by Jake Logan
“Understood,” Slocum said.
He stood up.
“Can I keep this cigar?” he said as he looked down at Bledsoe.
“It’ll be the last I give you unless you decide to work for me, Sinclair.”
“Two days, Mr. Bledsoe,” Slocum said. He nodded at Alvin. “See you, Alvin.”
Slocum left his drink on the table and walked toward the bar. He could feel Bledsoe’s eyes on his back and he suspected Alvin was watching him, too.
Bledsoe fit his picture of a tyrant. He had seen such men before. They were the land grabbers, the money lenders, the very swine of the earth. They wore their greed on their lapels like badges of honor. He had seen them as bankers, saloon owners where gamblers congregated, and in the stockyards of a dozen cities all over the West.
As he walked back to his stool at the bar, he caught a hand wave from one of the tables. He glanced over and saw a Chinese man rise from his chair.
The hand beckoned for him to approach.
Slocum turned toward the man he knew as Chan Woo Han.
“Hello, Chan,” Slocum said in a jovial tone of voice.
“Sit. I buy you drink,” Chan said.
“No thanks. I am not staying long.”
“Thank you for coming to my aid,” Chan said. Slocum thought he spoke good enough English, but the accent was there.
“No man should be beaten like that.”
“I think you make two enemies, Mr. Sinclair.”
“You know my name,” Slocum said.
“The Mexicans, they found out your name and say it.”
“Call me Dave,” Slocum said.
“You are brave man,” Chan said.
“I don’t like to see an unarmed man beaten with the butt of a rifle.”
The two other men at the table seemed to understand.
“Do all of you speak such good English?” Slocum asked.
“We all speak some. Some good. Some not so good.”
The other men laughed.
“If you have any more trouble with any white men here, you let me know, Chan.”
“You be champion, eh?” Chan grinned wide.
“I’ll stand up for you.”
“Good,” the two other men said in unison.
“You make the Mexican men mad,” Chan said.
“Well, they know where to find me if they want more of the same.”
“Be careful, Mr. Sinclair. They are not good men. They do not respect us.”
“That’s their fault,” Slocum said. “And please call me Dave.”
Chan bowed his head. “You are good man . . . Dave.”
“Be seeing you, Chan.”
Slocum left their table and walked over to the bar.
The woman looked at him as he passed. He pretended not to see her. She made no move to attract his attention and he was glad she did not. She might remember him and know that he wasn’t who he pretended to be.
Ronnie watched Slocum pass close to her table. She wondered what he and Bledsoe had talked about. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought the man who went to the bar was either a brother, or related to the man she had seen in Kansas City.
She just wasn’t sure yet.
Slocum sat down and Joe came over.
“You left your drink at the boss’s table,” the bartender said.
Slocum puffed on his cigar and blew a pair of smoke rings toward Bledsoe’s table.
“It went stale. Will you sell me another, a fresh one?”
“Sure thing, mister. My name is Joe.”
“Dave. Dave Sinclair.”
“Coming right up,” Joe said.
Then his eyes went wide as two men parted the batwing doors and entered the bar. They stood there, their legs spread out, their gazes sweeping the room and the few men seated at the bar.
They knew each man and each girl they saw.
And the Chinese stuck out like a bunch of sore thumbs.
“Uh-oh,” Joe said, his gaze fixed on the two Mexicans who stood just inside the saloon.
“You know Fidel and Carlos, Dave?” Joe whispered as he leaned over the bar.
“Not by name. Why?”
“They just came in and they’re both looking at you with daggers in them brown eyes of theirs.”
“Armed?” Slocum asked.
“Yeah. They’re packin’ pistols. You sure you want another drink right now?”
“I do,” Slocum said.
Then, he slowly turned around and looked at the two men who stood there. He recognized them as the men who had beaten up on Chan Woo Han. They glared at him with open hostility.
Slocum spun around on the stool so that he had a clear view and a free hand in case he had to draw his pistol.
So far, he thought, it was just stares, but both men looked as if they wanted to open the ball and call him out.
“We meet again,” Slocum said in Spanish. “Buy you boys a cup?”
Carlos and Fidel acted as if they had been slapped across their faces with the back of Slocum’s hand. He had spoken to them in their native tongue. And that, to them, was an insult.
“Tu hijo de mala leche,” Fidel said.
It was an insult. Of the worst kind.
He had called Slocum a “son of bad milk,” which was the equivalent, in English, of being called a bastard.
“Hijo de puta,” Carlos said. “Whoreson.”
Slocum smiled at the curses.
His smile was disarming. But it was also a silent taunt to the two Mexicans with blood in their eyes.
The saloon went silent. The gals who had been on the move stopped in their tracks. Men at the bar froze as if their muscles had turned stiff. The Chinese all stared at the Mexicans like startled owls.
Slocum’s eyes narrowed to block out the lamplight and give him a clear vision of the two men.
Joe backed away from the bar. He held his breath.
Ronnie’s eyes widened. As if she knew all hell was about to break loose.
