by Jake Logan
A pleasant-looking woman who’d sampled too much of her own cooking came up. She wiped her hands on her apron and beamed at him.
“Mr. Slocum! What a pleasure having you for a customer. What can I get for you this fine morning?”
Celebrity. Slocum was famous in Scorpion Bend because he was one of five riders racing for more money than most of the townsfolk would see in a lifetime. He wasn’t sure he liked the attention. Still, it was nice being treated respectfully by ordinary people. All too often people in a town like this looked down their noses at strangers, cowboys—or gunfighters.
He ordered steak and onions, with fried potatoes and enough coffee to float a Mississippi riverboat. Idly, he stared out into the street waiting for his food to come. And when it did, he dived in with a vengeance, reducing the meat to nothing but a well-gnawed bone in a few minutes. He had finished a corn muffin and washed it down with the last of his coffee when he saw trouble coming in from the street.
Slocum put down his coffee mug, reached across, and pulled the keeper off the hammer of his Colt. He had been riding with the hammer on an empty chamber. Five rounds ought to be enough, he thought.
“Slocum,” said Cletus Quinn in a cold greeting. “I’m surprised they let a deadbeat like you in here.” Louder, Quinn called to the woman back in the kitchen. “You want me to throw out this son of a bitch for you, ma’am?”
Slocum didn’t hear the answer. He didn’t want to involve the woman. He dropped a ten-dollar greenback on the table and stood, getting himself squared off and ready for a fracas, either bare-fisted or with a six-shooter. It didn’t much matter to him.
“I can kill you here or we can go outside and I’ll do it where everyone can see what a coward you are,” Slocum said. “I’d prefer to do it outside. Don’t want to put the lady running this restaurant to the trouble of mopping up your blood.”
“You talk big, Slocum. You ready to back up that mouth of yours?”
Slocum inclined his head slightly, indicating they ought to take the dispute outside. Quinn backed away, spun fast, and walked into the street.
Slocum followed more slowly, getting himself ready for a gunfight.
“I don’t know what you got against me, Quinn, other than you know I’m going to win on Saturday.”
“If you started now and galloped for two solid days, you couldn’t beat me off the line,” Quinn said. The gunman turned and rolled his shoulders a couple times to loosen them up.
“This the only way you think you can win? By gunning down everyone else in the race? If so, I reckon we ought to get to it.” Slocum turned, ready to draw.
“You two hold on. You cain’t go around shootin’ up my town!” The marshal came boiling out of the bakery, a loaf of fresh-baked bread under his arm. He fumbled for his own side arm.
“He started it, Marshal,” Slocum said. “I’m willing to finish it.”
“No gunfighting! Won’t allow it. The city fathers tole me to keep the shootin’ down during race week.”
The marshal was either braver than Slocum thought, or he was too dumb to realize he’d stepped between two men ready to throw lead at each other. The marshal looked from Slocum to Quinn and then back. A vein on the side of his head pulsed visibly, and he licked at his lips as nerves robbed him of saliva.
“You gents are better at this than I am, but I’m the Scorpion Bend marshal and I cain’t let you shoot it out. Think of the money bet on you boys. What’d Miss Maggie say? And even if you don’t kill one another, you might end up too wounded to even ride. You willin’ to give up the chance for the pot over a little dispute?”
Slocum changed his mind about the marshal. He wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Of all the arguments that might work with Cletus Quinn, this one hit the bull’s-eye.
“Even Zachary might beat me if I was ridin’ with a bullet in my gut,” Quinn allowed. His fingers drummed on the side of his holster. Slocum watched carefully for any sign the man was going to throw down on him, thinking Slocum wasn’t expecting it.
“Won’t be any gunplay now,” Quinn said. “Unless he starts it.”
“I want to see you with a rope around your neck for killing Frank Decker,” Slocum said.
“What’s that? You think Quinn was the one what plugged the Decker boy?” asked the marshal.
“Can’t prove it,” Slocum admitted, “but he’s the one. I know it.”
“He’s blowing smoke, Marshal, that’s all. Just trying to get my goat and make you distrust me.”
“Hell, Quinn, I never trusted you,” said the marshal. Seeing the gunman’s angry reaction, the marshal hurriedly added, “No offense. It’s jist that Scorpion Bend don’t get many gunfighters through, ’cept during the race.”
