Slocum and the Warm Reception (12 page)

“An election was held,” she said in a dull monotone. “Dawson was elected mayor even though nobody really knew what that entailed. Apart from those on the committees, nobody even knew the matter was going to be brought up again until the day before ballots were cast. Even though everyone I've asked say they voted against the proposition, it was passed and the office was created. Dawson strode into it like a proud poppa and set up his home and offices on the third floor of the Three Star Hotel. Two days after that, Old Man Garrett marched in to have a word with him.”

“That sounds more like the man I knew,” Slocum said. “How many others did he bring with him?”

“None.”

“Not even someone to watch his back?”

“No,” she said quietly. “Witnesses saw him go in, but nobody saw him leave. There were a few guesses . . . involving bundles that were taken out and dumped in the desert . . . but nobody knows for certain. All I can tell you, John, is that whenever someone asked around about what happened to the old man, they became real quiet on the subject shortly after. I asked some of the committee members what they thought might have happened. They were two men I thought I could trust. The next day, one of Dawson's men walks into the restaurant where I worked and told me they'd . . . well . . . let's just say he had nothing but ugly words.”

“Tell me what they said.”

“No. I . . .”

Slocum reached out to place his hand on top of hers. Squeezing gently but insistently, he said, “I want to know what he said.”

“Don't make me say it.”

“He threatened your life?”

Even in the scant amount of light in the room, Slocum could tell that she paled when she replied, “He didn't threaten my life . . . but he did threaten to hurt me. Said he would . . . do things to me. I . . . it—”

“Never mind,” Slocum interrupted. “I understand. It was just the one? Would you be able to point him out to me?”

“It's not that simple, John. It's not like when all we had to worry about was a crazy man with a gun. That was bad enough, but Dawson is something different.”

“He may be a different kind of animal, but he still needs to be brought down a couple of pegs. For just about any animal, that job is done in much the same way.”

Soon, she was the one taking his hand and squeezing urgently. “When someone stands up to Dawson, they're not just threatened. Things happen. Terrible things. The kind of things that make you wish he was just firing shots at you. And he doesn't just stop at one person. He goes after folks you know and he doesn't stop until he's gotten what he wants.”

The questions Slocum was about to ask were similar to the ones he'd asked the last time he'd been in Mescaline. What about the law? What about confronting this man? What about letting him know he wasn't feared and telling him he should leave town before he was tossed out on his ear? Slocum had asked those very same things where Jeremiah Hartley was concerned, and the fact that the questions needed to be asked again about another threat to the same people put a bad taste in his mouth.

“I can tell what you're thinking,” she said. “I can see the disgust on your face. You think we're all cowards.”

“No,” Slocum said. “That's not what I was thinking.”

“Don't you think we've all thought the same thing? After what happened with Jeremiah Hartley, there have been plenty of men who stepped up to make certain it wouldn't happen again.”

“And what happened to them?” Slocum asked.

“Some disappeared. Some are on Dawson's payroll now. Some are still in mourning for the loved ones that were either hurt or killed under strange circumstances. Some had houses or businesses that were burned to the ground. Some of them were burned to death inside them.”

Pulling his hand from her grasp, Slocum said, “It doesn't matter how they go about it, men like Hartley and Dawson are the same. They spill blood to get what they want because they think they can get away with it. And they'll keep spilling blood until someone shows them they
can't
get away with it anymore. I've seen more men like that than I can count.”

She shook her head vehemently. “You couldn't have seen anyone else like Abel Dawson. If you have, then I pity you because he's the closest thing to a devil any man can be and I've looked into the eyes of Jeremiah Hartley while he was gunning down men in the street right outside my house.”

“He's a man, Anna. Just a power-hungry, bloodthirsty, back-stabbing, lying man who needs to surround himself with hired guns to get what he wants.” Suddenly fed up with arguing what seemed like an obvious point, Slocum pounded the table and declared, “He's no devil!”

