by Logan, Jake
Laurie laughed.
“You’ll find it,” she said.
Laurie stood up and stepped close to Slocum. She put her arms around his waist and hugged him.
“I wish you good luck,” she said. “And when you get Wallace settled, come back here and I’ll have a box of food we can take down there tonight.”
He touched the brim of his hat.
“Wish me luck,” he said, her perfumed scent still lingering in his nostrils. She was soft and smooth against his body, as supple as a willow branch. She stirred something deep inside him, and he knew right then that he would surely return, whether he was successful in freeing Hornaday or not.
“Don’t hold your breath,” he said as he walked outside and headed toward town.
She stood in the doorway, and when he looked back, she dangled a sad wave at him. He waved back and stirred the dust with his boots, his mind racing on how to break out a prisoner who was due for a hanging that very afternoon.
He was taking a big chance, he knew, but he had already decided that he would do anything for the beautiful Laurie Taylor.
8
Deadfall was still half asleep as Slocum walked back toward the livery stable. He saw a few people opening storefronts and sweeping the ever-present red dust away from their establishments. He heard the ring of a pick down the valley and saw men leading burros down one of the creeks, while other men flashed their pans in the light of the rising sun and prepared to tackle the back-breaking task of panning for gold in the shining waters.
He turned at the corner where the livery stable was and walked to the next street.
It was small and narrow, but he saw the tiny cabin that served as the town jail.
The old sway-backed horse was still at the hitchrail outside the stables, its head drooped down low to the ground and standing hipshot as if it was sound asleep. Slocum’s stomach swirled with pity and anger. As Slocum turned down the back street, he caught a glimpse of Johnny Crowell at the back doors. That reminded him that he must retrieve his rifle, shotgun, and saddlebags before he checked in at the hotel and got a room for the night. He saw no sign of Obie or his wagon until he saw the wagon parked down the back street minus the team and Obie.
He smelled the strong odor of Mexican food cooking at one of the cafés on the back street. Refried beans and chorizos made his stomach churn once again with hunger.
The cabin that served as a jail was set back from the street and he saw the man he took to be Steve Beck moving his crude wooden bench to the west side of the structure. The man had left his shotgun leaning against the wall next to the front door and was dragging the bench around to the side.
Slocum crossed the street at a slow, but steady pace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Johnny forking hay from a rick onto a wooden wheelbarrow. Johnny didn’t notice him. Behind the corral, the fence was solid, fashioned of two-by-twelve boards. And there were no other nearby buildings with back windows.
He heard the scrape of the bench on the ground as Beck dragged it into the shade.
As Slocum reached the shotgun and leaned over slightly to snatch it up, he heard the bench bang against the sidewall of the jail.
The sun was rising in the east, buttering the narrow street with yellow light.
Beck turned around after setting his bench in position.
He jumped back a half foot when he saw the tall man in the black outfit come around the corner carrying his shotgun.
“What the…” Beck uttered.
Slocum smiled at him.
“Have a seat, Mr. Beck,” Slocum said.
“What are you doin’ with my scattergun, mister?” Beck asked.
“Sit down,” Slocum ordered.
He moved close to Beck, the shotgun held slantwise in both hands.
Beck backed up and slowly lowered himself to the bench.
Slocum stood square before him, looking him up and down.
Beck was a small man with a slight paunch that ballooned over his belt buckle. His hair was thinning with streaks of gray and appeared to be plastered down with pomade under his battered felt hat, which was stained with various unknown substances. He sported a scraggly mustache that was as gray as his pale blue eyes, and the eyes were rheumy, as if stung by cigarette smoke. His lips were chapped and cracked, and he appeared to be missing some important teeth when he opened his mouth in a surprised gape.
“Don’t say anything, Mr. Beck,” Slocum said. “Just listen.”
“Mmmff,” Beck said as he stared into the green eyes of the tall stranger.
Slocum leaned over so that his face was inches from that of Beck’s.
