his Colt Navy out, and cautiously chanced a look over the edge of the ditch.
The shot had come from a stand of cottonwoods ten yards on the far side of the road. He thought he saw movement in the gathering afternoon shadows but couldn’t be sure. A six-gun against a rifle was no match, especially when he couldn’t even be sure of his attacker’s hiding place. He itched to jump to his feet and charge into the woods, firing as he went. Instead, Slocum remained still, watching the trees for any hint about his ambusher.
Ten minutes passed and Slocum finally crawled forward, retrieved his hat, and then advanced on the woods. The setting sun reflected off a spent brass cartridge on the ground. On a twig dangled a piece of cloth matching what he had found outside Anna’s window the night before.
These were the only traces left by his would-be killer—and Anna’s killer.
3
“This will not do,” Severigne said, stamping her small foot. “I will not tolerate dirt in this house.”
“Sorry,” Slocum said, wiping off more mud from his jeans. Rolling around in the ditch half filled with water had not been the most sanitary thing he’d done in a while. What irked him as much as not finding who had taken the potshot at him was the hole in his hat. He used that hat to water his horse. Now, unless the horse went thirsty, he could only get a few ounces in the hat before the water sloshed through the two holes.
“Go, clean yourself. Do not expect me to send help. Do it yourself.”
Slocum stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“That wasn’t my intention rolling around in the mud.” He held up the hat and poked his finger through the hole.
“What is this thing? You destroy your hat? How clumsy of you. Go, go.” Severigne waved him away. Slocum noted her lack of understanding about what had happened. He had no reason to believe the madam wanted him dead. From everything that had happened, it was the opposite, yet he had wanted to see her reaction. She might be a good actress, but she had managed to feign complete ignorance of both his condition and the bullet hole drilled through the crown of his hat.
Evidence pointed to his ambusher trying to bushwhack him because he was trying to find Anna’s killer. The tiny bit of cloth looked the same as he had found the night before, but this was hardly evidence that would convince a jury. All it did was make him warier and more alert for someone with a damaged coat. In a cow town like Clabber Crossing, worn clothing was the rule rather than the exception, but he could be on the lookout. Any smidgeon of evidence was better than what he had.
He left the kitchen and trudged to the shed behind the house. He saw a small stove for heating wood, a small stack of kindling beside it. It took a few minutes to get a fire started, but when he did, it felt good. The sun had sunk into the mountains far to the west and the air had turned cold. He shucked off his shirt and went to fetch water. Again to his surprise, there was a pump immediately inside the shed—or what he had thought was a shed. This was a bath-house fitted with a large porcelain tub. Tables nearby held coal oil lamps and there was even a small wood floor inside to keep the patrons’ feet from getting dirty, for Slocum knew that this was reserved for the paying customers.
The water had heated, but he only sloshed some of it on his hide to get off the worst of the mud. He stuffed his shirt and jeans into the water to clean them, then wrung them out the best he could and put on the wet shirt and jeans. Standing close to the stove dried them against his skin. It wasn’t the best job in the world, but he was more presentable.
“Slocum!”
He dutifully returned to the house. Severigne’s tone brooked no truancy, making him glad he hadn’t bothered to heat enough water for a real bath. She would have caught him with his pants down for sure.
“There is some trouble. See to it. Be discreet. The one is an important man’s son. But drunk, oh, he is so drunk.”
“Gets mean when he drinks?” Slocum guessed. He read the answer by the set of the woman’s jaw.
He took a small corridor that came out at the side of the parlor, where a man, not even out of his teens, held one of Severigne’s Cyprians by the back of the neck. He forced her head down toward his lap. She struggled but was not strong enough to fight him off.
“Now, li’l lady, you jist go on and sample what I got to offer.” He fought as much to get out the drunken words as he did to force the woman to his will.
“Now, little man, let’s get some air,” Slocum said. He caught the young man’s wrist and turned it hard so he would release the woman’s nape of the neck. She tumbled to the floor as Slocum’s victim half stood and twisted, trying to escape the punishment given him.
“I’ll horsewhip you. I’ll horsewhip the two of you!”
Slocum leaned forward, tightened his grip, and felt bones in the wrist grating together. It would take only a little more pressure to break important parts—and the young man realized it. He stopped struggling. Slocum guided him back to a seated position on the sofa.
