by Jake Logan
He heard a man singing off-key, missing words and generally turning himself into a beacon in the quiet forest. Slocum flopped on his belly and watched for fifteen minutes as the man chopped wood, stoked the fire under the boiler, and fed in the garbage being turned into whiskey. Old potato peels, rotting vegetables, corn husks, anything that might yield alcohol if heated enough and then the liquid distilled went into the vat. A coil of copper spiraled around, cooled by the air so the drops coming from the open end could turn from gas to liquid.
The man was shorter than Slocum by a head and scrawny as a scarecrow. He took frequent nips from a pocket flask, and once Slocum saw him refill it from the slowly dripping tube. How he kept working after drinking so much was a testament to his practice at downing such potent whiskey. Slocum had seen men like this before. Without booze, they shook like a leaf. Get a couple shots under their belt and they looked like the soberest preacher going before his flock on Sunday morning. It took a powerful amount more to get them roaring drunk.
This distiller was only starting the day and moved with the sureness of a teetotaler.
As Slocum watched, he thought on what to do. The way to hit back at Deutsch was to cripple his business. If he couldn’t supply his Taos Lightning to the saloons in town, the bar owners would find their spines and hunt for other sources. Deutsch could go only so far burning out the owners and killing people. Running the businesses himself wasn’t his intent. He wanted to control it, keep the owners dancing to his tune, and rake in the money.
It was simple and going his way if the still produced the hooch he forced those in Taos to sell.
Slocum crept closer. The workman continued chopping wood for the fire, but now he only split a few pieces before knocking back some of his handmade whiskey. The way he wobbled told Slocum he was crossing the line of apparent sobriety and venturing into completely liquored up. Before the sun set, he would be crawling on his belly.
But Slocum didn’t want to wait that long. It was hardly past noon, and sundown, even surrounded by the tall mountain peaks, was hours off. He slid his colt from the holster, then silently cursed. The six-shooter had been soaked in the river. He should have stripped it down, dried and oiled the mechanism, and loaded it with new cartridges. The pistol might fail him when he needed it most because of his own thoughtlessness.
The distiller stopped, wiped his face with a rag, then paused, the silver flask halfway to his lips. He continued the motion, getting the flask to his lips, but Slocum knew what that hesitation meant. He had been found out.
Surging to his feet, he cocked the Colt and declared, “You’ll be dead before you hit the ground if you don’t get them hands up!”
The order confused the man. He stared at the flask, not sure what to do with it. Finally realizing he might get a slug through his head if he didn’t obey, he stuck the cork in and then lifted his hands, the flask clutched in his left hand.
“You’re makin’ one helluva mistake, mister,” he said. A slight slur to his words was all that betrayed his heavy drinking. “You’re trespassin’ on private land.”
“How many gallons a week do you produce?” Slocum asked, coming closer. He looked around to see if the man had a rifle leaning against the small shed holding the still or any other firearm.
“’Nuff to keep me happy,” the man said. He dropped the flask. The bright silver flash stole Slocum’s attention.
And he almost died because of the misdirection. The man bent and flung his ax in one smooth movement. The ax spun about, flashing head-handle-head. Then it struck Slocum and knocked him back a step. He fired instinctively, but the dull pop! confirmed what he had feared. The dunking in the river had ruined the rounds in the cylinder.
But the one bit of luck came in the awkward throw. If the ax head had struck him, he would have been seriously cut. The handle whacked him in the ribs hard enough to get his attention and leave a bruise but not so hard that he added a serious injury to his already battered body.
He fired again. This round proved a complete dud. It was as if the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Then strong arms circled him and forced him back another step. The man was short and scrawny but strong from the hard work of splitting wood for the still fire.
Slocum drew up his pistol and crammed the muzzle into the man’s belly as his arms tightened. Once more Slocum fired. The man grunted, although the report hadn’t been any more reassuring than the two previous ones.
