Slocum and the Larcenous Lady

by Jake Logan

  Put him in jail, blackmail him, coerce him, cheat him: yes—but not do him a favor that might have put her in peril!

  In fact, Messenger was so busy trying to riddle out this conundrum that he missed a perfectly good chance to put a slug into her lying, cheating, larcenous skull. She had slipped out the doors and away before he even thought of it.

  He sighed heavily and rolled over, away from the overhang. Hands clasped over his chest, he cursed himself for an idiot and then cursed Lily for complicating things. If only she’d stood still for a second this afternoon, his bullet would have taken her out instead of Chandler. It was just like her, wasn’t it?

  The Slocum fellow had been shooting at the old man in the window. Messenger had seen him plainly—well, as plainly as possible through the warped window glass—from his vantage point behind Slocum at the bottom step of the stairs, and he had heard the old man’s slug sing past his ears and bury itself in the woodwork.

  Seemed like everybody in town had been gunning for the happy couple, one way or another.

  That thought brightened him a bit, and he managed a grin.

  Well, Slocum hadn’t been aiming for Lily. Had the man at the window? Or had he been aiming for Chandler all along?

  Messenger sighed. He supposed it didn’t make any difference. One way or another, Chandler was just as dead.

  For a few moments, Messenger debated following Lil up to the hotel and trying again, but in the end, he did nothing but fall asleep.

  Slocum rode out past the end of town, past the low rise where he’d seen the lone rider earlier, then rode on another couple of miles. He’d forgotten to remind the sheriff about that man and the shooting, hadn’t he?

  He shook his head. The sheriff hadn’t exactly been eager for information, but then, Slocum himself had been pretty flummoxed by the situation, too.

  But at least he’d asked Lily to check the alley, once it was light out. And he knew she would. If he’d hit the window—and he was certain that he had—the broken glass would be on the outside.

  If the shooter had busted it, it would all be on the inside.

  He hoped she’d find a blood trail, too.

  He rode up to a small clump of palo verde, in the moonlight dimly yellow with spring blooms, and dismounted. After he led Panther under their shelter, he stripped the tack off of him, secured him for the night, strapped on his nosebag, then proceed to find himself enough fuel for a small fire. Not one big enough to be seen from very far off, but he had to have coffee. The deputy hadn’t been much on offering it.

  By the time he’d started a small blaze and set the pot on, it was time to take the nosebag off his horse and offer water, which he did. He rifled his saddlebags for the body brush and curry comb, but once he found them he discovered that he didn’t really need them. Jess had taken better than average care of his horse.

  He patted the gelding on his glossy neck. “You’re in good shape, Panther,” he said, a smile curving his lips. “Right good shape!”

  He gave the gelding a cursory currying over its back and belly, just to scratch the places the saddle had rubbed, then put his brushes away and sat down by the fire.

  Pouring out a cup of coffee, his mind turned again to the morning’s distant shooter. He’d been gunning for Chandler, that was for certain. It boggled Slocum’s mind that with that evidence, nobody had even looked at the window. Hell, if he’d been sheriff, that would’ve been the first thing he would have checked into!

  Well, maybe the second or third.

  But he would have looked, by God!

  He shook his head and frowned. Hell, nobody—besides the undertaker—had even checked the body, insofar as he knew. That, at least, would have showed somebody which side of Chandler the slug had come from!

  It hadn’t come from his gun, he was sure of it.

  He sipped his coffee and swore under his breath. This was surely one hell of a pickle he found himself in.

  One hell of a pickle.

  Lil hadn’t gone directly to her room.

  She’d gone, instead, to the alley where Slocum had told her to look for the broken glass. It was too dark to see much of anything, but when she stepped in front of the window, it gave a satisfying crunch underfoot.

  So Slocum had been right! There had been another shooter!

  Why that knowledge should be so comforting to her, she didn’t know. After all, hadn’t she busted Slocum out of the hoosegow? That had been different, though, she decided. She’d broken him out because she knew, on the strength of his character, that he hadn’t done it. That he’d never do anything like that.

