Slocum at Hangdog

by Jake Logan

  “Like you said, me and Davey go back a ways.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I ask you a question, ma—uh, Brenda?”

  She smiled at the near slip and said, “Sure.”

  “This James Ritchie. Davey’s pretty sure that he’s behind all his trouble.”

  “That wasn’t a question.”

  “Well, do you know Ritchie?”

  “Everyone knows everyone around here. Yes, I know him.”

  “Do you think Davey’s right about that?”

  She sighed and turned her back and paced a few steps away, then back again. “It makes sense,” she said. “There’s no one else who has anything to gain by Dave’s trouble. But I—I just can’t quite see James Ritchie in that light.”

  “You like the man?”

  “He’s always seemed to me to be a perfect gentleman. I can’t help but like him.”

  “I see.”

  “Slocum?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “You want to walk me to my place? I could really use some company tonight.”

  3

  Slocum was not surprised when they walked back to Brenda’s Place and she led the way around to the back door. Inside, he found himself in a neatly kept lady’s apartment. So someone did live in Hangdog after all, but she lived in the back of her place of business. “Please sit down,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable.” She walked to a small bar back against the far wall and poured two drinks. She carried them over to where Slocum had eased himself down into the comfortable couch and handed him one of the drinks. Then she sat down next to him. He held up his glass and she touched it with hers. Then they both sipped their drinks.

  “That’s mighty good,” Slocum said.

  “I’m glad you like it. I don’t drink much, but when I do, I like it to be the best.”

  “You’ve got a nice place here,” he said. “It’s a surprise to find it in Hangdog. I didn’t think anyone actually lived here.”

  She laughed. “Running my own business,” she said, “it’s much handier than trying to keep a house outside of town. I don’t have to worry about horses, about getting back and forth. It’s much less expensive than maintaining two places. Since—well, since I’ve been on my own, it just seems more sensible.”

  “It seems real sensible to me,” said Slocum, “but then, you seem like a real sensible person.”

  “I try to be.”

  “Are you the only one who lives here? I mean in town.”

  “No. James Ritchie has a ranch, but he stays in town at his hotel. A few of his employees stay there as well. The manager of his hardware store has a place in the back of the store, much like what I have here, and he has a wife and children. So it’s not really like I’m all alone here.”

  “Have you had any problems, being a woman all alone, a good-looking woman at that?”

  “You mean with men?”

  “Well, yeah. Some men are, well, you know. They can get pretty rough.”

  “I’ve been lucky, I guess. But Jim Ritchie and Dave Mix both kind of look after me. With those two around, I feel pretty safe. You know, between the two of them, they practically own the whole town.”

  “Yeah. I’ve gathered that. I know that Davey’s got a woman out at his ranch.”

  “Helen Lester,” said Brenda. “We’re pretty good friends.”

  “What about Ritchie? Has he got any designs on you?”

  She laughed again. Slocum thought that her laugh was a pleasant one. He enjoyed hearing it. “No,” she said. “I think I’m like a little sister to him. He has a wife and family. We’re all good friends too. James and Dave were both good friends with my late husband. We were all close. Since I lost my husband, they’ve all kept my interests at heart, I think. I don’t know what I’d do without them. That’s why I find it so hard to believe that Jim is responsible for everything that’s been happening to Dave. I know what Dave thinks, but I just can’t accept it.”

  Slocum downed his drink and thought hard for a moment. This was a real puzzle. He knew that he couldn’t go off half-cocked against Ritchie, not without some kind of proof. It didn’t make sense that anyone else was behind the troubles, though. There was no one who had a damn thing to gain by Davey’s misfortunes. With the loss of the hardware store, Ritchie would have all of that business as well as all of the freight business. Davey still had some smaller businesses around town, and he still had his ranch, but he had been hurt by the fire. And Ritchie had gained by it. That much was for sure.

