Slocum and the Yellowback Trail

by Jake Logan

  There were only a few other passengers on board, along with several horses. The boat itself had seen better days, and nearly every plank in her was warped to some degree. When Sykes came up the steps leading from the main cabin, he nearly pulled the rail from the wall after stumbling on the weathered boards. “Damn thing’s probably gonna sink before its next stop,” he grumbled.

  “If it does, then our problems won’t seem so bad,” Slocum offered.

  “Sure. We’ll swim to shore, dry off, and get shot at by some other bunch of addle-brained gunmen who read too many of those yellowback books.”

  “So did you find out anything useful or did you just stagger around bellyaching to the crew?”

  Sykes stood beside him, gripped the rail as if his life depended on it, and then spewed a portion of his last meal into the river. After spitting the last of it out, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sighed. “That’s better.” When he spoke again, it was with renewed vigor. “The fellow tending to the horses belowdecks remembers our man Corrington well enough. He says that writer was fussier than a princess when it came to his horse. All I had to do was mention the fits Corrington threw and that jostled memories from the rest of the crew as well.”

  “What sort of memories?”

  “Like all the yarns he was spinning during his ride up this same river into St. Louis.”

  “Did they take him back downriver?” Slocum asked.

  “Oh yeah. Corrington paid extra for the captain to wait for him so he wouldn’t have to break in another crew. He drove them crazy all over again when he wouldn’t shut his damn mouth about all sorts of bullshit nobody wanted to hear.”

  “I know how they feel,” Slocum grunted.

  Sykes continued on despite Slocum’s sarcasm. “And because of all this, they all remembered where they left him off because they were finally rid of the son of a bitch.”

  Until now, Slocum had been prepared to ride the river south to the next largest port. It made the most sense considering all of the places that the writer had stopped along the waterway. If he didn’t figure something out in the meantime, Slocum had figured on looking for the next link in the chain at a place that sold the books. What he hadn’t counted on was Sykes actually stepping up and doing something useful.

  Still wary of the other man’s detective skills, Slocum asked, “You got a notion of where he went?”

  “Better than a notion. All the crew says they dumped him off a few miles downriver, where he was supposed to catch a stage into Perryville.”

  “Perryville, huh? Are they sure about that part?”

  Sykes nodded enthusiastically. “That writer didn’t shut up about it. Kept spouting off about dropping his new book off there. Invited everyone to come buy it and wouldn’t take no for an answer. The captain of this heap couldn’t get the hell away from that dock fast enough. He even sounded cautious about going back. Probably worried that writer might catch a whiff of him and try gnawing his ear off with some more of his goddamn stories.”

  Holding onto the rail, Slocum looked toward the bow as if he could see far enough past the front of the boat to get a look at where they were headed. In the time he and Sykes had been traveling together, Slocum hadn’t met up with any more bounty hunters. Then again, he’d been doing his best to keep from meeting anyone at all until his temper had had a chance to simmer down. The folks in St. Louis had been friendly enough, but none of them had been told Slocum or Sykes’s real name. And the moment he’d heard that Corrington wasn’t in town any longer, Slocum was on his way out.

  “So how much farther is it to port?” Slocum asked.

  “We should be there before supper.”

  “Think we could convince the captain to stop there one more time?”

  Sykes beamed proudly and slapped him on the back. “Already made the arrangements.”

  If Slocum had had any doubt about Sykes’s story, they were put to rest by the crew themselves when they tied off at the short pier sticking out into the river from a crooked shoreline near Perryville. The horses were saddled and led to the top of the gangplank before the boat had come to a full stop. They were led to shore at the same time Slocum and Sykes were all but pushed overboard. Even though he was paid in full, the captain wasn’t anxious for repeat business.

  “You ain’t bringing that writer back, are you?” the stout bald man asked.

  Slocum didn’t have to do one bit of acting when he replied, “If I have it my way, you won’t hear from that writer again for a good long time.”

