by Jake Logan
Slocum took a step away from Linda and Swain. He squared off to meet the threat. Men fled the bar like quail taking flight until there was only empty space between the Swede and Slocum.
Cal, the bartender, bent over behind the bar. Slocum caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.
“You touch that Greener,” Slocum said, “and you’ll wind up six feet under sand and cactus.”
Cal froze and didn’t complete his move.
The Swede came on, step by slow step, his arms out to his sides like wings, his right hand cupped to draw his pistol.
“You heard me, mister,” Thorson said. “You got two seconds to shit or get off the pot.”
“One, two,” Slocum said, counting off the seconds.
Thorson went into a fighting crouch and clawed for his holstered pistol.
“Three,” Slocum said, and his right hand flew like a thunderbolt to his pistol. His hand was a blur and time seemed to stop in that split second. There was a hush in the saloon that hypnotized all who were present, buried them as if they were suspended in a deep black ocean of silence.
Swain cocked the hammer of his pistol, and the sound was like a steel door opening on eternity.
Loomis stared into infinity and did not move or twitch.
Linda sucked in a breath and trembled inside as if she were falling earthward from a high steep cliff.
Life hung in the room like a tiptoe on the edge of an abyss.
Slocum’s eyes narrowed to dark slits as his fingers closed around the grip of his Colt.
There was no time to think.
There was no time to stop what was going to happen.
There was only death, and it crouched in that frozen split second of time like a slavering animal over its certain prey.
12
Slocum heard the soft whisper of his pistol as it cleared leather. He thumbed back the hammer of his Colt as his arm floated the pistol upward to waist-high.
Thorson’s eyes widened as he drew his pistol, and for the briefest instant, his blue eyes clouded over as he heard the hammer click on Slocum’s gun.
Slocum tilted his pistol and squeezed off a shot. The Colt bucked in his hand with its powerful recoil. But the bullet sizzled through the air on a true course and stuck Thorson right between his eyes. There was the smack of the bullet as it plowed into his forehead, leaving a neat black hole. It furrowed through his brain and turned it to mush before blasting out of the back of his head, spraying a mist of blood and brain fluids, along with shards of skull, like shattered pottery.
His hand went slack and his pistol fell from his grasp and clattered on the floor like a chunk of useless iron. Thorson’s eyes widened and rolled back in their sockets. He collapsed in a heap, landing like a rag doll on the floor, all of his muscles limp, his massive body a heap of lifeless sinew, bone, and flesh.
Blood spurted from Thorson’s nose and leaked from one of his ears. The smoke from Slocum’s pistol hung in the air like a breeze-whipped spiderweb, then evaporated. Slocum spun around, pistol in hand, and aimed at first one bartender, then the other. Finally, he walked over to Swain and pointed his pistol at Loomis.
“Better light a shuck, Loomis,” Slocum said. “Thorson’s dead and you’re next if you even twitch.”
Loomis went pale in his face and shuffled away from the bar. His backside disappeared through the batwing doors, which swung for a few seconds then slowly came to a stop.
Linda stood up. Her hands shook and she fought to keep her knees from knocking together. She glanced at the dead man and then gazed at the table where her uncle and Scroggs were rubbernecking like a couple of parade gawkers. Wu Chen was nowhere in sight. The smell of burnt powder was strong in her nostrils, and she rubbed her nose between thumb and forefinger.
“Lordy,” she gasped. “I never saw anything so fast, John Slocum. Thorson had the drop on you. I saw it clear as day. But you shot first and you hit him right between the eyes.”
“This saloon has turned into a dangerous place,” he said. “Obie, what say we take a walk outside.”
Swain eased the hammer back down on his pistol and shoved it back in its holster.
“Yeah, I’ve had enough excitement for one night. You’ll have a hotel room waitin’ for you after you’ve finished your supper.”
He looked over at Linda, who was clinging to Slocum’s arm.
“Or whenever you’re good and ready, that is.”
