Slocum's Reward

by Jake Logan

  “No problem. You still got an outhouse out back?” Slocum slid his chair back with an audible scrape, and stood up. “Gotta piss.”

  “Help yourself,” said Bud.

  “Plan to. And maybe, while I’m gone, you can explain to him what happened five years ago.” Slocum walked out the back door, letting it slam behind him.

  When he came back inside—feeling much relieved, but still angry—Jack was nowhere in sight, but Bud was sitting behind the desk, smiling.

  Slocum said, “You take care of it?”

  “You’re free as the wind, Slocum. But I think that kid is a little annoyed. Should be. Like to get my hands on the sheriff up to Fern Gully.”

  “You and me both. How long ago did the kid leave?”

  “Just a couple’a seconds.”

  “Okay,” said Slocum as he put his hand on the front door. “Thanks, Bud.”

  Outside, he found Jack Tandy standing against a post, his head down.

  “Jack?” he said softly.

  Slowly, Jack looked up. “I’m powerful sorry, Slocum. I never would’a done it, but I’m so broke . . .”

  Slocum, all the mad gone out of him, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Jack. I might’a done the same if I was in your shoes.”

  When Jack looked away and sniffed, Slocum added, “C’mon. It’s a little early, but let’s go get us a beer.”

  Jack nodded, and he and Slocum set out for a saloon.

  They didn’t have far to go. Tucson wasn’t much of a town, but it had more than its share of drinking, gambling, and whoring establishments. They went into the Painted Lady, and Slocum ordered them a couple of beers before they sat down at a table near the rear of the place, and the barkeep brought their drinks almost before they had time to settle into their chairs.

  “So Bud told you the whole story?” Slocum asked after he’d had his first sip of beer.

  “Yeah, I guess. Said as how you shot a feller—”

  “Vance Granger,” Slocum broke in.

  “Yeah. In a saloon. Said he drew on you first, with lots’a witnesses. Said when he got round to checkin’ his papers, turned out Granger was a wanted man anyhow, so they dropped the charges against you and paid you the bounty. A thousand dollars.” Jack looked like he was going to cry.

  Slocum gulped. “Shit!”

  Jack looked up.

  “Didn’t remember till you said it, but that thousand is still in the bank! Hellfire and damnation, I’m rich! And so are you, long as you want to ride with me.” Slocum had taken a liking to Jack, and felt sorry for him, too. A thousand dollars was a lot of money, and it would go a long way, even with two of them working at it.

  Jack blinked, his beer mug lifted halfway to his lips. “What?”

  “Said you’ve got half, as long as you wanna ride along. Sound fair to you?”

  “More’n fair, considerin’.” He still looked flummoxed. “Way more’n fair. Half expected you to take me out in an alley and shoot me.” He tried to laugh, but it was weak and only shook the beer in his hand.

  Slocum put on a smile he hoped was encouraging. “Thought about it. For about a half a minute. But don’t worry about it. It wasn’t serious thinkin’. If’n it was, you’d be dead already.”

  Jack sank back in his chair, and Slocum could tell the kid didn’t figure he was kidding. He said, “Easy, boy. I’m just razzin’ you. But I’m serious about the cash. You wanna think on it?”

  Jack slumped forward and put his elbows on the table. “What you aimin’ to do?”

  Slocum shrugged. “Fixin’ to hang around here for a while, then figure to ride on up to Phoenix. Better pickin’s up there. What with you all of a sudden wantin’ to go into the bounty huntin’ business—and I’m thinkin’ that ain’t a bad idea at all—Phoenix’ll have a better supply of everything, including wanted men.”

  Jack’s expression had, during Slocum’s short answer, gone from pleased to disappointed to amazed and shocked to simply surprised. He obviously thought that Slocum had lost his mind and appeared to be wondering who to turn him in to next.

  Slocum laughed. “Don’t worry. I ain’t lost my mind. I generally do like to ride alone, but you’re fair company. You don’t talk much and you know your way around on the trail. I reckon we could ride together. And anybody gutsy enough to turn me in’s brave enough to hunt true criminal types, I guess.”