  That seemed to please the boat captain just fine, and he sealed the deal by shaking Slocum’s hand. “I go up and down this river all the time. If you two need a ride back, just wait for me here and I’ll be along. So long as I don’t see that writer with ya, I’ll toss you a line.”

  “Sounds good.”

  And before they could get their land legs back, the two of them were leading their horses by the reins as the steamboat chugged away.

  “Good thing we didn’t have much by way of baggage,” Sykes huffed, “or it would’ve been tossed into the trees.”

  “Seems our Mr. Corrington has that effect on folks.”

  “Yep. I suppose he does.”

  It was just under ten miles to Perryville from the spot where they’d been dumped onto the riverbank. Slocum and Sykes led their horses to the trail that led into town, climbed into their saddles, and tapped their heels against their animals’ sides. The horses were a bit unsteady at first, but they were also anxious to get moving after being cooped up in the stalls below the boat’s deck.

  Slocum found he had the same problem as the tan horse beneath him. The biggest difference being that he wasn’t able to stretch his legs while getting his bearings. He’d simply traded the slow, back-and-forth rocking of the boat for the horse’s faster front-to-back rocking. Before too long, his innards felt as if they were being tossed around like a handful of dice. Midway through their ride, he insisted on watering the horses even though the animals were willing to run for another mile. He thought he might vomit worse than Sykes had done while on the boat, but somehow he managed to keep it down. A few splashes of water on his face got him feeling good enough to ride the rest of the way into town, but by the time he got to Perryville, Slocum was more than a little green around the gills.

  Grinning victoriously as he climbed down from his saddle, Sykes looked over at him and asked, “You gonna be all right, John? I’d swear you were gettin’ seasick.”

  “I’m fine,” Slocum snapped.

  “How about we get something to eat? I’m starving. What do you say to a nice, juicy steak? I like mine with plenty of fat around the edges to get all crispy on a fire. That just melts in your mouth like a sloppy spoonful of butter.”

  “Will you shut your damn mouth?”

  “You sure you ain’t sick?” Sykes chided him, obviously knowing the answer to his own question.

  Once he was down from his saddle, Slocum pulled in a breath and felt his boots press down into the comforting, unmoving earth. He placed his hands on his hips, let out the air he’d gulped down, and returned Sykes’s gaze. “I’m sick of hearing you squawk. Does that count?”

  “A man’s got to make certain his partner’s in prime working condition, that’s all. We may just cross our man’s path at any moment.”

  “Or we may have to find another path to catch up to the bastard. I’m starting to wonder if this asshole isn’t just some sort of ghost.”

  The smile on Sykes’s face turned cold at first and then fell off of him completely. His eyes narrowed into slits and he nodded toward one of the nearby buildings. “Then it looks like this whole town believes in spooks.”

  Slocum looked at what had caught Sykes’s eye and found a door to a general store completely covered in very familiar notices. There were several that overlapped, but he immediately recognized the picture on one of the sheets of paper as the scene from Six-Gun Devil. The rest were from other books attributed to Edward Corrington, and
the closer he got to them, the sicker Slocum felt.

  He knocked the door open with the palm of his hand, grabbed hold of a notice, and ripped it off in one angry motion. Once inside, Slocum stalked over to the counter, where an old woman sat beside a rusty cash register. She had a terrified look on her face and a set of knitting needles in her gnarled hands. Before Slocum could say a word, Sykes rushed past him.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Sykes said breathlessly. “We just got into town. Is it true a writer came through here not too long ago?”

  The old woman scooted to the edge of her stool, set herself down, and placed her knitting carefully on the counter. Glaring up at Slocum without a bit of fear, she scolded them. “He’s still here. You two would have seen as much for yourself if you would’ve read what was on that paper instead of ripping it down.”

  “Where is he?” Slocum asked.

  “You ever hear you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

  “I certainly have, ma’am,” Sykes replied. “My partner’s just a little under the weather after a long ride and a longer float down the river.”

