by Jake Logan
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Watch for SLOCUM AND THE FRISBY FLATS
Ambushed . . .
Pistol in hand, he headed for the trees as the golden shafts of light crossed the eastern brow. He saw the doughnut of gun smoke around a rifle muzzle beside a tree. The whine of the bullet went past him. Damn you.
Angry at being shot at, he charged after the hatless shooter, who was already running away. No doubt an Indian. Slocum made long strides to draw closer to him. Then he stopped at the edge of the grove when he had a clear chance to shoot. Sighting down the barrel, he squeezed the trigger . . .
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THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts
Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
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The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.
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Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
SLOCUM AND THE TOMBOY
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / May 2008
Copyright © 2008 by The Berkley Publishing Group.
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1
“A runaway team’s coming! Clear the street!” someone shouted. His warning sent panic through the crowd.
Slocum heard him from where he stood in the shade on the gunsmith’s porch. He tried to catch sight of the runaway horses. The main street of Ogallala was choked with a Saturday crowd of people, horses, and rigs. Parents began herding children back to safety, tossing them into the parked wagons or up on the boardwalks. Mothers screamed at the top of their lungs for their lost offspring. Their cries were shrill enough to hurt Slocum’s ears.
A few cowboys rushed out, trying to mount their ponies and shake lariats loose in the confusion. Slocum turned in time to see a flying team of horses charge through the wagons, hacks, and buggies. The horses’ mouths were wide open; they were gagging on the bits, bug-eyed—how the team managed to find an opening for their passage through the traffic, he could not imagine. The iron rims of the freight wagon coming on their heels crushed two small rigs, spilling out the passengers in them and sideswiping other rigs.
A block away, the driverless horses and wagon crashed in a pileup that sent a blast of dust in the air higher than the false-front buildings. By then, Slocum was on the run to see about the damage and lend a hand.
From a half block away, he could make out one of the black horses of the team fighting to get to his feet. Up at last, he began rearing and pawing in the air. The second horse looked tangled in his harness and was thrashing on the ground—he might be hurt.
Slocum rounded the wagon, which was lying on its side, the topside wheels still spinning. Someone needed to get that rearing horse under control—Slocum intended to try.
“Whoa, whoa,” he shouted at the black, and moved in to catch the animal’s bridle. The horse reared to escape him, but Slocum held him tight and bore down to control the head-slinging devil.
With rollers going out his lathered nose, the horse pawed the ground with impatience. Slocum slapped him on the head with the flat of his hand to get his attention. There were bloody and injured people lying all over the ground. Some looked badly hurt, others only stunned and shaken. A hysterical woman held her hands over her ears and screamed at the top of her lungs.
“How can I help?” a young puncher asked Slocum, out of breath from running to the scene.
“Hold him.” Slocum handed him the reins. “There is something blue that looks like clothing underneath this other horse.”
“Oh, my God—” the puncher said.
“I know,” Slocum said, bending down and trying to move the thrashing animal over by pulling on his tail. “It’s a child.” His large knife out, he began slashing entangled harness, doing all he could to hurry.
“We kin all flip him off of her,” a big red-faced man said,
joining him with several more men.
They heaved and rolled the horse over, dodging his kicking hooves, and finally exposed a small girl of perhaps five in a once-lovely blue dress. Slocum dropped to his knees beside her with a knot as big as his fist in his throat. Her eyes stared at the azure sky. His heart sunk.
“We’ll get the bloody horse up and away from her for yah,” the man said to reassure him.
“Fine.” Slocum nodded as he felt for her pulse in her neck. There was none.
“Do we need to get her to a doctor?” a woman dressed in men’s clothing asked with a smoky voice as she went down on her knees beside him. Rawboned, with short brown hair, she was as tall as Slocum was and with square shoulders, but she had a hefty enough bustline that there was no doubt about her sex.
He dropped back on his heels and shook his head in defeat.
“I’m Rory Clements.” She stuck out her long slender hand like a man.
“Slocum.”