The marshal left, muttering about the loaf of bread he had crushed under his arm and how his wife was going to be mad at him.
Quinn stayed where he was. So did Slocum. The sun was beating down on them, but Slocum had the feeling the danger had passed. For the moment. He waited for Quinn to make a parting insult. He wasn’t disappointed.
“You know what, Slocum? You gettin’ all upset over Frank Decker is a real laugh.”
“Why’s that?”
Quinn laughed and it wasn’t a pretty sound. Like a shard of broken glass cutting across Slocum’s senses, the taunting cut deep. He didn’t pretend to know what was ever in another man’s head, but this time he thought he did.
“Decker’s the one what shot at you during the race. And you winged him. Why else would he have that sling for his arm?”
Slocum considered this. Decker was about the right size and Slocum had not gotten a good look at the man trying to ambush him. It could have been Frank Decker. Then he knew Quinn was lying. Rachel had said her brother had had his arm in the sling before Slocum even blew into town. And Miss Maggie had mentioned Frank’s stunt on the roof of the Emporia Hotel, which had caused him to break his arm. No, all Quinn wanted was to sow discord.
“If he worked for you, why’re you telling me this?” Slocum asked.
“I hired the son of a bitch, and he tried to double-cross me.”
“That why you murdered him?”
Quinn sneered. “What do you think, Slocum? I might be countin’ him as a notch on my six-shooter, and then again, might not.”
“The only reason you wouldn’t is because you shot him in the chest and not in the back like the rest of the men you’ve left for dead.” Slocum was ready for Quinn to throw down on him. The man’s hand twitched, and he started for his six-gun, then stopped. The light in his eyes grew out of fear—and knowing he could never outdraw John Slocum.
“I’ll beat you Saturday, Slocum. Wait and see.”
“And I’ll see you in your grave. The only race you’ll win will be straight to Hell,” Slocum promised. He watched as Quinn did an about-face and stalked off. Quinn seemed to know Slocum wasn’t a backshooter like he was, though the temptation was great for Slocum. If Decker had been killed because he had done something Quinn didn’t cotton to, that was almost reason enough to backshoot him.
Slocum waited until Quinn vanished down the street, turning left and stalking into a saloon. If the gunman thought putting a burr like Frank Decker under Slocum’s saddle blanket meant anything when it came to the race, he was wrong. If anything, it made Slocum all the more determined not to lose to Cletus Quinn.
At the moment, Slocum didn’t care if Zachary, Bloomington, and Pilot all finished ahead of him as long as he beat out Quinn.
He had started toward the stable when a familiar voice rang out. “You showed good sense, Slocum.”
He turned and saw Miss Maggie sitting in a wood chair on the boardwalk in front of the tobacconist’s shop. He blinked when he saw Jed come out from the store, a sawed-off scattergun resting in the crook of his arm.
“Would you have cut him down if he’d tried to shoot me?” Slocum asked.
“I got an investment to protect, Slocum,” Miss Maggie said. “Jed does too. We stand to get real r
ich, maybe rich enough to blow this town and head for San Francisco, and you’re the ticket. I don’t want no low-down snake in the grass like Quinn punching the ticket before I can cash it.”
“Your loyalty is so touching,” Slocum said sarcastically.
“Don’t get me wrong, John,” Miss Maggie said, coming over to him. “I like you. I really do, but there’s liking and then there’s business. Business right now is a whole lot bigger.” She smiled, and Slocum returned the grin. They understood one another, and Slocum found himself liking Miss Maggie more all the time.
“Buy you a drink?” he asked. Slocum tipped his head back and tried to estimate the time. It was hardly nine o’clock. Scorpion Bend was beginning to stir from its drunken stupor. It was a mite early for him to knock back a shot or two of whiskey, but he felt like it.
“Coffee, Slocum, coffee,” Miss Maggie insisted. “I don’t want you getting such a hangover you won’t be able to get the best out of Black Velvet. Only two days ’fore the race, you know.”
“Nobody in Scorpion Bend is likely to let me forget,” Slocum said. He touched his shirt pocket where the five tickets he had bought for twenty-five dollars rested easily. Should he sell them or keep them? There was plenty of time to decide.
