Slocum and the Glitter Girls at Gravel Gulch (9781101619513)

by Logan, Jake

  “Now, you step out. Walk natural toward that other man, the one you called Hack. Don’t say anything unless he calls out to you and then be very careful what you say.”

  Boze opened his mouth as if to reply, but said nothing.

  Slocum pushed hard on his pistol. Boze stepped into the street. He headed for where Hack waited on guard. Slocum hung tight to Boze’s back and matched him step for step.

  Hack called out in a loud whisper, “Boze, what’s up?”

  “Don’t answer him,” Slocum said.

  Boze walked on with Slocum right behind him like a Siamese twin.

  “Something wrong, Boze?” Hack said, his voice rising in pitch.

  Slocum jammed the barrel of his pistol hard into Boze’s back.

  “Say, ‘Nope,’” Slocum whispered.

  “Nope,” Boze called out.

  “You ain’t supposed to leave your post, Boze.”

  When Boze was a few feet from Hack, Slocum jerked his pistol from Boze’s back and smashed the butt of it into the back of the gunman’s head.

  Boze dropped like a sack of meal. He was knocked cold.

  Hack took a step toward Boze, and Slocum closed the distance.

  “What the hell?” Hack said.

  “You make one move toward that hogleg, Hack, and you’re a dead man.”

  Hack backed up a step. His hands came up to show that they were empty.

  “Slocum?” he said as the tall man in black rammed the barrel of his pistol into Hack’s gut.

  “None other,” Slocum said in a low voice.

  “Jesus, don’t shoot me,” Hack said.

  Slocum thumbed back the hammer so that Hack could hear the click.

  Hack stiffened into a stone statue, his arms making a trident with his head in the middle.

  “I’ll give you the same choice as I gave Boze, Hack,” Slocum said. “And I’m not Jesus.”

  “Yes, sir. Ask away.”

  “Do you want to live or die?”

  Hack did not answer right away. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

  Slocum pushed on the pistol. Hack’s belly shrank two inches above his belt.

  “Be quick, Hack,” Slocum said. “This Colt has a hair trigger.”

  “Live,” Hack blurted out. “I want to live.”

  “All right,” Slocum said. He did not lessen the pressure of the barrel in Hack’s midsection.

  “Is—is Boze dead?” Hack asked.

  “Not yet. His life and yours depend on what you say next. I want you to tell me where all the others who work for Canby are watching for me.”

  “I—I ain’t sure.”

  “You’ve got three seconds,” Slocum said. “My finger is starting to itch on the trigger.”

  “There’s two others up at the start of Main Street. Them’s all the ones I know about.”

  “Names?” Slocum said.

  “Earl Cassaway and Roddie Nehring, I think.”

  “Those the two men I saw outside the hotel this morning?”

  “I reckon. They said you was there with Obie and them gals.”

  “Where are those two gals?” Slocum asked.

  “Uh, I think they’re at the saloon. The Wild Horse.”

  “Where’s Canby?”

  “I don’t know. Likely in the hotel, I reckon.”

  “Anybody staked out along Main Street?” Slocum asked.

  Hack shook his head.

  “Naw, I don’t think so. Maybe some Mexes are lookin’ around for you and Hornaday, but I don’t know where they are.”

  “All right, Hack,” Slocum said, “you and I are going to walk right up Main Street. Like we were friends or partners. You even twitch and you’re dead meat.”

  “I’ll do whatever you say, Slocum.”

  “That’s Mr. Slocum to you, Hack.”

  “Yes, Mr. Slocum.”

  Slocum reached down and snatched Hack’s pistol from his holster. He shoved it next to Boze’s.

  “Now we walk, Hack,” Slocum said. “Real slow. When we get to where Cassaway and Nehring are, you call them out.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Slocum.”

  Slocum looked at Hack in disgust. He and Boze were both cut from the same bolt of cloth.

  Both were cowards. Backshooters. They were brave enough when the odds were in their favor or they had the jump on a man, but when they faced the black hole of a Colt .45, their insides turned to jelly.

  “Real slow, Hack. Like you were out for a stroll.”

