Slocum and the Larcenous Lady

by Jake Logan

  The closer he got, that madder he got, until, within sight of the ranch, he had to stop just to calm himself down.

  “Get a grip, Bill,” he muttered. “Just cool yourself down, dammit. If you go in there hot under the collar, you’re not gonna get anybody killed but yourself.”

  It was good advice, and he took it.

  He stood there a good, long time, baking in the noonday sun, before he started forward again.

  “Spank me?” Lil lifted her head and rolled right off Slocum, pushing down her skirts and pulling her bodice closed. “Why on earth?”

  Slocum didn’t move. Calmly, he said, “First, you make a whole bunch of people so mad that they want to kill you. Second, you somehow manage to get your ‘husband’ killed in your place. You let the sheriff arrest me, you break me out of jail at gunpoint, and then you spill your guts to him at the drop of a hat and expect me to make love to you at your whim. That about answer your question?”

  She let that lay there for a second before she murmured, “Wasn’t it good for you?”

  He rolled toward her so quickly that she jumped, and he growled, “That ain’t the point, honey.”

  Charlie Townsend had a plan.

  He’d decided the best time to do it would be at night, after everybody was asleep.

  Now, his little house was set at a right angle to the big place. There weren’t any doors on the side that would block any vantage point from the bunkhouse, but that was all right, he figured. He’d leave a window open.

  He could sneak out the front, go down the side of the big house to Chandler’s bedroom—where that bitch had undoubtedly camped out, seeing as how it was the biggest and best—shoot her through her window as she slept, then sprint back to his cottage and jump through his bedroom window before anybody got past the bunkhouse door to see what the noise was about.

  It was a very fine plan, and he congratulated himself on coming up with it.

  He’d even gone so far as to test the ground between the two houses, to see if it would hold a print. What he found was that the little patch of ground was already rife with footprints—both horse and human, and a few goat tracks. Nobody’d be able to make head nor tail of his passing.

  He even made a test run at jumping through his bedroom window, after making certain that nobody was watching.

  Easy as pie.

  At the moment, he was down at the barn, helping Ron shoe a couple of horses. He kept his face passive and his hands on his work, and every time somebody mentioned the woman up at the big house, he just smiled and agreed that yes, she sure was a looker.

  Nobody would suspect him.

  Not in a million years.

  In Poleaxe, Sheriff Kiefer had been walking and talking with Chance Moody and thinking all the while about the murder.

  A third shooter. There had to have been a third shooter. Mrs. Tinny, the mayor’s wife, would attest to it, but she was only one witness, and a woman at that. He was afraid that her testimony wouldn’t hold much water in front of a male jury. Especially one which, to a man, had all liked David Chandler.

  He and Chance said their good-byes, and Kiefer found himself down at the edge of town, near the livery. Might as well drop in and pass some time with Jess. There’d been a passel of strangers in town over the past week, but maybe Jess had seen one fellow more suspicious than the rest.

  He didn’t have much hope, but he headed toward the livery, anyway.

  “Jess?” he shouted when he stuck his head in the door. “You around?”

  From behind the flimsy door of his sleeping room, Jess’s voice shouted, “Keep your shirt on!”

  Kiefer smiled. “It’s just Miles Kiefer, Jess. Sorry to disturb you, if you were workin’ on something.”

  Working on catching up on next month’s sleep if he knew Jess, Kiefer thought.

  But in a moment, Jess opened the door and stepped out into the barn. “No trouble, Sheriff, no trouble at all.” He smoothed his hair—what there was of it—with a hand. “What you need?”

  Miles leaned against a stall’s wall, hooking his elbow over the top of the corner post. “Just wanted to ask, Jess, if you’ve had any folks through here in the past few days that you thought looked suspicious.”

  “Sure have!” the stableman answered quickly. “That Slocum feller! Why, he was right suspicious, if you was to ask me, which you happen to be doin’. Always thought so.”

  Kiefer stifled his grin and said, “Besides him, I mean, Jess. Anybody odd?”

