Slocum and the Warm Reception (8 page)

With that, the old man left the restaurant. He didn't say another word and didn't cast another glance in Slocum's direction.

There were still a few more bites of pie on Slocum's plate, and he'd be damned if he was going to let them go to waste. When he ate them, however, he wasn't as cheerful as he'd been during the first couple of mouthfuls. He'd finished up most of the meal and was using the side of his fork to scrape up the gravy and extra pieces of crust and vegetables when the big woman emerged from the kitchen amid the now familiar sound of heavy, shuffling steps.

Rather than wait for her to cross the room, Slocum put his fork on top of his plate, swallowed the last gulp of water from his glass, and got up to take those things to her.

Accepting the dirty plate that was handed over, she asked, “Is that true?”

“You mean what the old man was saying?” Slocum asked.

“I mean about you being John Slocum.”

“It's true.”

“Then you don't owe a dime for your supper.”

“I appreciate that, ma'am.”

Before he could say another word, she told him, “I didn't see you up close back when you were here last, so I didn't recognize you now. All I saw during the last days of Jeremiah Hartley was a whole lot of blood in the sand and shooting in the streets. I kept my head down and only peeked out to make sure it was safe to step into the daylight again.”

Slocum remembered plenty more during those days that didn't involve shooting, but wasn't about to correct her.

“Plenty of folks here remember them days,” she continued. “Most are grateful to you. Most don't hold you accountable for what happened afterward since you left.”

“What did happen?”

“You need to go,” she said, sidestepping his question as clumsily as if she'd tried to step around a loose floorboard. “Go right now and don't come back, you hear?”

“Can't you just—”

“Go! That's all I got to say to you!”

And so . . . Slocum went.

Slocum stepped outside with questions swirling inside his head fast enough to upset the food he'd so recently eaten. What settled even worse was the fact that he felt even less welcome in Mescaline than he had in Davis Junction. Questions and possibilities drifted through his mind, none of which he could put to rest since none of the few folks he'd seen were ready to say more than a couple words on the subject.

His horse waited at the trough, looking refreshed after having drunk a good portion of the water in front of him. The gelding nudged Slocum's hand as he held it out to him, snuffing calmly as Slocum patted the side of his neck. Before Slocum could climb into the saddle or take the reins, a pair of figures rounded a corner and walked toward the little restaurant. Thanks to the torches that had been lit on that side of the street, he could also see the angry faces they wore.

“Easy, boy,” Slocum said to the horse. “Things look like they might get a bit rough.”

The two men who approached were about the same height. Slocum guessed they were both a hair shorter than him, which wouldn't make a lot of difference since they were armed with at least one pistol and a shotgun apiece. They held their shotguns ready and in front of them, but for the moment, the barrels were aimed at the dirt just ahead of their feet.

“What's your business here, mister?” one of them asked. He was slightly taller than the other one and wore a bowler hat. His partner scowled beneath the brim of an old Stetson.

Slocum stepped away from his horse, but made sure he was within a short distance of the rifle in his saddle's boot. For the time being, he was confident he wouldn't need any more than what was already at his disposal. “Why's everyone so interested in that?” he asked. “I've been in town less than an hour and have already been questioned a few times. Didn't Mescaline used to be a friendly place?”

“Yeah,” the shorter fellow said. “Used to be. But you probably know all about that.”

“Shut up, Matt,” the one in the bowler said. Shifting the finger he'd been pointing toward Slocum, he added, “As for you, mister. You ain't wanted around here.”

“So let me guess,” Slocum said in a tired voice. “You want me to leave?”

“Oh, you'll be leaving all right. Feet first.”

Both men stood side by side. They spread out and began stalking forward with cruel intentions written across ugly faces.

“What's the meaning of this?” Slocum asked. “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

“You're John Slocum?”

“That's right.”

“Then you should know damn well what this is about.”

“How about you enlighten me?” When neither of the other men responded, Slocum squared his shoulders to them and placed his hand less than two inches above his holstered .44. “If you want to steam ahead without explaining yourselves, that's fine by me. I can ask my questions to whoever shows up at your funeral.”

That stopped both men dead in their tracks. They were well within the serviceable range of their shotguns, but didn't seem as keen to use them as they'd been scant moments ago. The one who had been called Matt looked to the one wearing the bowler as he became increasingly less comfortable in his own skin.

“I heard about him, Luke,” Matt said. “If this is John Slocum . . .”

“If this is John Slocum, then we're about to become rich. Both of us. Now shut up and do like we planned.”

“If you planned on dying,” Slocum warned, “you're both going about it the right way.”

