Slocum in Shot Creek

by Jake Logan

  The man stopped and stood still for an instant. Then he suddenly whirled and fired at Slocum, the bullet passing just left of Slocum’s head. Slocum fired and hit the man in the gut. The killer staggered back a few steps and sat down hard. He held his wound with both hands, and blood flowed out freely between his fingers. Slocum hurried down to the man and kicked the gun away from him. The man wasn’t dead, but the way he was hit, Slocum figured it would not be long. Church showed up in the passageway.

  “Slocum?” he called out.

  Slocum looked back over his shoulder.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Not yet,” Slocum said.

  “I’ll fetch the doc,” said Church.

  “Be a waste of time,” Slocum said.

  The man sitting in the dirt and bleeding in front of Slocum looked up. “You hurt me bad, mister,” he said.

  “If I’d had a little more time,” said Slocum, “I’d have killed you. You killed that boy out there.”

  “He got in the way,” said the killer. “I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

  “I reckon that makes it all right.”

  “I told you,” said the man. “He got in my way.”

  Slocum felt like putting a finishing bullet into the son of a bitch, but he figured that might get him into some trouble. Besides, maybe it was best to let him die slow. Church came back, bringing the doc and a few other men with him. The doc took a quick look at the wound and told the others to carry the man to the back room of his barbershop. He stood up slowly, looked at Church, and said, “He won’t last.” The killer groaned when the men picked him up to haul him away. The doc walked off, leaving Slocum and Church alone.

  “He didn’t give a shit that he killed that boy,” Slocum said. “‘He got in my way,’ he said.”

  “That’s a typical attitude around here,” said Church.

  “Why does anyone stay here?”

  “Where would we go?”

  Slocum ejected the spent cartridge from his Colt and replaced it with a new bullet. He dropped the Colt back into the holster at his side.

  “What was the reason for the shooting?” he asked. “Anyone know?”

  “I think it had to do with a card game last night,” said the mayor. “Pudge—that’s the man you shot—is just a bad loser, I guess.”

  Then Slocum heard a stifled scream from the street and looked in that direction. Church said, “That’ll be Mrs. Bascomb, the boy’s mother. I’d better get out there.”

  He turned to walk back down the passageway to the street. Slocum followed him slowly. He kept his distance as Church put an arm around the woman’s shoulder and tried to give her some comfort. Gool, the undertaker, came walking up to the tragic scene. Slocum took a deep breath. He wanted to look away, to look at something else, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the boy. He wanted to get back on his way to the livery stable, get his Appaloosa saddled, and ride away from this Shit Creek. He couldn’t make himself move.

  Terri Sue appeared on the scene. She went to Mrs. Bascomb’s side and took her in her arms, relieving the mayor of that burden. Gool ordered some men to pick up the body and carry it to his establishment. Mrs. Bascomb shuddered and wept aloud. As the body was hauled off, Slocum could see Mrs. Bascomb ask something of Terri Sue. Terri Sue answered her and nodded toward Slocum. Then the two women, Terri Sue’s arm still around the grieving matron, walked toward Slocum. When they came close, they stopped. Slocum took off his hat.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he said.

  “I want to thank you for what you done,” said Mrs. Bascomb. “It don’t bring my boy back, but at least the scum what done the deed won’t get away with it. Thank you. Thank you.”

  Slocum mumbled something, and Terri Sue led the weeping woman away. Slocum ducked his head and shuffled his feet. Then he turned to walk back to where he had dropped his gear on the sidewalk. Mayor Church met him there.

  “Just another day in Shot Creek,” Church said.

  “Shit Creek,” said Slocum.

  “Well, Slocum, I thank you for one more good deed you did for us. Your last one, I guess.”

  “You paid for them,” Slocum said.

  “I guess.”

  “Did that boy have a daddy?”

  “He died a year ago,” said Church. “The boy was working for the general store. Trying to help his mother make ends meet. She’ll have a tough go at it now—all alone.”

  “Yeah,” said Slocum.

