by Jake Logan
Slocum ducked and jumped out of range.
Amy heard the commotion and ventured out from between the two buildings. She looked at the two men and wondered why Slocum was trying to get behind Jimmy John. But Jimmy John was fast on his feet and he turned sharply so that he was still facing Slocum.
She stifled a gasp as Jimmy John drove one of his fists straight at Slocum’s face. His left fist.
Slocum swiveled his head sideways to avoid the blow.
That was when Jimmy John’s right hand dove toward the butt of his pistol. He grasped the curved wood of his gun grip and began to pull the weapon from its holster.
Slocum knew that if either of them fired a shot, it would bring the saloon patrons out back to see what was going on. And one of them would be Wolf Steiner.
Jimmy John was slightly off balance when his fist missed its target. And his draw was slow. Slocum saw his advantage and swiped at the man’s forearm with his knife. The blade cut into Jimmy John’s arm. Blood seeped from the gash, and the fingers of his right hand flicked upward so that the grip was no longer fast.
A split second.
Jimmy John grimaced in pain for another second.
“You sonofabitch,” he breathed through clenched teeth. He tried to pull his pistol free again.
Slocum leaped a half foot and drove his knife into Jimmy John’s left side. The man grunted and twisted away from the blade. Blood gushed through a slit in his side and his breath came hard all of a sudden.
“Bastard,” Jimmy John growled.
The pistol was halfway out of his holster when Slocum struck again. This time, he slashed Jimmy John’s left arm, high and low. One of the slashes cut through his shirt just below the shoulder, and the other cut the flesh just above the wrist.
Jimmy John backed away. He pulled the pistol free of his holster. He started to raise his arm when Slocum dove into him, butting him in the belly. A rush of air belched from Jimmy John’s chest and he staggered a step backward.
But his hand still gripped his pistol and he had his thumb on the hammer to cock it.
That was when Slocum knew he had to finish Jimmy John off before he fired his pistol. He batted at the firearm with his left hand, striking the barrel. The gun swung away from Slocum, and Jimmy John’s thumb slipped off the hammer.
Slocum plunged his knife into Jimmy John’s chest, just to the right of his ear. The blade sank in deep and Slocum twisted his wrist slightly. The blade widened the hole and ripped out blood vessels and flesh.
“Aw, shit,” Jimmy John cried, and his knees began to buckle.
Amy’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry. She saw blood spurt from Jimmy John’s chest.
Slocum pulled the knife out and rammed it into Jimmy John’s belly. He slashed right and left to widen the wound and make hash out of Jimmy John’s innards.
Jimmy John dropped to his knees, mortally wounded.
Slocum pulled the knife away and stepped in close.
“Sorry, man,” he said. “You made your choice.”
Then he slashed Jimmy John’s throat in one full sweep of the knife blade. Blood spurted from the wide wound, and Slocum bent his stomach inward to avoid being splattered.
Amy made a sound in her throat and turned her head away at the ghastly sight.
Jimmy John gurgled for a second, fell to his knees, and toppled over onto his face. Blood pooled up where he landed. His legs quivered and kicked spasmodically. He wheezed out a last breath and died in less than a second.
Slocum stepped away and eyed the dead man.
“Wrong choice,” he said under his breath.
He stooped over and bent down. He wiped both sides of his knife blade on the back of one of Jimmy John’s trouser legs. He stood up and sheathed his blade.
Amy rushed up to him.
“Is he . . .” she breathed.
“He’s dead, Amy. Don’t look at him.”
“I won’t,” she said.
“Do you feel up to going inside the saloon?” he asked as he held her tight against his body. She was trembling.
She nodded, unable to speak at that moment.
“Gather your wits, then we’ll go in.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”
“Take all the time you want,” he said, a tenderness in his voice. He breathed in a large gulp of frigid mountain air. It served to restore his regular breathing and to calm him.
Finally, Amy stood up straight and he released her. She looked up at him.
“I’m ready,” she said. “But I’m still scared. And worried. You’re walking into a death trap, John.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
“All right.”
“You’ll go in and look to see if everyone is still sitting in their same places. And if anyone else has come in who works for Wolf. Then I’ll watch you, and when you give me a nod, I’ll know it’s okay to go in. If you shake your head, I’ll know someone’s out of place, or that I’m more outnumbered than I thought. Got it?”
“Yes. I’ll be able to tell right away.”
“Then let’s go in,” he said.
“What about him?” she asked, glancing at Jimmy John’s body.
“Either the dogs, the wolves, or the undertaker will be by to take care of Jimmy John,” he said.
Amy shuddered at the thought.
They walked through the back door of the saloon, and at the entrance to the saloon itself, Amy left him.
Slocum stood in the dim light of the hallway and watched her walk over to stand at the lower end of the bar. He saw her look to her left and then down the bar to her right.
He waited to see whether she would nod or shake her head.
He loosened his pistol in its holster and flexed the fingers of both hands.
He knew that Wolf would not be expecting him to enter from that direction. But which man would see him first? Which would be the one who stood up and slapped leather right off?
Whichever one it might be, he was a dead man.