Bowled over, Slocum twisted as he fell and landed hard on his side. The man’s right arm lay trapped underneath. Slocum used his elbow to deliver a hard blow to the man’s head. This stunned him enough to release his hold. Slocum curled up, got his knee between them, and kicked as hard as he could.
The grip broke and the man rolled down the hill. Slocum struggled to his feet, the six-shooter still in his hand to face the distiller. The man clutched his gut, then pulled his hand away wet with blood.
“You done shot me. Don’t feel good. Everything’s leakin’ out from my innards.” He dropped to his knees, then bent over.
Slocum called out, “Hands up. Get ’em where I can see ’em.”
The man remained doubled over, folded around his belly.
Wary of a trick, Slocum came at the man from the side, ready to use his six-gun as a club. Not a muscle moved. Slocum kicked out and pushed the man over onto the ground. His eyes were open but they saw nothing.
From the small amount of blood that had oozed out, Slocum wondered how the man could be dead. He kicked the man a couple more times to get a response. Nothing. Only then did he examine the wound. His pistol had been pointed up, not into the man’s gut. The slug had little power but it was enough to puncture the skin and go directly into the man’s heart.
Slocum held up his Colt and marveled at the killing power, even when it misfired. He slid it back into the cross-draw holster and went up the hill to the still. A gallon jug overflowed under the dripping tube. Slocum ran his finger around the edge and tasted it.
Even this small amount burned like hellfire. He touched his lip and knew the reason. He had split his lip in the brief fight. More of the Taos Lightning seared away an infection. Then he drank enough to pool in his stomach and create a raging forest fire. This was potent stuff.
He picked up the dropped flask, wiped off the mouth, and took another swig. This made him feel as if he could whip his weight in wildcats. He filled the flask, then tucked it into his coat pocket.
Destroying the still required no expertise on his part. He sloshed around a couple gallons of the whiskey, dripped a trail a dozen feet downhill, and then took out his tin of lucifers.
The tin was watertight as well as airtight to keep the volatile matches from igniting unexpectedly. A single flick of his thumb brought forth a bright blue flame. He dropped the match into the whiskey trail and stepped back. It burned clear and hot, working its way up to the still.
Slocum turned and ran for all he was worth and even then almost got caught in the powerful explosion. Bits of metal and garbage and fiery droplets rained down on him, making him stagger.
He looked back at the destruction. The fire built with insane fury and sent flames twenty feet into the sky. He found his horse and rode the trail toward the X Bar X ranch house.
If this didn’t get Rory Deutsch’s attention, nothing would.
11
Before he rode into the jaws of the monster that was Rory Deutsch and his sons, Slocum cleaned and oiled his six-shooter. It took a bit of rummaging around to find a box of cartridges in his saddlebags because everything in the bags had been pushed around. If he had wondered about Marta’s curiosity, this answered it. She had searched his saddlebags thoroughly.
Colt reloaded and ready, Slocum followed the trail around and eventually sighted the X Bar X ranch house. What he intended was crazy, but sneaking around the ranch got him nowhere. If anything, it might land him back in the Tao
s jail when the posse blundered across him.
Slocum halted a few yards from the two-story house. He couldn’t help himself. He looked up at the second-story window where Marta had spied on him before. The curtains moved sluggishly from the breeze blowing through the open window. Of the woman he saw nothing. What he felt about that remained a mystery until something more pressing commanded his attention.
Rory Deutsch came around the side of the house, head down and hurrying along. He looked up, startled, when Slocum called to him.
“They blew it up. Your distiller’s dead and nothing’s left.”
“What are you talking about?” Deutsch looked around as if he had been trapped. “You? You have some nerve to come back here!”
“The posse was looking for me, but your distiller took a shot at them. They killed him and blew up the still.”
Deutsch stepped away from the side of the house and stared past Slocum, about where the still had been. The expression on his face was about the most satisfying thing Slocum had seen in a while. The rancher turned red in the face and bellowed incoherently.
