Slocum and the Yellowback Trail

by Jake Logan

  “This is just one of them trashy books people leave on trains,” Slocum said.

  “I’d never leave this on a train!” Ian said as if Slocum had just insulted his youngest daughter. “If it’s anything like his others, it’s got to be damn good.”

  “Got to be? So you haven’t read it?”

  “No, but I stand by what I advertise.”

  Talking to Ian was starting to give Slocum a headache. Rather than make it worse, he flipped the book open to start leafing through the pages. Slocum didn’t get a chance to absorb the whole thing, but he saw his own name mentioned several times, along with enough shooting and death to fill a small war. “This is complete bullshit,” he grumbled.

  “Don’t blame me. Blame the writer,” Ian countered.

  “I thought you stood by what you advertise.”

  That one snuck beneath Ian’s guard. He winced and gnawed on the inside of his cheek with genuine contemplation. Finally, he asked, “You’re really a friend of Terrance’s?”

  “Didn’t you read the letter?”

  Slocum put the odds of that holding any water at about fifty-fifty. Fortunately for him, the coin landed with the right side up.

  “I suppose it’s not a big secret,” Ian said. “There’s been other men asking to meet Mr. Corrington, so you might as well know too.”

  “Know what?”

  “He’s coming by my shop sometime in the next few days.”

  “Mr. Corrington?” Slocum asked as he hopped to his feet. “The same man who wrote this book?”

  “The one and only.”

  “What’s he coming back for?”

  “I don’t know yet, do I?” Ian replied in a huff. “He can’t tell me until he gets here!”

  More than anything, Slocum wanted to storm out of there and not come back until he had someone to shoot. But more questions came to mind, and Ian seemed to be in an answering frame of mind, so he asked, “What did you do with these advertisements once you printed them?”

  “Handed them out as much as I could, but it’s not my job to circulate them.”

  “Whose job is it?”

  “I pay boys to do some running, hand them off to stagecoach drivers when they come through town, send a few bundles to bigger towns like Chicago and such. After that, it’s anyone’s guess. Mr. Corrington is coming up in his profession, so I’d assume he’s awfully good at spreading word of his books around. From what I’ve heard, they’re very popular in the southern regions.”

  “Yeah,” Slocum grunted. “I’d like to place my boot in this Corrington fella’s southern region.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. What were you saying about the South?”

  “Just that his books come up from down there and spread like wildfire. At least they did according to this.” When he said that last part, Ian gazed down at the advertisement he’d printed with the unbridled pride of a father watching his son become President of the United States. “For all I know, my work may very well have gotten all the way to New York by now.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “Sometime in the next few days. A busy man like him must have a lot on his plate. Would you like me to try and arrange a meeting?”

  “No,” Slocum replied. “I’ll see to it myself.”

  9

  Slocum picked a spot across the street from the printer’s barn where he could kick his feet up and wait for the rest of the day.

  After a short supper, he waited some more.

  He spent a few hours of restless sleep in a rented bed that was somehow angled so his feet were higher than his head no matter which end he chose for his pillow. After a breakfast consisting of oatmeal that tasted more like brick mortar, he returned to his spot and waited.

  The whole day dragged by as he continued to watch . . . and wait.

  Some locals caught sight of him, but only shook their heads the way they might at a transient who’d wandered in from somewhere to lie in a ditch for a while. Slocum watched Ian come and go from his shop, but the printer was too wrapped up in whatever he was doing to notice anything beyond the tip of whatever tool was in his hand at the time.

  The sun dipped below the horizon and still Slocum waited.

  It was a chilly September night, which would have felt good under normal circumstances. With all the waiting he’d been doing, Slocum felt more like he’d spent the last month sitting in that increasingly uncomfortable spot, looking at an old barn as the world slowly turned around him. He was getting so tired that he had nearly dozed off when he finally spotted something he’d been hoping to see.

  Someone was approaching the barn and it wasn’t Ian.

  Slocum swung his feet down from the old section of fence he’d been using and leaned forward for a better look. It was a man dressed in simple clothes, including a vest buttoned up beneath a well-worn jacket. Even in the fading sunlight, Slocum could tell the chain crossing the man’s stomach wasn’t connected to a valuable watch. Nobody who could afford something like that would wear a rumpled jacket or pants that were so frayed around the edges. His hat was flat on top and had a wide brim that cast a thick shadow over his clean-shaven face.

  Once the other man put his back to Slocum so he could approach the door of the printing shop, Slocum quickened his pace to get to him. The closer he got, the more he wanted to draw his Colt and knock some sense into the author of Six-Gun Devil. He thought of plenty of things he wanted to say regarding the damage the book had done, and when he closed in to arm’s reach of the writer, Slocum had to force himself to hold back before giving in to his more sinister instincts.

  Slocum drew a breath so he could introduce himself, but wasn’t able to get one word out before the man in front of him wheeled around and hit him with a set of knuckles that cracked solidly against his jaw.

  “There you are, asshole!” the man snarled through a mouth that curled into a vicious grin. As he lunged at Slocum, his jacket opened to reveal the gun belt strapped around his waist.

