Slocum and the Hanging Horse

by Jake Logan

  She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

  “Mr. Killian, are you all right?”

  Ambrose turned and glared at her. He had bandoliers slung across both shoulders, forming an X over his broad chest. Six-shooters hung at his sides, ready for use. He had dressed in rough denims and high boots, as if he intended to hike out in the desert. But the look on his face chilled her. She had never seen him look so ferocious.

  “I am furious. Word has just arrived that I missed him. I missed a golden opportunity!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You silly bitch, I missed Jeter! He shot up the bank in San Esteban and then burned it down. I missed it all. I could have been there instead of sitting here and polishing that damned black powder pistol of his.”

  “But you couldn’t know . . .”

  “I pay good money for people to alert me of possible robberies, and not a one of them knew of the bank robbery. It was a daring robbery. Pure Lester Jeter. He walked in during business hours, shot everyone inside, shot up half the town, then burned the bank to the ground to escape. And several in the crowd gathered outside saw him leave. They didn’t know they were watching the most cunning outlaw in all of Texas. In the entire goddamn West!” Killian slammed his hand again a heavy wood door and sent it swinging hard against the wall. Bits of plaster broke off and adobe dust filled the air in the kitchen.

  “He’s cunning,” Amy said. “He wouldn’t let anyone in San Esteban know what he intended to do. It’s not their fault.”

  “Not their fault!” roared Killian. “What do you know? Of course it is their fault. Whose else could it be?”

  Amy swallowed hard and stepped up, opening her valise to take out the spur.

  “I located this. It was a spur—one of a pair—that Jeter wore. It was taken from him while he was drunk. Down by the Rio Grande at a cantina trafficking in outlaws from both Mexico and Texas.”

  She held it up, only to have it swept from her grip with a pass of Killian’s hand. The spur crashed into the wall and produced its own small damage. Amy stared at the broken plaster. The hole in the wall it left might have come from a bullet. The sharp Spanish rowel had done its worst, but hardly matched what Ambrose had done.

  “Don’t be foolish. No one takes a spur off a man like Jeter, not unless he’s dead. And he’s not dead. Oh, no, he’s not dead. Far from it! He’s robbing the damned bank in San Esteban!” Killian stormed from the room, leaving Amy to stare at the spot he had vacated. She wasn’t sure what to do. She wanted to soothe him and she wanted to kill him. How dare he dismiss her effort in such a fashion!

  She picked up the spur and put it into her bag. She would tell him the details later after he had calmed down. At the moment, she was glad she had paid only five dollars, and that in scrip, for the spur. That Rodriguez and Bernardo had tried to swindle her was beyond question. That didn’t mean the spur hadn’t once adorned Jeter’s boot or that any part of their story had been a lie. She wanted to believe it for Ambrose’s benefit, but right now she had other matters to attend to.

  “Ambrose? Ambrose?” She hesitantly followed him through several rooms and into his trophy room. He stood, arms crossed on his chest, glaring at the artifacts of Jeter’s criminal career.

  “Ambrose,” Amy said softly. She laid a hand on his shoulder. He jerked away and spun to face her.

  “Don’t touch me,” he snapped.

  “I don’t like to see you like this. You have done so much so well. Look around you. You’ve produced a complete picture of a man who has done his best to remain in shadow. You’ve found out more about Jeter than the lawmen who have chased after him for so long. Why, some of them don’t even know when he commits a robbery. He is a mystery to so many of them, including the Texas Rangers.”

  She saw that he was being mollified. She kept up her compliments and wheedled him out of his foul mood. When she thought it was time, she brought out the spur again and handed it to him.

  “I was careful, sir. I detailed everything about this spur’s provenance.” She was pleased that she had learned that word from him.

  “Let me see it.” Ambrose snatched the spur from her hand and turned it over several times, then snorted in contempt. “It’s not Jeter’s. It couldn’t be. Someone has scratched his initial into the spur to make it seem that he was the owner. He would never do such a thing. Look around. Look carefully, Miss Gerardo. Is there anything else marked with his initial? No! Jeter is not a man to advertise himself in such a crass fashion.”