  The old woman’s stern expression softened just a bit when she heard that. “I don’t take to the water myself. I say if the good Lord wanted us to travel that way, he would’ve webbed our toes.”

  Sykes nudged Slocum a little too hard to be friendly, but just about right to shove him away from the counter.

  Swallowing his first impulse to shove Sykes into a pile of blankets, Slocum turned away from the counter and walked down the first of the store’s two aisles.

  “My apologies about the advertisements on your door,” Sykes continued. “We come a long way to be here. All the way from St. Louis on that damned boat. Pardon my language.”

  She finally relaxed and waved at him as if shooing a gnat. “I’ve heard worse from my Frank. Especially when we used to go to St. Louis to visit his family. I thought that damn boat would be the death of me.”

  “And a stagecoach ain’t much better, is it?”

  Her eyes widened as if Sykes had just peered into her soul. “It true, isn’t is it? With all that shaking and swaying, a person’s bound to rattle their stomach up through their nose.” Picking up her knitting, she settled into her original rhythm.

  “So you say the writer of them books is here in Perryville?” Sykes asked.

  “Sure is. He was supposed to go to St. Louis as well, but he wasn’t gone long. I don’t know if he even made the trip.”

  “Would you know where we could find him? My partner and I are admirers of his work.”

  “Like I said before, read the sign.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I never was much of one for schoolin’.”

  With that, Sykes completely turned the tables on the old woman. He’d already gotten her to ease up, but now she looked as if she’d been the one overstepping her bounds. “Oh my goodness, I’m sorry about that. I must sound just awful talking down to you that way.” Suddenly, her brow furrowed and she asked, “If you can’t read, then how is it you’re so familiar with Mr. Corrington’s works?”

  “My partner’s the smart one,” Sykes replied. “He reads them front to back and then tells me all about it. Makes for a whole lot of talking, but a long ride passes well enough.”

  Apparently that was good enough for her, because the old woman smiled warmly and nodded. “Just like how I used to read to my Frank. Isn’t that sweet?”

  Slocum approached the counter again. As before, his hands were full with paper, but it wasn’t the kind that had been tacked to a door. Instead, it had been folded into several books. Each of the volumes bore one of the wildly dramatic drawings that had become familiar trademarks of Corrington’s rubbish. “Yeah,” he said under his breath. “Real sweet. I haven’t seen these before. How much for the lot?”

  Despite his unfriendly entrance and their shaky introduction, the old woman looked at Slocum now as if she would kiss him from across the counter and invite him to stay for supper. “Hand them over and I’ll figure it up.”

  “And what about that pocketknife there, ma’am?” Sykes inquired. “The one in the glass case?”

  The woman set the books into a neat pile on the counter and shuffled merrily to the case adjacent to the cash register.

  “Aren’t you going a little overboard with your spending?” Slocum asked.

  “Our spending,” Sykes corrected. “I’ll have to borrow some of that money you got in Chicago.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Aww, look how happy she is. Doesn’t it do your heart good to see that smile?”

  The old woman was smiling all right. Her smile became even wider when she was finished adding up the total of Slocum’s purchase and poking the keys of her register.

  Considering there was still plenty more the woman could tell them if she was of a mind to, Slocum kept her spirits up by paying his bill in full. The sting from handing over the money was soothed when she started talking about all of the visits she’d had from the delightful and prolific Edward Corrington.

  15

  Slocum’s cash reserves took another hit when it came time to rent a room. The Ole Miss Wheelhouse was a fine hotel, but their prices were outrageous considering both beds were only slightly larger than cots. He would have spread out his bedroll in the same stall as his horse if not for the fact that the old woman at the store swore that was the hotel favored by the town’s literary visitor. Sure enough, Slocum spotted the writer’s flowing signature on the register when he signed it.

  “Just the one room for both of you?” the spindly fellow behind the front desk asked.

