Slocum and Hot Lead

by Jake Logan

  Slocum bent and picked up a corroded brass belt buckle with crossed sabers and US in raised letters prominent on it. He tossed it hard against a tree trunk. It stuck in the wood. He considered drawing and firing at the target, but refrained. He was here to scout a possible ambush point, not to show what he thought of the Federal soldiers.

  He poked around another half hour, and decided that he ought to forget the stagecoach robbery and consider it too risky for indeterminate return. Slocum half-believed the marshal when he said that nothing of value was sent on the stage, other than the fort payroll. The entire region was locked in poverty. The best he could do was water his horse, let it graze a mite, fill his canteen, and then ride on hunting for greener pastures.

  “Taos,” he muttered. That had been the end of the trail for the Bent brothers when they’d run their trading post out of Bent’s Fort up in Colorado, near the Kansas border. Prosperity had come to Taos and eventually Santa Fe, but the towns in between like Las Vegas were suffering.

  “Hell, for all I know Taos is a dead end too,” Slocum grumbled. His Appaloosa looked up, eyes wide at his outburst. He patted the horse’s neck, grabbed the reins, and swung into the saddle. The road back to Las Vegas was dusty and seemed longer than when he had ridden out, but the reception he got at the edge of town took him by surprise, even after the marshal’s declaration of wanting him permanently gone.

  “Reach for that hogleg and I’ll blow you in half,” the marshal said, a long-barreled shotgun pointed at Slocum.

  “Yeah, grab some sky!” piped up the deputy who had followed Slocum out of town earlier.

  “What’s wrong, Marshal?” Slocum didn’t pay any attention to the excitable deputy. The marshal was the one in command, and anything the other lawman said could be safely ignored.

  “You’re what’s wrong,” the marshal barked. Slocum saw sweat beaded like fat raindrops on the man’s forehead. It was hot, but there was a tremor in the marshal’s hand that hadn’t been there before. He was a nervous man; the finger-tapping had told Slocum that much. But now the marshal was outright scared. The way his finger was pulled back so far on the shotgun trigger that it turned white made Slocum uneasy.

  “No need to get all hot and bothered,” Slocum said. “I decided to head for Taos, not Santa Fe, and I have to ride back through—”

  “Shut up!” The marshal was getting more nervous by the instant. His deputy was already hopping from foot to foot in excitement as he waved his six-shooter around wildly.

  Slocum looked past the marshal and deputy to the doors and windows of Las Vegas’s main street. The town had been taking a siesta when he was here hours earlier. Now it appeared that everyone had taken a sudden interest in what went on outside. He saw noses pressed against windows and fingers wrapped around doors, in case they had to be slammed shut. No one looked like they were rooting for Slocum.

  “Mind telling me what’s got you so riled? I’m not—” Slocum had to force himself not to go for his six-shooter when the marshal discharged his shotgun into the air. The lawman hurriedly knocked out the shell and slammed in a new one. If Slocum had gone for his six-shooter, the deputy would have started flinging lead around. In his agitated state, he wouldn’t have been able to hit the broad side of a barn even if he was locked inside, but Slocum wasn’t taking a chance the man might get in a lucky shot.

  “The jail’s over there,” the marshal said. “You keep those hands where I can see ’em and ride to the jailhouse.”

  Slocum did as he was told, puzzling over the lawman’s sudden change of outlook about drifters in his town. It cost the town money to put up a prisoner, but nothing for the marshal to chase away the riffraff. Slocum would have thought the marshal was out to collect a fine for some minor infraction, except for the state of nerves he showed.

  Slocum dismounted and turned. The deputy grabbed for his Colt. Slocum had an opportunity to grab the frightened man and use him as a shield, but the chance passed as the marshal moved quickly to get a clear shot.

  “Inside. Now, move it now!”

  Slocum obeyed and found himself facing two cells. A man lounging on the iron cot in one sat up in a hurry and stared at Slocum. His mouth fell open.

  “Quit gawking, Murray,” the marshal snapped. “You’ll catch flies if you leave your mouth open too much.”

