Slocum and the Warm Reception

by Jake Logan

  Slocum broke once more into a run. Even though the stable wasn’t far away, it seemed to take him an hour to reach it. When he got to the back door, he almost knocked it off its hinges with a single well-placed kick. He charged into the stable, ready to open fire or dive for cover depending on what he found inside.

  Mike stood with his gun belt in one hand and his britches in the other. One leg was stuck through the leg of his jeans and a panicked expression covered his face now that he’d gotten a look at who’d stormed into the stable. Vivienne lay in a bed of straw, buck naked and legs spread. Upon seeing Slocum, she merely sat up and waited to see what would happen next.

  “Funny,” Slocum mused, “but I’m usually the one caught in this sort of predicament with a woman. Feels a whole lot better to be the one with all my clothes on.”

  “You’re always sneaking up behind me,” Mike said. “This time you had to wait for when I’m dipping my wick before you could get the drop on me.”

  “This isn’t about you, Mike. I’ve got bigger fish to fry and you just happen to keep getting in my way.”

  Mike yanked the pistol from his holster and fired a shot as he dove toward one of the stalls.

  Slocum dropped to one knee as the wild shot hissed by, extending an arm to sight along the top of the .44.

  After crawling through the loose straw on the floor, Mike got behind a wooden partition and tucked his legs in close to his body. When no more shots were fired or words were thrown at him, he couldn’t help but take a look to see if he could find a juicy target for his next bullet.

  The instant Mike’s head popped around the partition, Slocum put a bullet through it. Mike flopped over and twitched through his last motions before giving up the ghost. Slocum refilled the spent rounds from his pistol as he walked over to make sure the other man was down for good.

  “I knew you’d come back,” Vivienne said while climbing to her feet and rushing over to embrace him. She wrapped her arms around Slocum and pressed her naked body against him. “Seeing you fight to protect me that way . . . it was so exciting.”

  “Wasn’t protecting you,” he said while reaching down to scoop up Mike’s gun belt and pistol. He then moved her aside and went to his horse. “Didn’t think you needed it.”

  Despite being naked, Vivienne stomped over to Slocum and shoved past him as if she was armed to the teeth. “You’re taking me with you!”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I did this for you,” she snapped while pointing down at Mike. “You owe me!”

  “You did this for yourself,” Slocum replied. “Which is the same reason you’ve done everything else.”

  “I’ll tell the law about the men you killed here.”

  Slocum took the reins to his gelding and led the horse toward the stable’s large front doors. “Do what you like, since the law should be here any second. Won’t make a difference since any of the men you intended on robbing are either dead, in chains, or headed in one of those directions. You want my advice? Pack your things and find another bunch of idiots to string along. The ones in this town are through with you.”

  Vivienne finally pressed the dress she’d picked up against the front of her body and stomped her foot. “I won’t spend another day in a goddamn barn!”

  Now that he was outside, Slocum climbed into his saddle. Figures were approaching from the sheriff’s office, shouting back and forth to each other as they closed in on the stable. Turning toward Vivienne, Slocum said, “Seems to me, a barn is where you belong.” He then snapped his reins and rode north.

  The sheriff shouted up a storm and even fired a few shots his way, but couldn’t do much more than watch as his shadowy target disappeared.

  19

  Slocum rode through the entire night. He’d paid close attention to the trail Sanchez had used to get to Davis Junction, which made retracing his path a hell of a lot easier. A bright, mostly full moon cast enough light for him to see the ground in front of him. Having ridden the trail so recently, Slocum knew most of the terrain looked worse than it truly was. More often than not, the path was surrounded by rocky slopes or partly covered by scrub. When it came to actual maneuvering, the vast majority of it was done on flat rock or level dirt. There was a reason that trail was favored by killers who moved at night. Now that he knew his way, Slocum had no trouble in getting back to Mescaline before dawn.

  He could feel the air beginning to warm, but the sun’s rays were only just making themselves known when he was close enough to town to slow his horse. The minute his gelding’s hooves stopped beating against the desert floor, Slocum heard more horses galloping toward him. He squinted toward town and quickly spotted a cloud of dust being kicked up on the western side. He counted two riders approaching. They were coming in such a hurry that he wouldn’t have to wait long for them to arrive. Slocum reined his horse to a stop, hung his head low, and waited for them to reach him.

  When they did, they each had a gun in hand. One man had a pistol and the other had a rifle propped against one hip so the barrel was pointed skyward. The one with the pistol approached Slocum while the other one hung back.

  “That you, Sanchez?” the pistol man asked.

  Slocum rocked in his saddle, keeping his head down so his hat kept his face from being seen. He muttered something in a voice that was scratchy enough to sound distressed and too low for any words to be clearly heard.

  “What did you say?” the gunman asked. “You hurt?” After coming a bit closer, he asked, “That ain’t Sanchez. Where’s the others? That you, kid?”