  Jack seemed to consider it, staring for a moment at his beer mug, still untouched, before he looked up. “Okay. Fine by me. Fact is, I’d be pleased.”

  Slocum stuck his hand out. “Welcome aboard, Jack. Shake on it?”

  Jack took his hand and shook. “Thanks, Slocum. I ’preciate it.” Finally, he took a sip of his beer, then let out a long, hard sigh. “Guess I was more scared than I thought,” he admitted. “I’m fine now, though.”

  “Don’t let it prey on you. Happens to everybody.”

  Jack seemed to take some solace in that, and the two leisurely finished their beers before heading out to find some breakfast.

  As it turned out, their first bounty came in just a day later. Slocum had gone down to the livery to check the horses and was busily brushing Rocky when a cowhand walked in, leading a sorrel gelding. Slocum nodded when the hand looked his way, and said, “How do?”

  The hand muttered something—Slocum couldn’t make it out—and led his mount on into a box stall. While the stranger was stripping his horse of tack, Slocum couldn’t help thinking that he knew the man. From where, he couldn’t figure out, but he knew him. Maybe not personally, but he’d seen his picture at least. In a newspaper? No, he was pretty sure that wasn’t it. On a wanted poster?

  Now, that was more like it! If only he could remember the man’s name, and where he was wanted. And what he was wanted for! It was going to take a lot of studying if he wanted to turn this whim into a profession, he realized with some dismay.

  The man had finished putting up his horse and was walking out of the barn before Slocum remembered. “Hey, Fred!” he called.

  The man turned, scowling. “What?”

  “It’s me, Slocum. I run into you when I was passin’ through Flag, remember?”

  “Nope.”

  Of course he didn’t. They’d never met, but Slocum had at least remembered where he’d seen the poster.

  Slocum shrugged, pulling his Colt free at the same time. He kept his gun hand low, though, so that Fred Whatshisname couldn’t see it. “Must’a been someplace else, then. Sorry. I’ll think of it sooner or later.”

  Fred turned to leave, muttering, “Yeah, you do that.” Slocum vaulted out of the stall and was behind him before he could make the doorway. “Don’t move,” Slocum growled when the man tried to turn around. “Hands clasped behind your neck. Now!”

  When Fred grudgingly complied, Slocum poked him in the middle of his back with the Colt’s nose. “We’re gonna walk down to see the sheriff now.” Quickly, he disarmed the man, relieving him of a rifle, two handguns, and a pocket gun.

  Fred gave a deep sigh that made Slocum pretty certain he had the right man. Course, he figured that if he didn’t, there’d just be a little embarrassment down at Bud’s office, and a lot of apologizing to Fred. He could deal with both on the chance that it was the right man.

  They neared the sheriff’s office. “Right here,” said Slocum.

  Fred growled something nasty at him, but Slocum didn’t catch it, and didn’t care to ask him to repeat it. He just wanted to get the sonofabitch delivered as soon as possible. Quickly, he reached to open the door, then shoved Fred inside.

  The office was empty. No Bud, not even a drunk sleeping it off.

  Grunting “Goddammit” under his breath, he dumped Fred’s artillery on the desk, grabbed the cell keys off their wall peg, and marched Fred to the first cell. After he unlocked it and put Fred inside, he turned the key again with a sense of satisfaction. That had felt actually ... good!

  Surprised at himself, Slocum found paper and pen and scratche
d out a note to the sheriff saying, “Bud, Happy Birthday. Brought you the man in the cell. Slocum.” He put the note on the pile of guns and exited the office feeling proud and happy.

  He just wished he could remember that fellow’s last name!

  When he met Jack for lunch, the kid clued him in. Seems he’d paid more attention than Slocum to the actual words on the posters lining the bulletin board behind Bud’s desk.

  “Daltry,” he said right off. “Fred Daltry.” And then his eyebrows shot up. “You took in Fred Daltry?”

  Slocum nodded, then swallowed. “Guess so. What’s he pay anyhow?”

  “Fifteen hundred,” Jack managed to say through slack jaws. “H-He killed a man down to Bisbee. And stuck up a couple of stage stops. And some other stuff. I forget.”

