by Jake Logan
Patrick’s brow furrowed as he asked, “Wait for what?”
“Wait for me to have my pie.” Looking to the skinny fellow, Slocum added, “Make mine rhubarb.”
4
“What in the hell took you so long?” the sheriff bellowed as Slocum and Patrick entered his little office.
It had been less than an hour since they’d left the lawman’s sight, but it seemed Marshal had been building up steam for a good deal longer than that.
“I went with him just like you said,” Patrick told the lawman. “Had to put his horse up and whet his whistle. Ain’t exactly proper to let a man go thirsty after he crawled in from the desert.”
“Plenty of things crawl in from the desert,” Marshal said. “Don’t mean we have to treat them proper.”
“Speaking of which,” Slocum said as he walked into the sheriff’s office and had a look around. “Where’s the man I brought along with me?”
The office was a small building that was only slightly larger than a cabin. There was such a sparse amount of furnishings within that there was still room for three men to walk around. Patrick went to a gun cabinet and posted himself in front of it. The sheriff had come from around a desk that had more dust on top of it than paperwork. A small stack of newspapers was in one corner beside the door and the wall adjacent to that was covered in reward notices. Slocum had thought they were reward notices at first, but most turned out to be clippings from newspapers tacked up like a wide frame around three notices bearing the likenesses of half a dozen men.
Stepping up to Slocum’s side, Marshal looked at the wall display as well. “Any of this look familiar?”
“Yep,” Slocum replied. Extending one arm, he used a finger to jab at two of the likenesses that had been drawn in rough charcoal lines. “That man there and the one right beside him. They look similar to the ones who ambushed me in the desert. Can’t speak for the third one. He kept his distance. If you want to see him, you can ride out and examine the corpse yourself.”
As far as drawings went, the ones on the reward notices were crude. They did, however, depict the strange hair style of the Indian that had been coated in mud. The other one’s face was comprised of simple lines which Slocum might have overlooked if he hadn’t spent so much time with the man attached to it slung across the back of his horse.
“How many did you say there were?” Marshal asked.
Without hesitation, Slocum replied, “Three.”
“And what did they do exactly?”
“One of them shouted down at me from a ridge while the other two crept up on either side so they could jump me from the bushes.”
Rubbing his chin, the sheriff asked, “All three of them Indians?”
“That’s what I thought at first,” Slocum told him. “But I’m not so sure about the man I brought in.”
“What about now?” Marshal said as he turned toward the office’s back door and strode over to open it. “Take a look and tell me what you think now that I cleaned him up a bit.”
Slocum followed the lawman outside to where the Indian’s body was propped against the back of the building with his feet stretched out in front of him as if he were merely sleeping off a bottle of hard liquor. The cleaning the sheriff had referred to had obviously been a few bucketfuls of water tossed onto the dead man’s face. Enough of the caked mud had been cleared away to reveal features that didn’t remind Slocum of any Indian he’d ever seen.
“Just like I figured,” Slocum said. “He’s no Indian.”
“You got that right,” Marshal said. “None of those men are. They’re just a small band of robbers looking to put a scare into folks by making them think they’ve been set upon by an Injun war party. They know the desert like the backs of their hands and their ruse has been working well enough for them to stick with it and keep picking apart anyone that rides through.”
Slocum thought back to the attack. “It didn’t seem like a real raiding party, that’s for certain, but the man leading it struck me as a brave.”
“His name is Ellis Jaynes. Used to be a scout for the Cavalry, but was drummed out of his regiment for thievery. Knows just enough to put on a good show, but he usually keeps his distance and takes potshots with a rifle while his other men crawl in close for the dirty work. Usually stands up on high ground blathering on about him being the blood of his land or the wrath of his tribe or some other such nonsense. What’s so damned funny?”
Slocum couldn’t help but chuckle when he heard the sheriff’s watered-down description. “Just seems to me like you’ve got a better handle on this whole thing than I thought.”
“Glad to hear it. I suppose you knew about Jaynes when you rode into town?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re John Slocum,” the sheriff replied. “I’ve heard a thing or two about you.”
“Whatever you heard, it doesn’t mean I make it my business to keep up on news about every little bunch of robbers that dress up like Indians to frighten folks on a desert road. The only reason I brought in one of them was because I suspected this wasn’t the first time they’ve tried something like this.”
“Then you’re after a reward.”
“It entered my mind there may be a price on their heads, but I thought the law might also want to know those men were dead. Since I did go through so much trouble, however, I’ll take whatever reward is coming.”
“I suppose you’re entitled. Come back inside and I’ll settle up with you.”
Slocum and the sheriff went back inside. Marshal circled around his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a small metal box. He opened the box, took out a wad of cash, and peeled off two fifty-dollar bills. “Here you go,” he said while handing over the money. “Paid in full.”
Holding the money in his open hand, Slocum asked, “That’s all for a known killer? A hundred dollars?”
The sheriff shrugged while closing the box and putting it back into his drawer. “Would have been more for Ellis Jaynes, but not much. Check the notice yourself if you think I’m lying.”
