Slocum and the Dirty Dozen

by Jake Logan

  He returned to the house to find Severigne sitting at the kitchen table drinking straight from a bottle of wine. She dropped it to the table with a loud clack and looked up at him.

  “Some nights I wish to be a farmer’s wife. Even a rancher’s! Like Catherine.”

  Slocum looked at her hard. Severigne smiled slyly and told him, “I am not without my sources of information. Let her go. You let her go. Pah! It is for the best. She was not cut out for this life.”

  “You haven’t heard anything about Danielle, have you?” When Severigne shook her head and took another drink straight from the bottle, Slocum asked the question that had been burning him up since he barely got out of Molinari’s office without being caught. “Did you know Emily Dawson when she was in Kansas City?”

  Severigne frowned.

  “I did not.”

  “What about Philomena?”

  “Bray’s wife? That Philomena? No, I did not know her before seeing her here in town. This is a strange question you ask, Slocum. What progress have you made finding who is stealing from the bank?”

  “Not a great deal,” Slocum said. He sat where he could look down the hall and catch sight of a narrow section of the parlor. Alice and her teller sat on the love seat, heads together. Could they be in cahoots? The teller would steal to impress Alice, but Slocum had asked around and Alice wasn’t any better off than the other Cyprians working for Severigne. If she had even a dime more, she would have either lorded it over the others or taken the money and moved on to a bigger city to spend her newfound wealth. The teller hardly seemed the type to embezzle, except to impress a woman.

  “You have a strange look about you. What have you uncovered?”

  “Might be nothing, but I’m beginning to wonder. Did Molinari show you any photographs he’d taken of other whores?”

  “Of course. He has worked widely throughout the West. He is very good at his job.” She fixed him with a steady stare but he ignored her. His mind raced as he put tiny facts together. Kansas City seemed like the center of the canker Severigne wanted him to lance—and she had no idea about it. For all that, he had only suspicions.

  “You would go out again tonight? Business is slowing. The preacher man has drained many of my best customers—after my girls drained them, of course!” Severigne laughed. “We tend the body and the reverend tends their soul. This is a busy night for all of us.”

  “I’ll be back before midnight to make sure everyone’s left.”

  “I might change the rule and let some stay until morning. For a price, of course. There might be more money in it for both the house and the girls.” Severigne hummed to herself as she took a piece of foolscap and began making intricate calculations. Slocum left the madam to her figures and fetched his horse, riding back to town rather than walking.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d have to make a quick escape. Andrew Molinari was a suspicious cuss, and the marshal would take special delight in clapping him into jail again, this time throwing away the key.

  Slocum chuckled as he thought of the people lined up to get him out. Not only would Severigne and Clabber demand his release but Martin Bray would, too, hoping that Slocum could find his thief.

  If things went well, Slocum figured to know who stole the money from the bank before sunrise. He rode past the row of saloons doing subdued business and then past the bank. The road from here curved around the hill and went up to the Bray house atop the hill. Slocum wanted a word with Philomena. If she had gone to the prayer meeting, he could stop her on the way home so her husband would never know they had spoken.

  Before he had ridden twenty yards along the trail, he heard the rattle of a buggy coming toward him. He veered from the road and sat astride his horse in deep shadows as Philomena drove past. Either she had left Reverend Dawson’s sermon early or she hadn’t gone at all. The expression of determination on her face warned Slocum that he might have a blowup on his hands. He followed her buggy as she drove straight for Molinari’s office.

  She jumped to the ground and walked fast to the office door. Philomena Bray didn’t bother knocking; she pushed in and slammed the door behind her. Slocum was quick to follow. He knew the windows were boarded up and nailed shut so he risked pressing his ear against the door panel. Faint words became more distinct as Philomena began shouting.

  “. . . this is all, I won’t give you another cent!”

  “They are so lovely, those legs of yours. And your naked breasts.”

