Slocum's Four Brides
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER
Slocum galloped after the rider, only to slow when the man twisted about and discharged the shotgun. The pellets went wide, missing Slocum by a country mile. If he rode closer, though, he stood the chance of catching enough lead to hurt. Drawing his six-shooter, Slocum leveled it and fired once. At this range, he had little hope of hitting the rider. And he didn’t. All he succeeded in doing was adding some speed to the man’s departure.
Following at a greater distance, Slocum wanted to find out what was going on. But a turn in the road gave the man he pursued the chance to disappear. The road straightened and worked uphill, giving Slocum a good view for almost a quarter mile. The empty road mocked him. He looked around for any hint that he had ridden into an ambush . . .
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SLOCUM’S FOUR BRIDES
An Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Jove edition / January 2008
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1
The fist swinging straight for John Slocum’s face was the size of a Virginia ham. Slocum ducked and barely got out of the way of the blow, which would have left his face a bloody pulp.
“Come on and fight, you lily-livered pup,” the man facing Slocum roared. From the way the mountain of a man squared his shoulders and held his huge fists, Slocum knew he faced a pugilist. He had no chance to take down a man used to fighting bare-knuckle for a hundred rounds.
“You got it all wrong,” Slocum said, circling. If he kept moving, he might figure out a way to avoid getting his head knocked off. The fighter advanced faster than Slocum would have thought a man that size could and landed a hard punch in the center of Slocum’s chest. He staggered back, unable to breathe.
“Come on, fight. You welshed on the debt. You gonna show ever’one how big a coward you are?”
Slocum wished he still wore his cross-draw holster with the Colt Navy slung in it. It would get the law on his trail, shooting an unarmed man, but Slocum felt like the one who was unarmed in this fight. He looked around. His breathing was labored from the punch. He saw no one willing to take his case. If anything, the men in the circle were all too intent on betting against him.
“I’ll pay off Jenks,” Slocum gasped out. He staggered and almost fell. Every breath sucked liquid fire into his lungs. He shook his head to clear it in time to see the man rushing him. Getting caught up in a bear hug was as likely to mean his death as being beaten to a bloody pulp.
Slocum barely avoided the bull’s rush. He felt fingers clutching at his arm to hold him, but he jerked free and stumbled back into the middle of the barroom floor.
“You’re a damn liar as well as a thief,” the man said. He sneered. Slocum saw the man had lost two front teeth in some prior fight. For the life of him, he could not imagine what the man had fought to end up damaged like that. Maybe a grizzly bear? “He sold you to me. I ain’t had any fun lately, Slocum, so I get to bust you up good.”
He lumbered forward, fists swinging. Slocum backed up, only to run into the ring of men surrounding him. They pushed him forward so hard that he stumbled. As he was falling, he realized they had saved him from another of those sle
dgehammer blows. The fighter gave a mighty swing, which missed again. Slocum landed on his knees and then scrambled to get around and into the center of the ring, where he could dodge and duck.
He settled down, the initial surprise at such a vicious opponent passing. He coldly watched for an opening. When he saw it, he swung. His fist struck the man’s belly, and Slocum thought he had hit a brick wall. He danced away, twisted, and kicked hard. His boot landed on the man’s kneecap, staggering him.
The grunt of pain was all he got in the way of reward, though. Slocum began systematically punching, finding vulnerable spots and landing his blows so hard that his knuckles turned raw. Worse than the pain he was getting in his hands, he wasn’t delivering much damage to the man. Slocum knew that a single punch from either of those mule-kick-strong fists would kill him.
“I’ll pay back the money. I got some coming,” Slocum said. He knew it wouldn’t matter. Jenks had sent this mountain of a man to kill him. The roar of the crowd faded away as Slocum concentrated.
He had come to Salt Lake City thinking to find some work, but jobs had been scarce. The railroad had already passed through, and construction was at an end. No mining. What ranching went on was done on such a small scale that most of the huge Mormon families supplied more than enough hands to run their own herds. He was so down he would have even considered sheepherding for a spell, but there was none of that to be had, either.
Helping a friend had gotten him into this mess. Lemuel Sanders had needed a stake for prospecting, and Slocum had given him what he had and then some. He should never have borrowed the fifty dollars from Jenks. The man had presented himself as a legitimate businessman willing to take a risk and had agreed Slocum had six months to pay back the money. Lemuel had insisted he would find a sure-fire claim over in Colorado in less time. Lemuel had not been gone quite that long, and Jenks wanted his money back.
Slocum had no real expectation of Lemuel striking it rich in such a short time, but they had met a couple years back, and Slocum had been impressed by how astute a prospector his new friend was. Wild and often drunk, reckless to the point of getting tossed into the calaboose in about every town he passed through, Lemuel knew how to find blue dirt laden with gold.
Slocum had figured he would get the money back to Jenks and then move on, but the money had been hard to find.
“I’ve still got a week,” Slocum said, circling his opponent and forcing the bigger man to use up his energy. This tactic usually worked. The huge man was like a storm whipping across the plains, though; his energy built rather than diminished.
“You got no time,” the man cried. He rushed Slocum and landed another stunning blow to Slocum’s chest. For an instant Slocum thought his heart would explode, and the world turned watery around him. His legs sagged, and he fought to keep from blacking out. A weak punch in reply got lucky. He broke the man’s nose and sent blood flying out in a shower that got the crowd excited again. The betting intensified, and Slocum reckoned some of the money was now on him to win—or maybe to not die as quick.
Slocum could not continue much longer. He staggered back and watched as his nemesis came after him again. Slocum stamped down hard on the boards under his feet, sending the loose end in front of his opponent sailing into the air. It caught the man just below the knee and broke his stride, and tumbling off balance, the man stepped into the hole left by the raised board. He fell through the gap to his knee.