Linda smiled wanly at Swain.
“Yes,” she said, “let’s have some supper. I’m shaking inside like a leaf.”
The men under the tables still cowered there. All of them seemed to be looking at Slocum’s pistol, which was still in his hand.
He looked over at the two bartenders.
“When we walk out of here,” he said, “I’d better not hear those shotguns cocking.”
“No, sir,” Cal said, and the bartender nodded several times as if trying to make his head fall off.
“Let’s go,” Slocum said.
He and Linda followed Swain out of the saloon and into the inky cloak of night. There were no streetlamps. The three of them walked to the end of the block, then turned right down an even darker street.
“Follow me,” Linda said after Swain had left their company. They could see the dim buttery light of the hotel midway in the block where Swain was headed.
She let Slocum take her arm and they walked in silence to a street where adobe buildings snugged up against each other. In one, lamplight shone through and cast a yellowish orange glow on the dirt street outside.
“There it is,” she said, and pointed to the small restaurant near the end of the block.
The sign outside read: Chez Soleil.
“What’s that mean?” Slocum asked.
“Sunny Place,” she said.
“Good name, but it could have been named Starry Place, too.”
He looked up at the billions of stars, the winding sheet of the vaporous Milky Way. In the clear desert air, the stars seemed closer, or larger. A balmy breeze wafted their way. It tousled Linda’s hair, and she brushed strands out of her eyes.
There were tables on a patio outside, and each of them was covered with a large cinnamon-colored parasol.
“Shall we sit outside?” she asked.
“That would be nice, I think.”
“I can ask Pierre to close the umbrella so that we can see the starry sky.”
“That, too, would be nice,” he said.
“You’re more comfortable outside, in the open air, aren’t you, John?”
“I suppose so,” he said, trying to make his language more sophisticated since he suspected that Linda was an educated woman.
They sat down at a table near the cast-iron railing and soon a man appeared with a lamp and a slate. He wore a dark blue apron and his boots were shiny, his pants creased and pressed, his white shirt starched to a dignified crispness.
“I am André,” the waiter said, his French accent very Parisian, to Slocum’s mind.
“André, would you tell Pierre and his lovely wife, Giselle, that Miss Littlepage is here. And we’d like you to collapse the umbrella.”
“But, of course, mademoiselle,” André said. He quickly adjusted the struts of the parasol and collapsed its wings. Linda smiled at him as he handed Slocum the slate.
“Thank you,” Linda said.
“We have the beef cooked in sherry wine,” André said, “with pommes frites, the fried potatoes, and buttered peas. You would like a fine wine with your meal, non?”
“Yes,” Linda said with a quick glance at Slocum, “if the gentleman agrees, a burgundy or a claret.”
“Burgundy,” Slocum said. “I do have some acquaintance with wines.”
Linda laughed softly.
“Bring us the burgundy, André, s’il vous plaît.”
“Oui, oui,” André said, and glided off the patio and into the restaurant. A few moments later, Pierre Lachaise, the owner of the café, appeared at their ta
ble.
“Bon soir, Linda,” he said in the warmest of tones and with a toothy smile. “Giselle is preparing the meals tonight since my cook, Auguste, is indisposed.”
“Oh, is he ill?” Linda asked.
“He is drunk, ma’amselle,” he said without missing a beat. “He cooks with the wine and he gulps it like a fish.”
Slocum and Linda laughed, along with Pierre.
“I hope you enjoy your meal, Linda and the gentleman.”
“Pierre, this is John Slocum, a new friend of mine.”
“Do not get up, M’sieu Slocum,” Pierre said. “I am happy to make your acquaintance.” His accent was less pronounced than André’s, but it was there, like fine oil on the small gears of a good watch.
“How did you wind up in Socorro?” Slocum asked.
“Ah, it was the fate, I think. We drive the wagon from Saint Louis and the dream was Oregon, non? So, the wagon, she break down here and we see how cheap to live and we buy the adobe and open the café. We see our countrymen pass through and they eat the food and we become very happy in this quiet place.”