  Over at the hotel, Davey Mix was on the bed and sipping from the bottle Slocum had given him. He noticed that there was part of another bottle in the room. That was good. He might drink it all before this night was over. He was frustrated, and he was angry. He was thinking about riding out to Ritchie’s ranch and setting the barn on fire, turning loose all his horses, something to get even at least a little bit. Then he thought of just going straight for Ritchie and calling him out. In his drunkenness, he was sure that he could outdraw Ritchie. He realized that he was staying in Ritchie’s hotel, and that thought burned him just a little, but then he realized that Ritchie had his apartment just downstairs. He could go down there and call him out right now. But Ritchie’s family was there too. He would much rather catch Ritchie somewhere alone or in a crowd of men. He took another long swig from the bottle and lurched to his feet.

  Crossing the room, he jerked open the door and lurched out into the hallway. Staggering to the head of the stairs, he stopped for a moment, weaving, then grabbed hold of the railing and stomped his way downstairs. He made his way through the lobby, weaving this way and that, and finally reached the front door safely. He knew where his horse was. He had decided that he was not spending the night in Ritchie’s place. He was going home. He was going home to Helen. First thing in the morning, he would come back to town and join Speer and Slocum in examining the remains of the fire. Then he would tell Slocum to move out of the hotel and out to the ranch. He didn’t like the thought of putting any money into Ritchie’s coffers.

  When Brenda had first approached Slocum out on the sidewalk, he had high hopes of getting into bed with her. Then he had walked her home, and they had started talking, and he found that his mind was changed. He was learning things from her, and he was consoling her. He suddenly found himself added to the ranks of those who would protect her, the ranks of Davey Mix and James Ritchie. She was genuinely worried about Davey and Ritchie, and before he knew what was happening, he found her head on his shoulder and his arms around her. He was consoling her, he thought. It was suddenly difficult to keep his hands still. He found them wanting to roam over her firm and sleek body. Why the hell had she come up to him on the sidewalk? Why had she asked him to walk her home and then invited him inside for a drink? Was it just to talk? He wasn’t sure, and he damn sure didn’t know what to do next. But then Brenda decided for him.

  She lifted her head and looked up into his eyes. He stared into her lovely face for an instant, and then she raised her right hand, placed it behind his head, and pulled him to her, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was first tender, gentle, and then grew more desperate. She pulled his face to hers hard, and she crushed his lips with hers. In another moment, her lips parted, and her tongue plunged into his mouth, driving his lips apart, slurping, exploring, seeking around in his mouth, and he responded in kind. At last she broke away.

  “I want to go to bed, Slocum,” she said. “Will you be coming with me?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” he said.

  She stood and led him into another room, a room with a bed, nicely made up. She walked to the bed and pulled the covers down low. She turned and looked at him, and then she turned her back. Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Would you . . .”

  Slocum moved to her and began unfastening the back of her dress. In another moment, she skipped out of it, letting it fall to the floor. She stepped out of the dress, leaving it in a heap, and Slocum began unfastening other thi
ngs. Soon she stood naked before him. She put her arms around him and pulled him close. They kissed again. Slocum backed away and reached down to unfasten his gun belt. Hanging it on one of the bedposts, he sat down on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots, but Brenda quickly knelt in front of him to pull them off for him. He slipped his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside while Brenda fumbled with the fasteners on the front of his jeans. He stood up, and she slipped the jeans to the floor. Soon, she had him stripped, and she slid her hands up his thighs slowly, tickling as she went, until they reached his crotch, and then she gripped his sack and squeezed. His rod came quickly to attention, standing out long and hard and throbbing up and down. Brenda’s right hand moved to grasp it, and she leaned forward to give it a quick lick. It bucked hard in her hand.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, and Brenda inched forward on her knees until she was close in between his legs. She kissed the throbbing tool on its head, she licked it, and when Slocum thought that he could stand no more, she slurped the head into her mouth. Then she ran her tongue all around it. “Mmmm,” she moaned. “Ohhh.” Her left hand still gripped his balls, and she slid it under them and began a tickling motion with her fingers as she lurched forward with her head, sucking in the length of Slocum’s rigid rod. She slurped back and forth a few more times, then stopped as suddenly as she had begun.

