Slocum and the Larcenous Lady

by Jake Logan

  “So, you’re lookin’ for work, Messenger,” said Charlie Townsend as he settled his bony frame into the chair. “You got any experience?”

  Experience? He’d built a ranching empire out of nothing, commanded men, bred cattle and horses, and owned a saloon. But he said, “Done some bronc bustin’. Cattle work, too. Ropin’ and brandin’ and the like.”

  “You work anywhere I would’a heard of?”

  “Not unless you spent a lot of time up in Montana or Colorado, Mr. Townsend.”

  The man grunted. “Call me Charlie. Everybody does.”

  “All right, Charlie.”

  “You mind mendin’ fences, paintin’ ’em, that sort of deal?”

  “No sir. I just want some work. I ain’t picky.” Now that was the truth, wasn’t it? And he especially wanted to work right here. Outside, he could hear men hitching up the buckboard again, likely to take it back to town. He said, “You got any fellers headed back to town anytime today? That’s a rented horse I got out there, and he’s lame to boot. Like to get him back to the livery.”

  Surprisingly, Charlie smiled. He said, “Jess rent you Rufus?”

  Messenger scowled. “I believe that was the name he said, yes.”

  Then Charlie broke out in a laugh—an insulting sort of laugh, if you asked Messenger.

  “Hell, that nag’s got to be thirty if he’s a day!” Charlie said between gales of laughter. “That Jess! He’s a caution, all right!”

  Messenger simply sat there, gripping the arms of his chair. At last, he asked, “Am I hired?”

  “Well, Messenger,” Townsend said, wiping his eyes, “you’re in luck. We’ve got a band of two-yearolds comin’ in from the S Bar S. Expectin’ ’em tomorrow or the next day. They’ll need to be broke, all right. Expect most of ’em are pretty green.”

  “Fine by me,” said Messenger, and he stood up. Charlie rose along with him. “Oh. How much does it pay?”

  “Thirty dollars a month and found,” Charlie said quickly and moved to the door to let him out. “See them fellers with the buckboard?” he asked. “Hand over Rufus to them. They’ll take him in to Jess at the livery.”

  “Right kind,” said Messenger and tipped his hat. He walked out onto the porch, and over his shoulder, Charlie called, “Hey, Curly! This here is Bill Messenger. New bronc buster. Take Rufus back to town for him, would you?”

  Curly, a lean man with tightly curled red hair, shook his head and laughed. “Rufus? He lamed up again? That dang Jess!”

  Messenger shrugged and walked on, out past the wagon and into the barn to reclaim the hapless Rufus.

  22

  Lil was in a panic.

  Bill was out there. He’d ruin everything. He was probably the one who had shot at her. Suddenly, everything that Slocum and the sheriff had said made sense to her, where it had been just babble before.

  It was her that the gunman had been after. And the gunman was Bill. Her husband.

  Former husband.

  No, husband. One of them.

  She’d lost count, really.

  The first thing she’d done when she ducked back away from the window was to grab a small bag filled with feather boas, dump it out, and proceed to hurriedly pack it with just the things she’d need to survive.

  But now that it was packed, she sat on the bed, staring first at it, then all the nice furniture around her, and the paintings, and thinking about what was in that desk in the front room . . .

  And she knew she couldn’t leave. Not now. Not at this stage of the game. Not with all these goodies, newly won, and at great expense. Mostly David’s, but that was beside the point.

  Maybe she could provoke Slocum into shooting Bill! That would solve all her problems, wouldn’t it?

  But it would most certainly bring up a few new ones for Slocum. No, she couldn’t use him in that way. She’d caused him enough trouble already, poor darling.

  However, she had no such compunctions about using one of the other men.

  But who? Not that Charlie, the ranch foreman. He was too old, and Bill would probably kill him. One of the younger boys? That should probably be avoided, too. Bill was pretty good with a firearm, as she recalled.

  Maybe she should take care of it herself.

  But how?

  She’d have to think on it, because it had to be perfect. No lose ends.

  Quietly, efficiently, her devious little mind began to turn its wheels and mesh its gears.

  She must have been sitting there for an hour when Slocum’s call brought her to her senses.

