Slocum and the Comely Corpse

by Jake Logan

  He glanced at Maud. She said, “Go ahead, Marshal. I’m not afraid of him.”

  “No, I guess you’re not,” Wessel said.

  “Or any man,” she added.

  “Tell that to Pierce,” Slocum said.

  “I will. With lead, same as I’d do to any man who’d try to steal from me,” she said.

  Wessel shuffled his feet, uncomfortable. He thought it was some kind of lovers’ quarrel. “I’ll go round up the horses.”

  “Be right with you,” Slocum said.

  Wessel went outside. Maud held out her hand palm up.

  Slocum reached inside his shirt, pulled out the pouch of jewelry, and gave it to her.

  She made it disappear into one of her hidden pockets.

  “Don’t think I won’t inventory it piece by piece later.” She held her hand out again. “Now, my money.”

  “Later.”

  Her face stiffened, her eyes flashed. “What’re you trying to pull, you dirty bastard?!”

  “Wessel I can trust, at least for now. You, I think I can trust, but I’m not entirely sure. I’ll just hold on to that money for safekeeping, as a kind of insurance policy. Later, when the dust settles, I’ll give it all back to you, every cent. You have my word on it.”

  “What’s the word of a thief and killer worth?”

  “It’s as good as a whore’s, I reckon.”

  “Don’t be so sure!”

  “Me holding on to the money is my way of making sure you don’t try to go into business for yourself and cut a little private deal with Pierce or anybody else. Plus, this way you’ve got a stake in keeping me alive. Those are the kind of odds I like,” Slocum said. “Of course, you could make a complaint to the new marshal, if you think your money’d be any safer in his hands.”

  “Why? So he could steal it? Not a chance!”

  Slocum tilted his head toward the doorway. “He’s calling us. Let’s go.”

  He followed Maud outside, into the snow, the wet, and the cold. Slocum glanced past the yard, to the stand of trees, which could be glimpsed through gaps in the snowfall.

  “We’ll have to bring in the horses so they don’t freeze,” he said.

  “That’s nice for the horses. Too bad you don’t show some compassion for human beings,” she said.

  “I like horses. Tell you what I’m gonna do, Maud. I’m going to give you something that’s even better than money. A gun.”

  He reached into his hip pocket, pulling out the ivory-handled silver pistol he’d taken from her earlier.

  “To hell with that popgun. I want a real man-stopper,” she said. She went to Hix’s corpse, which looked like a snow-covered sugarloaf mountain with hands. She picked up Hix’s gun and wiped it clean of snow with her scarf.

  “The marshal’s gun should do it,” she said.

  “Careful where you point that thing, Maud. Remember, I’m going to be killing the men who’re trying to kill you.”

  She thought about it, lowering the gun to her side. The sawed-off being held not so negligently by Slocum might have had something to do with her forbearance.

  “You’re a smart businesswoman, Maud.”

  “If you get shot, whatever you do, don’t bleed on my money.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  21

  The guard post on the south road was unmanned, seemingly deserted. It was a hundred yards or so outside of town. A lantern hung on a fence post on the east side of the road. It threw an oversized oval of yellow light slant-ways across the road. Nearby, a horse was tethered to another post. It was the guard’s horse. The guard lay facedown in a ditch by the roadside, on the same side as the horse and lantern.

  Lamplight fell across the ditch and the man. Outside the yellow oval, it was dark. A house was set back from the road. It too was dark. North, up the road, lights showed in the town, cold and distant. Between the post and the town there was darkness shot through with snow, and open empty fields.

  Slocum and Wessel toed the ditch, looking down at the dead man. Maud stayed on her horse, unwilling to dismount. “I’ve seen dead men before,” she said. “More than my share on this night, though.”

  The dead man’s head was twisted at an unnatural angle, looking backward over his back. The purple-white face was bruised, eyes staring.

  “Nedda was here,” Slocum said. “No ax, so she broke his neck with her bare hands.”

  “It’s Lex, Nucky’s asshole buddy,” Wessel said. “The two of them were manning this post. Nucky’s got to be around here somewhere, probably in a ditch.”

  But Nucky was nowhere in the immediate vicinity. “If she killed him, she hid him good,” Slocum said.

