by Jake Logan
As the doctor worked, Slocum tried to piece together something that didn’t seem right to him. Something about Miss Maggie perhaps. She had looked at him with scorn, disdain, and something more as he had fought Quinn. The look was familiar, and yet it wasn’t.
Then Jed led him out of the doctor’s office and put him on display like a prize heifer in the tent saloon. Slocum drank round after round. Even knocking back the watered booze Jed supplied, he was giddy and mostly drunk by sundown.
11
Slocum ached all over, in spite of the rest he had gotten. Rolling over in the hay, he stretched and felt his shoulders knot up. Then he stood and looked around the stable. Somehow sleeping off the drunk in the stable seemed better than finding another hotel. Black Velvet was two stalls over and looking spunky. But something felt wrong, other than that he had pulled shoulder muscles during the fight with Cletus Quinn.
He strapped on his cross-draw holster and settled the Colt at his left hip, then made a quick inspection of the place. It took Slocum a few seconds to realize what was wrong.
No guards. Miss Maggie had hired a small army to guard the horse—and him. As he’d made his way around Scorpion Bend the night before, a half-dozen men armed with rifles or shotguns had trailed him like ducklings after their mama. It had made him uneasy until he had gotten so drunk he’d forgotten all about them. Men he had never met bought him drinks and bragged on how much money he had made them.
He remembered some of the night, some of the money exchanging hands, some of the faces—and Quinn’s henchmen glaring at him as he went from one saloon to another.
Slocum peered outside. Clouds blanketed the sun, turning the day gray and promising rain at any time. The gray feeling communicated to him and made him even more uneasy. If he went to find something to eat, Black Velvet would be unguarded. After two legs of the Scorpion Bend race, Slocum knew how cutthroat the competition could be. With only five riders remaining, the odds of winning improved if any one racer could be eliminated. And under the rules, the horse ridden in the first two races had to be used in the third and final one. That made killing the horse equivalent to a bullet in Slocum’s back.
“You gonna stand in the doorway or you gonna leave?” said a gruff voice. Slocum stepped from the stable and looked to his right. A man armed with a rifle, with bandoliers of ammo crisscrossing his chest and two six-shooters shoved butt-forward in their cavalry-style holsters, watched him from behind the water barrel. Leaning against the wall was a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. This gent was ready to fight a small war—or one not so small.
“Where are the rest of the guards? Miss Maggie had a dozen men here last night.”
“Most of them purty near died tryin’ to match you drink for drink,” the man said in a dour tone. “I’m it for now, at least until some of them sleep it off and get back over here. After seein’ how you used your fists, and figurin’ you kin use that six-shooter on your hip, there’s not much reason to guard you.”
“Look after the horse,” Slocum said, wondering if the man could move without clanking. He had seen entire armies with fewer weapons. “I’m going to get some chow.”
“Little wonder,” the man said. “You damned near slept the day through.”
Slocum pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it. It startled him to see it was almost 5:00. It had to be in the afternoon because too much light poured down, in spite of the clouds, for it to be early in the morning.
“Thursday,” he muttered. Friday, and then Saturday morning for the race. It was coming at him like a freight train. Slocum stretched again and felt the muscles in his back protest. Walking slowly let him identify the sources of the pain and twist and turn and pull in different directions to get some mobility back. By the time he reached the cafe where he and Miss Maggie had worked on the cup of coffee before the bare-knuckles fight with Quinn, he was feeling as if he might live. By morning he would be ready to ride again.
And by Saturday morning, he would be ready to fight his weight in wildcats.
“Mr. Slocum, good to see you again. What can I get for you?” the woman said in greeting.
“Wondered if you’d even let me in after everything that happened,” he said, settling into the chair by the window. The glass had been replaced already.
“For the price of a single pane of glass I’ve had a steady stream of men coming in to see where you and Quinn fought it out.”
“Actually, it was down—” Then he realized the truth. The ring might have been at the edge of town, but the stories would build until he and Quinn fought in every single business in Scorpion Bend, if it increased sales.
