Slocum at Scorpion Bend

by Jake Logan

  Why he chose to maintain anonymity was a question Slocum didn’t have time to answer. From out in the street came three quick shots. No one else in the saloon noticed, but Slocum waited for more shots. A drunk usually fired until his six-shooter was empty.

  When the shots didn’t come, he made his way through the crush and into the cold night air. Catty-corner from Miss Maggie’s saloon rose the two-story Emporia Hotel where, according to Miss Maggie, Frank Decker had tried walking along the edge of the roof. On the balcony of the hotel were two dark figures, one leaning back against the railing and the other standing beside him. Slocum thought this tableau strange, and walked into the center of the street to get a better view. Bigger towns had gas lamps. Scorpion Bend was lucky to have coal-oil lamps in the saloons.

  “Hey!” Slocum shouted when he saw what was going on. The standing man was rummaging through the other’s pockets.

  The thief swung around, lifted his six-gun, and fanned off three more shots at Slocum. The slugs whined past, missing by a country mile. Slocum ran to the side of the hotel and took the steps up to the second floor. The door into the hallway was locked. Slocum kicked it in and then whipped out his six-gun, ready for a fight.

  He pictured what the hotel looked like from the front, and guessed which rooms might lead to the front balcony. Trying one door after another finally gained him entry when he found an unlocked door. The room beyond was empty and the window stood open. He ran to it and poked his head out, then ducked back when a shot cut through the curtain flapping outward in the night wind.

  Slocum dived through the window and rolled, coming up against the railing hard enough to rattle his teeth. He had his Colt Navy ready to fire, but there was only one man left on the balcony. Slocum stood and carefully advanced.

  The man’s head was down and one arm was thrown over the railing, supporting his weight. Slocum grabbed a handful of shirt and pulled. The head flopped back and the body twisted, showing the arm in a sling.

  Frank Decker was very dead. From what Slocum could tell, he had been shot three times at point-blank range. The killer had fired three more times at Slocum as he came across the street. Decker’s six-shooter was missing from his holster. Slocum guessed this was the source of the slug that had ripped through the curtains and almost taken off the top of his head.

  He looked down from the balcony, knowing the killer had to have fled this way. No one had gone past Slocum into the hotel. For all the activity in the town, nothing seemed out of place, like a man skulking along or someone paying too much attention to what Slocum was doing on the balcony. He shoved his six-shooter back into his holster, snorting in disgust.

  He had to tell Rachel someone had killed her brother. This was a chore he would as soon have avoided, but it was inevitable from all he had learned about Decker. Slocum searched the man, and found his pockets empty. The thief had been up here long enough to plug Decker and go through every pocket. Whatever Decker had that the killer wanted was long gone.

  Slocum returned to the room he had used to get to the balcony, thinking it might hold a clue about Decker’s murderer. But if the occupant had brought any gear with him, it had already been removed. Slocum reckoned the room had been rented as a meeting place, rather than a place to sleep for the night. If it had been rented at all.

  As he started into the hall to go find the night clerk, he paused and turned, looking back into the room. On the floor near the window gleamed a small silver concho. Slocum picked it up and examined it.

  “Zuni,” he decided. He tried to remember anyone he had seen with Indian silver work on a hat or belt, but couldn’t. Putting it into his pocket, Slocum went downstairs to find the clerk asleep. It came as no surprise that the man had no idea who had been upstairs. He claimed that room had not been rented, in spite of the big crowd in town for the race.

  Slocum didn’t push the matter. He had a murder to report to the marshal—and Rachel Decker to tell how he had failed to keep her brother out of trouble.

  6

  The race was tomorrow, but Slocum had a hard time keeping that in mind. The town had turned somber, or as somber as Scorpion Bend was ever likely to get, when they turned out for Frank Decker’s funeral. At first Slocum thought it was out of respect for Rachel or even her father. Then he realized it was something more.

  The men were taking bets on what would happen at the actual planting.

