by Jake Logan
He was right. After they dismounted, Lem introduced him as Dr. Witherspoon. Witherspoon greeted Slocum somewhat curtly, pulled his bag down off his horse, took one look at Slocum’s arm, and said, “Well, you’re a mess, too!” and headed on into the house, shouting, “Martha? Martha, it’s Doc Witherspoon!”
Over the next few days, Slocum learned quite a few things.
First off, he learned that McMurtry had, indeed, reported the stallion as stolen to the local authorities, and also reported Grimes as the man who’d stolen him. That was good, very good, indeed. It’d jack up the price on Grimes.
He also had a short visit with the local sheriff, to whom he turned over Grimes’s body and recounted their last shootout to the south. Nodding, the sheriff said it sure sounded like self-defense to him, and duly hauled the body back to town, which Slocum learned was called Troubadour. It seemed an awfully fancy name for a fly-by-night mining town in the West, but he kept his opinion to himself.
Martha, despite nursing Jack in addition to her regular ranch duties, remained in good spirits, although she was concerned about Jack, as they all were. It appeared that Slocum had been wrong about gut shot being a death sentence. At least, the doc thought so.
He’d told Slocum and Lem that in the past, it had been a sure but lingering death, but that lately, somebody or other had discovered there were things called germs—little tiny things, so tiny you couldn’t even see them with the naked eye—that spread through the system and killed you.
Turned out that Doc Witherspoon wasn’t one of those fellows who had started out as a barber, but was a real, honest-to-God, trained doctor and a graduate of Harvard University, back East. Lem said he had a diploma on his wall and everything.
This, in itself, was enough to impress Lem, but Slocum was more impressed by the fact that Jack kept improving a little each day. The doc’d had to open him way up to get out the slug, which had bored a hole through his intestines and followed a circuitous route before coming to a halt in his liver. Doc Witherspoon had worked on Jack long and hard, but although he said that gut wounds were no longer always fatal, he also said that Jack had been shot bad, and his chances were about fifty-fifty.
Jack now had a scar he could be proud of—from below his belly button around to the middle of his back. Doc saved the slug and gave it to Martha for safekeeping, in case Jack made it through and wanted a keepsake.
The doc kept close tabs on Jack, coming every afternoon to see him and checking Slocum’s arm while he was there.
As for Slocum himself, he got bored on the second day, seeing as how Jack seemed to be getting better, and started riding out with the hands. It felt good to be doing some good, purposeful riding. And it was good to get back to ranch work. He taught Rocky a few things about reining and sliding stops while he was at it, too, as well as calf roping and holding a taut line.
By the fourth day, Jack seemed to turn a corner, but not a corner anybody wanted him to turn. He began to vomit blood and show it in his stool, and every time Slocum checked on him, he was as white as a sheet of paper.
The doc shook his head after he came out of the room. “It’s not good, Martha,” he said to the woman, who was hanging on to Lem for dear life. “I won’t lie to you. I thought for sure I had everything sewn up and cleaned out good, but this ... this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. I’m real sorry.”
Slocum was convinced that bringing him back in the saddle hadn’t done him any good either, but Doc Witherspoon said, “Don’t go laying blame, son. You got him back here as quick as you could, and with that shot-up wing’a yours, too. That’s the important part. Some things,” he added with a sigh, “just aren’t meant to be.”
Slocum didn’t feel much better about it, though.
That evening, there wasn’t much of any ruckus during the hands’ dinner, and not during theirs. Doc had said that Jack might live another day or two, but that was it, and they were all grieving in advance.
Over coffee, Lem said, “Slocum, Martha and me talked it over, and we’d like to bury Jack back in our family plot, if you ain’t got no objections. He’ll be with good folk.”
Slocum nodded his head. “I can’t think of better, Lem. I think Jack’d be proud.”
Lem pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “Martha got all his information the other day. You know, where he’s from, his folks’ names and such, and his birthday.” He smiled a little. “Said as how he laughed and asked her, was she gettin’ this stuff for his tombstone.” And then Lem bent his head and stopped talking.