  Doc stepped out the front door of the barbershop and looked around. Spotting Slocum and Church, he crossed the street to join them. They both gave him curious looks.

  “He’s dead now,” Doc said. “He died hard, too.”

  “I wish it could’ve taken him a little longer to do it,” said Slocum. He bent over to pick up his gear.

  “Can I walk you to the stable?” said Church.

  “No,” said Slocum. “You can walk me back to the hotel. I’m staying.”

  “You’re staying? You mean—”

  “I mean I’ll take the goddamn job. It’s still open, ain’t it?”

  “Not now,” said Church. “You just filled it.”

  They walked to the hotel together. Slocum tossed his gear on the counter. Church said, “Dobe, will you take this stuff back to Slocum’s room? He’s staying on with us. Permanent.”

  “For a time,” said Slocum.

  “For a time,” Church corrected. “Slocum, let’s go look at your office.”

  4

  Slocum could not bring himself to sit behind the big desk in the marshal’s office. He paced the floor for a bit and then took one of the chairs that lined the wall to his right. Mayor Church walked around behind the big desk and opened a drawer. He reached in and withdrew a badge. It was a big star, and across its front the words TOWN MARSHAL were imprinted. Taking the star, Church walked around the desk and over to where Slocum was sitting. He held the star out toward Slocum. Slocum stared at it, scarcely believing what he was doing. He did not move. Church leaned forward and pinned the badge to Slocum’s shirt. Then he straightened up again and stepped back.

  “All right?” he said.

  Slocum did not answer. He was stunned. He sat, staring down at the offensive badge on his chest.

  “It looks good there,” said Church.

  Slocum heaved a heavy sigh. “If you say so, Mayor,” he answered. “Well, hell, I said it and I’ll stick to my word. We’ll at least get this town calmed down some before I move along.”

  “I’m sure we will,” said Church. “Thank you again. Now, I think everything in here is obvious. Gun rack over there with ammunition drawer. Check it over and see if it has everything you need. If it doesn’t, just get what you want at any store in town and charge it to the mayor’s office.”

  “Yeah,” Slocum said. “Well, I’ll be all right. Oh, yeah. You got a printer in this town?”

  “Tony Dawson, just down the street here a few doors.”

  “A good carpenter?”

  “Orvel Davis. He’s working down at the stable right now. I can go see him and—”

  “I’ll find him,” Slocum said.

  The mayor went back to his office, and Slocum walked down the street to the printer. He left instructions on what he wanted and told Dawson to bill the mayor’s office. Then he walked toward the stable. He was self-conscious walking the sidewalks in daylight with the star on his chest. It gleamed in the sunlight. It felt heavy. He felt like everyone on the street was looking at him. No. Looking at the badge. He was relieved when he reached the stable and went inside.

  “Can I help you, mister? Oh, it’s you. You want your horse saddled?”

  “No, old-timer. I ain’t going nowhere. I’m looking for Orvel Davis.”

  The livery man was staring at the badge.

  “You the new marshal, are you?” he asked.

  “I reckon you can see,” said Slocum. “Davis?”

  “Uh, he’s out back.” The man gestured to the back door, which was
totally unnecessary. The doors were big and obvious and in the back wall. Slocum headed for them. One of the big doors was already ajar, and he stepped through it. A man was out there measuring a board. He looked up as Slocum stepped out.

  “Orvel Davis?” said Slocum.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Slocum.”

  “The new marshal.”

  “I got a job for you.”

  “What is it?” Davis asked.

  “I want you to go over to the Fancy Pants and build a rack behind the bar close to the front door designed to hold guns. Lots of guns. All kinds. Then I want you to go to the Fat Back and do the same thing there. Send your bill to the mayor’s office.”

  “It’ll likely be tomorrow morning—”

  “Now,” said Slocum. “This job can wait. Mine can’t.”