  “Flies’re better than the swill you serve as dinner,” the prisoner said. Slocum saw the answer was reflexive. The man kept his eyes fixed on Slocum, and the deputy herded Slocum into the other cell and slammed the door so hard the entire cell rang like a bell.

  “Be sure you got the door locked this time,” the marshal said to his deputy.

  “It’s locked. Honest. You can check it and see.”

  “I’ll trust you this time,” the marshal said. “Get on over to the telegraph office and send the ’gram I wrote up. The federal marshal’ll want to hear about what we got.”

  Slocum puzzled over the marshal’s words. He glanced at the posters tacked to the wall, and even peered at a couple on the lawman’s desk. None of them showed a charge for judge killing.

  “Marshal,” the deputy called from the doorway. “You got to come quick. They’s bustin’ up the saloon again, and I can’t handle ’em all myself.”

  The lawman quickly crossed the small office, grabbed the cell door, and rattled it a few times to be sure Slocum was securely locked inside. No matter what he had told his deputy, he didn’t trust him to make fast the iron bar door.

  “You behave yourself,” the marshal warned, then ran from the jail swinging his shotgun around like an elephant trunk.

  Slocum sat on the cot in his cell and tried to puzzle out what was going on. He looked over at the other prisoner, who stared at him.

  “What?” Slocum demanded.

  “I never figgered a hick-town marshal like him would capture anyone like you, Neale.”

  “Who’s Neale?”

  The prisoner laughed nervously. “I got it, Neale. You don’t want to fess up who you are.”

  “Who’s Neale?” Slocum repeated.

  “Sorry,” the man said, sounding as if he meant it. “I won’t slip up again.”

  Slocum heard the unspoken “Neale” tacked onto the end of that sentence. Who the hell was Neale?

  2

  Slocum paced the tiny cell like a caged animal, but he wasn’t working off nervous energy. Every time he made a circuit of the small cell he noticed something new, something different, something that would enable him to bust out of the calaboose. He finally collapsed on the cot and stared hard at the weak point he had discovered. For all the strength of the lock on the cell door, the hinges were poorly constructed and the hinge pins exposed. A little work using the proper tool would cause the door to fall off.

  The only problem Slocum saw was the lack of the proper tool.

  “What’re you so nervy about?” the other prisoner asked. “They got you dead to rights? Gonna ship you out right away? This ain’t such a bad place to spend a few days.”

  “How’s the food?” Slocum couldn’t have cared less about the grub served up by the marshal. He wanted the prisoner’s attention on other things as he ran his fingers under the cot, hunting for the right tool.

  Slocum almost cried out in triumph when he found the segment of the cot leg that had come loose. A little prying popped it free from the frame. He hid it from his fellow prisoner, not knowing what the man might say or do at the prospect of an escape attempt. For all Slocum knew, the man was in for some minor crime and would turn Slocum over to the marshal for a quick dismissal of charges against him.

  “You plannin’ on bustin’ out?” the man asked, startling Slocum. Slocum hid the length of metal to keep the other prisoner from seeing it.

  “No reason to,” Slocum said. “I haven’t done anything.” This produced a belly laugh.

  “You got quite a sense of humor, Neale,” the man said. “Sayin’ you ain’t done nuthin’!”

  “What are you locked up for?” />
  The laughter died as the man sat up on his cot and stared hard at Slocum. “I killed a man in a saloon brawl.”

  “A fair fight?” Slocum knew the answer by the expression of pure rage on the man’s face.

  “Yeah, right. Him or me.” The prisoner paused a moment, then said, “Look, we got to get out. They’ll only hang me. You . . .” He left the sentence dangling, as if there might be something worse than having your neck stretched.

  Slocum went to the cell door. He had to trust the other man wouldn’t call out. He had no idea if he was locked up for murder or simply being in the wrong place. Las Vegas was the wrong place for more than one of them, if true.

  “Whatcha doin’?” the man asked.

  “Getting out of here. Keep an eye out for the marshal.”