  Slocum nodded. “I suppose we’d best get back down to the sheriff’s office and settle up with Bud, then.”

  Still wearing his napkin tucked around his neck, Jack shot to his feet.

  Slocum waved him back down. “Get back to your biscuits. I meant after lunch.”

  3

  The man Slocum had locked up turned out to be, indeed, Fred Daltry, and the paper on him was still good. Bud gave Jack and Slocum a voucher for fifteen hundred dollars, cashable at any bank in the Territory. Slocum was glad for the easy money, but Jack was beside himself with glee.

  “And I get half?” he asked for the third time as they walked back from Bud’s office.

  And for the third time, Slocum answered him, “Yes, goddammit! Stop jumpin’ around. Folks are starin’.”

  Jack muttered, “Sorry, sorry,” but he couldn’t keep from half skittering, half dancing along the boardwalk. “You sure about this? That you don’t mind? Are you sure?” he asked again.

  Slocum stopped walking and, with a sigh, pulled out his fixings pouch. By the time he’d finished rolling the quirlie, Jack had walked ahead a half block, realized Slocum wasn’t there, looked around, then run back up the walk and skidded to a halt beside him.

  Panting, he asked again, “You sure? I mean, you caught him alone!”

  “We made a deal,” Slocum said. “I’m stickin’ to it.”

  “Well, we hadn’t made the deal when you shot the first feller.” He dug in his pockets. “I’m givin’ you that part back, no arguments.”

  Slocum thought about it for a second. “All right. Reckon that’s fair enough.” He took the money, stuffing it in his pockets.

  “I’ll owe you seven bucks more outta the reward, okay?”

  Slocum struck a match and employed it on his quirlie, then shook it out. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, setting off again with the younger man tagging at his heels.

  “Where we goin’?”

  “The bank, the tobacconist’s for cigars, then a saloon, okay?”

  “You mad?”

  “No, but I’m gonna be if you don’t shut up pretty damn soon.”

  After that, Jack only spoke when he was spoken to. For the day anyhow.

  That evening, Slocum partook in the pleasures of a little blond whore he found down at the Oriental Saloon. Partook several times, that was. She was a pretty little thing, with round hips and full breasts and long legs that she curled up around his back as she bucked. At about two in the morning he let her run off, with a tip of about five dollars in her bloomers. They were both exhausted, and rightly so.

  He woke at about nine, which was late for him, and busied himself rounding up his gear in preparation to leave. He had breakfast, then went to the general store to stock up for the trip. Even though it wouldn’t be a long one, he didn’t want to have to rely on game to see him through, and he doubted that Jack did either.

  After a few more errands, he took himself down to the livery, where he deposited his parcels and brushed down Rocky. The horse was fit and rested. “And you’re gonna stay that way, ol’ son, with the bag of oats and corn I bought you,” he murmured, running his hand down the horse’s silky neck.

  He took a gander at Jack’s mare, too, and found her in troubling condition. She was coming into season, by the looks of her. Not a good thing when the only other horse on the trail would be his stallion. But he figured that she wouldn’t be receptive to a stud for about a week or so. That’d give them plenty of time to get up to Phoenix, lock her in a stall, and wait it out.

  He hoped.

  He didn’t know about Jack, but he didn’t even want to think about what a pinto/Appaloosa might come out looking like.

  He stowed his gear near the tack room, and set out in search of Jack.

  It didn’t take long to find him. He was out on the street, walking down from the sheriff’s office, and he was studying some papers.

  “What you lookin’ at?” Slocum asked, once he got within shouting distance.

  “Huh?” said Jack, and looked around until he spotted Slocum coming toward him. “Oh. Howdy!” When Slocum reached him, he held out the papers, saying, “Sheriff Bud gave me his extras. Figured to study on ’em on the way to Phoenix.” He fanned out the stack, exposing a sheaf of wanted posters, both new and old.

  “Bud says they’re all up to date,” he went on. “Says he don’t keep ’em if word comes down from Prescott that they’re caught or pardoned. Or killed.” He looked awfully proud of himself.