Then he reached down and slipped the guard’s pistol from its holster. He stuck the .36-caliber LeMat in his belt.
“Peashooter,” he said to Beck.
Beck opened his mouth as if to say something, but Slocum pressed a finger against his lips to warn him not to speak.
“Now, Mr. Beck, do you have a key to that lock on the jail door? Just say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
“Y-Yes,” Beck said.
“I’ll have that key, Mr. Beck.”
Beck reached into a pocket of his pants and withdrew a large skeleton key. He handed it to Slocum.
Slocum took the key and stepped away from Beck.
“I have another question for you, Mr. Beck.”
Beck seemed to be shivering. His body shook and his eyes glazed over with a film of fresh tears. He nodded in silence.
“Do you know the man who’s in this jail? Hornaday? Keep your voice low when you answer.”
Beck nodded. “Yes. I know him. He’s a prospector. Stole a horse.”
“Do you really think Hornaday stole that nag that’s tied up in front of the livery? Think hard before you answer, Mr. Beck.”
“It don’t seem likely. I mean Wallace and Devlin sure didn’t need to steal a horse, much less that one.”
“So do you know they’re going to hang Wallace Hornaday today?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Do you have a conscience, Mr. Beck?”
Slocum’s words were crisp and sharp, as if they had been carved out of hickory.
“I reckon,” Beck said.
“Do you care that an innocent man was hanged last night and another is due to go to the gallows today?”
“Nothin’ I can do about it,” Beck said.
“Well, you are going to do something about it, Mr. Beck. Like it or not.”
“What’s that?” Beck asked.
“You’re going to take Wallace’s place in that jail cell and wait for the hangman.”
“No, I ain’t,” Beck said.
“Get up,” Slocum ordered.
“They’ll…” Beck started to say, then clamped his mouth shut before he could finish the sentence.
“They won’t hang you in Hornaday’s stead, Mr. Beck,” Slocum said as Beck rose to his feet.
“They’ll sure as hell beat me up, thrash me to within an inch of my life.”
“I doubt that, Mr. Beck. But I’m locking you in that jail because I didn’t want to lay you out with a shotgun butt. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You don’t know the men who want to hang Wallace. They don’t give a damn who they hurt. Me included.”
“Just tell them you were outgunned and caught by surprise, Mr. Beck. And”—Slocum paused as he stared into Beck’s eyes—“tell them you were overpowered by a man named Slocum.”
“You want them to know who you are?”
“I know who they are, Mr. Beck. They might as well know my name.”
“They’ll kill you for certain sure, Slocum. You don’t know these men. Canby especially. They don’t have consciences.”
“I’m counting on it, Mr. Beck. Let them come after me.”
“You want to get killed?”
Slocum laughed a short harsh laugh.
“Not particularly,” he said.
He marched Beck to the front of the jail and opened the lock with the key. H
e swung the door open.
A small man with a wizened face blinked as the light struck him in the eyes.
“Wallace?” Slocum said.
“Yeah. You the hangman?” Hornaday said.
“No,” Slocum said. “You come out. Mr. Beck is going in to take your place.”
“What?” Hornaday said.
“Move,” Slocum said, and shoved Beck through the door. Hornaday stepped aside, then walked toward Slocum.
“Who in hell are you?” Hornaday said as he shielded his eyes from the sun.
“Come with me, Wallace, and just act natural. Keep your mouth shut.”
“You goin’ to kill me?” Hornaday said.
He was thin and wiry, his face burnished brown by the sun as were his hands and wrists. He wore a faded blue shirt and worn-out duck pants stuffed into work boots. He had traces of blood on his clothing where the rats had bitten him during the night. He looked a wreck, Slocum thought.
“You won’t get away with this, Slocum,” Beck said, but he shrank back into the cell and cowered there in the dim light.
“If you holler, Mr. Beck, I might just spray you with shot from this scattergun. Just sit down and stay quiet.”
Slocum closed the door to the jail and slipped the lock back in place, closed it with a snap.
