by Jake Logan
“All right, I’m coming out,” Slocum called, waiting to see what response he got.
“Throw out your gun, then come on out with your hands high.”
Slocum stood, grabbed the top crate, and heaved as hard as he could. It crashed to the floor just inside the door. Molinari’s henchman reacted instinctively and fired several times. Slocum rushed the door, firing as he came. He slipped in a pool of chemical and lurched forward. The last round in his Colt Navy flew straight and true, in spite of the situation. As he fell, going to his knees and one hand, he saw that his slug had ripped a bloody chunk out of the man’s gun arm.
The gunman grabbed his injured right biceps as the rifle slipped from nerveless fingers. He snarled at Slocum, turned, and sprinted off, spewing blood as he ran.
Slocum lifted his pistol, got him in the sights, and dry-fired. The hammer fell on a spent chamber. He groaned as he got to his feet, his jeans burning away from the chemicals.
By now a dozen people down the street shouted for the marshal. Slocum considered going after the wounded gunman, then decided against it. He was never one to let wounded game go into the woods to suffer, but this was different. He wanted the man to feel pain for a good long while because of what he’d done to Anna—and then he would get him in his sights again and finish the job he’d just started.
Slocum stumbled off, his denim jeans with holes burned in them and his boots splotchy from the potent chemicals. At least he could breathe fresh air again—and was still in good enough shape to keep breathing.
That was a condition he vowed to change for Molinari and his murderous hired guns.
17
Slocum limped to the watering trough near Severigne’s barn. He shucked off his six-shooter and gun belt, then sat on the edge of the trough, wondering if this would work.
“To hell with it,” he said. His skin was blistered and burned from the chemicals that had splashed onto his jeans and boots. Swiveling around, he shoved his feet under water and recoiled as huge bubbles burst on the surface. He dropped to his knees in the trough to get his pant legs entirely underwater. A sudden sharp pain passed quickly, replaced by soothing coolness. Sighing, he stretched out and sat on the bottom of the trough, arms on the sides. He had no idea how long he ought to stay, but he knew he had to empty the trough after he got out. This water wasn’t fit for any animal to drink anymore.
After five minutes, he stood and looked at his ruined jeans. His boots were in better condition since the acid had so much heavier leather to burn through. He began skinning off his pants when he heard a loud wolf whistle. Alice stood at the barn door, leering at him.
“I wondered what it would take to get into your pants,” she said. “I never thought about the watering trough.”
He held up the pants. Sunlight shone through the holes.
“There a spare pair somewhere that I can borrow?”
“Might be,” Alice said. “For a price.” He glared at her and she relented. “Oh, very well. There’s an old pair in the barn. I don’t remember who left them, but he was in a hurry. I think his missus tracked him here.”
She went into the barn and came out with a pair of jeans even more battered than the ones with the acid holes burned in them. Slocum took them and found that the former owner was thicker around the waist. He had to cinch up his belt to keep them from falling down. This produced snickers from Alice.
“Sometime you’ll have to tell me what happened.” She held up his old pants and started to run her finger around a hole.
“Don’t. You might get burned. I don’t know how long it’d take for the water to wash it all away.”
“You are the most fascinating man to come to Severigne’s in a month of Sundays. Maybe ever.” Alice looked at him appraisingly. “Too bad I got me a steady gentleman friend.”
Slocum thought on how she could whore all night but consider the bank teller a boyfriend. Every profession was different.
“How did Bray deal with his son?”
“After you tossed him into the bank lobby?” Alice laughed and it sounded genuine. “You made quite an impression on young Randall, but his old man made a permanent one. He used his belt on his son’s bottom.”
“Randall’s eighteen or thereabouts. That could be dangerous for his pa.”
“Randall’s not got hair on his balls yet, no matter how he comes sniffing around here all the time. And you were right. It was him what tried to set fire to the house. That got him another swat or two from the belt. It didn’t sound as if there wasn’t anything he didn’t confess to. If Martin had kept whalin’ on him much longer, Randall might even have confessed to assassinating Lincoln.”