  Jess thinned his lips into a long, straight line and slowly shook his head. “Nope. Not that I recamember. Sorry. Always like to help the law when I can, Sheriff.”

  Kiefer nodded. “I know that, Jess, and I’m obliged to you.”

  “So why’d you let that murderous Slocum out of jail, Miles? He come in here this morning and rented hisself a buckboard, and took his own horse along, too.”

  “Know he did, Jess,” Kiefer replied. “It’s a long story.”

  Jess sat down on a straw bale and made himself comfortable. “I got time.”

  Aw, hell, thought Kiefer. But he had time on his hands, too, so he started to tell the story.

  “Miz Chandler?” shouted a voice from the parlor. “Miz Chandler? Mr. Slocum?”

  “Shit,” Slocum muttered and sat straight up, abandoning Lil midconversation. “What?” he hollered back, even as he quicky buttoned his pants and ran the back of his hand over his mouth, in case Lil had smeared any lip rouge on him.

  He stuck his head out into the hall. Sure enough, there was one of the younger hands, standing smack in the center of the parlor and twisting his hat in his fingers.

  “Don’t anybody knock anymore?” Slocum asked.

  It must have come out gruffer than he intended, because the boy shrank visibly and muttered, “Sorry, sir. Right sorry.”

  Slocum said, “It’s all right. What can I do for you?”

  “Just wondered if you might need any help, is all,” the boy answered. “You know, unpackin’ or gettin’ settled in.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Curly, Mr. Slocum. Curly Jamison.”

  Slocum guessed this was the same Curly that had lost the bet with the other hand. He didn’t bother to ask, though.

  “No thanks, we’re gettin’ along just fine in here, Curly. But thanks for thinkin’ about it.”

  Curly seemed disappointed but nodded. “Yessir, just thought I’d make myself useful iff’n I could.” He planted his hat back on his head and dragged himself out of the house like he was going to his own funeral.

  “You should have let him do something,” said Lil from behind him. He turned to find her buttoned into the top of her dress again, with her skirts pulled firmly down around her ankles. “Boys like that . . . Idol worship and all . . .”

  “Idol worship?” he asked, puzzled. He could see a kid like that worshiping Lil, all right, but he would have called it something different.

  Lil seemed to know what he was thinking, because she said, “No, silly. You’re the one he worships. Why, I saw at least three of those Slocum books tucked into as many back pockets when we rode in!”

  Slocum sat down, rather suddenly, in a wooden chair beside the door.

  Kiefer ran himself out of steam—and out of story—and he said, “That’s it, Jess. All I got the air for, anyway.”

  Jess pursed his lips for a second, then said, “Well I’ll be double-dogged. Just plain double-dogged. Three fellers, not one!”

  Kiefer nodded. “So anything you saw, or noticed, or even thought was a little out of the ordinary, Jess. It’d be a big help.”

  Jess scratched the back of his wattly neck. “Well, now, come to think of it, there was somethin’. But it didn’t happen until today, so likely, it don’t matter.”

  Kiefer was of the same opinion, but asked Jess to go on, just to be polite. Also, it meant that much less time he’d have to spend in his office, staring at the wall and calling himself an idiot.

  “Feller c
ame in here this forenoon—about an hour after Slocum come in and rented my buckboard,” he said. “Wouldn’t’ve thought nothin’ of it, ’cept he said he didn’t have much cash, and could I rent him a horse for a quarter.”

  Kiefer’s eyes narrowed.

  “So, I took pity on him and said he could take old Rufus. You know my Rufus, Miles?”

  Kiefer nodded. “Miracle he made it out of his stall, Jess. There ought to be a law against renting out Rufus.”

  “Yup. There ain’t, though,” Jess said, almost defiantly. “You want I should go on?”

  Kiefer nodded impatiently.

  “But the feller looked him over and took me up on it, so I slung a saddle and bridle on him—free of charge—and handed him over. Danged horse goes lame every fifteen minutes. Can’t figure why that feller ain’t led him back in here already.”

  “What’d this boy look like, Jess?”