  He shoved Hack toward Main Street. Hack walked slightly ahead of him.

  Slocum rammed the barrel of his pistol into Hack’s side.

  Slocum looked on both sides of the street, waited for anyone to challenge them.

  He hoped Boze would sleep a long time. He had hit him pretty hard and heard the crack of bone when the butt of his pistol struck Boze’s skull.

  They passed the boardinghouse then the saloon, with the lamps burning inside, the sounds of trumpets, guitars, and drums wafting onto the street. Through the windows, Slocum could see that it was crowded. He saw young glitter girls walking between tables carrying trays.

  The hotel was quiet with lamps burning in the lobby and in some of the windows on the second and third floors. He saw no faces in the windows.

  So far, he thought, so good.

  The street was dark the rest of the way.

  Stars peppered the black sky with glints of winking silver, but the moon was nowhere in sight.

  “Just tell me where those two men are before we get there,” Slocum told Hack in a low voice.

  “Pretty close now, I think,” Hack said.

  “Just tell me where you think they are,” Slocum said.

  “There’s a gatehouse off to the left,” Hack whispered. “Ain’t used no more, but—”

  “Never mind the history,” Slocum said. “Is one of the men in there?”

  “Probably,” Hack said.

  “And the other man?”

  “On the right is a little tienda. Roddie might be standin’ somewhere around that store.”

  “We’ll see,” Slocum said. “When I say stop, you stop.”

  Hack nodded.

  They walked to the end of the street.

  “Hey, who the hell’s out there?” a voice called from the deep shadows of the abandoned gatehouse.

  “Tell him you’re here,” Slocum said.

  “Cass, it’s me, Hack.”

  “Stop,” Slocum said. He eased the hammer of his pistol down to half cock, holding the trigger in slightly so that the mechanism would not make a sound.

  Both men stopped.

  “Who’s that with you, Hack? Boze?”

  “Tell him yes,” Slocum said.

  “Yeah,” Hack said.

  “What the hell you doin’ way up here?” Cassaway yelled from the safety of the gatehouse.

  “Tell him you caught me and Hornaday,” Slocum said.

  “We got ’em, Cass,” Hack said. “We got Slocum and Hornaday.”

  “Sure enough. Hell, that’s good news.”

  A man stepped away from the little store.

  It was Roddie Nehring. He walked toward Slocum and Hackberry.

  Cassaway emerged from the gatehouse and sauntered toward Slocum and Hack.

  “Hell, I was about to shoot you, Hack,” Nehring said.

  Then he stopped.

  “Hey,” he yelled, “that ain’t Boze. Who you got with you, Hack?”

  Slocum stepped away from Hack.

  “Both of you lighten your load,” Slocum ordered. “Drop those pistols and come here.”

  “Shit,” Roddie said.

  He turned and started to run back to the store.

  Slocum thumbed the hammer of his pistol to full cock.

  “You won’t make it, boy,” Slocum said.

  They all heard the click of the cocked hammer.

  Nehring stopped.

  “Drop your pistol quick, son, or you’ll meet your maker,” Slocum said.
<
br />   Nehring just stood there, his back to Slocum and Hack.

  Slocum caught sight of Cassaway out of the corner of his eye.

  The man was inching his hand toward the pistol on his hip.

  Time seemed to stand still and hover for those few seconds. The music from the saloon died away and there was a silence along Main Street.

  Slocum faced two armed men.

  He waited, giving them both a chance to make up their minds.

  Hack began to shake all over as if he were gripped with a sudden fever. Slocum could almost feel the tenseness in the man next to him.

  He wondered if his pistol held the power of life or death as his finger curled around the trigger.

  It was their move and Slocum was ready.

  19

  Slocum knew that Nehring would have to turn around to draw his pistol and open fire.

  Cassaway was the most immediate threat.

  “You touch that pistol, Cassaway, and you’ll be stone dead before you clear leather,” Slocum said in an even tone of voice.

  Nehring wheeled to face Slocum. He went into a fighting crouch and slapped his hand on the butt of his pistol. His palm struck the leather of the holster and made a loud sound.

