Slocum and the Warm Reception (4 page)

Patrick leaned over so he could whisper as they passed a long porch in front of a clothing store, where a few elderly women in dreary dresses with high collars watched them. “I ain't just talking about curling yer toes . . .”

Despite the deputy's best efforts to keep his voice down, one of the old ladies must have had ears sharper than an eagle's eye because she recoiled and grimaced as if Patrick had taken the Lord's name in vain. After she'd taken the time to lean over and whisper to the old woman beside her, both of them glared at Slocum and Patrick as if they were trying to burn holes through their heads.

“Ladies,” Patrick said in a futile attempt to win them over. Even his crooked grin and hat tip weren't enough to remove some of the venom from the women's eyes. “Come on in here,” he said while leading the way into a general store beneath a sign advertising ointments and other assorted medicinal offerings. There was a large counter along the side wall with a skinny bald man behind it and a row of stools in front of it.

Following the deputy's lead, Slocum took a seat. “This where I can have some of that pie you mentioned or did you just duck in here to escape the notice of them crones?”

“Ain't escaping from no one,” Patrick grumbled. Having caught the skinny man's eye, he asked, “What's Martha cooked up today?”

The man behind the counter looked at Slocum nervously before replying, “Peach and rhubarb.”

“I'll have a slice of the peach!”

“Fair warning, Pat. Them peaches are canned.”

“We live in a desert,” Patrick sneered. “You really think you needed to warn me about us not havin' peach trees?”

The skinny fellow shrugged and shifted his attention to Slocum. “What can I get for you, mister?”

“You can get me the name of someone who might know a thing or two about mining claims.” Although he didn't have a claim in mind or any inquiry regarding one, any man who knew about claims would know someone who bought gold and silver. Seeing as how he was carrying a pouch of the stuff in his saddlebags, Slocum wasn't exactly comfortable with making that fact known to anyone within earshot. After all that had happened so far on his way to Mescaline, the prospect of selling his dust and nuggets now and heading in another direction was becoming more and more appealing.

The man behind the counter looked puzzled, but didn't get a chance to speak before Patrick asked, “You planning on staying around here for a spell?”

“That depends on what your sheriff has to say about it.”

“I can't speak for him, but . . .” Looking at the skinny fellow, the deputy snapped, “Go on and fetch that pie! Bring us over a pitcher of water while you're at it.”

The man behind the counter grumbled to himself and shuffled away to fill the order.

Now, when Patrick lowered his voice, there wasn't anyone other than Slocum to hear him. A few locals were looking through a pile of blankets on the other side of the room and the young man sitting at the farthest end of the counter was too interested in his own business to bother eavesdropping on someone else's.

“That pretty lady cleaning them stalls is trouble,” Patrick said. “It's my business to handle trouble in this town and I've found the best way to do that is to nip it in the bud before it can sprout. Stay away from her, you hear?”

“Or what?” The question had come more as a knee-jerk response and was out before Slocum could stop it. After so many years of tending to his own affairs, good or bad, he didn't care to take orders from others. He cared even less for orders nestled within any kind of threat. Even so, he immediately regretted being so cross with the deputy.

Patrick's face shifted into a harder expression. “Or . . . if you go sniffing around her and any trouble follows, I can't just assume she's the cause of it. You seem like a good fella, John. I'm just warnin' you is all. The only reason I've been pressing the matter so much is because I still got the eyes and every other functioning part of a man and I know the first warning probably fell on deaf ears. Depending on how long you've been alone in that desert, the blood may have been rushing so fast that every warnin' I gave until this very second may not have been heard. So here it is again, watch that lady close.”

Slocum nodded. “All right. I get the message. What did this woman do that's worth all these warnings?”

“Nothing I can prove,” Patrick replied. “I heard some things, though. None of them were good.”

“That's not exactly enough to hang your hat on.”

“When she first came to town, some folks came looking for her in regard to a bit of violence in Montana. Seems the man she was with turned up dead. Another man who shared her company was an unsavory type and he wound up dead, too. Vigilantes strung him up and set him on fire.”

“That seems awfully harsh,” Slocum said. “Even for vigilantes.”

“Rumor has it they did the lynching and she lit the match.”

Slocum let out a low whistle. “These are just rumors?”

“Yep. There were also rumors that both men had it coming. The second fella was a known killer and the first wasn't known at all. Because of that, me and the sheriff kept her safe when those men came looking for her. They were armed and looking for blood and she . . . well . . . it just didn't seem proper to hand her over to men such as them.”

“Understandable.”