Slocum moved like lightning. Before the man could get out of the hollow in the floor, Slocum launched a kick that landed behind the man’s other knee. This brought him facedown. Slocum began stomping on him, boots aimed at the man’s face and head. One or two of the vicious kicks found their target. This took some of the fight out of the giant of a man. Some. Slocum kept kicking. His arms hung like leaden weights, and any punch he might deliver wouldn’t harm a lamb. By the time he was panting with exertion, he had done enough damage to lay the man out flat.
“Finish him off,” someone called. “Olaf’s a son of a bitch. He done kilt more men than any of us kin remember. You do him good, mister. Kill him!”
“Where’s my six-gun?” Slocum took the gun and belt in shaking hands and pulled out the Colt Navy. He cocked it, and the crowd turned quiet in expectation. Spinning in a circle, Slocum pointed the gun in turn at everyone around him. “There’s not going to be anybody killed. Unless it’s one of you.”
“Aw, mister, go on. We got money bet that somebody’d die. We lose our bet if—” The man clamped his mouth shut when Slocum aimed his .36-caliber pistol at the speaker’s face.
“Does it matter who dies? It could be you. Get away. All of you.”
The ring of spectators grumbled but obeyed. Slocum turned back to the man on the floor—in the floor—moaning as he regained consciousness. Indestructible described the man better than anything else Slocum could come up with.
He knelt down and poked the muzzle of his six-shooter into the man’s face.
“I can pull the trigger,” Slocum said coldly, “but I’m not going to. Unless I have to. I have no quarrel with you. What’s it going to be? Blood all over the floor, or a truce?”
“My blood?” The huge man swiped at his still-bleeding nose.
“Your call,” Slocum said.
“You’re mighty good,” the giant said, “fer a little fella.”
“Did Jenks come to you or was it the other way around?”
“I don’t know you from Adam,” the man said. When he tried to pull his leg free from the floorboards, Slocum shoved him back down. Keeping him immobile while they worked things out looked to be the safest course. “Jenks come to me, said he wanted you all busted up. Didn’t much care if I kilt you. I ain’t kilt nobody in close to a month and was gettin’ the urge. You know what I mean?”
Slocum did.
“You’ll be dead if I lay eyes on you again,” Slocum said. “Stay away from Jenks, too.”
“You gonna settle a score with him?”
Slocum did not answer. There was no reason, because the man read the answer on Slocum’s face.
As Slocum strapped on his gun belt, he glared at the proprietor of the saloon. Salt Lake City regulations required everyone to leave their firearms at the door. Things were done differently in Mormon country. This saloon was off the main street, almost hidden, because the Mormons frowned on serving alcohol. Try as they might to prohibit it in Salt Lake City, they realized it would cause more trouble than they could handle if they succeeded, so they turned a blind eye to establishments like Rose’s Teahouse and Imbibing Emporium.
“Fix the loose board in the floor,” Slocum said to the barkeep as he left. He was in sore need of a drink but was not inclined to remain one second longer. He had barely left his six-shooter with the guard at the door when he had been attacked.
Jenks had to answer for that.
Slocum stepped out on a bustling thoroughfare. At the far end of the wide street stood the Mormon Tabernacle, its gold figure of an angel high on its spire. Slocum was in such a mood that he considered finding out if the Angel Moroni was real gold. A few ounces scraped off or a trumpet removed from an angelic hand might repay him for getting the shit beat out of him. Every movement brought fresh agony.
He had only been tapped a couple times but worried that he might have a broken rib. Pressing his fingers into his chest sent new waves of pain through his torso, but the sharp, breathtaking jab that went with a broken rib was missing. He didn’t have to pull up his shirt to know he sported some colorful, nasty bruises, though.
He stopped to rest in the shade of a tree and regain some of his strength.
“Mighty impressive fight, mister.”
Slocum’s hand flashed to the ebony handle of his six-gun, but he did not draw. Standing a couple paces away, hands out at his sides to show he wasn’t armed or going for a weapon, was a smallish man with a face like a marmot. His nose even twitched the same as the small rodent’s. All that was missing were long white whiskers. The man’
s hair was about the right shade of brown, and his deep-set eyes were black as lumps of coal.
“Not what I went in there looking for,” Slocum said. He left his hand resting on the butt of his six-shooter, though he knew this would draw unwanted attention. The police in this town were ever vigilant about keeping the peace. He moved his hand away. The rodent-man approached.
“I’m looking for a man of your toughness for a job.”
“I don’t kill people.” Slocum laughed ruefully. “Today it’s all I can do to keep myself alive.”
“That’s the very quality in need to hire out,” the man said. “My name’s Rufus Preen.”
Slocum nodded rather than taking the small man’s hand proffered for a handshake. “I’m Slocum.”
“Slocum, yes,” Preen said. “Well, Mr. Slocum, this is my proposition: I need an escort for some valuable property on its way to Colorado. If you would protect it and see that it is all delivered to various purchasers, I will reward you handsomely.”
“How handsomely?”
Preen smiled. Slocum wished he would stop. He had two protruding front teeth, making his resemblance to a rat even more extreme.
“Fifty dollars.”
For a moment, Slocum started to laugh. This had to be some joke Jenks was playing on him. Then he saw that Preen was serious.
“You know a man named Jenks?”
Preen frowned as he concentrated, then nodded slowly. “The name is familiar. He is a rather disreputable sort who loans money at high interest rates.”
“I borrowed fifty dollars from him to outfit a friend damned near six months ago.”