“You have another still to produce that Taos Lightning of yours?” Slocum asked.
“Martin is dead? They killed him?”
“Reckon he’s dead. Had a bullet in his gut, then the still blew up and burned him to a cinder.”
“How do you know? You do it? Why are you telling me this?”
“The posse’s on my trail. They think I killed Annabelle Harris, but I didn’t. I got locked up for it, but the deputy marshal killed her.”
Again Slocum was rewarded by the man’s expression.
“The deputy killed her? Why?”
“So he and his pa could lock me up in jail. They framed me.”
“His pa?”
“Judge Locke, from up in Denver. His son’s a federal deputy marshal name of Byron Locke.”
For the third time Slocum hit the target. Rory Deutsch’s mouth opened and closed but no words came out. If ever he had seen a man stunned by news, this was it.
“You think the deputy killed Annabelle Harris?”
“It makes sense. I need a place to hide out. Might be, I can help you in exchange.”
“How? You’re nothing but—” Deutsch shut up when he found himself staring down the barrel of Slocum’s six-shooter.
He had drawn, cocked, and aimed so fast that he doubted Deutsch saw anything but a blur.
“I’m a damned good shot, too. Want me to show you?”
“Put that away. If my boys see you with a gun on me, they’ll kill you out of hand.”
Slocum waited until Deutsch got a little antsy, then obeyed. He risked his neck to get evidence against the Deutsch family so Judge Locke could put them away in a federal prison, not cut him down, as appealing as that was.
“There’s no need for the posse to come for me. Distilling whiskey’s not a crime.” Deutsch recovered his bravado and shoved his chin out, almost begging Slocum to take a swing.
Slocum wished he could. He rode a little closer and looked down on the rancher.
“Will you hide me away until the posse gives up?”
“The still’s gone?”
“And the man tending it is dead.” Slocum noticed that the loss of the still and the whiskey it produced mattered more than Martin’s death.
“I need to get a still working again. You know anything about moonshining?”
“I’m from Georgia,” Slocum said. “Seen more than my share of ’shine. Neighbors ran their own still and I helped.” Slocum nodded slowly, as if considering the matter carefully. “I can set up and run a still for you. If the price is right.”
Deutsch snorted and waved his hands about, as if shooing away flies.
“If I let you hide from the posse, that’s pay enough.”
“And all the whiskey I want.”
“A gallon a week. Not a drop more. I won’t have anyone drinking up my profits.”
Slocum took out Martin’s flask, sampled the Taos Lightning, again recoiled from the potent liquor’s kick, corked the flask, and tossed it to Deutsch.
“If he had any family, that’s all that’s left. I took it off his body.”
“Get on up to the barn. You can stay there for a day or two. No Taos posse is lingering in these hills longer than that. They’re a soft bunch.”
“Offer them some whiskey, and they’ll be happy to ride home,” Slocum said.
Deutsch sputtered and said something Slocum couldn’t hear as he rode to the barn. Slocum felt the hair on his neck rising. If either of Deutsch’s sons saw him, he was a dead man. He dismounted and unsaddled his horse before leading it into the barn. Rather than tend the Appaloosa immediately, Slocum prowled about. He needed evidence, and money bags from Denver banks would go a ways toward proving the Deutsches guilty of the robbery where Locke had lost his other son.
When he didn’t unearth anything, he took a quick look at the countryside around the barn. The meadow to one side sheltered a few cattle, idly grazing in the warm afternoon sun. A corral on the far side stood empty. Not far opposite it the bunkhouse and a mess hall were also deserted. From the front door to the ranch house proved equally forsaken. Deutsch had disappeared into thin air.
Slocum considered his chances of finding anything that incriminated the Deutsches and decided instead to sit and think hard on the matter. He was in the heart of the enemy’s stronghold. What did Locke expect him to find? The answer that made the most sense caused Slocum to clench his fists. Judge Locke cared nothing about Annabelle’s murder and everything about bringing in the Deutsch family. The only crime likely to be found out was a murder.
