by Jake Logan
“Me either,” said Everett. “’Cause the colonel said we all got too much riding on this deal. Said we’d all be rich one day.”
Just outside the door, Slocum waited a few more seconds before stepping carefully away. He’d hoped they thought he had made a beeline for the outdoor washing station, and that they might run their mouths. And they did. It was all starting to add up. Slow and steady.
Twenty minutes later, he’d washed himself, and donned a clean shirt and kerchief, dusted his trail pants, and dragged his fingers through his hair. He figured he’d check on the Appaloosa on his way to the house.
He nearly made it to the barn door when it swung outward and there before him stood a considerably reddened Harley. His face had been worked over, and was now puffing. And he limped and held one of his arms before him as if it were broken or strained.
“How you keepin’, wrangler?” Slocum couldn’t resist.
“I’ll tell you what . . . you keep to your own self and I’ll do the same. You won’t be here long anyways.”
Slocum strode right up to him, snatched the button front of his faded pink longhandles. “What do you mean by that, Harley?”
The boy winced, tried to pull away, but Slocum’s hands gripped the soiled garment like bolted steel. “I . . . I just mean that anyone as . . . ornery as you . . . won’t last long. That’s all I meant, really.”
Slocum shook his head, let go of the kid, and pushed past him to the barn. Over his shoulder, he said, “I assume my horse has been fed and watered.”
There was no answer.
“I didn’t think so. I expect you’re still a little afraid of him. I understand. I’d be afraid of any animal that left me looking like you do.” He smiled and walked into the cool of the barn.
Other than needing a feed and some water, the horse was in surprisingly good shape. The lash marks he’d seen earlier were already receding, and the marks on his nose from the wrapped rope were looking better than Slocum expected they would. Another few days and they’d all be gone.
The horse wasn’t quite settled down, so Slocum spent a few minutes with him, gave him a bate of feed, a few forkfuls of hay. It was not decent-quality stuff, but considering the state of affairs here, he was glad to find anything edible for the horse. As long as it didn’t make his horse ill while they were here, he didn’t care much. He’d turn him out in the morning.
He poked around the rest of the stable, but saw no sign of the girl’s chestnut, nor the two dead men’s mounts. A nicker from outside, beyond the far end of the barn, led him out back, where he saw the three horses, plus a few others—some he recognized as those ridden by Everett, Clew, and Harley. With his mind at rest about that, he headed to the front door of the fancy house and mounted the steps.
The big burgundy double doors swung inward just as he reached for the brass horseshoe knocker. A tall, thin, white-haired man in a spotless black suit and white gloves stood before him. Only the man’s eyes moved, and they beetled up and down Slocum’s entire height before making eye contact.
“Welcome, sir. You are expected.”
He nodded and walked on in. The man stood before him with his gloved hands outstretched. For a moment, Slocum wrinkled his brow, then saw the man’s eyes glance toward his hat, and Slocum slipped off the sweat-stained topper. He nodded, smiled, and plopped the hat, crown down, into the man’s waiting hands. “Thank you, sir. And may I say that suit is a most dapper-looking rig.”
The man squinted briefly, then almost smiled, but not quite. Slocum shrugged and admired what views of the sumptuous home he could glean from standing in the foyer. Before him rose a wide stairwell with a massive cherrywood carved newel post that curved like a coiled snake upward into a long, graceful handrail. It was polished to a high, glowing gleam, like all the wood paneling and adornments. Everything glowed in the warm lamplight. High above, a crystal chandelier reflected the light in a million directions all at once.
With a curt command, the dapper gent he took to be the butler bade Slocum follow him to yet another set of tall, paneled doors. The man swung them wide to reveal a richly appointed formal dining room, dominated in the center by a long polished table set with polished silverware, crystal, and lit silver candlesticks.
“Well, Mr. Slocum, so nice of you to make it.” Colonel Mulletson emerged through what looked to be a secret panel in the wall of the dining room. By the way he took slow, measured pains to pretend to conceal it, Slocum guessed that, as a big child would, the man wanted him to know it was a secret door.
