Slocum in Shot Creek

by Jake Logan

  Images of all the lawmen he had ever known floated through his mind. He saw them strut and prance, poking out their bellies, squinting their eyes, turning down the corners of their mouths, their thumbs hooked in the armpits of their vests or in the waistbands of their trousers. He grimaced at the thought and swore that if he ever gave in to the mayor and the councilman and to—well, to the charms of Terri Sue—he would strive with all his might to avoid any of those very noticeable and disgusting lawman habits.

  He decided to walk the street to its end, cross it, and walk back down the other side. Really look the town over. It was not crowded at this time of morning, and it seemed peaceable enough. He recalled the gunshots, though, he had heard during his breakfast. He could see a few horses tied in front of each saloon, and he noticed a woman walking out of the general store with a bundle in her arms. A man walked into the gun shop carrying a long-barreled shotgun. Nothing seemed out of order.

  When he reached the end of the street, he suddenly realized that he had already started walking with that damned swagger. He was walking like he was really looking things over. He was walking like a lawman. He stopped, took a deep breath, made a conscious effort to put that strut clear out of his mind, and crossed the street. A wagon came racing down the street, and Slocum had to pay attention to it to keep from getting run over. He reached the sidewalk on the other side safely and started strolling back toward where he had started.

  He was strutting again. He couldn’t figure out how to avoid it. It really pissed him off. He stopped paying attention to the stores and to the people and walked hurriedly back toward the hotel. He was thinking that he should go up to the room, get his things, and get the hell out of this fucking town. It was about to corrupt him. Suddenly his path was blocked. He stopped and looked up to see Mayor Church standing in front of him and smiling.

  “Looking our town over, Slocum?” said the mayor.

  “Just, uh, taking a walk,” Slocum said.

  “Well, I’ll admit, there isn’t all that much to look at, but I think we could have a nice little town here if someone could tame it a bit for us.”

  “It don’t seem too rowdy to me,” Slocum said.

  “Things are quiet right now,” said Church, “but that could change at any minute. It will change almost for sure come evening.”

  “Mainly rowdy cowhands?” Slocum asked.

  “Mainly,” said Church.

  “What else is there to worry about?”

  “Oh, a few ornery kids, occasional domestic squabbles, men that get too drunk and get to spend a night in jail to sober up. You know the kind of things I’m talking about.”

  “I get the feeling you ain’t telling me the whole story,” said Slocum.

  “You’re right, Slocum. Can we talk about it over lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  “About eleven thirty? The same place where you had breakfast this morning?”

  Visions of Terri Sue flashed through Slocum’s mind.

  “I’ll see you there,” he said.

  Just then a man came crashing through a door right across the street. He was moving backward fast, and he fell into the street, landing hard on his back. In an instant, another man came through the door after him.

  “You dirty son of a bitch,” the man shouted.

  He rushed to the fallen man and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him to his feet. He swung a roundhouse right and smashed it into the man’s jaw, knocking him down into the dirt again. The first man was already obviously helpless. The man on his feet walked to the fallen man and kicked him in the ribs. He kicked him again. The man on the ground could only attempt to cover his head with his arms and curl himself into a ball for protection. The third kick was aimed for the man’s head. Slocum had taken all he could. He walked out into the street, up behind the man on his feet, the man doing the kicking.

  “Hey, pard,” he said. “He’s had enough.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder. “Fuck you,” he said. He kicked again. Slocum put a hand on the man’s shoulder and gripped it hard. He spun the man around and shoved a fist into the man’s gut. The man doubled over with a whuff. Slocum grabbed him by the hair of his head and straightened him up.

  “I said the man’s had enough. Don’t you think so?”

  “I’ll show you what I think, you son of a bitch.”

  The man drew back his right, but Slocum saw it coming in plenty of time. He blocked it with his left, then hit the man hard on the side of the head with his own right. The man staggered to one side, bent over a little, and shook his head. Then he straightened up, looked hard at Slocum, and suddenly pulled his revolver.

  “Slocum, look out,” cried Church.

  But Slocum had already seen it. His Colt cleared leather and barked before the other’s barrel had even gotten level. Slocum’s bullet tore into the man’s chest, and blood squirted out his back. He staggered back two steps. He tried to raise his revolver, but his arm was weak. His hand lost all its strength. His fingers lost their grip, and the revolver fell to the street. The man’s knees buckled and he dropped to a kneeling position. He sat down on his boots and wobbled. Finally he fell forward on his face. He was dead.

  Church hurried out to stand beside Slocum in the street. Slocum was helping the fallen man to his feet. Slocum glanced over at Church.

  “You got a doc in this town?” he asked.

  “Over at the barbershop.”

  “Can you make it, pard?” Slocum said.

  The man was bloody and unsteady on his feet, but he nodded his head.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll make it.”

  He headed toward the barbershop, and Slocum stood and watched him for a moment.

  “So your doc’s the barber?” he said.

  “That’s right. He does a good job.”

  “At doctoring or barbering?”

  “Both,” said the mayor. “You handled that situation real well.”

