Slocum and the Sawtooth Sirens

by Jake Logan

  Slocum put the lid on the tin and stuck it back in his shirt pocket.

  He breathed in the sweet thin air of the mountains and thought about the meeting with Alvin, and the sight of the Chinese workers, now silent at their tasks.

  The name he had taken. David Sinclair. It had sprung up from some forgotten cavern in the depths of his mind.

  Slocum and Dave Sinclair had grown up together in Calhoun County, Georgia. Had both gone to fight in the Civil War.

  Sinclair had been killed when they both rode with Quantrill. Slocum thought of him now as he looked at the beautiful Sawtooth Range, the puffs of clouds that were adrift across an ocean blue sky. David had died on such a day back in Kansas. Shot through the throat. He had not died right away, but Slocum had not been able to stop the bleeding. He’d pinched the flesh around the bullet hole in Dave’s neck, but could not stop the flow of blood from the exit wound next to his friend’s spine.

  Then he was attacked by a townsman and had to drop Dave while he fought off the man who was trying to kill him.

  After he’d shot the man, he looked down at Dave. His friend’s eyes fluttered and he opened his mouth to utter one last wood.

  “Done,” was all Dave said.

  And he died.

  “Well, now you live again, Dave,” Slocum said to himself. “For a little while at least.”

  Slocum bowed his head in memory of his fallen friend.

  His throat clogged up with emotion and he gulped air into his lungs as he looked up at Sawtooth Mountain.

  A feeling came over him that David was up there somewhere, beyond the clouds, gazing down from his long-legged Missouri trotter, his yellow slicker shining like gold in the sunlight. Slocum choked down the phlegm in his throat and began to look for a place to stash his tools for the night.

  Slocum knew he was a pathetic excuse for a prospector. An admiration for the men hiding up in the mountains rose within him. They did not deserve what Hiram Bledsoe had done to them, driving them away from their digs and jumping their claims. He had never met the man, but a kernel of hatred was fermenting in his mind. Such men did not deserve to breathe the same air as those who were hiding like rats beyond the town of Sawtooth.

  He found more flecks of gold in his pan, but paid the price with an aching back by the time he was ready to quit for the day.

  As far as he was concerned, he had established himself as a prospector, and now he could devote his time to finding out more about Hiram Bledsoe and his small army of hired guns.

  Slocum stashed his tools and sack between two rocks after he drove a stake into the ground at the site. The stake bore the name of David Sinclair. He knew there was more to staking a claim than that, but at least he might claim possession on a temporary basis. He drove the stake in with a small sledgehammer and almost laughed at himself for doing such a ludicrous thing on a worthless piece of real estate.

  As Slocum walked back toward the town of Sawtooth, he heard loud voices and the high-pitched singsong of the Chinese.

  Ahead of him, near one of the mines, he saw one of the Mexicans holding a Chinaman by his pigtail. The Mexican was drawing back a fist to slam into the worker’s face when Slocum yelled at him.

  “Hold on!” Slocum shouted.

  The Mexican turned to him.

  “Mind your own business,” the Mexican said. Then he unleashed his fist and knocked the Chinese man to the ground. Another Mexican rode up, dismounted, and drew his rifle from its scabbard.

  This one began to strike the fallen Chinaman with the butt of his rifle when Slocum ran up and grabbed his arm.

  Slocum snatched the rifle from the man’s hands.

  The first Mexican started to draw his pistol.

  Slocum swung the rifle and knocked this Mexican to the ground. The second Mexican lit into Slocum with a roundhouse right aimed at Slocum’s jaw.

  Slocum ducked and the blow swished over his head with a freshet of air streaming from the man’s knuckles.

  “Oye, gringo, basta,” spat the first Mexican as he regained his footing and drew his pistol.

  Slocum knocked the second Mexican down with a left hook to the jaw, then grabbed the barrel of the first Mexican’s pistol and jerked the weapon out of the man’s hand.

  The downed Chinese man cowered and held up his arms to ward off any blows that might be thrown at him. The other workers chattered in their language and gesticulated as if they were spectators at a prize fight.