  “Yeah,” Sykes grunted. “Just the one room,” he added bitterly.

  “You want your own room?” Slocum asked. “You can pay for it.”

  “Maybe I should find another hotel. You know, to make sure we’re spread out to cover the whole town.”

  Slocum shrugged. “Fine. If I happen to be the first one to find what we’re after, I can take care of things as I see fit.”

  Like any outlaw, Sykes thought along twisted lines. Even though Slocum left out a whole lot in that roundabout promise, Sykes quickly arrived at an interpretation that brought a scowl to his face. “I’ll have my own room, thank you very much.”

  “I know you tend to wander,” Slocum said. “Maybe you should stay close so I can keep an eye on you.”

  “My cousin Gary had a problem like that,” the man behind the desk said with a thick Virginian accent. “He was always a bit slow, but got downright tricky after he took a kick to the head from his favorite pony. Ma had to feed him and everything.”

  Slocum couldn’t keep from laughing, but managed to get his hand up to cover his mouth and pass it off as clearing his throat.

  The act wasn’t fooling Sykes, however. “I ain’t slow.”

  “That’s what Gary always used to say,” the clerk replied with a condescending nod.

  That was too much for Slocum, who had to launch into a full coughing fit to hide his laughter.

  “Your room’s at the top of the stairs, second on the left,” the clerk announced before anyone else had a chance to speak. He handed the key to Slocum and asked, “You want any help with your bags?”

  “Not at all.” Kicking the pair of saddlebags they’d brought in, Slocum looked at Sykes and said, “Be a good boy and carry these up to the room, will you?”

  Sykes turned his back on both of them and stalked toward the staircase. “Go fuck yourself.”

  When Slocum raised his eyebrows at that, the clerk nodded again. “Gary had a problem with foul language too.”

  Hefting both sets of saddlebags onto his shoulders, Slocum said, “Maybe this one needs a good kick to the head.”

  The clerk shrugged and went back to his paperwork.

  Sykes’s footsteps were heavy enough for them to be heard throughout the place. When he got to the second floor, Slocum only needed to look for the door that was still swinging on its hinges to find their room. Strolling in and d
ropping his bags on the floor, he said, “That fellow behind the desk was already worth the high price of this place.”

  “What the hell do we need one room for?” Sykes growled. “You wanna get close to me, John? Is that it?”

  “Watch your mouth, Danny Boy, or I might have to scold you.”

  Sykes took a swing at Slocum that was too fast to be dodged. Even though he’d seen it coming, Slocum was laughing too hard to keep from being knocked on the jaw.

  “That’s for the bullshit you said down there,” Sykes snarled.

  It hadn’t been a very hard punch, so Slocum let it pass. “I suppose I had that coming. You’re staying in this room, though, or you can sleep outside.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Because Corrington is probably somewhere in this hotel.”

  “And if he catches on that we’re after him, it’ll mean he’ll only have one room to watch.”

  “If we’re here long enough for him to catch on, you can have this room all to yourself. How’s that strike you?”

  Sykes thought about that for a spell and grudgingly picked up his saddlebags. “I’ll hold you to it. I may even sleep with my damn horse.”

  “Go right ahead on both counts.”

  The room was done up with something fancy or frilly on every surface. Each piece of furniture was dusted and polished. Even the blankets on the beds were so nice that Slocum almost felt bad for setting his feet on one of them when he leaned back in one of the chairs and began sorting through the pile of books he’d bought.

  “Anything good in there?” Sykes asked.

  Slocum ground his teeth together while turning the pages of one particular volume. “I see why Harper’s so fired up to go after me. According to this, I slaughtered entire families outside of Dallas.”

  “Was that before or after what you did in Fort Griffin?”

  “Instead of unpacking your unmentionables, why don’t you take a look around this place and see if we can find our writer friend?” Lowering the book so he could look over it to Sykes, he added, “Unless you want to spend your time sharing a room with me?”