  “You’re saying this isn’t his spur?”

  “Of course not. And that cock-and-bull story of someone taking it off him while he was drunk? It never happened. Not only would Jeter never brag about how great a road agent he was, he would never get drunk. Not once in all my research about him have I found one instance where he became so drunk that he lost control in any way.”

  “But—”

  “The man is about control, Miss Gerardo. He fears losing control. Everything around him must be under his thumb, his personal domination. Anything less and he becomes violent.”

  “That sounds like you.” Amy put her hand over her mouth in horror. The words had slipped out before she could check them.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Killian said reasonably. “Perhaps this shared trait is what draws me to him. He is the arch-villain. I document him. He is ruthless in killing. I am ruthless in finding everything about him I can. That’s what galls me so about not knowing he was going to rob the San Esteban bank. So close! I was so close and I missed my chance.”

  “Would you have killed him?” Amy eyed the bandoliers of ammunition and the twin six-guns hanging at his hips.

  “It would have been murder,” Killian said. “He is a blindingly fast gunman, and his aim is that of a dead-eye. If I ever have the chance, I will have to shoot him in the back. Otherwise, he will kill me.”

  “You’d murder him?” This stunned Amy. She had never before realized how completely involved Ambrose was in his pursuit of the outlaw.

  The look on his face chilled her even more. It wasn’t cruel, it was beatific.

  “I want to go to San Esteban right away. Prepare to join me.”

  “But I just—” Amy cut off her protest about being near exhaustion after finding and fetching the spur at such great risk to her own life. Ambrose had it firmly fixed in his head that they ought to investigate the bank robbery. “Very well,” she said, turning to go to her quarters. She had some clean clothing she could pack, replacing the dirty dresses from the trip down to the Rio Grande and back. It was difficult work keeping up with Ambrose Killian, but she thought it was worth it.

  “Arrange for rooms,” Killian ordered. “I’ll see to the ruins of the bank.”

  “Very well, sir,” she said, starting to drive to the only decent hotel in San Esteban. From all Amy could tell, it was the only hotel. This wasn’t the crossroads of West Texas by any means, and probably the only visitors who needed rooms were those there when the stagecoach laid over for the night.

  “Wait. Get the rooms later. You should accompany me and take notes. I’ll want a full report on this crime from all the witnesses. Chasing them down later might prove difficult, if not impossible.”

  “Are you sure?” Amy tried to keep the testy tone out of her words and failed. Ambrose looked at her with his piercing gaze.

  “Do you have something else to do, Miss Gerardo?”

  “No, sir. It’s just been a long trip, and after I returned from the Rio Grande cantina I didn’t have any time to rest.” She saw that he was already focused elsewhere, hailing a man with a badge pinned to his chest. She heaved a sigh and climbed down from the buckboard, her short legs aching—as well as other unmentionable portions of her anatomy. She fished around in her valise and got her notebook and a pencil, since she would have no opportunity to continually dip ink from her inkpot. She could transcribe the notes into a more permanent form later, after she had a room in the hotel.

 
; “This gent’s the new town marshal,” Ambrose said, not turning to her. “He’s going to tell me what happened.”

  “The old marshal, he caught wind of what happened here and never came back from ridin’ circuit. Sent word with a cowboy comin’ to town. Nobody else wanted the job, so I took it.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Amy, curious. “If the job proved too dangerous for your predecessor, why did you take it?”

  The man scratched his head and looked at her.

  “You’re real purty, ma’am, but I don’t much unnerstand what you mean.”

  “Never mind her, my good man,” Ambrose said, dismissing Amy’s sensible question. “What can you tell me about Jeter and his raid on the bank? Do you know where he got off to after he cleaned out the vault?”

  “Well, we ain’t sure he cleaned it out. Mighta burned down with it.”

  “You have the body? Can I photograph it?”

  “Don’t know, ’bout that, mister.”

  “Ambrose Killian, pleased to make your acquaintance. And you are?”

  “The new marshal,” the man said, frowning. “I tole you that already.”