  “Lil! Lily! You hungry?” he shouted from the front of the house, and she suddenly realized that something smelled awfully good.

  He’d cooked! How lovely!

  “Coming, Slocum!” she called in her sweetest voice. She hadn’t come up with a plan yet—or a dupe to pull it off—and she might still have to fall back on Slocum. She’d best be as accommodating as possible.

  She slid her shoes back on, set her packed bag aside, and went up the hall.

  He had, indeed, been cooking. She could have told that by the mess in the kitchen, even if her sense of smell had disappeared. But lucky for her—and for Slocum—it had done no such thing.

  The table was set with a pan of enchiladas, smothered in cheese, a bowl of crispy pan-fried potatoes, a basket of fluffy biscuits with butter and honey, a steaming bowl of peas, and another, bigger bowl of savory beef stew.

  The meal didn’t exactly match itself, all things considered, but he’d really tried, and she had to give him credit. As a matter of fact, she was seriously touched by the effort.

  “Slocum!” she gasped. “I’m amazed! Did you do this all by yourself?”

  He was leaning in the kitchen doorway, and he smiled. “Self-defense, Lil. I’ve had your cookin’ before.”

  “Oh, you!” she snarled—but was careful to keep it playful.

  She walked into the dining room, and so did he, and he pulled out a chair for her.

  “Just campfire cookin’, only over a stove instead of an open fire,” he said as he seated himself. He didn’t stand on ceremony. He grabbed the pan of enchiladas straight off and scooped three of them onto his plate. As an afterthought, he passed them to Lil, who served herself one.

  After all, if he was eating three, they were probably all right. In fact, they both helped themselves to everything on the table. Lil enjoyed the meal all the more because she’d skipped lunch. They both had, as shown by the size of Slocum’s servings.

  Once the edge was off her hunger, her mind wandered back to more pressing things. Bill Messenger, for instance. Should she tell Slocum about him? She really didn’t want to, not at all, but she hadn’t yet come up with a satisfactory alternative. She was about to open her mouth, to start a conversation headed in that general direction, when somebody knocked at the door.

  She excused herself and went to answer it, vetoing Slocum’s idea of just hollering, “Come in!”

  And she opened it to find the sheriff.

  Her head cocked in surprise, she said, “Hello, Sheriff. Won’t you come in? We were just having some dinner. I’ll set an extra place if you—”

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” he said as he crossed the threshhold and took off his hat. He looked toward the bounty on the dining room table and at Slocum—who waved, because his mouth was full—and said, “Somethin’ sure smells mighty good though.”

  She smiled, “Slocum says it’s just campfire cooking over a real stove, but I think he’s an artist.”

  In the dining room, Slocum snorted.

  “I wonder, Mrs. Chandler, if I could borrow Slocum for a minute?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. What did he want? Why had he ridden all the way out here, and at sunset, too?

  She heard Slocum’s chair scrape back, and hurriedly, she said, “Certainly, Sheriff.”

  When he arrived, she didn’t budge.

  Napkin in hand, he asked, “What is it, Kiefer?”

  “Passed your buckboar
d comin’ out,” Kiefer said. “There was a saddle horse tied to it.”

  “And?” said Slocum.

  “Who rode in on it?”

  “New hand, I guess,” Slocum said. “Least, I sent him over to see Charlie Townsend. Must’ve got hired if he sent his mount back to town.”

  “Know where he is?”

  “Townsend? He’s back at his house, I reckon.”

  The sheriff turned to Lil. “Like to talk to him, ma’am, if I could.”

  Lil’s insides were twisting into a knot, but very calmly, she said, “Of course! Why ask me?”

  Kiefer nodded, his mouth quirking up into a slightly amused grin, and said, “It’s your place, now.”

  “Oh,” she said, a little embarrassed. “I suppose it is . . .”

  Slocum saw the sheriff out, while she stood there, confused. If the sheriff wanted to talk to her foreman about Bill Messenger, that must mean he was onto something. But what that something was, she couldn’t figure out.

  Slocum stepped out on the porch with Kiefer and shut the door behind them. “What have you got?”