“Then the next batch came looking,” Patrick continued. “That was just under a year ago. Bunch of wild-eyed owl hoots stinking of whiskey and shooting up the place like a pack of savages. In between all the cussing and yelling, they were asking for her, too. It was the law's duty to run them out of town no matter what they went on about, but they wanted to see her on account of her setting up a few of their friends to take a fall for something or other. Also said she stole a bundle of money from them.”

“She didn't strike me as the rich sort,” Slocum said.

“Not now, but she had enough to feed herself and buy a little house when she first arrived. She only started doing odd work here and there over the last few months after falling out of favor with some charitable sorts who took her under their wing after all them rough types came storming in looking to harm her.”

“So she fell out of favor with them, huh?”

“Sure enough.”

“Why?”

Patrick shrugged and leaned back as the man behind the counter approached with the pitcher of water and two cups. “Can't say for certain,” the deputy replied. “I just know that, proof or not, there seems to be something to what I've been telling you other than just rumor.”

After the man behind the counter went away to cut into the pie that was kept beneath an overturned pot on a table in one corner, Slocum poured himself some water and downed the entire cup in one gulp. The water was soaked into his body quicker than a drip disappeared from the surface of a frying pan. He poured himself another cup and allowed everything he'd heard to soak in along with the water. “I don't even know her name,” he mused.

“You don't need to know much else than what I told you. I already repeated myself more than I like, so I ain't about to say anything else on the matter.”

“Fair enough, I suppose. Think you can answer one question for me, though?”

“Depends on the question.”

“If you have such strong suspicions about that woman, why did you bring me directly to that stable to put my horse up?”

Patrick hung his head as if he'd been expecting that question all this time and had just started to think he might not hear it. After a sigh, he told him, “Last time I checked, she was working at the stable just across the street from the sheriff's office. I arranged for her to work there so the sheriff and I could keep watch over her.”

“I didn't see a stable near the sheriff's office.”

“That's on account of me taking you in the other direction as quick as I could.”

“Thanks for the warning, Pat. I'll keep it in mind. Since I don't intend on staying around town for long, I think I'll be just fine.”

“You mentioned a day or two?”

“How about I leave tomorrow? Would that suit you?”

“I didn't mean to run you off,” Patrick said. “Just givin' some friendly advice.”

“I've got some business to take care of and I'd like to finish it quick.”

“Business about them claims?” the man behind the counter asked as he shuffled forward with a hearty portion of peach pie on a chipped plate.

“You know someone who might be able to help in that regard?” Slocum asked.

“Reid Flanders is the man to talk to if you want to look up the legal right to a claim or buy one outright. He brokers sales for patches of land as well, since there ain't much mining going on in these parts. Not since the silver and copper was cleaned out a few years back.”

“Sounds like just the man I need to speak to.”

“His office is on the corner of Laramie and First. Head out of here and turn right. Can't miss it.”

“Much obliged.”

“Don't make any appointments yet, though,” Patrick advised. “You got one with Sheriff Marshal if you forgot.”

“I didn't forget, but it can wait.”

Patrick's brow furrowed as he asked, “Wait for what?”

“Wait for me to have my pie.” Looking to the skinny fellow, Slocum added, “Make mine rhubarb.”

“What in the hell took you so long?” the sheriff bellowed as Slocum and Patrick entered his little office.

It had been less than an hour since they'd left the lawman's sight, but it seemed Marshal had been building up steam for a good deal longer than that.

“I went with him just like you said,” Patrick told the lawman. “Had to put his horse up and whet his whistle. Ain't exactly proper to let a man go thirsty after he crawled in from the desert.”

“Plenty of things crawl in from the desert,” Marshal said. “Don't mean we have to treat them proper.”

“Speaking of which,” Slocum said as he walked into the sheriff's office and had a look around. “Where's the man I brought along with me?”

The office was a small building that was only slightly larger than a cabin. There was such a sparse amount of furnishings within that there was still room for three men to walk around. Patrick went to a gun cabinet and posted himself in front of it. The sheriff had come from around a desk that had more dust on top of it than paperwork. A small stack of newspapers was in one corner beside the door and the wall adjacent to that was covered in reward notices. Slocum had thought they were reward notices at first, but most turned out to be clippings from newspapers tacked up like a wide frame around three notices bearing the likenesses of half a dozen men.

Stepping up to Slocum's side, Marshal looked at the wall display as well. “Any of this look familiar?”

“Yep,” Slocum replied. Extending one arm, he used a finger to jab at two of the likenesses that had been drawn in rough charcoal lines. “That man there and the one right beside him. They look similar to the ones who ambushed me in the desert. Can't speak for the third one. He kept his distance. If you want to see him, you can ride out and examine the corpse yourself.”

As far as drawings went, the ones on the reward notices were crude. They did, however, depict the strange hair style of the Indian that had been coated in mud. The other one's face was comprised of simple lines which Slocum might have overlooked if he hadn't spent so much time with the man attached to it slung across the back of his horse.

