by Jake Logan
Slocum kept spinning around and got the drop on the man who had come in with Julian. He caught him with the shot glass in his hand rather than a six-shooter.
“Move and you’re dead,” Slocum said.
The outlaw dropped his glass with a loud ringing sound. It hit the bar and spun about. The shot glass caught light from the gas lamp on the wall behind the bar and flashed. This distraction was enough to keep Slocum from squeezing the trigger.
Julian poked his pistol back through the door and opened fire. Slocum fired, missed Julian’s partner, and then dived over the bar to keep from taking a slug flung his way by the gang leader.
“My bar! You’re shootin’ it to splinters! My bar—” Horace grabbed his head with both hands and cried out in dismay.
That was all the protest the barkeep got out before the man he had just served cut him down. Slocum hunkered down with bullets tearing through the wood between him and the doorway. One exploded a bottle in front of him, showering him with glass and whiskey. Again distracted, he almost died. The man at the far end of the bar jumped over. If he hadn’t stumbled on the body of the saloon keeper he had just murdered, he would have drilled Slocum. As it was, the slug went high.
Slocum’s return fire was on target. He drove three bullets into the man’s chest. When he refused to die, Slocum had only one choice. He used his last bullet on the man. This one hit him in the head.
More bullets slammed into the bar, some penetrating to create more havoc behind. From the sheer amount of lead, more than one man had to be firing. The rest of Julian’s gang had joined him in his assault.
Slocum reloaded. Staying where he was spelled eventual death. He wiggled on his belly through the spilled whiskey and broken glass to grab up the dead outlaw’s six-shooter. Slocum popped up from behind the bar and emptied it at the doorway. He was rewarded with a yelp that told him he winged one of his attackers. It wasn’t a killing shot, but it would keep Julian and his men at bay for a few seconds.
With a quick vault, Slocum hit the floor on the far side of the bar. His boots slid out from under him as he found sawdust rather than solid footing. This saved his life. Through the window came a rain of lead that would have cut him in half if he had stayed on his feet. He spun about and made his way on hands and knees to an overturned table. The other customers in the saloon had wisely lit out, leaving Slocum and the Julian gang to shoot it out.
The tabletop began splintering away as the bullets bored into it. When a shotgun blast hit the table, it sent both what remained of the wood and Slocum sliding toward the back of the room.
“You quit shootin’, dammit!”
Slocum recognized the marshal’s voice.
“You cain’t go shootin’ up my brother’s saloon like this.”
The dull crunch of metal striking bone warned Slocum that the lawman wasn’t going to press his complaint any further. Julian had buffaloed him.
The small diversion let Slocum dive for the back room. He slid in amid new rounds coming his way. Wasting no time, he got to his feet and the back at the same time. He shouldered open the door and fired point-blank into a man with a drawn six-shooter. At this range Slocum could not miss. The gunman went down without so much as a peep.
Slocum ran for the next building. The rear door was locked. He kept going until he was far enough from the saloon to simply step into a doorway and let the shadows conceal him. Up and down the alley roamed three men with rifles. They yelled at each other futilely and finally gave up.
“Julian ain’t gonna like it how we let him get away.”
“It was Reilly’s fault.” The sound of a boot kicking the man Slocum had shot dead echoed down the alley. “We kin blame it all on him.”
“We better or Julian’ll skin us alive.”
“That’s still better ’n what that loco weed that’s payin’ us would do.”
Slocum waited a few more seconds before peering out. The alley was deserted. Even the downed man had been removed. He made his way to a space between two stores and edged toward the main street. He froze. Julian and four men rode past, not looking in his direction. Two other horses carried bodies draped over their saddles.
He had gone to the saloon intending to track down Leonard Hawkins. The man might be hiding with the gang he paid so handsomely, but rather than track the retreating outlaws, Slocum returned to the saloon. Junior Hawkins moaned and struggled to sit up.
Slocum swung him around and pushed the man against the wall for support.
