by Jake Logan
He went past the sleeping clerk, up the stairs, and to the back of the hotel. Slocum stared at the door leading to the room where he had burst through the night before. Then he walked on to the room Miss Maggie had rented for him. It was hardly a presidential suite, but it would do. The bed was soft and didn’t have too many bedbugs in it. Slocum kicked off his boots, hung his six-gun up on the brass post at the head of the bed, and lay back, staring at the high plaster ceiling, now shrouded in shadow. He let his mind wander to all that had happened to him since coming to town. Soon enough, he slipped off to sleep.
Slocum wasn’t sure what it was that brought him awake. He sat up in bed and grabbed for his Colt Navy. He looked around his room, hunting for an intruder. Nothing. Standing, he padded around the room, looking in the wardrobe and under the bed. No one.
“Getting spooked for no good reason,” he said to himself. But he hesitated when he passed the door leading into the hall. Reaching out, he touched the brass door-knob. He jerked back, his fingers burned.
The hotel was on fire!
7
Wisps of greasy black smoke began curling under the door like deadly fingers seeking his throat. Slocum coughed, and knew he didn’t have much time to get out of the building before it burned to the ground. Like all frontier towns, Scorpion Bend was a fire hazard waiting to level every structure to cinders. He turned and grabbed at a sheet from the bed, clutching it to his face. Slocum jumped over the bed and got to the window.
He grunted as he tried to hike up the window. It refused to budge. Smoke billowed into the room, making it hard to see—and breathe. Slocum wadded up the sheet, shoved his fist in the middle, and punched at the window. The sound of shattering glass momentarily drowned out the alarm bell from outside, summoning the volunteer fire department.
Slocum used the sheet to get the shards out of his way. He paused only long enough to grab his gunbelt and boots, then went out the window. Slocum dangled from the windowsill a second, got his feet under him, and then dropped hard to the alley alongside the hotel. Quick glances left and right showed tongues of orange flame licking outward. There was no chance of saving the Emporia Hotel.
Slocum pulled on his boots and strapped his six-shooter to his waist, then hurried to the front. A dozen half-drunk firemen argued about how best to put out the fire. They weren’t going to do anything soon.
“Who’s inside?” Slocum demanded of one fireman. The man cocked his head sideways and stared at Slocum as if he didn’t understand. “Where’s the clerk?” Slocum asked.
When he didn’t get an answer, Slocum ran up the steps, flung up an arm to protect his face from the heat, then plunged into the inferno of the lobby. Flames licked at his sides, almost tickling. Then it hurt. Bad.
“Anyone still here?” he shouted over the roar of the fire. Through the blaze he saw the clerk slumped over his desk. Slocum jumped over a burning chair and got to the man’s side. There wasn’t time to check to see if he had died already. Slocum heaved him upright, got his shoulder under the clerk, and carried him out.
Coughing and spitting to get the burnt taste from his mouth, Slocum collapsed a dozen yards away from the conflagration. He rolled away from the clerk, who moaned and began puking out his guts.
“He’ll be just fine,” said a bald man with a bushy white handlebar mustache. He was dressed in a night-gown, but carried a black bag.
“You Doc Marsten?” asked Slocum.
The man’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Didn’t know I was so famous. Didn’t even have to enter that damned race either. Don’t move,” the doctor said, reaching for Slocum. A stab of pain went through Slocum’s scalp.
“What’d you do?” Slocum asked, flinching at the dull throb remaining after the first wave of pain.
“Here,” the doctor said, holding up a smoldering sliver of wood about the thickness of an Indian arrow. “Got you in the head and you never noticed.”
“I do now.”
Slocum winced again when the doctor brusquely applied his tincture of iodine from a purplish glass bottle. Then the man hurried off to help others overcome by smoke. The hotel had burned to gray ashes by now, going up so fast that Slocum knew he was lucky to escape. He doubted many other customers inside had gotten away. Only luck had saved him—or his sixth sense telling him something was wrong.
“What do you reckon caused it?” Slocum asked a man with a gold badge on his fireman’s hat. The man took off the hat, wiped sweat from his grimy face, and shook his head sadly.
“Cain’t rightly tell, but it looks like this might be more ’n an accident.”
“What?”