Slocum’s jaw hardened as he waited, his gaze fixed on Amy.
It seemed an eternity before her head moved.
20
Out of the corner of her eye, Amy Sullivan saw a man enter the saloon, brushing through the batwing doors as if pursued by demons.
She recognized him right away, not only as a patron of the Mother Lode Saloon but as one of Wolf’s men, a sycophant who ran errands for him, fawned over him, and kowtowed to Wolf’s every whim. He was a scraggly little man who always wore a battered felt hat, grimy duck trousers, and shoddy boots. Now the man held a small wicker basket in his hand. His eyes were wild, his unkempt straw hair streaming from under his hat.
The man was Tom Jessup.
Alarmed, Amy shook her head to warn Slocum off until she could determine what Jessup was doing there with that basket, which she recognized as the kind used by Molly’s Café for carryout customers.
Jessup stopped in mid-stride and gazed around the room. Then he headed straight for the table where Wolf sat.
Amy headed that way to overhear what Jessup wanted to say to his boss.
Jessup ran up to the table, his excitement visible. Wolf stared at him with a look of annoyance on his face.
“Boss, boss,” Jessup blurted out, “I was totin’ this food basket and a pint to Jimmy John out back and he’s lyin’ dead, his throat cut open and blood ever’where.”
“What?” Wolf exclaimed.
“Honest. Jimmy John’s plumb dead and he’s got cuts all over him. Just lyin’ back there in the alley like a gutted shoat.”
“Shit,” Wolf said. “Sit down and keep your damned voice down.”
Amy heard every word. She drifted over to a table where one of her girls sat with three patrons. She smiled wanly at them and patted th
e girl on the top of her head.
“Are you keeping these gents happy, Maureen?” she asked in a soft tone of voice.
“Yes’m. We was talkin’ about gold and minin’ and such.”
“Well, you fellers enjoy yourselves,” she said, and walked over to a spot near the hallway where Slocum was still waiting. Her blue eyes flashed when she saw him.
Slocum held up both hands at his sides as if to ask her what was going on.
“Wait,” she whispered.
Slocum heard the word, but also read her lips.
Amy looked over at Wolf and Jessup. They were huddled together, then Wolf stood up and gestured to Clemson, nodded toward the front door.
Clemson stood up.
Wolf walked to the end of the bar and spoke to Hobart, with Clemson right behind him.
Jessup stayed where he was, still gripping the handle of the wicker basket, which rested atop the table.
Wolf, Clemson, and Hobart walked to the batwings and went out into the night. Amy rushed over to where Slocum stood.
“Wolf just left,” she said. “And Clemson and Hobart went with him. They’re probably going out back to see for themselves what you did to Jimmy John.”
“Damn,” Slocum said.
“What are you going to do, John?”
“I don’t want to face three men in the dark. Let’s just see what they do next. I know where Wolf lives. Maybe I can brace him there.”
“There’s a man still here,” she said. “He works for Wolf. Kind of an errand boy. He was to bring a basket of food and liquor to Jimmy John.”
“He’s still there?”
“Yes, I think he’s rattled. He doesn’t have much sense anyway.”
“Perfect,” Slocum said.
He walked into the saloon and looked to his left.
One of Amy’s girls was at Jessup’s table. He gave her an order for a beer and she walked away, toward the bar.
“That’s Wendy,” she said. “Tom Jessup just ordered a beer from the bar.”
Slocum walked over to the table where Jessup sat. The nervous young man clutched the basket handle as if he was afraid someone would snatch it away from him.
Jessup looked up when Slocum approached. His pale blue eyes were wide and rosy-rimmed from crying, and there were streaks of dried tears on his face.
“Jessup,” Slocum said.
“Yeah, that’s me. Tom Jessup.”
Slocum sat down and looked into the little thin man’s eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” Slocum asked.
Jessup shook his head. But his hands began to tremble and his eyes darted in their sockets like wayward marbles.
“I’m John Slocum. And I’m the man who put Jimmy John’s lamp out a while ago.”
“Jesus,” Jessup blurted out.
“Is that a prayer or a curse word?” Slocum asked.
“I—I know who you are now, Slocum. I seen what you done and I told Wolf.”
“You work for him.” It was not a question.
“Yes, I’m beholden to Wolf. He’s my boss.”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Tom, so just relax.”
“I—I can’t. My nerves is janglin’ like a bunch of windmills in a big old blow.”
Amy went to the bar, where she spoke to Wendy.
“Don’t take that beer over to Tom Jessup,” she said. “He won’t be here long.”
The barkeep set an empty beer glass down.
“What? Oh, I get it,” Wendy said. “Joe, hold the beer,” she said.
“I already have,” Joe said.
Amy smiled and stepped a few feet away to look at Slocum and Jessup at the table. Jessup’s face was all bone from lack of blood. Whatever Slocum was saying to him, she thought, it was scaring Jessup half to death.
“I mean you no harm,” Slocum said. “But I want you to deliver a message to your boss, to Wolf. Can you do that for me? His life and yours depend on you giving him my message.”
