Slocum and the Comely Corpse

by Jake Logan

  Wessel glanced at his gun, lying on the ground ten feet away. “Some chance,” he said.

  “Call it a professional courtesy to a fellow lawman.”

  “There’s only one lawman here, Hix, and that’s me. You’re a murdering crook.”

  “In another second, there won’t even be one. Make your play.”

  Wessel gathered himself for the attempt, hoping against hope that he could live long enough with Hix’s bullets tearing through him to reach his gun and put a slug in the marshal.

  “Make your play, Deputy, or by God, I’ll kill you where you stand!”

  Wessel tensed his muscles, readying himself for the annihilating blast.

  It came like a thunderclap, only it wasn’t Wessel who was struck by lightning.

  Hix’s head erupted like a quarter stick of dynamite going off in a watermelon, vaporizing into a red cloud that hung in the air for a few beats after the body hit the ground.

  Slocum stepped into view from behind the corner of the barn, holding the smoking sawed-off shotgun.

  “Never mind about that, Marshal,” he said.

  18

  Out in front of the house, a horse neighed, and there was a sudden clatter of hoofbeats. Slocum moved past the corner of the house, into the open.

  A horse raced north along the snow-covered road, a dark form running alongside it, clinging to the saddle. With a spring and a kick, the figure vaulted up onto the animal’s back. It leaned far forward, hugging the horse’s neck, presenting as small a target as possible.

  It was Nedda, her long unbound hair flying behind her like a comet’s tail.

  She was too far away for the shotgun, so he switched the sawed-off to his left hand and used his right to snake out the six-gun stuffed in the top of his pants.

  He pointed the gun at her just as she flashed behind the screen of bushes, obscuring his aim. He fired one shot at her, unable to tell if he’d scored or not.

  She kept on going, and then she was out of range and there was no point in wasting another shot. Snowflakes swirled around Slocum, whirling like a dust devil. The wind shifted and the white column collapsed, spilling out snow.

  Nedda rode north, not slackening, a dark blur arrowing between the frosty ground and snowy air. In the murky zone where earth met sky and neither could be told apart, the wild-haired rider vanished.

  Slocum lowered his gun, turning. Hix lay sprawled on the ground. Wessel stood nearby, motionless, not having moved since Hix was gunned. Huddled against the barn, holding on to the corner of it and peering around it, was Maud.

  Slocum stuck the gun in his belt. He held the sawed-off shotgun with seeming casualness, pointing it at the ground, but it would take no more than an upward flick of the wrist to bring the blaster in line with Wessel.

  He squatted, hunkering down to pick up Wessel’s gun from where Hix had tossed it. Jarred from his immobility, Wessel started forward, only to check himself an instant later, when he saw Slocum shake his head. Wessel stalled, and it was as if he’d never moved at all.

  Slocum smiled with his lips, not unpleasantly. He rose, brushing the snow off Wessel’s gun. He popped out the cylinder, letting the bullets spill to the ground.

  The gun emptied, he pitched it underhand to Wessel, who came alive long enough to catch it. He put it in his holster.

  “You can reload later, maybe, when we understand each other better,” Slocum said.

  “I’m starting to catch on,” Wessel said, glancing at Hix. “What I don’t get is your part in all this, Slocum.”

  “You will. For now, just keep remembering that I saved your hide.

  “But don’t get cocky about it,” he added.

  He motioned to Maud, beckoning her. “Come on in and join the party.”

  She pushed off from the barn, crossing the yard. She made a wide detour while drawing abreast of the body of the axed man. She neared Wessel and Slocum, suddenly drawing to a halt when Hix’s corpse swam up in her field of vision.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it, mister. I never thought I’d see anybody bring Hix down,” she said, awed despite herself.

  “I don’t think the law’s going to kick about it,” Slocum said. “Ain’t that right, Deputy? Or should I say, ‘Marshal’?

  “The former marshal being deceased means that the next man in line moves into his spot, and that’s you, Wessel. Congratulations on your promotion, and don’t forget who gave you a leg up.”

