Slocum 420

by Jake Logan

  “Try not to get too far along where the liquor is concerned,” Womack said. “I expect you to ride out tomorrow. There’s a killer out there and we can’t let any grass grow beneath our feet before going after him. Or . . . it.”

  “I got a pretty good look at those wounds,” Slocum said. “I still say it wasn’t any bear.”

  “I agree.”

  “So maybe I don’t know what else is out there that could do that to a man. That sure as hell wasn’t the work of a wildcat unless you grow them awfully damn big around here. I’d be hard pressed to say it was even a wolf.”

  “That weren’t no wolf,” said the scrawny young fellow who approached the bar to stand beside Womack. Although he wasn’t very large, he had a fierce glare that made it obvious he was willing to prove himself to anyone who decided to test him. His hair was a messy tangle of sandy brown, and his eyes were narrowed as if he were staring straight into the morning sun. Apart from a pistol strapped around his waist, he also wore the scabbard for a knife that was almost large enough to chop down a tree.

  “Oh, there you are!” Womack said. “Glad you could join us. First round of drinks is on me.”

  When he saw Womack wave at him for the whiskey, the barkeep walked over as if every step were a burden. Slamming down a glass and filling it, he asked, “Sure you don’t want me to leave the bottle?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “It’d be easier if I left it.”

  “No need,” Womack replied.

  Muttering to himself, the barkeep shuffled away.

  “John Slocum,” Womack said, “this is Merle Beasley. Merle, this is John Slocum.”

  Merle kept one hand on the hilt of his knife while extending the other to Slocum. Even when Slocum shook his hand, Merle looked ready to draw his blade and start swinging.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Slocum said. “I take it you’re one of the men that will be going out on the hunt?”

  Merle nodded once. “Yeah, I’ll be out there hunting. Can you hold your own?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “You better be sure. I ain’t about to be slowed down by no greenhorn who’s got no damn business out in the wild. Especially considering the game we’re after.”

  “So you don’t think it’s a wolf,” Slocum said. “What about a bear?”

  Leaning down a bit, Merle spat a juicy wad onto the floor several feet away from the closest spittoon. “I got a look at what was left of Edgar and Dave. If they were attacked by a bear, they’d be a lot worse off. Besides that, them wounds weren’t put there by any claws I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s what I guessed,” Slocum said. “More or less.”

  “I ain’t guessing,” Merle said while scowling as if his family name had just been insulted.

  “Well then, what do you think got at those men?”

  Merle took his drink, finished half of it in one gulp, and leaned against the bar so he could survey the entire room. “You must not be from around these parts.”

  “I’m not,” Slocum replied. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  After finishing his drink, Merle said, “Because if you were from around here, you would’ve heard about the Beast of Fall Pass.”

  Slocum looked over at Womack, who had no interest in looking back. “All right, then. I give up. What’s the Beast of Fall Pass?”

  “It’s been killing men in them woods for the last few years. Before that, it was still killing but nobody wanted to admit it was anything more than a bear or a wolf.”

  Nudging Womack, Slocum asked, “Did you know about this?”

  “I’ve, um, heard a thing or two.”

  “And why is it I haven’t heard anything about it until now?”

  “Because they’re mostly just wild stories,” Womack replied with an unconvincing shrug. “Some folks don’t even think the beast is real.”

  “And some have seen the thing with their own two eyes,” Merle said.

  Slocum was always wary of local legends. More often than not, such things were a mix of superstition and ignorance. Whatever it was, however, this legend had mauled at least two men, which gave it more credence than most subjects of tall tales passed around by drunks. “And what exactly did they see?” he asked.

  When Merle grinned, he flashed a set of crooked, chipped teeth stained by the tobacco he’d spat upon the floor. “You ain’t told him about none of this, Mr. Womack?”

  “I didn’t want to bias him before he headed out to start looking. I have mentioned my belief that it could be man or beast that so grievously wounded those two men.”

  “Mentioning a beast is one thing,” Slocum pointed out. “Failing to mention the Beast of Fall Pass is another.”

  Womack grinned and tried to laugh it off. “What’s in a name, right?”

  “Nothing would have a name like that unless it was something more than just a wild animal. And if that name is so common around here, it means you knew more about it than what you let on in the first place.”

  “Well, I didn’t want anyone getting skittish. That’s why I didn’t mention it when I addressed my workers also.”

  “Nah,” Slocum said with a confident shake of his head. “That’s not it. You didn’t want me asking for more pay for going after a known killer like this beast.”

  “You wouldn’t do it just because it poses a threat and has so gravely wounded those men?” Womack asked.

  “Sure I would,” Slocum said. “And because of the added danger which you already knew would be there, the pay for this hunting expedition is going to be double what you originally offered.”

  Womack attempted to appear threatening when he stood up straight and asked, “Is it now?”

  “Yeah,” Slocum replied in a genuinely threatening manner. “It is. For any of us going out in those woods after that thing.”

  Merle’s laugh was a dry, grating sound. “I like this fella,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Womack said, “Fine. I’ll pay your fee.”