“You,” the marshal said. He started to curse, coughed, and turned to spit out half his lungs. Not bothering to wipe his mouth, he looked back at Slocum. “That was you in there, wasn’t it?”
“Where’s Julian and his gang holed up? With your brother?”
This caused the marshal to sharpen his look. He nodded.
“If you want your brother removed permanently, tell me where Julian is going.”
“Don’t know. Honest, Slocum. I meant it when I said Leonard’ll be the death of me.”
“That consumption is going to kill you real soon.”
“And I damned well don’t want Len buryin’ me neither! He’d do it ’fore my body was cold and then laugh over my grave. He’s like that.”
“Where’s Julian likely to go?” Slocum watched the marshal carefully. The man knew. “Where? Your brother’s with him.”
Just saying those words tightened Slocum’s gut. Find Julian, find Hawkins, and exact his revenge.
“There’s a hollow outside town where he’d go. You’d never find it. Help me up, will you?”
Slocum grabbed Junior Hawkins’s hand and dragged him to his feet. The man was lighter than he looked. The consumption had eaten away his innards and taken most of his muscle, leaving only a husk.
“Gotta show you—otherwise you’d never find it.”
Slocum watched the marshal go on shaky legs to fetch his horse. With a single vault, he mounted his own and walked alongside the marshal all the way back to the jailhouse. The lawman saddled his horse and mounted, then set off down Espero’s main street without a backward look to see if Slocum trailed him.
It wasn’t the bravest thing in the world, but Slocum kept a dozen yards behind the marshal. If Junior Hawkins alerted any of Julian’s sentries, he would be the first to draw fire, giving Slocum a chance to locate and kill any dry-gulchers. A mile outside town, the marshal cut off the road and went along a trail hardly large enough to be seen in the dark. In the woods on either side, small creatures complained at this invasion.
Slocum saw eyes of animals that could never be called small. He drew his Winchester and laid it across the saddle in front of him, ready for anything from Julian to a rampaging javelina.
“Hey, boss, it’s me, Junior!”
The marshal’s voice came muffled and distant, though he was hardly twenty yards away. Slocum brought up his rifle, snugging it to his shoulder. Only then did he tap his horse’s flanks to narrow the distance between him and the marshal.
He saw Marshal Hawkins ahead, hands up in the air to show he wasn’t here to cause any trouble.
“I need to talk with my brother.”
“He’s not here, Junior.”
The gravelly voice cut across Slocum’s senses. That had to be Julian answering. He rode closer, alert for guards on the trail hidden in the thicket around him. A small rustling noise distracted him. He swung his rifle around to cover a rabbit. This small move spelled disaster ahead.
“Don’t shoot, dammit. I’m—” That was as far as the marshal got before the woods lit up with a half-dozen lances of flame from pistols and rifles.
Slocum leaned forward and put his weight on his horse’s shoulders to prevent it from rearing. He fired at the nearest spot where he knew an outlaw hid. His shot produced a groan. A good shot, but not a killing one. He brought up his rifle and fired into a cluster of
gunmen. When the magazine came up empty, he drew his six-gun.
Only he sat astride his horse in the dark forest, isolated, the smell of gunsmoke in his nostrils. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard horses galloping away. Slocum had only two choices, advance or retreat through the pitch-black woods. He let out a rebel yell and charged.
Bursting into a clearing, he saw how fast Julian and his men had abandoned their camp. The cooking fire was still heating a pot of coffee. Blankets were spread out where the outlaws had intended to sleep. And two horses had been left tied to a rope strung between two honey locust trees. As quick as the search of the camp was, Slocum saw where the gang had fled through the woods. The ground was cut up where a half-dozen horses had run.
He slowed, circled the clearing, and finally stopped. Chasing the outlaw gang all by himself was complete idiocy. They had run because they thought the marshal had brought a posse with him. That was the only reason Slocum could think for their hasty retreat.
Julian must have expected the marshal to cross him after he had been clubbed in town. Slocum hunted the camp for any trace left by Leonard Hawkins. If the undertaker had been here, his spoor mingled perfectly with that left by the others in the gang. Disgusted, Slocum kicked a dirt clod into the nearby fire, where it sputtered and almost extinguished the flames. Blazing bravely, the fire returned.