Both men planted their feet. Matt was still fidgety, but held his ground.

Luke tightened his grip on his shotgun, but still wasn't ready to bring it up to bear. “You come here for Mr. Dawson?”

Slocum slowly shook his head. “Don't even know who that is.”

“Well, he sure knows you.”

One thing that Slocum appreciated about nervous men with guns was their tendency to talk more than they should. A fearful soul often made for loose lips or itchy britches and these two had both. While Luke couldn't stop talking, Matt couldn't stop nervously shifting from one foot to the other.

“Mr. Dawson's got a standing order,” Luke said. “It says he'll pay for any word that John Slocum is in this state. If'n anyone by that name sets foot in Mescaline, he's to be shot on sight.”

“Those are harsh words,” Slocum said.

“Damn straight.”

“I would have thought a man with that kind of hatred for me would have sent more than the two of you to get the job done.”

“We're more than enough, mister,” Luke boasted.

“If you're certain about that, I'll give you a chance to prove it.”

Although Matt had stopped fidgeting so much, he'd drawn himself tighter than a bowstring, which wasn't exactly a good thing. Luke ground his teeth together, thinking so hard about what he should do next that smoke was about to come from his ears.

Slocum had given them so much slack for one reason. If there was anyone backing their play, odds were best that those other men would make themselves known right about now. Nobody stepped up on their behalf, however. In fact, there was hardly anyone to be seen on either side of the street.

“There must be more,” Slocum prodded. “Something that would make two men like yourselves risk your lives on such a fine night as this.”

“Three thousand dollars,” Luke replied.

Slocum let out a low whistle. “All of that for me? Why don't you take me to have a word with this Mr. Dawson and we can split the money?”

“D-Don't work that way,” Matt sputtered. “It's three thousand for your body. Dead body, that is.”

“Ah,” Slocum said. “There's always a catch.”

Even with this stalling, Slocum saw no trace of backup coming. Even someone positioned on high ground somewhere would have taken a shot by now. The instincts that had seen him through tougher scrapes than this one told him there would be nobody on a rooftop. Just to be safe, Slocum had made sure to be far enough away from the few crackling torches along the street to make it difficult for anyone to get a clear shot. What puzzled him most was the lack of spectators. Even the purest souls tended to get curious when a fight was brewing within earshot.

“Can I ask why he wants me dead?”

Both of the other two men looked at Slocum as if he'd just sprouted horns. Surprisingly, it was Matt who told him, “You know why. Otherwise, you ain't John Slocum.”

“That's who he is, all right,” Luke said. “I'd stake my life on it.”

“And your life is exactly what you're about to lose,” Slocum said in what was to be the last warning he'd give either of them.

Both men stood rooted to their spots with shotguns in hand, licking their lips in anticipation of what was to come. Whether they were anxious to pull their triggers or just thinking about how they could spend three thousand dollars, Slocum couldn't say. What he knew for certain was that they weren't about to back down.

Rather than watch their eyes, Slocum paid close attention to their arms and hands. Luke and Matt were too skittish for their faces to tell him much, but they would have to tense their arms if they intended to bring up their shotguns. His money was on Luke being the first to break the standoff, and Slocum didn't have to wait long before he was proven right.

Luke tightened his grip on the shotgun and lifted it to angle the barrel so it would point at Slocum. In the time it took for the shotgun to shift a few degrees in his direction, Slocum reached for the .44 at his hip and wrapped his fingers around the pistol's comfortable grip. He kept his body still and his eyes fixed upon his target while going through motions that were so well practiced they flowed like finely oiled machinery.

As soon as he cleared leather, Slocum pivoted the .44 and squeezed off a quick shot. When that round hissed past his head, Luke reacted by firing a shot of his own. The shotgun roared with a plume of fire that illuminated him, Matt, and a good portion of the street. Most of the buckshot dug into the ground while some of it chipped at the edges of the water trough Slocum's gelding had nearly drained. Slocum might have been grazed as well if he hadn't already launched himself to one side.

As he sailed through the air, Slocum kept his aim on Luke. Matt was frozen in place, so Slocum let him stand there like a sapling and shake in the wind. He pulled his trigger again, firing too quickly to be very accurate, but luck smiled upon him and he clipped Luke's upper arm to spin him around as blood sprayed from the newly opened wound.

“Shoot, damn you!” Luke hollered as he staggered back. “Or I'll shoot you myself!”