  “Maybe she didn’t kill him. Maybe she carried him away,” Wessel said.

  “What for?”

  “How should I know what goes on in the mind of a madwoman? Maybe she wants to fricassee him.”

  “Well, we’ve got bigger fish to fry. We can’t afford to spend any more time around here. I’m sorry about your man, but what’s done is done.”

  “I’m not. Sorry, that is. Lex was one of the men I had my doubts about. Nucky too.”

  They mounted up, and they and Maud rode into town. The streets were empty, most of the buildings dark. It was so quiet that snowflakes could be heard hitting the walls and windows.

  East along a cross street, a couple of blocks away, what could have been a lone figure on foot flitted into view. The wind blew a whirl of snow, and when it cleared, the figure was gone.

  Lights showed in the jailhouse window. The jail had been built back in the old Spanish mission days, and was as much fort as jail. It was a one-story square stone cube with small barred windows, occupying the southeast corner of the town square.

  Inside, the vaultlike space had been divided into two areas. In the front was the marshal’s office and administrative area, and in the back were the cells. The building fronted the south side of the square. Just inside the door, there was a small open area, its far end marked off by a waist-high wooden railing. In the center of the rail was a hinged gate. The rail stretched from wall to wall. On the right side of the gate, inside, was the marshal’s desk. Behind the desk, on the wall, was a relief map of the county. On the other side of the space, against the opposite wall, stood a locked gun cabinet. Above it, the wall was papered with wanted posters and circulars.

  Near the marshal’s desk, there was a wood-burning iron stove. In it, a fire was crackling, radiating heat in the immediate area. In that area was a card table. Around it sat Stringfellow, Nucky, and Cal. They were smoking, drinking, and playing cards.

  Beyond, in the back, were the cells. Four in all, two on each side of the center aisles. One cell held the Doghouse boys, Jeeter, Pete, and two or three others. Beatings had been handed out, and they had the marks to show for them. Pete’s face showed he’d gotten the worst of it. It was a mass of swollen discolorations, with one eye almost swollen shut. They were all hungry, thirsty, cold, and dirty.

  In the cell across from them were the women, Myrtle Mullins and Viola. They hadn’t been beaten, except for Myrtle, who had a mouse over one eye from when Nucky had backhanded her for mouthing off.

  In the cell next to the Doghouse boys was another group of men who’d been arrested separately, a couple of drunks and a pair of petty thieves who’d tried to take advantage of the chaos by taking what wasn’t theirs and had gotten caught. The drunks hadn’t been handled too badly, but the thieves had been beaten as badly as, if not worse than, the Doghouse boys.

  There was a pounding on the street door. Stringfellow, Cal, and Nucky looked at it. “Go see who that is,” Stringfellow said, returning his gaze to the cards in his hand.

  Nucky and Cal looked at each other. Cal held up his hand, the one that wasn’t holding cards. The center of it was thickly wrapped in gauze bandages.

  “I’m wounded,” Cal said.

  “Hell,” Nucky said. He put down his cards, carefully laying them facedown on the table so the others couldn’t
get a glimpse of them. He pushed back his chair, crossing to the rail. He paused with his hand on the swing gate, looking back at the others, saying, “And no peeking!”

  He opened the rail gate and went to the door. It was a heavy slab of ironbound oak with a sliding lookout panel at eye level. He opened it and looked out.

  “It’s Wessel,” he said.

  On the other side of the grate, Wessel said, “Open up, Nucky, you damned fool!”

  Stringfellow was vulturelike, with sly avid blue-gray eyes. He said solemnly, “Better open it.”

  Nucky closed the lookout panel, and unbolted and unlocked the door. While he was doing it, his back was to the table. Stringfellow lifted Nucky’s cards, stealing a quick peek. Cal was carefully blank-faced.

  Nucky whirled around, but Stringfellow was sitting calmly back in his seat, studying his cards. Cal remained blank-faced. Nucky glared.

  Wessel pushed the door open, bulling in, letting in a blast of cold air that swept the length of the building. Snow dripped off him. He held a leveled gun.

  Behind him came Slocum, stepping to the side so he’d have a clear line of fire with the sawed-off shotgun he held raised. When they saw him, Stringfellow and Cal pushed back their chairs and started to rise, Stringfellow clawing for his holstered gun. Then they saw the sawed-off shotgun and froze.