Beck let out a low moan as the lock clicked shut.
Slocum unloaded the shotgun, cracking it open and ejecting two shells. He also emptied the .36 and took both around to the side of the jail and placed them beneath the bench.
“Come with me, Hornaday,” Slocum said, and started to walk around to the stables.
“Where we goin’?” he asked.
“Someplace where you’ll be safe,” Slocum said.
“Ain’t no safe place for me in Deadfall,” Hornaday said.
“I know. Just trust me for now,” Slocum said.
“Hell, I think you just saved me from getting my neck stretched.”
They reached Main Street and Slocum stopped, held Hornaday back with an outstretched arm. Then he stepped out and pointed to the gray horse in front of the livery.
“Did you steal that horse yonder, Wallace?” Slocum asked.
“Hell no. I never stole nothin’. Neither did Harlan, and I see him hangin’ from that gallows up the street.”
“That’s what they were going to do to you,” Slocum said.
Hornaday rubbed his neck.
“I know,” he said, his voice tight in his throat.
“Just walk with me, Hornaday,” Slocum said. “Like we were both going someplace with a purpose.”
“Where are we going?” Wallace asked again.
Slocum didn’t answer. He felt the heat of the sun on his back and knew that the town was stirring. He did not look back, but walked in long steady strides with Hornaday at his side, as if they were two men going to work somewhere down the long valley.
When they were clear of the town, Slocum headed toward Laurie and Harvey’s cabin, where the shadows were still long from the high bluffs that glowed red and pink under the crown of the buttes.
“Why, that’s Harve’s cabin over yonder,” Wallace said as they neared the log hut.
“You do have a friend or two here in Deadfall,” Slocum said.
“Mister, I don’t know who you are or where in hell you came from, but I’m mighty grateful to be out of that jail.”
“If you do what you’re told from here on out,” Slocum said, “you’ll likely live to a ripe old age.”
“You a friend of Harve’s?” Hornaday asked.
“Never met him,” Slocum said.
Hornaday’s eyes widened. He was dazed by all that had happened to him and couldn’t quite believe that he was a free man.
He couldn’t quite believe that he wasn’t going to the gallows over a trumped-up crime.
He felt as if he were dreaming, in fact, and the man in the black clothes made all of it seem even more unreal.
He shook his head and pinched himself on the cheek to see if he was actually awake and still alive.
Laurie met them at the door and whisked the two men inside.
Her eyes glowed with an intense light and Slocum felt a warm stirring in his loins. He looked back at the edge of the valley in the direction of where the town ended.
He saw no one.
Laurie closed the door and dropped the latch.
Hornaday appeared to be in a stupor and just blinked his eyes at her, dumbfounded.
She patted Slocum on the arm.
“Any trouble?” she asked.
“Not a bit,” Slocum said, and her warm smile was his reward for what he had done.
9
Orson Canby sat at the table in the hotel dining room with Walt Bozeman and Rufus Hackberry, a lit cigar poking from his flabby lips. The waiter had just cleared away their plates and poured fresh coffee into their cups.
Walt, whom they called “Boze,” the taller of the two gunmen, rolled a quirly and lit it. Like his cohort, Hack, he was lean and trim, with neat sideburns, a slightly wattled neck with a bandanna tied loosely around it. He wore a Colt .44 on his hip and saw to it that the bullets in his cartridge belt were always shining with a light film of oil.
Hack struck a match and lit Boze’s cigarette. He did not smoke, but worried a cut plug of tobacco from cheek to cheek. He slid a spittoon closer to him with the toe of his worn boot. He had a thin mustache and his sideburns flared on the upper edge of his cheek, a rust red, as was the color of his spiky hair.
“What do you boys make of that Slocum feller?” Canby asked as he drew on his chubby cigar.
Boze chuckled under his breath.
“He’s a head taller than Hack and me, Orson, but he don’t look like much.”
“Hack, what do you think of the man who sold me those horses?”