  “Hell, if him and his worthless deputy are bustin’ up a fight at the saloon, they’ll be there all night. Break up the fight, have the house buy ’em drinks. That’s the way it works.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Slocum grunted as he forced the metal rod up hard against the bottom of the hinge pin. Slocum fell heavily against the bars when the pin popped out easily. He hadn’t remembered a squeak as the cell door opened for him and then closed behind him. The marshal was efficient maintaining his jail cells—and it was going to get Slocum out of the hoosegow in a hurry. The second pin popped up with hardly more pressure.

  “You’re a genius, Neale!” cried the other prisoner. “Get me out. You got to get me out too!”

  Slocum gripped the door and lifted a little, pressing outward. He staggered as the door fell off its hinges, and he was left holding its ungainly weight. He slid around the side of the now-open door and then leaned it back against the bars. A quick look at the other prisoner decided him. The man might be a backshooter, but unless Slocum murdered the man where he stood looking so anxious and needy, he would be screaming his head off for the marshal before Slocum got outside.

  “Where’s the marshal likely to keep the horses? He took mine.”

  “Corral’s out back. He’s got my horse there too.”

  Slocum grabbed the key ring out of the top desk drawer and tossed it to the man, who hastily opened his cell.

  “Thanks, Neale. You ever need anybody to watch your back, I’m the one for you.”

  Slocum rummaged about and found his Colt Navy and tucked it into his cross-draw holster. He peered out the door, and was happy to see that twilight had settled on Las Vegas and cast long shadows everywhere. He stepped outside into shadow and moved to the back of the jailhouse. The other prisoner crowded close behind.

  “There, there’s the corral. That bay is mine.”

  “Saddle up and let’s ride,” Slocum said. He didn’t care that the man still thought he was someone named Neale. In return for being released from his cell, he had told Slocum where to find his Appaloosa. That had saved a lot of hunting that might have alerted the lawmen.

  Slocum had saddled up and started walking his horse out when the prisoner let out a yelp.

  “The marshal! He’s gonna find we’re gone!” With that the one-time prisoner let out a whoop, put heels to his horse, and shot from the corral. He had his six-shooter out and blazed away at the marshal as he hit the main street at a dead gallop. The marshal and his deputy responded fast, returning fire and running a few paces after their escaped prisoner.

  Slocum drove the two other horses in the corral out after the retreating prisoner, adding to the confusion and making sure it would take the two lawmen a while to get on the trail. Without waiting, Slocum cut along behind the buildings on the main street, cut down a side street, and kept moving until the furor lay far behind him. He glanced up at the stars and got his bearings. Fate or luck had him on the north side of town. It took only a few minutes before he crossed the road to Taos.

  He considered the matter for a moment, then set out at a steady clip, wanting to put as much distance between him and Las Vegas as possible. If he read the marshal right, the lawman would go after the other escaped prisoner because he had spotted him and the direction he fled. That gave Slocum more than a decent lead—it might put him in the clear if the marshal and his former prisoner shot it out.

  The Milky Way provided almost enough light to make Slocum think he was riding along on a cloudy day, though it was nowhere near as hot as a day would have been. Slocum pulled up his collar and shivered a mite. The mountains furnished a gentle, cool breeze off their heights, and the desert cooled fast once the sun had sunk behind the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the west. The fresh air filled Slocum’s lungs and gave him new resolve. He didn’t understand what had gone on back in Las Vegas, and it no longer mattered. He wouldn’t return there any time soon, not with the promise of Taos and beyond ahead of him.

  He slowed and eventually dismounted to let his horse rest. When he found a watering hole near the road, Slocum considered bedding down for the night. His horse drank, and he filled his canteen with fresh water as he thought on the problem of the Las Vegas marshal and decided to push on as far as he could. The lawman wasn’t likely to pursue beyond the limits of his authority, no matter whom he had thought he’d locked in his jailhouse.