Slocum saw a tear drizzle down his cheek, and busied himself rolling a quirlie, then lighting it.
He had almost finished the smoke when a red-eyed Martha came down the hall and joined them. Standing behind Lem’s chair, her hands on his shoulders, she quietly said, “He’s gone.”
22
The next morning, Slocum rose with the dawn after a fitful night. He’d tossed and turned, trying to direct his dreams toward happier times, but it all came back to one thing: Jack was dead. Lem had said he’d have the local sheriff wire the boy’s family, and that he’d tell them about Jack’s account at the Phoenix bank. That was the only thing Slocum felt halfway decent about—at least Jack had accumulated a large sum of money to leave to his folks.
He supposed it would help.
But it still wasn’t enough. He’d bet that Jack’s family would a lot rather have Jack back. The damn fool kid. Wouldn’t give up, no matter what. Slocum had half expected that Jack would have changed his mind—again—once they made it down to Phoenix, and tried going out on his own. He was bound to end up dead.
Slocum just didn’t expect it on his watch.
Slowly, he got up, then climbed down the steps to the main floor of the barn. Lem and Martha had offered him a room for the night, but he’d said no.
He checked Rocky and found him in fine fettle. One of Lem’s boys had taken the stud back to McMurtry’s place a few days ago, and pronounced him in high spirits. Actually, the hand had come home nursing a bruised leg, where the stallion had kicked him.
Never trust a quarter bred stud, Slocum reminded himself. “Only Appys, huh, Rocky?” The stallion whickered low, then nudged at Slocum’s hand, testing him to see if he had a treat. Slocum gave him a lemon drop and patted his neck. “I gotta go see if Lem’s up and around yet,” he said to the horse, and then exited the barn.
The sun was almost up, he saw when he was out in the yard. No hands, no signs of life from the house. Deciding he must be the first one up, he pulled up a chair on the front porch and rolled himself a quirlie. Watching the sunrise, he smoked. He was about to roll a second one when he heard footsteps in the house at his back, and then someone opening the door.
It was Martha. Still red-eyed, she looked like she’d had a bad night, too. It was strange, the way both she and Lem had taken to Jack. Of course, Slocum had taken to him right off the bat, too. It was just working with him that he wasn’t very fond of.
But he’d earned a place in their hearts—that was for sure. Last night, Lem had taken him out back to help him pick a burial place. When Slocum said it made no difference to him, Lem picked one. It was an unlikely place, to Slocum’s mind: right next to Lem and Martha’s boys, the ones who had died at the hands of Apache. The boys had been only eleven and nine when their lives were cut short.
“Morning,” Martha said, not too enthusiastically.
Slocum didn’t blame her. He stood up and tipped his hat, and said, “Mornin’ back atcha.”
“Why don’t you come on in?” she said, opening the door.
“Be pleased to,” he replied, stepping inside. “Still too early for the hands to be up and about?”
She nodded. “Just a tad. Lem’s sleepin’ late, though. He was up ’til after midnight, pacin’. Just pacin’ and mutterin’ to himself.” She followed him to the kitchen, where she already had a pot of coffee on the stove. “Sit at the table. Go ahead. I’ll get you some coffee and biscuits.”
“Martha, yo
u don’t have to go waitin’ on me—” Slocum began, but she cut him off.
“Hush up. I gotta do somethin’, and you’re the only one around to do it for right now.” She flipped a couple of flap-jacks frying in a pan, then got Slocum his coffee and biscuits.
Later that day, he helped Lem and one of the hands dig Jack’s grave. They worked in grim silence with Martha nearby, her hands folded as she silently prayed over each of the graves. Doc Witherspoon showed up at about the time they were finished with the digging, and shared his condolences with the family.
He also stayed around for the burying. A couple of Lem’s boys had put together a coffin, which Martha lined with an Indian blanket—Navajo, Slocum assumed—before they gently laid Jack inside and nailed the lid shut.
The funeral was brief. Nobody knew much about him, and Slocum had only their shared adventures to relate. He limited it to the ones where Jack had actually contributed something, or done something brave, which kept his speech to a minimum. Afterward, Slocum and Lem filled in the grave while Martha continued her prayers, and when they were finished, Doc Witherspoon left. He took a last look at Slocum’s arm, pronounced that he was healing up fine, and went on his way.
