Slocum at Hangdog

by Jake Logan

  “I just can’t hardly think that Dave would murder those two men like that. He just never seemed like he could do that.”

  “This whole business has made him crazy. You’re too trusting, James. You always have been. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no proof. I can’t do anything without proof.”

  “You can do what he did,” she said.

  Slocum and Speer had no trouble finding the spot of the murders. Mix had told Speer where to look, and there were still bloodstains on the ground. They dismounted and tied their horses to the fence. They studied the blood for a time. “Dave said they was both laying right here,” said Speer. “Together. Only Everett’s horse was on the other side of the fence.”

  “Maybe Everett heard the shot and came over to investigate,” Slocum said. “Maybe they weren’t together at all.”

  “Maybe,” Speer agreed.

  Slocum stood up and stared at the knoll off a short distance. Speer looked at him. “Are you thinking the shooter was up there?” he asked.

  “It’s a likely place,” Slocum said. “Let’s take a look.”

  They got their horses and rode over to the knoll. They hesitated only a moment, and then they rode to the top. They dismounted and started to look around. In a minute, Slocum found the spot where the shooter had been lying on the ground.

  “Grass is still mashed down,” he said. “He was on his belly right here. He must have picked up his spent cartridges, though.”

  “Yeah. I sure don’t see any around.”

  They found where the shooter’s horse had been left, but there were no clear prints of any kind in the deep grass.

  “Not much to go on,” Speer said.

  “Just my gut feeling,” said Slocum. “I vote for Rowland on this one.”

  “Could be.”

  “Most likely.”

  Back in town, Slocum and Speer went to the hotel and found Rowland’s room. Speer knocked on the door. A voice from inside the room said, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, the sheriff. Speer.”

  “Come on in,” said the voice. “The door ain’t locked.”

  Speer opened the door and stepped inside, followed by Slocum. Rowland was stretched out on the bed, his six-gun in his right hand, cocked.

  “What are you doing with that damn gun?” Speer demanded.

  Rowland let the hammer down and shoved the gun back into the holster hanging on the bedpost. He grinned.

  “I had to make sure it was really you,” he said. “Being careless is a good way to get dead.”

  “Then I’d be real careful if I was you,” said Slocum.

  “I’m always careful.”

  “You been out riding lately?” Speer asked.

  “I’ve been right here in this room.”

  “I’ll check on that,” Speer said.

  “Check away. My employer has given me no instructions as yet.”

  “I’m wondering if you’ve been riding out to Mix’s ranch,” Speer said. “Maybe found a little knoll close to the fence line between Mix’s and Ritchie’s. Maybe laid up there a while waiting for someone to come riding by.”

  “No. I never,” said Rowland.

  Slocum was looking around the room, and he spotted the rifle. He walked over close to where it was leaning against the wall in a corner of the room.

  “That’s a nice-looking Henry,” he said. “Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

  “Help yourself,” Rowland said.

  Slocum picked up the rifle. He looked it over carefully. He sniffed it. “It’s just been cleaned,” he said.

  “A man who don’t take care of his weapons might get dead,” Rowland said.

  Slocum put the rifle back down. “Yeah,” he said. “He might get shot or he might get hanged.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just talk.”

  “Rowland,” said Speer, “I’m asking you again just who the hell you’re working for. Are you going to tell me?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Rowland said. “That’s part of the deal.”

  “Were you hired to kill someone?”

  “I never kill except in self-defense.”

  “If there are witnesses,” said Slocum.

  “Are you trying to raise my hackles, Slocum?” Rowland said. “Because if you are, you’re wasting your time and your energy. It ain’t going to work.”

  “What if I was to just call you out?”

  Rowland grinned again. “One of us would have to draw first,” he said. “It wouldn’t be me. You might get yourself arrested for murder.”

  “It might just be worth it.”

  “Never mind that kind of talk, Slocum,” said Speer. “I don’t want any gunfights around here. But I don’t want any more killings either.”

  “Has someone been killed?” Rowland asked. “Since I been in town?”