  Slocum was surprised by the punch, but reacted quickly enough to duck away from the follow-up. Of the two, that was the swing to avoid, because that fist was wrapped around the handle of a Bowie knife. The sharpened steel sliced through the air directly in front of Slocum’s throat, stopped a few feet away, and was swung right back at him again. Slocum raised his right arm just in time to block a swing that would have surely carved him like a Christmas goose.

  After pushing the man’s knife hand away, Slocum drove a fist straight into his face. The impact sent a ripple of pain through his forearm but felt very rewarding considering who was on the receiving end of it.

  Shaking off the punch and then spitting on the ground, the other man ducked beneath Slocum’s left hook to slash at his midsection. The knife tore through a section of Slocum’s shirt but barely scraped against flesh. Slocum hopped back and then reached down to grab hold of the man’s wrist. Once he had some degree of control over where the blade was headed next, Slocum took a moment to assess the situation.

  The other man was just a little shorter than him and knew how to use his knife. The gun he carried looked like a .44 and didn’t seem like something bought for show. He was a strong one, too. Slocum could only hang onto the man’s wrist for a few more seconds before it was ripped free of his grasp.

  “Oh, no,” the man grunted. “You ain’t gettin’ off that light.”

  Before Slocum could respond, he saw the knife come at him again. It whistled past his face and came across in the opposite direction at chest level. That second swing clipped a section of Slocum’s jacket, cutting through as if it was a sheet of paper from Ian’s shop.

  “Are you Mr. Corrington?” Slocum asked.

  Hearing that name brought a snarl to the man’s lips, and he came at Slocum again. This time, he made a quick feinting stab to draw Slocum’s arms down before taking a quick swing at shoulder level. The blade sliced through a good section of meat, spraying Slocum’s blood onto the ground. Just as he
was recovering from that, Slocum saw the man lunge in for another stab.

  Slocum was barely quick enough to cross his arms at the wrists and drop them down to divert the blade before it was buried hilt-deep into his gut. He then twisted to one side and closed his hands around the man’s wrist like a set of pincers. A sharp twist and forceful grab allowed him to relieve the man of his weapon. Slocum spun around to face him, and found nothing but empty space. Suddenly, an arm snaked around his neck from behind and a fist pounded against his ribs.

  “How you like that?” the man snarled into Slocum’s ear. “Not so good, is it? Well it’s about to get a whole lot worse.”

  Rather than try to get out of the man’s grip, Slocum placed a hand on the arm encircling his neck, to hold it in place. The punches kept coming, each one landing in the same spot, until his ribs felt like broken glass scraping against his innards. Slocum leaned forward until he lifted the other man off his feet and then charged backward into a nearby tree.

  The other man let out a grunt and let go of Slocum’s neck. The punches kept coming, however, even after Slocum turned around to face him.

  In an attempt to bring a quick end to the fight, Slocum drew his Colt. He hadn’t intended on shooting, but he didn’t even get a chance to aim the gun before it was knocked out of his hand.

  “You wanna step this up, do ya?” the other man snarled. “Well I can do that just fine.”

  “Aw hell,” Slocum grunted as he saw the man reach for his pistol.

  The gun was indeed a .44. Slocum got a real good look at it because he ran forward to close the distance between him and the other man before the trigger could be pulled. Half a second before the .44 went off, Slocum had a solid hold on the man’s arm, and he twisted until the pistol dropped to the ground a few inches from where he’d tossed the knife.

  Rather than try to retrieve his weapon, the man slapped both hands against Slocum’s back, grabbed onto his clothing, and rammed Slocum into the same tree he’d hit a few moments ago. Slocum barely had enough time to turn his head and twist his body around before he could be knocked into oblivion. Even so, it was a long way from a tickle when he hit that standing timber.

  The man stood in front of him wearing a crooked smile on his bloodied face. That sight alone gave Slocum the incentive to start chopping away at him as if he was bringing down the tree that had bruised half his body. His fists thumped against layers of tensed muscle in a quick series of blows. Although the first couple didn’t do much, the ones immediately after them caught the man’s attention. As soon as Slocum felt the man take half a step back, he delivered a powerful uppercut to his chin.

  The man’s head snapped back, but he took the punch a lot better than Slocum had anticipated. In fact, when he craned his neck back around to look at him, he was still smiling. “That’s gonna make it all the sweeter when I drop you on your tenderfoot ass.”

  “Tenderfoot?” Slocum snarled as he rocked the man with a right cross that was so quick there was no time to brace for it. “Better watch where you’re directing a name like that, boy.”

  His face twisting into something uglier than before, the man growled, “Boy? Is that what you just called me?” Uninterested in Slocum’s reply, he lowered his shoulder and charged at him like a bull.

  Slocum wanted to step aside and let the man run past him, but he caught the man’s shoulder on the ribs that hadn’t been tenderized by punches already. It would have been less painful for him to have just held his ground and taken what was headed his way. A sharp pain lanced up through Slocum’s torso like a hand, to reach into his lungs and steal his next breath. He allowed his body to go limp as he struggled to suck in some more wind.

