by Jake Logan
“Another one?” she gasped while staring at the dead man.
“Yeah,” Slocum said while dumping the contents of the last bag onto the bed. “That’s what happens in an ambush. Did you expect we’d all be slapping each other on the back and eating cake?”
“No, but I . . . I . . .”
“How much did he pay you for this?”
“A hundred dollars.”
Slocum raised his eyebrows while sifting through Harper’s things. “That’s a lot of money. Did he part with it easily?”
“He was specific in what he wanted, but he paid me sure enough.”
So the bounty hunter didn’t spend all of his cash on clothes. That meant he had funds of his own or someone backing him. Neither one of those options struck Slocum as very good.
“Do you . . . want some of that money?” Kate asked.
Before he could take her up on that offer, Slocum found something even better. It was a newspaper that had been stuffed into the bottom of the bag to be used as a lining. Despite the paper having soaked up a good amount of water from the rain or whatever other conditions that bag had been dragged through, there was still enough print visible for him to make out the top section of the front page.
“Keep your money,” Slocum told her, “but you’ll do something to make up for selling me out.”
“Anything. I’ll go wherever you want and do whatever you want . . . again.”
“That’s not the sort of thing I’m talking about. If anyone asks what happened here, you can tell them whatever the hell you want in regards to why the shots were fired. Whatever story you come up with, just make sure it ends with me being killed. You understand?”
“I think so. Why would you want me to—”
Slocum wheeled around and came at her with all the rage that had been boiling inside of him. One way or another, those rumors were coming to an end. “The why don’t matter. You’ll pick a corpse and tell folks it’s John Slocum. If I don’t hear rumors of my own demise soon enough, I’ll come back to give this town one more corpse to gossip about. You understand now?”
She couldn’t nod fast enough. “Which one should I say was you?”
After scooping as much of Harper’s belongings that he could fit into one bag, Slocum headed for the door. “I don’t care,” he said while walking down the hall to get his boots and the rest of his clothes. “Just so long as it ain’t the ugliest of the bunch.”
The rooms above the Creek House Saloon made the one Slocum had rented look like royal living quarters in comparison. Then again, the hallway wasn’t shot to hell and there weren’t bodies on the floor. After receiving enough of a pounding to shake the door on its hinges, it was pulled open just far enough for one suspicious eye and the barrel of a gun to poke out. Both of them belonged to Daniel Sykes.
“Come to ask for my help already?” Sykes asked as he pulled the door open the rest of the way.
Slocum stormed into a room that was too small for him to take two full strides without hitting a wall and too cramped for him to stand upright without knocking his head against the slanted ceiling. “Remember that bounty hunter I was talking about?”
“The dandy with the bowler?”
“That’s the one. He paid me a visit.”
By this time, Sykes had picked out the blood soaking through the back of Slocum’s shirt as well as the scent of burned gunpowder that was in his clothes. Sykes was chuckling as he checked the hallway and shut the door. “Do we need to worry about him anymore?”
“Yeah. The slippery little prick jumped out a window and was gone before I could catch up to him.”
“Well then, let’s get after him! He can’t have gotten far and I know a few places where he might be holed up.”
Slocum threw Harper’s bag at him so it hit Sykes flat against his chest, stopping the man before he opened the door again. “Take a look in there and tell me if you find anything important.”
“Unless that bounty hunter’s in here, I don’t give a shit.”
“If you know some places where Harper may be, we can pay them a visit. Otherwise, I don’t want to waste any more time on that asshole.”
“Waste time?” Sykes asked. “The son of a bitch came after both of us, and you think getting to him is a waste of time?”
“Harper’s not the real problem. Take a look inside that bag.”
Gritting his teeth, Sykes stomped over to the rickety bed and dumped the contents of the bag onto its lumpy surface. Although he’d been impatient and flustered with Slocum’s request, he quickly saw the reasoning behind it as several water-stained and dog-eared copies of cheaply bound books fell from the bag. “What the hell is this?”
“A whole library of bullshit,” Slocum replied. “I only sifted through a few of them, but none of it’s very complimentary to either of us.”
“And not just us,” Sykes said as he leafed through one book entitled Last Stand in Louisiana. “This mentions an associate of mine. I’ve never even seen this one before.”
“If Harper is reading and believing this stuff, that’s one problem. If he’s just the first one to come after us, that’s a whole other set of complications. From what Ian told me, there’s gonna be plenty more of these books on the way, and after that happens there may be other bounty hunters out there who get it in their heads to come after us. The stories will take a life of their own and it’ll be a tough fire to stamp out.”
Sykes gripped a book in both hands and clenched fists around it. The flimsy pages crumpled easily before he finally ripped the thing in two. “I got enough to worry about in regards to things I done. The last thing I need is some asshole writer adding more to that list.”
“Which brings me to the reason I came over here. We need to get to the root of this problem.”