Slocum went to it, pulled the coffeepot off the fire, and found a tin cup abandoned nearby. He drank a cup, approving of whoever had fixed the coffee. That didn’t mean Slocum wouldn’t cut the man down the first chance he got, but he did make a fine pot of joe.
He searched the saddlebags and other belongings left behind, taking what money he found. It still came up several hundred short of what Hawkins had paid him and then stole back. Finished and disgusted that he hadn’t found the undertaker, Slocum looked around. His eyes finally fixed on the black notch in the woods and the trail leading back to where Junior Hawkins lay gunned down. Several seconds passed as Slocum considered what to do. He finally trudged along the trail, grabbed the dead marshal under the arms, and dragged his body into the clearing.
“He won’t get you,” Slocum said softly.
He began digging in the soft forest and worked diligently until he had a hole five feet deep. Going deeper wasn’t in the cards since he hit a layer of white caliche that would take dynamite to blast through. He wrapped Junior Hawkins up in a couple blankets left by the outlaws, rolled the body into the hole, then returned the dirt to the grave.
More than an hour later, Slocum stared at the mounded dirt. Putting a marker on the grave only invited trouble should Leonard Hawkins see it. The chances against that were high. Slocum sat, carved the name into a broad wood limb, then affixed it as a crosspiece to another stuck down into the dirt. It wasn’t much but more than the marshal likely deserved.
For Slocum, he felt some small satisfaction at robbing Leonard Hawkins of another body to feed his sick pleasures.
As he turned, he saw movement at the far side of the clearing, near the notch in the woods where Julian and the gang had escaped. He slid his Colt free and tried not to be too obvious that he had discovered the intruder as he made his way to his horse.
A rifle spoke. Dirt kicked up at Slocum’s feet.
“Freeze, mister,” came the shouted command. “If you twitch a muscle, I’ll kill you.”
Slocum had been caught away from any useful shelter against an ambush. He obeyed.
“You’re not one of the gang. They killed the marshal.”
“I saw you burying him. That the one they call Junior Hawkins?”
“Is,” Slocum affirmed.
“You get on the road to Dexter Junction and keep on going. There’s nothing for you here but a quick death.”
“You’re the one who’s been following me, the one who wears the yellow slicker.”
This caused the man to gasp. He covered quickly and said, “There’s nothing for you in Espero. Get out while you can.”
“Why don’t you just gun me down?”
“I don’t have a quarrel with you.”
“You mean Miranda doesn’t.”
Slocum feinted to his left and dived right as a bullet sang past. He landed hard on his belly and wiggled fast toward a fallen tree trunk. Bullets whined overhead, but the man’s aim was off in the darkness. Slocum made sure he didn’t present such a fine target again. He aimed his six-shooter in the direction of the rifle fire, then waited. When another muzzle flash showed, he would fire just a little bit under it.
Only no bullets came his way now. Slocum waited a few minutes, listening hard and hearing only the nocturnal animals slowly recovering their disturbed duties in the surrounding woods. He worked his way slowly around the edge of the clearing, avoiding the worst of the thicket while still using the trees as cover until he reached the spot where a couple bits of shiny brass caught his eye.
Bending low, he grabbed one. The case was still warm from being fired. Finding boot prints or other spoor in the detritus on the floor of the woods proved impossible in the dark. Slocum moved in the direction most likely taken by his ambusher, found a couple hoofprints in the soft ground, and then holstered his six-gun.
Once more he was alone in the woods. And he had no idea where Leonard Hawkins, his gang, or the man who had followed Miranda Madison from Dexter Junction were.
11
There were too many of them. Slocum spotted six armed men strategically posted around the barn where the nuptials were going to be held. Slipping inside the barn unseen would take more skill than Slocum possessed. Through the open doors, he caught sight of white bunting and folded paper bells decorating the walls and dangling over the altar set up at the far end of the barn where stalls had been ripped out.