  Wessel rubbed his hands. An uncharitable observer might have thought that he was gloating, but he might well have been merely trying to warm his hands.

  “I’ve got no quarrel with you about Hix,” Wessel said, looking guardedly at the other. “But I’ve got plenty of questions I want answered, Slocum.”

  “You’ll get answers, but you might not like them.” Again Wessel eyed Hix, this time shrugging. “I like them so far.”

  Maud looked around. “What happened here? Who killed those men—Nedda? Who were they and what did they want? Why did Hix want to kill his own deputy?”

  Slocum said, “Who’s the man with the split head?”

  “I’m not sure, but it looks like Engels,” Wessel said.

  “Let’s be sure.” Slocum crossed to the body, the others following. They looked down it, Maud grimacing, Wessel saying, “Whew!”

  Wessel crouched, reaching for the ax handle with both hands. Slocum gestured with the sawed-off, motioning him away.

  “I was just going to lift it so I could see the face,” said Wessel.

  “Not that I don’t trust you, Marshal, but I’d feel better if you didn’t put your hands to an ax. I’ll do it,” Slocum said.

  He gripped the ax handle with his left hand. The blade was in so deep in the dead man’s skull, it wasn’t coming out easily. Slocum lifted the handle, raising the head up on its neck, pulling the face out of the ground, revealing it. Even masked with snow and mud, it was recognized right off by Wessel and Maud.

  “Engels,” Wessel said, Maud nodding.

  Slocum let go of the ax handle, and the head flopped back facedown on the ground.

  “Who’s Engels?” Slocum asked.

  “Pierce’s foreman,” said Wessel.

  Slocum nodded, remembering him from the storming of the Doghouse. “Big mean-faced hombre,” he said.

  Wessel shrugged. Slocum said, “Pierce had an important job for him, but he messed up. He didn’t reckon on Nedda.”

  “I guess none of us did,” Wessel said.

  “She always worked her butt off, never shirking, never complaining,” Maud said. “I should’ve known it was too good to be true.”

  Slocum gestured toward the house. “Let’s go in.”

  “Is that wise? Nedda might be going to get help,” Wessel said, glancing north, where the road remained empty.

  “I don’t think so,” Slocum said. “The thieves have had a falling-out. Pierce sent Engels and the others to take care of Nedda, get rid of her. Only she got rid of them.”

  He turned to Wessel. “How’d you and Hix happen to show up?”

  “There’s road guards on the way out of town. We were on patrol, and happened by the post just in time to see the three men trying to slip past. Come to think of it, Hix wasn’t too keen on tailing them. He said that he didn’t want to leave the town short-handed. But it wouldn’t have looked good for him not to go after them, so away we went. When he saw what had happened, he decided it was a good time to get rid of me,” Wessel said.

  “That’s good,” Slocum said. “It means the gang is getting scared. Some of them can see the writing on the wall, and they’re getting ready to burn up the territory.”

  “Good for who? Not for the town.”

  “It may be the only chance Bender has,” Slocum said. “Anyhow, Nedda can’t go to the others, now that they’ve tried to kill her. That buys us some time, I think. A little time.”

  “Maybe the road guards’ll stop her,” Wessel said.

  “Too bad for them,” Slocum said. “L
et’s go inside.”

  Maud said, “Yes, let’s! Before I freeze to death!”

  Slocum gestured with the sawed-off, indicating that Wessel should go first. Wessel crossed to the house. Maud started after, but Slocum motioned for her to halt.

  “Best not get between me and the marshal yet,” he said.

  They went to the doorway, first Wessel, then Slocum, with Maud following. Beyond the threshold lay mostly darkness and silence.

  Wessel said, “One of them may still be alive.”

  “I doubt it,” Slocum said. “That Nedda strikes me as a pretty thorough worker.”

  Wessel stepped through the doorway. When he was a few paces inside, Slocum said, “Wait up.” Wessel stood still. Slocum stepped into the doorway, striking a match on the inside wall.

  With a spit and a hiss, the match flared into brightness, its expanding globe of yellow light revealing a kitchen.