She looked around, a little peeved at the situation, and shook her head. “What do we do next?”
Slocum sighed. He wasn’t prepared for that. “I guess we find her kin.”
“Folks all over here have been hurt. You reckon her people were, too?”
He nodded. The casualties were being helped and comforted by individuals. He saw a doctor with a bag working in the midst of the confusion.
“She dead?” a deputy asked softly.
“Hell, yes, she’s dead,” Rory said to him, getting up. “Are you blind?”
“I just asked.”
“Well, ask smarter questions next time. Where do we need to take her?”
“You don’t know her name?” The large deputy looked confused.
“Would we have asked you that if we knew her?” Rory impatiently waved him aside and turned to Slocum. “You want to pack her up there or do I have to?”
“The funeral parlor, I guess,” the deputy said, looking overwhelmed by the situation.
“Where are we taking her?” Slocum asked Rory.
“Pete Brooks. He’s the undertaker.”
“I’ll do it,” Slocum said. “Show me the way.”
He gently lifted the precious bundle in his arms and stood. Her life had been cut short almost at the start, and he felt touched by the loss. With Rory in the lead, they started through the crowd. Rory was asking everyone if they knew her. No one said a word. They only shook their heads at the tragedy.
She strode through the open door of the funeral parlor and shouted, “Where are you, Pete?”
A balding, bent-shouldered man emerged from the rear, brushing sawdust off his blue apron. Seeing Slocum with the child in his arms, he blinked. “What happened?”
“Runaway team had a bad wreck down the street,” Rory said. “You’ll have more business before it’s all over, I’m sure.”
“Who’s she?” Brooks shook his head looking at the dead girl. “So young.”
“We don’t know. This is Slocum. He’s helping, too.”
“Nice to meet you, sir. Bring her in here.” Brooks led them into the back room. He showed Slocum what table to put her on. The room smelled of fresh pine sawdust and death. Several new caskets were stacked on the side like small boats. A half-completed one that Brooks must have been building sat on two sawhorses
“If she doesn’t have anyone, I’ll pay for her funeral,” Slocum said.
“That’s mighty nice of you, sir,” Brooks said. He turned at the sound of others out front. “Oh, dear, there must be more. I better go see about them.”
“Go ahead,” Rory said, and turned to Slocum. “You’re paying for the funeral, I’ll buy the beer.”
He agreed and they started to leave, forced to edge around the crowd in the parlor. He noticed two dead men and a dead woman with a bloody face. They’d been carried in and laid on the floor. Plenty of grieving folks were in the mob outside. When Slocum and Rory cleared the onlookers, he saw two men bringing another corpse up the boardwalk.
Sadness over the wreck spread a grim silence through the crowd. Folks talked in lowered voices. Small children were reprimanded for any loud sounds and kept at their mothers’ sides. Those who did not obey were pinched, had their ears twisted, or received slaps on their butts for their rebellion.
Men stood in small clusters. Their words were angry, and they cut sharp glances at anything that moved. Across the street, Rory pushed her way through the batwing doors of the Lucky Chance Saloon with a familiarity that impressed Slocum. Few women besides doves crossed such thresholds.
At the bar, she ordered two beers and slapped down twenty cents on the polished surface. Then, leaning on her forearms, she studied the mirror on the back bar. “Bad deal. It’s a shame folks ain’t got any better sense than hitching unbroken horses to wagons and bringing them to town.”
The bartender, with a big mustache, nodded at Slocum and set the overflowing mugs down. “Horses are so short up here, they ain’t got much choice.”
“I’m new here,” Slocum said. “Are they that short?”
The bartender nodded. “It’s so bad with this horse stealing around here. Folks can’t keep a broke horse.”
“That’s Slocum, Lacy,” she said, indicating her companion. “He carried the little girl kilt in this last wreck up to Pete’s fur me.”
“Glad to meet you,” the barkeep said, and shook his hand.