  Kiefer shrugged. “Not much, but I figured it was better than nothing. You know old Jess, down at the livery?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He told me about this galoot. Thought he was actin’ strange.”

  Slocum smirked and said, “Jess oughta know.”

  Kiefer smiled. “Well, there is that . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Anyway, figured to talk to Charlie first, then have a little chat with Mr. Messenger.”

  “Messenger?”

  “Fella that rented the horse.”

  With that, Miles stepped down off the porch and headed for the caretaker’s cottage, leaving Slocum to wonder about Messenger.

  “Don’t know anything much than what I already told you,” replied Townsend. In the gathering darkness, he and the sheriff stood on the porch. He hadn’t invited Kiefer in.

  “Nothing?” Kiefer pressed. “You’d hire a man with no more reference than that?”

  “Got broncs comin’ in.” Townsend shrugged. “Gotta get ’em broke.”

  Kiefer tugged his hat brim. “You mind if I go find him and talk to him?”

  Townsend shrugged again, although this time, theatrically. “Don’t make me no never mind.” His brow furrowed. “What you want with him, anyhow?”

  “Nothing,” Kiefer answered, trying to keep things casual. “I just thought he might have seen something. You know, the other day.”

  “Seen something about Slocum killin’ Mr. Chandler?”

  “Thought you’d already been told, Charlie,” Kiefer said. “Slocum didn’t kill Chandler. All he killed was some glass.”

  At Charlie’s puzzled expression, Kiefer added, “Shot out the window.”

  “Why’d anybody want to do that?”

  “To stop the fella who was outside the window, aiming at Mr. Chandler,” Kiefer said, nearing exasperation.

  That stopped Charlie cold. Finally, he said, “Try the bunkhouse.”

  “Will do,” said Kiefer with a quick nod. “Thanks.”

  “Any time, Sheriff,” Charlie replied and was inside and behind the closed door before Miles even had a chance to step off the porch.

  And as he walked toward the bunkhouse, he wondered what on earth had put the burr under Charlie’s blanket.

  He waved a hand at one of the boys as he walked through the open bunkhouse door. Cookie was hard at work, stirring up pot of something—probably vile—on the old stove. “Howdy, boys,” he said in reply to the shouted greetings from several of the men.

  He looked around but didn’t spot his man, so he put a hand on the shoulder of the closest cowboy. “Curly, you know Bill Messenger?”

  “The new man?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s right over there,” Curly said, and pointed toward a lone man in the corner. “What you want him for?”

  “Questioning. Might be a witness to a crime.”

  Curly nodded. “Oh. Go ahead, I guess,” he said, as if the likes of Curly could prevent Miles Kiefer from talking to anybody!

  Still, when he tapped Messenger on the shoulder and the man turned around, he said, “Messenger, I’m Sheriff Kiefer. Like to have a short word with you outside, if you don’t mind.”

  He knew the rate that rumors flew—and grew—among ranch hands, and he didn’t want to stoke the furnace any more than he had to.

  Outside, he and Messenger stepped around, outside the open parlor window of Charlie Townsend’s little house. Charlie might be in there listening, Kiefer figured, but as foreman, he had a right to know what was going on, if anybody did.

  “Don’t go getting nervous on me, Messenger,” Kiefer began. “I’m just curious about what you saw while you were in town these past couple of days.”

  Messenger shook his head dumbly. “What I saw? I don’t get you, Sheriff. What was I supposed to see?”

  “Were you anywhere around the hotel yesterday?” Kiefer insisted. “Around the time when David Chandler was shot?”

  Messenger hesitated for a moment. Kiefer didn’t know what he expected Messenger to say. A blurted confession, maybe? That was highly unlikely, even if the son of a bitch had done it. A long, sad story? Nope. He just didn’t know.

  At last, Messenger said, “Well, I was about two, maybe three blocks down the street, sittin’ and whittlin’. Heard the shot. Saw you drag out that feller a couple minutes later.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It’s the same feller that’s out here, livin’ in the big house with Mrs. Chandler, Sheriff.”

  What was hanging in the air now was an accusation, but it wasn’t aimed at the man Kiefer had planned on. It was aimed at him!