When Slocum grew angry, Anna became calmer. “That's not what I'm trying to say. I realize he's a man. I see that he's surrounding himself with gunmen. What I'm telling you is that you can't just walk up to Abel Dawson like he was some ordinary killer. He's more than that.”

“Tell me what he is, then.”

“He's someone that will not just hurt you, but will wait until he knows what you hold dear and then hurt that. He'll come in the middle of the night and do unspeakable things to anything or anyone you cherish before doing the same to you. He's not interested in a fight. He only cares about winning whatever prize he's set his sights on.”

“What prize is that?” Slocum asked.

“I don't know, John. I just want to stay out of his way until I get a chance to be free of this godforsaken town.”

“Then I guess it's up to me to find out what he's after.”

That night, Slocum barely slept. His thoughts were filled with words that had been spoken, memories of all kinds, and plans for all the different ways he could approach Abel Dawson. Of course, his first option was not to approach him at all. That was always a choice, but rarely a good one. Once a man started running from a fight, he never stopped running. In Slocum's case, he knew he wouldn't be able to look at himself in a mirror if he knew he'd turned tail and left town after what he'd heard.

For one thing, whoever Dawson was or whatever he wanted, he'd put a price on Slocum's head. That was something Slocum simply could not abide. Whether Dawson was Jeremiah Hartley's kin or not, the legacy of one most certainly influenced the actions of the other.

Another thing that troubled him was how an entire town could allow a man like that to seize control again. No matter how much he tried to sympathize, part of Slocum couldn't help but feel angry that so many good people could just roll over like a bunch of whipped dogs when another armed man came along and snapped his fingers. There was obviously more to it than that, but the fact remained that the people who'd survived one such ordeal should have learned enough to make certain it didn't happen again.

All of those things and plenty more were boiling inside Slocum's head as he got up and went into Anna's kitchen after a fitful night's rest. She joined him soon after and prepared a simple breakfast of oatmeal and coffee without more than a handful of words passing between them.

Outside, the sun was making itself known only by coloring the sky a light, hazy purple. Cold, crisp air seeped into the house from all sides like icy fingers encircling them within the desert's chilling grip. Slocum ate the food that was placed in front of him, got dressed, buckled his gun belt around his waist, and placed his hat upon his head. He was reaching for the handle of the front door when Anna stopped him with two little words.

“Don't go.”

“Gunmen were sent to collect my scalp. I can't let a thing like that stand.”

“Why not? Surely this isn't the first time someone's threatened you like that.”

“No,” Slocum replied. “It isn't. If I let it go unanswered, though, it may be the last.”

Standing behind him, she asked, “Why? Are you afraid of what people say about you when you're not there to defend yourself? There's worse things than bad talk dirtying your name.”

“This man Dawson didn't just appear at the edge of the desert and ride into Mescaline,” Slocum said as he wheeled around to find Anna standing with her arms crossed and a stern expression etched into her face. “If his offer makes it out of this town, there'll be men in other towns looking to collect. And if the offer stands without someone answering for it, more like it will spring up. There are plenty of men who would pay to have my head upon their platter. I've got to make it known what a bad idea that is.”

She approached him, looking as though she would continue to address him in a severe manner. As soon as she unfolded her arms and wrapped them around him, she took on a much softer tone. “You've already saved this town once, John. You don't have to risk your life doing it again.”

“You're getting ahead of yourself,” he said while embracing her. “I came to Mescaline to conduct some business and that's what I intend on doing.”

“You'll steer clear of Abel Dawson?”

“I won't seek out a fight.”

“Just promise me you'll steer clear of him.”

“I can't do that,” he said. “From what you told me, he's got this town wrapped around his finger. Besides, if the fella that was threatening the woman at the Three Star is awake and talking, he'll let them know something happened. He was already looking for me, so I guess they'll find me sooner or later.”

“I forgot about him,” she sighed. Holding him at arm's length, Anna looked up at Slocum and said, “You don't have to go back to the Three Star.”

“That's where my gear is. I'm not about to abandon it.”

“Damn it, John! You're taking this too lightly!”