Slocum’s murder.
Judge Locke had framed Slocum and wanted Rory Deutsch to kill him. The crimes in Denver had to go unsolved, as far as evidence that would convince a jury. Slocum hadn’t heard the judge present any solid facts as to how he knew the Deutsches were even responsible. Slocum had evidence they had waylaid and killed Tom Harris, but Judge Locke didn’t care about that.
If Slocum hadn’t brought the three horses with the X Bar X brand back to their owner, would this have mattered? Locke wouldn’t buy the lie that the horses had been stolen from a pasture any more than Slocum had. The best way to get the Deutsches on a gallows was to catch them after they murdered him.
Slocum looked out across the pasture, wondering where Byron Locke hid out. The deputy had to be close, separate from the posse, waiting to arrest Deutsch.
It galled Slocum to admit that Judge Locke had been right about his personal outrage at Annabelle’s murder. If he didn’t bring the killer to justice, no one would. Judge Locke wanted Deutsch. Marshal Donnelly would turn in his badge rather than go against any of the Deutsch brothers.
And Rory Deutsch would keep his iron grip on the Taos liquor supply.
Not for the first time he considered gunning down Rory Deutsch and his boys, then hightailing it. Judge Locke would have the posse after him in a flash, although his ends had been realized. Slocum saw in the man the burning need for personal revenge. If his son’s killers died, good. But that would never be good enough because it robbed him of slamming down the gavel and sentencing them to hang by the neck until they were dead, dead, dead.
He went into the barn, found a piece of beef jerky in his saddlebags, and gnawed on it. Some oatmeal would go well with it, or even some of the salt pork fixed with a mess of beans, but Slocum intended to stay ready to ride out if Deutsch or his boys came after him. He knew that the rancher hadn’t bought the story of how the still had been destroyed. It might take a while longer for him or his sons to poke about the ruins, but Slocum must have left some clue as to the facts. When they pieced it all together, or just because they wanted him removed as they had killed both Tom and Annabelle, he would be shooting it out.
So why stay?
Deputy Locke wa
s out there somewhere. Riding away now would alert the lawman that he had gotten cold feet. Either the posse would be on his trail before dawn or Locke would just shoot him down, claiming he had caught Annabelle’s killer. More than this, Slocum had to mete out some six-gun justice for Annabelle’s death.
The sun dipped low. Slocum tended his horse, feeding and watering the Appaloosa, before looking for a place to sleep. He started to climb a ladder into the loft when he heard the steady stride of someone coming to the barn. Dropping his gear, he rested his hand on his six-shooter as Rory came in.
“You here, Slocum?”
“What did you decide?”
“I got to talk to my boys. They’re both out finding stragglers and won’t be back until tomorrow noon. You stay here until then. I’m inclined to take you up on your offer, but I need to let them know.”
“I can double the still’s output,” Slocum said.
“Yeah, I’ll mention that,” Deutsch said. “You come on down to the house for breakfast.” Rory Deutsch left without another word.
Slocum knew that he wasn’t likely to make it to breakfast. If Deutsch said his sons would be back by noon, that meant sometime during the night. Why Deutsch wanted them to back him up or even do the dirty work for him was something of a puzzle. If Rory Deutsch had no trouble robbing banks and trains and killing a lawman, why worry about an interloper whom he suspected of destroying his still and killing the distiller?
The only way Slocum could find out was to play the hand he had been dealt. He might only hold a pair of deuces, but he was still in the game.
With blanket and rifle, he climbed the ladder into the loft. Hay bales near the door drew him. A pulley and rope on an arm would give him a way out, if he had to leave in a hurry. Slocum prowled about, then spread his blanket on a pile of straw off in a corner. Rifle laid where he could grab it fast, he stretched out and stared at the rafters. A barn owl hooted and stared at him with wide eyes, then swooped down and out the open loft door.