If Randall Bray had a speck of gumption in him, he would be ten times more dangerous. As if he wasn’t doing so already, Slocum would have to watch his back to keep from getting shot down. For being a newcomer to town, he had piled up enemies at an incredible rate.
“What is it you’re doing for Bray? He said you were working for him.” Alice came closer, intent on hearing the answer.
“Ask Severigne. If she wants to tell you, she will.”
“That’s downright mysterious. As I said, you’re the most interesting fellow to come by in years.”
“I need to talk with her. Is she inside?”
“Gone. Not sure where, but she had that look in her eye, if you know what I mean.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“No reason it can’t be both. Severigne’s always on the lookout for customers, but she’s not above mixing the two.”
“Where does she keep the catalog?”
“The one the photographer put together as advertising? I’m not sure.”
Slocum wanted to look it over carefully to see if there might be some clue as to where Molinari would hide the other pictures. Then he decided that was only a waste of time. Why should there be any? The photographer wouldn’t put clues like that into a new catalog.
“Did he keep photographs for his own collection?”
“I assumed that he did. He was a gentleman taking the pictures, but he has the plates to make as many copies as he wants. Severigne wanted to buy them but he refused.”
“I suspected as much.” If any of the girls working for Severigne tried to leave their lives as whores, Molinari would have blackmail material to hold over them with their husbands. Somehow, Slocum doubted many of the remaining women would be all that susceptible to blackmail. Alice certainly wouldn’t be, though Catherine was with her ranch foreman. And Missy’s marriage to a successful rancher had been derailed, though Slocum was still at a loss to figure out how bad the photograph might be since Lehrer seemed a reasonable hombre about her current profession.
“There’s a whole lot going on I don’t know about,” Alice said. “What would it take for me to get you to tell me all the sordid details?”
“More than time or your bed.”
“Well,” Alice said, insulted. Or at least she pretended to be insulted. “After I got you another pair of pants. See if I do that again when I find you sitting in a trough with your old pair turned into nothing but holes.”
“Much obliged for the jeans,” Slocum said. He mounted and rode back into town, Alice calling after him until he was out of earshot. He liked her and wished her and her teller the best. But he doubted the teller had much of a future at the bank considering Alice’s situation. Bray would never allow an employee to marry a soiled dove, which was ironic considering he had unwittingly done that very thing himself.
He dismounted in front of Sara Beth’s restaurant, took in the commotion inside, then drew his pistol and shoved his way through the crowd, yelling, “What’s going on?”
“It’s Miz Vincent,” a man said. “She took sick. She was fine one minute, then she was all wobbly in the knees and keeled over. They done took her to the doctor.”
“They?” Slocum looked around at the sea of faces.
“I think the two of ’em work for Mr. Molinari. I seen ’em there a time or t
wo. One of them was all busted up himself. Had his right arm in a sling, like he’d broke his arm.”
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Slocum said. The man looked frightened, and Slocum realized he was pointing his six-shooter directly at him. He holstered it and pulled a chair around. The crowd seemed to grow. This was the most excitement they’d had since gunshots were fired at Molinari’s office earlier. Slocum was quickly running out of patience for such “excitement.”
“Well, she was bringin’ me a platter of that meatloaf she does so good. Taters on the side and—” The man swallowed hard when he saw Slocum’s expression. “Well, she put it down and wiped her lips with her apron and then got all white in the face. I had her set down right where you’re settin’ and ast what was wrong and if she needed a drink of water. She said she’d just had one in the back and was feeling all weak and dizzy. ’Bout then them two fellers barged in and took her out, sayin’ they was right away takin’ her to the doc’s office.”