  “I killed a man,” Slocum said.

  “It looked to me like he didn’t give you any choice.”

  Slocum looked at the body.

  “Well, what do we—”

  “I’ll take care of that,” said Church.

  “Well then, I’ll see you at eleven thirty.”

  Church stood and watched Slocum walk away. Then he headed for the eatery. Along the way, he found a man and told him to get Harvey Gool, the undertaker. Then he kept walking. When he reached the eatery, he went inside and found Carl, the owner. He pulled him aside.

  “Is Terri Sue working lunch today?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Carl.

  “Can you find someone else?”

  “What for?”

  “Can you?”

  “I guess maybe Mabel could do it, but—”

  “Then get Mabel,” said Church. “I need Terri Sue.”

  “All right, I’ll do it.”

  Terri Sue came out of the kitchen wearing her apron, and Church took her by the arm and walked to one side with her. She looked at him inquisitively.

  “What is it, Mayor?” she asked.

  “I just got you a day off,” he said.

  “What? What day?”

  “Today. I’m having lunch here with Slocum, and I want you to join us. Will you do it?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Good. Eleven thirty then.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  The mayor turned and left the eatery.

  Slocum ducked into the nearest saloon. It was called the Fancy Pants, and it was not the one he had been in the night before. There were maybe half a dozen cowboys in the place. It was quiet. He walked up to the bar and dug into his pockets.

  “You’re Slocum, ain’t you?” said the barkeep.

  “That’s right.”

  “Anything you want’s on the mayor. My name’s Charlie. What’ll you have?”

  “A glass of whiskey,” Slocum said.

  Charlie poured him a glass and Slocum took a sip.

 
“Word gets around this town fast,” said Slocum.

  Charlie shrugged. “It’s a small town.”

  “You get much trouble in here, Charlie?” Slocum asked.

  “Oh, the usual,” said Charlie. “A fight ever’ now and then. A knifing once or twice a week. A fair number of shootings. Everybody pays for their drinks, though.”

  “Always look on the bright side,” Slocum said.

  He sipped his drink slowly and talked with Charlie, but he didn’t learn much. He only confirmed that Shot Creek was a rough town, and he already knew that much. Even so, he had a second drink and sipped that one, too, thus extending his conversation with Charlie. He left the Fancy Pants at about eleven twenty and walked to the eatery. He found Mayor Church and Terri Sue sitting at a table inside waiting for him. He took off his hat and hung it over one of the hooks on the wall. Then he walked to their table and sat down.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, looking into Terri Sue’s blue eyes. She smiled and ducked her head.

  A middle-aged woman, pleasant enough, came over to take their order. When she had gone to the kitchen, Church spoke.

  “Slocum,” he said, “have you given any more thought to my offer?”

  “Ain’t thought about much of anything else,” Slocum said.

  “Have you come to a conclusion?”

  “It’s a tough decision, Mayor,” Slocum said.

  “The job is a dangerous one,” said Church.

  “It’s not the danger that bothers Slocum,” said Terri Sue.

  “No?” said Church.

  “It’s his image.”

  Church wrinkled his brow and looked from Terri Sue to Slocum and back again. “Image?” he said.

  “Slocum thinks that lawmen are a bunch of brutes. He thinks that they’re all out for themselves, and they’re lawmen because they like to bully people.”

  Church looked at Slocum. “Is that right?”

  “The lady pretty much took the words out of my mouth.”

  “What you did out there in the street a while ago,” said Church, “was just what any good lawman would have done. The only difference is that a lawman would have been wearing a badge and getting a paycheck.”

  “I just didn’t like seeing a helpless man get kicked to death. That’s all.”

  “That’s a lawman’s job,” said Church.

  Mabel came out of the kitchen with their meals, so the conversation stopped for a spell. She put the plates of food around and a basket of bread in the middle of the table and refilled all the coffee cups.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she said.

  “No, thanks, Mabel,” said Church. “Everything looks just fine.”

  “Well, if you need anything, just holler.”

  Mabel walked back into the kitchen, and the three dug into their meals. The food was good, and Slocum was beginning to feel just a little bit like he was already obligated to Mayor Church and to his town.

  3

  Slocum did not sleep well that night. He spent some time in the other saloon, the Fat Back, and saw one fistfight. No one was hurt too bad. Then he went back to his room and settled in for the night, but he did not sleep well. He had visions of himself riding the hell out of Shit Creek, getting away from all the trouble and well away from the prospect of himself wearing a star. It would be a good one on the town, running up a good bill for whiskey, meals, and a room and then running away. It would be the sensible thing to do, and it would agree with his oft-stated philosophy of life: Live and let live. Look out for number one. Mind your own business. Don’t stick your nose where it don’t belong. There were a hundred ways of saying it, but they all boiled down to the same thing. And sticking to that philosophy was comfortable and usually safe.

  But somehow the thought of riding out of Shit Creek having spent all that town money, and having had the lovely big blue eyes of Terri Sue looking hopefully into his, and having lusted after the sweet Terri Sue—somehow that thought was not comfortable. His philosophy was no longer so simple. Running away would be safer, but it would be disquieting.