Hack squirmed in his chair and stopped chewing his small cud of tobacco for a moment.
“Like Boze said, he’s a tall drink of water and seems to know horseflesh. I didn’t like the way he looked at that old flea-bit gelding tied up outside the livery.”
“How did he look at it?” Canby asked.
“Like he pitied it,” Hackberry said.
Boze nodded in agreement.
“Is he movin’ on, you think?” Canby asked.
“Hard to tell,” Boze said. “He was talkin’ to that Taylor gal when we left. Laurie.”
“Hmmm,” Canby said. “Maybe he has an eye for the ladies.”
“He can eye all he wants,” Boze said. “It won’t get him much in Deadfall.”
Hack laughed and slid his chaw over to the left side of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.
“I sent Whit over to the saloon to fetch Marlene over here,” Canby said. “Told her to take a look at them two gals Obie drug in here this morning.”
“What you got in mind, Orson?” Boze asked.
“Well, seein’ as how they neither one got their man, I thought Marlene might put ’em to work at the saloon, give ’em both cribs so’s they can spread their legs for them thirsty prospectors.”
“Haw,” Hack laughed. “Good idea, Orson. We could all use some fresh meat in town.”
Boze laughed, too. “They looked mighty appealing to me,” he said.
“Well, Marlene’s just the one who can turn them two gals into greenbacks on their backs,” Orson said. He blew a plume of gray-blue smoke into the air above the other two men’s heads.
They all looked toward the double-wide doors leading to the lobby of the hotel as Marlene Vanders flounced into the dining room swinging a small clutch bag embroidered with Navajo designs. She looked to be twenty years old, but was pushing thirty. Her dress clung to her slender, curvaceous body as she walked toward the table where Orson and his men sat, as jaunty as if she were even younger than twenty. Her long black hair glistened with the sheen of a crow’s velvety wing, and her blue eyes with their long lashes seemed to brighten as she glided toward them on high-heeled patent leather shoes. Her breasts ros
e and fell with her movements, ample and pert beneath her bright yellow blouse.
“Good morning, fellers,” she said, her tone bright as the sun that now streamed through the front windows of the dining salon.
“Get Marlene a chair, Hack,” Orson said, and Hackberry rose and grabbed a chair from a nearby table and swung it to an empty spot next to Orson.
“God, it’s early,” Marlene said as she sat down. None of the men pulled out her chair for her. She reached over to Boze and slipped out his bag of makings and papers. She rolled a cigarette with deft delicate fingers.
When she finished, she dumped the bag of makings on the table and leaned over toward Hackberry.
“You going to light me, Hack?” she said. Her voice was musical with a slight rasp to it. She batted her long eyelashes at the gunman and smiled without parting her lips.
“Sure, Marlene,” Hack said. He struck a match as she leaned forward and lit the end of her cigarette.
“Thanks,” she said. Then she looked at Orson and the smile vanished.
“You get a girl up early, Orson,” she said.
“I get up early and expect the world to follow my example,” he said. He drew smoke into his mouth and blew a plume over all their heads.
“Well, I went over to see Carrie at her boardinghouse. Saw the new gals.”
“And what did you think?” Orson asked. He raised his coffee cup and sipped from it.
“Both wet behind the ears. But young enough to train. Fair figures. Mad as a couple of wet hens when I talked to them.”
“About what?” Orson asked.
“The one named Bonnie saw her mail-order groom hanging from the gallows. The other one, Renata, knows her man is locked up to be hanged this afternoon.”
“Perfect,” Orson said. “They have no ties here or anywhere else.”
“I think they feel stood up,” Marlene said and this time her teeth showed when she smiled.
The men at the table chuckled.
“That’s a good one, Marlene,” Orson said. “They were stood up by a couple of horse thieves.”
Marlene seemed to wince at this outright lie. But she knew Orson believed what he was saying and she wasn’t going to argue with him.
“The good thing is that they’re both flat broke, and when I offered them jobs at the Wild Horse, they seemed interested.”
