by Jake Logan
Slocum had to laugh at how far off and almost dead-on that comment was. “The reason we came to see you is to let you know that you can’t use us in your books anymore. You’re a writer, so make something up. Why even use our names if you aren’t going to be truthful?”
No matter what else was going on, Corrington had to smirk at that. “That’s a bit of a naïve thing to say. Your name is a known quantity and that made for some pretty good sales.”
“Well tough shit, because those sales are over.”
“Wait a second,” Sykes cut in. “What did he call us? Nyeve?”
“It means stupid,” Slocum said, even though he knew better. As he’d expected, that wiped away the smugness that had just started taking root on Corrington’s face.
“No, no,” the writer said as the blade pressed into his cheek. “I meant to say—”
“What he meant to say is that he’s going to fix the damage he’s done,” Slocum interrupted. “Isn’t that right?”
“Sure,” Corrington replied. “Only . . . how would you propose I do that?”
When Slocum let him go, he did so with another shove that almost knocked the wind out of Corrington’s lungs. “Ain’t my problem. You’re the fellow with the big imagination. Think of something.”
The front door opened again and several people came outside calling the writer by name. “Are you sure he’s supposed to be out here?” a man asked.
“Yes,” Walter replied. “The lady at the front desk said she saw Edward go outside and that he was escorted by those two others.”
“Maybe they went to get a drink.”
“You think that’s why I called you down? Because I was worried they’d be getting drinks?”
As the conversation continued just around the corner of the building, Corrington glanced back and forth between Slocum and Sykes. “That would be my editor and the men he hired to protect me. I should probably go back before they get too anxious.”
“Go on,” Slocum told him. “But I’ll be expecting a resolution to this problem very soon. If I don’t get it, no amount of hired hands are going to keep me from knocking you down and letting him skin you alive.”
Sykes liked the sound of that and showed it by grinning while flipping the pocketknife in the air and catching it like a lucky coin.
“I suppose I could print some sort of retraction.”
“You’ll do better than that,” Sykes said. “You’ll call off them bounty hunters that your books put on our trail.”
“Edward?” the men around the front of the building hollered. They were spreading out down the street and approaching the side of the building where Slocum had brought the writer for their chat.
“I didn’t tell any bounty hunters to go after you,” Corrington insisted.
Although the writer didn’t seem like he was going to bolt, Slocum knew his audience with the man wasn’t going to last for much longer. So, instead of concerning himself with staying hidden, he opted to get as much done in as little time as possible. “You won’t mention our names in one more book, you got that?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
Slocum looked toward the street to see if anyone searching for the writer was about to stumble upon him. What he saw was a glint of light from the hotel and street lanterns being reflected off of a gun barrel poking only an inch or so out of a second-floor window of the building across the street. Taking both hands away from Corrington and stepping back, he said, “Better call off your men before somebody gets hurt.”
Corrington drew a breath to call out, but the rifle across the street sent its round through the air with a sharp crack. A single bullet hissed toward the building and clipped the brim of Slocum’s hat. Sykes leapt straight back to press his shoulders against the side of the neighboring building as Slocum grabbed onto Corrington’s shirt.
“Call ’em off!” Slocum demanded.
“Walter only brought two guards and they stay with him!”
“Edward?” Walter shouted from the street. “Are you shot?”
It didn’t take much to spot the confusion on the writer’s face and hear the panic in Walter’s voice. Those two things most certainly did not add up to one of the writer’s own men firing at them. Drawing his pistol, Slocum rushed toward the rear of the hotel and shoved Corrington ahead of him as another rifle round punched into the hotel’s wall. Sykes was coming along with him, trotting backward while raising his gun hand to sight along the top of his .44.
“Put that gun down, you damn fool,” Slocum demanded.
Sykes kept the pistol raised, but didn’t squeeze his trigger. “They shot first!”
“Doesn’t matter. We came into this town to stop being portrayed as mad-dog killers, not to play up to the role by firing into dark windows.”
“So what would you have us do?” Sykes asked.
Once they reached the back of the hotel, Slocum shoved Corrington toward Sykes. “Keep him from getting hurt and make it seem like we’re both back here, angry as a pair of wet hens.” While skirting along the back of the next building, Slocum added, “Just make a whole lot of noise. That shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
Sykes watched as Slocum drew his Colt and ran along the back side of the neighboring building. From there, he circled around the next corner to disappear from his sight. Judging by what he knew of the street and where the shots had come from, Sykes figured Slocum would be in a prime spot to flank the rifleman as long as he wasn’t spotted first.
“You heard the man,” Sykes said with a wild grin. “Let’s make some noise.” Before Corrington could protest, Sykes aimed in the general direction of the source of the rifle fire and pulled his trigger. Not only did that spark some shouting from the street, but it brought a whole salvo of gunfire into the alley.
Corrington huddled down and covered his head with both hands. He may have been muttering to himself, but Sykes couldn’t make out what was said over the thunder of the gunshots.
“You’ll never take me alive!” Sykes shouted.
That brought Corrington’s head up faster than a prairie dog poking its head from its hole. “What?”