  “Don’t sound so put out by it all,” Slocum said. “You know well enough that you can make up that money in a dozen different ways once we bring in that beast for you. An enterprising fellow like yourself must have already thought of such things.”

  “Why, I don’t know what you’re . . .” Womack trailed off when he caught Slocum glaring at him. “All right,” he said. “Maybe I have thought of a few different ways to make up my expenses once this is over.”

  “There you go!” Merle declared. “In fact, I’d bet you could just as easily make up the expenses of buying another round of drinks!”

  Slocum grinned and raised his glass. “I think I’m starting to like this fella as well.”

  11

  They got their free drinks, and by the time he’d had his third one, which was not on the house, Womack wasn’t so cross about footing the bill. That timing was ideal, since he passed out after his fourth drink. Since he had plenty of friends at the Axe Handle and had already paid what he owed, the barkeep was happy to let him sleep it off on a cot in the back room while Slocum and Merle crossed the street to the Second Saloon.

  “Darryl was supposed to be here by now,” Merle said. “He could still be workin’, so it’s probably easier if we just go see him.”

  Looking at the front entrance to the saloon, Slocum asked, “He works here?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry. That shouldn’t interfere with our hunting trip.”

  “I wasn’t thinking it would. Just noticing what a small world it is.”

  Merle wasn’t interested in what was going through Slocum’s mind. After kicking open the front door, all he did care about was searching the place with bleary eyes until he found the man he was after. “There he is!” he declared while staggering across the room toward the gambling tables.

  Slocum followe
d on feet that were slightly unsteady as well. His lack of balance reminded him of the fact that he and Merle had polished off an entire bottle of whiskey after Womack had keeled over. Neither of them was in any danger of falling on their faces, but it did take some concerted effort to walk a straight line. Fortunately, they didn’t have far to go.

  At the end of the room where the faro tables were, a pair of men were locked up like a couple of rams butting heads over a mate. They had their heads down and were grabbing at anything they could reach to gain an advantage over the other. One man had a full beard and a round belly. The other had bristly, unevenly cut hair and the grizzled appearance of something that had been chewed up and spat out several times. At first, the portly fellow seemed to be getting over on the other one. He used pure muscle to shove his opponent against a table, pull him back, and slam him against another. Slocum noticed that Eliza was one of the faro dealers who jumped away from their table as cards and chips were sent to the floor.

  Even as he was knocked around, the grizzled man had a smile on his face. “You got a hell of a lot of steam in you, Emmett!” he said. “All this over a lousy three dollars?”

  Emmett grabbed a handful of the other man’s shirt and held him at arm’s distance. “It ain’t about the three dollars! It’s the point of the—”

  A chopping blow from the grizzled man’s knee to Emmett’s groin ended that sentence before it could be completed. Whether Emmett was a tough bastard or he was just full of liquor, he wasn’t about to be put down. The other man must have recognized as much because he grabbed hold of Emmett’s crotch as if he was ripping an apple from a branch and crushing it into cider.

  “I think I know what yer point is,” the grizzled man snarled. “I can feel it right now.”

  Slocum looked over to Merle and asked, “Is that Darryl?”

  “The one about to tear off that fat asshole’s plums?” Merle replied. “That’s him, all right.”

  “Looks like he might be in some trouble.”

  “Doesn’t look that way to me.”

  “Then you’re not looking hard enough. Check those tables on the right.”

  Merle glanced over in that direction and his proud smile quickly faded. Although everyone at the nearby poker tables had suspended their games to watch the unscheduled floor show, three of them were separating from the rest. One wore a duster, which he flipped open so he could draw a pistol from his gun belt. Another was dressed in wrinkled trousers and a shirt that looked more like a burlap sack. He drew a knife from a scabbard behind him and started sidestepping around the table closest to him. The third man made Emmett look like a reed in comparison. His gut was so large that it almost completely flopped over the holster strapped around his ample waist.

  “Darryl!” Merle shouted. “Behind you!”

  Darryl turned his grizzled face around to look over his shoulder. When he turned back again, Emmett pounded a meaty fist into his chin. Smiling even wider than before he’d been hit, Darryl spat some freshly spilled blood into the other man’s face and said, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  From there, everything went to hell.

  Darryl shoved Emmett back so hard that the larger man’s knees buckled against the table behind him. Although he didn’t fall, Emmett was unable to do much of anything once Darryl unleashed a torrent of punches and kicks into any part of Emmett’s body he could reach. Like coyotes descending from high ground, the other three that Slocum had spotted rushed forward to lend a hand. Slocum might have been content to stand back and watch the fight unfold if not for the fact that Eliza was about to be dragged into the thick of it.

  She was doing a good job of keeping her eyes on Darryl and Emmett, but didn’t seem to notice the man with the knife circling around toward her table. From his vantage point, Slocum could tell the man with the knife meant to get in close by approaching Darryl’s blind side. Merle, on the other hand, was charging into the fray while hollering like a banshee.

