by Jake Logan
“Might be, might be,” Herk said. “But mark my words. You gotta watch your back, Mr. Slocum.” With a crash, Herk overturned his chair as he stood, then he limped from the saloon, pausing at the door to smile and put a thumb alongside his nose in some message to Slocum.
Then he disappeared into the Texas night.
Slocum nursed his beer awhile longer, alert to every man who came in. They all had the look of a drover. Not that bounty hunters wore a uniform or carried a badge declaring to the world their profession.
With a single gulp, Slocum finished his beer and went to find a place to sleep for the night. Even if Herk was wrong about a bounty hunter on his trail, there was no reason to stay longer in this tired town than the morning sun. But instead of going to El Paso, maybe San Antonio was more hospitable.
He gathered the reins and led his tired horse toward the town livery. He rapped on the door to the barn but got no response.
“Hello? Anybody here? I need to put up my horse for the night and maybe find a stall I can sleep in, too.”
The bullet ripped a hole the size of his fist from the door just above his head. A second shot sent more splinters flying and John Slocum diving for cover.
4
A splinter cut Slocum’s cheek. The loud report of the six-shooter filled his ears again as a new slug ripped past. He hit the ground, rolled, and came up with his own six-gun ready to fire. His finger pulled almost to the point of discharging a round when he paused.
“Stop shooting, dammit!” He lifted his pistol and centered the front sights between the woman’s heaving breasts.
She held the six-shooter in both hands, but it still wobbled all around. If she’d had a better grip, she would have gunned him down with her first shot.
“I’m going to kill you!”
“Drop the gun, or I’ll drop you!”
She turned and faced him squarely. Her blue eyes were wide and round and frightened. She sucked in one convulsive breath after another but looked as if she were on the point of passing out.
“Who are you?” The question confused her. “Why are you trying to shoot me in the back?”
“I—” She lowered the six-shooter and pushed back a strand of midnight black hair from her face. She was pale and distraught. “You’re trying to stop me from shooting you.”
Slocum somersaulted forward, rolled again, and smashed into her legs. Her hands went up in the air and her pistol flew away like a deadly metal bird. It discharged again when it hit the ground. She had cocked it for another shot. Rather than be content with disarming her, Slocum kept rolling, his momentum enough to bring him atop her, his knees pinning her shoulders to the ground. From this schoolboy’s pin, he could look down into her face.
He had to admit his would-be killer was good looking. Cleaned up a mite, she’d be beautiful.
He told her so.
“What?” She fought hard enough to lift him a little off her, but he wasn’t going to let her go. “I wish my aim had been better. You deserve to die!”
“I’ve never seen you before. If I had, I would have remembered.” He pushed the veil of her black hair from her eyes. The deep blue eyes shot nothing but hatred for him. Try as he might, he could not remember having crossed her trail.
“Let me go.”
“So you can try to kill me again?”
He read the answer in her expression. How someone so lovely could hate him so much was a question begging for an answer.
“What is it you think I’ve done?”
“You killed him!”
Slocum heaved a deep sigh. No matter how far he rode, he wasn’t leaving Macauley’s death behind him.
“I didn’t shoot Macauley. The marshal said so.” He wondered at her confused look. “You’re not Martha Macauley?”
“I don’t know who that is, but you must have been on a real killing spree if you don’t know how many bodies you’ve left behind.”
“What’s your name?”
“Angelina Holman. And it was my husband you killed like a rabid dog.”
Slocum rocked back, then let her up. He didn’t understand any of this. Angelina Holman was a stranger, and he didn’t know anyone named Holman.
She scrambled to her feet and looked around wildly.
“Don’t go for your six-shooter,” he said.
“You’ll shoot me down? You’ll kill me like you did Michael?”
“There’s a big mistake, and you’re making it. I don’t know any Michael Holman, and I’ve never set eyes on you before. Why are you so intent to ventilate me?”
“You are a gunman. I can tell by that gun of yours. It… it’s worn and you… you look like you know how to use it.”
“I don’t kill unless it’s in self-defense,” Slocum said. His flat statement stopped her in her tracks.
“The way you said it, I… I almost believe you.”
“I just rode into town. I’ve been a week on the trail from Abilene.” He didn’t elaborate on why it took so long to make what should have been a two-day ride. “I had the same problem there. Men think I gunned down a friend. The marshal cleared me, but they don’t believe him or me. If you’ve never heard of a man named Macauley, tell me what you do know.”
Her eyes darted to the six-gun in the dirt, then back at him.
“If you’re willing to just talk, you can pick up your gun,” he said.
“You won’t kill me and claim it was self-defense?”
He heaved a deep sigh.
“If I’d wanted, I could have wrung your neck and saved myself a bullet and the bother of cleaning my gun.”
She hesitantly bent and gave him a nice view of her rump outlined by taut clothing. Angelina scooped up the pistol and swung it around, again pointing it at him. He saw her resolve fade when he made no move for his own six-shooter. She finally lowered it.
“My husband was murdered a couple days back. We own a small ranch northeast of here. I… I was in Abilene and was told you did it.”
“Who told you?”