The rest of the day went on as normal, all things considered. Most of the hands were out on the range, Martha cooked, Lem puttered around, and Slocum? Well, he just sat and smoked.
He thought he should go into town tomorrow and report Jack’s death to the sheriff. Get some ready-made smokes, too, if they had any. He could only smoke so many of his own quirlies before they began to pale. And then, he was almost out of lemon drops for Rocky. Had to get those, too. He’d got so that every time he entered or exited the barn, Rocky was right there, expecting a treat. And Slocum gave him one, sometimes two. All right, sometimes he gave him three.
He checked the time. Two o’clock. He guessed he still had time to get there and back today. He stood up from his porch chair and almost knocked Lem over. He hadn’t even known he was there.
“Easy, big feller,” Lem said with a chuckle.
Slocum grinned at him. “How do I get from here to town, Lem?”
“You wantin’ t’go today?”
Slocum nodded.
“Well, the fastest way is for me to lead you there. You’ll get lost in these woods, sure as shootin’, if I leave you to your own self.” Lem stepped down off the porch, then turned back to Slocum. “Well, let’s get goin’. I wanna be back for supper.” Then he looked past Slocum to the open door, and shouted, “Mother, me an’ Slocum are goin’ into town. We’ll be back for supper!”
“Get some sugar,” she called back. “Ten pounds!”
The men set off for the barn and their horses.
“Town” turned out to be something of a letdown.
It was small, for one thing. There were only four buildings: a bar/hotel/restaurant; the sheriff’s office, which doubled as a town hall and the mayor’s office; a general store/ hardware store; and a small livery/feed store. It occurred to Slocum that Troubadour was vastly, well, overnamed, if there was such a word.
“Where’s the doc’s office?” Slocum wondered aloud.
“At his house,” Lem answered. “Over there.” He pointed into the hills and forest, but Slocum couldn’t see a damned thing.
Slocum rode over to the general store and dismounted. With Lem tagging at his heels, he went inside and found lemon drops for Rocky, and—lo and behold—ready-mades for himself! He got a box of kitchen matches, too. He was about to run out.
Lem got Martha’s sugar, and then the two set out for the sheriff’s office, which was next door to the saloon. Slocum paused to order a beer, which came ice cold. He voiced his surprise to Lem, who said, “Yea, they haul ice down from the mountains till about the middle’a June. How you figger we keep our cold box cold?”
Slocum shrugged. “Didn’t think about it, I guess.”
Lem ordered a beer, too, and leaned back against the bar—two planks held up by sawhorses—to enjoy it. He took another long draw, then licked his lips. “Always better,” he murmured. “Always better cold.”
Slocum was enjoying his, too, but also lit the first ready-made and took a good long drag on it. He smiled. “Always better store-bought,” he said in a sideways answer to Lem, who stared at him a second, then laughed.
“You mean the smokes, don’tcha?” he said.
Slocum joined in with a grin, and said, “Yup. You want one, or you still in love with that pipe?”
“It’s love everlastin’,” came Lem’s reply. “’Sides, Martha’d kill me dead iff’n I switched over at this late date.”
Slocum laughed. It was pretty damn near impossible to think of Martha hurting—let alone killing—anybody!
They were just about finished with their beers when the batwing doors swung in, and the sheriff entered. He nodded, then said, “Lem, Slocum. Any more trouble?”
Removing his hat and holding it over his heart, Lem said, “Only that the boy, Jack Tandy, passed on yesterday. We buried him in the family plot this mornin’.”
The sheriff nodded. “Yeah, Doc Witherspoon reported it. I sent a rider over Prescott way to let the U.S. Marshal’s Office know.”
Slocum tipped his head. “Thanks. Obliged.”
That meant that the U.S. marshal would have one more charge to place against Grimes. And that maybe, just maybe, they’d have the new poster in Phoenix by the time he got back. He hoped so anyway.