“Your place is an oasis in this desert,” Linda said.
Pierre smiled. “Merci, ma’amselle,” he said. “You are very kind.”
When the small talk was finished, Pierre walked back inside. The waiter served the food and wine while Slocum and Linda gazed at each other between bites and sips.
“You asked Pierre how he and Giselle wound up in Socorro,” she said. “I’d like to know how it is that you are here at such a propitious time.”
“Propitious time?”
“Scroggs is up to no good. He’s a mean tyrant and I know that he kidnapped that poor man, Jethro Swain, and fed him opium. He wants to find Obadiah’s silver mine and hog it all for himself.”
“Jethro is why I’m here,” Slocum said, and told her the story of finding Penelope in need of help with her father.
“I like Penny. She seems a decent woman, and Jethro never harmed a soul here. But I was powerless to help him.”
“Maybe it was fate that brought me here, like Pierre said.”
“Do you believe in fate?” she asked.
Slocum shrugged. “I believe there are hidden reasons behind every turn in the road on the journey through life. It’s not something I mull over too much, but when I look back, it seems there might have been unknown forces at work in my life.”
“I feel the same way,” she said. “I keep thinking that I have some purpose in life and that’s why, when I saw the way women were treated out here in the West, I decided to do something about it.”
“And it seems to be working?”
“Slowly,” she said. “Very slowly. But I care about my girls and their lot in life. I call them girls, but of course, they are grown women. They just don’t know how to stand up for themselves.”
Slocum reached in his pocket for a cheroot.
“Mind if I smoke?” he said.
“I’d like to try one of those,” she said. “I’ll order us some brandy and we can let our meal digest.”
“The cheroot might be too strong for you,” he said. But he fished another cigar from his pocket and handed it to her.
“I’ll risk it,” she said.
“Bite off the end and put the tip in the ashtray,” he said. “It will draw better.”
The waiter appeared as Slocum lit her cheroot.
“Bring us some cognac, will you?” she asked him as he began to clear their plates from the table and set them on a large pewter tray.
“But of course,” André said.
Linda choked on the smoke from the cheroot. Her eyes watered with tears and she gasped for a clean breath.
“My, it is a bit strong,” she said as she fanned the smoke away from her face.
“Don’t pull the smoke into your lungs,” he said. “Just let it warm your mouth and then blow it out.”
She puffed on the cigar and then spewed a small cloud of smoke out. Some of it went up her nose and she made a face.
“Better?” he said.
“Much better, John.”
They sipped the cognac and smoked. Linda even inhaled some of the smoke and managed not to choke or cough.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” Slocum said.
“I’ll walk you to your rooming house,” she said as they finished their cognacs.
“Then you would have to walk home alone,” he said. “In the dark.”
“I’m not afraid, John. But I’m hoping you’ll invite me into your room.”
A few patrons came and went inside the café. There was the clatter of dishes and silverware. Bats knifed the night sky, scooping up flying insects, their leathery wings beating the air in quiet whispers.
“You’d still have to walk home alone,” he said, testing the waters of her desire.
“Perhaps you will walk me home in the daylight,” she said, and her invitational tone was a silken purr, laden with promise.
“Gladly,” he said, and smiled.
She signed the check that André presented. “I didn’t bring my purse,” she explained. “I will pay Pierre the next time I come in.”
“Thank you for supper,” Slocum said.
“It was my distinct pleasure, John.”
As they left the café, Slocum saw a shadowy figure across the street. A man flitted from one adobe building to another. Both Slocum and Linda saw the crouching, scuttling man. She stopped up short and Slocum’s right hand floated downward to hover just above the butt of his pistol.
“That’s strange,” Linda said. “We’d better be careful.”
“Get behind me,” he said. “Whoever that is, he’s up to no good.”