“How many did you say there were?” Marshal asked.

Without hesitation, Slocum replied, “Three.”

“And what did they do exactly?”

“One of them shouted down at me from a ridge while the other two crept up on either side so they could jump me from the bushes.”

Rubbing his chin, the sheriff asked, “All three of them Indians?”

“That's what I thought at first,” Slocum told him. “But I'm not so sure about the man I brought in.”

“What about now?” Marshal said as he turned toward the office's back door and strode over to open it. “Take a look and tell me what you think now that I cleaned him up a bit.”

Slocum followed the lawman outside to where the Indian's body was propped against the back of the building with his feet stretched out in front of him as if he were merely sleeping off a bottle of hard liquor. The cleaning the sheriff had referred to had obviously been a few bucketfuls of water tossed onto the dead man's face. Enough of the caked mud had been cleared away to reveal features that didn't remind Slocum of any Indian he'd ever seen.

“Just like I figured,” Slocum said. “He's no Indian.”

“You got that right,” Marshal said. “None of those men are. They're just a small band of robbers looking to put a scare into folks by making them think they've been set upon by an Injun war party. They know the desert like the backs of their hands and their ruse has been working well enough for them to stick with it and keep picking apart anyone that rides through.”

Slocum thought back to the attack. “It didn't seem like a real raiding party, that's for certain, but the man leading it struck me as a brave.”

“His name is Ellis Jaynes. Used to be a scout for the Cavalry, but was drummed out of his regiment for thievery. Knows just enough to put on a good show, but he usually keeps his distance and takes potshots with a rifle while his other men crawl in close for the dirty work. Usually stands up on high ground blathering on about him being the blood of his land or the wrath of his tribe or some other such nonsense. What's so damned funny?”

Slocum couldn't help but chuckle when he heard the sheriff's watered-down description. “Just seems to me like you've got a better handle on this whole thing than I thought.”

“Glad to hear it. I suppose you knew about Jaynes when you rode into town?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you're John Slocum,” the sheriff replied. “I've heard a thing or two about you.”

“Whatever you heard, it doesn't mean I make it my business to keep up on news about every little bunch of robbers that dress up like Indians to frighten folks on a desert road. The only reason I brought in one of them was because I suspected this wasn't the first time they've tried something like this.”

“Then you're after a reward.”

“It entered my mind there may be a price on their heads, but I thought the law might also want to know those men were dead. Since I did go through so much trouble, however, I'll take whatever reward is coming.”

“I suppose you're entitled. Come back inside and I'll settle up with you.”

Slocum and the sheriff went back inside. Marshal circled around his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a small metal box. He opened the box, took out a wad of cash, and peeled off two fifty-dollar bills. “Here you go,” he said while handing over the money. “Paid in full.”

Holding the money in his open hand, Slocum asked, “That's all for a known killer? A hundred dollars?”

The sheriff shrugged while closing the box and putting it back into his drawer. “Would have been more for Ellis Jaynes, but not much. Check the notice yourself if you think I'm lying.”

Slocum looked over at the notice once again and focused on the figure written beneath the crudely drawn picture. “It says a hundred fifty,” he pointed out.

“Fifty dollars makes that much difference to a man like you?” Marshal asked.

“I've got to pay for my meals the same as anyone. I also don't much care for being shortchanged on any job I do.”

Without so much as glancing at the notices, Marshal said, “Check it again. The notice says a hundred and fifty . . . if he's brought in alive. There's a penalty for dead. If you would have thought to bring in all the bodies, there would have been more coming to you.”

Slocum had to lean in closer to the notice, but he quickly saw that the sheriff was correct. He closed his fist around the money he'd been given so he could stuff it into his pocket. “Guess that about wraps up our business, then. How about handing over my weapons?”

“I still have some questions for you, mister. Namely, why'd you only bring in one of them?”

“Because,” Slocum replied, “there was a long ride ahead of me and I wasn't about to slow my horse down even more by hauling all that extra weight. I can tell you where to find the other ones if you're interested.”

The sheriff dismissed that offer with half a wave of his hand. “I don't give a damn where the other bodies are. Feeding the coyotes would be the best thing them men have ever done. I'd like your word that you'd tell me if you knew where to find anyone else Jaynes may have associated with before they find some other gunhands willing to make some quick money by dressing as Indians and terrorizing another group of travelers on their way to my town.”

“Why would I know such a thing?”

“I already told you,” Marshal said. “I heard plenty about John Slocum and a lot of it involves you gunning down some killer or tracking down another. Seems about right that you'd know where to find Ellis Jaynes. You crossing paths with him and his raiders seems like too big of a coincidence for me to swallow.”

