Slocum and the Warm Reception

by Jake Logan

  “If you wanted to have a talk with me, you could have let me know earlier,” Wendell said. “We could have set up a proper time. I would have served a meal. Maybe offered you a drink.”

  “You can still offer me a drink,” Sanchez said in a voice that was just as smooth as Wendell was rumpled.

  “What do you want?” Wendell asked. “And who’s he?”

  Slocum stood near the doorway. His bandanna wasn’t pulled all the way up over his nose, but was arranged in such a way that it still covered a good portion of his face. The shadows in the room and his distance from Wendell made certain he wasn’t on prominent display.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Sanchez said. “I’d be more worried about myself if I were you.”

  “Why? Mr. Dawson and I have been on good terms,” Wendell said quickly. “Been that way ever since I told him about what those railroad men said when they boarded their horses at my stable. Don’t forget I’m one of the first men to bring that deal to his attention.”

  Sanchez stood with both thumbs hooked over his gun belt. Although he wasn’t making a move toward either of the two pistols he wore, he could skin the smoke wagons with minimum effort and everyone in that room knew it. “Nobody’s forgotten anything,” he said. “Especially me. That’s why I was so shocked to hear your name mentioned in connection to the death of that stable hand.”

  For a second, Wendell merely blinked. Dumbfounded, he asked, “You mean Derrick?”

  Sanchez nodded.

  “What the hell’s he got to do with anything?”

  “Word is that you may know who killed him.”

  Wendell stormed forward about a step and a half before he collected himself and said, “The word is that a man by the name of John Slocum killed him. He was sniffing around that whore who works in the other stable across town.”

  Slocum felt his heart race and his hand drift toward his .44. Nobody seemed to be paying him any attention, but he felt as if every eye were trained on him when he eased his hand back again.

  “Derrick used to sniff under them same skirts as well,” Wendell continued. “Back when she worked for me, the two of them got real close. I warned him about that bitch, but he never listened. Once she let him get a taste of that honey she offers to damn near anyone with a pecker between his legs, Derrick was putty in her hands.”

  “Why would she care about using a stable hand?” Sanchez asked.

  “Because Derrick could get to the strongbox where I keep my profits,” Wendell said. “Thing is, even after it was clear she was just after my money, he never let her be. Even after she started working at the other stable, he would call on her every chance he got.”

  Slim hadn’t said much since Slocum had met him, but now the young gunman couldn’t help but ask, “What’s a lady like that doing working at a stable? I seen her once when she was working for you and it was strange enough. Having her work for another stable just don’t make sense.”

  “It does if no one else in town will have her,” Wendell replied. “She’s a lying, filthy whore and the only other job she could get in town would be on her back behind a saloon. But she thinks she’s too good for that. Knowing her, she probably thinks she can make more money swindling the men that come in and out of this town. Lately, as I already told Mr. Dawson, there’s been plenty of railroad scouts and business types coming to Davis Junction looking to see how best to lay the tracks in that new route meant to head up north from here through Mescaline and beyond. Viv spends as much time as she can working them stables because every man that comes through here has a horse that needs to be put up. The only thing that keeps her from working the stagecoach station is because she gets chased away like a common trollop.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve got some pretty strong opinions about her,” Sanchez said. “Did she get to your cash box when she was with Derrick?”

  Wendell turned and flapped a hand back at the men in his parlor while saying, “Hell no, she didn’t! As for now, I couldn’t give a damn what she does or who she does it to.”

  “Pretty rare that a man spits so much venom at someone he doesn’t give a damn about. Did you ever taste any of that honey for yourself?”

  When he spun around and came at Sanchez, Wendell didn’t even notice how close he was to getting shot. Sanchez took hold of a pistol and so did the younger man behind him. Even Slocum reflexively drew his .44 when Wendell charged at them with so much fire in his eyes.

  “That ain’t none of your concern!” Wendell snarled.