Slocum went to the kitchen, where he found the water bucket on the table. He sniffed hard at it and recoiled from the strong odor. He had smelled this too many times before in saloons when the barkeep wanted to get rid of an obnoxious customer. A drop or two of chloral hydrate would fell an ox. From the strong smell, somebody had put more than a few drops into the water, knowing Sara Beth would drink it.
He knew exactly who it was, too.
When he returned to the dining room, most of the crowd had left. The man with the plate of meatloaf in front of him was polishing off the last bit of gravy with a hunk of bread. He licked his lips clean as he looked up at Slocum.
“She be all right, you think? Miz Vincent’s a right good cook and easy on the eyes.”
Slocum knew where the doctor’s office was from his prior nighttime visit, but it was as he figured. The two owlhoots had not taken Sara Beth there. The doctor claimed not to have seen Sara Beth since breakfast, and Slocum believed him.
His mind raced as to why Molinari would kidnap Sara Beth. If he thought she was a nuisance and likely to get in his way, why not kill her? Ransom was the most likely explanation, but Slocum couldn’t come up with two nickels to rub together. Severigne wasn’t inclined to pony up money, even if Slocum asked her to. Clyde Clabber? Martin Bray? The banker was already being fleeced out of every last cent in his bank and didn’t know how it was happening. Molinari would want to cast his net farther afield than the banker if he wanted more money.
Why had he drugged and taken Sara Beth prisoner?
The only explanation he could come up with was to use her as a bargaining chip. Slocum had been poking about in Molinari’s blackmail scheme too much and hadn’t been eliminated after repeated attempts. He must have been thinking to trade Sara Beth for Slocum moving on—or maybe getting put in a grave out on Primrose Hill. Molinari would ask for an exchange and then gun down both Sara Beth and Slocum at the same time. The marshal wasn’t likely to investigate, especially if Molinari got rid of the bodies where nobody would ever find them. This part of Wyoming was mighty lonely once you rode away from town.
Slocum wondered how Molinari intended to get in touch to present his bogus offer. Probably a letter would be sent to Severigne. Slocum intended to find Sara Beth before that note could be delivered.
He went up one side and down the other along Main Street, asking which way the two men had taken Sara Beth. He finally gathered enough information to get on the road going due east out onto the prairie. Hans Lehrer’s spread was in that direction, but he doubted Molinari’s men would go there. They had no call to involve the rancher.
Slocum felt a grim satisfaction knowing that Molinari thought he was a more immediate risk than Missy refusing to marry the rancher. After he was out of the way, Molinari would apply more pressure on the woman to force her to marry Lehrer and begin yet another stream of blackmail money.
As he rode, he scanned the prairie all around for any trace of the outlaws or where they might have taken Sara Beth. He doubted they would go far from town so when he saw a deep ravine cutting toward the southeast, he paid special attention to where it crossed the main road. He smiled without humor when he saw fresh tracks leaving the road and heading down the bottom of the ravine. The high sides would hide the riders from casual observation and the ravine must lead somewhere that the men felt was safe.
Two miles brought him to a flat area where spring runoff scrubbed the land clean and left nothing but ripples in the earth. Off a ways from this fan-shaped stretch rose a shack, hardly more than a lean-to. Even at this distance Slocum made out horses tethered to one side. Three horses. Just the right number for the two gunmen and Sara Beth.
He took out his field glasses and studied the area surrounding the cabin. It was too flat for him to sneak up on the shack unless they hadn’t bothered posting a lookout. Slocum held down his rage when he realized they probably weren’t expecting pursuit—and that they would be occupied with Sara Beth. The thought of her being raped by the pair caused him to feel a coldness that reminded him of the days during the war when he had been a sniper. He would spend hours waiting for just the right shot at a Federal officer. It had never paid to get excited or anticipate the shot since he never knew when opportunity would present itself.
The calmness was always cold and calculating and utterly deadly. That was what he experienced now.