  “Bud knows what he’s doin’, all right,” Slocum replied with a curt nod, and then thanked Jack for having the presence of mind to stop by and get them.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Jack with a self-satisfied smile. Although that smile didn’t hang around very long when Slocum told him the plan was to leave today.

  “Go on and get your gear,” Slocum said. “I already checked us outta the hotel and bought chuck for the trail.”

  “Holy crap!” Jack thrust the stack of posters into Slocum’s arms and set off for the hotel at a dead run.

  That afternoon found them on the trail, well north of the point where Slocum had first come across Jack. They rode on a good piece, until Slocum sighted, in the fading light, the old ruin folks called Casa Grande. Slocum didn’t know who had built it in the first place—Indians or Mexicans—but it was slowly melting back into the desert. It was reddish adobe, and two stories tall, although you couldn’t get up to the second floor. That had fallen in long before Slocum had ever seen the place.

  He pointed to it. “We’ll camp in there tonight. If no pumas or Mex grizzlies or Apache have moved in, that is.”

  Jack looked at him, eyes wide, and sputtered, “Grizzlies?”

  Slocum laughed. “That’s the one what’s got you worried? C’mon!” He showed Rocky his heels, and they galloped forward, toward the ancient building, with Jack bringing up the rear.

  There were no animals present, aside from a scorpion that Slocum kicked out into the night, and the structure was vacant of Indians as well. This latter was much to Jack’s relief—Slocum could see it on his face. It was a healthy fear, though. Slocum had spent a year or so living with the Apache, and he could personally attest to their reputation for being murderous thugs.

  Jack being as jumpy as he was, though, he decided that now wasn’t the best time to share the story.

  Jack managed to scrape up enough kindling for a small fire before it got too dark to see, and started it going inside. He asked, “You get spuds, too?”

  Slocum looked up from the stew he was concocting. He had set the beef on to brown up, and was just reaching for his vittles bag again. “Yes,” he said. “And peas and carrots and onions and such. Now, you do your job and I’ll do mine, okay?”

  Jack flushed, muttered, “Okay,” and got up to see to the horses, which they had brought inside with them. Slocum flicked an eye toward him every once in a while. He was doing a good job of it.

  After Slocum had browned the beef, he added water and flour and salt and the vegetables, cut up into bite-sized pieces, and gave the whole thing a good stir before he settled the lid on it. Next, he hauled out the coffeepot and got that set on the fire, and only then did he lean back
and light himself a smoke. It was a cigar, one of the ones he’d got back in Tucson, and it was damned fine.

  About that time, Jack settled back in across the fire. “Done,” he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his own fixings bag. He proceeded to roll himself a quirlie, saying, “Smells good!” while he pointed at the stew pot.

  “Hope it lives up to the advertisin’,” said Slocum.

  Jack lit his quirlie at just about the time Slocum sat forward.

  Jack started to say, “What—” but Slocum shushed him.

  “Indians,” he whispered, slowly rising, and bringing his rifle up with him.

  He crept toward what had once been the ancient adobe’s entrance and peered around it, squinting eyes accustomed to firelight out into the dark desert. It took him a few minutes, but his eyes adjusted and he thought he spotted movement in the brush.

  He couldn’t make out what it was, though, not yet.

  He just hoped to hell it was something he could handle. Like a couple of coyotes out on the hunt.

  He pulled back, spine pressing the adobe wall, and hissed, “Get your rifle and go stand by that window. Keep outta sight, but keep watch.”

  He didn’t have to say anything more. Jack was up and moving across the adobe before he finished telling him what to do.

  Once the boy was in position across the way, Slocum turned back toward the doorway, peeking carefully out into the night.

  There was nothing. No sound of rustling brush, no shadows creeping from pillar to post, nothing. But Slocum knew the Apache better than that. Silence was their skill, and stealth was their forte.

  And then he heard it: a soft, scratching sound at the back of the building. The sort of sound an Apache moccasin might make if it was unconsciously rubbed against the wall. He signaled Jack, pointing his attention upward.

  And then, much to Jack’s shock, he spoke loudly, in Apache, “Greetings, fellow travelers. I am Slocum, who was one with the people of Cochise for twelve moons. We have food, and enough to share. Come and join us at the fire!”