“As I said, cain’t rightly tell. But there was a kerosene lamp all bashed up toward the rear of the hotel, right on that back wall. Or where the back wall used to be.”
Slocum didn’t doubt someone had burned down the Emporia. How many riders in the race were inside? Besides him? If whoever set the fire only got one or two riders, it still improved his odds of winning. Slocum didn’t have to ask himself too many times what sort of man would resort to such treachery.
Cletus Quinn kept popping up as the answer. And if it wasn’t him, one of his men might have taken it into his head to help out his boss with a little reduction in the field of racers. Slocum saw that only the hotel and the two adjacent stores had been burned. The rest of Scorpion Bend had been saved by the volunteer firemen’s quick work, in spite of the shaky start when they’d argued over how to save the hotel.
“Sacrifice the hotel, save the town,” Slocum muttered as he turned toward the stable. It made sense, even if he had been inside the hotel. As he neared the stable, a guard stepped out and confronted him, shotgun leveled.
“Where you goin’?”
“You recognize me?” Slocum said, shoving his chin forward so his face was only inches from the man. The way the man peered nearsightedly told Slocum he had done the right thing.
“Oh, you’re Slocum. I got a bet on you.”
“Where are the rest of the guards Miss Maggie hired?”
“Well, it’s like this,” the man said.
“Out getting liquored up?” Slocum guessed.
“Somethin’ like that. They left me to watch after the horse. That’s a mighty fine animal, believe me. I seen the best, and this one’s even better.”
“I’ll go in and sleep in the stable,” Slocum said. His bedroll and tack were inside with his sorrel. Sleeping in the straw was better than finding some other place in Scorpion Bend to spend the night. He was drawn to Rachel Decker and her farm, but it was a long ride out and Slocum wasn’t overly comfortable bothering her in the middle of the night. She was still coming to grips with her sorrow over losing her brother.
Or if she believed Slocum, maybe she was plotting her revenge on Quinn. Whatever occupied Rachel Decker’s night, Slocum did not want to intrude.
“I guess that’s all right,” the man said. “Miss Maggie said not to let anyone in, but you’re ridin’ and I recognize you and—”
“Good man,” Slocum said, slapping the guard on the shoulder. He saw no reason to give the man time to work up a reason not to let him inside. “I’ll see that you win a fortune on your bet.”
The guard grinned, showing two missing teeth. Slocum opened the stable door and aroused the horses inside. He tended his sorrel, then went to Black Velvet and spent some time gentling the powerful horse. Letting the horse get used to him, his smell, his ways, would pay off for him, Slocum realized.
Slocum got his bedroll and laid out the blanket in an empty stall next to Black Velvet. He lay down, wondering if he was just antsy or if Quinn had tried to kill him by setting fire to the hotel. In spite of what the fire chief had said, it could have been an accident. Too many drunk cowboys wandered the streets of Scorpion Bend to be absolutely certain.
Slocum drifted to sleep, familiar smells all around him. And he came awake, his hand on his six-gun, just as he had in the hotel. This time it wasn’t the faint whiff of smoke that alerted him, but th
e soft sound of someone trying not to make any noise. Slocum heard tiny scrapes of leather against wood, creaking floorboards, the harsh breathing of a man excited about what he did.
Slocum didn’t have to be told that the guard outside had somehow let the intruder sneak past him.
He rose as quiet as shadows, and moved to where he could peer around the edge of the stall. Black Velvet whinnied softly, waking up because of the intruder trying to make his way across the stable. Slocum drew his six-shooter and started to cock it, then hesitated. The sound would be louder than a clap of thunder in the silent night.
“There you are, you monster,” the man coming across the stable said. “I’ve got some nice sugar cubes for you. Just the thing to make you run tomorrow.” The laugh that accompanied this claim bordered on the evil. Slocum knew that whatever the man gave Black Velvet, it wasn’t going to be good.
Slocum stood and cocked his gun. The sound was every bit as loud as he thought it would be.
“What the—?” cried the startled man. He stumbled back, eyes wide and his hand clenched around whatever he carried.
“Give me a good reason not to shoot you where you stand,” Slocum said.