  Sanchez nodded slowly. “Seems like I struck a nerve. Also, there’s the fact that you still call her Viv, and when you talk about her dalliances with other men, you seem more angry than disgusted. You still hold a soft spot in your heart for that whore?”

  After his eyes darted toward the stairs leading up to the room where his wife slept, Wendell hissed, “Don’t call her that.”

  “What’s going on between the two of you?” Sanchez asked.

  Wendell seemed ready to stay angry for as long as the men were in his house. Then he let out a breath that deflated his entire chest and allowed his head to hang forward. “Come outside,” he said quietly.

  All of them stepped outside, but Wendell acted as if it was only he and Sanchez standing on the front porch. The only acknowledgment he gave to Slocum or Slim was when he offered them all cigars. Slocum took his and stepped back once it was lit so he could savor the tobacco while the messy affair was sorted out.

  There was a fence surrounding Wendell’s house, which was where he led the others. Propping his leg up on the lowest rail, he puffed on the cigar. Glowing red embers burned brightly to cast a few shadows across his face. He held on to the smoke and let it go before quietly saying, “That little blond filly working in my stable is the sweetest thing I ever did see. She’s softer than heaven itself and tastes just as sweet. I heard a few bad things about her, but that was never enough to keep any man away once she got a hold of him.”

  “So she’s wrapped up in this killing?” Sanchez asked.

  After taking another puff, Wendell nodded. “I heard how she wrapped men around her little finger. Made them do things. Made them give her money. Well . . . I suppose she didn’t force them, but when she asked for something, it just didn’t seem possible to say no. As far as what she’s doing in stables, it’s like I said before. Ain’t no other place in town would hire her and she needed to earn her keep somehow after being run out of a few other towns.”

  “Did she kill that stable hand?”

  The cigar glowed again, but Wendell stood so still that it seemed a statue was smoking it. He brought his hand up to his face, took the cigar from between his lips, lifted his head, and sent a stream of fragrant smoke toward the starry night sky. “No,” he said in a voice that was colder than the chilled desert breeze. “I killed him.”

  “Because of her?”

  Wendell nodded. “Me and her have been getting together again recently. I knew it was because of the money I’ve been getting from my dealings with Mr. Dawson and the whole railroad affair, but I didn’t care. It was worth it just to get my hands on that fine, smooth skin. Damn, she’s an angel.” As if he was receiving a message from above, he moved his eyes away from the stars and admitted, “Maybe not an angel, but I sure hope there aren’t any devils as tempting as Viv.”

  “We heard Derrick was killed because he spoke up on Mr. Dawson’s behalf,” Sanchez said.

  Once Wendell started shaking his head, he didn’t seem able to stop. “I don’t know what you heard. When I killed Derrick, it was a twitch reflex. He was on his way to climb all over Viv and made sure I knew about it. I just picked up the knife and started stabbing him. I . . . couldn’t stop. I just kept on stabbing until that boy was a big, bloody mess. I went and found the sheriff to tell him some damn story or other. All those lawmen had been going on about a man by the name of Slocum, and it was c
lear the sheriff didn’t think much of this fella, so I said he was the one that killed Derrick. After that . . . I don’t rightly know what I said.”

  Slim stepped up and asked, “You think you may have just tossed in some lie about Mr. Dawson to cover your own hide?”

  “No!” Wendell said with absolute certainty. “What I mean is that I was just trying to point the sheriff’s nose somewhere else. With him all bothered about Slocum, it was easy enough. Derrick used to be a good friend of mine. That’s why it cut so deep when he put his hands on Vivienne.”

  “Sounds like plenty of men put their hands on her,” Sanchez grunted.

  It seemed the angry fire that had been in Wendell’s eyes had burned itself out because there was none left when he shifted his gaze skyward once again. “Yeah,” he replied. “It does seem that way. The sheriff and his deputy probably did some speculating of their own in regards to Derrick’s connection to me and my friendship with Mr. Dawson. Word gets spread, rumors gain steam, they take on a life of their own. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times.”