Slocum shrugged, ordered, and felt worlds better when he finished. He noticed a small crowd forming outside, staring at him as he ate. It was as if they were memorizing every bite of food he took so they could tell their grandchildren about the day they saw the winner of the big race.
All Slocum had to do was win the race.
He went to pay, but the woman refused to take his money. “You keep on coming back, Mr. Slocum, and you’ll advertise the restaurant more ’n the price of your meals.”
“Good food,” Slocum said, rubbing his belly. “I’ll be back.”
“Everything’s on the house after you win!” the woman said cheerfully. Slocum hoped her confidence was well placed. He tipped his hat to her and left, feeling better than he had any time during the last twenty-four hours.
Slocum headed for Miss Maggie’s tent saloon, but didn’t get far. The man blocking his path was short and had tried in vain to grow a beard. Being blond made the hair almost vanish on his chin, even if it had been more than a youthful wisp. Every move the man—the youth—made showed how nervous he was. That made him deadlier than Slocum liked, especially with the way the man’s right hand kept making tiny jerking movements up toward the butt of his six-gun without actually drawing.
“You’re in my way,” Slocum said, staring coldly at the youth.
“You’re nuthin’ more ’n a pig wallowin’ in slop. You don’t have a backbone, Slocum. Come on, draw. I’ll take you. I will!”
Everything about him told Slocum he had never faced down another man before.
“Did Quinn put you up to this?” Slocum asked softly.
“He’s a great man! The best!” cried the blond youth. “You made him look like a danged fool yesterday. I cain’t let you git by with that. Draw!”
“The marshal said he didn’t want any gunplay in his town.”
“You’re yellow! Like I knowed all the time. I told Clete you’d never draw. I’m gonna cut you down where you stand, Slocum.”
From the corner of his eye Slocum saw a crowd gathering. Nothing dealing with the five riders in the big race went unnoticed in Scorpion Bend. What worried Slocum more than having witnesses was how another of Quinn’s henchmen might be hidden away on a rooftop with a rifle. He could plug Slocum and make it look like the fiery youth’s doing.
Or he could plug the kid and blame it on Slocum. Either way, the marshal had to put him in jail. That would keep Slocum out of the race.
“I just had a fine meal,” Slocum said. “I’d hate to get indigestion by killing you so soon after I’d eaten.” A tiny chuckle went up in the crowd. This infuriated the already tense gunman.
“Draw or die!”
“Let’s play a game, just for a minute,” Slocum said. “After we play it we can have a fight, if you’re still game.”
“No, now!”
“What’s another minute?” Slocum asked. “You think you’re good enough to take me. You wouldn’t be out here, if you didn’t,” he said, knowing that was probably a lie. The kid would be out here because Quinn had pumped him up and pushed him into the street.
“What are you gettin’ at?” the man-boy asked suspiciously. The hairs in his scraggly beard quivered along with his chin.
“I’ll stand about here and clap my hands. You draw when you want. If I clap before you can get your six-shooter between my hands, we’
ll shoot it out.” Slocum knew the penalty for guessing wrong that the youth merely wanted to prove his manhood. If he had suggested this to Quinn, no matter the outcome, Quinn would blow a hole in his gut.
“You just want to see how fast I am,” the youth declared.
“Right,” said Slocum. “You’re a smart one. But if you’re fast enough once, why not twice?”
“Git on over here and let’s dance!” the youth cried.
Slocum squared off at arm’s length. He watched the youth’s watery blue eyes. When he knew the other man was drawing, he moved his hands with blinding speed. He clapped them twice before batting away the six-gun before it made it up to point at Slocum’s belly.
Pale blue eyes went wide in surprise. Then the would-be gunman backed off.
“You’re fast,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“I’m even faster with a gun,” Slocum said. There was no hint of boast or lie in his words. “If you’ve asked around, you know I don’t miss.”
“Yeah, Skinny, he shot off a full dozen scorpions the other night ’fore he missed one!” someone in the crowd shouted.