  “Two men,” said Speer. “Ritchie’s foreman and Mix’s foreman. They was shot down out on Mix’s range this morning early.”

  “And you think I done it,” said Rowland. He grinned again. Slocum wanted to wipe the grin off his damn silly face. “Well, Sheriff, if you get any evidence against me, come and see me about it then. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me be.”

  “You’ve got to come out of this room sometime, Rowland,” said Slocum. “When you do, we’ll meet up.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to that. By the way, it’s kind of strange seeing you with the sheriff. Ain’t you and me in the same line of work?”

  “I doubt it,” said Slocum.

  “I’ve heard of you. You hire out your gun. I heard that you were here as a hired gun. Someone brought you in before I come along. I heard it was Dave Mix.”

  “Dave’s an old friend of mine,” Slocum said. “He wrote me he was having some trouble, and I came here to see if I could help out. He didn’t hire me to kill anyone.”

  “I heard you killed three men already since you been here.”

  “Rustlers,” said Speer. “I know all about that.”

  “Did you have proof?”

  “We did.”

  “Would it have held up in a courtroom?”

  “We’ll never know that, will we?” said Speer. “I think it would have, though.”

  “We’re in the same business, Slocum, me and you,” said Rowland, and he grinned again. Each time he grinned, his grin seemed wider. Slocum turned and walked out of the room. Speer walked to the door, but he stood in the doorway for a moment. He turned and looked back at Rowland.

  “I’ll be watching your every move,” he said. “If you spit on the sidewalk, your ass will be in jail.”

  “I’ll be real careful what I do while I’m in your town, Sheriff,” Rowland said.

  Speer walked on out in the hall and joined Slocum. They walked down the hallway without speaking, and then they started down the stairs. “I think you were right, Slocum,” Speer said.

  “About what?”

  “He’s the guilty one all right.”

  “We got to find a way to prove it, though,” Slocum said.

  “We need to find out who hired him,” said the sheriff.

  “Hell,” Slocum said. “Why don’t you just let me call him out?”

  13

  Bart Rowland got up one morning, packed his belongings, went to the livery for his horse, and rode out of town. Slocum and Speer both saw him go. He rode in the wrong direction to be headed for either Mix’s or Ritchie’s spread.

  “He’s leaving town,” said Speer.

  “I don’t believe it,” Slocum said. “I mean to follow him.”

  “If you get yourself into any shooting scrape,” said Speer, “just make sure it’s out away from my jurisdiction.”

  Slocum grinned at Speer. “I wouldn’t do anything to piss you off, Sheriff,” he said. He followed in Rowland’s steps, going to the livery for his horse. He was in no hurry, for he did not want Rowland to know that he
was being followed. In a few minutes, he was riding out of town. Speer watched him go too. He wondered what would happen when the two gunfighters met up with one another. He hoped that Slocum would survive it. When Slocum was out of sight, Speer walked on over to Brenda’s Place. He found himself a table and sat down. Brenda was right over with a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks,” Speer said.

  “Anything else for you?” Brenda asked.

  “Just coffee,” Speer said.

  Brenda looked around the room. Her few customers all seemed contented for the moment, so she sat down at the table with the sheriff. “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “Just this whole business,” Speer said. “Those two men getting killed like that. Slocum is damn sure that Rowland is behind it, but Rowland rode out of town this morning—all packed up like he’s leaving for good. He was headed north. Slocum followed him. Could be a showdown, I guess. Slocum asked me how come I didn’t just let him call Rowland out. Maybe I should have. Hell, I just don’t know.”

  “I think Slocum can handle himself all right,” Brenda said.

  “Yeah? But we ain’t seen Rowland in action. He’s got a hell of a reputation.”

  “Well,” she said, “all we can do is wait and see what happens.”

  “I keep thinking there ought to be something else I could be doing. There’s trouble around. Bad trouble, and I’m the sheriff. I hate just sitting and waiting for something else to happen.”