  Slocum turned on the second Mexican, who was reaching for his pistol. He kicked him square in the groin. The man groaned in pain and doubled over, both hands clutching his crotch.

  Slocum gripped the pistol he had taken from the first Mexican and pointed it at the empty-handed man. His finger slid into the guard and touched the trigger. He cocked the pistol, a .38 Smith & Wesson with bone grips.

  The action made a loud click as it came to full cock.

  “Back off,” Slocum said. “Hands up.”

  Then he repeated in Spanish, “Manos arriba.”

  The Mexican complied and raised both hands.

  The man on the ground began to recover. He crawled away from Slocum.

  Slocum turned to the Chinese man on the ground.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked.

  The man nodded.

  “I speak some words,” he said.

  “These men won’t bother you again. If they do, you come and get me.”

  “This is not your business,” the Mexican with his hands in the air said.

  “What’s your name?” Slocum asked in Spanish.

  “Carlos Elizando,” the man said.

  Slocum turned to the man on the ground.

  “And what do you call yourself?” Slocum asked the question in Spanish.

  “Fidel Ortiz,” the man said, the trace of a whimper in his voice.

  “I call myself David Sinclair, and if I see either of you hit one of these Chinese again, I’ll shoot you both dead. Understand?”

  Both Mexicans nodded.

  To the Chinaman, Slocum said, “Get up. Go back to work. What is your name?”

  “I am Chan Woo Han,” the man said.

  He got up and dusted himself off.

  “Do not be afraid of these men, Chan,” Slocum said.

  “He said I did not work hard enough,” Chan said.

  “These Mexicans do not work at all,” Slocum said.

  He ejected all six cartridges from Elizando’s pistol, then tossed it away.

  “You will pay for this, gringo,” Ortiz said.

  “Ten cuidado, Mexicano,” Slocum said. “Be careful. I pay off in hot lead. Remember that, Ortiz.”

  Neither Mexican said a word as Slocum walked off.

  He did not look back. The Chinese stopped talking and went back to work.

  The other Chinese along the way looked at Slocum as he passed.

  Word of the incident had traveled fast.

  Slocum knew he had made some friends. But he had also made two new enemies.

  He would have to watch his back from that moment on.

  13

  Hiram Bledsoe was not a creature of habit.

  He liked to vary his daily routine so that neither friends nor enemies could pin him to a regular schedule or track his movements.

  He was curious about the Chinese laborers he had hired, but had no particular desire to see them at work. He had hired hands to look after such interests, and he knew they would report back to him.

  The Sawtooth Saloon was Hiram’s second home. He headed there late in the afternoon, alone. He liked to go there when it was quiet and sit at a corner table at one end of the large room and watch who came in without being noticed.

  The saloon was quiet at that hour. Joe Filbert was behind the bar. Jake Hornsby, the swamper, was sweeping the small
dance floor in front of the even smaller stage. Funny, Hiram thought, because there would be no dancing now that all of the miners were gone.

  “Howdy, boss,” Joe said as he swiped a cloth across the bar. “I’ll make you a drink and carry it back to you.”

  Hiram went straight to his table, sat down. He looked up at the lamp set on a wall shelf above him, then at Jake.

  “Snuff this lamp, Jake,” Hiram said.

  Jake looked over at his boss.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Bledsoe. Have it out in a jiffy.”

  Jake walked over to the lamp and turned the wick down until it went out. Now Hiram sat in a pool of darkness while the other lamps cast yellow light onto the bar and tables, chairs and flooring.

  A few minutes later, Joe brought a mixed drink on a tray and set the glass down in front of Bledsoe.

  “Ginger soda and the good Scotch, boss. Just the way you like it. We won’t have ice until it snows and the weather gets cold.”

  “I like it warm anyway, Joe.”

  “You’re in early, boss.”

  “Rooms get small and tight when you stay in ’em too long.”

  “I know what you mean,” Joe said. “You expectin’ anybody?”

  “Alvin is due in before sundown. Seen him around?”

  “He came in for a short beer about an hour ago. Said he met up with that stranger who knows as much about prospectin’ as my old lady, rest her soul.”

