Slocum and the Yellowback Trail

by Jake Logan

  “Hell no. I’d rather poke a rabid dog with a short stick than stay this close to you.”

  When Sykes marched out of the room, Slocum raised the book and continued flipping the pages. “And that,” he said to himself, “is why I wanted one room.”

  Slocum didn’t know how Sykes conducted his search, but he conducted one of his own soon after. He hadn’t been there long enough to panic just yet, so he settled for walking the halls and investigating the sound of any doors being opened or shut. It was a simple system, but quickly allowed him to find out that roughly half the rooms in the hotel were rented out. Half of those were to women, and one of the remaining men was most definitely not the writer. That is, unless Edward Corrington was an old Chinese fellow who could barely walk.

  Sitting at one of the small tables in the hotel’s dining room, Slocum positioned himself so his back was to a wall and he was looking out at anyone who came and went. People drifted in and sat down, most of them ordering food, while others merely talked over drinks. It was all very cordial until Sykes stomped over to Slocum’s table wearing a wide, self-satisfied grin.

  “Found him,” Sykes said proudly.

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Had a talk with that desk clerk. Once I got him talking about his cousin or brother or whoever the hell it was, he took a shine to me. From then on, I could have gotten him to show me the hotel’s safe and let me spin the dial.”

  “Corrington is staying in the room two doors down the hall from ours.”

  Sykes looked at him as if Slocum had sprouted horns. “How do you know that?”

  “I checked the register.”

  “That’s just because I distracted the clerk.”

  “Sure it is,” Slocum grunted.

  “So you know what room he’s in. Do you even know what he looks like?” Before Slocum could answer, Sykes proudly said, “Short fellow. Round face. Red hair. He sits at the same table for every meal he takes here. That table right over there, to be exact.”

  Snapping his head in the direction Sykes had been pointing, Slocum found a short fellow with a round face and red hair sitting with an older gentleman with a trimmed beard and three women.

  Settling into his chair at the table, Sykes scooted around so he could watch the writer without being too obvious about it. “Seems like we did the same job from different angles. Maybe we should’ve stuck together.”

  “That’s what I wanted to do, but figured you wouldn’t have any part of it.”

  “Working together is one thing. Rooming together is . . . Wait a second. I think he spotted me.”

  “Is that a problem?” Slocum asked.

  Twisting around to put his back to the writer’s table, Sykes lowered his head and whispered, “He may have picked me out a few other times when I was tracking him.”

  “Tracking him? Through town, you mean?”

  “A little. Mostly at a few stores across the street.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake,” Slocum growled. “Haven’t you ever followed someone before?”

  “Well excuse the hell outta me for not being a snake in the grass. The only time I ever trail behind someone is when I’m hunting ’em down, and it’s never made any sense to lag behind for this long. Is he looking at us?”

  Slocum glanced toward the writer, to find everyone at that table looking nervously in his direction. “Yeah, looks like you’ve spooked them all real good.”

  When Slocum took the napkin from his lap and threw it onto the table, Sykes asked, “What are you doing?”

  Slocum pushed back from the table, stood up, and calmly started walking.

  “Where are you going?” Sykes asked again, before getting up quickly enough to bump the table with his knee and rattle everything on top of it.

  “I’m going over to introduce myself. Since you’ve done everything but mark us already, we might as well do what we came to do.”

  Sykes stuck his hand into his pocket to fetch the new knife he’d gotten from the old lady’s store. “I was hoping to have a bit more privacy for our meeting.”

  “And I was hoping to handle this with a bit more discretion. Seems like neither of us can get what he wants.”

  With that, Slocum crossed the room and took stock of the situation. The writer was already squirming a bit, but that was probably due to the fact that Sykes was rushing to approach the table along with Slocum. The older man with the beard looked like a man of means. Not only was his silver beard trimmed into a perfect point two inches below his chin, but his tailored suit was perfectly maintained. The trio of women was also very well groomed. Two of them looked to be somewhere in their early twenties. One was a slender blonde in an expensive black dress, and the other was a brunette with thin lips, tanned skin, and a red dress. The third woman was slightly older and wrapped in velvet, which complemented hair that, depending on how the light hit it, was either dark brown or a muted shade of red. The ladies all looked at Slocum with varying degrees of interest while the two men at the table shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  “Can I . . . uhh . . . Can I help you?” the man with the round face stammered.

  Holding his hat in one hand, Slocum replied with a question of his own. “Are you Edward Corrington, the writer?”

  “Why, yes, I am.”

  Sykes stood behind Slocum, but seemed content to let him do the talking for now.

  “I’m an admirer of your work,” Slocum said. “Would it be too much of an imposition to join you for a few moments?”

  Corrington relaxed a little when he heard that, but the sight of Sykes was obviously distracting him. “I’m speaking to my editor and some friends, but I suppose I could spare a moment.”

  Reaching out to drape an arm around Sykes, Slocum explained, “This is a friend of mine. He’s the shy type, but don’t let that bother you. He’s probably been following you around like a ghoul when all he wanted was to ask for you to sign one of his books.”