Jessup nodded until Slocum thought he might dislocate his head from his neck.
“Wh-What message?”
“I want you to tell Wolf that if he doesn’t ride out of town tonight, with all his men, he’ll never see sunrise.”
“I can’t tell him no such thing,” Jessup said. “You don’t know Wolf. He don’t scare and he might beat me to a pulp.”
“If you don’t deliver that message, Tom, you won’t see tomorrow’s sun come up either. You’ll be lyin’ on the street like your friend Jimmy John. I mean it.”
“Golly, mister, you’re askin’ a whole hell of a lot.”
“You want to help your boss, don’t you?”
“I reckon. But that’s a mighty dangerous message.”
“Just tell him it’s from me, John Slocum. He won’t hurt you.”
“I reckon I can do that. I don’t want to die. Not like Jimmy John.”
“I’ll be watching you, Tom. Every step of the way. I know where Wolf lives and I’ll come in there and kill him and everyone else if he doesn’t saddle up tonight and light a shuck out of Durango.”
“Jesus,” Jessup said again. He let loose of the basket handle and wiped sweaty palms on his trousers.
Slocum stood up.
“Now, get to it, Tom. I’ll be right behind you. But you won’t see me. Just think of Jimmy John back there in the alley with his throat cut and stinking to high heaven in his own blood.”
“Christ,” Jessup said and stood up.
He edged away from the table. He left the basket where it sat and ran toward the door. Then he scampered through it, his shirttails flying.
Amy walked over to Slocum.
“What did you tell him?” she asked.
“I told him to warn Wolf to get out of town or I’d kill him and all his men, including Jessup.”
“My God. Wolf won’t back down. John, he’ll come after you and kill you. Shoot you in the back.”
“If he comes after me, that’s fine, Amy. My bet is that he will lay low for a time, then try for me.”
“You think he’ll just ride out of town?”
“Oh, he won’t go far. And I’ll be right on his tail.”
“If he goes into the timber, that’s thousands of acres. He can hide and pick you off from most anywhere.”
“I’ve hunted all kinds of game, including wolves and mountain lions, Amy.”
“They didn’t have guns.”
“No, but they didn’t have horses either. And horses are a sight easier to track.”
“I’ll worry about you,” she said as Slocum started to leave.
“Tell the constable I said howdy if he comes in,” he said.
Slocum walked to the batwing doors and out into the chill night air.
He would give Jessup time to walk the few blocks to Wolf’s house, then he’d take up a position where he could see what Wolf’s next move was. He had ignored Slocum’s previous message.
Maybe this one would have the desired effect.
Or maybe the sight of Jimmy John lying dead in back of the saloon would finally get through to him.
Blood, he reasoned, spoke louder than words.
21
Wolf struck a match as he bent over the body of Jimmy John.
“That murderin’ bastard,” he gruffed. “Look at what he did to Jimmy John. Probably snuck up on him in the dark and slit his throat, the sonofabitch.”
“There’s scuff marks all around, boss,” Hobart said.
Clemson gagged at the ugly sight of Jimmy John’s slashed throat and the copious amount of blood pooled up under his head.
Wolf’s match went out and he struck another. He went over the landing and saw that Hobart was right. The dirt was roiled and there were partial boot marks. He traced the marks away from the landing. He
struck more matches and began to piece together what had happened to Jimmy John.
“A woman brought Slocum here,” he said. “He did sneak up on Jimmy John from twixt them buildings. They likely tussled some before Slocum did his dirty work with his knife.”
“Jimmy John would have put up a hell of a fight, all right,” Hobart said.
Clemson stepped away from his vomit and wiped his mouth. His stomach was still queasy and he stank of stale beer.
“Yeah,” Wolf said as his last match went out. “He put up a hell of a fight, but his knife is still on his belt.”
“So is his gun. Still in his holster. He fought the bastard bare-handed.”
Hobart knelt down and unbuckled Jimmy John’s gun belt with the knife and pistol holster attached.
“Jimmy John was a damned good man,” Wolf said, a bitter tone to his voice.
“The best,” Hobart said.
“Well, we know who did it,” Clemson said in a scratchy voice. He could not look at the dead man, but just stood there, pulling in gulps of air. He could taste the sour beer still.
“Slocum, no doubt,” Wolf said. “Question is, who was the woman who led him here? One of the saloon girls, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Hobart said. He buckled the gun belt and slung it onto his left shoulder.
Wolf thought back to the time when the three of them had entered the saloon. In his mind, he recounted each move that he and the other men had made.
Hobart had walked to the end of the bar and stationed himself there as his first lookout. He and Faron had walked to the tables at the wall and each taken separate ones. He remembered ordering from Wendy and she had taken Clemson’s order as well. Maureen was somewhere in the middle of the room, bowing and curtseying as she greeted regular patrons. The bar was lined with several men who were jabbering to each other and to Joe, the barkeep.
Amy Sullivan had nodded to him, but had not stopped by his table. She’d stood near the bar, looking over the house.
When he had looked again, he didn’t see her. She was gone. He assumed she had gone to the ladies’ room to use the chamber pot and dab powder on her nose.