Angelina saw hardness come to him and hesitated. Then she pursed her lips and made her decision.
“He owns the general store. He gave me your description. Said he didn’t know your name, but he was completely accurate telling me what you looked like. He said you were coming to Gantt and—”
“This is Gantt?” Slocum looked around the tiny town. Some noise came from the saloon, but otherwise the town was peaceable enough.
She nodded, then went on, saying, “He told me you were going to be here and that the law wasn’t going to do anything about… about—”
“Your husband’s murder,” Slocum finished for her. She bobbed her head and lifted the pistol, but Slocum saw that she had forgotten she even held it.
“I couldn’t think of anything else to do but take the law into my own hands. I was wrong. You ought to stand trial and—”
“I didn’t shoot your husband. Why would I?”
Angelina opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. The trapped animal look returned and finally faded as she started thinking rather than reacting.
“Michael wasn’t even robbed. I’ve never seen you before, and I doubt Michael had. You’re not from these parts.”
“Slocum,” he said. “My name’s John Slocum.”
She shook her head again.
“Never heard him mention you.”
Slocum was fed up. He had been accused of two murders and almost hanged. From what Angelina said, somebody in Abilene had passed around his description and lied about him. A man had damned little in the world, but his good name was one of those things that had to be protected. As easy as it might be to simply ride on and leave this Texas tornado of accusations behind him, Slocum felt his anger coming to a boil.
“We’re going back to Abilene. You and me, tomorrow. I want to talk with the man who told you I killed your husband.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I want to clear my name,” Slocum said, “and you’re going along
because your husband’s killer is still out there. I didn’t murder any rancher, but somebody did.”
“You’re right.” She held the pistol now as she might a baby, the long barrel cradled in the crook of her left arm. Angelina rocked to and fro. Slocum watched the play of emotions on her face, finally becoming set in determination. “If you’re willing to help me find Michael’s killer, I’ll be eternally grateful. I can’t pay you—”
“Not asking for money,” Slocum said.
“What are you suggesting?” She turned suddenly wary.
“I need to tend my horse and get a night’s sleep. Be here at daybreak, and we’ll go back to Abilene and settle this once and for all.”
“You’re letting me go?”
Slocum touched the brim of his hat, then opened the now bullet-ridden door into the stables. The gunfire ought to have flushed a stable hand, but no one inside stirred. Slocum fetched his horse and led it inside, aware of Angelina watching his every move. As he turned to close the door, he saw that she had hightailed it.
As he curried his horse and then fed and watered it, he thought about everything that had happened to him since that night in the Abilene hotel. Too much lead had flown; two men had died. And there wasn’t any end in sight.
Unless he put an end to it.
Slocum bedded down in the stall next to his horse. Somewhere after midnight a drunken stableman came in, singing at the top of his lungs and scaring the horses. He never saw Slocum, and Slocum didn’t bother telling him his singing was lousy. Before the stableman passed out, Slocum was again asleep—dreaming of Angelina Holman.
When he stirred in the morning, he sneezed, wiped his nose, and then sat up and looked around. Standing in the mouth of the stall, Angelina stared down at him.
“You said daybreak. It’s past that,” she accused.
“Had my rest disturbed,” Slocum said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the snoring stableman. He got to his feet, brushed himself off, and then saddled up, getting ready for the trail.
Once outside, Slocum mounted. Angelina was already on her mount, a chestnut mare that suited her well. Slocum’s gelding snorted and jerked its head around, ready for another day on the trail. He let the horse have its head.
“It wants to return to Abilene,” Angelina said, trotting up alongside. “Did you get the horse there?”
“I’ve had this one for more ’n three months. Got it off a Choctaw up in Indian Territory.”
“You travel around a great deal then?”
Slocum didn’t answer because he didn’t want to think about it. Seldom did he spend more than a few weeks in any one place before moving on. He might stay a season if he had a job tending a herd. That notion had come to him as he rode past Fort Worth on his way west. The XIT might need hands, though the sprawling ranch had never been profitable. Other spreads throughout this part of Texas always courted veteran cowhands, and Slocum had done about everything in his day except riding along as chuck wagon cook. That was a skilled position. Feed the cowboys well and they would perform miracles with the herd.
Starve them or, worse, poison them, and the surly crew would let a herd stampede just for the hell of it.
“We came up from San Antone,” Angelina said. “Close to four years ago, with fifty head of Herefords. Michael was good. We built the herd to more than a hundred and were making a decent living.”
“He have enemies?”
“I suppose every man does. You do, don’t you, Mr. Slocum?”
“More than my fair share, considering what I’ve been through since Abilene.”
“Michael was a good man, but he never took guff off anyone. He punched the preacher once for telling him he was a sinful man and going to hell.”
Slocum had to laugh. That sounded like something he would do.
“Bet he never went back,” Slocum said.
“Oh, we did, but the preacher was mighty careful what he said after that.”
Slocum had to laugh again. She was an easy woman to like, making it even easier to forget why they were riding back to Abilene. They talked all day, changing their horses’ gait from gallop to canter to walk and back to put the most miles behind them, and kept riding into the dark until they crested a hill looking down into the cow town.