  “He meant what’s your name,” Amy explained.

  “They promised me thirty dollars a month to be marshal,” the man said, looking more confused than ever.

  “Yes, and I’ll give you that much here and now if you’ll tell me what you know of the bank robbery and the burning of the building and Jeter.”

  “Eaton. Sid Eaton.”

  “What?” It was Ambrose’s turn to look confused.

  “That’s his name, sir,” Amy said.

  “You’ll let me photograph all the bodies?” Ambrose said to Eaton. “And you can identify them for me?”

  “Reckon so. I lived here in San Esteban fer purty near a year now and know everyone. Anybody I don’t know’s likely to be the robber.”

  “You’ve heard of Les Jeter?”

  “Course I have. That was the name the stage depot agent kept screamin’ at the top of his lungs. Not that ole Sanford knows squat.”

  “Will you form a posse and go after the bank robber?” Amy asked.

  “He burnt up in the building, I tole you.” Marshal Eaton looked increasingly confused with the pair of them questioning him. Amy looked to her employer and saw how irritated Ambrose was becoming too. She applied her pencil to her notebook and resolutely shut her mouth. It was better if Ambrose asked the questions, even if they were not likely to generate decent answers from the simpleminded marshal.

  “Miss Gerardo, fetch my photographic equipment. Bring it over to the bank.” Ambrose sniffed and made a face at the acrid smell still hanging over the town like some angry pall.

  Amy closed her notebook and hurried back to the buckboard, gathered the tripod and camera, and dragged them to the front of where the bank had stood. The adobe walls were intact, but anything that had been made of wood was gone. The vigas holding the roof had burned through early on and had caused the roof to collapse into the bank itself, adding more fuel to the fire. In some places the already kiln-fired adobe had become so hot that it caused the bricks to turn brittle and crack. In spots the straw used to hold the mud bricks together had ignited and destroyed the bricks entirely. She couldn’t imagine how hot that fire must have been.

  “The photographic plates, girl. Get them! I can’t do a thing without them.”

  “Sorry, sir,” she said contritely, returning to the buckboard and hefting the large metal case holding the photographic plates. She struggled under the weight until the marshal saw her and offered to help.

  “She can get it. You’re answering my questions,” Ambrose told him.

  “But that’s a powerful heavy load fer such a small woman.”

  “She’s strong and determined. Set up the camera for me, Miss Gerardo. Now, Marshal Eaton, the bodies. Have you pulled them from the ruins?”

  “Got ’em over there. Five of ’em.”

  Ambrose snapped his fingers at Amy and pointed to the spot where he wanted the camera tripod placed. He walked to the bodies and gingerly poked about on the charred carcasses.

  “Which one can’t you identify?”

  “That one, the one you’re pokin’,” Marshal Eaton said. “Them others, well, that’s the teller, them two’s the guards, and the one with the fancy vest, or what’s left of it, he was the bank president. Real fine fella too. Loaned me money when I needed it.”

  “I’m sure,” Ambrose said, dropping to his knees and further examining the corpse. He drew out a slender knife and cut through the charred clothing, then recoiled.

  “Ready for the first picture, sir,” Amy said.

  “That won’t be necessary. This is not Jeter.”

  “How kin you tell that?” Marshal Eaton peered over Ambrose’s shoulder curiously.

  “This is a woman, you dolt!”

  “Cain’t tell from the clothes.”

  “I can’t say one way or the other myself, sir,” Amy piped up. She wasn’t defending the marshal as much as observing that the degree of destruction was almost total. Casual examination would not reveal even this most basic of differences.

  “The clothing is almost totally destroyed, I admit,” said Ambrose. “She must have received the full brunt of the fire when the roof collapsed. Her skull is crushed and there might have been kerosene spilled on her. But cutting away the layers of scorched cloth reveals, uh, womanly attributes not entirely erased by the intense fire.” Ambrose bent lower and sniffed, then gagged. “I can’t tell. The smell of her burned flesh is . . . overpowering.”

  “Do you want me to take the pictures, sir?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “It’s all ready,” Amy said.