He considered the distance and what chance he had making a shot using his rifle. To kill Leonard Hawkins as he stood there waiting for his bride to appear held no appeal for Slocum. He wanted the man to know whose hand brought about his death. Even hanging wasn’t good enough for him, but Slocum would agree to that if he could open the trapdoor under the undertaker’s feet.
If there had been a lawman left in Espero. If a judge could be found or a jury convened that didn’t owe Hawkins their livelihoods and even their families’ lives. If, if, if . . .
Bringing in the Rangers hardly seemed adequate, even if they chose to interest themselves in Hawkins’s crimes. Finding enough proof that he had caused anyone’s death to bring a roving lawman into Espero looked out of the question. Slocum had a distaste for lynch mobs, and taking the law into his own hands smacked of that. At the same time, it didn’t. If proof that would stand up in court against Hawkins wasn’t available, Slocum had no trouble becoming judge, jury, and executioner.
Only this wasn’t the place where he could be the executioner. The angle and distance were too great, even for a marksman of his ability.
He settled down on the roof of a bookstore a hundred yards away from the barn, studying the growing crowd with his field glasses. Three more men whose allegiance to Julian looked obvious showed up. Hawkins had brought in a small army of outlaws to protect himself today. He needed it.
Slocum wondered whether his desire to personally make Hawkins aware of who brought him slow, painful death rested on his desire for revenge or what Miranda Madison had said when he found her in the funeral parlor. She had begged him not to harm Hawkins and to let the marriage continue. He felt some obligation to her. Delivering any woman into the arms of a man like Hawkins had to rankle. But she knew him by now—she had to.
She still wanted to marry him.
The man in the yellow slicker added to the mystery. Slocum knew the man had spoken with Miranda more than once since she had come to Espero. If he was a jilted suitor, he certainly acted strangely. He had a better chance to shoot down Hawkins than Slocum, yet the night before he had only tried to chase him off rather than kill h
im by summoning the marshal. Only when Slocum had angered him had the man fired. And that anger came from hinting that he did nothing but Miranda’s bidding.
Was Slocum any different if he didn’t shoot Hawkins before the ceremony?
He slowly scanned across the crowd when they began to move forward to get into the barn. He located six of Julian’s henchmen herding the townspeople inside as if they were nothing more than balky sheep. That image came easily for Slocum. If the citizens had ever once united against Hawkins, he wouldn’t hold them in slavery now, doing his bidding. Gaining the deeds to the surrounding ranches and farms had come only after he’d secured his foothold in the town.
Hadn’t even one of the town’s upstanding citizens tried to gun him down after a loved one had been spirited off for living burial? Fear could grip a town only so long until anger built.
Or had the fear became such a part of everyone’s thoughts that they buckled to any demand, no matter how small or absurd?
From what Slocum had seen, Hawkins was shrewd about how he wielded his power. Cheap whiskey went a ways toward keeping everyone in line. He thought on what he had seen around Espero. There weren’t any obvious cathouses. If Hawkins closed them down and ran off the soiled doves, the town’s respectable women might be less inclined to oppose him.
Slocum tensed when he saw a tight group of men moving at the far side of the barn. He trained his field glasses on the man in the center. Leonard Hawkins was dressed in solid black. His morning coat seemed to swallow the sun’s brightness. Satin stripes down the sides of his pants provided only a small hint of frivolity. He sported a solid black vest, a black shirt, and a cravat held in place by a headlight diamond that, when the light caught it, became a jealous rival to the sun itself. Hawkins wore a tall silk top hat and spun an ebony cane about in his hand. The gold knob flashed like a beacon until he disappeared into the barn.
Slocum considered dropping the field glasses and taking up his rifle when he saw Julian and two henchmen huddle together. If he couldn’t take out Hawkins, removing his top ally would go a ways toward reaching the undertaker later. As he raised his Winchester, Slocum stopped. Julian ducked back inside the barn while the two outlaws he had spoken to ran off in the direction of the bank.