  “Is somebody out here?” Ian called from his shop as the door creaked open. Although Slocum didn’t bother looking toward the printer, he could hear a few surprised sounds come out of him as he caught sight of the scuffle taking place just a few yards away from his doorstep.

  Still being driven back, Slocum dug one boot into the dirt behind him to bring both himself and the other man to a jarring halt. He then drove that same leg forward until his knee pounded against the other man’s hip. It wasn’t much more than a wild, glancing blow, but it bought him some breathing room.

  “Stay outta this, old man!” the fellow in front of Slocum roared. “This is between me and the writer!”

  “Writer?” Slocum asked in between gulps for air.

  “That’s right. I know who you are. And I bet you don’t even know who you’re lookin’ at.”

  “Actually I don’t.”

  Lowering his stance so his shoulders were slouched forward and his head was low, the man looked as if he was about to run at Slocum on all fours as he said, “Daniel Sykes. Bet you wish you hadn’t come around here tonight, huh?”

  “Never heard of you. But I’m not a writer, either,” Slocum replied. “I think we’ve got ourselves a bit of a misunderstanding.”

  “The hell we do!” Without waiting for another moment, Sykes ran at Slocum just as he’d advertised. When he got within a few feet, he extended both arms to corral him in the event Slocum attempted to dodge to either side.

  Slocum twisted sideways and lifted his arms so they wouldn’t get wrapped up in the other man’s grasp. While Sykes churned up dirt with both feet and tried to lock his arms around him, Slocum clasped his hands together and dropped them like a hammer on Sykes’s back. He had enough time to pick his shot this time, and he hit the man’s spine dead on. Grunting in pain, Sykes was barely able to remain upright as his arms instinctively pulled in closer to protect his body. That set him up nicely for another well-placed blow.

  Then, Slocum backed away until his boot touched the .44 that had been dropped. Scooping up the pistol, he asked, “Who the hell are you, Daniel Sykes?”

  “You sayin’ you ain’t heard of me? Then why the hell were you waiting for me to come along?”

  “I wasn’t waiting for you.” Thumbing back the hammer of the .44 made a loud metallic click that did a good job of catching Sykes’s attention. “I’m only asking you once more before I assume the worst. Who the hell are you?”

  Rather than test Slocum’s resolve, he said, “I’m from as far south as the Arizona Territories, but I’ve done some work in Kansas, Wyoming, and up into the Dakotas.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “He’s a cattle driver,” Ian said as he approached them. “I spoke to him earlier, Mr. Slocum. He’s just a good fella who does odd jobs wherever he can find ’em. Used to be the same way myself before I found my calling and got my presses together. However this started, it doesn’t have to end any worse. Everyone just take a breath and settle down.”

  Despite having been knocked around and riled up, Sykes looked like a man who was in his element. He wore a devil’s grin and even winked at Slocum when he said, “That’s right. Ain’t no need for this to get any worse.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting that you’re the one who came at me first?” Slocum said.

  “Only because you were lurking like some kinda ghoul in the shadows.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Slocum is no ghoul,” Ian said. “He was probably just coming to have another word with me regarding Mr. Corrington’s visit. Isn’t that right, Mr. Slocum?”

  Sykes twitched several times throughout that short response. It seemed several things Ian was talking about had piqued his interest. “You’re John Slocum?”

  “That’s right.”

  Finally, Sykes shifted his stance so he didn’t look like he was ready to attack. “Well then. We might have somethin’ in common after all.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like wantin’ to have a talk with a certain writer in regards to some yellowback novels.”

  10

  The saloon was a long structure with a high ceiling full of birds that had made their nests up in the rafters. Tables were arranged in a manner that allowed customers to pull their chairs out while also avoiding the white stains where bird shit had fal
len from above. Basically one large room with the front door at one end and the bar at the other, it was a place that felt more spacious on the inside than it looked on the outside. Having noticed the bird dung on the floor, Slocum had been quick to pick his seat first when he, Sykes, and Ian had gotten a table.

  Ever the gentleman, Ian had made the long walk to the bar to fetch the first round of drinks. That gave Slocum and Sykes a few moments to speak privately.

  “Let me guess,” Sykes said. “You found your name smeared all over some book that ain’t good enough to wipe yer ass with?”

  “Something like that.”

  “The book was written by Edward Corrington?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Pressing both hands down on the table, Sykes once again looked more like an animal stalking toward him than like a man. “That’s the same asshole that wrote about me.”

  “What did he write about you?”

  “Never you mind. All that’s important is that he spread enough lies to enough folks that I got chased out of two different towns for doing nothin’ more than riding in and trying to get myself fed.”

  “Somehow, I get the feeling you’re used to getting into trouble,” Slocum said.

  Sykes leaned away and shifted his hat so it rested on the back of his head. “I ain’t no saint, but neither are you. What did you intend on doing to that little shit writer when you got your hands on him?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Sykes chuckled. He looked toward the back of the room, where Ian was paying for the drinks. As the printer did his best to carry them all to the table, Sykes said, “I know where to find that writer, but he won’t be here for long.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t even laid eyes on him.”

  “And how would you know such a thing?”