“I know who it is,” she said as she moved behind Slocum.
“Who?” he whispered.
“Loomis,” she said. “Scroggs must have told him to follow us.”
“Why?” Slocum asked, but he knew why.
“You killed Thorson, and Scroggs wants you to pay.”
Slocum stepped into the shadows of another adobe, a closed shop that sold pottery and Indian blankets. He pressed Linda against the wall and drew his pistol.
“It’s not me Loomis is after,” she whispered.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’m going after him. Maybe I can draw him out in the open.”
“John, he’ll kill you. Loomis is a dead shot and he won’t come out in the open to murder you.”
“Let’s just see how bad the cat wants the mouse,” he said, and stepped into the center of the street. He began to walk where he had last seen Loomis. He held his pistol straight down at his side, his finger inside the trigger guard. He eased the hammer back, gently holding the trigger to muffle the sound of the action.
He saw a glint of starlight on metal between two buildings.
As he adjusted his eyes to the darkness and the dim light, he saw an arm move, and he thought he saw part of a man’s leg sticking out.
He stopped and went into a semicrouch.
The arm moved and the reflected light surged along the barrel of a pistol.
The man was not coming out.
Slocum knew what he must do and he steeled himself to make the best of it. A few yards away, the jaws of death gaped open in the darkness. He could not see enough of Loomis to bring him down with a shot. There was only that arm and that leg, and the ugly snout of a pistol moving slowly to grab him in its sights.
Somehow, he thought, he must draw Loomis out in the open and still get the drop on him.
Slocum gritted his teeth and leaped from his crouch. He began to run on a parallel course to where Loomis was standing. Just as he started out, he heard the metallic snap of a pistol hammer as Loomis cocked his gun.
Perfect timing, Slocum thought and started his run in a zigzag pattern down the center of the street.
Behind him, he heard Linda gasp, and it sounded like the panting of an animal in the stillness of the night.
13
Slocum knew that a man
’s vision changed during the night. If he was aiming a rifle or a pistol, the target would not be dead center in the gun sights. Instead, a shooter would have to aim higher or lower, depending upon distance and angle. He was counting on Loomis missing his first shot at a moving target and shooting either too high or too low.
His zigzag run would make him a harder target in the darkness.
Loomis cracked off a shot as soon as Slocum began his run.
There was a flash and a streak of orange fire that partially illuminated the shooter. The bullet whined as it caromed off a rock somewhere beyond Slocum.
Slocum fired at the flash as he headed toward it. He veered off after the pistol bucked and threw its lead. He heard it thunk into the dirt as he turned away. His boots thudded on the hard-packed dirt of the street and he crushed a wagon wheel rut into powder as Loomis fired off another shot. The lead whistled past him, a foot behind, and he heard it smack into an adobe storefront.
Slocum turned again and headed straight toward the ghostly cloud of smoke that rose above Loomis. He squeezed the trigger and felt the Colt come to life in his hand with its powerful explosion. A fiery lance spewed from the mouth of his pistol barrel, and the bullet hissed as it flew over three thousand feet per second.
Loomis stepped out from his hiding place. He held his pistol in two hands to steady his aim. But he swept the barrel over a running shadow, a black shadow that would not stand still. He cupped his left hand under his right, cradled his gun hand as he had practiced so many times firing at tin cans, paper targets, fence posts, and yucca trees. He spread his legs to steady himself and squinted his left eye as his right focused on the blade front sight and the running man who drew ever nearer, but dashed in a crooked line.
Slocum threw himself headlong into the dirt as Loomis squeezed off another shot. He heard the death whisper of the bullet as it passed above his head. He could not stop the thought that popped into his head, that if he had been standing, that lead pellet might have ripped into his balls, turning him into a gelding.
Slocum fired another shot at Loomis, then rolled to another position. He steadied the pistol barrel on Loomis, what he could see of him, and held his breath as he flexed his right index finger, depressing the trigger with a smooth gentle tug.