“The cafe where you ate breakfast has got about the best coffee. I’ll buy you a cup,” she said. Slocum realized the saloon owner wasn’t in the habit of giving anything away. This had to be something special for her.
“You’re right,” she said as they sat down in the cafe. “I’m tightfisted with my money. That’s why you’re so special, Slocum. You can make me a mountain of money.”
“There’s more than that, isn’t there?”
“Might be. You shouldn’t ask questions you might not want answered.”
“How long you been in Scorpion Bend?”
“Came here close to ten years ago. Moved up from Colorado. Before that ... well ... let’s say me and the gin mills in Kansas at the end of the cattle trails were on friendly terms.”
“Most folks in Scorpion Bend followed the same route,” Slocum said. “That’s the way the fortunes shift. What was it about this town that got it started? Silver?”
“You’ve got a good eye. The hills were filthy with silver ore. For maybe a year. Railroad passed us by and most folks left. A few tried their hand at ranching and farming and ... other things.”
“I—” Slocum never finished his sentence. A rock crashed through the small plate-glass window, narrowly missing his head. Quick as a flash he was out of the cafe and in the street.
His six-shooter cleared leather, and he’d cocked and aimed and was about to fire when Miss Maggie shouted, “No, Slocum, don’t!”
“Give me a good reason not to plug this yellow-belly,” he said, Cletus Quinn in his sights.
“I got a shotgun aimed at your spine, that’s why,” said the marshal’s frightened voice. “I don’t want to get rid of two of the five racers, but I will. I seen what you done, Quinn. You pay for that window.”
“I want him, Marshal,” Slocum said.
“And I want a peaceful town.” For a moment there was a pause and then the marshal went on, playing as much to the crowd gathering as anything else. “You two are spoiling for a fight,” he said loudly enough for all to hear. “Why not do it so everyone can enjoy it?”
“Marshal, you can’t do this—” Miss Maggie was shouted down by the crowd.
“We kin do it right away, Marshal!” someone shouted. “We kin put up a ring and let ’em punch each other into bloody carcasses!”
“Fifty on Slocum!” The bets went wild after that. Slocum slowly returned his six-shooter to its holster. Miss Maggie came up and clutched his arm.
“I don’t want you doing this, Slocum. Even if you don’t get your face punched in, your hands might be broken and you won’t be able to ride.”
“I’ll throw the pair of you in jail for five days! Or you can duke it out!” promised the marshal.
“I’ll post bail,” Maggie said. “Don’t—”
The saloon owner was shouted down again. This time the marshal said in a voice so low only Slocum and Miss Maggie heard, “You been hoggin’ the gravy, Maggie. This is my chance to collect something more than the paltry thirty dollars a month the town pays me.”
“Bare knuckles,” Slocum said. He glared at Quinn and knew he could beat the man. “I’m game.”
“John, no!”
Slocum yelped as he was carried away on the shoulders of a half-dozen men in the crowd. He was bounced around until they finally came to the far side of town where four posts had been driven into the ground. Men worked feverishly stringing rope from one to the other to form a crude ring. As his feet hit the ground again, he heard even more betting—and this time it wasn’t all on him. More than one cowboy thought Cletus Quinn could take Slocum.
“I seen what he did to the Greek Giant, that fighter what came through Laramie a year back,” one man said. “No one can take the kind of pounding that Quinn can dish out, not even Slocum.”
New arguments started. As they raged, Slocum felt hands ripping off his shirt and taking his gun and gunbelt. He stood naked to the waist in the hot sun, already sweating. Miss Maggie had stopped trying to put a halt to the fight. She stood to one side, a grim expression on her face.
Slocum was beginning to have second thoughts about it when he saw the way Quinn moved. The man might not be much of a gunman, but he moved like a cougar, dodging and ducking, his fists shooting out with blinding speed.
“I’ll be Slocum’s comer man,” offered Doc Marsten. The doctor dropped his bag, took out some tape, and began wrapping Slocum’s fingers. Slocum knew what to do. He had been in fights before. The tape was as much to hold the flesh on his fingers as it was to take off that on his opponent’s face.