Slocum eased some of her worries with a kiss. They'd shared plenty of them since he'd arrived, but this one was more like a cool breeze than the fiery passion from the previous night. “I'm not taking this lightly,” he said in a voice that was just loud enough for her to hear. “Trust me, I'm not about to stroll in anywhere unless I've got something up my sleeve.”

After allowing him to slip from her grasp, Anna asked, “Do you truly have something up your sleeve this time?”

“Always. But I won't be able to do this on my own.”

“If there's anything I can do to help . . .”

“What I need,” Slocum replied, “is very important and it seems perfectly suited to your particular talents.”

He spoke to her for another couple of minutes. Although she was intrigued by his proposition, she was also more than a little leery. “Are you sure this can work?” she asked when he was done spelling everything out for her.

“It's got to.”

* * *

Whenever Slocum had thought back to Mescaline in the days following his run-in with Jeremiah Hartley, he didn't think of it as a particularly quiet or rowdy town. Of course, that was when he thought of the town itself and not the chaos brought by the mad dog outlaw who'd tried keeping the place under his boot. Mescaline was still fairly small, which meant it would be quiet after sundown. What Slocum experienced as he made his way back to the Three Star that morning, however, was more than just quiet.

It was silence more suited for a grave.

The sun had crested the eastern horizon, spreading brighter colors across the sky like so much spilled paint. It was Slocum's experience that town folk tended to sleep later than ranch hands or cowboys, simply because their professions made different demands of them. Even so, there were plenty of reasons for folks in town to greet the sunrise every morning that didn't involve tending animals, planting crops, or preparing for a long day's ride.

Perhaps what struck Slocum the most was the fact that he could see signs of life all around him. Smoke rose from chimneys. Curtains rustled in windows. He even got a few fleeting glimpses of people moving in doorways. For some reason, though, none of those people seemed interested in poking their noses outside. Then, as if to prove him wrong, a single horse pulled a cart around the corner directly in front of him. The cart was driven by a man who sat with the reins in his hands, his back hunched over, and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat angled forward to cover most of his face. A slack-jawed mouth hung partly open as it gnawed on a thick piece of hay.

“Morning,” Slocum said cheerily.

The cart driver used one dirty hand to push his hat up enough for him to gander at something other than the backside of the animal in front of him. After taking Slocum's stock in a slow down-and-up glance, he grunted and gave his reins a flick. The horse picked up its pace, carrying the cart a little faster down the street.

Slocum guessed the driver of that cart wouldn't have provided much in the way of conversation, but he didn't have anything for comparison. He didn't cross anyone else's path before arriving at the Three Star. When he opened the door to the hotel, he was greeted with a whole different scene entirely.

There was a different woman tending the front desk. She was a short lady in her fifties with dark hair tied into a bun and a wide smile that was almost as bright as the rising sun. She was talking to a man who leaned against the desk on an elbow as if he'd bellied up to a bar. Voices filled the hotel as conversations, laughter, and plenty more drifted through the air along with the scents of frying bacon, eggs, and potatoes. Upon seeing him enter, the woman behind the counter brightened even more.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” she asked. “Is that John Slocum?”

He strode forward and put on a smile to match hers. “Your eyes do not deceive you, ma'am.”

“I saw the name on my register and thought it was someone coming around trying to get a few free drinks.”

“Does that happen often?”

“You'd be surprised what some unethical types will do for free drinks or otherwise favorable treatment,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“First of all, I'd like some breakfast.”

“Go right in, take any seat you like. Margaret is in the kitchen right now and she said she'll whip up some biscuits and gravy as soon as you're ready for them.”

“Just as long as you bring them to me yourself,” Slocum replied with a grin.

The woman's cheeks flushed a bit, but she quickly agreed.

Slocum went into the dining room and had to look around for a table that wasn't already being used. Eventually, he found one in a corner at the back of the room close to the door leading to the kitchen. Since the table allowed him to put his back to a wall and the rest of the room directly in front of him, it was perfectly suited to his needs.