She had seen such a confrontation before. In Kansas City. And now, she was almost sure she was looking at the same man she had seen in a gunfight at the Silver Slipper.
Almost, but not quite.
She licked her lips. Her blood tingled in her veins.
She could smell blood, it seemed.
She held her breath and waited for what seemed an eternity.
The saloon itself seemed to hold its breath.
And it was dead silent, with not a breath of air.
16
Slocum watched both Fidel and Carlos to see which one would go for his gun first. He did not know their names, nor which man was which, but in his mind, one was left of him, the other right.
Left went first.
Fidel went into a crouch, his right hand streaked for his holstered pistol.
“Muerta, cabron,” he shouted.
“Die, bastard.”
Slocum’s hand was a blur as he slid off his stool. His .45 Colt slipped from its holster before his feet hit the ground.
His thumb pressed the hammer back to full cock as the weapon cleared leather.
There was a loud click as the sear engaged in the cocking mechanism. It sounded like an iron door swinging open on Hell itself.
The sound electrified everyone in the room. They all stiffened in shock.
Before Fidel’s pistol was out of its holster, Slocum fired from the hip.
Carlos went for his gun. He was slow and so nervous his hand slid off the butt of his pistol on the first try.
Slocum’s pistol barked.
Flame spurted from the barrel. Orange sparks flew out in a cone-shaped pattern. White smoke belched behind the bullet of soft lead.
Fidel grunted as the bullet caught him just below his b
elly button. His pistol was free, but pointed at the floor. His thumb was on the hammer of the single-action pistol, but he didn’t have the strength to push it down to even half cock.
The force of the bullet was like a drill punch to Fidel’s gut.
He doubled over and grunted from the impact.
Slocum swung the barrel of his pistol toward Carlos. He was crouched like a pouncing cougar, his eyes flashing hatred and determination.
But Carlos was too slow.
Slocum thumbed the hammer back on his Colt and aimed for the center of the Mexican’s chest.
He squeezed the trigger. His pistol belched flame and lead from the muzzle of the pistol before Carlos could clear leather.
The bullet from Slocum’s gun smashed through Carlos’s breastbone, flattened as it struck bone, and pushed blood and flesh through a fist-sized hole in the Mexican’s back.
His eyes began to frost over even as he fell down in a collapsed slump, blood spurting from the black hole in his chest. He was dead before his head hit the floor with a thump that blotted out the sound of a cracking skull.
Smoke oozed out of the barrel of Slocum’s pistol as he turned away from the two men on the floor and swung his pistol toward the room full of frozen patrons.
Nobody made a move.
There was a collective gasp as dozens of men and women blew out their breaths.
“Anybody else want some of this?” Slocum asked in a loud, commanding voice.
Joe was the first to recover his voice.
“I’ll pour you a drink, mister,” he said. “You sure know how to handle a pistol.”
Slocum set his pistol on the bar and leaned against it. He had just killed two men and the weight of it was heavy on his mind. Even though he knew that both men had come into the saloon to kill him, he did not relish the taking of a human life.
There was always that aftermath of sadness and regret. If only such men would think before they acted in haste.
He supposed that he had looked like a simple-minded greenhorn to those Mexicans. Their mistake. He was neither simple nor a greenhorn.
Joe set a glass and a bottle of Kentucky bourbon on the bar in front of Slocum.
“On the house,” Joe said. “Dave, I never saw such shooting. And you drew faster than either Carlos or Fidel. They thought they had you and you . . . well, you showed ’em.”
Slocum poured some of the bourbon into his glass.
“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” he told Joe.
“No, sir. Me neither. But you might have made a friend or two around here. Nobody much liked them Mexes.”
“They were men, Joe. Might have made something of themselves, in time.”
“Not them two. They were ornery and carried big chips on their shoulders.”
Slocum looked toward Bledsoe’s table.
“Mr. Bledsoe is short another two men,” Slocum said. “I don’t imagine he’s too happy.”
“I don’t know. But here comes Alvin. Hiram is just sittin’ back there. I don’t know what he thought about them Mexes, but he likes a man who can shoot like you do.”
“Don’t count on it, Joe.”
Alvin came up to Slocum. Then he looked over at the two dead men, and at Joe.
“Joe, get somebody to haul those bodies somewhere, will you?”
“Yes, sir, Alvin. Right away.”
Joe walked down to the end of the bar and spoke to a man there. The man nodded and looked around for someone to help him drag the dead men out of the saloon.
“Hiram was impressed, Dave,” Alvin said to Slocum.
“With what? He just lost two men.”
“He and I both saw those boys brace you. I figured you was wolf meat with them two.”
Slocum said nothing. He sipped his drink. The bourbon warmed him and took some of the fire out of his veins. He was still hot that he’d been jumped by two gunslingers and had to drop them with his .45. He picked up his pistol and spun the cylinder. Ejecting both empty hulls, he drew two cartridges from his gun belt and slid them into the empty chambers. Then he holstered his pistol as Alvin looked on with a mixture of admiration and wonder.