  Now that the man was close enough, Slocum lifted his head and gave him a good look at the face that had previously been hidden. He didn’t recognize the gunman, but the man with the pistol seemed to know Slocum well enough. He spat out half a curse and brought his pistol up. Slocum already had a gun in each hand, both of which had been hidden beneath the coat that was wrapped around him. Like a bird of prey spreading its wings, Slocum extended both arms to take aim. He fired one shot point-blank into the closest man’s chest, sparking a small fire on the gunman’s shirt as the .44 sent a bullet through his heart. The gun in Slocum’s left hand was Mike’s, and he was close enough to his target to hit the man with the rifle.

  The rifleman grunted and pitched backward to fall from his saddle. Slocum tucked Mike’s gun away before riding over to check on him. Although he’d hit the rifleman, Slocum had been firing with his left hand, which meant he’d been lucky to hit him at all. The bullet had caught the rifleman in the shoulder, so Slocum finished him off with a shot from the .44 before snapping his reins and riding into town.

  * * *

  The top floor of the Three Star was already awake and, judging by the lights flickering in the windows and shadows moving about, had been for some time. Although the streets were nearly as deserted as the first time he’d walked down them, Slocum saw a pair of men standing outside the back entrance to the hotel. They were heeled, but hadn’t skinned their guns just yet. Slocum watched them for a few seconds from the shadow of an alley, circled around to the other side of the building, and then knocked lightly on the wall.

  When the first man rounded the corner, Slocum greeted him by stepping out from where he’d been hiding to place the blade of his boot knife against the gunman’s throat.

  “Dawson has you go out in twos now, does he?” Slocum whispered. “Call to your partner.”

  The gunman glared defiantly at him without making a sound.

  Pressing the blade up into the man’s neck while giving it just enough of a twist to draw blood, Slocum said, “Call out or you’ll never make another sound again.”

  “Hector!” the gunman said. “Get over here.”

  Slocum listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. When they got close to rounding the corner, he pulled the knife away from the gunman’s throat and followed up with a swift elbow delivered to his jaw. By the
time that man fell over, Slocum was already pouncing on the one responding to the call. Hector barely had a chance to blink before he was grabbed and thrown face first against the wall.

  Hector reached for his gun, but that hand was slapped aside and he was given another taste of the hotel’s exterior.

  When Hector tried to turn around, he was held in place by an arm that encircled his neck from behind. He tried to speak, but Slocum squelched those words by applying more pressure. After a few more seconds, Hector’s body went limp.

  Hunkering down beside the unconscious men, Slocum dug through their pockets until he found a ring of keys in one of them. There were only three keys on the ring, and he only needed to try two of them before the back door of the hotel opened. Slocum stepped inside to find himself in a kitchen, where two women worked to prepare breakfast while a burly man in a sweat-soaked shirt watched over them.

  “Who . . .” the man asked. He must have put the pieces together quickly enough because he went for his gun as Slocum shut the door.

  Fortunately, there were plenty of heavy objects about. Slocum grabbed one of them, a small iron skillet, and threw it. The big man had his pistol most of the way from its holster when the skillet knocked into the side of his head with a dull clang. He staggered sideways, blood streaming from his head, and slid to the floor.

  Slocum calmly approached him, took the man’s pistol, and then told the women, “Keep an eye on him. If he starts to wake up, give him another taste of that skillet.” After adding the pistol to the growing collection under his belt, Slocum asked, “He’s one of Dawson’s men, right?”

  One of the women nodded.

  “Good. Are there any more nearby?”

  “T-Two just outside. Where you came from.”

  “Thanks,” Slocum said. “What’s behind that door?”

  The woman who hadn’t found her voice yet looked at the narrow door and replied, “Stairs to the second and third floor.”

  “Are all of Dawson’s men on the third floor?”

  Both women nodded. “Hotel guests on the second.”

  “Good. Stay here and keep your heads down.”

  Slocum pulled the door open and worked his way up the narrow stairs as quickly and quietly as he could. His .44 was in hand, and the other guns he’d collected were tucked under his gun belt, where he could easily get to them. Once he reached the top of the dark staircase, he opened the door a crack to take a look at who was in the hallway. All but one of the doors were closed. One man stood at the top of the stairs at the far end of the hall. Another walked slowly back to one of the rooms.

  Slocum watched the man closest to him approach one of the closed doors and start digging into his pocket for something. The man wore a gun belt, but was less concerned with the hog leg strapped to his side than he was in trying to find whatever was eluding his probing hand. Slocum’s first thought had been to let that man get into his room, but the longer he fidgeted at that door, the likelier it became that more gunmen would show themselves. Once the man at the door seemed flustered enough, Slocum exploded from the cramped little staircase and walked straight at him.

  The man barely seemed to notice at first. Having someone emerge from that stairwell couldn’t have been too uncommon. He took a second glance, however, recognized Slocum’s face, and reached for his pistol. By that time, Slocum had driven a solid punch into his stomach and followed up by grabbing a handful of hair and slamming the man’s face into the door he’d been unable to open.