  She crawled onto the bed around Slocum and stayed on her hands and knees, looking back at him with a teasing expression on her beautiful face. Slocum turned to look at her, her breasts dangling down, her legs slightly spread, her tight ass up in the air, and the damp, glistening muff tucked up neatly between the tops of her thighs. He did not wait long. He scrambled up onto the bed behind her and snugged up against her, aiming his cock at the slimy slit she was displaying. She reached back with one hand to grasp it and to guide it into her waiting, moist hole. Slocum rammed forward, giving her the entire length all at once, and she gasped. “Ohh,” she said. “Oh, yes. Pound me. Pound me hard.”

  Slocum drove as hard and fast as he could, his body slapping against her buttocks rhythmically. Slap. Slap. Slap. Looking around, he could see her dangling breasts shaking almost violently with the raucous movement. “Oh, oh, oh,” she said. Not wanting to finish too quickly, he slowed his motions, shoving himself slowly and deeply into her, then drawing himself out slowly, coming to the very rim of her cavern, almost slipping out, only to inch back in again. After several such motions, he did slip out. “Oh?” she said.

  Slocum fell down next to her on his back and reached for her. She smiled gleefully. “Oh.” Quickly, she straddled him, mounting him like a horse, and she gripped the slithery cock, wet and sticky from her own juices, and held it straight up, positioning herself just right. Then she sat down on it, driving it back inside her, taking the whole length into her hot and waiting channel. “Ah,” she said. She sat down hard on his upper thighs and lower belly. Their bodies were both wet with sweat, and there where the two came together, they were wet also with the juices that were flowing from her cunt.

  When she moved, she slid easily back and forth on him. At first she rocked slowly, then more quickly, and then faster and faster. She cried out suddenly and stopped, throwing her head back, and then allowing it to drop forward again. She leaned forward, all the way down, resting her body on top of his, her breasts pressed almost flat against his chest, kissing him with a wet, wild kiss. “Oh, God, Slocum,” she said. “That’s once.”

  In a moment, she straightened up and started again. Over and over. When at last she said, “Twelve,” Slocum grasped her hard by the waist and rolled them over. He was on top, between her legs, his swollen cock still deep inside her. He began hunching, driving, beating into her until he could feel the buildup deep inside. The pressure was intensifying, and he knew that he couldn’t last much longer. He pounded again and again, and at last he gushed forth, a veritable stream flooding her insides. He stopped and lay still.

  “That was wonderful, cowboy,” she said.

  David Mix had all but passed out in the saddle. He was maybe three miles from his ranch. His head wobbled on his shoulders, and his thoughts had stopped rambling. He was no longer thinking of killing James Ritchie, or of setting fire to his barn, or turning loose his horses. He had stopped considering whether or not he should rustle Ritchie’s cattle and drive them all across the border into Mexico. He was not even thinking about the loss of his store or of meeting with Speer and Slocum in the morning. He wasn’t thinking about Slocum or Speer or Ritchie. He wasn’t thinking of the lovely Helen Lester waiting for him at the ranch house, sleeping alone in the big bed. He wasn’t thinking of anything. He was almost passed out.

  He knew where he was going, but he wasn’t doing much about it. Luckily, the horse under him knew too, and it was doing the navigating as well as the walking. “Oh, for a life on the rolling sea,” he sort of sang as they plodded along toward home. His voice was not loud and strong, though. It did not carry a tune. It was a barely audible mumble. Mix knew nothing about life on the sea either. He had heard the song somewhere, and the one line was all he could remember.

  He rounded a curve in the road, and a shot rang out in the still darkness. Mix felt something like a hard slap on his back. The horse lurched forward, and Mix rocked in the saddle. The horse ran. Mix bobbled. His hands grew numb, and he dropped the reins. The horse ran on. Mix fell forward against the horse’s neck, and he bounced up and down against the neck as the horse ran on. Mix was out cold. The rapid motion of the frightened horse was too much for the inert body lying against its neck. Mix slipped a bit at a time until he was hanging down beside the wild creature. He was hanging on the right side. The only thing keeping him in the saddle were his boots in the stirrups, but the left boot was slipping with each of the racing horse’s strides. At last it slipped free, and the body of Davey Mix slipped out of the saddle, but the right foot was caught in the stirrup, and as the horse ran on and on, it was dragging Mix along beside it. The wretched body, which showed no signs of life, bounced up and down on the hard road, and when the horse at last stopped there in front of the ranch house, panting and blowing, Mix, his right foot still hung in the stirrup, lay still there beside it, blood spreading on his back and chest, his face bruised and bloody, his shirt ripped and torn. He looked like someone who had been killed over and over, several times.