“You’re damn right we do.” Snatching another book from the pile, Sykes held it in a trembling hand as if that bunch of yellowed paper was the bane of his existence. “We gotta find this writer.” Turning the book so he could get a look at the name on the cover, he snarled, “Edward Corrington. I told you this much already, so now you’re finally with me?”
“Yeah. I’m with you.”
“Good. ’Cause when I get my hands on this asshole, I’m gonna—”
Slocum cut him short by forcing him to loosen his grip on the book. Taking it away from him the way he would cautiously remove a bone from a hungry dog’s mouth, he said, “Most of these books are kindling as far as I’m concerned, but I want this one.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sure where to find Edward Corrington. What about you?”
Scowling at the book as if trying to live up to his end of the hungry dog comparison, Sykes replied, “If he ain’t gonna show up to talk to this printer, then no. But that bounty hunter may know, and the longer we dawdle here, the more of a chance we’re giving that asshole of slipping away again.”
“And if all else fails,” Slocum said while opening the book to the first page and showing it to him, “we know the next stop we need to make.”
On the first page of Last Stand in Louisiana, there was an inscription that read, “To Michael, best regards. E. Corrington—Sept. 9 St. Louis, Missouri.”
A smile slid onto Sykes’s face that was about as friendly as a hiss from a rattlesnake.
The places on Sykes’s list were a hotel on the other side of town and the saloon next to the one where he’d rented his room. The saloon was full of people, but none of them was the one they were after. On the way to the hotel, Slocum spotted a group of lawmen carrying shotguns and walking with purpose in the opposite direction. He kept his head down and stayed out of the lawmen’s way. Fortunately, Sykes didn’t need to be told to do the same.
“Think them boys are looking in on our bounty hunter friend?” Sykes asked.
Slocum cast one glance at the lawmen’s backs and kept walking. “More likely they’re checking in on all the shots that were fired. If so, they’re gonna find some of Harper’s p
artners. Might be best if we’re not in town when they do.”
“I think I’m gonna like workin’ with you just fine.”
13
CHICAGO TWO DAYS LATER
“I assure you, sir, you do not want to test me, so I will only ask you once more. Where is John Slocum?”
Terrance was taking a turn behind the bar when Harper had stormed into his theater. It was the start of the dinner show and the girls were kicking their heels up while accompanied by a bawdy tune. The customers who weren’t enthralled by that sight were wrapped up in their own games. The roulette wheel was spinning, but this time the man behind it was a longtime friend of Terrance’s. All was well in the Stamper. At least, it was until Harper pointed a gun at the theater’s owner.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told you before,” Terrance said dryly. “After he left here, I don’t know where he went.”
“You paid him to kill Bo. You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?”
“I’d like to think so, but I ain’t his keeper. Even if I did know where he was, why the hell would I tell you?”
Harper’s youthful face twisted into an angry scowl. He looked down as if to make sure the gun was still in his hand.
“Maybe you should look behind you,” Terrance said.
Risking only a quick glance back, Harper spotted the two armed men who’d taken positions behind him. Holstering the .32 in a small holster under his arm, Harper said, “I don’t think you know Slocum as well as you think you do.”
“I don’t?”
“He’s a cold-blooded killer and a murderer of innocents.”
“Sounds just terrible,” Terrance sighed. “I’ll weep over it once you’re out of here. Now you can leave through the door or the window. Take a second to think it over.”
Anyone who’d seen Terrance before Slocum had arrived could see a big difference in the way the theater owner carried himself. After ridding his place of the bad element and putting Bo into the ground, he was bolder and more confident. He’d also hired new men to protect his interests. The ones Harper saw when he turned around weren’t familiar to him. But, familiar or not, they carried sawed-off shotguns partially covered by long coats so as not to rile up the customers. If Slocum was there, he would have shown himself. And if Terrance was inclined to help Harper in finding him, he would have shown a sign of buckling by now. Empty-handed after his ride from Braverly, Harper walked past the men with the shotguns and left the Stamper for good.
As soon as the doors were shut behind him and the music faded to a muffled wail, Harper stuffed his hands into his pockets and balled them into fists. He’d wanted to pull his trigger when he was back there, but that wouldn’t have been proper. He’d wanted to drag Terrance outside and show him the dirt that was stained by blood that had flowed through Bo’s veins. For all of his posturing, Terrance Pinder wasn’t anything more than a killer himself. Perhaps he could be reminded of that fact if Harper decided to pay him a visit once the theater’s gunmen weren’t itching for a fight.
Harper nodded and let out a calming breath. “For everything, there is a time.”
As if in response to those words, two men made themselves known by stepping out of the shadows across the street. They were killers as well, but unlike the theater owner, James and Cam didn’t care who knew it. In some respects, that made them easier for the bounty hunter to tolerate.
James waved impatiently at him even after Harper crossed the street and approached him. When they were standing face-to-face, James said, “You’re that dandy that was after Slocum.”
“What business is that of yours?”
“We know where he went.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“He’s at a little town south of here,” Cam said in a rush. “Braverly’s the name of the place.”