  “I don’t want pictures at all! Why waste expensive silver bromide plates on these . . . citizens. I want pictures of Jeter!”

  “He ain’t here,” Marshal Eaton said. “You tole me that one there was a woman and—”

  “I know that,” Ambrose snapped. “This is why I’m not shooting any pictures. Put the camera back, Miss Gerardo.”

  “You sure it was this Jeter fella what robbed the bank?”

  “And got away with it,” Ambrose said grimly.

  “He a fellow ’bout this tall?” asked a man who had watched the gruesome examination. “Pleasant fellow? The one up in the valley?”

  “You know him?” Ambrose turned and stared.

  “Took me a while, but I remembered I seen him in town once before, over at the store gettin’ supplies. He mentioned in passin’ how he was settled down with his missus up in Limpia Valley. Real nice stretch of land. Other folks was up there, he said, but they passed on and he took it over.”

  “Passed on?” Ambrose took three steps until he was in the man’s face.

  “That’s what he said. Happens around here, what with Injuns and all. We get our share of them Meskin bandidos crossin’ the Rio Grande too. They want nothing but to lie low until the Meskin law’s not breathin’ down their necks, then they sneak back across the border. But they’s evil. Nasty cusses.”

  “Did he give a name? The man in the store?”

  “Nope, and I didn’t ask. Didn’t seem important. Ain’t seen him since either, not till right after the robbery carryin’ that bag over his shoulder.”

  “Limpia Valley,” Ambrose said, his eyes shining brightly. “Jeter could be holed up there.”

  “Then I reckon I got to get me a posse and go after him,” Marshal Eaton said, surprising Amy greatly with his initiative. “Might be a reward on his head. Have to ask ole Sanford ’bout that.”

  “The Texas Rangers would dearly love to see you apprehend this outlaw,” Ambrose assured the marshal.

  “Do tell. Then I kin git me a dozen or so men whipped up to a frenzy. You’d be surprised at the folks what lost money in the bank robbery. They’d do most anything to git a shot at the gent who stole their life savings.”

  The marshal strutted off, bowlegs pumping quickly, as he headed for the n
earest saloon to rustle up a posse.

  “You joinin’ in the fun, mister?”

  Ambrose looked at the man. “No, I think you and I ought to set a spell and talk over everything you know about this Limpia Valley and its residents. Or former residents. Might their names have been Jeter?”

  Amy sucked in her breath. There had been unconfirmed rumors that Jeter had killed his own parents. The deaths up in the valley might tie in with that—and prove to be a fact.

  “Miss Gerardo, a moment.” Ambrose took her by the elbow and steered her away from the man, who peered at the camera and then at the bodies. “After you store the camera equipment, prepare for the . . . end result.”

  “The one you mentioned earlier?” Amy’s eyes were wide with amazement. “We’re that close to catching Jeter?”

  “I think so. We remain in San Esteban because if the posse does not capture him but he is flushed from his lair, he will likely come here as he flees.”

  “He might go into Mexico,” Amy said.

  “I don’t think so. If Marshal Eaton and his men are successful in driving Jeter from his sanctuary, he will want revenge. I know the man intimately well. He will return here and burn the entire town to the ground. If that happens, I will be prepared to face him. And if the marshal is successful in capturing him, they will return here for the trial. Ergo, there is no cause for us to stir.” Ambrose turned and looked at the man still poking about the camera. “Especially since there are events and details about Jeter to add to our store begging to be annotated here.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get on it right away.”

  “And rooms, Miss Gerardo, get us rooms.” With that Ambrose hurried back to steer the man away from the camera toward the restaurant. Amy’s belly growled. She wished Ambrose had offered her some food too, but that could wait.

  She gathered up the photographic equipment and lugged it to the buckboard, stored it securely, then took a deep breath. She knew what had to be done next.

  She went directly to the undertaker to order a fancy coffin for Lester Jeter. Whatever happened, the outlaw would end up being planted in the cemetery at the edge of San Esteban, and Ambrose wanted him to be sent off in a style befitting a legend.