“Not at all, it was kind of you to invite me. Though I see there are only two places set.”
“I like to invite all my new hands up to a formal meal, sort of seal our deal, so to speak. Nothing like starting a business venture off on the best foot, eh?”
“Can’t disagree with that.”
“Good thing, too,” said Mulletson. “Not a sign of promise if a man begins by disagreeing with his new boss, eh? Come, come, have a seat. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the prerogative of seating you here, catty-corner from my seat at the head of the table. Figured we’d just have to shout if you were at the formal other end, eh?”
“Whatever you say, Colonel.”
“Nice, nice. So,” he said when they’d seated themselves, the butler helping each of them ease his chair in. “Something tells me you are a Southern man, am I correct?”
Slocum’s innate sixth sense warned him of anyone finding out anything about him beyond what he cared to share. It tingled in the back of his brain like a small headache that wanted to be a big one.
“Now, sir, I make it a rule to never discuss my past, or my future, with any man.” Slocum said it with a smile, something he found that usually helped ease the blow of any less-than-kind comment.
“Very well, very well. I respect a man who has personal parameters.” The butler poured wine for them, and the colonel said, “But I’ll take your comment as a yes. In fact, I’ll wager a bit more and say you are from . . .” The little pudgy man shot a finger outward as if he were accusing Slocum of stealing silver. “Georgia!”
Slocum kept his eyebrows from rising, but the little man was starting to tick him off. Enough with the digging already. Maybe Mulletson had been acquainted with the old judge that Slocum killed. Then again, maybe not. The evening would tell—he was sure of it.
Instead of reacting, he just smiled and sipped the wine, a dark red with a fall-apple bite to it. “Good wine, Colonel.”
“You know your grapes, do you?”
“Nope, not really. But I know what I like.”
“Fine, fine. Hope you don’t mind, son, but I decided to skip all the fooferaw and head right to the main course of beef and potatoes, with steaming vegetables. Okay with you?”
Slocum nodded and the man rang a little silver handbell that sat beside his silverware.
A side door opened at the far rear corner of the room, and in walked a pretty woman, no more than thirty, dark hair piled high and wearing a short black dress with white ruffles around the collar and sleeve cuffs. She held a large covered silver platter high before her face, and not until she set it down between the two men did Slocum recognize her.
It was Marybeth Meecher. Their eyes met, and for the briefest of moments, Slocum recalled everything lovely about the woman—her smile, her laugh, her well-muscled body, so strong and yet so feminine. He didn’t notice much change in her face, other than the darkness beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well in a long time. And the slight lines creeping outward from the corners of those eyes, like tiny feeder streams off a pretty blue lake.
She, too, paused for the briefest of moments and returned his stare. Slocum broke away, sipped his wine, and glanced at the colonel.
The man didn’t conceal his annoyance at their brief exchange. “You two know one another?”
Marybeth’s eyes rose in warning
and Slocum said, “Naw. Just admiring a pretty plateful. You have to admit, the scent is heavenly . . .”
She lifted the silver-domed lid, revealing a platter heaped with juicy, tender-looking meat, a smaller silver bowl of boiled potatoes swimming in butter and sprinkled with parsley, and a third bowl that contained what looked to Slocum to be beets and onions tossed with something green. It didn’t look all that dandy, but it smelled great.
“Well, hell,” said the colonel, obviously annoyed. “Serve us up and then get back to the kitchen, dammit.”
Marybeth did as he’d ordered. The colonel worked to tuck his napkin into his collar, under his paunchy chin, and said, “Lowly staff should know their place.”
Slocum didn’t look at the colonel, but rather at Marybeth, whose face had reddened at the remark.
“Seems to me a person who can conjure up something this heavenly smelling already knows her place.”
The colonel sat there, a forkful of meat halfway to his open mouth, and stared at Slocum as if he were in denial about what he had just heard.
As she turned to leave, Slocum saw a smile on Marybeth’s face.