He dismounted and took his Winchester from the saddle sheath. He tied his horse’s reins around a rock and then started walking toward the shack, eyes hunting for the slightest movement. It would take him only an instant to bring the rifle to his shoulder for the killing shot.
He got all the way to the shed before the horses even bothered to whinny and paw uneasily at the ground. Their small noises wouldn’t draw attention from the men inside, not if they were consumed with Sara Beth.
The cabin didn’t have any windows for him to peek through so he went directly to the door and pressed his face against it, trying to see inside through a crack. A sudden brilliance caused him to jerk back. His right eye was dazzled from the light, momentarily blinding him. From inside came raucous laughter.
“That oughta be one to keep.”
“Molinari will like it, that’s for sure. How many more we got to take?”
“Three,” came the answer.
In spite of the yellow and blue spots dancing in front of Slocum’s right eye, he kicked in the door and leveled the rifle, not knowing what to expect. The men stood behind a camera and Sara Beth was tied up, naked, to a post in a lewd position.
They were taking blackmail pictures of her.
Slocum fired.
The light blazed again from the T-shaped contraption in one man’s hand. Slocum was completely blinded this time. He levered in another round and fired, knowing he might hit Sara Beth and not caring. It might be better if she was killed rather than suffer the indignity of having those blackmail photos shown around Clabber Crossing.
He fired a third time and was rewarded by a grunt. Then he was bowled over, knocked backward, and the rifle was yanked from his grip. Slocum landed hard on his back. Looking out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man with his arm in a sling holding the rifle clumsily in his left hand. Slocum kicked out and smashed his boot into the man’s kneecap.
“He busted my damn leg!” came the cry. The man vanished from the corner of Slocum’s eye, but the dancing yellow and blue specks were fading. He saw Molinari’s other henchman come from the shed, a six-gun in his grip.
Slocum reached across his body, pulled his own pistol, and fired.
Then he yelled, “Marshal, over here. I got ’em. Both of ’em!”
“Son of a bitch, he musta brung a posse.” The one in the doorway ducked, helped his partner up, and they made their way around the side of the shed. Slocum fired a couple more times and kept yelling for the marshal to come.
Hooves pounding into the distance gave him the chance to sink back to the ground. Where the man had struck him in the chest hurt like fire. Slocum gently
probed to see if he might have a broken rib. The pain was different from a broken bone; he was only bruised. He sat up, then got to his feet. By now his vision was returning.
He looked into the shed where the camera was pointed at Sara Beth. She was bound with her hands over her head. She was bent at a crazy angle so her legs were spread wide. From this direction, they got a lewd photograph of her not only tied up but of her privates.
“Are you going to stand there gawking or are you going to get me free?” she demanded.
Slocum started to josh her a bit and then decided against it. He cut her free and she collapsed into his arms, sobbing.
18
Slocum held the shaking woman as he took a quick look around the interior of the shack. Molinari’s hired guns had been taking photographs. Sitting beside the camera, apparently ready for another shot, stood a wooden case where the exposed plates were stored.
“They kept talking about shooting a dozen of them. I don’t know why they wanted a dozen, but they did. They posed me in terrible ways.”
“They do anything but take pictures?” Slocum asked. Sara Beth shuddered in his arms.
“They said they would later—and they’d take pictures of that, too. John, I could never hold my head up again if they showed those photographs around town.”
“You’d have done anything they wanted,” he said.
She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. Molinari would have owned Sara Beth Vincent with an album of these pictures. The power in Clabber Crossing was slowly shifting, and neither the town’s founder nor the town banker knew it. Their squabbles were petty compared to the power Molinari was gaining over the women in town. And who could the women complain to? Where could they turn for justice?
“Get dressed. It won’t be long before those two sons of bitches figure out I didn’t have a posse at my back.”
“You lied?”
“A diversionary tactic,” he said, reaching down to heft the case. Special baffles had been built so an exposed plate could be slipped inside for later developing.