  The woman let out a shriek of rage, and Slocum chanced opening the door a crack to peer inside. Philomena clawed at Molinari’s face, but the photographer shoved her back and held up the photograph Slocum had seen in the strongbox.

  “What would your loving husband say if he saw this? Why, I could sell copies to the soldiers at the army post. They would have your naked glory displayed for every last one to see. Horse soldiers, Philomena, common soldiers just like the ones you used to—”

  “Shut up! Shut up!” The woman burst into tears. “I can’t pay any more. There’s no more money in the bank. I’ve stolen it all.”

  “Oh, my dear, not all,” said Molinari. “There must be some left. Enough for you to give to me.” His voice hardened. “Five thousand more and the photos are all yours to do with as you please. Refuse to get me the money and your lovely face—your naked body—will be seen by not only your husband but every man in Wyoming.”

  “I should never have let you take that picture.”

  “Why not? It was good advertising for that brothel where you worked. You seem so cheerful in the photograph, also. Some of the joie de vivre has fled your life.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I could care less,” Molinari said. “One month. You have one month to get me the money, and I don’t care how you do it. You might go back to your old profession. I hear Severigne lost a couple of her sluts and the rodeo will be in town soon. Think of all those eager cowboys wanting something under them other than their horses. It would be like old times for you.”

  Slocum pulled the door shut and slipped around the side of the building as Philomena burst out, sobbing bitterly. She climbed into her buggy, caught her breath, then snapped the reins, getting the horse pulling her back in the direction of the house on the hill.

  Slocum felt no satisfaction finding who was stealing the bank’s money. Philomena had access in some way, possibly to the account books her husband left lying around. Paying off a blackmailer was never the smart thing to do, but he saw her problem. A woman of her social stature would be ruined if photographs of her naked were widely distributed. It would ruin her and her husband.

  He circled the building to get his horse but saw two men standing beside it. His Colt Navy slid from his holster, but he hesitated when he heard one say, “This belongs to that owlhoot we ambushed.”

  “I told you we should have finished him off. He musta knowed you killed that whore.”

  “I didn’t leave anything behind. She scratched me, but so what? For all the damned undertaker said, ever’one thinks she died of too much opium—just like I intended.”

  “You shouldna got involved with her.”

  “I couldn’t have her talkin’ ’bout the pictures.”

  “You were dumb to show her Molinari’s stash like that. He’ll kill you if he finds out you took ’em.”

  “Borrowed. That’s all I done. I put ’em back. But what about the cowboy? We kin wait for him to fetch his horse and cut him down.”

  “He put up too much of a fight before. He’s one tough hombre.”

  “You had a rifle. You shoulda killed him with your first shot.”

  “You didn’t do anything to help.”

  “We can get him now. He’s got to be around somewhere, snooping about. I heard tell he went to work for Severigne.”

  “Just what we need—him, the dead whore, and Severigne. Get your rifle. If you get down over by the shed, you can finish him once and for all. I’ll go tell the boss we got company.”

 
; “Don’t tell him we suspect it’s the son of a bitch working for Severigne. He’ll hit the ceiling.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not as dumb as you.” The man hurried away muttering about fooling around with whores.

  Slocum wasn’t surprised when the one man went inside Molinari’s office, but he couldn’t get to his horse with the other man—the one who had tried to ambush him when he first got to town—hunkered down by the shed. From there the man had an easy shot no matter how Slocum approached his horse.

  He had found out not only who had murdered Anna but also what Martin Bray needed to know. This would sate Severigne’s insatiable appetite for gossip, too, but he wasn’t about to let these back shooters keep his horse by simply walking away.

  Whatever he did had to be done fast before the second gunman returned. Slocum came to a decision fast and stepped out in plain sight. He heard the sniper’s rifle click as a round was jacked into the chamber, but he stepped out, hoping his scheme worked. If it didn’t, he was a dead man.