  Slocum didn’t doubt that for an instant. He’d seen rumors start off as pebbles that quickly grew into boulders once they got rolling. He was just grateful that a bothersome thing such as that could actually work in his favor for a change. As much as he would have liked to stand back and congratulate himself for getting Dawson’s men interested enough to solve the murder that Wendell had tried to pin on him, Slocum had one more thing to do. “You need to tell the sheriff,” he said in a voice that was muffled by the bandanna. Even though he’d never met Wendell, Slocum put a bit more gruffness into his tone to disguise himself even more.

  Turning toward him as if Slocum had appeared out of thin air, Wendell said, “I thought that one was mute. First words he chooses ain’t exactly ones I like.”

  “But they’re ones you need to hear,” Sanchez said. “He’s right. Mr. Dawson doesn’t want to be connected to something like this.”

  “He’s connected to a whole lot worse,” Wendell pointed out.

  “Speculations and rumor,” the Mexican replied. “Besides, the ones doing the speculating aren’t running to the law. If this eventually gets back to the sheriff, he’ll want to go running to Mescaline and have a word with Mr. Dawson. Even if it’s a small matter of asking a few questions, we don’t want anything to happen that might spook our friends from the railroad. You sort it out now and end it.”

  Sanchez moved toward the older man, snatched the cigar from Wendell’s hand, and held it so the embers at its tip were close enough to cast a red glow onto Wendell’s face. “You’ll go to the sheriff, admit what you done, and make certain Mr. Dawson’s name isn’t being dragged through the mud. I don’t give a damn what you say about that whore you seem to love, just make sure there’s no doubt in that lawman’s head that you killed that stable hand for reasons that don’t involve Dawson or any of his men.”

  “I already lost an old friend,” Wendell sighed. “Killed him myself. Viv won’t touch me again and neither will my wife. That doesn’t leave me with much else to lose.”

  “How about an eye?” Sanchez said as he moved the lit cigar closer to that target. “How about both of them? How about your fingers as that kid behind me whittles them down like kindling? How about your business and your house when my mute friend there burns them both to the ground?”

  Slocum didn’t like being included with a gang of bloodthirsty outlaws, but he doubted any of those threats would come to fruition. There were already tears streaming down Wendell’s face and a quiver in his lips as he babbled, “All right, all right. I’ll tell the sheriff the truth. I never meant to drag Mr. Dawson into anything. I don’t even remember his name coming up. I just wanted to hurt Derrick for taking Viv away from me.”

  “Trust me,” Slocum said. “A woman like that . . . she was never yours to begin with.”

  That truth hit Wendell like a load of bricks, leaving him empty and defeated. Even knowing what that same man had done to an innocent stable hand, Slocum couldn’t help but pity the bastard.

  18

  Slocum watched from afar as Wendell made his confession on the front porch of Sheriff Marshal’s house. The young lawman stood dumbfounded for most of the time, only lunging forward at the last minute to catch Wendell as he started to fall over. Propping Wendell onto his feet, the sheriff spotted the three men in the shadows and called out for some help. Sanchez led the other two as they turned away and walked off. The sheriff dragged Wendell inside. His prisoner was so overcome that he could barely move. He wouldn’t be giving anyone any trouble.

  The stable where they’d left their horses was in sight—a large blocky shadow in the distance. They walked along the back ends of a row of shops that were all closed up until morning. The night was so still that Slocum could hear a wind rustling when he stopped and turned to face the other two.

  “No complaints from you,” Sanchez said. “We ride out of here now and make camp outside of town. I know where we’re going. Just follow close.”

  “And then what?” Slocum asked. “The three of you kill me and bury me in the desert?”

  The Mexican’s eyes narrowed as though he didn’t need any light to see every pertinent detail in front of him. “Turning on us?” he scoffed. “I thought this would happen sooner.”

  “Did you think I’d trust any of you?” Slocum asked.

  “And did you expect any of us to believe that John Slocum would just walk up and join with us? The great hero of Mescaline?”

  “Is that what they call me? I’m flattered.”

