Slocum and the Warm Reception

by Jake Logan

  “Enough to keep me afloat.”

  “Then that means people don’t really take those vicious rumors very seriously.”

  Having spotted the pouch the instant Slocum took it out, Ed moved behind the little counter at the front of his office. He did so with a pronounced limp, wincing slightly every time his left foot touched the floor. One side of the narrow room was crowded with scales, and various charts were tacked to the walls. The counter as well as a few display cases were on the other side. Inside the cases were bits of equipment for sale, most of which were measuring tools, telescopes, or other items someone might need if they were exploring or mining. More common tools such as shovels and tin pans would have to be found elsewhere.

  “I see you have brought some business of your own,” Ed mused as though he could see straight through the bag to inspect its contents.

  “Figured you’d give me a fair price . . . especially since I kept this office from being burnt to the ground.”

  “No need to remind me of that,” Ed replied with a sigh. “I am reminded of Jeremiah Hartley with every step I take.” He leaned forward to get closer to the bag. When his left leg accepted more of his weight, the broker let out a short, strained grunt.

  If Slocum hadn’t been there the day Jeremiah Hartley decided to teach Ed a lesson, he might have thought the skinny man was playing up his impediment. But Ed wasn’t fooling about and neither was Hartley. The outlaw, having been upset with not getting whatever ridiculous price he’d demanded for a pair of gold teeth he’d knocked out of someone’s mouth, smashed Ed’s kneecap with a pickax that had been on sale at the time in Ed’s inventory. He then forced the broker to walk outside on the smashed leg and do a jig in the street.

  A few neighbors had tried to help Ed, but were promptly shot. That was the day that Slocum had gotten his first glimpse of Hartley at his worst. It was the day Slocum took it upon himself to put Hartley down like the mad dog he was. It was also the day Ed Leigensheim stopped selling pickaxes.

  “Can I take a look?” Ed asked.

  Slocum nodded and handed over the gold. “Go right ahead. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Is it?” Now that he had the pouch in hand, had opened it, and was pouring the contents onto his countertop, Ed was only marginally invested in any conversation concerning something other than rare or valuable minerals. “You came to Mescaline only to partake of my services?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ed glanced up, snorted once, and then got back to his inspection.

  “What?” Slocum asked. “You think I’m lying?”

  “Not as such.”

  “Then what’s so hard to believe? I came into a handful of gold and eventually got some silver to go along with it. I was in Nevada and didn’t want to get fleeced by some blowhard with shallow pockets, so I thought of my good friend Ed Leigensheim.”

  The squint Ed used when inspecting the gold was markedly different than the one he’d worn earlier when he simply couldn’t see. “Where’s the silver?”

  “I ran into some trouble at Davis Junction and thought I’d try cutting my losses and heading west.”

  “What happened?”

  “I met up with a slimy crook who probably weighted his scales with lead.”

  “Ahh,” Ed mused. “You must be talking about Reid Flanders.”

  “You got that right,” Slocum replied. “I figured if I wanted a proper price, I should visit an old friend.”

  “That is very good of you to say, Mr. Slocum, but I daresay there are better reasons for you to return to this town.” Straightening his face to remove the squint that had twisted nearly all of his features, he added, “And better brokers out West.”

  “Better reasons, huh? You mean like Abel Dawson?”

  “No. I mean like Anna Redlinger. You two had a dalliance, did you not?”

  Slocum couldn’t help but chuckle. “A dalliance? I suppose we did, at that.”

  “Then again, if you came back to have a word with Mr. Dawson, that would not be such a bad thing.”

  Now it was Slocum’s turn to squint as he examined the man in front of him. “You say that as if you’re not convinced.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ed quickly replied. “I would love to see that pompous ass be taken down a notch. Then again, it is not an outsider’s job to handle town business. No offense to any outsider in particular.”

  “None taken.”

  “We should never have allowed that man to declare himself mayor and enforce his edicts with threats and despicable acts against innocent souls. Whatever befalls someone after they stand by and allow that to happen . . . they deserve.”

  “Now that is what I call harsh,” Slocum said. Since he knew all too well that Ed had a personal stake in the subject, he decided not to press it any further in that direction. “Since I’m in town, though . . .”

  Ed’s eyes snapped up to meet Slocum’s. “You truly did not come because of Dawson?”

  Slocum shook his head. “Never even heard of the man until he decided to fire the first shot against me.”

  “The bounty?” Ed asked with half a smirk. “He meant that to frighten anyone from trying to find you. I knew those notices would do well enough to bring you here. Many of us did. That’s why we let him circulate the damndable things. Oftentimes, a man’s arrogance is enough to be his downfall.”

  “I’ve learned that very same thing over the years. What can you tell me about Dawson’s men?”

  “Why would I have any special information in that regard?”

  “Not special information, as such. Just a few specific numbers would help. A man in your profession is good at counting. A man who prospers in this field as someone who’s more than a cashier is also good at noticing the fine little details. Something like that isn’t just put away at the end of the day.”

  Ed raised an eyebrow, showing almost as much interest as he’d had for the nuggets spread out in front of him. “Perhaps.”

