Slocum and the Dirty Dozen

by Jake Logan

  He hadn’t expected to find any blood and he didn’t. Still, this was about the only lead he had. He tromped up the steps and knocked on the door to the doctor’s office. He heard grumbling inside and then the door was flung open.

  “What do you want?” The doctor stood a few inches shorter than Slocum’s six feet and was wrapped in a black duster. When the doctor got a good look at Slocum, he tried to slam the door. Slocum kept it open by pressing hard against the wood panel.

  “Has anyone needed attention for a bullet wound tonight?”

  “Bullet wound? No, no one. Go away. You don’t need medical attention.” The doctor leaned against his side of the door. Slocum let him slam it, then took a half step back.

  He might not have found the man who tried to set fire to Severigne’s house but he had learned the identity of the mystery man who sneaked in under cover of darkness for a midnight tryst.

  Slocum spent the next half hour futilely hunting for the arsonist before heading back to Severigne’s.

  4

  “You can hardly see where the fire scorched the side of the house,” Slocum said, stepping back and studying where the arsonist had plied his trade. He reached down and picked up a button, probably torn from the firebug’s coat when he ran. Then again, with so many men coming and going at Severigne’s house, the button might have lain in the dirt for weeks.

  He held it up and turned it over slowly. It had come off an expensive coat and showed no signs of weathering, other than part of it being scorched. He pocketed the button. From the condition, it might have been ripped off, then heated by the fire after it fell to the ground. For all he could prove, the doctor had lost the button on one of his mysterious nocturnal visits to Severigne. Or any of the visitors to the house, but Slocum wondered about the young man who had tried to rough up Missy.

  “No good, no,” Severigne said, shaking her head and waving her hands expressively. “It must be painted over. Whitewash it. Do it now. Before this night when guests arrive.”

  “I couldn’t track the owlhoot who set the fire, but I’m sure he got on a horse and rode into town. The blood trail led in that direction.”

  “You have done all you could. I have spoken with Marshal Dunbar on this matter.”

  “He didn’t take kindly to poking around and looking into who might have set the fire,” Slocum guessed. From Severigne’s sour expression, he knew he was right. “Is there much that the marshal does do in this town?”

  “He is caught between powerful forces.”

  “That sounds like he’s bought and paid for by two different men. Clabber? Who else?”

  “The bank owner, Bray.” She made a noise like a donkey, then kicked up her heels mimicking a balky pack animal.

  “I take it you and him don’t see eye to eye.” Slocum slowly got the way power broke down in Clabber Crossing. Clabber might own damned near everything but he obviously didn’t control the bank. Such a source of power was undoubtedly used to undermine Clabber at every turn.

  “I would poke out his miserable evil eye,” she declared. “I ask for the loan, he say no, I am a hussy and a poor business risk. Unless I put his lollygagging son in charge.”

  “What’s the boy’s name? He’s the one I tossed out last night for roughing up one of your girls.”

  “Missy, yes, she told me. She would have accommodated Randall.”

  “Randall?” Slocum snorted. “Randy Randall Bray. Anyone call him that?”

  “Not and live to speak it again,” Severigne said. “He is a back shooter. He ...” Her voice trailed off and her eyes grew wide. “You run him off after he hurt Missy. He is the one who tried to burn down the house!”

  “Could be,” Slocum said. He actually wished it was Randall Bray since he had taken an instant dislike to the boy. Seeing him rotting in the town jail would be sweet revenge. Otherwise, Slocum knew he would have to put a bullet through the boy’s head or risk getting shot in the back.

  If Randall Bray was the one who had tried to set fire to the house. If. He had no real proof. To reassure himself he might have something solid, he thrust his hand into his coat pocket and ran his fingers over the rim of the button. The spot where it had been closest to the fire was a little melted out of shape. This had come off an expensive coat, and while Slocum couldn’t remember what Bray had worn the night before, it was more likely the ne’er-do-well son of a banker had lost it than some cowboy fresh off the range.