  Slocum thought fast.

  First, he shoved Hack face first to the ground and swung his pistol around to cover Roddie.

  As Roddie drew his own pistol, Slocum quickly adjusted his vision to account for the distortion of night. He squeezed the trigger as Roddie brought up the barrel of his pistol.

  Slocum’s aim was true.

  Roddie clutched his belly and staggered forward. His pistol slipped from his hand without being fired.

  “You…you,” he growled.

  Then, Roddie crumpled up and collapsed.

  Slocum swung his pistol to bear on Cassaway.

  Again he had to allow for the vision shift in darkness.

  Cassaway pulled his pistol halfway out of its holster.

  On the ground, Hack groaned and spit dirt and grit from his mouth.

  Slocum’s pistol barked. Fire and lead streaked from the muzzle of his Colt .45.

  The bullet caught Cassaway on his breastbone, shattering it. Splinters of bone shot through his heart and lungs.

  Cassaway grunted, then pitched forward, his gun hand limp.

  His pistol slid back into its holster as he fell, mortally wounded.

  Slocum stepped over to Hack and came down hard on the small of his back with one heavy thump of his boot.

  Cassaway spluttered, spewed blood onto the ground as the hole in his back gushed blood.

  There was a stillness as the smoke from Slocum’s gun hung like wispy cobwebs in the air.

  The smell of burnt powder was strong and Slocum heard the echo of his last shot fade away somewhere down the street in Gravel Gulch.

  Hack groaned under Slocum’s boot.

  “Are—are they both dead?” he asked.

  “Nehring’s gutshot,” Slocum said.

  He lifted his boot from Hack’s back.

  “You can get to your feet, Hack.”

  Hack pushed up from the ground and gathered his feet in a spraddle. He stood up, tottered for a moment, and then steadied as he regained his balance.

  Nehring moaned from a few yards away.

  Slocum prodded Hack with the barrel of his pistol and they both walked to where Roddie lay.

  He looked up at them, but they could not see his eyes.

  “Damn you, Slocum,” Roddie swore.

  “I’d say you were the one who is damned, Nehring.”

  Nehring sobbed as the pain shot through his belly and coursed up his spine.

  “You—you won’t get far, Slocum,” Roddie said before he convulsed from the pain. He held a bloody hand to his belly, but Slocum could smell the stench of his intestines. They were bulging from his back like slithering snakes, oily and glistening in the dim light.

  “He ain’t got long,” Hack said.

  “He made his choice,” Slocum said. “It was the wrong one.”

  “Go to hell, Slocum,” Nehring gasped.

  “I’ve been there several times, Nehring,” Slocum said. “You’re on your way.”

  Roddie twisted into a ball and struggled to breathe. His breath rattled in his throat as blood gushed up from his belly.

  He spewed blood on the ground with his last expulsion of air.

  He never drew another breath. He went into a final spasm and died, his mouth open like a beached fish.

  “Christ,” Hack breathed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Slocum said.

  Patrons poured out of the Wild Horse Saloon down the street. Some stood there in the center of the street and looked both ways.

  Slocum prodded Hack over to the dark buildings adjacent to the one where Nehring had stood guard. He pushed Hack against one of them and hugged the place next to him.

  Then he opened his cylinder and pushed the rod through the cylinders with the spent shells. They fell to the ground. He slid two fresh cartridges into the emptied cylinders, shoved the cylinder back in place, then shoved the barrel into Hack’s side.

  “You goin’ to shoot me, Slocum?”

  “Not yet, Hack,” Slocum said. “We’ll wait until it quiets down, then make our way back to where we left your pard, Boze.”

  “Some of the folks are walkin’ this way,” Hack said.

  “Then we’ll walk the other way,” Slocum said.

  He pushed Hack ahead of him to the gap between buildings and then toward the back, where they would not be seen.

  Slocum took his time.

  At each gap between stores, he stopped and they both saw people milling around.

  They heard voices and then a shout as someone discovered the bodies of Cassaway and Nehring.

  Slocum heard Mexican voices conversing in Spanish.

  “You recognize any of those Mexicans, Hack?” Slocum asked.