  But now she had something tangible with which to back up that feeling she had, to justify it. And she wished she’d checked the alley before she’d barged into the jail with her purse full of a loaded pistol and her head full of righteous indignation.

  She saw, then, that Slocum had been right to fuss at her for doing it.

  She’d been a fool! She had David’s money, David’s . . . well, everything! And now she’d set Slocum free. The sheriff wouldn’t be happy about that. And besides, how could she explain it? What excuse could she possibly have?

  She stared in through the window that her husband’s murderer had fired through to kill him, pictured David and herself, as they had been standing before the minister. And she smiled.

  Good man, whoever you were, she thought.

  And then she shook her head rapidly. Stop congratulating yourself, girl, she thought. Slocum’s in trouble, and now you’ve dug yourself in so far that it’s up to you to get him clear of it!

  And, besides, she reasoned, David had laughingly told her that he figured he could get away with murder in this town if he wanted, just because he owned so much of it. What had he called it?

  A “leading citizen’s pass,” that was it.

  And she supposed that she had that pass, now.

  Poor David.

  Oh, well.

  With a shrug, she turned back toward the street and was about five feet from emerging onto the boardwalk when she heard the hollow ring of approaching footsteps. Quickly, she turned and raced toward the back of the building, rounded the corner, and plastered her spine against the clapboards.

  “I’ll be damned,” she heard someone mutter, and peeked around the corner. “I’ll just be double damned.”

  It was the sheriff, she finally decided. She didn’t know him well enough to recognize his voice, but she surely knew what that flash of a badge on his chest meant. And she heaved a small sigh of relief in spite of herself. She wouldn’t have to tell him, after all.

  And then she realized that telling him about the glass was the least of her worries. Why, he’d probably been up to her room already, looking for her! He’d arrest her the moment he set eyes on her.

  No, no, she had the leading citizen’s pass.

  But she’d held a gun on the deputy!

  Repeating, leading citizen’s pass, leading citizen’s pass over and over in her head like a mantra, she made her feet travel the rest of the way around the building to the staircase between the buildings and tiptoed silently up to her room.

  Let the sheriff come. She’d think of something.

  16

  Once Jess and the other men from town had ridden out, a stoic but sniffling and obviously upset Charlie Townsend went back to his little cottage and sat down in his chair overlooking the window. He put an end to his pretense of holding back great emotion, and proceeded to wait.

  He’d give Jess and his friends time to get back to town, and meanwhile, he’d decide what to do. His shot had come too late, for Jess had told him that now Lil owned the Circle C, damn her hide!

  He had to figure out what to do about her. If he’d been smart, he would have aimed for her, not Chandler.

  He’d sure loused it up, that was for certain.

  He sat in the darkness, watching the men’s horses pass over the hill and out of sight, and ground his teeth.

  A female boss!

  No
t for long, if he had anything to do with it. No, not for long.

  Miles Kiefer trudged slowly back to his office. This changed everything. He supposed he’d have to turn Slocum loose again, damn his hide! Kiefer could handle a town where there was one killer on the loose—particularly if he was on his good behavior, as Chandler had been—but a whole town of them?

  He opened the jailhouse door and stopped stock-still, staring.

  Slocum was nowhere to be seen, and Josh was unconscious and locked in Slocum’s cell!

  Growling, “Sweet, sufferin’ Jesus!” beneath his breath, he unlocked the cell and bent down to Josh. Shaking the boy—and finally dumping a couple of cups of cold water on his face—he finally roused him.

  “What happened!” he demanded.

  Josh looked up through bleary eyes. He seemed to be having trouble focusing, and Miles reached for the cup again.

  But before he could once again dump the contents over Josh’s face, Josh mumbled, “Don’t. I don’t know what happened, after Miss Lil came in. But don’t douse me no more!” He rubbed at his face with one fist and propped himself up with the other.