  Slocum stayed the whole night at Brenda’s Place. He got up with her in the morning. When they were both dressed, he went with her into the dining part of her building, and she fixed him a fine breakfast and a pot of coffee before she opened up for customers. Over her protestations, Slocum paid her for the breakfast as well as for the meal he and Mix had eaten the night before. The sun was coming up outside, and Slocum remembered that he had promised to meet Speer and Mix at the site of the fire. He left the restaurant and walked down the street. Getting close to the site of the fire, he could smell the ashes. Wisps of smoke still rose up from the heap here and there. He saw the sheriff walking toward him, and they met in front of the place where Mix’s hardware store had been.

  “A sorry sight,” said Speer.

  “Yeah. What do we do?”

  “Just walk around, I guess. I ain’t a expert on fires. I guess we’ll just look to see if there’s anything we can see.”

  They walked slowly across the front of the mess, Speer going one way, Slocum the other. Now and then, one of them would stop and poke at the ashes with a boot toe, then move on. They worked their way across the front and along the sides, and were heading toward one another again at the back of the site. “Slocum,” Speer called.

  Slocum looked up and hurried on over to where Speer was standing. The paunchy man was staring down at a blackened kerosene can. “By God,” said Slocum.

  “It was arson all right,” said Speer. “It was done right here.”

  “Yeah,” said Slocum. “I’d say you’re right.”

  “Shit,” said Speer, and he kicked t
he can as hard as he could, knocking it into the air and a few feet away. He stood staring at the ashes a moment. Then he said, “Where the hell is Dave Mix?”

  “I don’t know,” Slocum said. “I thought he’d be here. He likely got pretty drunk last night. I’ll go to my hotel room and roust him out.”

  “I’ll be over to Brenda’s Place having my breakfast,” said Speer.

  At the hotel Slocum found no sign of Mix. He went to the livery stable and discovered that Mix’s horse was gone. He was thinking that maybe the crazy bastard had decided to go on out to his ranch last night in spite of everything, and he was going over to Brenda’s Place to tell the sheriff, when Charley Hill came riding fast into town. Slocum stood waiting for him, and Hill reined up quickly right before him.

  “What’s going on?” said Slocum.

  Speer was shoveling fried potatoes into his mouth when Slocum and Hill came walking in together. He looked up and nodded a greeting. They walked straight to his table.

  “Davey’s been shot,” said Slocum.

  “What?” said Speer.

  “We found him in front of the house this morning,” said Hill. “His horse had dragged him a ways. It took us a little before we could even see that he was shot.”

  “Killed?” said Speer.

  “I thought so at first,” said Hill, “but he’s still alive. We patched him up as best we could. I figure he was shot out on the road, and his horse dragged him on into the ranch.”

  “You go on and finish up your breakfast, Sheriff,” said Slocum. “I’m riding out to Davey’s ranch.”

  “Never mind that,” said Speer. “I’m going with you. Brenda!”

  Brenda came out of the kitchen, and Speer paid her. Slocum told her what had happened, and the three men left the place together.

  4

  They found Dave Mix alive, but just barely. The bullet in his back had been removed by the old cook, Edgar Dun-ham. Mix had been undressed, washed, and bandaged. He looked like one of those Egyptian mummies that Slocum had read about once in some newspaper. Helen Lester let them in the bedroom for just a minute, and then ushered them out again. “He can’t talk just yet,” she said. “He did mutter a little when we first brought him in, but there wasn’t anything he could tell us. I gather he was pretty drunk when he was shot.”