“You’re a gu
est here,” Slocum said in a low voice, “and you will act that way.”
“I’m Martin Bray’s son! You can’t do this to me. I paid good money to get me a woman and—”
Slocum tightened his grip again.
“Keep your voice down. I was inclined to let you stay if you apologized to the lady—”
“What lady? Missy’s a stinkin’ two-bit whore!” The next sound from the man’s mouth was a screech of pain as Slocum applied more pressure. Getting his feet under him, Slocum heaved. The young man followed. He had no choice. He would have had his arm broken off if he had resisted even an instant longer.
“I see that apologizing is out of the question.” Slocum guided his prisoner along the hidden corridor and into the back of the house, where he heaved and sent the man stumbling.
The young man, lightning in his bloodshot eyes, turned and went into a gunfighter’s crouch.
“I’m gonna cut you down where you stand.”
“You won’t be the first to throw down on me. You won’t be the last either,” Slocum said, standing easy, his hand at his side. He sized up his opponent. The threat was only a bluff. If he so much as twitched, Slocum would have his Colt out and would have two bullets in the man’s heart before he could clear leather. He knew he could do it. He had done it before against men both faster and more sober.
The young man saw it, too.
“I’m Martin Bray’s kid. He won’t allow you to rough me up.”
“Who’s Bray?”
“He owns the bank, that’s who he is. If I say so, he’ll foreclose on this rat trap of a house and then all the whores will be sitting naked out along the road.”
Slocum saw that the boy spun fantasies, both about what power his father had and what was likely to actually happen. If the bank owned the mortgage on Severigne’s house of pleasure, the banker would be a fool to foreclose. Shutting down such a lucrative venture went against everything a banker believed in. More than that, if it came down to a couple of bull elks banging antlers, Slocum thought Clyde Clabber was more likely to win. A man like that had his finger in every pie. A bank was too obvious to ignore for a man who seemingly owned everything in sight.
“Do us both a favor and skedaddle. I don’t want to fill you full of holes and I doubt anyone else does, even the lady you treated so bad inside.”
“Missy wasn’t no lady. She—” The young man stopped talking when he realized he was only digging his own grave if he kept up his bad-mouthing. He slowly straightened and moved his hand away from his holster. “Don’t go doin’ anythin’ you’ll regret,” the banker’s son said.
“That’s good advice. I hope you take it, too.”
The man backed away, then turned and stumbled off into the dark. Slocum had hardly returned to the kitchen when he heard loud voices coming from the front. He ignored Severigne’s orders about being discreet and bulled his way through a small crowd of men and half-dressed demimondes to the front door, where a pair of cowboys scuffled.
He threw his arms around the pair of them and carried them off the porch and down the stairs. Turning, he released them so they both flopped onto the ground.
“Gentlemen, you can’t have such noisy differences in this house.”
“He was gonna take Mara. I wanted her tonight!”
“You had her last time. Mara’s the best damn hooker in town.”
“I’m sure she is desirable, but you two can’t disturb the others. Settle your dispute or leave.”
“You can’t make us. We paid our money already.”
“Both of you?”
The two cowboys nodded.
“Might be you could both see her.”
“We gotta be back at the ranch by midnight. There wouldn’t be time. Besides, who’d go first? Not him!”
“There would be plenty o’ time if she started with you. You’d only need a minute. Me, I’d need the full two hours and—”
The two began wrestling. Slocum grabbed their collars and pulled them apart.
“I have a suggestion. I am sure Miss Mara would consider both of you at the same time.” The suggestion took a few seconds to soak in. After all, if they both paid, that meant Mara could double her money for the time with the pair.
“She’d do that? I mean how’d that work?”
“A skillful courtesan such as Miss Mara would have to show you, but only if you cooperated.” Slocum had piqued their curiosity and ignited their lust for the woman again. He led them back in, took Mara aside to explain, and after a little convincing, the dark-haired woman led both men upstairs, her arms hooked through theirs, one on either side, bumping hips as they went to the second floor.
“You are quite the innovator, eh?” Severigne said. “You convinced her by the twice money, yes? How did you get the cowboys to agree?”
“It gets mighty lonely riding the range,” Slocum said. “It wasn’t hard to talk them into it at all since they have to be back at work around midnight.”
“Good,” Severigne said, all business again. “You must lead a guest to the room at the rear of the upstairs. All lights are off. You will carry a lamp, turned low, so only he can see that he is going to the proper room.”