“I guess this is where everyone went,” he said to himself as he took a seat and removed his hat. By the time he'd placed his hat on the back of the chair beside him, Slocum could see the top of the short woman's head moving through the crowd like a fish navigating a messy coral reef.

She exchanged quick pleasantries with several of the patrons and tossed him an even quicker nod as she charged into the kitchen. In no time at all, she came out again carrying a steaming cup resting in a white saucer. Somehow she managed to dodge a few servers and several meandering customers without spilling a drop from the cup which she placed in front on him on the table.

“There you go,” she said. “Freshly brewed. The rest is on its way.”

Slocum could smell the coffee right away. He picked up the cup and moved it beneath his nose to take an even deeper breath. “I'm surprised there's any left,” he said. “You're awfully busy this morning.”

“It's busy every morning.”

“Any particular reason for that?” he asked as he shifted his eyes to study her.

Even though he couldn't recall the woman's name, Slocum knew he'd seen her before. The lines on her face, while put there by age, didn't do a thing to dim the light that shone inside her. She was a radiant woman, brimming with a good nature and kind soul. All those things made Slocum feel even worse for not being able to think of her name.

In response to the question that had been posed to her, she shrugged. “We serve a good breakfast. The Three Star has some of the finest cooks in Nevada in its employ. That's mostly because of our distinguished guest on the third floor, but he's probably the other reason so many folks are here.”

“You mean Mr. Dawson?”

“That's right. So you've heard of him?”

“Hard not to hear of a man like that,” Slocum replied.

For the first time since he'd walked into the hotel, Slocum saw the cordial expression on her face dim. The woman, not much taller than him while he was seated, quickly regained her previous brightness as she said, “Men like him aren't difficult to find. All you have to do is look under a rock in damp places.”

“He seems to be important.”

“Here in Mescaline, he is. But this is a small town in a small desert on the face of a very large world. In the scheme of things, Dawson isn't much more than a bump on a forgotten log. Now is there anything else I can get for you?”

“Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?” Slocum said.

“I figured you'd tell me,” she replied. “If I listen long enough, folks tend to tell me everything there is about themselves. After all, that's usually their favorite subject.”

“It pains me to admit this, but I don't recall your name.”

Her smile returned in all its glory. “That's not surprising,” she said. “Especially considering how busy you were during your last visit. Some know me as Lacy.”

Slocum furrowed his brow. “That doesn't sound familiar. Why do they call you that?”

“Because they weren't listening well enough to have heard my name is actually Lucy.”

“Too busy talking about their favorite subject, huh?”

She tapped her temple and winked at him.

“Well, your real name sounds more familiar,” Slocum said. “I think that's the one I'll use.”

“Glad to hear it.”

When Lucy started to move away from the table to check on his breakfast, he took hold of her arm in a grip that was just firm enough to keep her from getting far. “Did you hear about what happened the other night?”

“You mean about you getting to town or about one of Dawson's men being dragged out into the night and knocked into a stupor?” Looking at him as if she knew more than anyone else in that entire room, she said, “Yes. I did hear. You wouldn't have had something to do with any of that, would you?”

“I most certainly did! I got to town on my own steam. Rode all the way through that little desert you mentioned.”

“What about the rest?”

“The rest,” Slocum said. “Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I should warn you, John. This may be that little inconsequential place I described earlier, but while you're here, Dawson is still at the head of the table. Most everyone who comes to court his favor will do so any way they can, even if it means feeding a good man like yourself to the wolves.”

“Then I suggest you take a seat and look as if I'm not saying anything more than my thoughts on the weather.”

She placed her hand upon the back of the chair Slocum offered and leaned in. “I still need to get your breakfast. Can it wait?”

“While you're back there, can you tell me if there are any of Dawson's men in the kitchen?”

“I can tell you that right now,” she replied. “Any men Dawson might have are right where you can see them. He's confident enough that he doesn't feel he needs to worry about someone taking a run at him. That is, unless that someone is you.”