  Dave Mix rode up to Ritchie’s hotel just as Ritchie walked out the front door. Mix dismounted and slapped the reins around the rail. Ritchie could tell by the look on his face that Mix had not come in for a friendly visit. He saw the six-gun strapped around Mix’s waist. He stopped on the sidewalk and waited for Mix to make the first move.

  “Ritchie,” Mix said, “let’s have it out right now.”

  “What are you talking about, Dave?”

  “A showdown. Just you and me. Then it will be over once and for all, one way or the other. Come on. You wearing a gun?”

  Ritchie opened his coat to show that he was not.

  “Well, go back in and get one,” Mix said. “I’ll wait for you right here. Go on.”

  Ritchie turned and went back inside the hotel. It was only a short wait for Mix. Ritchie came back out. He was not wearing his coat, and he had a six-gun belted on.

  “Margaret tried to tell me it was you behind all this trouble,” Ritchie said. “I didn’t believe her.”

  “You’re talking bullshit,” said Mix. “It all started when you had my cattle rustled and my wagons wrecked. My store burned down.”

  “That was those three men that Slocum killed.”

  “They done some of the rustling all right, but they didn’t do all that other stuff. They didn’t shoot me from ambush either.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Slocum found a boot print. A woman’s,” Mix said.

  “Hell,” said Ritchie, “that could’ve been left there at any time by anyone.”

  “That’s enough jawing. Go for your gun.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t send your hired gun Slocum to do the job.”

  “Slocum don’t work that way,” said Mix. “Besides that, I fired him. Where’s your gunfighter?”

  “I don’t have any gunfighter,” Ritchie said.

  “Come on now. That Rowland you brought in. Where’s he at?”

  “He rode out of town this morning. And I never brought him in. I don’t even know him.”

  “Are you going to go for your gun?”

  Speer came walking up just then. “What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “Stay out of this, Thad,” said Mix. “This is between me and Ritchie. It always has been. I mean to see it finished right here and now.”

  Speer walked straight toward Mix.

  “Keep out of this,” said Mix.

  Speer reached up for the brim of his hat seeming exasperated. Suddenly he whipped the hat off his head and slapped Mix hard across the face, at the same time reaching down and pulling out Mix’s shooter. He stepped back quick and leveled the gun at Mix.

  “Damn you,” said Mix.

  Speer turned around and walked up to Ritchie, holding out his left hand. “I’ll take yours too,” he said. Ritchie pulled out the gun with two fingers and held it out for Speer. The sheriff took it, and with a gun in each hand he stepped back so he could face both men. “Any more trouble out of you two, and I’ll lock both of you up. You hear me?” No one answered. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I can get another gun,” Mix said.

  “If you do, you’re going to jail,” said Speer. “I ain’t fooling with you. You come back in town packing any kind of gun, I’ll throw your ass in jail. Now get on out of here.”

  Mix grudgingly got back on his horse and rode out of town fast. Speer turned on Ritchie.

  “The same thing goes for you, James. I see you packing iron, you’re going to jail.”

  He turned and walked toward his office. Ritchie went back into the hotel.

  Slocum followed Rowland all day. When Rowland stopped and camped for the night, Slocum did the same. He was up early the next morning. Rowland had already broken camp and started riding. Slocum followed. Again, Rowland rode all day with Slocum on his trail. Slocum was beginning to wonder if Speer had been right and Rowland was leaving the area for good. Then he saw that they were coming to a town. Slocum let Rowland ride on in, and he found a place where he could hide and watch. It was late in the day, and he made himself another camp. He was up on a rise, and he had a good view of the small town. He did not want to confront Rowland yet. He wanted to find out what he was up to. He would hide and watch.

  It was far into the night. Slocum had decided that nothing was going to happen until morning. He had rolled out his blanket and was sleeping soundly when he felt someone kick him in the side. He woke up and started to reach for his gun, but he was stopped by the sound of a rifle chambering a shell. He squinted in the darkness, and he recognized the form of Bart Rowland standing over him. He glanced around slowly. There were four other men. So that’s what Rowland had been up to—recruiting more men. Getting reinforcements.