  Rather than try to circle around or make any other sort of subtle move, Slocum took a page from Merle’s book and ran at the problem head-on. After a few heavy steps, Slocum had covered almost half the distance between himself and Eliza. He was in the process of drawing the .44 Remington at his side when the man with the knife looked directly at him. For a moment, Slocum thought he might have done enough to frighten him away from Eliza’s table. That moment passed when the man pivoted to snap his wrist and send his blade spinning through the air.

  Slocum leaned back and turned to one side as the blade sailed so closely to his head that he could hear it singing to him when it passed. He could see the man who’d tossed the knife drawing another from his boot with one hand and reaching for Eliza with the other.

  “Don’t touch her!” Slocum shouted.

  The man with the knife smirked, grabbed Eliza by the back of her collar, and pulled her in close to discourage Slocum from taking a shot at him. If he’d had another moment or two to aim and hadn’t been in the process of running, Slocum might have been able to pick the other man off. As it was, he would be lucky if he merely wounded Eliza instead of killing her outright. Before Slocum had a chance to swear under his breath, the man threw the boot knife at him.

  This time, Slocum was watching closely enough to gauge the other man’s movements. The blade hadn’t even made one complete end-over-end turn when he reached out with his left hand to snatch it from the air. Slocum was more surprised than anyone when he not only grabbed the knife, but wrapped his fingers around the handle instead of its blade. Still running at full speed, he lowered his shoulder to knock both the man and Eliza back.

  Eliza let out a surprised yelp as she was shoved to one side.

  Slocum took the man with him to the floor, shattering a wooden chair along the way. As soon as he had a chance, Slocum rolled toward the other man and drove an elbow into his chest. Since the man refused to stay down, Slocum returned the knife he’d plucked from the air by stabbing it into the other man’s shoulder.

  “Men like you can never do anything the easy way,” Slocum growled.

  The man with the knife was winded, battered, and stunned from the sharp pain coursing through his fresh wound. After knocking him out with one last punch, Slocum pulled himself to his feet.

  “John!” Eliza said breathlessly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just out for a friendly drink,” he replied. “You’d best find a safer place to be.”

  She placed a hand to her chest as if to steady her racing heart as she moved away from her table and went to the bar.

  The other two men who’d intended on flanking Darryl had their hands full with Merle. The fat fellow had taken a couple of lumps already and was slumped against a poker table trying to catch his breath while the man in the duster fought for his life. Merle swung his fists like a wild man, even as he absorbed some punches of his own. Now that he’d collected himself, the fat man raised a pistol he clutched in one hand.

  “Enough!” Rolf shouted from behind the bar. When nobody paid him any mind, he brought up a shotgun from where it had been stashed and fired a barrel over his head. The men involved in the fracas were still too busy defending themselves to stop now.

  Slocum turned toward the bar and shouted to Rolf, “Toss me that shotgun!”

  The bartender wasn’t about to do any such thing until Eliza convinced him otherwise with a few sharp words. Finally, Rolf tossed his weapon toward Slocum and backed away.

  Slocum grabbed the shotgun and ran across the saloon. Darryl and Emmett were still fighting tooth and nail, but Darryl was considerably less bloody than his opponent. Since Merle was outnumbered and about to be shot, Slocum set his sights on that section of the room.

  “Hey, fat man!” Slocum shouted.

  The portly fellow turned toward him and immediately shifted his aim when he saw the shotgun in Slocum’s hands. Kicking over a chair rather than was
te precious time in walking around it, Slocum got to within a few paces of the fat gunman before taking aim and pulling the shotgun’s second trigger. The weapon roared in his hands and the fat man reeled, upending the table he’d been leaning against before dropping to the floor.

  “Jesus Christ!” gasped the man scuffling with Merle. Having been distracted by the shotgun blast that had dropped his rotund partner, he left himself wide open.

  Merle wasn’t about to let an opportunity like that pass him by, so he delivered a punch to the jaw with everything he had behind it. The man’s head snapped to one side and he spun partway around before staggering back and falling into the lap of a nearby gambler who’d been caught in the middle of the fight. More concerned with guarding his chips, he shoved the man to the floor and dusted off his suit.

  Darryl and Emmett stood in front of each other, both gasping for air and covered in blood.

  “Well now,” Darryl said. “Ain’t this production a bit much for three dollars?”

  “I told you already,” Emmett replied. “It ain’t the money. It’s the point that I was cheated.”

  “Oh! You were cheated?” Darryl proclaimed. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  Emmett was about to speak on his own behalf when Darryl drove a fist into his gut and shoved him into the waiting arms of the two young men Rolf had sent over. After spitting some blood onto the floor, Darryl looked at the two young men and asked, “Well, where the hell were you two?”

  One of the young men pushed Emmett toward the door while the other replied, “You told us not to get in your way whenever you had to knock some sense into someone.”

  Screwing his face up as if purposely trying to look uglier, Darryl smiled and grunted, “Yeah. I suppose I did.” Then he shifted his attention to Merle and asked, “Who’d you bring with you?”

  “This here is John Slocum,” Merle said.

  “John Slocum. I heard that name before.”

  “He’s supposed to be some sort of gunman. The boss from the mill has been going on about him like he was the second coming.”