“Anyway, Dave, Hiram said to tell you he still wants you to come and work for him. He said he’d make it worth your while.”
“I told him two days and that’s what I need to think it over, Alvin.”
“He thinks you ought to make up your mind right away.”
Slocum wasn’t going to tell Alvin what was on his mind. He might put doubt and suspicion in Alvin’s mind if he told him what he really thought about Bledsoe’s offer. The man hired gunslingers and backshooters. He might have to go along with the offer and pretend to want the job just so that he could get on Hiram’s payroll. But by making Bledsoe wait, he might strengthen his position and find a way to gain the man’s confidence. Then, after he learned how many men in Sawtooth worked for Bledsoe, he could begin to weed them out and take down the boss.
That had not been his mission, according to Rod, but Slocum saw it that way. He had no idea how many gunslingers he was facing. And if any one of them found out who he really was, his own life might be in danger. Would be in danger.
“Tell Bledsoe I’ll let him know in a couple of days, Alvin. That’s my answer. I didn’t like it that I had to kill those two men, but I’m not sorry. They would have gunned me down in cold blood if I hadn’t beat them both to the punch.”
“You’re right about that, Dave,” Alvin said. “We, me and Hiram, were just mighty surprised that you beat them both fair and square. I never saw a man draw a pistol as fast as you did. You must have had a lot of practice.”
“There’s not that much to do when you’re out on the desert prospecting,” Slocum said. “So, yes, I practiced that draw just in case. Lots of claim jumpers where I’ve been.”
Slocum looked at Alvin’s face for some kind of reaction to the words claim jumper, but Alvin did not flinch.
He was Bledsoe’s man all right. Too bad, Slocum thought, because in different circumstances, they might have become friends.
“I’ll tell Hiram what you said, Dave. In the meantime, you won’t get drygulched again in Sawtooth. Hiram will see to that.”
“I’m obliged,” Slocum said. He lifted his glass to Alvin and drank another swallow.
Alvin walked back to Hiram’s table.
Slocum looked over at the woman sitting alone. She was staring at him with those big beautiful blue eyes of hers.
He nodded to her.
Ronnie nodded back and a soft smile flickered on her face.
I wonder if she’s figured it out yet, Slocum thought.
He was about to turn away when he saw her rise from her chair and walk toward him.
There was a look of undisguised curiosity on her face, and from the way she walked, he suspected that his gunplay was not the only thing on her mind.
Slocum pretended that he did not notice her or care about her. He turned back to his drink and stared down the bar.
Two men came walking along the bar. They went to the bodies of the two dead men and grabbed them by their boots. They dragged the two corpses out through the batwings just as Ronnie reached the bar where Slocum sat.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Veronica Sweet. Ronnie. I don’t know your name, stranger, but I know who you are.”
“Who am I?” Slocum asked.
“You’re not what you pretend to be.”
“And what is that?”
She was being coy, he knew, but he could also play that game.
“You’re no down-and-out gold seeker. I saw you draw on those two Mexicans.”
“I have a fairly fast draw,” he said.
“I saw that same draw once before,” she said.
“You could be mistaken, Miss Ronnie.”
“
No mistake. It was in Kansas. Kansas City. You were dressed different. You looked different. But now that I’m up close, I recognize your face. And nobody ever drew a pistol as fast as you just did. Nobody.”
“Buy you a drink?” Slocum asked. He waved a hand over the empty stool next to him.
“I’m drinking tea,” she said. “And it will cost you a buck.”
She raised a hand and beckoned to Joe. He nodded as she sat on the stool next to Slocum. Her perfume was strong and the scent wafted to his nostrils like the bouquet from a snifter of brandy or wine. It was a sensual aroma, and when he looked at her, she was all curves and sleek lines from her hips to her toe tips.
Slocum dug into his trouser pocket and slid a silver dollar onto the bar.
“You smell nice,” Slocum said.
“You smell like . . . like you’ve been hard at work all day.”
He laughed, and she laughed with him.
It was a good start, Slocum thought.
Joe set a glass of tea in front of her and picked up the silver dollar.
“Thanks, Dave,” Joe said.
“Dave,” Ronnie said. “Is that your name really?”
“A name’s only a tag,” he said, “like an ear cut on a head of cattle.”
“Well, Dave, or whatever your real name is, let’s get acquainted, shall we?”
She smiled and leaned closer to him, her tea untouched.
“Sure, Ronnie. I wonder if Sweet is your real last name. Mine’s Sinclair.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
“You know, Dave,” she said, “you’re the only real man I’ve met since I came to Sawtooth. I’m utterly fascinated.”
So was Slocum, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
Not just yet.
The night was still in its infancy, after all, and time was all they both had on an evening so young.
17
Hiram Bledsoe thought at first that he was having one of his delusional episodes when he saw the man named Sinclair shoot down two of his men. He had seen the whole thing, but from a distance, and could scarcely believe his eyes.
“Go tell Sinclair I want him on my payroll. Double the salary I first offered.”