“A dozen?” argued another. “I seen it with my own eyes. It was closer to two dozen. Never seen shootin’ like that. I won danged near a hunnerd dollars bettin’ on Slocum!”
Slocum let the tall tales ebb and flow without correcting any of them. Each retelling of his prowess with his six-shooter made the blond youth turn a little paler.
“Just walk away and we’re even. Do anything else and I’ll find out if I can get four or five slugs into you before the hit the ground.”
Again there was no braggadocio. Slocum spoke nothing but the straight truth.
The youth backed off, then almost ran. Slocum relaxed a mite. The kid would grow up and maybe cultivate a decent beard before doing anything this stupid again. But as long as he rode with Cletus Quinn, the youth was more likely to end up pushing up daisies in a potter’s field than glaring out from a wanted poster.
The crowd’s excited whispers burst into applause and cheers. Again. Slocum the hero. He let them herd him toward Miss Maggie’s saloon. It took less than five minutes to get there, but word had already reached the woman. She glared at Slocum, shook her graying head, and finally said, “I do declare. You are a trial to me, Slocum. Going up against a young buck like Skinny Grady was dangerous.”
“Not that dangerous,” Slocum said. “Not as dangerous as letting most of your guards slack off guarding Black Velvet.”
Miss Maggie frowned. “What are you saying? I’ve got eight men, all armed to the teeth, out there watching that mountain of horseflesh.”
“I reckon they must have been hiding,” Slocum said. “The only one I saw was the folla loaded for bear.”
“What do you mean?” The sharpness of her question brought Slocum up.
“He had bandoliers strung across his chest, like he was some Mexican bandido. Two six-guns shoved into cavalry holsters. A rifle and a shotgun.”
“What’d he look like?”
Slocum thought for a minute and pictured the man, then said, “A couple inches shorter than me. Thinning red hair from the look of what poked out from under his hat. Splotchy skin, a fair man who’d been out in the sun too long.”
“Jed!” bellowed Miss Maggie. “You hire anyone answering to that description?”
“Can’t say I have. Maybe he got hired on to watch over someone’s shift.”
“I told them no one I hadn’t given the okay to was supposed to get near that horse.”
“He didn’t try to make a move for me. He could have. I was more asleep than awake when I left the stable,” Slocum said.
“Black Velvet,” was all Miss Maggie said in a choked voice.
Slocum pushed his way through the crowd and ran all the way back to the stable. The tall stable doors stood open, and from inside came a commotion like trying to get a chicken into a burlap bag.
He looked around, but saw nothing of the man with the bandoliers. Or any of the other guards Miss Maggie claimed she had stationed there. Slocum whipped out his six-shooter and pressed his back against the wall. Cautiously advancing, he chanced a quick look around the comer. His prudence paid off.
A bullet cut through the brim of his Stetson. Slocum jerked back involuntarily. He dropped into a crouch, swung around, and hunted for the gunman inside. For a moment, his usually sharp eyes failed to see the man with the rifle, and it almost cost Slocum some lost blood.
A foot-long tongue of flame licked out from the rifle muzzle. The sound of the man moving alerted Slocum. He swung around, hunting for the target behind the muzzle flash. His own six-gun fired again and again until he heard a grunt followed by a thud.
It sounded like a rifle being dropped, but Slocum wanted to be sure. He rolled over and came to a crouch inside the first stall. He had two shots left in his Colt Navy. He wanted to make them count.
“Slocum, you all right?” came Jed’s cry from outside.
“Get back. You’ll get plugged if you come inside,” Slocum answered. He watched for any reaction from the man across the barn. He didn’t see or hear anything, and that put him on his guard. There wasn’t a quick, easy way out of the stable that Slocum couldn’t cover.
“You need any help?” Jed called.
“Go around to the back. Watch the rear door,” Slocum said, as much to get Jed and anyone with him out of his hair as to cut off retreat. He knew he had winged his assailant. How badly had the other been injured? Slocum didn’t know.