  Slocum stood beside Rachel, who bit her lower lip and held back tears. He didn’t know if anyone had volunteered to stay with her father. Probably not, from the way everyone in Scorpion Bend acted. But in a small circle some distance away from the grave site, a small knot of men swapped money and whispers. Slocum wasn’t sure about the nature of the betting until Cletus Quinn and a half-dozen of his henchmen showed up. They dismounted down the slope of the hill where Frank Decker was to be buried, and slowly came forward. Quinn walked as if he was already squared off against Slocum.

  Slocum took a deep breath, looked out over the barren terrain, and wondered why cemeteries were always in such desolate places. Scorpion Bend had put its cemetery five miles outside town, as if the residents were worried about somber ghosts coming in and spoiling their fun. The land was dotted with clumps of sere grass and jagged rock. A steady hot summer wind blew, forcing Slocum to pull his Stetson down a bit more on his head to keep it from flying off.

  But Quinn and the others moved like thistles on the wind as they came forward. They marched like a platoon of soldiers on parade. An inexorable force of nature—or so Quinn would like Slocum to believe.

  Slocum considered how many shots it would take to scatter them. Two or three looked apprehensive. Take out Quinn and the others would hesitate. That would give Slocum one shot, perhaps two, and the rest would turn tail and run. He had seen it before. A strong leader who had weak followers who depended on him for their backbone.

  Not that he thought Cletus Quinn was all that heroic a figure. Twice before he had faced down the man, and twice before Quinn had turned tail and run like a scalded dog. As Quinn approached, Slocum tried to place the gunman on the balcony of the Emporia Hotel, six-shooter in hand, finger on trigger, and a dead Frank Decker dangling over the railing. He tried, and failed.

  It could have been any of Quinn’s gang. It might even have been someone else in town. Decker had not gone out of his way to win many friends. The only thing that kept Slocum coming back to Quinn as the most likely killer was the fight in the back room of the saloon. Two of Quinn’s toughs had been pounding hard on Decker for some reason. And Decker had not wanted to return to the family farm.

  If he had gone back after Slocum had rescued him, Frank Decker might still be alive.

  Slocum pushed that from his mind. Men like Decker always found a violent way to die. It was the way they lived; it was the way they died. He sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released it slowly. He knew it was the way he would die too, because he was always out there riding in the most dangerous territory.

  “I don’t want them here, John. Is there anything you can do?” asked Rachel in a low voice. The preacher man was clearing his throat, getting ready for the sermon. Slocum backed off and went to stop Quinn before he came any further up the hill.

  “Miss Decker doesn’t want you here, Quinn,” Slocum said.

  “Why not? We just come to pay our last respects,” said Quinn. His tone was arrogant, boasting.

  “Why not? I reckon you must have been the one who put her brother in that pine box. Then again, it might just be that you’re one stupid son of a bitch,” Slocum said in an even voice. Anyone watching but not hearing would think he was being polite and respectful.

  “You can’t say that about Clete!” cried one gunman.

  Slocum ignored him, keeping his eyes on Quinn. It was an old trick. One distracted him, the boss plugged him. Slocum vowed if anyone was going to die today, it would be Cletus Quinn.

  “I just did,” said Slocum. “Are you going to leave walking or being carr
ied? I won’t let the digger plant you on the same hill as Decker, so you might want to pick out a different spot before I put you down.”

  Quinn bristled, then sneered. His bravado returned, and he said arrogantly, “We’ll settle this, all right, Slocum. Tomorrow. At the race. Only half will qualify for the final race—and you’re not going to be one of the final five.”

  “Your henchmen will have to be better shots this time,” Slocum said. From the way a couple of the men stiffened—and the way one reached over and touched his arm, probably where Slocum had winged him out on the trail—Slocum knew he had identified his assailants.

  Slocum spun and walked back up the hill, aware that his exposed back was a great temptation for Quinn and his quick six-shooter. But he returned to the grave as the preacher finished his eulogy. Rachel dropped a wind-flower she had plucked from a clump at the foot of the hill onto her brother’s coffin.