  He turned and walked back through the stable and out into the street. He had half the length of the town to go to make it to his office. Once again, he felt the heavy weight of the star and the stares of all the people along the street. A couple of people spoke to him as they passed him by. A few others just nodded. At last he made it to the office. He went inside and just stood in the middle of the floor. He had never felt so uncomfortable before in his life that he could remember. He walked over to the gun cabinet and opened the drawer. Inside were several boxes of cartridges for both his Colt and his Winchester. There were some other kinds of guns in the cabinet, and there was ammunition for them, as well. Slocum did not care about them.

  He had a dilemma. He did not think he could stand being in the marshal’s office. He wanted to get out, but he could hardly take the people outside looking at him with the badge on his chest. He thought about taking the star off and dropping it down in his shirt pocket. But most everyone had already seen him with it, so it really shouldn’t matter if he went out again with it still showing. If he took it off, there would be questions. He decided that he would go on out. He wanted some more coffee.

  He walked back to the eatery and went inside. It was the middle of the morning, and no one was there. He picked out a table and sat down, and in another minute, Terri Sue appeared.

  “Well, hello,” she said.

  “Coffee,” said Slocum.

  Terri Sue brought him some. “Can you stand some company?” she asked.

  “Sit down,” he said. “How’s the Bascomb woman doing?”

  “Not very well,” Terri Sue said. “Mr. Gool will be burying her boy this afternoon.”

  “I guess I’ll go and pay my respects,” Slocum said.

  “That will be nice. She’ll appreciate that. I know she will.”

  “Well, it won’t do her no good, but I reckon it won’t hurt anything, either.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Slocum,” Terri Sue said. “It will do her some good. Slocum?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What have you been doing all your life?”

  “After the war? Drifting around. Getting in and out of trouble.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What else is there?”

  “Settling down. Making a decent living.”

  “Getting a wife and having a bunch of kids?”

  “Well, that, too.”

  “No woman ever owned me, Terri Sue. Never will, neither.”

  “I guess I can see that. You need some more coffee?”

  “No, thanks. That one will do me. I got something to take care of. Thanks for the coffee, and the company.”

  “Any time, Marshal.”

  Slocum winced at that.

  “Just put the coffee on—”

  “On the mayor’s bill,” she said. “I know.”

  Slocum walked out and made his way back to Tony Dawson’s print shop. Dawson was ready for him. Slocum took the posters he’d had printed up and walked to the Fat Back saloon. Orvel Davis was inside, already working on the gun rack. Slocum got a nail and a hammer from Davis and tacked up a poster beside the gun rack. It said: CHECK GUNS HERE. ORDER OF THE MARSHAL. Then he went back outside and tacked the next poster just outside the saloon’s front door. This one read: ALL GUNS MUST BE CHECKED INSIDE. ORDER OF THE MARSHAL. He walked down the street to the Fancy Pants and did the same thing there. He went back to the Fat Back to return the hammer. As he turned to go back outside, a cowboy stood in his way.

  “You think you can get away with that in Shot Creek?” he said.

  Slocum jerked a thumb toward the poster. “You mean that?” he said.

  “Hell yes. You know what I mean.”

  Slocum looked down at the six-gun hanging at the man’s side.

  “You’ll be the first,” he said. “Unbuckle your belt.”

  “I don’t ever do that,” the cowhand said.

  “I bet you do,” said Slocum. “I bet you take it off to go to sleep at night. To fuck. To take a shit. All you have to do is just add one more thing to that list. To go in a saloon and take a drink. I ain’t going to wait much longer.”

  “Take it away from me,” the cowboy said.

  He reached for his gun, but Slocum was much faster. Before the puncher could clear leather, Slocum had whipped out his Colt, raised it high, and brought the barrel down hard on the man’s head. The man’s eyes glazed. He seemed frozen in position for an instant. Then he fell forward onto the floor. Slocum leaned forward and rolled the man over onto his back. He unbuckled the man’s gunbelt and pulled it loose from his body. Then, throwing the belt over his shoulder, he took hold of the man’s collar and started dragging him toward the jail.

  On the sidewalk, a young man stepped up. He was dressed like a cowboy and had a friendly, smiling face.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  Slocum said, “Grab hold.”