  And then there were conflicting images running through his brain, images of himself strutting down the sidewalk with his thumbs hooked in the armpits of his vest, his belly sticking out in front of him, a pompous expression on his face, his boot heels clomping on the boards with each step, people scattering in front of him as he walked along. There were visions of himself jerking poor slobbering drunks to their feet and shoving them ahead of him to the jail, where he tossed them in cells, slammed the doors, and locked them, leaving the drunks to moan alone and roll over and puke on the floor of the lonely cell. He saw himself gun down a punk kid, no more than eighteen years old, who was just feeling his oats.

  At last he slept, but his sleep was troubled with the same dreams as had been his visions when he was awake. When he got up in the morning, he had not had much sleep. Even so, he dressed and walked down the stairs and out into the street. He crossed over to the eatery and went inside. The place was crowded, but he found a table and sat down. Terri Sue brought him a cup of coffee and took his order. He had three refills before his meal was placed in front of him. By then, several people had finished their meals and left. Mayor Church walked in, spotted Slocum, and joined him at his table.

  “Good morning, Slocum,” he said. “I hope you slept well.”

  “Not hardly,” Slocum said.

  “Something bothering you?”

  “I think you know what’s on my mind,” Slocum said. “It’s a big decision for me. Hell, I hate lawmen. If I was to be in a gunfight, I’d rather the other fellow be wearing the badge.”

  “Then if you won the fight, you’d be on the dodge.”

  “That’s the downside of it for sure,” said Slocum. “I know. I’ve been there.”

  “I never asked you anything about that,” said Church.

  “Aw, hell, it’s okay. I ain’t wanted for nothing just now. Not that I know of.”

  “Slocum,” said Church, “I think I understand your reluctance. I had a few bad run-ins with the law when I was much younger. I’ve seen the kind of lawmen that you’ve been talking about. Just because there are so many like that doesn’t mean that you’d be like that. You could be the kind of lawman that you think lawmen should be. Clean up a dirty town. Help the good citizens. Do honest work for honest pay.”

  “You do make it sound good,” Slocum said. “Hey, you going to eat?”

  “I ate a little earlier,” said Church. “Right now I’ll shut up and let you eat your meal in peace.”

  Slocum took a big bite and gave Church a glance. How the hell could he relax with that mayor sitting right across from him? Terri Sue came to refill both men’s cups, and Slocum thought that having that filly flitting around was possibly even more distracting. There were two things about her that were bothering him. First, she was in cahoots with Church, trying to convince him to take that horrible job of town marshal. Second, she almost for sure knew what Slocum wanted when he looked at her. He knew that he couldn’t hide the lust in his eyes.

  He finished his meal and leaned back in his chair to drink his coffee. “Well?” he said.

  “Well, what?” said Church. “There’s nothing I can say to you that I haven’t already said, and there’s no point in nagging at you.”

  “So you got nothing more to say?”

  “I’m afraid not. Except that there is something I failed to tell you the first time around.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “I think we may have a range war brewing.”

  “That’s great. Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

  “It’s not in town, so it’s not in your—our town marshal’s—jurisdiction. I think it is part of the cause of all the fights we have in town, though.”

  “Well, it don’t matter now,” Slocum said. “I ain’t staying anyhow.”

  “Yes,” said Church. “I remember that.”

  “I ain’t seen your pard
ner since that first time we met,” Slocum said.

  “You mean Mike Fall? He runs the mercantile just down the street. He’s been tied to the store pretty much.”

  Slocum nodded and sipped his coffee. He drained the cup, put it down, stood up, shoving the chair back, and said to Church, “Well, sir, I thank you for your hospitality. I’ve thought it over, and I ain’t taking the job. I’ll be leaving town in a few minutes.”

  Church stood up and offered his hand. Slocum shook it, feeling a bit guilty.

  “Thanks for considering it,” Church said. “I won’t press. Good travels to you.”

  Slocum walked out and over to his hotel room. He packed everything up and walked back down to the lobby. The clerk saw him with all his belongings.

  “You leaving us?” he asked.

  “I’m out of here already,” Slocum said.

  He stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned toward the livery. He had walked about halfway when a man stepped out of the Fat Back saloon not far ahead of him. The man had the look of a seasoned cowboy. He stood there on the sidewalk, pulled a cigar out of his pocket, struck a match on the wall, and lit the cigar. Across the street, another man skulked in the shadows of the narrow passageway between two buildings. When he saw the cowboy lighting his cigar, the man pulled out a six-gun. Just then, a boy about fourteen years old stepped out of the store next door to the Fat Back and walked in front of the cigar smoker. The man across the street fired. The boy dropped dead in the street. The cowhand ducked back inside the Fat Back. Slocum dropped his gear and jerked out his Colt. The killer turned to run down the passageway.

  Slocum ran across the street and between the buildings. The killer was about to disappear around the corner ahead, but Slocum fired a bullet above his head. “Hold it right there,” he called out.