  He said, “Don’t get all in an uproar, Messenger. Slocum didn’t do it. Leastwise, the evidence right now doesn’t point to him. The man I was asking about was you.”

  Messenger’s look turned momentarily into a glare, then quickly quieted back to passivity. “Told you all I know, Sheriff. And what makes you think Slocum didn’t do it, all of a sudden?”

  “We found his slug, buried in the wall of the building across the alley. He was shooting at a man at the window. A man who was aiming at the Chandlers.”

  Messenger’s brow creased again. “A second man?”

  Kiefer nodded. “And a third. The slug that killed Chandler came from Slocum’s direction, all right, but I got a witness who’ll state that it was delivered by a fella standing behind Slocum a few feet. Maybe on the stairs. Fella who looked a good bit like you, as a matter of fact.”

  Messenger shook his head. “You got me real confused, Sheriff, I gotta admit.”

  Kiefer was pretty sure he had his man, he felt it in his gut, but he sadly shook his noggin. “Me, too. But I’ve got to get her figured out. I’m asking everybody questions, Messenger. Don’t feel singled out.”

  Messenger began, “Well, I—”

  The roar of a gun split the evening’s silence, and Messenger suddenly looked terribly surprised, buckled over, then fell to the ground.

  Kiefer bent down to him in a flash, realizing as he did that the shot had come through Charlie’s window, and that Charlie was shouting, “Is everybody all right out there?”

  Even as Kiefer knelt to Messenger and saw the life drain from his eyes, he heard Charlie’s boot steps echo on the floorboards as he raced to the front door, then across the porch. “Oh, my Christ, my Lord!” he shouted. “I was cleanin’ my gun, and she just went off! Sheriff Kiefer! Miles Kiefer! Are you all right?”

  23

  Slocum took off running at the sound of the shot, with Lil following breathlessly on his heels.

  What they found was Charlie Townsend, Miles Kiefer, and the body of Bill Messenger. Lil was so relieved that she almost burst into hysterical laughter, but she dug her nails into her palms, staving it off.

  “What the hell happened?” Slocum demanded.

  “Accident,” said the sheriff, taking off his hat to rub his scalp. “Charlie,
here, was inside, cleaning his gun and it went off. By chance, the shot came through the window and hit Messenger, here.”

  Lil didn’t think the sheriff looked all that certain about the accident part—and she couldn’t read Charlie’s face at all—but she didn’t say anything. So long as Messenger wasn’t around to cause her problems, it was really none of her business who had killed him or why it had come to pass.

  Finally, she had the presence of mind to innocently ask, “Who was he? Did he work here?”

  “Just hired him on today,” Charlie spoke up. “He was supposed to be quite a bronc buster.” His voice broke. “Damn it, anyhow!”

  “How terrible!” Lil echoed.

  “Charlie,” said Slocum, “can I see that gun you were cleanin’?”

  Charlie looked up, his face a mask of umbrage. But he quickly erased it and said, “Sure, sure. C’mon inside. Criminy, I feel just awful!” He stopped and turned back toward Kiefer. “Miles, you gonna haul me in?”

  “No, Charlie,” the sheriff replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

  But Lil didn’t think he looked all that certain.

  Nonetheless, Charlie said, “Thanks, Miles. You’re a good man.”

  “Doesn’t mean there won’t be an inquiry, Charlie,” the sheriff shouted as Slocum and Charlie went in the door and out of Lil’s view.

  Inside, all the paraphernalia of gun cleaning was in its proper place. And the weapon in question lay on the table next to it; the faintest hint of smoke still curled about the muzzle in the stillness. The little house smelled of gun oil and smoke.

  “She just went off,” repeated Charlie. “Just went off. That ain’t happened to me in years and years. I feel lower than a well digger’s boot, swear to God I do!”

  “And you should,” muttered Slocum. “You just took a man’s life, accident or not.”

  Charlie sat down in his rocking chair, his head in his hands. “Good Lord, forgive me,” he wailed, “God forgive me!”

  Slocum picked up the gun and turned it over in his hands, then checked the cylinder. Four slugs, no waiting. If Charlie was like most hands, he’d load only five of the six chambers, so just four cartridges remaining made sense.