  “You see the stranger, Joe?”

  “He came in a while after them Chinks showed up. I saw him, but he don’t look like much. Alvin said he was as dumb as a sack full of ball bearings.”

  “We’ll see,” Hiram said. “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

  Joe scratched his head in puzzlement and walked back to the bar, where he adjusted a pair of stools, then went behind it to wipe off some of the bottles. They sat in plain view in front of a large mirror with patches of black where the reflective surface had worn off.

  Men who worked for Hiram began to come into the saloon as they got off their shift. Ronnie Sweet was the first of the glitter gals to arrive. She saw Bledsoe at his usual table, but ignored him. Instead, she sat down at a table near the swinging doors and greeted each man and gal who came in. Joe served drinks from then on as the afternoon shadows began to stretch down the street and paint the buildings with soft shades of gray.

  Alvin came in and spoke to Joe, who pointed to the table where Bledsoe was still nursing his first drink.

  “Set yourself down, Alvin,” Hiram said. “You order a drink?”

  “Yeah. Penny will bring it. I just want a beer this time of day.”

  Alvin sat down at a side table so that he did not obstruct Hiram’s view. He knew Bledsoe liked to see who came and went in his saloon when he was there.

  Alvin took off his hat and set it on the floor next to his chair.

  “Long day,” he said to Hiram. “I rode up beyond the bluffs, slow and real quiet. Never saw hide nor hair of any of them miners. Listened a whole lot, too. Nary a sound from anywheres. They must be camped somewhere way off among them little mountains.”

  “What about the latest prospector to hit town?” Bledsoe asked as he was about to tip his drink and take another sip.

  Penelope Oglesby sidled up with a tray and a glass of beer. She smiled at Hiram and winked at Alvin.

  “You need a refill, sugar, you just give me the high sign,” she said.

  Alvin grabbed one of her buttocks and gave it a slight squeeze. Her taffeta skirt whispered as she wiggled away, a smile on her face.

  “I sure will, Penny,” he said.

  “Joe’s got you tallied,” she said, and trotted away on the front soles of her patent leather shoes. Like all of the girls who worked there, she wore a low-cut blouse, with white and black stripes, a short ruffled taffeta skirt that was robin’s egg blue, high-heeled shoes, and mesh silk stockings. She wore a small money belt that rustled with bills and clinked with loose change. Her lips were painted rosy red, and the peach blush on her cheeks was from cosmetics and had been gently powdered.

  “You fancy Penny, do you, Alvin?” Hiram asked as he pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket, snipped off the end with a pair of small scissors, and rolled the end in his mouth before clamping his teeth down on it.

  Alvin took a pack of matches from his pocket and struck one as Hiram leaned forward. Hiram puffed as Alvin touched the match flame to the tip of the Corona.

  “She’s one of the sweet ones,” Alvin said. “I’ve plumbed her a time or two.”

  “Humph,” grunted Hiram as he pulled smoke into his mouth. The tobacco had a strong aroma and the smoke curled upward in a blue spiral as Hiram let it blow out of the side of his mouth.

  “What do you make of the stranger, the latest prospector to visit our fair city, Alvin?”

  “I met him. He won’t make a livin’ here likely.”

  “Is he what he says he is?” Hiram asked.

  “’Pears so, Hiram.” Alvin pulled beer into his mouth. Foam flecked his lips as he set his glass down near the wet ring it had left on the table.

  “So, he just stumbled in here out of nowhere?”

  “He ain’t the brightest lamp on the wall, that’s for sure,” Alvin said. “He don’t know much about mining, but he worked up a sweat swirling water and gravel in that pan of his.”

  “What’s he call himself?”

  Alvin told him.

  Hiram looked up at the ceiling for a moment and closed his eyes.

  “Name don’t ring no bell,” Hiram said. “He say anything about the Chinamen? Did he ask why there was no white miners at work?”

  “Nope. He didn’t seem curious at all. Just an ordinary guy. Looks to be poor as a church mouse and dumber than a hickory stump.”

  Hiram laughed deep in his throat.