Slocum tossed a nail he found on the floor in the direction of the stall where he thought the gunman hid. The clatter sounded like the peal of doom. No movement. Slocum waited another few seconds, then made his play. Walking in a crouch, he went to the next stall and then the next, where his sorrel pawed nervously at the floor, kicking up straw and knocking over a water bucket.
“You won’t get out of here alive unless you give up,” Slocum said. He wasn’t sure he wanted the man to get out alive, even if he did surrender. It might be a little harder drilling him if he came out with his hands up—but not much. Slocum knew he faced a man intent on killing a horse. A man that low-down wouldn’t be missed.
No answer.
Slocum didn’t think he had killed the man. But now he had to find out for sure since the gunman wasn’t going to flush easily. Slocum took the time to reload. With six rounds ready to fly, he dashed across the open area in the middle of the barn. He ducked down in an empty stall. A cold knot formed in his belly when he realized this was Black Velvet’s stall. The horse was gone.
“You got to talk fast, horse thief,” Slocum called. “I reckon a noose is waiting for you unless they treat horse thieves different in Scorpion Bend.”
“It was all Quinn’s doing,” said a weak voice. “But he didn’t just steal the horse.” A laugh followed, meant to irritate Slocum into making a foolish move. “He’s going to sell it to the Injuns. Imagine a great big horse like that dragging a squaw’s travois. A work horse, not a race horse!”
Slocum held his temper in check, glanced up, and decided on how best to get the drop on the man. He saw the barrel of a rifle sticking out of the stall two down from him, and thought the man might be the one with the bandoliers.
“How many of the guards did you kill? Horse thief, backshooter, you fit right in Cletus Quinn’s gang.”
“He’s gonna win the race. You can’t ride if you don’t have a horse, Slocum.”
As the man rambled on, Slocum holstered his six-shooter, climbed on the edge of the stall, and jumped. He grabbed a beam supporting the loft and got over the edge. Making too much noise getting up alerted the man to his intention to capture the high ground.
“Die, Slocum, die!” The man—it was the red-haired guard with the bandoliers—stumbled out of the stall and lifted his shotgun toward the loft. He opened up, both barrels blazing.
The man fumbled to eject the spent shells and reload. He never got the chance. Slocum rose, sighted, and fired. The slug ca
ught the man just above the point where his bandoliers crossed. He stared down stupidly at the tiny red flower blossoming on his chest. Then the shotgun dropped from his hands, and he followed it to the floor.
Slocum felt no triumph at killing the man.
Black Velvet was gone. Quinn had stolen the horse, but had the man now dead on the floor told the truth about the horse being sold to Indians to use as a beast of burden?
That, as much as anything else Quinn had done, infuriated Slocum. He jumped to the ground and decided to talk with Miss Maggie about what they might do. He cared less about the race now than he did about getting Black Velvet back.
And sending Cletus Quinn to the promised land was next, after he recovered the horse.
12
“You’re in a world of trouble now,” Jed said, staring at the dead body of Quinn’s henchman.
“Why? Who is he?” Slocum asked. “Somebody important?”
“What do you mean? That pile of cow flop?” Jed laughed derisively. “Ain’t got the slightest notion who he might be. One of Quinn’s followers, that’s for sure.”
Slocum understood then. The entire town wanted him to win. He was the outsider, the long shot, the dark horse in the race. And he suspected Miss Maggie might have put more than faith on him winning against Quinn.
“Will she lose her saloon if I don’t race?”
“She’ll be strung up by the entire town. Hell, they’ll take turns to string her up more ’n once,” Jed said. “I’m clearin’ out right now ’fore anybody learns you lost Black Velvet.”
“I didn’t lose the horse,” Slocum said angrily. “Miss Maggie was supposed to guard the horse. This galoot walked in and took out all her guards. Might have bought them off, might have killed them. It doesn’t matter. They didn’t do what they were paid to do.”
“Don’t go blamin’ nobody else, Slocum. This is your fault. The horse’s gone and so am I!”