“I am unsure if you just insulted me or not, Mr. Slocum, but I’ll have you know I’m no one to trifle with.”
Slocum chose to ignore the puffing up the man was giving himself. Instead he changed the subject. “Wasn’t the girl I brought with me supposed to help your cook?”
“In the kitchen, yes.” The fat man dunked a twist of bread into his wine.
Slocum noticed that the man couldn’t seem to get the food into his mouth fast enough. It was enough to put a body off his feed—if the feed had been anything less than this, one of Marybeth’s delectable dishes.
Slocum recalled with pleasure that the woman could turn the most ordinary of ingredients into something unforgettably tasty. Slocum wondered if next the man might try dunking a forkful of the beef.
“But not with my food. I won’t have anyone, well, you know . . .”
“No, I am afraid I don’t.”
The colonel looked at him smiling and chewing, his cheeks bunching with each bite. “No, you really don’t know, do you.” He set down his glass, wiped his fat, glistening lips, and said, “Well, that does beat all. You are genuinely a babe in the woods.”
“Pardon me, Colonel Mulletson?”
“I am talking about people who ain’t like you and me.” He paused, his eyebrows rising, waiting for Slocum to catch on.
Slocum refused to make it easy for the man. He wanted to hear him say whatever it was he felt needed saying.
“Jesus H., you really don’t follow me, do you? I’m talking about non-white-skinned folk. You get me now? The girl you brought, fine for obvious things, and even useful in the kitchen, but it would turn my stomach six ways from Sunday if it was that little hussy handling my food, the very vittles that go into my body.”
That would take a whole lot of handling, thought Slocum. He nodded. “I get what you are saying. I don’t know as I agree, but I understand you now.”
The two men finished their meals in near silence, save for the colonel’s steady volley of slurping and grunting and Slocum’s attempts to not break into a laugh. Finally, when the last of the food had been cleared from the tray, the colonel said, “Why don’t we call it a meal and retire to my library so that we might talk important business?”
“That sounds good,” said Slocum. “I do have a few things I’d like to ask you about.”
“Good, good.” They made their way out of the dining room, Slocum following the little fat man, who broke wind much of the way down the corridor to the library. He waddled immediately to a sideboard lined with an array of cut-crystal decanters.
“Mr. Slocum, what will you have?”
“If it’s preference doing the talking, I’ll take a bourbon.”
“Good man,” said his florid host. He poured a generous helping—too generous, thought Slocum. I’ll have to watch my step with this snake.
Then the colonel said, “Would I be correct in assuming you’re a man who can appreciate a fine cigar?”
“I’ve been known to indulge in a fine blend when the opportunity arises.”
Again the colonel raised his eyebrows in apparent glee at what he’d found before him. “My word, man, most of these thugs I’ve been forced to hire don’t know their asses from seat cushions. A cultured man such as yourself on my staff will be a balm and relief to our little outfit.”
“To be honest, Colonel, there are a few things I’ve already seen here at the Triple T that give me pause, as the educated men say.”
“Oh, and what might they be, boy? Come, come now, you can tell me. Maybe we can prevent a misunderstanding or two . . . And while I am at it, I tell you what—I am sorry you had to witness me disciplining my help. But I will tell you that in all my days as a world traveler, it pays mighty to keep lowly hirelings in their place. You understand, I’m sure, Mr. Slocum.” His stare was almost convincing. Almost . . .
Slocum sipped his whiskey, then set it down carefully. “Pardon me, sir, but if I’m not mistaken, aren’t I a hired man, too?”
“Well, it’s not quite like that. You are, after all, a Southern man, and an experienced wrangler, something we are in short supply of. The Mexicans and Indians, well, they hardly count now, do they? But back to your questions. Fire away, my boy,” said the man as he proffered his desktop humidor.
Slocum smelled the rich, aged-wood tang of the tobacco rise up to tickle and tempt his nostrils. Be mighty easy to overlook the fact that this man was a slaver and employer of foul killers, given all these fancies. And that’s just what he wants me to do.