  Together they dragged the unconscious body to the marshal’s office and inside to a cell. Slocum shut the cell door and locked it. He tossed the keys onto the big desktop. Then he turned to look at the young man. “I’m Slocum,” he said, holding out his hand.

  The young man took it to shake, and said, “My name’s Tommy Howard,” he said. “I’m glad you took the mayor’s offer. Billy Bascomb was a good friend of mine. Oh, it’s true I’m a few years older than he was, but he was a good kid. I’m going to miss him.”

  “I just wish I could have stopped it.”

  “The way I heard it, there wasn’t no way you could’ve done nothing but what you did. Say, I want to ask you something.”

  “Well, go on.”

  “You need a deputy?”

  Slocum looked at Tommy. Looked him up and down. Tommy was wearing a gun.

  “Can you use that thing?” Slocum asked.

  “I can handle it all right,” Tommy said. “I can hit a target. I ain’t never shot a man.”

  “Can you do paperwork?”

  “I can read and write, and I can do figures.”

  “If you’d been my deputy a while ago, I’d have just had you haul this silly bastard down here by yourself.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “I reckon that’s all right.” Slocum walked to the desk and opened the door he recalled Church opening to fetch his badge. Sure enough, there were others in there. He picked one up and looked at it. It read: DEPUTY MARSHAL. Slocum walked to Tommy and handed him the badge. “Pin this son of a bitch on,” he said. “Then walk over to the mayor’s office and tell him I’ve hired you.”

  Tommy grinned a wide grin and pinned on the badge. Still smiling, he looked up at Slocum. He took Slocum’s hand and pumped it. “Thank you, Mr. Slocum,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Slocum pulled his hand loose. “You might not be thanking me before long,” he said. “And you can forget that ‘mister’ bullshit. I’m just Slocum. Get along now and see ole Church.”

  “Yes, sir, mister, uh, Slocum. Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.”

  He turned and nearly ran out the door. Slocum watched him go. He had mixed feelings about this young m
an. He could be getting the boy killed. He hoped not. Hell, he had been younger than that boy when he’d gone to war, and he had survived it all right. He’d learned to take care of himself along the way, too. If Tommy could keep from getting himself killed, Slocum thought, he might just learn something.

  Slocum left the office just as the cowboy in the cell was coming to and groaning. He headed for the eatery. It would be noon real soon. Along the way, he saw Tommy come running out of the mayor’s office. Tommy saw him, too, and ran to meet him.

  “Slocum,” Tommy said, “he put me on the payroll.”

  “He’d better,” said Slocum. “I hired you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I was just headed for some lunch. You want to join me?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d sure admire to.”

  “And cut out that ‘sir’ stuff. You ain’t in the damn army.”

  “Yes—Uh, yeah. Okay.”

  It was a little before noon, and there were already a few customers in the place. Terri Sue was at their table right away, though. She looked at the badge on Tommy’s shirt.

  “New deputy, huh?”

  “That’s right,” said Slocum. “This is—”

  “I know Tommy,” she said. “Congratulations, Tommy.”

  “Thanks, Terri Sue.”

  He was still smiling. Just then, Mike Fall came in. He was followed by Will Church. Soon Slocum’s table was full, and Slocum felt crowded. The main thing on his mind was Terri Sue.

  5

  Toward evening, when the saloons started to fill up, Slocum and Tommy walked into the Fat Back. There was a pretty good-sized crowd in there already, and most of them were packing guns. Slocum was wearing his Colt. He had given Tommy a loaded shotgun to carry along. Slocum walked to about the center of the bar, where there was a space, and backed up against it so that he was facing most of the crowd. There were a few men to his right and to his left standing at the bar. Tommy backed up to the bar beside Slocum. There was too much noise in the Fat Back to get anyone’s attention any other way, so Slocum pulled out his Colt and fired a shot into the air. The place got quiet, and all eyes turned his way. The stars on his and Tommy’s chests were very visible. Slocum looked around the room.