  “I hope it’s better where you are now, Frank,” she said softly. “I won’t let Cletus Quinn get away with this. I promise you right now, I won’t!” Then she jerked her head around so she wouldn’t have to watch the coffin being lowered into the grave. The undertaker and his two assistants worked fast to shovel dirt on top of Frank Decker’s remains. Slocum took Rachel’s elbow and led her away.

  “You going to be all right? Is there someone who’s going to be with you?” he asked.

  “Not many folks in Scorpion Bend cottoned much to us,” Rachel said. “I’ll be all right. I’ll sit with Pa for a spell, then—” She shrugged. Slocum didn’t like the idea of letting her return to the farm alone, but he had responsibilities of his own.

  “I’ve got to exercise Black Velvet,” he said.

  “Black—oh, the horse. That’s a mighty fine-looking stallion, John,” she said, brightening. “I could breed him and . . .” Rachel’s voice trailed off, as if she caught herself rambling. Slocum was heartened that something other than her own woe would take up her thoughts. He wished Decker had still had the money he’d stolen from her in his wallet, but he had been robbed after taking three slugs in the chest.

  Slocum hoped Quinn had spent the money wisely. He wanted it to be the gunman’s last big spending spree.

  “Go on, John. I know what I have to do also. There’s so much to get done. I’ll be fine, John. Really.”

  He let the undertaker drive Rachel back to the farm. He headed straight into town to the stable, seeing the three armed guards Miss Maggie had placed around her horse.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Slocum,” said the leader of the guards. He motioned to the others to shift their rifle muzzles away from Slocum. Inside the stable he found two more men standing guard, watching each other as much as watching the horse. Slocum spent some time with Black Velvet, feeding the horse a few carrots and a lump of sugar. Then he saddled the powerful stallion and rode out.

  “You want some of us to ride along?” asked the leader of the guards.

  “I’ll be fine. If I can’t outgun ‘em, I can outrun ’em,” Slocum said, half joking. He rode into the main street, and was startled when a spontaneous cheer went up as he trotted from town. Slocum had never sought celebrity, but he was as close as he was likely to come—short of actually winning Scorpion Bend’s big race.

  He looked over his shoulder at the banner flapping in the hot afternoon wind with the crude lettering. He had laughed at the notion of any race being “the big race” as he rode into Scorpion Bend. Slocum wasn’t as inclined to laugh now.

  A passel of money rode along with him—and Frank Decker had been killed. Slocum wasn’t sure it tied in with the race, but he thought it might. Rachel Decker probably had lost her brother because of betting on a race.

  Slocum trotted Black Velvet, then cantered, and finally worked up to a full gallop. He enjoyed the feel of the powerful horse and the way the ground seem to vanish in a rush under its hooves. More than this, Slocum kept his eye out for other racers exercising their mounts. He almost laughed at the way a couple of the men worked their horses, but others were expert.

  Even Quinn displayed how expert he was. He might have cheated to come in first among the ten qualifying for the next leg of the race, but Slocum saw the way Quinn and his horse became one, flowing and jumping and running. Quinn was a good rider. Slocum knew he was better. It would all come down to their horses.

  Slocum thought Black Velvet was better.

  Slocum walked his horse and finally dismounted, leading the black stallion to a small stream meandering through the countryside. Two others who had qualified for the race tomorrow were also watering their horses.

  “It’s true. I saw a horse drink so much it didn’t just bloat, it flat out exploded. Bang!” The man clapped his hands together sharply. The other rider and his horse jumped at the sudden noise. Slocum’s hand flashed toward his six-gun. Then he relaxed and went to talk with the other racers.

  “How’s your training comin’ along, Slocum?” asked one.

  “Not so bad. I’ve been hunting for the rider who finished just ahead of me. Pilot was the name I saw on the finishers’ list.”

  “Pilot? That’s the horse’s name,” one man said with a laugh. “Nobody knows the rider. What’s it matter? He’s gonna be out in the cold after tomorrow’s race. It’s gonna be me and four others.”