  “That’s the way I like ’em,” Hiram said. “Maybe he’ll stumble onto another vein and file a claim with Eb Scraggs.”

  “You never know. He might get lucky.”

  While the two men were talking, another of Hiram’s men burst through the batwing doors and ran to the bar. He bent over it to talk to Joe. Joe pointed to Hiram’s table. Alvin heard the sound of the running boots and turned around to see who was in such a hurry. The footsteps rang on the hardwood flooring as the man headed for Hiram’s table.

  “That’s Pete Eddings,” Alvin said. “He was up on the ridge today.”

  “One of three or four,” Hiram said. “And it’s plain he’s got something stuck in his craw.”

  Pete rushed up to the table, slightly out of breath.

  “Mr. Bledsoe, I just come off the ridge and I saw somethin’ you got to hear about.”

  “Spill your beans, Pete,” Hiram said.

  “That new galoot what come here this morning busted into a fight and waylaid Ortiz and Elizando. Them Mexes was knockin’ down one of them Chinks and this feller, well, he just waded in and I saw him knock them Mexes down. Couldn’t make out what any of them was sayin’, but the gold grubber took a pistol, emptied it, and threw it off a ways. He grabbed one of the Mex rifles, too. They didn’t have no chance.”

  “Sit down, Pete, and tell me all you saw and heard,” Hiram said. “Catch your breath first. You want a drink?”

  “That prospector don’t look like much,” Pete said as he pulled a side chair away from the table and sat down. “But he knocked the sass out of them Mexes. He spoke the lingo, too, but I don’t understand Mex.”

  “So would you say this man is tough? What’s his name again, Alvin?”

  “He calls himself Dave Sinclair. He’s big and kind of muscular, but I wouldn’t take him for no saloon brawler.”

  “Well, I sure as hell would,” Pete said. “Carlos and Fidel are no spring chickens. They got steel wires in their arms and they’re both dead shots. Bu
t this Sinclair feller made ’em look like schoolboys in short pants.”

  “Hmm,” intoned Hiram. “Interesting. So Mr. Sinclair is handy with his fists. Did he draw iron on Carlos and Fidel?”

  “Nope,” Pete said. “Didn’t have to. He took out their teeth like some practiced dentist, I’m tellin’ you. He walked off and them Mexes just stared at his back like they had just saw a dadgummed whirlwind pass by ’em.”

  Alvin shook his head. “So he was defending one of the Chinks,” he said.

  “Yep. Butted into somethin’ that was none of his damned business.”

  “I’ll have a talk with Carlos and Fidel when they come in,” Hiram said. “Pete, go get yourself a drink. That Sinclair ain’t nothin’ we can’t handle.”

  Pete stood up. “Seems to me, he needs to be taught a lesson, Mr. Bledsoe. A good hard lesson.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Pete.” Hiram waved the man away then put his cigar in a clay ashtray and picked up his drink.

  Alvin turned around after Pete left. “Either we got ourselves a Good Samaritan, Hiram, or a Chink-lover.”

  “I wonder,” Hiram said. “Sinclair didn’t draw his gun. Used his fists. He might be as dumb as you say.”

  “I wouldn’t want to tangle with either Fidel or Carlos,” Alvin said. “Especially if they had guns in their hands.”

  “And it appears they did, doesn’t it?”

  “I reckon so,” Alvin said.

  “On the other hand, this Dave Sinclair might bear watching. Maybe he isn’t what he says he is.” Hiram drank another swallow from his glass.

  “He don’t look like no gunfighter I ever saw,” Alvin said.

  Hiram picked up his cigar and puffed on it.

  “Maybe that’s the way he wants it, Alvin. Maybe . . .”

  Hiram did not finish what he was about to say. Instead, he looked toward the batwing doors.

  A tall man in nondescript clothes entered the saloon. There was something about his walk and the way he looked around the room that sent a tingle of chill up Hiram’s spine.

  “That must be Sinclair now,” Hiram said, nodding toward the door.

  Alvin turned and saw Slocum, who called himself Sinclair, walk toward the bar. No, he shuffled toward the bar, his shoulders slightly hunched, his feet dragging.