  “You might have an accurate count of how many gunmen Dawson has on his payroll.”

  “He does not consider them gunmen,” Ed said with no small amount of disdain. “He calls them advisors and bodyguards to protect him against retaliations from . . .” Scowling, he grunted. “It is a bunch of nonsense. They are gunmen, no matter what they are called.”

  “I hear they’re not exactly cut from the same cloth as Jeremiah Hartley or the scum that rode with him.”

  “That is true. Some are simple gunfighters, but most are professional.”

  “How professional?”

  “Professional enough to know it is better to fight in the dark and show a smile to a man so he can sink a knife into his back once it is turned toward him.”

  “Yeah,” Slocum said. “That’s pretty much what I’ve heard. No straight fights, but families are threatened and . . . worse.”

  Ed did not move. Suddenly, he blinked a few times and shifted his attention back to the rocks on his counter. “We have found that if we just follow a few of Dawson’s rules, we can go about our lives. More or less. I suppose that is why we have grown complacent.”

  “More or less? You say you folks allowed this to happen, but that’s not what I heard. I was told Old Man Garrett’s family was attacked as well as plenty of other families of men who didn’t step into line when Dawson snapped his fingers. What were you supposed to do about that?”

  “Something, Mr. Slocum. I don’t know, but we should have done more. I’ll buy this gold from you, by the way. Come over to the scales.”

  Slocum followed Ed across the room, noticing how well the broker moved around once he’d gotten some steam built up. He allowed Ed to go through the process of weighing the gold while each of three separate measurements was meticulously checked three times over.

  Finally, Slocum said, “I’m willing to help where Dawson is concerned.
”

  “I know you are. You’re a good man.”

  “You talk like you’re losing your appetite for this place.”

  Ed nudged one of the weights on his scales. “I’ve lost my appetite for a great many things. That’s a common ailment around here.”

  “You deserve a fresh start.”

  “Already had one. It didn’t last long.”

  “Then let me see what I can do for my own peace of mind,” Slocum said. “That pompous ass that’s stretched out on the top floor of the Three Star made a show by threatening my life for all to see. Any number of men could have tried collecting that reward money. Lord knows it wouldn’t have been the first time something like that has happened. Just help me see to it that it doesn’t happen again where Dawson is concerned. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  Although he might not have been entirely convinced that Slocum wanted to lock horns with Dawson for just that reason, Ed sighed and said, “We owe you a lot more than what you’re asking.”

  “Then let’s start there. And,” Slocum added as he nodded toward the scales, “if you’re feeling generous, I wouldn’t mind an extra nudge on that scale favoring my payment.”

  Ed smiled. “I’m a grateful man, but I am also a businessman. You’ll get the best price I can offer. Now what sort of numbers did you want where Dawson’s men are concerned?”

  “Let’s start with how many there are.”

  “In all, I’ve seen a dozen. No . . . make that a baker’s dozen.”

  “Well armed?”

  “The usual,” Ed said with a shrug. “Pistols. Shotguns. Nothing more than that. Always worn out in the open so they can show them to anyone who walks by.”

  “Why the curfew?” Slocum asked.

  “Just another way to keep his herd in line.”

  “Usually a man who imposes his will on a bunch of folks under the auspices of looking out for them calls them his flock.”

  “That,” Ed said sharply, “is what a preacher says. If Dawson ever tried to pass himself off as a man of God, I would shoot him myself and say to hell with those gunmen.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that? What do you know about the railroad line coming through these parts?”

  “What railroad line? You mean the one that goes through Davis Junction?”

  “Could be a line branching off from that one or possibly some new tracks being laid down fairly soon,” Slocum replied. “I don’t know many details, but I do know that Dawson has got some big plans in that direction.”

  “There is always money to be made from that kind of knowledge,” Ed mused. “Land investments. Equipment sales. There is even money to be made for someone who can point enough men to so many new jobs. Are you sure about this?”

  “I pieced it together,” Slocum admitted. “Nothing against this town, but I couldn’t think of a good reason why a man like Dawson would try so hard to become mayor of it unless he stood to gain from it somehow. It couldn’t really be a strike in one of the mines around here. Any number of men who know this desert like the back of their hand would know if that was coming. There’s been rumblings of the railroad expanding through these parts. I saw some men surveying the land just outside of Davis Junction. Could have been scouts for a railroad crew.”

  “Could have been, eh?”

  “That’s right. Like I already told you, I didn’t know much about it. I just figured Dawson would either be after land or gold. Only the railroad throws around enough money for land to inspire Dawson’s actions. I tossed out my guess to Dawson and he gobbled it up like a hungry trout.”

  “Seems it is not just the miners who are granted the occasional lucky strike.” Nodding, Ed motioned to the scale and asked, “Do you agree with my measurements?”

  “Looks good to me. I trust you, Ed.”

  “And I trust you. I trust you will not get yourself killed. You were lucky enough to come out alive when you took a stand against that animal Jeremiah Hartley. Dawson is a different kind of animal. He needs to be finished all the way, until there is nothing left. He has friends, investors—who knows how many more will come here if they are called? And while he waits for them, he will chip away at whoever he can reach. Mostly, those who have nothing to do with any of this.”