  “I’ll fetch some whitewash to take care of the burn marks,” Slocum said.

  “Tell Mr. Aronson to put it on my bill. He is a good customer, but do not mention this in front of his wife.”

  Slocum understood. Most of the men in Clabber Crossing came by at some time to sample the fleshy wares Severigne offered. He wondered what deal Clyde Clabber had. From the few seconds he had seen Severigne and the man together, he couldn’t tell who called the shots. Clabber was a powerful man locally, yet he had deferred to Severigne.

  “You need anything from the doctor?” Slocum watched Severigne closely. She would have made a good actress—and he wouldn’t want to play poker against her. Only a tiny hint of surprise lit her face when he mentioned the shrouded visitor from the night before.

  “You do not pry there, Mr. Slocum. There is a balance in this town that must not be upset.”

  “Why’s he sneak over?” He thought for a moment and then said, “He’s beholden to the banker, isn’t he? What’s Bray’s hold on him?”

  “Dr. Tarkanian is a man of too many vices. Women are only one.”

  “Gambling?”

  Severigne nodded.

  “So he’s in hock up to his earlobes to Bray and doesn’t dare show he even comes near a place owned by Clabber.”

  “I own this house.” Her adamant tone told Slocum there was no point in poking for more information. He had enough in his head to confuse him now. Everything would sort itself out if he kept quiet, listened, and considered how it all fit together. Clabber Crossing had seemed a quiet little prairie town that lived off cattle ranching. Part of that was true—the part about raising cattle.

  He was coming to understand that under the quiet surface boiled a sea of trouble.

  The walk into town was spent turning over in his head all the possible problems he faced if Randall Bray was to be brought to justice. Chances were good he had done more than try to set fire to Severigne’s house. Anger so uncontrolled had to vent in other ways. Who had died?

  Slocum stood a little straighter when he thought of Anna lying across her bed, dead from the laudanum. Although he didn’t know many people in Clabber Crossing, Bray was at the head of the list for killing the young woman. A moment of rage was all it would take. Slocum wanted to know if Randall Bray had scratches on him from a fight with Anna—and did he have a button missing on a fancy coat?

  Setting a fire suddenly seemed like a minor crime in comparison to what the man might have done. And Anna wasn’t the only woman to die in Clabber Crossing in the past couple months. Putting a round through Bray’s heart might end a string of murders.

  But Slocum had no proof. None. Yet.

  “You Aronson?” Slocum called to the man wearing the apron sweeping the boardwalk in front of the general store.

  “Sure am, and you’re the fellow who can’t decide what kind of shovel to buy.”

  “Made my decision.”

  “The long-handled one?”

  “A gallon of whitewash.”

  For a moment Aronson stared at him, then laughed.

  “In my day, men were picky. T’ain’t so anymore, so I’m glad to see you’ve thought on it and come to a decision I can help you with. Come on in.”

  “Does it come in any other color than white?”

  Aronson looked again at Slocum and saw he was joking. The shopkeeper slapped Slocum on the shoulder and said, “You got quite a sense of humor. That’s been lacking in these parts. Glad to see someone’s not going around all grim and determined.”

  Slocum followed
Aronson into the store. He waited as the man barked orders to his clerk, then went to help. A woman wearing a sedate bonnet stood at the yard goods counter, running her hands over some gingham spread out in front of her. She cast sidelong glances at Slocum but never met his direct gaze. The longer she stood there, the more nervous she became.

  He tried to get a better look at her face, but she turned as skittish as a colt and hid her face effectively, using the bonnet to that purpose.

  “It’ll take a few minutes to whip up,” Aronson called. “My idiot son’s got a lot to learn about keeping a good inventory.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Slocum said.

  “Well, sir, you can just go on and look over them shovels to your heart’s content.” Aronson laughed at his joke and returned to the back room to get the whitewash ready.