“Then swallow a little harder, Sheriff,” Slocum said. “Because a coincidence is all it was. Trust me, I've seen more than enough of them to spot another when I stumble through it.”

The lawman eyed him carefully while slowly digesting everything he said. “You weren't here to look for Jaynes?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what brings you to town?”

“I've got business in Mescaline,” Slocum replied. “If you have any questions regarding my character, I propose you ask someone who's lived there for more than a year. They'll tell you my word is good enough to hold water. If I can conduct my business here, I'm willing to do so and be on my way.”

Nodding slowly to himself, the sheriff shifted his focus back to his desk. Although there wasn't much there to catch anyone's eye, he busied himself with a few scraps of paper as he grumbled, “Yeah, I heard about what you did in Mescaline.”

“Then you know I'm not just some vagrant. And you should also know there's no good reason to treat me like a criminal.”

“If I was treating you that way, you'd be locked in the cage out back.”

Slocum had seen the little shed behind the office when he'd poked his nose outside to get a look at the partially washed body. It wasn't the worst jail he'd seen cobbled together by a lawman without any other options, but it wasn't something he wanted to see up close. “Just give me my guns and I'll be going. Otherwise,” Slocum added gravely, “I'd like to know what cause you have for keeping them from me.”

The sheriff looked up at him intently. For a moment, it seemed the lawman was going to make a case for keeping the guns in his possession. Eventually, Marshal let out the breath he'd been hanging on to and looked at his deputy. “Go ahead and give Mr. Slocum his guns.”

Patrick fished a key from his pocket, fit it into the cabinet behind him, and opened it to reveal a row of pistols hanging from pegs and a few rifles propped up beside a pair of shotguns. Slocum's Sharps was in there as well as the .44. After handing over the two weapons to Slocum, Patrick locked up the cabinet as if it contained a treasure of gold bricks.

“If it's all the same to you,” Slocum said as he holstered the .44, “I'll find a suitable hotel on my own.”

“There's three to choose from,” Marshal said. “Have a good night's sleep.” With that, the lawman looked down at his desk and scribbled on a single sheet of paper.

There was plenty Slocum wanted to say at that moment. Instead, he bit his tongue and left the sheriff to whatever nonsense had suddenly occupied him. The saddlebags had been slung over his shoulder throughout most of his time in Davis Junction, but they seemed especially cumbersome when he hefted them again now along with the Sharps as he went through the office door. Once outside, he broke into a stride that carried him across the street. Out of curiosity, he glanced over one shoulder to find the little stable that Patrick had mentioned earlier. “Nothing's ever easy,” he snarled.

“Where are you going?” Patrick asked as he came from the office.

“What do you care? If that sheriff told you to keep an eye on me while I'm in town, he should do it himself.”

“That ain't it.” Huffing to catch up with Slocum, Patrick finally came alongside him and struggled to match his pace. “Don't take any of that personal. The sheriff hasn't lived around here as long as I have. He's still got dirt from Virginia on the bottom of his boots.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“I'm saying all he knows about you is what he gathered from what he heard from others. He's been to Mescaline, but not when Jeremiah Hartley was runnin' the place. He never got to see the faces that was busted up or the fingers that were hacked off when folks couldn't afford to pay the taxes he levied.”

Slocum stopped in his tracks. It wasn't often that he thought about Jeremiah Hartley, and part of that was because he tried not to dwell very long on the faces belonging to the men he'd killed. Whether those men had it coming or not was just a footnote that didn't make a scrap of difference on those nights when the ghosts came knocking. Snuffing out someone's life stained a man's soul. The act alone was a weight to bear, and guilt or innocence didn't make it any lighter. It should have, but it didn't. For a man like Slocum, who'd taken more than a dozen men's shares of lives, it was a weight that would have been damn near unbearable if he dwelled on it for long.

Also, there was always a chance that the preachers were right and the dead truly did take some sort of comfort in being remembered. The way Slocum saw it, Jeremiah Hartley was a cruel son of a bitch who didn't deserve the slightest bit of comfort as he rotted in the hole where he'd been buried.

After letting out a slow, tired breath, Patrick said, “Eh, you must have ridden from one end of this country to the other a few times over since the last time you suffered through this stretch of desert. You probably forgot all about Jeremiah Hartley.”

“No,” Slocum said. “I haven't forgotten.”

“My point is, if the sheriff don't pay you the proper respect, it's out of ignorance and nothing more. All he's seen is what Mescaline is now.”

“Am I free to go about my business?” Slocum asked.

“Naturally,” Patrick said.

“Then that's what I aim to do. When I'm finished, I'll be on my way.” Slocum tapped the edge of a finger against the brim of his hat and turned his back on the deputy. He could find Laramie Street on his own.