  14

  “You got whiskey,” Slocum slurred as he stumbled toward the hidden sniper, keeping his head down and half turned away. “Just wanna drink. Mighty dry. Like a desert down my throat.”

  “Git on out of here, you damned drunk. You—”

  The ambusher rose and waved for Slocum to move on. Slocum was close enough to wrest the rifle from his hand and swing it around. He aimed the stock at the man’s head but connected instead with his knee because both of them were moving and fighting. This was good enough to make the man let out a yelp, grab his kneecap, and give Slocum the chance to plant a hard fist on the point of the chin. The man folded like a bad poker hand.

  Slocum threw aside the rifle and vaulted into the saddle, riding off before the man’s partner could get out of the office to see what caused the ruckus. A bullet sang through the air over his head, but Slocum was far enough away that a pistol shot would have to be luckier than skillful to hit him. He got a good look at the man he had knocked out but doubted the man could identify him.

  They knew him, though. They had tried to kill him when he had first come to Clabber Crossing. He hadn’t suspected Molinari of anything then—hadn’t even known Molinari existed since the photographer was out making the rounds of the ranches plying his trade. But thinking he knew about their role in faking Anna’s suicide would cause them to single him out to be killed.

  Slocum wanted to ride back to Severigne and tell her what he had learned but somehow going to see Sara Beth appealed more. He was reaching the point where Clabber Crossing was getting too dangerous for him. His life had been spent drifting, sometimes because of the men he had pissed off but usually because he had grown tired of the sameness and routine and had sought more excitement. There was no question excitement had found him here at the western edge of Wyoming, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with it right now.

  He dismounted behind the restaurant and went into the kitchen. It was as hot as before, but he heard the clank of dishes out in the dining room and knew the last of the customers had left. Sara Beth was cleaning up. When she came into the kitchen with an armload of dirty plates, she let out a yelp and almost dropped the stack.

  “John, stop hiding like that. You scared the life out of me.”

  “You look pretty lively to me.”

  “My heart’s banging away like a smithy’s hammer on an anvil.”

  “More than usual when you see me?” he joshed.

  “Oh, you. Make it up to me. Start washing dishes.”

  “I have to get back to Severigne’s,” he said. He had washed more than his share of dishes in his day and wasn’t inclined to help Sara Beth with her chores.

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” she said, batting her eyelashes in his direction.

  “I’ve got a couple gunmen hot on my trail. They missed killing me a few minutes ago, and if I stay, they’ll find me for sure. I don’t want you getting shot up.”

  “Are you joking?” Sara Beth stared hard at him. “You’re not! Turn them in to the marshal. Dunbar is a worthless carbuncle on this town’s backside, but he has to enforce the law sometimes.”

  “I’m not sure who’s being paid off, but the owlhoots after me have had it in for me since I came to town. Now they have even more reason.”

  “Start washing and I’ll tell you what I found out from Jacob.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Sara Beth looked away, then heaved a deep sigh. She was working on telling him something unpleasant. The woman finally worked up her courage.

  “Jacob is the town telegrapher. Him and me, well, before you rode into town, we—”

  “What did Jacob have to tell you that’s so important?” Slocum didn’t care about Sara Beth’s love life before he had come to town, and he supposed she would continue with the telegrapher after he left. She had roots in Clabber Crossing and he didn’t—he never would. Jacob, though, was an important citizen in town, connecting everyone with the world outside Wyoming.

  “I asked him to send a wire to the Western Union operator in Kansas City.”

  Slocum perked up. He started scraping the dishes and handing them to her to wash. What Sara Beth built up to tell him might be worth a few cleaned plates and cups.

  “He—the telegrapher in Kansas City—frequented a cathouse and remembered a woman who matched Emily’s description. The time was about right, too, for when she was getting married to Henry. The telegrapher had her picked out as his favorite and one night she was gone. Another girl said she had run off to marry a preacher.”

  “There might be a lot of hookers with dark hair matching Emily’s description.”