  Slocum ignored the shovels and went to a small case holding paintbrushes. He should have poked through the storage shed to see what tools Severigne already had, but buying a big brush now would save him a second trip into town if she lacked such a basic tool. More than that, he doubted Severigne cared what he put on her bill as long as he finished the chores she assigned.

  The woman turned, looked down at the floor, and started past Slocum. She kept her eyes averted but her hip bumped into his—intentionally.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I shouldn’t be so clumsy.” He reached up to touch his hat brim, but she caught his hand and held it in both of hers.

  “My fault. Excuse me.” She rushed from the store.

  Slocum opened his hand and found a small square of paper she had pressed onto him. He started to open it, but Aronson returned with the gallon can of whitewash.

  “Got what you need right here. I see you’re looking over them brushes. Interest you in one? And a shovel?” He laughed again at his joke.

  “That brush,” Slocum said. He turned and looked out the door. The woman hurried directly across the street, still in view. She looked back, distraught when she caught his eye. Then she ran off. “And some information. Who was that woman just in here?”

  “The one looking so fondly at my fabric? She’s off limits,” Aronson said. “That’s Emily Dawson. Mrs. Dawson, the new pastor’s wife.”

  “Do tell.” Slocum slid the paper into his side pocket. “Put this on Severigne’s bill,” he said, holding up the whitewash and brush. When Aronson hesitated, Slocum asked, “Anything wrong? She behind in paying?”

  “Oh, nothing like that.” Aronson looked around. “I just wanted to be sure the missus didn’t overhear. She don’t cotton much to Severigne, if you take my meaning.”

  “Reckon I do,” Slocum said, lifting the can and tucking the brush into his pocket.

  “You need anything more, you come on back.” In a lower voice Aronson said, “Tell Severigne howdy for me.” He looked around again to be sure his wife hadn’t overheard, but she was nowhere in sight.

  “Come on by anytime,” Slocum said, enjoying the look on the merchant’s face. It seemed Severigne serviced every man in the town, with the possible exception of Martin Bray, and Slocum wasn’t sure about him. His son had no problem stopping by for a quick roll in the hay—or in his case, a little abusing of the soiled doves.

  He stepped out into the bright Wyoming sun, pulled his hat down to shade his eyes, and looked around the town. He might be wrong but it seemed quieter than it ought to be. He had seen prairie dogs that’d pop up so far to the horizon that they couldn’t be counted. Let a coyote come padding by and all the furry brown heads would disappear into their holes. This was the way Clabber Crossing felt to him—and he was the coyote.

  Slocum started back to the house, then went to a shady spot where he could set down his can of gurgling whitewash for a moment. The scrap of paper unfolded several times. He saw how precise each fold had been. Emily Dawson was a methodical woman. The tight, crabbed writing reinforced this attitude. He held up the sheet to better decipher what she had written.

  He read through it a second time, frowning. What could a pastor’s wife have to say to him? And in secret? She wanted to meet out back of her husband’s church, at an abandoned house. Slocum pulled out his pocket watch, the one that had once been his brother Robert’s and now was his only legacy, and flipped open the engraved gold lid. Mrs. Dawson had asked him to meet her in about an hour.

  A quick look at the sun told him it was going to get mighty hot this afternoon. It wouldn’t be pleasant painting over the scorch marks, though the heat would dry the paint fast. He could avoid being in the worst of the sun by finishing the chore this morning, but it would take him longer than an hour to go back to Severigne’s, paint, and then clean up before the evening customers started lining up.

  Slocum came to a quick decision. His long legs devoured the distance to the house, but once there he did nothing to start painting. The whitewash and brush were stowed under the back porch. He hitched up his gun belt, got his bearings, and cut across a field, heading for a stand of pines. As he hurried along, he had to smile. This was the way the doctor had come in such utter secrecy the night before. When Slocum got to the stand of trees, he saw a small road winding through it.