  Sheriff Kiefer put the cup down on a stool. “Miss Lil? Miss Lil was here?”

  Josh nodded dully, then flicked droplets from his right ear.

  “Dang it, boy, stay with me!” Miles insisted.

  “Sure,” his deputy muttered. “Whatever you say.”

  Miles shook his head, then took a deep breath and started over. “All right. Miss Lil was here. When?”

  “Just before the ruckus started.”

  Miles didn’t say anything, just kept staring at the boy.

  “Oh!” Josh said, as if God had suddenly lit the heavens. “Miss Lil helped him get out!”

  “That’s what I was after, boy,” Miles said. He stood up and took a couple steps back. “She say why she was doing it? Helping him, I mean,” he added, when Josh’s face started to go toward blank again.

  Josh shook his head. “No, sir. Didn’t say nothin’. Well, she said, ‘Hello Josh,’ when she come in. And ‘Sorry, Josh,’ when she pulled that little gun outta her purse.”

  “Surprised you, did she?” Miles asked.

  “I’ll say! Why, you’d never expect—”

  “That’s just the kind of thing that’ll get you killed,” Miles said, interrupting. “Women with guns, kids with knives, pet dogs carrying dynamite . . .”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  Miles figured that Slocum was long gone by now. And why go and find him, when he’d already discovered that somebody else had been shooting at the same time as he? Or so it appeared, anyway. It had been too dark to see if there was a blood trail, but he’d figured to take a lantern back and look. No big toot to change plans just because of a little jailbreak.

  Just the same, he believed he’d call on Miss Lil on the way back.

  But Josh still sat in the cell, dripping slowly on the edge of the cot, like a retriever fresh from the river. “Get a move on, boy,” Miles said, his voice clipped. “Get out of there and get yourself dried off.”

  Josh stood up, eyes wide as saucers. “I ain’t fired?”

  “Not this time,” said Miles. Grabbing a lantern off the wall, he let himself outside again, lit it, and started back down toward the hotel.

  “What?” was the first thing out of Miss Lil’s mouth when she answered his knock.

  Miles Kiefer, sheriff of Poleaxe, pushed his hat back, folded his arms, and just stared at her. He’d left his lantern downstairs.

  “Do you know what time it is?” she persisted. “You have your nerve, Sheriff, pounding on a new widow’s door at six o’clock in the morning!”

  “And might I say that you have your nerve as well, Mrs. Chandler, breaking a man out of jail barely an hour before dawn?”

  Lil looked down her nose at him like he was some kind of bug. “Would it have been better if I’d done it at high noon?”

  “No,” admitted Miles, “but you do have to admit it made a pretty sentence.”

  He closed the door behind him and sat in the chair against the wall. He motioned her to sit, as well.

  She reluctantly settled on the edge of the bed and asked in a kinder tone, “And just what do you intend to do about it?”

  Miles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was plain she had the whole thing figured out. That was, about how she owned half the town now, and how he couldn’t rightly arrest her. At least, not and keep his job past sunup.

  So he tried something different. He reasoned with her.

  “What did Slocum tell you?” he asked softly.

  Lil seemed surprised by his question, but replied, “Just told me to look outside the window, downstairs. Told me to look for broken glass, of which I found plenty. You see, it proves—”

  “The other man,” Miles broke in. “I know. I remember him hollering something like it when he was in jail. Well, I’ve just been out there with a lantern. Found broken glass and blood, too.”

  Lil pulled herself up and stuck out that famous chest of hers. “Well, there! You see? He didn’t kill my David after all!”

  “Maybe so,” said Miles, who stuck to his duty and did his best to ignore her bosom. “But that opens a whole new can of worms, Mrs. Chandler. For instance, if you didn’t speak to Slocum after Mr. Chandler was hit, how’d you know to set him free? Why in creation would you break him out of jail when he was the single good suspect?”

  She didn’t reply, just looked at her knees, and this got Miles wondering.