  There was a table with a red-and-white checked tablecloth and some chairs. There was a cooking hearth, now cold, dark. There was a sink and cabinets and a waist-high counter. The curtains on the windows were made of the same red-and-white checked fabric as the tablecloth.

  Blood was tracked and smeared across the floor. Opposite the back door, in the far left corner of the room, an archway opened into another room, of which only a part could be seen. In that part, on the floor, were bodies and more blood.

  Then the match flame nipped Slocum’s fingers and he snuffed it out, bringing the return of darkness. The light had revealed a lantern sitting on the countertop.

  Slocum struck another match, not looking directly at the light to minimize his loss of night vision. He crossed to the counter, the slippery floor causing him to watch his footing.

  It was a railroad lantern, about half the size of a milk can, with a bucket-type handle.

  “Looks like Nedda was getting ready to make a getaway,” Slocum said.

  A third match lit the lantern. The lamplight was yellow-gold with big platinum-white arcs and curving bands that were reflections of the lens.

  Maud stepped inside, standing with her back to one side of the open doorway. She stood very straight with her hands behind her back. Snow blew through the door, winds ruffling the curtains.

  Thin watery light from the lantern spilled into the next room. Wessel stuck his head inside. On the floor, near his feet, he saw a gun in the hand of an arm that lay outstretched on the floor. No body, just an arm. The body lay farther away, on the other side of the room, mingling what remained of its mangled limbs with those of a second, headless corpse.

  Wessel stuck his head back out. “It’s a charnel house.”

  “It’s warm, though,” Slocum said. “Close the door, Maud.”

  “Leave it open. It stinks in here,” Wessel said, gagging, one hand at his throat.

  Maud looked at Slocum. Slocum shrugged. Maud left the door the way it was, open. She moved along the wall, a few steps away from the door.

  Outside, the wind blew the door against the wall, again and again, banging, flapping.

  19

  Slocum said, “A couple of months ago, a young woman from a wealthy family in St. Louis—the name doesn’t matter—came out here to meet her fiancé. He’s a mining engineer at a settlement further west of here, over the mountains. She never arrived. Neither did the stagecoach she was on. It had vanished without a trace somewhere en route through the mountain passes.

  “Not long ago, some prospectors came across what was left of the coach, at the bottom of a steep mountain road with a sheer drop-off. It was supposed to look like an accident, like the coach had gone off the cliff. Animals got to the bodies, so by the time they were found, they weren’t much more than bones. Still, one of the skulls had what looked like a bullet hole in it, and there were some funny things about some of the other skeletons, like they’d been shot.

  “And all of their valuables were missing. Scavengers wouldn’t carry those off, except human scavengers. Of course, they could have been stolen by the prospectors themselves when they found the wreck. Or somebody could have come along before them, found the wreck, looted it, and moved on without ever telling anybody what they’d found.

  “The family did some digging. It didn’t take them long to find out what everybody in these parts has long known: that the mountain passes are bad medicine, and that it’s safer to go around them than through them, because a lot of those who start through them never come out the other end.

  “It’s long been suspected that a gang haunts the passes, preying on travelers, robbing and killing them and burying the remains. The only reason the prospectors found the stagecoach was because a rock slide had uncovered it. Nobody’s ever tried to see if the story about the gang is true. Or if anyone did, the gang must have got them somehow.

  “The mining engineer had heard of me. Through a third party he got in touch with me. The official verdict on what happened to his fiancée, and the rest of the passengers and the driver, was death by accident. He didn’t buy it. He hired me to look around and see what I could find.

  “I found out that three bad hombres had been seen at the last way station where the stagecoach had stopped before going into the pass. The three were Brett Lloyd, Gordo Mapes, and—Trav Bannock.”

  Slocum paused. Wessel stroked his chin, saying, “Bannock, the man you killed. It’s starting to add up.”

  “Don’t go toting up the sum yet. You haven’t heard it all,” Slocum said.