Matt blinked once and turned upon Slocum like a mad dog. The change in his expression was jarring as he suddenly became a man capable of ending another's life. He made a quick adjustment to his stance and fired the shotgun from hip level. Not known for its accuracy under the best circumstances, the shotgun roared to shatter one of the windows across the street. Slocum and everything else in front of that smoking barrel were unharmed.

Slocum landed on his side and he fired another quick shot as he got his legs beneath him to send both other men scattering for cover. By the time he was upright again, Matt had found a post to stand behind and Luke had chosen to squat behind a barrel.

The post was barely wide enough to provide cover for a mouse, which meant most of Matt was in plain sight. Slocum took aim and sent a round through the meat in the back of Matt's leg. He yelped in pain and dropped like a load of bricks, allowing his shotgun to slip from his hands and land in the dirt nearby.

Luke was well hidden behind his barrel, and when he saw his partner fall, he stretched out both arms to point the shotgun at Slocum. He wasn't able to aim in that fashion, but still looked like he might get close enough to do some real damage. Slocum ducked down and hurried away to clear a path by the time Luke pulled his trigger. The shotgun roared again, sending its smoky payload in a wide arc through the air. Another window shattered and Slocum's gelding whinnied, but no blood was spilled.

“That was your second barrel,” Slocum said.

“The hell it was!” As he shouted back, Luke leaned out from behind his cover and sighted along the top of a pistol he must have drawn since finding his hiding spot. As Slocum guessed, that shot was wild and much too panicked to come close to hitting him. The bullet hissed through the air several yards above its intended target to sail into the inky night sky. Slocum had gotten what he was after, so he drilled through the barrel where Luke was hiding with a careful shot that caused him to jump into the open quicker than a scalded dog.

“What are you waiting for, damn it?” Luke shouted to the man still writhing on the ground. “You still got a barrel left and a gun at yer side. Use 'em!”

“I'm hit, Luke!”

“You dyin'?”

“No,” Slocum replied. “He's not dying.”

Matt looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “How do you know?”

“Because,” Slocum replied, “if I'd wanted you dead, you'd be dead. You've just got a flesh wound in the leg. A blind man could see as much from where I stand.”

Matt wriggled like a worm on a hook until he could get a better look at his bloody leg. The back section of his jeans was ripped to shreds from the glancing shot and the edges of the tear were blackened by the bullet's passing. Blood poured from his gaping wound, but not enough to cause much concern. Even so, Slocum pointed out, “You'll need to get that stitched up. You're losing plenty of blood.”

“Go to hell!” Matt shouted. “You're the one that shot me!”

“And you're the one that came at me when all I wanted was some fresh air after a good meal.”

“He's only got one shot left,” Luke said to his partner. “I counted. We can still bring him down.”

“You're full of surprises, Luke,” Slocum said. “I would never have thought you could count.”

Matt started pulling himself toward his shotgun, dragging the weight of his body as if both legs had been blown off at the knees. He started to crawl, which gave him some bit of pain. He didn't have far to go, so his dramatic display was short-lived. When he got to the shotgun, he placed one hand over it and held it there.

“What are you waiting for?” Luke demanded. “Pick it up!”

“What about you, big man?” Slocum asked. “You've got a gun already in hand. You gonna put it to use, or are you content to stand back and bark orders at someone else?”

Luke ignored Slocum completely and snarled at his partner, “Pick up that damn shotgun! He can't shoot both of us!”

“That's right,” Slocum said. “I can't. But I can get one of you for certain. And when I do get that one, I can promise it won't be a flesh wound or anything like the little nicks I've handed out so far. I'll burn a hole through your face that'll empty what little brains you have onto the street for all of Creation to see.” Slowly casting his glare back and forth between the other two men, he added, “Which of you is gonna step forward for that?”

After a second or two to consider it, Matt eased his hand away from the shotgun. In his haste to distance himself from the weapon he'd dropped, he was able to climb to his feet and grit his teeth through the pain he felt when using his wounded leg to support himself. “I'm through with this,” he squeaked. “I . . . I never wanted to go about it like this in the first place.”

Slocum nodded and focused most of his attention on Luke. If Matt made a move for the shotgun, he'd see it from the corner of his eye, but he wasn't too worried about that one anymore. “So it's down to you and me then,” he said to Luke. “You still have the advantage, seeing as how you've got more bullets to fire. I've only got the one. Guess I'd better make it count.”

Even though Luke didn't say a word, Slocum could read plenty in his eyes. They moved in quick, jerking twitches within their sockets. Surely he was pondering the image of his life ending in a red, pulpy mist exploding from the back of his skull. Soon, his face started to twitch. When Slocum saw Luke's gun hand tremble, he knew the fight was all but over.