He said, “Sheriff, I’d be obliged iff’n you could give me a paper saying as how I killed Grimes, and he’s in your cemetery. They’ll want it—”
“When you get back to Phoenix. I know.” The sheriff reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “Been waitin’ for you to show up and ask for it,” he said, handing it over.
“Thanks.” Slocum unfolded it and gave it a quick read. The sheriff must have written it up just this morning, because it also reported Jack’s demise. Finding it in order, he looked up and said, “Thanks, Sheriff. Obliged to you.” He tucked it in his pocket, satisfied.
The sheriff asked, “Either one of you got any information on the boy’s next of kin? I gotta inform them, y’know.”
It was Lem’s turn to dig into his pocket. “Here you go,” he said, handing it over. “Martha got it from him before he ... you know.”
“Croaked,” the lawman said matter-of-factly. “Hey, Ike, gimme a beer. On my tab.”
The barkeep drew him one and set it on the bar. Just as quickly, the sheriff scooped it up. “Gotta take advantage of these cold ones while he got ’em, right, Lem?”
“Right.” There was no expression that Slocum could read on Lem’s face.
Slocum had copied down everything that Jack had told Martha, so he wasn’t at a loss when the sheriff kept the paper, but he asked Lem, “You got a boy makin’ him a headstone?”
“Yeah,” Lem said. “But I already gave him what needs to be on it.”
“All right.”
They sipped in silence for a few more minutes, while the sheriff gossiped with the bartender, and then Slocum said, “We ought’a be startin’ back if we’re gonna make it for dinner, Lem.”
Lem drained the last of his beer. “Yeah. Did I get her the sugar?”
“On the back’a your horse, Lem.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, thanks, Sheriff. Be seein’ you.” He stalked out of the bar without further words, but Slocum tipped his hat, then followed along.
Once they were mounted and had ridden well out of town, Lem said, “I do hate that sheriff! He’s a goddamn little pissant!”
“What’d he do to you, Lem? Seemed like a regular feller to me.”
“He ain’t got no heart. He ain’t got no common decency! For instance, did he even tell you his name?”
Slocum had to think. “Nope,” he said at last.
“See? That’s just an example! It’s Blacksmith, Dick Blacksmith. Never tells nobody his name ’cause he’d druther be known as The Sheriff.” He shook his hea
d and grumbled under his breath, “The high-and-mighty sonofabitch!”
23
As it was the night before, conversation at the dinner table—the hands, as well as Slocum, Lem, and Martha—was limited. Mostly folks sat and stared at their plates—and ate what was on them. But there were no jovial hoots and hollers, no laughter about what they’d done that day.
Slocum decided it was time he moved on. Jack would have Lem and Martha to mourn him for a good long time, leaving no room for him. And besides, he needed to get back down to Phoenix. Not only to pick up the reward money and check for new posters, but to see Katie again. It had been too long, something he couldn’t excuse since she was in the same territory with him. He’d gone all achy for her in the nights, and trying not to think of her was like telling a dying man not to think about life.
He excused himself from Martha and Lem early in the evening and wandered back to the graveyard. A stone had already been placed at its head, and he knelt and struck a match to read it. It was crudely carved, but legible.
Here Lies Jackson Tandy, it read, then the dates of birth and death, and then A Good, Brave Boy Murdered by a Stinking Land Thief.
Slocum figured that Lem had picked the words, until he got to the end, obviously added by Martha’s orders: We Wish Jack Was Our Own.
Slocum left for Phoenix the next morning, after breakfasting with Lem and Martha, and listening to a few more of Lem’s stories. And also accepting a parcel from Martha, to be opened when he stopped for lunch.
He left Jack’s mare behind, with Lem, to do with as he wished, and he and Rocky set out at an easy lope. Rocky’s lope was as pleasant to ride as his jog-trot, and they sure gained ground faster. Of course, Slocum thought, it helped that they weren’t traveling with a mare in season. He stopped for lunch several miles south of where he and Jack had stopped, hobbled Rocky and got him set up with feed and water, then sat down with Martha’s parcel.
It was the mother lode! And best of all, there weren’t any glass do-bobs he’d have to take back!