  Slocum wasn’t going to get into a pissing contest with the other two men. He let Black Velvet have its fill, then pulled the horse away. Some grass under a juniper gave the horse a moment of grazing.

  “So you don’t know who it was riding Pilot?”

  “No idea at all,” admitted the second rider. He pulled his horse from the stream and mounted. “Race you back to town, Slocum?”

  “Why not?”

  Slocum beat him by a quarter mile.

  “You whip ’em up into a bettin’ frenzy, Slocum, and we can split it right down the middle, you forty percent, me sixty.” Jed was dead serious as he made his offer.

  “You’d do better to buy up tickets on me,” Slocum said. Twice that night he had been offered as high as two hundred dollars for one of the five tickets he held on himself. The price had run up since the funeral because of the way he had backed down Cletus Quinn. Slocum didn’t bother telling anyone congratulating him on the showdown that Quinn was riding a horse, not shooting a six-shooter the following morning. He stood a better chance of winning as a rider than he did as a gunfighter.

  Miss Maggie took bets and gave odds so fast Slocum wondered how she ever kept up with them. Then he realized half the bets would be lost, assuming an even amount was being wagered on each rider. It slowly occurred to him that he and Quinn were emerging as the favorite riders. That made his value go up like a skyrocket.

  And like a burned-out skyrocket, his fame would plummet to earth if he didn’t qualify in the top five for the final race.

  “You low-down, stinking reptile!” shouted a man next to Slocum. He moved from the plank that served as a bar in Miss Maggie’s saloon and faced another drunken patron. Before Slocum could move, Jed was across the bar and standing between the gunman and Slocum.

  “You two, stop it!” shouted Miss Maggie. “Take it outside if you want to start throwin’ lead around!”

  Slocum stared at Jed, amazed the man had put himself between Slocum and possible harm. As if realizing what he had done, Jed shrugged, then ducked under the bar to return to his usual position pouring liquor. This drove home to Slocum what he was worth, not as a man but as a commodity. Jed didn’t know him from Adam, yet he had been willing to take a bullet if it meant Slocum would ride to victory in the morning.

  This sobered Slocum. He moved away, found a chair at the side of the tent, and watched the men, arguing, betting, drinking, bragging, lying. He felt cut off from them as he never had before.

  “You getting cold feet, Slocum?” asked Miss Maggie. She pulled up a chair and sat beside him.

  “They’d kill each other over a bet—and the bet’s on me,” he said. “I don’t like that.”

  “Fame c
an be a heavy burden.”

  “I won’t be famous if I lose.”

  “Don’t you say that, even if you’re joking. You’re a winner. I saw it in you the first time you walked in. You’re going to win tomorrow.”

  “No need to win,” Slocum pointed out. “A finish in the top five is good enough for now. Let Quinn get overconfident thinking he’s the best—until the real race.”

  “He tried to drygulch you during the first race. And I heard about the trap.”

  “Who told you?” asked Slocum, startled that Miss Maggie had heard how he had been tangled up in the rope snare. If he discovered who had told the saloon owner, he would have found Pilot’s rider.

  “One of the judges. He filed a complaint about that no-good Clay Seaton trying to decoy you down a steep hill to an alkali watering hole. I bought a dozen more men with tickets on you. That kind of trick’s not going to work if you listen to the men wearing a green ribbon along with their yellow ones.”

  Slocum nodded, but he wasn’t agreeing with Miss Maggie as much as thinking about the rope snare and how the mysterious duster-wearing rider had saved him. Miss Maggie didn’t know anything about this apparently. That meant the rider was more than a mystery—he was close-mouthed.

  “I’m going to turn in,” Slocum said.

  “The presidential suite good enough for you?” Miss Maggie said jokingly.

  “The Emporia’s the best,” Slocum said. “See you at the starting line in the morning.” Slocum worked his way out of the saloon, and let the cool night air surround him. He sucked in a deep breath, then went to the hotel. It felt strange going into the place where Frank Decker had been killed, but it beat sleeping under the stars in a town filled with drunks shooting it up.