  “You will live forever in those people’s legends. That’s what happens to all men who accomplish something and then die with their boots on.”

  “Doesn’t have to end that way,” Slocum pointed out.

  “Right. You can come back with us to see what Mr. Dawson wants to do with you.”

  “No. I meant it doesn’t have to end that way for you. Of course, men like you don’t exactly become legends. They’re not even missed when they don’t come back after a ride in the middle of the night.”

  “You want to bet your life on that?” Sanchez growled.

  He wasn’t going to budge. Slocum could tell that much by the way the Mexican planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and flexed his fingers anxiously above his holstered pistols.

  The youngest gunman was a bit tougher to read. Slim was anxious, which also made the kid almost impossible to predict. It seemed just as likely that he could be frozen in fear or try to fire a shot before anyone else.

  Slocum watched Sanchez for any hint of movement.

  There was none to be seen. Apparently, Dawson had chosen the Mexican because he was the best man suited to walk away from this very situation. Dawson had also tried stacking the deck so Slocum would be outnumbered three to one. But Slocum had already put a plan into place where that was concerned. If Vivienne was good for anything more than causing trouble among men, it was to even up those odds just a bit.

  Both men stood less than three paces away from each other. Close enough to read the other’s expression in the dark, yet too far to take a swing at each other. While Sanchez prepared to draw one or both of his pistols, Slocum charged at him as if he’d been fired from a cannon.

  Slocum covered the distance between them in one and a half bounding strides. Sanchez cleared leather, but his target was now close enough to swat his gun arm to one side and slip in past the firearm and get to the man behind it. Slocum was now less than an inch in front of Sanchez and used his remaining momentum to drive his knee into the Mexican’s stomach. Sanchez expelled a gust of air, emptying his lungs and causing his entire body to droop forward. Grabbing the wrist of Sanchez’s gun hand, Slocum kept that pistol pointed to the ground as he jammed the barrel of his .44 into the other man’s gut.

  “Drop it,” Slocum said as he struggled to maintain his grip on the other man’s wrist
.

  Rather than spit any kind of response at him, Sanchez shifted his other arm to try and pull the second pistol from his double-rig gun belt. Slocum did his best to keep him from getting to the weapon, but couldn’t do much from where he stood. Once he knew Sanchez had gotten to his other pistol, Slocum’s only recourse was to push his .44 in even harder and pull his trigger.

  The gun thumped once and then again, lifting Sanchez off his feet with each shot. Blood filled the air behind him in a thick mist and Sanchez’s last breath escaped from his lips. Slocum let the Mexican drop so he could turn and face the youngest gunman. Slim stood with his gun in hand, but hadn’t taken a shot yet because there was no way he could keep from hitting Sanchez in the process.

  “Dawson wants you to kill me,” Slocum said. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t wanna die.”

  “Dawson wouldn’t send some innocent kid on a ride like this. I heard what that Mexican said when he was making threats to Wendell. He knew damn well you could torture and kill just as good as anyone else.”

  Slim had indeed been trying to play the part of an innocent. His eyes were wide and his hands shook. And yet somehow the hand with the gun in it never turned all the way from Slocum’s vicinity. In the blink of an eye, Slim’s entire countenance changed. His expression shifted into one of a murderous animal and his body angled sideways into a duelist’s stance.

  The kid brought his gun up and clenched his finger around his trigger. By that time, however, Slocum had already taken his shot. The .44 bucked against his palm, sending a single round through a portion of Slim’s chest. Since the kid had been standing sideways, the grazing bullet spun him around to present his back to Slocum.

  Without wasting another second, Slocum started racing toward the stable. The signal they’d agreed upon was a gunshot, which meant Mikey had just been alerted to the fact that there was trouble. When he heard the rustle of movement behind him, Slocum paused just long enough to take a look over his shoulder. Sure enough, Slim had turned around and was bringing his gun up again. Slocum fired one more shot, which punched a hole through the younger man’s heart, and dropped him right then and there.