  “Yeah, a couple. I don’t understand what they’re sayin’, though.”

  “They work for Canby?”

  “Yep. One of ’em’s named Rodrigo, the other’n I think is Paco.”

  The voices faded, but Slocum knew those two Mexicans were looking for him.

  One of them mentioned the name Salazar and said they had to find him. The other spoke of someone named Ruben. He heard one man say the name Machado.

  “Who is Ruben?” Slocum whispered to Hack.

  “Ruben Machado. He works for Canby. Look, Slocum, all them Mexes are dead-aim shooters. If they catch up to you, it won’t be like Cassaway and Nehring. Them Mexes grew up on bullets.”

  “I want to show you something when we can get some light, Hack.”

  “We ain’t goin’ to get no light behind these buildings,” Hack said.

  They walked farther behind the log stores until they were opposite the saloon.

  There, between two stores, there was a faint finger of light.

  Slocum pushed Hack alongside one store until they were just on the edge of the street.

  There, the lamps from the saloon beamed enough light so that he could show Hack what he wanted him to see.

  Slocum pulled the flyer from his pocket. He unfolded it.

  Then he held it in front of Hack.

  “Can you read, Hack?” he asked.

  “I had schoolin’. Yeah, I can read.”

  “Read this, then,” Slocum said.

  Hack was slow, but he read every word. He looked at the drawing a long time before Slocum snatched the paper away, folded it up, and put it back in his shirt pocket.

  “Recognize anybody?” Slocum asked.

  “That drawing looks a lot like Orson.”

  “And there’s a bounty on his head.”

  “Yeah, there is. Is Canby—”

  “Yep, his real name is Collins.”

  “You been huntin’ him?”

  “A long time,” Slocum said.

  “You ain’t never goin’ to catch him, Slocum. Canby’s too damned sm
art.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see. Come on. Let’s see how Boze is doing.”

  Slocum and Hack walked behind the rest of the buildings to the end of Main Street, where it bled into the valley.

  Boze was no longer there.

  “He—he’s gone,” Hack said.

  “Sure looks like it, Hack. Now the question is, what should I do with you?”

  Hack turned and tried to see Slocum’s face. Tried to look into his eyes.

  Slocum’s eyes were two black holes. His face was a mask.

  “I—I don’t know,” Hack said. “Maybe let me go?”

  “I could make you promise to ride out of Deadfall and not look back,” Slocum said.

  “You could.”

  “Trouble is, could I count on you to keep that promise?”

  “I reckon you could. I’ve had my fill of Canby.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Slocum said softly.

  “You got my gun, Slocum. If you killed me, you’d be the same as Orson, a murderer.”

  “That’s so,” Slocum said.

  He did not want to kill Hack. At this point, it would be tantamount to murder.

  By now, Boze was probably spilling his guts to Canby.

  Canby would have men combing the town and valley for both him and Hornaday. Especially for him.

  Now that Hack knew the truth about Canby, maybe he wanted no more of a man with a price on his head. Or he might be loyal to Canby, no matter what.

  Slocum weighed his choices as he stood there with Hack.

  The choices were few.

  “Where’s your horse and saddle, Hack?” Slocum asked.

  The voices down the street began to die away, become more muffled and infrequent.

  “I got a place in town,” Hack said. “A cabin with a lean-to shelter and small corral out back. It’s on the same street as the jail.”

  “If we cross the street, somebody might see us,” Slocum said.

  “They might.”

  “Worth a try, though.”

  “You goin’ to let me go?” Hack asked.

  “I’m thinking about it. I could take you to your place, watch you saddle up, and ride off. But how far would you go before you turned back and started to hunt me again?”

  “If I rode out of here, I wouldn’t come back,” Hack said.

  “That’s what you say.”

  “That’s what I mean, Slocum.”

  Hack was a hired gun as far as Slocum knew. Nothing more, nothing less.

  But, he wondered, was Hack a man of his word?

  “Let’s put it this way, Hack,” Slocum said. “I’ll let you ride out. You take grub enough to get you somewhere else. That fair enough?”