  The sigh that Corrington let out was almost large enough to fill the sails of a seagoing vessel. “I admit, I had noticed him throughout the day. If your friend wanted a word, all he had to do was ask. Please, take a seat.”

  The old man huffed as if shuffling his chair over a few inches was going to be the death of him. All three women smiled politely, but stayed close enough to bask in the writer’s presence. Now that he was closer, Slocum was able to take note of the writer’s stocky build. His clothes didn’t reek of money like the old man’s, but they were better than anything Slocum carried with him. Of course, considering the few bits of clothes crumpled into his bags, that wasn’t saying much.

  “So what brings you to Perryville?” Corrington asked.

  Sykes quickly replied, “We came to see you.”

  “Did you, now? Well that’s very flattering.”

  The woman with the possibly red hair tapped on Corrington’s elbow and whispered into his ear while looking across the table at Slocum. Patting her on the arm and nodding, Corrington announced, “My manners are appalling. Let me introduce you to the rest of my table. This is Jessica, Hannah, and Rose.” In order, those names belonged to the redhead, the blonde, and the brunette with the thin lips. “And this,” the writer said while patting the older man on the back, “is my editor, Walter Saunders. He came all the way out from the East Coast to wish me well on my tour along the Mississippi River.”

  Walter stood up just enough to acknowledge the other two men, but not enough to fully clear his seat.

  “How far east?” Slocum asked.

  “Boston,” Walter replied. “Our little publishing house is quite proud of Edward’s success. The least we could do was accompany him on his little expedition.”

  “Have you made it up to Chicago yet?” Slocum asked.

  The writer shook his head and picked up the drink that had been sitting on the table in front of him. “Not yet.”

  “I heard there was some trouble there,” Sykes said.

  If those words struck any chord wit
h the writer, Corrington was real good at keeping it hidden as he extended a hand toward his guests and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “And by what name shall I call you?”

  “I’m John Slocum.”

  Those words did cause the color to drain from Corrington’s face.

  “And I’m Daniel Sykes. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

  16

  Slocum could feel the writer’s palm growing slick within his grasp as he continued to shake Corrington’s hand. Even after Slocum let go and sat down, the writer seemed unable to pull his arm back.

  “That’s rich,” Walter said. “Aren’t those the names you used for some of your books?”

  Without looking at the well-dressed editor, Slocum replied, “They sure are, except I’ve had that name a lot longer than he’s been using it.”

  “And we sure don’t appreciate you draggin’ our names through the mud like you have,” Sykes added.

  Walter showed more of a spark as he laughed and dabbed at his brow with a napkin. “Are you telling me those are truly your names? What a remarkable coincidence!”

  “That’s not what I would call it,” Slocum said evenly.

  Although the two men in front of Slocum were having mixed reactions, the three women all seemed to be of the same mind. They watched Slocum and Sykes with growing interest. Jessica even leaned away from Corrington so she could get that much closer to Slocum. It was only a difference of a few inches, but the change spoke volumes about what was going through her mind. The other two likewise diverted some of the admiration they’d been casting at the writer toward the two characters who’d sought him out.

  It had taken a while, but Walter was finally getting the idea that all was not well at the table. His chuckles became less and less humorous as he took notice of the way the other three men were staring at each other. “Those were fictional characters in your books, right, Edward?”

  When Edward started to speak, Slocum stared at him even harder. The message was conveyed well enough for the writer to lean back as though he’d been shoved. “Perhaps this isn’t the best time to discuss such things. After all, confidentiality and everything.”

  “Confidentiality?” Walter huffed. “In regards to what? I’d like an answer to my question.” When he didn’t get one, he looked over to the other two. “Are you men saying you are the actual people depicted in Edward’s books?”

  All three women watched with growing interest. Jessica even brushed her fingertips along the side of her neck as she waited for a response.

  “You think my friend and me could have a word with Edward alone?” Sykes asked. “I bet we could straighten all of this out real quick.”

  Walter pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “The quicker the better. I’ll return in a moment.”

  Slocum stood up as well as he said, “Excuse us, ladies, but Edward and I have some matters to discus.”

  “Oh, don’t mind us,” Jessica quickly said. “We won’t interfere.”

  Before Slocum could respond, Sykes was up and coming around the table toward Corrington. “Things may get a little messy. Wouldn’t want to ruin any of those pretty dresses.”

  Corrington couldn’t get any paler, but he was trembling and was too weak to resist when Slocum took hold of him by the arm and led him out of the room. “Don’t pay any mind to Danny,” he said. “He runs his mouth too much.”

  By the time he was able to form words, Corrington was stumbling out the front door of the hotel. The cool September air invigorated him enough to say, “Whatever this is about, I’m sure we can settle it amicably.”

  “You know damn well what this is about,” Sykes said.

  After rounding a corner, Slocum pushed the writer toward the hotel until Corrington’s back knocked against the building’s side wall. The street was nearby, but was practically deserted. The few folks walking along the boardwalk on the opposite side were too wrapped up in their own affairs to listen when Slocum said, “You’ve got some things to answer for, Mr. Corrington.”

  Sykes stood between the writer and the street. His hand came up to flick the pocketknife open with a quick snap of his wrist. “You sure as hell do, and now’s the time to take care of our business.”