  “Hell, you know what he looks like, Miles! Sorrel with a stripe down his face and two white socks in front and one in back, and—”

  Kiefer held up a hand. “Not Rufus, Jess. The feller that rented him.”

  Jess nodded. “Oh, him. Nice enough lookin’ feller. Kinda sandy-colored hair. Taller than most. Dressed kinda cheap. I mean, I didn’t have no trouble believin’ that he was down on his luck, if you know what I mean.”

  “Which way did he head?”

  Jess had a scratch again while he thought this over. “Out south,” he finally said. “Just like he was trailin’ that buckboard Slocum took out earlier.”

  Kiefer uncurled his elbow from the stall’s post, peeled his back from the stall’s wall, stood up straight, and said, “Thanks, Jess. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Glad to be of service, Miles, dang glad. You want I should get your mount ready? You gonna take off after that feller?” Jess was on his feet, too.

  “No, I . . .” Kiefer thought again. The lead wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d had before. And the thought of going back to the office didn’t exactly sit right with him.

  So he thumbed his hat back on his head, and he said, “Yeah, Jess. Why don’t you saddle up my horse? Believe I’ll take a little ride out toward the Circle C.”

  Jess hurried toward the third stall from the right.

  I’m batty, Kiefer thought to himself as he rode out of town at a slow jog. I’ve gone clear round the bend, and I’m not going to find a thing out here except some poor lunatic leading a lame horse toward me.

  Still, it was better than the silence that awaited him in his office.

  How could he be expected to ferret out the man who had done the real killing when the whole town was full of strangers, when nobody had seen a thing but Mrs. Tinny? And she hadn’t really seen much at all, had she? Just “a man” standing behind Slocum.

  Even Slocum hadn’t seen anything.

  For not the first time, Kiefer considered arresting Slocum all over again. It would shut a whole lot of people up, anyway.

  But something inside him wouldn’t let him do it. There was all that broken glass, busted through from the inside, and then there was that slug he’d dug out of the wall of the mercantile this morning, the slug he still carried in his pocket.

  He reminded himself to go check the walls of the hotel lobby for another slug. If the man at the window hadn’t hit Chandler, he had to have hit something. Most likely, a wall.

  Sometimes, Kiefer really hated his job.

  This was one of those times.

  He figured that all he was doing was trying to sort out various devils, and what kind of a job was that, unless you were a preacher? He’d known Chandler wasn’t on the up and up. He knew that Slocum was a celebrated shootist. Tiger Lil herself wasn’t exactly an angel, if Slocum were to be believed. And whoever the man at the window had been—and the man behind Slocum, whose slug had really hit Chandler—they weren’t exactly a pair of do-gooders, either.

  He shook his head. Some kind of a job he had, all right!

  21

  Outside, in the barn, Slocum was checking on his horse. The gelding had been fed, as he requested, but not rubbed down to his standards.

  He found a curry comb and a body brush and set to work on the leopard Appy.

  He always did a lot of thinking while he was grooming his horse, and a great deal of problem solving. But this day brought him more questions than answers. Damn that Lily, anyway! And damn him!

  Why had he felt so goddamned compelled to follow her trail into Poleaxe? Well, that was really a rhetorical question, wasn’t it? Like a hound dog, his nose was always to the ground, sniffing out the nearest bitch in heat.

  But, Lord, what a mess they’d made this time! Why hadn’t he decided to skip the wedding? Why hadn’t he gone over to the saloon instead, or down to the livery, or just stayed in his room?

  The point was moot. He hadn’t done any of those things. He’d done what he had, and what he seemed to do best; be in the worst possible place at the worst possible moment.

  Having finished the horse’s right side, he walked round the backside and started on the left. He was down the neck and working diligently on the shoulder when he raised his head at the sound of someone leading a horse into the barn.

  He squinted. “Didn’t I eat supper with you the other night? Over to the café?”

  The man, whose mount was limping badly, looked right back at him and said, “Could be. I ate there.”