  “Neale,” Slocum said, shaking his head. He had known a Neale or two in his day, but not one worth the response the marshal and his deputy had shown after the station agent had talked with them. One Neale had ridden with Slocum for a few weeks, but Slocum had never considered him to be his partner. His habits had been bad, he ate the damnedest things—armadillo had never set well with Slocum’s belly—and his lack of good sense had doomed any chance Slocum might change his opinion. There had been a few other casual acquaintances with that moniker, but none of them was likely to be a lawbreaker. One had been a preacher secure in his faith, and the other had been blinded during the war when his cannon barrel had ruptured, spitting shrapnel into his face.

  He rode for another hour. A check on the wheel of stars above showed it to be around midnight. He had been riding steadily for more than four hours and had no sense of anyone from Las Vegas on his trail. Still, Slocum was a cautious man and found a low rise with a good view of his back trail. Using his field glasses and a lot of patience, Slocum watched the empty trail for more than a half hour without seeing any rider.

  He led his horse off the trail a ways, found a grassy area, hobbled the horse, and unfurled his bedroll. It took a few minutes for him to dig out rounded cavities in the ground to accommodate his hips and shoulders; then he stretched out on his blanket. Only the usual night sounds reached him, lulling him to sleep within minutes.

  Slocum awoke just before dawn at the metallic click of a six-gun cocking.

  “Don’t go stirrin’ yer bones none,” came the cold command. “I don’t wanna plug you, but I will.”

  Slocum blinked his sleep-caked eyes, and finally focused on a squat man who looked to be as wide as he was tall sitting on a nearby stump with his six-shooter pointed at him.

  “Who’re you?” Slocum fought back the drowsiness that still clouded his mind. He tried to remember if he had ever seen the man before, and doubted it. The stench coming from him was overpowering. It was a good thing the man had approached from downwind, or Slocum would have been up and firing before he had gotten within twenty feet. The man wore buckskins that had seen better days years earlier and moccasins patched so many times there was hardly any of the original left. From what Slocum could tell, the man’s face fit his body. Thick, brutish, and scarred. His nose had been mashed so many times it was flat and lopsided above a dirty blond mustache. The eyes were hidden under heavy bony ridges, but Slocum had the feeling they never strayed from his quarry.

  And the pistol in the man’s grimy hand never wavered.

  “Ain’t important who I am ’cuz I got the gun and you don’t.”

  “Get the hell out of here and let me sleep in peace or shoot me. Right about now, I don’t care which,” Slocum said.

  “Don’t want to shoot you, Neale. The reward’s bigger if you
live to stand trial. Damn shame, I’d say. Better to get a hundred dollars, though, than only twenty-five fer you dead. Don’t know why the station agent set it up that way, but he did. Orders from the home office, he said, but I think it was all his doin’.”

  “Nice to know this Neale is worth more alive than dead,” Slocum said. Anger fueled him now and drove away the last of his fatigue. He glanced over to where his Colt dangled in its holster. With the intent look of this bounty hunter, there was no chance he would glance away for even an instant. Slocum stirred and flopped the blanket around him as he reached for the derringer he carried in his vest pocket. His fingers closed on it, and he managed to fumble it out, then dropped it. The man didn’t notice in the dark.

  “Don’t go tryin’ to fool me. I know you, Neale. You’re gonna swing, trust me. But only after they git done with you.”

  “I’m not Neale.” Slocum flopped the blanket around some more as he pushed it away and retrieved his derringer. He didn’t dare try to shoot it out with the man since his small-caliber weapon might not drop the bounty hunter before he loosed a .44 slug into Slocum’s head.

  But Slocum hid the derringer and felt reassured at its cold metal pressing into his palm. He sat up, faced the bounty hunter, and crossed his legs.

  “Don’t make no never mind to me what you want to call yerself. You’re Neale and that’s good enough fer me and the law. They’ll fork over the reward so fast, the gold coins might melt.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Name’s Wilmer. Reckon you might as well know what varmint caught you so easy.” The man spat, his gun hand never wavering an iota. “Fact is, you ain’t half as tough as they made out. I’ve run to earth scoundrels twice as mean and ten times as ugly.”

  Slocum wasn’t sure if he had been insulted, and it didn’t matter to him. He still didn’t have a good shot at the bounty hunter.