“We made good time,” she said wistfully. Angelina looked over at him, but he had eyes only for the sprawling town. Answers could be found there if he asked the right people.
“We could camp here for the night and go on into town in the morning. We’ve pushed the horses mighty hard today,” he said.
“No,” she said slowly. “It’s best if we get this matter resolved quickly. Are you going to be safe?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, I know that,” she said hastily. “I meant, you said they tried to hang you and all. What if they try again? You can’t hope to fight an entire town and win repeatedly.”
“It’s the middle of the week. Finch and the others were cowboys for a nearby spread. They won’t come to town for another few days. Marshal Wilson has no call to cross me.”
They rode slowly, letting their tired horses rest. Abilene threatened to swallow them up with its tall buildings and closed-in feel. Slocum realized he hadn’t appreciated his time on the trail until now. Being able to see the horizon no matter which way he looked suited him just fine. A quick glance at Angelina made him wonder if the ride hadn’t been even better because of her. In spite of her anger at her husband’s death, she was a lovely, intelligent woman.
But the town closed in around him, dark and foreboding.
“There’s the store,” she said, pointing to Cantwell’s Mercantile. A smallish man wearing an apron was moving the last of his displayed goods into the store, getting ready to close down for the night.
“Sir, sir!” Angelina called. She trotted over, kicked out a leg, and dropped to the ground from horseback. “You remember me?”
“Why, I surely do. You’re that Miz Holman. How could I fergit such a pretty filly?”
Slocum dismounted and stood beside her so the man—he assumed this was the owner, Cantwell—got a good look at him. Cantwell glanced in his direction, then fixed his gaze on Angelina’s beauty.
“Can you repeat what you told me about my husband’s killer?”
“You ain’t doin’ anything foolish now, are you, Miz Holman? Goin’ after a killer like him’s suicidal.” Cantwell picked up a broom and leaned against it, looking at her thoughtfully. He gave Slocum more than a once-over this time. “You fixin’ on hirin’ this man to avenge you? You better let the marshal handle it.”
“Repeat the killer’s description,” Slocum said.
“Well, lemme see. He was tall. Close to six feet. Dark hair, lanky, moved like a mountain lion. Had cold eyes, green like emeralds and as hard. That’s about all I remember.”
Angelina looked at Slocum and started to speak. He shook his head, silencing her. They both knew that was an accurate description of him, but Cantwell showed no recognition that Slocum stood in front of him.
“How’d you happen to see him? When he shot Holman?”
“Oh, I didn’t see him.”
“How’d you come by the description?” Slocum demanded.
“Strange, real strange. A fellow come in to buy some terbakky, got to talking. Said he had seen a killing. I told him to pass it along to the marshal. He wanted to keep on riding, was just passin’ through.”
“So he described the killer, and you told Mrs. Holman?”
“Sorry if I misled you, ma’am, into thinkin’ I saw anything important. It was just gossip.” Cantwell pushed himself erect using the broom as a crutch. “You didn’t go and do anything foolish, now did you?”
“I—”
“No, she didn’t,” Slocum cut in. “What did the man who told you all this look like?”
“Kinda ordinary, but he ain’t around town no more. I seen him mount and head south. He paid me in silver dollars. Said they was burnin’ a ho
le in his pocket.”
“And he wanted to clear out fast,” Slocum said.
Cantwell sucked on his teeth as he considered the matter, then agreed.
“Anything I can do for you, Miz Holman?”
“She’s fine, thanks.” Slocum took the woman by the elbow and steered her away from the store. When Cantwell was out of earshot, Slocum said, “It’s like before. Somebody spread a rumor about me, and Macauley tried to kill me but got shot himself.”
“Do you think the same person murdered Michael that killed this Macauley?”
Slocum didn’t have an answer to that. They walked slowly down the street. From a saloon on his right came an angry cry, followed by a gunshot. Men spilled out into the street. Slocum put his arm around Angelina and steered her to the far side out of range of any errant shots fired by a drunk.
“You can’t call me that!” screamed a man dressed like a bank teller.
“What the hell are you sayin’, Clem? I never—”
The fight began in earnest, fists flying and the pair rolling about in the dust. Men poured from the saloon and ringed the fighters, jeering and betting, egging them on and making comments not fit for Angelina’s ears.
“Come on,” he said. They walked to the hotel, where Slocum stopped.
“What—”
“You take a room, then go on back to your ranch in the morning. There’s no way of finding your husband’s killer,” he said.
“But Mr. Cantwell said he had ridden south!”
“The man who gave Cantwell my description rode south. There’s nothing to say he had anything to do with your husband getting shot.”
“Somebody killed Michael!”
“Things happen we can’t always explain,” Slocum said. “It might be hard, but you ought to accept that and get on with your life.”
“No!”
Slocum turned his back to her and walked away, leading his horse. The sooner she stopped trying to avenge her husband, the sooner she could settle down again. Barely had he walked a dozen paces than he saw a shadow draped in deeper shadow dart away fast, feet pounding hard on the drum-like sun-baked ground. He thought he heard laughter but couldn’t be sure.