  He lowered his voice, leaned forward, and said, “Mrs. Chandler? Did you know Slocum before he came to town? I mean, did you know him from before?”

  He watched the soft line of Lil’s mouth go tense and then relax again. And at last she looked at him once more.

  “Yes,” she said, simply. “I knew him previously.”

  “And because of that—?”

  “I knew he couldn’t have killed my dear, sweet David,” she said, and burst into tears.

  Now, he hadn’t really been expecting this—not at this stage of the game, at least—and it threw him completely off step.

  He found himself handing her his handkerchief and saying things like, “There, there,” both of which were totally foreign to him, but, considering the circumstances, seemed the only things to do and say.

  Slocum, dozing beside his cold fire, was wakened by hoofbeats.

  He roused enough to tell which way they came from and were headed, although he couldn’t see the riders. He remembered that David Chandler lived out the way from which they were coming, and reckoned that those boys must have been sent to alert the ranch to Chandler’s fate. At least, that was the first thing he thought of.

  He sat all the way up and listened as the hoofbeats faded on their way to town, and then he rolled himself a quirley. There was some thinking to be done.

  He hadn’t shot Chandler. He was sure of it. But that stranger had come—and run off—in the direction of Chandler’s ranch. Now, there were about eight million other places a man could get to by riding in that direction, but right at the moment, Chandler’s ranch seemed the most likely.

  Would one of his hands hate him enough to shoot at him twice in the same day?

  No. Slocum didn’t think so. After all, Chandler was reputed to be well-liked by everybody. Hell, Slocum had halfway liked him, himself, and he had several good reasons to hate the man! And he hadn’t seen any of those grudging faces people made when they felt they were having to be nice to somebody, even after Chandler turned his back.

  But still, there might be a grudge someone held. Chandler had to have bought his ranch from somebody, hadn’t he? He had to have gotten his stock somewhere. And he did have a past. All kinds of things could hide in a man’s past, things Slocum couldn’t know.

  He lit his quirley and took a deep pull on it, breathing out a dense cloud of smoke. It wasn’t as if he could just ride into the ranch the next morning and start asking questions.

/>   Lil had sure put him into a precarious position. He needed the sheriff now, or at least, he needed somebody! About all he could do in the present circumstances was hightail it and hope for the best.

  But Slocum being Slocum, hightailing it was simply out of the question.

  However, he still didn’t come up with any options that were better. He finished his smoke, ground it out on the desert floor, lay back down, and tried to go to sleep. Maybe he’d come up with something when it got all the way light.

  Slowly, Sheriff Miles Kiefer rode through the dawn, alert for the smallest spark of light, the tiniest out-of-place rustle, the merest hint of movement.

  He’d headed this direction because, once Lil stopped crying, she’d admitted that Slocum had ridden off this way. Kiefer didn’t believe Slocum’s heading had anything to do with Chandler’s ranch being out here. It was just that it had been the quickest way to clear the city limits.

  He rode on, all his senses alert, although he sure wasn’t coming up with any clues so far. And then, about halfway to the Chandler spread, he decided to investigate a clump of palo verde off to his left.

  He rode at a slow walk closer to the trees, then stopped and started leading his horse, creeping closer and closer. Still nothing, no sign.

  But then . . . did he hear the idle stamp of a horse’s hoof?

  He ground-tied his mount and moved forward again, and once he edged just past the perimeter of foliage, he heard something more concrete.

  The click of a gun’s hammer easing back.

  He froze.

  He whispered, “Take it easy, Slocum. I’m just here to talk.”

  There was a long silence, and then a voice from the darkness said, “You might wanna drop that gun belt first, there, Sheriff.”

  Kiefer didn’t argue. He did as he was told, although it did cross his mind, as his weapon and belt slid down to hit his boots, that Deputy Childers would surely get the shock of his young life when he found his body tomorrow. If he ever found it, that was. Josh wasn’t all that smart, when you come right down to it.