  Stringfellow eased his hand off his gun butt. He winced in pain, remembering his wound, clapping his hand to his thigh where the bandage was. His leg folded under him and he sat down.

  Nucky was the last to get the play. He had turned and was starting back toward the table, Wessel behind him. He didn’t even see Slocum come in. Wessel pulled Nucky’s gun from the holster. Too late, Nucky clapped a hand on the empty holster. Wessel gave him a boot in the tail that sent him sprawling to the rail.

  “Next stop, Boot Hill,” Slocum said. “Any takers? No?”

  Cal placed his hands down on the table. Stringfellow let go of his wounded leg and did the same. Nucky lay stretched on the floor, upper body leaning on the rail. He held up his hands, shaking his head.

  Maud stuck her head inside the jailhouse door. “Still quiet out here.”

  “Keep watching,” Wessel said.

  “I know what to do,” she said, ducking back outside.

  Wessel prodded Nucky with his boot toe in the rump until the latter managed to open the swing door and crawl through it. Wessel went around the table, taking Stringfellow’s gun. Cal didn’t have a gun.

  Stringfellow gaped, his mouth hanging so far open that his cigar butt fell out of it, into his lap, with a shower of sparks. He flinched, beating away the red-hot embers—

  Suddenly there was a gun at his head, the muzzle pressing his forehead. He froze, staring up at it. The gun was in Wessel’s hand, and Stringfellow had heard the hammer being cocked as the piece was put to his head.

  “Watch those sudden moves, String. You almost got yourself hurt,” Wessel said easily.

  Stringfellow nodded, barely moving his head. Wessel took the gun away from his flesh.

  Stringfellow managed to find his voice. “Yuh—yuh loco?”

  “Shut up and get over there, with your other two friends. Move!”

  Stringfellow limped over to one side, where Cal and Nucky had already been herded. From where he stood, Slocum could have dropped the three of them with one blast, and they knew it.

  Wessel got the cell keys down from the wall. Slocum kept the others covered. With his free hand, he lifted Cal’s cards, eyeing them.

  Cal said, “Hey!”

  “That’s the second bad hand you got today, Cal,” Slocum said.

  “Huh?”

  He and Wessel hustled the trio back into the cell area. The prisoners were quite intrigued by this latest development, even the drunks.

  “What’s this?” Jeeter said, disbelieving.

  “There’s a new program,” Slocum said. “The ins are out and the outs are in. The jailers are the prisoners and the prisoners are the jailers.”

  Pete cackled. He got it.

  “Listen up, you Doghouse boys—and you ladies too,” Slocum said. “You’re dead, all of you. Pierce’s gang is going to kill all of you, unless you kill all of them first.”

  Pete spoke first, without hesitation. “Glad to! Just let me out of here, son, and I’ll let ’er rip!”

  He cocked his head, staring intently with his good eye at Slocum. “Say ... don’t I know you?”

  “You were shooting at me this morning.”

  “Was that you? Sorry, son. What the hell, I missed. No harm done. Glad I didn’t hit you. Looks like you turned out to be all right after all.”

  Pete beckoned confidentially, lowering his voice. Behind a hand, he pointed a thumb at Wessel, saying, “What about him? Are you sure you can trust him?”

  “He’s okay,” Slocum said.

  Pete straightened, leering cockeyed at Wessel. “So you finally saw the light, eh, Deputy? Bletchley and me was doing some night herding one time—strictly unbranded mavericks, you understand—when we saw the whole gang without their masks, splitting the loot from some holdup. They knew they’d been seen, but they didn’t know by who. They figured it was somebody from our crowd over to the Doghouse, though. It was only a matter of time before they tried to kill us all.”

  He pointed a stabbing finger at Stringfellow. “He’s one of ‘em! Tweed was too. I knew they were just waiting for an excuse to gun me down legal, and today they had it. So, I opened up on ’em! Didn’t do too badly neither! I killed Tweed and turned Stringfellow into a gimp, haw-haw-haw!”

  “You hateful old drunk, I’ll—” Stringfellow began.

  “You ain’t gonna do nothing, so shut up,” Slocum said.