  The man near the staircase saw what happened and went for his gun. Rather than do anything as sensible as run for cover, Slocum stormed straight down the hall while drawing his .44. Both of them fired quick shots and both bullets wound up buried in a wall without harming anyone. Slocum’s, however, was close enough to its mark to whip past the other man’s head and send him reflexively backward.

  Slocum quickened his pace down the hall, swinging the

  .44 like a club and connecting with the other man’s wrist. The man dropped his pistol and let out a nervous wail as his foot slipped on the edge of the top stair. Slocum grabbed the front of the man’s shirt, shoved him onto the banister, and angled him toward the stairs.

  The man’s wail turned into a frightened cry as he started to fall down the stairs. Slocum kept him from toppling, maintaining a hold on him while moving down the stairs and dragging the man along for the ride. After holstering the .44, Slocum used both hands to shove the man all the way down to the second floor.

  Somewhere along the way, the man got his balance, but was unable to regain control of his descent. His boots slipped and skidded over every other stair as Slocum continued to shove him downward. When they finally reached the first-floor landing, Slocum pivoted on both feet and tossed the man through the hotel’s front window.

  The gunman’s back hit the glass first and the rest of his body followed. After staggering down two floors and being tossed with all the strength Slocum could muster, he broke through the window to land on the boardwalk outside. Ignoring the astonished expressions on the faces of people in the lobby and dining room, Slocum strutted through the front door and stood over the man. Apart from plenty of cuts and gashes from the glass, the man would live. He wouldn’t get up anytime soon, but he would live.

  “All right, Dawson!” Slocum shouted up toward the third floor. “This is what you were so afraid of! Let’s get it over with!”

  The streets were empty, and the only sound to come from the hotel was the tinkling crash of smaller shards of glass falling to their death from the front window frame.

  “Since all of your men seemed so surprised to see me,” Slocum added, “I’d say none of you expected me to leave the desert alive.”

  One of the third-floor windows slid up and Dawson stuck his head out. “Where are my men? What did you do to them?”

  “I defended myself,” Slocum replied. “They meant to kill me. Wasn’t that what you told them to do?”

  Baring his teeth in a sneer, Dawson pulled his head back inside and shut the window.

  Slocum stood his ground, hoping that Ed’s figures had been right where Dawson’s men were concerned. If they were, that meant there weren’t more than two or three more gunmen left apart from Dawson himself. Slocum did hear some movement on all sides, but it did not come from killers or assassins looking to do him in. There were windows and doors opening in all the surrounding buildings. Folks up and down the street watched from their vantage points to see what would happen next.

  Eventually, heavy steps thumped from within the hotel. Abel Dawson came down the stairs, peered out through the broken front window at the man who still lay on the boardwalk, and then walked over to step through the door. Pointing down at the man with the little pieces of glass stuck throughout his body, Dawson said, “You dare call me out and make accusations when you kill my men right out in the open for all to see?”

  “They’re hired guns and murderers,” Slocum said. “And they’re not all dead. Some of them will live to see another day. That’s more than what can be said about the friends and family of good people like Old Man Garrett.”

  “That old man overstepped his bounds,” Dawson replied. “Just like you did! You never should have come back to this town, Slocum. You got lucky once. It won’t happen again.”

  “Brave talk from a man who doesn’t have anyone to back him up.”

  Dawson smiled broadly and stood with his hands propped upon his hips. “Don’t need anyone to back me up. I’m the mayor. Duly appointed and elected. That makes me untouchable. You’re just a killer, John. A quick gun hand and no conscience. You’re the animal around here. Not me. What do you hope to accomplish anyway? You gonna gun me down in the street?”

  Shaking his head, Slocum said, “The only reason you have any power around here is because you have a hold on these people. And the only thing that gives you that hold is your bunch of killers
who will harm innocent women and children just to keep the town in line. I brought you out here to prove that you don’t have any of those killers around you anymore.”

  “Is that so?” Dawson snapped his fingers and pointed at the door. “Tate, come on out here and escort this man to a jail cell.”

  Tate filled the doorway with a frame that was at least six and a half feet tall. Layer upon layer of muscle hung on him like several thick coats piled onto his shoulders, making him look more like a bear than a man. His hands were so thick that the shotgun he carried could very well have been a broomstick.

  “And if Tate’s not good enough for you, I’ve got plenty more,” Dawson announced.

  Slocum looked up and grinned. “The only other men I can see are the two who met me when I came to town.” Waving to Matt and Luke, who watched from a third-floor window, he added, “And I sent them crying back to you.”

  Dawson’s upper lip curled away from his teeth and he stuck out a thick finger to point at Slocum as he stomped forward. “Listen here, you! I’m the mayor of this town and there ain’t a damn thing you or anyone else can do abou—”

  A single rifle shot cracked through the air.

  That was followed by another . . . and then a third. As more shots cracked through the air, they became impossible to count.

  Several of them hit Dawson, sending him reeling backward to bounce against the Three Star’s front door. When the shots finally became nothing more than an echo, Slocum turned around with gun drawn. What he found was a street that was quickly filling up with people. They were shopkeepers, bartenders, restaurant owners, all manner of folks who kept Mescaline up and running.