  If he explored enough, he would find every back road and secret way men from Clabber Crossing had to reach Severigne’s house of ill repute. The road proved the exact route he wanted, coming out not too far from the doctor’s office and running up a low hill to where the church stood. The steeple gleamed in the sunlight and the church doors stood open to catch some of the breeze beginning to blow away the heat. Slocum considered entering to see if the preacher was there, then changed direction and circled the base of the hill. As Emily Dawson had detailed, the pastor’s house was some distance from the church itself. Slocum found a dirt path leading away from it and decided this was the right direction to find the deserted house she had mentioned.

  Every step fed his curiosity. He was a newcomer to town. Why would a woman who was upstanding and, from Aronson’s comment, seemingly devoted to her marriage want to see him? She knew nothing about him other than he was a drifter and worked at a whorehouse because he had lost a hand of poker.

  Slocum stopped when he caught sight of the tumble-down house. It had seen better days. From the way the roof had collapsed into the house, he suspected too much snow was the culprit piled up on a roof that didn’t slant enough. The walls bowed a mite and the single window on this side had been busted out.

  He whirled, hand going to his six-shooter when he heard a horse neigh from somewhere behind him. Try as he might, Slocum couldn’t see a rider or where the horse might be tethered. The preacher’s house was out of sight around the hill and only the top of the church steeple poked up enough to see. From there it might be possible to keep watch on this house—but who would bother?

  Still, a cold knot twisted his stomach. He had the feeling of eyes on him and couldn’t find where anyone could lie in wait, spying. More cautious now, he went to the side of the house and peered through the broken window. When he saw nothing of interest, he moved to the only door into the cabin. The door had been removed, probably for use on a better house elsewhere. Even the brass hardware had been ripped from the wood frame.

  “Mrs. Dawson? You in there? This is Slocum. You wanted to talk to me.”

  In the distance a bird chirped, but the house was silent. Other than the rising wind, he heard nothing. He poked his head inside, hand still resting on his six-gun. Slocum caught his breath when he saw the dark-haired woman sitting at a dusty table to one side of the room.

  “Mrs. Dawson?” he called again, but he knew she wasn’t going to answer him. She was slumped back in the chair, her head canted at an uncomfortable angle. Her breasts did not rise and fall with steady, easy breathing. Slocum didn’t have to be a doctor to guess the reason for such stillness was the bullet hole in her temple.

  On the table lay a derringer.

  He went to her side and pressed his fingers into her throat, just to be certain. Her flesh was still warm, telling hi
m she hadn’t died too long before he showed up. It had taken him the better part of an hour to get here and she might have died anytime in that span.

  Slocum spun, hand flashing to his six-shooter, but he didn’t draw. He looked down the twin barrels of a shotgun pointed straight at his midsection.

  “You’re under arrest, but I’d as soon kill you where you stand, you murdering son of a bitch.” Marshal Dunbar’s finger came back on the twin triggers that would send Slocum to the Promised Land.

  5

  “I didn’t kill her.” Slocum knew he had only an instant to live. He was quick on the draw but could never clear leather, fan off a couple shots, and hope the marshal would miss with that room cleaner he held in shaking hands. At this range, half his body would go flying and the other half would be reduced to bloody mist by the buckshot in those double barrels.

  “She was a good woman. She didn’t deserve to get shot down by the likes of you.” Dunbar’s finger didn’t lighten up on the double triggers, but he didn’t pull back any farther.

  “The derringer on the table. That’s probably what killed her. Not my six-shooter.”

  “Your gun,” the marshal said, the muzzle of the shotgun darting away from its target in the middle of Slocum’s chest to point at the derringer. “Mrs. Dawson had no call to carry a gun. Everyone in town loved her and her husband. God, they have a son. He ain’t got a ma now, thanks to you, Slocum.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “What you doin’ here then?”

  Slocum knew better than to answer truthfully. How could he explain that the preacher’s wife had passed him a note, like a misbehaving kid in school, asking him to meet her in this ramshackle house? He didn’t know what she wanted to say, and any speculation on his part would get him killed by the marshal. Dunbar wasn’t inclined to even wait for a lynch mob from the expression on his face.