After firing again, Sykes shrugged and said, “Never mind that. Got carried away is all.”
More shots came from the street, chipping at the side of the building the rifleman had been using as his vantage point. Someone in that building must have opened a door or brought a lantern into the room because the rifleman’s face was illuminated just enough for it to be seen from outside. Michael Harper leaned out through the window, levered in another round, and was quickly distracted by something from within his room. Even after Harper turned away from the window, Corrington stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
“You remember what I said about crazy people being out there?” the writer asked.
Sykes took advantage of the lull in firing to replace his spent rounds with fresh bullets from his gun belt. “Yeah.”
“Well I know that man with the rifle, and he’s one of the craziest I’ve ever seen.”
17
After Slocum ducked around the corner of the building next to the hotel, he didn’t stop running until he’d crossed the street and gotten around behind the source of the rifle shots. He didn’t slow down enough to discover if the building was a store, a home, or even a smaller hotel with cheaper rates looking to collect business from the folks who couldn’t afford to stay at the Ole Miss. The only thing that Slocum cared about was the narrow set of stairs leading up from the back lot to a door on the second floor. He bounded up those two at a time, tried the door, and found it was locked. Bringing his right knee up to his chest, Slocum sent that foot straight out to smash the door in.
The room was the same width as a closet and about twice as long. At the other end was another door which wasn’t locked. Slocum emerged from that one to run smack into a fellow wearing long underwear and carrying a shotgun.
“What the hell is—” was all the partially dressed man could say before Slocum
took the shotgun away from him and moved down the hall.
There were two doors at that end of the hall, either one of which could lead to a room containing the window that the rifleman had used. Slocum shouldered open the first door and swung the shotgun around to cover his entrance.
All he found inside was a single old woman curled up under several blankets, trembling like a leaf.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” Slocum said as he stepped out of the room and shut the door.
Without wasting another moment, he kicked open the next door and hopped away just in time to avoid the shot that hissed into the hallway. Slocum figured that room was fairly similar to the old woman’s, which meant the window was almost directly across from the doorway.
Harper exploded from the room, swinging the rifle like a club. Apparently, he’d done some figuring of his own and decided that Slocum was most likely standing right beside the door and about to come inside. He’d been partially right, although Slocum had been kneeling instead of standing. The rifle cracked against the wall over his head, sending chunks of plaster onto Slocum’s hat and shoulders.
The bounty hunter rushed down the hallway while shoving fresh rounds into the rifle so he could use it properly. With his hands full and precious little time to work with, Slocum aimed low with the shotgun and pulled one of the two triggers. The slap of metal against metal was the worst possible thing he could have heard.
For Harper, it was a choir of angels. He knew better than to savor the moment for too long, however, and turned a corner in the hallway while slipping the last round into his rifle.
“No shells?” Slocum growled as he passed the man who huddled against the wall in his long johns.
The disheveled man muttered something to Slocum as his shotgun was tossed to the floor.
Slocum arrived at the bend in the hallway, realizing he hadn’t even seen it earlier when he’d come in through the nearby door. The blinders he’d been wearing then had made it so he could only see what had become a prime spot for a quick ambush. Hoping that Harper was just as anxious as he was, Slocum removed his hat and stuck it around the corner.
Sure enough, the move was answered by a sharp crack from the rifle. Slocum crouched down as low as he could while taking a gander around the corner. There was one shut door between him and the top of a staircase. Harper knelt as if he was in the front row of an army firing line. He took one quick shot, which was thrown off in his haste to lower his aim to Slocum’s level. His odds of hitting anything were lessened even more when Slocum dove chest-first to the floor and slid along the hall.
The Colt Navy barked once, tearing a nasty chunk from the banister to Harper’s left. Twisting on the balls of his feet, Harper shifted the rifle to his left hand and scrambled down the stairs. His right hand went to the holster under his arm, to draw the .32 he kept there, before he swung his arm up and back to fire a quick shot over his shoulder.
With nowhere to go at that particular moment, Slocum could only twitch at the sound of the shot and pray Harper wasn’t lucky enough to hit anything.
The wild shot cracked a few boards in the wall, but remained lodged there without having drawn a drop of blood.
“Get the hell out of my place!” the man in long johns said over the distinctive click of a shotgun’s breech being closed.
Slocum fired his Colt and moved toward the top of the stairs. Harper had already gone down to the first floor, and his steps were carrying him through the house in a direction that would probably take him to a back door.
Outside, a few more shots crackled in the street. At one point, Slocum swore he heard Sykes shouting like a mad-dog bank robber being chased by a posse. Instead of trying to figure that out, Slocum kept his eyes and ears open for any sign that Harper might double back. The footsteps he’d been following echoed through the first floor of what looked to be a house or some sort of parlor. With no light apart from what trickled in from outside, Slocum could only see a few little tables and some chairs scattered within several good-sized rooms.
Suddenly, a figure stepped in front of him to fill Slocum’s entire line of sight. He couldn’t make out a face from the shadows, but he could see the arm that was being swung at him like a club. Slocum ducked under it and charged forward to try and knock the figure out of his way.