  Corrington barely caught sight of the blade before Slocum grabbed Sykes by the wrist and forced him to lower it. Even that quick glimpse of sharpened steel was enough to take the wind from the writer’s sails. He slumped back against the wall and let out a moaning breath. If Slocum hadn’t been quick enough to pin him to the wall by pressing his hand flat against his chest, Corrington would have dropped straight to the ground.

  “Why’d you write that trash about us?” Slocum asked.

  The writer’s head lolled from side to side as he struggled to remain conscious. “They were . . . just books. Just stories.”

  “Stories about me. About Dan here. Didn’t you think folks would read those stories?”

  “Honestly? I didn’t think so many would read them. My books never sold so well until I . . .”

  “Until you what?” Slocum asked. “Until you started using real names and passing the stories off as fact?”

  Snapping awake in an instant, Corrington steadied himself as best he could when he said, “I never passed them off as fact!”

  “Tell that to the bounty hunters that’re using those yellowback novels to justify hunting us down.”

  “Don’t you already have a price on your head, Mr. Slocum?” Corrington asked. “According to my research—”

  Stopping the writer by slamming him against the wall, Slocum said, “You don’t know shit about me or what I done. And don’t stand there trying to tell me that I murdered innocent folks in Fort Griffin.” Seeing the guilty shadow that fell over Corrington’s face, Slocum nodded and moved even closer to him. “Did you really think you could spout off like that in print and nothing would come of it?”

  “I think he did,” Sykes said. Holding the pocketknife up so the little blade was at the writer’s eye level, he added, “But something sure is gonna come of it. There’s a price that’s gotta be paid.”

  “My research,” Corrington croaked. “According to my research, those incidents are said to have happened.”

  “I don’t know where the hell you got that stuff about me in Fort Griffin, but it’s gotten some men riled up. You wrote there’s a price on my head linked to that lie.”

  “And there is a price on your head,” Corrington was quick to say. “Just not exactly as I depicted. But I do my research! I put together bits and pieces of rumor, legend, and some fact to make a good story. That’s what I do! That’s all I do. I’m a writer!”

  “How are folks supposed to know what’s true and what you made up?” Sykes asked.

  “They could start by reading my book!” When he saw the little blade move closer to his face, Corrington squirmed to get away from it. “It’s right there in the front of every book. Under the acknowledgments. I state it all very plainly.”

  Sykes grabbed hold of the writer’s collar and leaned in while cocking his knife hand back like an arrow that was about to be launched. “To hell with this!”

  “Wait!” Slocum warned. His gun hand was quick enough to snap up and out in time to slap against Sykes’s wrist as it lunged forward. Sykes’s blade was diverted, but there was enough muscle behind it to drive it an inch or so into the wall a hairsbreadth from Corrington’s left ear.

  Although Sykes cursed at him while trying to pull the blade from where it had been lodged, Slocum removed the book he’d carried in his pocket and flipped it open. When he saw the acknowledgment page, he skimmed the words and then held the book so Sykes could get a look at it. “It’s right here.”

  “I don’t give a damn what that says. That asshole ain’t got the right to use our names like that.”

  “I swear,” Corrington said, “it wasn’t my intention to cause any harm. I even thanked you whenever possible. I went out of my way to make it clear that you were merely inspiration.�
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  “Well some of the men who read your books didn’t pay attention to that part,” Slocum pointed out.

  “There are some crazy people out there.”

  “Is that why you brought armed men along with you?”

  Corrington was caught off guard by that. And, judging by the expression on his face, so was Sykes. “What armed men?” he asked.

  Slocum kept his eyes fixed solidly on Corrington when he said, “The ones that Walter went to get when he excused himself. I guess you didn’t really plan on needing to bring gunmen along for dinner with an old man and three women, did you?”

  “Wh-why would I?” Corrington sheepishly replied. He started to say something else, but was silenced when Slocum clapped his hand over his mouth.

  Around the front of the hotel, a door opened and a man called out, “Edward? You out here?”

  Slocum pressed his hand against the writer’s mouth, but he could feel the scream building up inside of the smaller man. If Corrington decided to draw attention to himself, it wouldn’t take much. There were plenty of ways to keep him quiet, but Slocum wasn’t quite ready to follow through on anything so drastic.

  Extending his arm, Sykes pressed the blade of his pocketknife flat against the writer’s face just below his eye. He flashed his teeth in something close to an animal’s snarl before putting a finger of his free hand up to his lips in a shushing motion.

  Corrington was too petrified to inhale, let alone defy both of his captors.

  A few seconds later, Walter said something to whoever was with him and shut the door.

  Slocum eased Sykes’s hand back and slowly lowered his own. “We don’t want to hurt you, mister. If that’s what we’d wanted, you would have been dead already.”

  “Yes,” Corrington gasped. “I figured as much.”

  “And what makes you such a goddamn expert on what we’re capable of?” Sykes demanded angrily.

  Corrington shrugged and said, “I’ve done my research. I’ve written your character through four books. I know what kind of dastardly things a truly wicked man can do.”