Slocum looked over at the notice once again and focused on the figure written beneath the crudely drawn picture. “It says a hundred fifty,” he pointed out.
“Fifty dollars makes that much difference to a man like you?” Marshal asked.
“I’ve got to pay for my meals the same as anyone. I also don’t much care for being shortchanged on any job I do.”
Without so much as glancing at the notices, Marshal said, “Check it again. The notice says a hundred and fifty . . . if he’s brought in alive. There’s a penalty for dead. If you would have thought to bring in all the bodies, there would have been more coming to you.”
Slocum had to lean in closer to the notice, but he quickly saw that the sheriff was correct. He closed his fist around the money he’d been given so he could stuff it into his pocket. “Guess that about wraps up our business, then. How about handing over my weapons?”
“I still have some questions for you, mister. Namely, why’d you only bring in one of them?”
“Because,” Slocum replied, “there was a long ride ahead of me and I wasn’t about to slow my horse down even more by hauling all that extra weight. I can tell you where to find the other ones if you’re interested.”
The sheriff dismissed that offer with half a wave of his hand. “I don’t give a damn where the other bodies are. Feeding the coyotes would be the best thing them men have ever done. I’d like your word that you’d tell me if you knew where to find anyone else Jaynes may have associated with before they find some other gunhands willing to make some quick money by dressing as Indians and terrorizing another group of travelers on their way to my town.”
“Why would I know such a thing?”
“I already told you,” Marshal said. “I heard plenty about John Slocum and a lot of it involves you gunning down some killer or tra
cking down another. Seems about right that you’d know where to find Ellis Jaynes. You crossing paths with him and his raiders seems like too big of a coincidence for me to swallow.”
“Then swallow a little harder, Sheriff,” Slocum said. “Because a coincidence is all it was. Trust me, I’ve seen more than enough of them to spot another when I stumble through it.”
The lawman eyed him carefully while slowly digesting everything he said. “You weren’t here to look for Jaynes?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what brings you to town?”
“I’ve got business in Mescaline,” Slocum replied. “If you have any questions regarding my character, I propose you ask someone who’s lived there for more than a year. They’ll tell you my word is good enough to hold water. If I can conduct my business here, I’m willing to do so and be on my way.”
Nodding slowly to himself, the sheriff shifted his focus back to his desk. Although there wasn’t much there to catch anyone’s eye, he busied himself with a few scraps of paper as he grumbled, “Yeah, I heard about what you did in Mescaline.”
“Then you know I’m not just some vagrant. And you should also know there’s no good reason to treat me like a criminal.”
“If I was treating you that way, you’d be locked in the cage out back.”
Slocum had seen the little shed behind the office when he’d poked his nose outside to get a look at the partially washed body. It wasn’t the worst jail he’d seen cobbled together by a lawman without any other options, but it wasn’t something he wanted to see up close. “Just give me my guns and I’ll be going. Otherwise,” Slocum added gravely, “I’d like to know what cause you have for keeping them from me.”
The sheriff looked up at him intently. For a moment, it seemed the lawman was going to make a case for keeping the guns in his possession. Eventually, Marshal let out the breath he’d been hanging on to and looked at his deputy. “Go ahead and give Mr. Slocum his guns.”
Patrick fished a key from his pocket, fit it into the cabinet behind him, and opened it to reveal a row of pistols hanging from pegs and a few rifles propped up beside a pair of shotguns. Slocum’s Sharps was in there as well as the .44. After handing over the two weapons to Slocum, Patrick locked up the cabinet as if it contained a treasure of gold bricks.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Slocum said as he holstered the .44, “I’ll find a suitable hotel on my own.”
“There’s three to choose from,” Marshal said. “Have a good night’s sleep.” With that, the lawman looked down at his desk and scribbled on a single sheet of paper.
There was plenty Slocum wanted to say at that moment. Instead, he bit his tongue and left the sheriff to whatever nonsense had suddenly occupied him. The saddlebags had been slung over his shoulder throughout most of his time in Davis Junction, but they seemed especially cumbersome when he hefted them again now along with the Sharps as he went through the office door. Once outside, he broke into a stride that carried him across the street. Out of curiosity, he glanced over one shoulder to find the little stable that Patrick had mentioned earlier. “Nothing’s ever easy,” he snarled.
“Where are you going?” Patrick asked as he came from the office.
“What do you care? If that sheriff told you to keep an eye on me while I’m in town, he should do it himself.”
“That ain’t it.” Huffing to catch up with Slocum, Patrick finally came alongside him and struggled to match his pace. “Don’t take any of that personal. The sheriff hasn’t lived around here as long as I have. He’s still got dirt from Virginia on the bottom of his boots.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I’m saying all he knows about you is what he gathered from what he heard from others. He’s been to Mescaline, but not when Jeremiah Hartley was runnin’ the place. He never got to see the faces that was busted up or the fingers that were hacked off when folks couldn’t afford to pay the taxes he levied.”