  Wessel said tiredly, “If you knew all this, Pete, why didn’t you and Bletchley tell somebody? Tell me?”

  “I wasn’t sure about you,” Pete said. “You might be okay, but the gang’s everywhere. Stringfellow’s one of them, and Nucky’s one of their spies.”

  “You lying son of a bitch!” Nucky said, then recovered. “I mean, what gang?”

  “The one you’re going to take a ride on the gallows with,” Wessel said. “What about Cal? Is he one of them?”

  “Not him, he’s too dumb! He’s so dumb, he probably doesn’t even know there is a gang,” Pete said.

  “Thanks, I think,” said Cal.

  Wessel stuck the long key into the massive lock and turned it, tumblers clicking over with a sound like muffled clockwork.

  He opened the door, motioning to the Doghouse boys in the cell. “Out.”

  They exited, replaced by Stringfellow, Nucky, and Cal. “Why me?” said Cal. “Pete said I was okay.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” Wessel said. “But you work for Pierce, so it’s better to keep you locked up for now.”

  He closed the cell door, shutting the three in. Before he could turn the key, Pete said, “You don’t have to lock ’em up so fast. We’ve got business to settle with those boys, only this time there won’t be two of them holding one of us, while the other puts the boots to him, like there was last time, eh, boys?”

  The Doghouse boys agreed. Wessel said, “That’s for dessert. Pierce first.”

  Pete considered it, head bobbing with quick birdlike motions.

  “A fair bargain,” he said, speaking for the group. “Killing Pierce will be a real pleasure.”

  Wessel once more reached for the key. Stringfellow said heavily, “When Hix finds out about this—”

  “He’s retired,” Wessel said.

  “Dead,” said Slocum.

  “I’m marshal now.” Wessel turned the key, locking the cell. Stringfellow slunk to the rear, sitting on the edge of a bunk.

  Wessel released Myrtle and Viola from their cell. The group started toward the front. Some of the petty crooks and the drunks cried to be let out.

  Wessel looked at Slocum. Slocum said, “Why take chances? Keep them behind bars and sort them out later. The Doghouse crew we know we can tru
st. They have to fight, if only to save their own necks. Otherwise, Pierce’ll hunt them down like dogs.”

  “We get the idea, sonny,” Pete said. “Don’t worry, we ain’t none of us gonna run. We got a lot of evening up to do with Mr. High-and-Mighty Pierce!”

  Wessel unlocked the gun cabinet. In it were fine weapons, rifles and guns, Winchesters and Colts, and boxes and bands of ammunition. They were eagerly received by the Doghouse crew.

  Wessel held up what looked like a bundle of smooth sticks. “Look what I found. This should come in handy.”

  Dynamite.

  They gave Myrtle a shotgun and told her to guard the prisoners. Slocum said, “A lot depends on surprise, so we can’t have the prisoners talking out of turn, trying to warn Pierce. Course, once the cat’s out of the bag, one more shotgun blast won’t matter. If Pierce is tipped by one of you prisoners, none of you will live to see what happens next.

  “And that goes for you damned drunks and the rest of you, savvy? If one of you looks like he’s gonna yell, all you others better shut him up first, else that shotgun’ll speak.”

  “I get you,” Myrtle said, looking through the bars at Stringfellow. He squirmed, backing into a corner.

  She said softly, but not fondly, “Remember when you gave me the back of your hand? Remember when I said I was going to get even?”

  “You can’t leave her back here with that shotgun! You can’t!” Stringfellow said.

  “Shhh,” said Slocum. “Hush, now.”

  He said to Myrtle, “You know, the idea here is to not jump the gun.”

  “I know,” she said. “Everything in its own sweet time.”

  “If you shoot in advance and warn Pierce, I’ll shoot you.”

  She made shooing gestures. “Away with you. We’ll be fine here. Won’t we, String?”

  He was silent. Slocum went away, getting ready for the showdown.

  22

  A good cigar, thought Slocum, puffing away. It was one of Hix’s, from a box he kept in his desk. It was the one bit of warmth and comfort allowed to Slocum on this cold lonely night vigil, and even it had a purpose.

  He was not worried about the smell of the cigar smoke giving him away, betraying the presence of a lurker. Not up here, on top of the jailhouse roof, near the front of the building, where Slocum now lay.