“I already came from there,” Harper said dismissively. “You don’t have anything else I need?”
“We know what he’s after,” James said.
“And when did he tell you all of this?” Harper scoffed. “Did the three of you sit down to sip tea and swap stories?”
James stepped up until he was close enough to knock the other man back with his chest. “No, smart-ass. We got a friend who still works for the shithead who runs that theater. How do you think we managed to get my girls in there so easy in the first place?”
Harper didn’t know the details of the other two men’s history with the Stamper, and he didn’t care to learn it. He did, however, have a good grip on knowing when someone was feeding him a line of manure. James struck Harper as too anxious to be an effective liar and too ignorant to try and play him like a fiddle.
As if sensing the change in Harper’s attitude, James said, “Slocum’s after some writer who put him in a book or something.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s right. He went down to Braverly to try and catch up with him. If he ain’t there, we should be able to find someone who saw what happened once Slocum got his hands on that writer fella.”
“The writer wasn’t in Braverly,” Harper replied. “But I can find out where he’ll be.”
“All right, then,” Cam said in a nervous voice. “If Slocum could have found out the same thing, then we know where he’ll be too. That puts us right where we started, which is a prime spot to head him off and bring him down.”
“You came after him once already,” James said. “Seein’ as how he made you look like a fool that time, I’d bet you want to see him dead just as much as we do. I just heard that there’s a price on his head.”
“That’s right. But I’ve tracked him this far. I can do the rest on my own.”
Nodding toward the spot where Slocum had been when Bo was gunned down, James said, “Funny, but I seem to recall you not having much luck when you took him on by yourself.”
“That was unfortunate timing is all.”
“Yeah, real unfortunate for you to walk straight up to a known gunhand like Slocum while our partner is getting cut in half in the street. If you’d had Slocum’s undivided attention, it would’ve been you dead in the dirt instead of Bo. Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”
Harper did look James in the eyes, but he couldn’t dispute the other man’s claim. In fact, as he thought back to how things had gone that day, as well as the night in Braverly, he realized that James had more of a point than he could possibly know. It also seemed as if he might know a thing or two that could be useful. “So you’ve heard of Slocum?”
“Yeah. He’s taken on his share of bad men and lived to tell the tale. I spoke to some folks who come up here from New Mexico, and they say he’s done some damage there as well. There’s supposed to be a price on his head in regards to some old business, but you’d probably know more about that.”
Harper nodded sagely, even though he hadn’t bothered looking into those older reward notices.
“I bet we could find him even quicker if we did it together instead of apart,” James continued. “Some of my girls have scattered since that whole scuffle, and the rest are a little skittish, so they could use the time to rest up. Me and Cam will be going after Slocum anyways, so there’s no reason the three of us should be steppin’ on each other’s toes.”
Cam’s face was hard to read, simply because it didn’t stay still for very long. For the most part, he was content to watch the street and twitch at every sound that came from the Stamper. Considering the show that was being put on in there, that was a whole lot of twitching. Still, there was a spark in that one’s eyes that Harper thought he could use. At the very least, the fidgeting young man would make excellent bait.
“So you want to work for me?” Harper asked.
“With you is more like it,” James snapped. “But yeah. We all got a bone to pick with Slocum.”
“What do you want for payment?”
“He’s got a price on his head, right?”
Harper nodded.
“Well you can keep that,” James said. “Cashing
in something like that would just involve talkin’ to a bunch of law dogs, and I’d rather not have any part of that. All I want is his head.”
Raising an eyebrow, Harper asked, “You want to take his head?”
“Well not on a pike or nothin’, but I want his blood on my hands. I wanna be known as the one to kill him since that’ll be how it pans out anyways. And when the stories start to fly, I want you to back ’em up. Every little bit helps.” James puffed out his chest and shifted his attention to the theater. “I’m comin’ back to this town as more than I am right now.” Shooting a quick glance to his partner, he added, “I mean both Cam and me of course.”
Harper took notice of the uneasiness in Cam’s face and replied, “Of course.”
“I can’t abide bein’ run out of any place,” James continued. “If I come back as the man who killed the best gunman Terrance Pinder could afford, I’ll have the run of that theater. And once I get the run of one place, running the next ones will be that much easier.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” Harper said. “How soon can you start?”
14
When they reached St. Louis, it didn’t take Slocum and his new partner long to track down where Edward Corrington had been. The writer had dropped off a shipment of his books at several general stores and stayed around to sign copies for whoever bought them on the first day. After that, he’d headed south along the Mississippi River for some event that none of the store owners knew much about. Once that same story had been confirmed by at least half a dozen others, Slocum took it at face value. From there, the route seemed fairly cut-and-dried. Well, maybe not particularly dry.
Slocum leaned against the rail on the upper deck of the steamboat paddling its way down the river. Although he normally preferred to ride at his own pace, there were benefits to this method of travel. Not the least of which was the refreshing spray of mist against his face on a sunny day. After all that had happened recently, it did him some good to let his shoulders ease down from up around his ears.