Slocum stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t often that he thought about Jeremiah Hartley, and part of that was because he tried not to dwell very long on the faces belonging to the men he’d killed. Whether those men had it coming or not was just a footnote that didn’t make a scrap of difference on those nights when the ghosts came knocking. Snuffing out someone’s life stained a man’s soul. The act alone was a weight to bear, and guilt or innocence didn’t make it any lighter. It should have, but it didn’t. For a man like Slocum, who’d taken more than a dozen men’s shares of lives, it was a weight that would have been damn near unbearable if he dwelled on it for long.
Also, there was always a chance that the preachers were right and the dead truly did take some sort of comfort in being remembered. The way Slocum saw it, Jeremiah Hartley was a cruel son of a bitch who didn’t deserve the slightest bit of comfort as he rotted in the hole where he’d been buried.
After letting out a slow, tired breath, Patrick said, “Eh, you must have ridden from one end of this country to the other a few times over since the last time you suffered through this stretch of desert. You probably forgot all about Jeremiah Hartley.”
“No,” Slocum said. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“My point is, if the sheriff don’t pay you the proper respect, it’s out of ignorance and nothing more. All he’s seen is what Mescaline is now.”
“Am I free to go about my business?” Slocum asked.
“Naturally,” Patrick said.
“Then that’s what I aim to do. When I’m finished, I’ll be on my way.” Slocum tapped the edge of a finger against the brim of his hat and turned his back on the deputy. He could find Laramie Street on his own.
5
Reid Flanders was a typical blowhard. His belly was fat from too much town cooking and his hair was pasted to his scalp by sweat and a cheap concoction that smelled of musk and saddle leather. He wore his secondhand suit as if it did something to hide the guns strapped under his arm and to his hip. In the mood Slocum was in when he stepped inside the assayer’s office, he wished the fat man would be stupid enough to make a move for one of those smoke wagons.
Just as Slocum had figured, any broker interested in mining claims was also interested in buying the ore that was dug out of them. After the tedious process of weighing some of the silver Slocum gave to him, Flanders winced and said, “Silver prices are down lately.”
“Why’s that?”
“Had a run on the stuff recently and I ain’t been able to unload it. Broker I see every now and then from California ain’t offering me as much as usual.”
“That’s not my problem,” Slocum said.
“It’s both our problems, mister. I can’t get rid of it, then I can’t pay as much for it. Now gold, on the other hand . . .”
Still carrying the saddlebag over one shoulder, Slocum shifted his feet as if he was suddenly more aware of the weight of the gold he’d left in his pouch. Coming to Reid’s place now was a way to test the waters and see how much he could get from the broker. So far, he wasn’t liking him well enough to trust him with the rest of what he’d brought.
“What’s the best you can do on the silver?” Slocum asked.
“For what you got here . . . fifty dollars.”
Truth be told, it was more than Slocum was expecting. He didn’t let that show on his face when he asked, “Can you do sixty?”
The broker shook his head. “Only reason I’m giving you that much is to let you know I run a square business.” Apparently, Reid knew when he was being sized up. A man in his line of work was under close scrutiny by anyone who walked through his door. “I can do fifty-five, but that’s only if you agree to give me first crack at whatever you get a hold of next.”
“What makes you think I have any more?”
“A man like yourself . . . riding into town with a dead outlaw strapped to your horse . . . trading unkind words with the sher
iff . . . I’m guessing you’ll acquire something else soon enough that you’d be wanting to trade for cash. Just so you know, I deal in all sorts of things other than gold and silver. Anything you might find valuable, just bring it my way. No questions asked.”
“No questions, huh?”
Reid grinned and nodded. “That’s right. I don’t care where it come from—as long as I can sell it further down the line, I’m interested. Even the occasional stray animal. Know what I mean?”
Slocum nodded back at him, but only so he could get close enough to reach out and grab the broker by the front of his shirt. “I do know what you mean and I don’t appreciate it!”
“I . . . I only . . . only meant that . . .”
“I know what you meant. You think I’m a horse thief or some damned ghoul who steals from dead folks and sells what I find to rodents like you.”
“Not at all!” Reid protested. “Just a mistake! That’s all it was, sir. I swear to you.”
“You’re damn right it was a mistake. Come to think of it, I imagine the bigger mistake was on the sheriff’s part when he didn’t look in your direction for word on where to find the real thieves around here.”
Despite being lifted to his toes by Slocum’s grip, the broker appeared offended as he quickly came to his own defense. “I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”
“Maybe not, but you’re willing to take stolen property and sell it. That tells me you have experience in this regard and I’m betting you must have built up a base of customers who do steal for a living. From what I’ve heard, a man named Ellis Jaynes could be one of your biggest clients.”
Reid continued to shake his head. “All I do is broker transactions. Times being what they are and with us stuck out here in such rough terrain, folks have to do what they can to survive. They need to sell all sorts of things and I’m the one they come to. That’s all.”
“What about that talk concerning the stray animals?”
“Just what I said,” Reid replied. “Recently I took some pigs off a man’s hands for a good price. He told me he found them in an abandoned spread and I believed him. We both made a good profit.”