  “I’ve heard he goes after what a man holds dear,” Slocum said. “To weaken the man before a fight.”

  “And I’m sure he already knows who you hold dear, John. Just as I do. That pretty lady who works in a restaurant down the street.”

  “That’s why I’m not about to step right up to him like I did with Hartley. When things start to happen with this, I need you to go along with it and be ready to back me up. Anyone who wants to take part in defending this town should have guns ready. Any sort of guns. Hunting rifles, pistols, whatever they can find. I don’t want anyone making a stand until I make mine. If Dawson or his men ask about anything along those lines, you’ve just got to act as if we never had this conversation. Anyone you know, you have them do the same. Spread the word, all right? I’ve already had similar talks with some others.”

  Ed nodded as he limped back over to his money drawer for Slocum’s payment. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Come now,” Slocum chuckled. “You know I can’t make a promise like that.”

  15

  Slocum walked away from Leigensheim’s office with an empty pouch and a tidy profit. He’d stayed with the broker for a short while after the gold was weighed, but didn’t want to spend too much time there. During the rest of his conversation, he’d learned plenty about Abel Dawson. At least, it was more than enough to use in the job that was laid out in front of him.

  He slowed his pace as he drew closer to the Three Star. The streets were alive with people, horses, even a few dogs by now. With them going about their lives, Mescaline felt more like a proper town instead of a cemetery. Many of the folks recognized Slocum and he acknowledged their waves or smiles with simple nods. After all, he did not want to attract attention so long as there was a chance that he could approach the Three Star without being noticed by the wrong men.

  Just before he arrived at the hotel, Slocum shifted his hat forward so it covered a good portion of his face. From above, he was just another body in the crowd. He circled around the hotel to approach it from the side, where a set of stairs led up to doors on the second and third floors. From past experience, Slocum knew those doors opened to small rooms on each floor. Both were used for holding supplies when he’d been there, but he figured they were probably locked now that Dawson had claimed the hotel for himself. Slocum wasn’t interested in going through any doors, however. He had his mind set on just one particular window.

  Keeping his feet close to the sides of each stair as he made his way to the second floor, Slocum climbed over the railing and tentatively placed a foot upon a narrow ledge. It held his weight just fine, so he scooted along the wall until he reached the overhang skirting that portion of the building. “Should’ve just used the damn stairs on my way down,” he grumbled.

  His steps knocked too loudly against the ledge, but nobody came out to investigate. If anyone was taking notice on the street, they were keeping quiet as well. He was only exposed for about a minute before he got to his window and eased it open. His heart skipped a beat when he heard loud knocking coming from somewhere nearby.

  If someone was stomping overhead, that meant they already knew what Slocum was up to and were probably on their way out to put an end to it. If they were storming out to meet him from one of the other second-floor windows, the picture didn’t get any prettier. As he climbed into his room, Slocum realized it was none of those things.

  “Slocum!” someone shouted from the other side of his door. The man in the hallway knocked again, his fist pounding hard enough to shake the door on its hinges. “Come on out of there before I break this door down!”

 
When the pounding started anew, Slocum shut the window and tugged at his shirt so it was partly unbuttoned as well as partly untucked from his jeans. After pulling the chair away from the door, he finally opened it. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he groaned.

  The man who’d been knocking was one of the shotgunners that had been lounging on the third floor, but Slocum didn’t recall hearing his name. He poked his nose into the room, took a quick look, and then asked, “What were you doing?”

  “Sleeping. What do you think?”

  “You already got up and had breakfast.”

  “I was also drinking enough whiskey last night that I could stand to sleep a bit more,” Slocum explained. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “You didn’t hear us knocking?”

  “I opened the door, didn’t I?”

  “Why was it blocked shut?” the shotgunner asked.

  Without hesitation, Slocum replied, “Why were you trying to bust in?”

  The shotgunner studied him carefully. “What about when we tried to fetch you before?”

  “When was that?”

  “About ten minutes ago.”

  Slocum shrugged. “Must’ve been some good whiskey. Know what I mean?”

  If the shotgunner knew, he wasn’t going to say as much. “Mr. Dawson wants a word with you. Your horse in the stable out back?”

  “Yeah. If I need it right quick, you can go saddle it for me.”

  Slocum’s guess was that it would take another jibe or two to get the younger man to charge inside and grab hold of him. When he did so after that comment, Slocum was almost surprised.

  Almost.

  As soon as the shotgunner moved forward, Slocum rushed to meet him. That way, he caught the other man in mid-stride when he was off balance and perfectly set up for a fall. Slocum grabbed the shotgun in his hands and turned it in a tight semicircle. The younger man attempted to hang on to his weapon for as long as possible, but was unable to do so once his wrists were ground together and his arms were twisted like two strings of taffy. From there, all that was left was for him to bang a shoulder against the door frame and allow his weapon to be taken from him. Rather than do anything to rattle any of the other men in the hall, Slocum strode out and handed the shotgun to the next guard he saw.