  He went on. “Lloyd, Mapes, and Bannock were thieves and killers, but they’d managed to keep ahead of the hangman. They were seen at the station on the same day that the stagecoach stopped there. Not at the same time, but on the same day. They were seen and recognized by the stationmaster and some other witnesses, who were mighty glad to see them go. Later, when the stagecoach was first missing, the three of them were remembered and their names came up. But with no sign of the missing coach, there was no case, nothing to charge them with. No crime, technically. It’s listed on the books as ‘death by misadventure.’ ”

  Wessel said, “But not with you.”

  “Not now. At first, I wasn’t sure. I knew the three of them in passing, and there wasn’t much I’d put past them. Bannock would cut your throat for two bits, if he thought he could get away with it. Brett Lloyd was supposed to be a more decent sort—he wouldn’t kill you unless you got in his way, or unless he was fairly well paid. And Gordo would shoot you down just for the fun of it. The fact that they were in the area when the stagecoach disappeared weighed heavy in the scales against them.

  “I started looking for them, thinking it might be a good idea if we all had a little palaver. That was about a month ago. Since last summer they had split up and gone their separate ways, though they were all still in the territory. Turned out I wasn’t the only one looking for them.

  “They got Gordo Mapes first. He was bushwhacked, by person or persons unknown. Shot off his horse by a rifle. No shortage of suspects, since so many people hated his guts. The law was content to mark the books closed on him, without bothering to look for his killer. They figured whoever’d done it had done them a favor. Funny thing, though. There was a legal bounty on Gordo’s head, for a killing he’d committed since breaking up with the others. Whoever killed him could have picked up a nice couple of hundred dollars reward, but nobody ever claimed the money.

  “Next came Brett Lloyd. He was coming out of a gambling hall in Desert City at night, and when he walked past an alley, somebody shot him in the back and killed him. No suspects, no clues.

  “I had missed Gordo by a week, Brett Lloyd by a few days. I was close behind Bannock, only a few hours too late. As it was, he was still alive when I found him, barely. He’d been dry gulched outside town and taken to a side canyon where his captor could work on him with fire and a red-hot knife. Bannock was all staked out, and they were out in the middle of nowhere, where nobody could hear him when he was tortured.

  “The one who was working on Bannock didn’t hear me
when I came up behind, maybe because of all the screams. He was a skinny galoot with a scar running down one side of his mouth, giving him a hangdog look. I don’t know who he was, and I didn’t get a chance to ask him.”

  “I do,” Wessel said. “That sounds like Dutton, Nucky’s brother. With that scar on his mouth, it’d have to be him. He’s been missing for the last few days.”

  “You can find him at the bottom of a pile of rocks in the canyon,” Slocum said. “When I found him, all he had in his hand was the hot knife he used on Bannock. I had a gun.

  “It was too late to do anything about Bannock. I cut him loose and tried to make him as comfortable as I could, covered him up with a blanket. He talked readily enough. He wanted revenge, and he knew me, and he knew the best way to get revenge was to tell me what I needed to know.

  “He and the others had been planning to rob the stagecoach. That’s why they were in the area, to scout it out. They didn’t care who saw them because they planned to beat it out of the territory after the holdup and never come back. After stopping at the way station for water and stores, they rode on ahead, up the mountains into the pass. They went to the spot where they’d already planned to launch their ambush, took cover, and waited for nightfall and the arrival of the coach.

  “As the time neared, they discovered that somebody else had the same idea. They weren’t alone in that lonely stretch of the pass. There was another gang there, of about twelve riders. Bannock and the others didn’t like those odds. They stayed hid and hoped that the newcomers wouldn’t stumble across them.

  “Then it was time and a team of horses topped the rise, hauling the stagecoach into view. The mystery men struck, riding it down. They massacred the driver, shotgun messenger, and passengers, shooting them down out of hand. They were after the strongbox which the stagecoach was hauling that trip, carrying a big cash shipment. They had a good spy system. Bannock and friends hadn’t even known the cash box was aboard. They had merely planned to rob the passengers. They were fit to be tied when they saw the mystery men making away with a small fortune in gold right under their noses!