“Doesn’t want his identity known?” Slocum guessed.
“But no. He is influential and afraid for his position if he is seen here. Utter discretion is needed if you catch sight of his face, but you will not. He is a careful man in all ways.”
Slocum went to the back door and lit a small oil lamp, put it on a ledge, and waited. Before long he saw movement in the darkness. The figure was heavily cloaked by a duster that dragged along the ground, and he had his hat pulled down so his face was hidden. Slocum wondered if this was necessary since he didn’t know anyone in town.
“Good evening,” Slocum said, picking up the lamp. The man jerked and looked as if he was going to run off. Slocum decided speaking was out of the question, so he opened the door but didn’t hold it for the man. The kitchen was dark.
Slocum went directly to the stairs going up to the second story, taking the steps slowly. He heard the man following. Without turning, Slocum went to the end of the darkened hallway and opened the proper door. He went inside and kept his face turned as the man entered. Slocum left, taking the lamp with him.
“Stop. Leave the light.”
“Sorry,” Slocum said, almost laughing. He placed the lamp on a table and left, closing the door behind him. The hallway was pitch-black now so he had to feel his way to the head of the stairs. Only a faint reflection of light off a spoon left on the kitchen table below warned him he was getting close to the top step.
He kept the shiny spoon in sight as he went down the stairs carefully and finally stepped onto the kitchen floor.
From the front room he heard sounds dying down and then the front door closed. He wondered who it was that serviced the man upstairs. For all he knew, it might be Severigne. The man acted like a big shot so it stood to reason the madam herself would take care of his needs.
Slocum went to the parlor and sank onto the sofa. The women had gone to their rooms, presumably to sleep after a long night of entertaining. He tried to figure out how much money had changed hands that night and slowly drifted to sleep doing so.
The smell of burning wood made him come awake.
Like a racehorse out of the gate, he ran for the front door and flung it open in time to see a dark figure running away. His Colt Navy came into his hand as if by magic and he fired four times. He was sure three shots missed but wasn’t certain about the fourth. Then there wasn’t time to think about going after the man. Smoke curled up from the side of the house.
He ran around and saw flames licking hungrily against the wood. He whipped off his coat and used it to smother the fire. Then he stepped closer and began kicking pieces of wood away. Sparks shot into the sky, and grass around the house ignited. He kept swatting at the flames with his coat until his arms ached, but the house was in no further danger. He couldn’t say as much about the gr
ass.
It had dried out and now burned over a wide front.
“What’s going on?”
“Alice, get the others. I need water. Lots of it to put out the fire.”
He thought he’d have to repeat the order to the girl but she vanished into the house and within minutes five of the women emerged, mostly undressed, but all carrying buckets of water. From the back of the kitchen he heard the leather sucker washer on the pump working to draw up water. They formed a bucket brigade and in less than ten minutes only smoldering grass remained.
“What has happened?” Severigne came out, a robe pulled around her. Slocum explained how someone had tried to set fire to the house. “So you winged him?”
“Probably,” Slocum said.
“Do not stand here. Hunt him down! Like a mad dog, hunt him and kill him!”
“Be sure to look for any embers that might—”
“Go, go,” Severigne said, pushing him. “We will look. Alice has sharp eyes to see these things when I cannot.”
Slocum went down the path toward the road, then cut back to the spot where he thought he had winged the arsonist. He dropped down to his knees and looked along the ground. A smile crept to his face after a few minutes of searching. Grass had been tromped down and was now only beginning to pop up again.
It took another half hour to find a drop of blood, looking black as ink in the light from the half-moon. He found a second drop and had a line to follow.
He was a good tracker but finding the man who had tried to burn down the brothel wasn’t likely to happen. Not in the night. Slocum got halfway to town and then stopped and used his head. Once in town, the man could go anywhere. Most likely he would go to the town doctor if he was wounded seriously enough. If it was only a crease, hardly more than he might get off a splinter, the man would never be found. There probably wasn’t a man in Clabber Crossing that didn’t sport some kind of injury like that. Being a cowboy was rough work.
He glanced into the saloon as he passed but it was quiet inside. Slocum kept walking until he found the doctor’s office upstairs over a barbershop. He started up, then hesitated and looked hard at the wood steps, hunting for any drop of blood that would be a giveaway.