  Slocum turned his attention back to the Appy’s shoulder. “Nice to see you again. Did you work for Chandler?”

  The man, who had passed him and was presently tying his mount to a post in the barn, hesitated before he said, “Nope. I was just wonderin’ if they might need more help. I heard about Mr. Chandler. That was sure a sorry business.”

  The man bent and lifted his horse’s hoof.

  “It sure was,” replied Slocum.

  “I can’t figure out what’s makin’ this horse so lame!” the man said in exasperation. “No rocks have cut or bruised him, his tendon’s not bowed . . .”

  Slocum set aside his brushes and strolled over. He took the horse’s hoof from the man. “Here, lemme see.” He studied on the hoof for a good, long time, squinting at it, then pointed with his index finger. “There,” he said. “Hairline crack in the wall.”

  “Figures!” spat the newcomer. “That old joker at the livery cheated me! I swear, seems that if it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.”

  “I hear you, pal,” Slocum said and put down the horse’s hoof again. “I think that Jess at the livery is smarter than he looks.”

  The stranger stood up straight and scowled. “And that means what? That I’m dumber?”

  Slocum shrugged. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, pal. If you’re lookin’ for a job, you go round to that little house past the big one. Foreman lives there, name’s Townsend. Charlie Townsend.”

  The man nodded his thanks and started out toward the yard.

  Almost as an afterthought, Slocum called, “What’s your name again, mister?”

  “Bill Messenger,” came the answer. And then he was gone. He didn’t ask Slocum’s name. Slocum thought that was a little funny, but just then he happened into a concentrated patch of dirt on the Appy’s belly, and it distracted him.

  He did not, in fact, recall the conversaton until some time later.

  Lil sat on her new bed amid her open trunks and valises and grinned like a fool.

  Oh, she’d really fallen into the cream this time! She been through all of David’s bureau drawers, and found countless goodies: gold nugget cufflinks, two diamond stickpins; a tissue-wrapped, ivory and silver dresser set, which must have been his mother’s by the initials engraved on them; and hidden at the back of his handkerchief drawer, a beautiful jade necklace, carved in the shape of a dragon, and earrings to match. They must have been squirreled away for him to give her later on.

  The furnishings were all expensive, even lavish. She hadn’t been through the desk in the parlor yet, bu
t there was time for that, plenty of time. His bankbook would be there, she figured, as well as any deeds or important papers he’d had.

  She had, she reminded herself.

  She let out a giggle.

  Life was not only good, it was, quite frankly, amazing!

  And she had Slocum to boot!

  Oh, not forever. She wasn’t anybody’s fool, and she knew that nothing about Slocum was forever. But she had him for a time, and she had him all to herself, with no distractions like saloons or poker games or horse races to get in the way.

  She giggled again and hugged herself.

  This might very well be the last time she would play the game. If David had been as rich as she thought, she could sell out, move to San Francisco, and live the life of Riley for the rest of her days.

  She had bank accounts all over the place, didn’t she? Those, combined with all this, must be worth eight or nine hundred thousand. Maybe a million.

  It was just too bad about Slocum. She wouldn’t have minded supporting him for a time, not really, although it would probably grow old in a hurry. And then she’d begin to resent him, and he her, and . . .

  No, it was better just to take him as he was, and for as long as he wanted to stay, and leave it at that.

  Besides, Slocum likely wouldn’t stand for any woman paying his bills!

  She rose and wandered to the window and looked, at a sharp angle, toward the front of the house, to the little slice of barnyard she could see next to the caretaker’s cottage. She hoped to catch a glimpse of Slocum out there, doing whatever men did on ranches.

  But instead she saw someone else. Someone who made her breath catch in her throat, and not in a good way, either.

  She just saw him as he disappeared into the foreman’s front door, and he was dressed much more poorly than she could ever have imagined, but she knew him.

  “Bill . . .” she whispered, and her knees gave way beneath her.

  Bill Messenger pulled out a chair at the foreman’s insistence and sat himself down. The man facing him was a salty old hand, crusted over by years of hard work and burnt and dappled by the sun.