  “Stand up slow,” said Rowland.

  Slocum tossed the blanket aside and stood. A man behind him took his Colt. Another picked up his Winchester.

  “I never heard of you needing to bring extra men along to do your killing,” Slocum said.

  “I ain’t going to kill you, Slocum. No one’s paid me to kill you.”

  “What then?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Beebe, get his boots. Rat’s Ass, fetch his horse over here and saddle it up.”

  The man called Rat’s Ass went for the horse and saddle. Rowland never took his eyes off Slocum.

  “You should’ve let me alone, Slocum,” he said. “A little professional courtesy goes a long ways.”

  “You’re messing with a friend of mine,” Slocum said.

  “When it comes to business, there ain’t no such thing as friends. Cowley, you and Naylor tie him to that tree over yonder. Tie him good and tight.”

  The two men shoved Slocum toward the tree and pulled his arms back and around it. Then they tied his hands. They tied his feet and legs by wrapping rope around him and the tree.

  “Put one around his neck too,” Rowland said. “Not too tight. I don’t want him killed, just immobilized.”

  When Cowley and Naylor had finished, Slocum could hardly move. If he tipped his head too much, he would choke. They had done a good job of it. Rowland relaxed his guard. He turned to the one he had called Rat’s Ass. “Pack all of his stuff on the horse,” he said. “Guns and boots too.” When they were ready to go, Rowland suddenly swung his rifle butt, smacking Slocum a good one to the side of the head. Slocum felt the blood trickling down the side of his face and on down his neck. Then Rowland whacked him a couple of times in the ribs. Slocum’s head sagged, and the rope choked him. He had to lift
his head again. “Let’s go, boys,” Rowland said. “Bring his horse along.”

  They all mounted up, Rat’s Ass leading Slocum’s horse, and they started to ride off. Rowland was in the rear. He hesitated and looked down at Slocum. “You should have stayed out of it, Slocum,” he said. “You know, you could die up here, all trussed up like that. No food. No water. No weapons. It gets cold at night too.”

  He kicked his horse in the sides and rode on after his four recruits. Slocum sucked in air. His ribs hurt. Rowland might have cracked a couple of them. His head hurt like hell. He was in a very uncomfortable position. He couldn’t sleep. His head would drop, and he would be choked. He figured that Rowland had been right. He could die right there. It wasn’t a way he had ever figured he would go. A gunfight maybe, a knife in the ribs in a saloon brawl, but not this. He had been a fool to let Rowland and those scummy bastards slip up on him like that. He wondered just how long Rowland had been aware of him. As soon as he rode out of Hangdog maybe. Maybe he had been planning this all along. Slocum had sure been suckered all right, and it might well be for the last time.

  Stumpy Morgan was out of a job. He was riding toward Hangdog, and if he found nothing there, he had heard that there might be jobs to be had around a little place on a ways called Slapdash. He was a good cowpuncher, and he shouldn’t have any problems if he could just come across some spread where they were a little short-handed. He was riding along whistling an old tune when he saw the stray horse. He rode up to it casually. It was saddled and packed. There was a rifle in the boot, and a six-gun in a holster was hanging across the saddle horn. Then he noticed that a pair of boots had been stuffed halfway into the saddlebags. It was sure peculiar. Carefully, he reached for the reins. He did not want to spook the creature. He got hold of the reins all right, and he talked to the horse in soothing tones. At the same time, he looked around for any sign of the rider.

  The country around was pretty flat, mostly prairie. Stumpy could see for a good ways in most directions, and he did not see anyone. Of course, if the rider was hurt, he might be lying flat in tall grass. But there were the boots. That didn’t make any sense. There was a slight rise in the landscape a little ways back. Stumpy had passed it a short while ago. It was one spot where he couldn’t see too well. He decided to ride back to it and look up on top. Even if he didn’t find anyone up there, he should be able to look over the prairie all around from a better vantage point. Leading the horse, he headed back. Even though he had a destination in mind, he kept watching all around as he rode. A man down like that could be anywhere.