“Thank you for the cigar—smells fine. What I’m curious about is how, for such a big spread—and there isn’t a saddle bum from here to California who hasn’t heard of the Triple T Ranch—why haven’t I seen much in the way of cattle?”
He leaned closer to the still smiling boss man. “Unless you have some secret way of fattening half the number of beeves to twice their normal size . . .” Slocum smiled to show he was joshing the man.
Something in Mulletson’s eyes told Slocum he was probing a tender spot. Getting too close to guessing the truth of the place, whatever it was that made it tick. Best let the man tell me in his own sweet time.
Then the colonel’s smile dropped. “Mr. Slocum.” He paused and his cigar stopped puffing like a locomotive on a steep grade. “I have a certain sense about people. Call it a gift, if you will, but it has never let me down. In all my years as a businessman—lumber in the Northwest Territories, ice and coal on the schooner trade back in old New England, cotton storage and shipping in the Deep South—in all my years as a businessman, I have never been let down by what I call my seventh sense. I employ it as a way of estimating the type of person I’m dealing with. And, Mr. Slocum, I can tell you are . . .”
With the speed of a striking diamondback, the colonel’s pink hand shot outward and his smile reappeared. “. . . a most trustworthy and perceptive man. And those are qualities I value highly. Marry those with a vital third quality, that of being tight-lipped—I believe they call it ‘riding for the brand’ out here—and not only will that employee be highly valued, he will be richly rewarded.”
The man held the hand out before him, waiting for Slocum to shake it. Time for the dog-and-pony show, ladies and gents, thought Slocum. He pasted on a pie-eating grin and bobbed his head while he shook the man’s hand. “Just so happens, Colonel, that those three qualities are my best ones—and ones that I have in spades. Looks like we were meant to meet, if you know what I mean.”
“Good, good. More bourbon?”
“No, no, not just yet. It’s of such a fine quality that I hate to rush the experience. I will say, though, that you are a hand at speechifying, sir. Pure pearls of pretty wisdom haven’t flowed like that since Daniel Webster was in his prime.
”
The ranch owner puffed himself up, thumbed the lapels on his velvet smoking jacket, and rocked back on his heels, liking what he was hearing.
All this amused Slocum, but he wasn’t really getting any answers. If he could just track down Marybeth, he might be able to figure out a next step. First he had to get out of this man’s study. If the man was as obtuse as he seemed, and Slocum didn’t think for one minute that he really was—then he seemed lonely and wanted a drinking buddy. Not tonight—or any night with the likes of you, thought Slocum.
“So, Colonel, if I have passed your character test, is there anything that I should know before I head back to the bunkhouse and join the men for tomorrow? I’d guess, given the time of year and all, that we’ll be gathering for a drive. Moving young stock to higher feed, that sort of thing.”
“You really are a worker, aren’t you, Mr. Slocum?”
A hard, quick knock from behind them caused both men to look toward the heavy mahogany doors. “Come in,” said Mulletson.
The wizened butler stepped into the room. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I have cause to discuss a small, private matter with you.”
Slocum watched the fat man’s face, caught a slight rise in the eyebrows, then a nod.
“Very well, Pervis,” said the colonel.
“I should be taking my leave anyway, Colonel. Busy day tomorrow.”
But his host had already sailed across the room to the entryway and had engaged in a low flurry of whispers. All Slocum could make out was when the colonel said, “Oh, he does, does he? We’ll see . . .” Then he inclined his eyes and saw Slocum watching him. The colonel smiled. “Well, that will be all for now. Thank you for the update. Please keep me informed.”
The butler left soundlessly and Mulletson strode back to his guest. He clapped a hand on Slocum’s shoulder and steered him toward the door. “Time enough for explanation of that sort tomorrow. But as you say, it’s nighttime now and there is lots to do come sunup. I trust you can find your way to the bunkhouse?”
“You bet.” Slocum felt himself getting the bum’s rush in what had become an interesting turn of events. Not one he expected, given the way this character had been acting, but he could’ve touched a nerve again. Might as well make the most of it while I’m here, he thought.