Slocum nodded and then looked around the empty saloon. It was basically devoid of customers in the mid-morning hours. An older woman worked to put out the free lunch. A dusty piano sat on a small stage. The saloon was really a large tent behind a false wooden front like so many other businesses in town. Ogallala was booming. The Sioux had been herded onto South Dakota reservations, and that had opened all the land north of the Platte River for settlement. The Union Pacific had special rates for settlers, and the crowded passenger cars arrived every day with anxious families seeking a home. The streets were flush with them that sunny spring morning.
“Must be five hundred honyockers arriving here every single day,” Rory said in disgust.
“Hurting your business?” Slocum asked.
She set down the beer and wiped her mouth on the blue silk kerchief around her neck. “Naw, just I liked it better when the country was free. What brings you to Ogallala?”
“I’m scouting the market for some Texans. They wondered if driving some cows up here would make any money. They might drive ponies instead, huh?”
“Horses are sure enough at a premium up here.”
Slocum nodded, inspecting the life-size nude painting beside the mirror. A fleshy-looking gal spread out on a love seat with an elbow supporting her head. Her face, lips, and eyes looked unreal. She had a bland expression. He lifted the beer for the last swallow and turned to Rory.
“What’s your game?”
“Freighting. I’ve got four wagons.”
He nodded and tossed down the rest of it. “Well, ma’am, thanks for the beer. I hope we can meet again under less disturbing conditions next time.”
“Be nice, but I doubt it. Things won’t ever be easy around here again. You ever need work, look me up. I can usually use a good scout.”
He nodded that he’d heard her and waved to Lacy. Slocum’s appointment with the banker was in ten minutes. Once out through the spring-loaded batwings, he stopped on the porch and let his eyes adjust to the bright sun. Traffic was back to normal when he crossed the street for the brick-and-mortar First National Bank.
Then he noticed a hard case standing with his shoulder leaning against the bricks in a too casual pose. But what caught Slocum’s eye was the fact that he held a Winchester in the crook of his arm. And that on the other side of the bank, in the wider space between it and the mercantile, a young rider waited with several saddled horses.
Slocum never broke his stride. His guts roiled. There was a bank robbery in progress or he’d missed his guess. He wanted to take out the lookout with the rifle first. He stepped up on the boardwalk a few feet fro
m him.
“You got a match?”
The man looked him over and frowned in anger. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“Well, be that way. My horse is out back, I need to get by you.”
The man flattened himself to the wall to let Slocum by. It was the moment he’d waited for, and he drove his fist in the guy’s gut, jerked the rifle from his loosened grip, and in one stroke slammed the gun butt down hard on the lookout’s head.
He dragged him by the collar of his long canvas duster back out of sight. Then he raced around the bank and walked up behind the horse holder. The outlaw turned at the sound and they met each other’s gaze.
Slocum raised the muzzle of the other outlaw’s Winchester. “Get off that horse.”
“Huh?”
“One word to warn them and you’re dead.”
“Okay. Okay.” He came off his horse with his hands high.
“What’s going on?” a passerby asked, looking concerned.
“You keep him here. His buddies are inside holding up the bank.”
“Holding up the—”
“No time to explain. They’ll be busting out any minute.”
The man drew his own gun and disarmed the robber. Slocum nodded, and hurried to the front corner of the building. In seconds, the first masked bandit came out with a sack of loot in his left hand and shot his pistol in the air to scatter everyone. Two more bandits almost ran him over—both had their hands filled with canvas sacks. Their mistake.
“Drop it or die!” Slocum ordered.
The first gunman whirled instead, and Slocum’s .44/40 slug caught him in the chest. His gun arm went down like a semaphore signal and his knees buckled. The other two reluctantly obeyed and dropped the sacks.
“Who the hell are you?” the taller one growled behind his mask.
“None of your business. Get that guy over there on that side of the bank,” Slocum said to the onlookers rushing up to see what had caused the gunshot. “They’re bank robbers. He was their lookout.”
Two tough men jerked the groggy outlaw up by the arms, while Slocum made the others stand with their hands on the bank wall so he could disarm them. The man from the west side brought the horse handler around with his hands high.