  “He said she had a long scar on the right side of her body. It ran from her armpit down to her hip. Big scar, vivid pink.” Sara Beth swallowed hard and pointedly ignored his eyes. “I think Emily had a scar like that. I’m not sure but . . . she might have,” she finished lamely.

  “That would be a pretty decent way of identifying her,” Slocum said.

  “What? Dig her up and look to be sure?”

  “Cooper. That’s the undertaker’s name, isn’t it?” Sara Beth nodded. “I can ask. He prepared the body for burial and would have seen a scar that big.”

  “Jacob’s friend said Emily—or whoever—told him she got it when she fell on a disc harrow as a child and almost died. Her ma stitched her up but it left the scar. That was about all she ever shared with him about her life.”

  “They were on business terms, not personal,” Slocum said.

  “I reckon.”

  They washed dishes in silence for a while, then Sara Beth said, “If it’s true that Emily lied about her background, what should I do, John? I ought to tell the preacher.”

  “Why? Does it change how he felt about her? It might change the way he remembers her—him and their son.”

  “You’d keep it quiet?”

  “It’s not my business, and as you said, it might be somebody else. Without a photograph, how would we ever be sure?” As he spoke, a cold knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Without a photograph. What if Molinari had such a picture? He’d blackmailed Philomena Bray. Philomena and Emily might not have worked at the same brothel but an enterprising photographer like Molinari would shop his catalog idea around to all the whorehouses. He kept the plates so he could make more photos and use them later. He had admitted selling such pictures to the soldiers during the war.

  There wasn’t anything to stop him from blackmailing more than one woman who was trying to better herself by marrying up and hiding her background.

  “Would you ask Henry Dawson about the scar?”

  Sara Beth looked at him directly for the first time and shook her head adamantly.

  “I will not. There is no way I could be discreet about such a question. Hasn’t the man suffered enough? As you said, why is it important now? Poor Emily’s dead.”

  Slocum had reason to think she had killed herself, but what if she hadn’t? He wasn’t going to let Molinari
get away with murder—or telling his henchmen to kill Emily and make it appear to be suicide like they had with Anna.

  “You’re right,” Slocum said. “There’s no reason.” He put the last of the platters down and wiped his hands on a towel. “I’ve got to go.”

  “No, John. Stay. You don’t have to go back to that horrible place. Severigne would never hold it against you if you just up and took off.”

  Slocum laughed harshly. Severigne would do just such a thing. She was a businesswoman who kept her employees in line. More than that, Slocum’s word was on the line. He had promised Clabber and Severigne. He still had a couple weeks to go before his gambling debt was paid off.

  “I’m not running away. I’ll be back later, unless you and your telegrapher are sending messages to each other in bed.”

  “John, I—never mind.”

  She didn’t try to kiss him, and he simply tossed the hand towel onto the table and left. He thought he heard Sara Beth crying but wasn’t sure—and wasn’t sure it mattered. He rode back to Severigne’s but had come to a decision before he reached the house.

  He rummaged through the shed and found a shovel. What he intended to do was illegal and immoral, and if he hadn’t worried about it before, he would now since he could burn in hell forever. It took him a while to ride outside town and find Primrose Hill, where the cemetery spread out over a knoll overlooking the prairie to the east. Slocum tethered his horse some distance from the cemetery and walked through the gravestones. The Masonic section sported decent head-stones with names and dates engraved. The portion adjoining had been reserved for prominent folks, still with stone markers. Farther along, in a section fenced off with a knee-high rail, was the ordinary people’s section. More often than not a wood plank had been carved with the name of the deceased.

  Beyond that, but higher on the hill, he found Emily Dawson’s grave. The earth had yet to sink back down and compact above her body. He looked around, just to be sure nobody spied on him. Why should they? He was out in the cemetery long after sundown. Most townspeople wouldn’t stray out here for any reason, whether they were scared of haints or simply respected the resting place of a loved one.