In a low voice Marsten said, “He’s got a weak belly. Keep after it. Don’t be foolish enough to hit him in the face. If you connect with his jaw, you might knock him out and win—and you’d bust every damned finger in your hand.”
“I know,” Slocum said. He saw the doctor pour something over the tape crisscrossing his hand.
“Make a fist. And keep it balled up,” Dr. Marsten said.
As Slocum clenched his fist, he felt the tape begin to harden as if he had brass knuckles on. Whatever Marsten had poured on turned his hand into rock.
A bell rang and Slocum stumbled into the middle of the ring. He circled, trying to keep the sun out of his eyes, but Quinn was cagey and knew all the tricks. Dirt under his shuffling feet kicked up small clouds of choking dust.
“I’m gonna kill you, Slocum.”
Slocum didn’t rise to the challenge. He knew the tricks. If he hesitated, if his attention drifted for just a second when Quinn taunted him, the other would strike. Slocum blocked two punches to his face. A roar went up in the crowd. The fight was on.
He circled and as a flash of light hit Quinn in the eyes, Slocum struck. Remembering what the doctor had said, Slocum ignored the opening he had to Quinn’s chin as the man lifted his guard to block the glare. Slocum’s left fist crashed into a rock-hard belly. His right followed. He felt the muscles give this time.
Slocum danced back, out of the range of Quinn’s counter. A second attack knocked Quinn to the ground. The bell rang. The round was over.
“Lemme fight him!” screamed Quinn. “I slipped. He didn’t knock me down. I slipped in the dirt!”
Slocum went back to his comer. Marsten threw water on him to cool him off. “You done good, Slocum,” the doctor said. “Do it again and again. Don’t hit him where there’s any hard bone or you’ll break your hands.”
“Who’s paying you, Doc?” asked Slocum. “You sound like Miss Maggie.”
Doc Marsten grinned broadly. “I reckon there’s some things that are pretty obvious. Now go get him.”
Slocum took a few hard blows, and then saw how to get under Quinn’s elbows and to his stomach. Every punch turned the other man’s gut a little softer
. Six rounds went by, Slocum winning four and Quinn getting in his licks in another two.
“Finish him, Slocum,” said Miss Maggie. “Don’t try playing with that varmint. You’ll end up being hurt.”
“Thanks for caring,” Slocum said, but he knew she was right. He was in good condition, but he was already starting to tire. Most fights lasted a handful of seconds. A fight like this might go on all day long if the fighters were in good shape.
Slocum didn’t want to outlast Quinn; he wanted to keep himself intact for the race on Saturday. Going out to the center of the ring, he moved as if he had tuckered himself out. He suckered Quinn into swinging a wild haymaker that whizzed past his head. Slocum stepped in and drove his fists repeatedly into Quinn’s belly. When he heard a rush of wind from bruised lungs, Slocum knew he had him. He redoubled his efforts, aiming every shot directly at the man’s breadbasket. This was the final straw. Quinn stumbled back and sat down hard, his eyes glazed.
“You got one minute to get up!” shouted the marshal. “One minute, Quinn, or you’re gonna lose! Slocum will have beat you!”
Try as he might to whip up Quinn’s anger, the marshal couldn’t find the right words. Quinn struggled to get his legs under him, but they gave way as the bell rang.
“Slocum’s the winner!” shouted Doc Marsten, rushing into the ring and shoving Slocum’s arm high in the air. “All you galoots get back and give him some air!”
“Drinks are on the house!” shouted Miss Maggie. This caused a stampede in the direction of her saloon. She shot a look at Slocum that was completely undecipherable, then lit out to serve the half of Scorpion Bend that had been betting on the fight.
Slocum saw Zachary and Bloomington both help Quinn from the ring. That told him he would be riding against the three men in the race, but two of them would sacrifice themselves if they could take him out and let their boss win.
Slocum might have won the fight, but Quinn’s odds in the race seemed overwhelming.
“I need to chisel off the tape,” Doc Marsten whispered to him. “I don’t want anyone knowing what I did. I might have to use this trick again later.”
Slocum let the doctor and Jed guide him through the town to the doctor’s surgery, where he took a hammer and began rapping at the tape that seemed to have turned to plaster of paris.