At the last moment, the figure twisted to get out of Slocum’s path. A hand dropped heavily onto Slocum’s back, grabbed his clothes, and swung him so his own momentum carried him into one of those chairs he’d just spotted.
Once his legs became entangled and he lost his balance, Slocum had a tough time figuring out which way was up. He knew he’d lost his footing, but the blows he felt against his ribs, stomach, chest, and back could have come from someone hitting him or just his body falling against more chairs. Even after Slocum’s back hit the floor, the room still felt as if it was turning around him. Not even blinking or rubbing his eyes did him much good, since the room was just as dark either way.
As the figure loomed over him, Slocum lifted his gun hand so he could protect himself. Almost immediately, a boot stomped down to pin that wrist to the floor. He could feel the weight against his arm increase as the man bent over to get a better look at him.
“Well, well,” James sneered. “I didn’t think we’d draw you out so quickly. Sometimes I don’t mind bein’ wrong.”
Rather than swap threats with the pimp, Slocum reached down with his free hand to draw the thick-bladed knife from the top of his right boot and slash at the leg that was holding him down.
James howled like a wounded animal and hopped back.
The instant the weight was off of him, Slocum scrambled to his feet. Every movement was a painful reminder of the fall he’d taken only a few seconds ago, but it would have taken a lot more than that to keep him down. “So you’re working with Harper now? Talk about the blind leading the blind.”
Slocum could hear the other man breathing heavily as his body swayed from side to side. After taking half a step forward with one foot, James lunged on the other at a slightly different angle. The first half step got Slocum to jump a bit faster than he should have, and James caught him with a glancing knee. The impact knocked the gun from Slocum’s hand to hit the floor with a heavy thump. With all the shadows in that room, the Colt Navy might as well have fallen to the bottom of a murky pool.
Considering all the abuse his body had taken thus far, a little bit more wasn’t going to put Slocum down. On the contrary, he used that to spur him on as he straightened up and pounded his forearm into James’s chest.
The other man reeled back while swinging wildly. One fist knocked Slocum’s hat from his head while the other clipped him on the cheek.
Slocum continued wrestling until he managed to put some space between himself and James. Adding to that space by taking a step back, Slocum now had enough room to take a short swing at James. The boot knife sliced through the air and tore through the other man’s shirt. James yelped, slapped Slocum’s arm away, and reached for the gun at his hip.
When guns were brought into a fight, every second became precious. Since his Colt was out of reach, Slocum came up with a little something he knew about James involving a bullet that had ripped through his left shoulder back in Chicago. He flipped the knife to his right hand and pounded its handle against that shoulder.
“Son of a BITCH!” James shouted, letting Slocum know he’d remembered correctly as to which shoulder had been wounded.
The pain was overpowering enough that James had to fight to keep from crumpling over. He grabbed his shoulder, forgetting about everything else for a few seconds, until the flaring agony subsided. Never one to allow a good opportunity to pass, Slocum was ready to make sure James didn’t bother him again.
“Not another move!” the man in long johns shouted.
With the man’s voice still echoing through the room, Slocum took a quick look over at the dim glow of light coming from the doorway. The man held a lantern in one hand and his shotgun in th
e other, both of which were trembling with nervous anticipation.
“Before you get your courage up,” the man warned, “you should know I had plenty of time to shove a few loads of buckshot into this gun.”
Since the man looked nervous enough already, Slocum doubted he had the sand to try and bluff two armed men. “I’m warnin’ you!” the man squawked with more than enough conviction to convince Slocum his claim was genuine.
“All right,” Slocum said as he eased the knife back into its scabbard. “I’m unarmed.”
“Now get the hell out of my place. Right now!”
Slocum and James looked at each other for a few seconds. In that time, they both strained under the mounting pain of their bumps and bruises. Motioning toward the back door, which was visible thanks to the bit of moonlight spilling in through a rear window, James said, “After you.”
“Oh, no,” the man with the shotgun warned. “I don’t want anyone killing someone inside my place, and I don’t want anyone getting killed on my property neither. One of you will go out the back and the other will go out the front. If’n I see either of you lingering for too long, I’ll start shooting.”
Like a dog baring its teeth when its dinner is threatened, James started reaching for a weapon.
Slocum wasn’t going to stand still for the other man, so he started moving toward his Colt, which he’d finally spotted on the floor.
“You’re lingering,” the man in long johns said.
“Fine,” James spat. “It’s not like you can get too far away anyhow, Slocum.”
“I’ve got no reason to run. If you and Harper are in town, everything I want is right here.”
Before he could be warned again, James threw a disgruntled wave at both other men and stomped toward the back door.
“Now you,” the other man said.
Slocum picked up his Colt and walked toward the front door. The shotgunner warned him to leave the gun where it was, but after all that had happened, Slocum simply wasn’t frightened of one man in his underwear. On his way out, Slocum listened for what was going on in the street. He could only hear a few raised voices and some horses passing by, which meant the fighting was over. James had slithered away like the snake he was. If he’d decided to continue his bout with Slocum, he surely would have announced himself by now.