The man reacted instinctively, throwing sugar cubes in Slocum’s direction. The sudden whiteness in the dark caused Slocum to duck, giving the man the chance to turn and run for it. Slocum banged his hand against the edge of the stall. He dropped his six-gun. Rather than fumble around in the dark for it, Slocum lit out after the fleeing man.
He tackled him just inside the stable door, bringing him down hard. The man struggled like an eel, trying to kick and claw his way to freedom. Grimly, Slocum hung on until the man weakened just a mite. Then Slocum swarmed over him, fists swinging. He wasn’t sure what he was hitting. He was sure he got the man’s belt buckle from the sudden burst of pain all the way up his arm. But he also connected with the man’s breadbasket.
A loud whoosh of air leaving tortured lungs was testimony to that. Slocum pressed his momentary advantage to roll the man onto his back and hold down his shoulders using both knees in a schoolboy pin. Slocum looked down into the man’s face, and read a stew of pain and fear.
“I know you,” Slocum said, surprised. He had expected Quinn or one of his henchmen to come by. “You finished sixth the other day.”
“What of it? I didn’t cheat!”
“You were trying to poison my horse, weren’t you?” To Slocum’s way of thinking, this was worse than if the man had tried to bushwhack him. Many were the times when another had tried to kill Slocum, but to set out to poison a horse that couldn’t fight back and trusted the sugar to be good was as bad as horse theft.
Maybe worse.
“No, no, nothing like that. It’d just slow you down. That’s all.”
Slocum knew a lie when he heard it, and his anger started boiling. It was good he had dropped his six-shooter in the stall. He might have shoved the barrel into this son of a bitch’s mouth and pulled the trigger to stop the lying.
Slocum reached down and grabbed the man by the throat. Getting off but keeping his hold on the man’s windpipe, Slocum lifted the man to his feet. He dragged the intruder back into the stable and shoved him into the pile of straw in an empty stable. Slocum knelt, fumbled about, and lifted his pistol to cover the man.
“Don’t kill me, Slocum. I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it.”
“No,” Slocum said sarcastically, “you didn’t mean anything by it.” He aimed the Colt Navy smack at the man’s head and said, “Drop those drawers of yours.”
“What?” The man was shocked. “I ain’t no peg boy on some cattle drive.”
“Do it or die where you stand,” Slocum said. His tone and the unwavering six-gun convinced the man. The man fumbled at his belt, then unbuttoned his jeans and let them drop around his ankles.
“Keep going,” Slocum said. “Expose yourself.”
The man turned white as a sheet, but did as he was ordered.
“What are you gonna do, Slocum?”
“Here,” Slocum said, pushing a large bottle of liniment toward the man with his foot. He stepped back and trained the six-shooter on the man’s private parts. “Either douse yourself real good with the liniment or I’ll blow off anything left dangling.”
“Let me water it down,” the man begged. “Thass gonna burn like hell!”
“Do it or I start shooting. I’m a good shot too.”
“I seen you and the scorpions,” the man admitted. With shaking hands, he picked up the bottle. He jerked when Slocum shot the cork out of the bottle.
“All over yourself,” Slocum said, taking aim again.
The man whimpered, and then cried out as he poured the fiery liquid all over his genitals. Slocum kept his gun trained on the man until the bottle was empty.
“Get out of here,” Slocum said.
“I’m on fire. I’m burning up, Slocum. Do something!”
“Want me to put you out of your misery, you horse poisoner?”
“No, no,” gasped the man, bent double. He hobbled past Slocum, his trousers still down around his ankles. Slocum resisted the urge to kick the man in the butt as he stumbled past. Liniment was good for bruises and muscle strains—when it was diluted with ten parts water to one of the potent liniment. Straight out of the bottle, it burned like a million ants gnawing away.
Even if the man washed his private parts off in clear water, he was going to be in a world of hurt for some time.
Slocum went back to sleep, a small smile on his lips.
He was surprised at how keyed up he was. Slocum looked at the other riders, counting silently. He saw Cletus Quinn holding court across the street, boasting and carrying on. The others clustered in a tight knot, as if they could fend off all comers that way. But Slocum only got to seven, not counting himself. He had not expected to see the man who had doused himself with liniment—at Slocum’s urging—but Slocum had expected the man in the tan duster to compete. He might have been caught in the hotel fire. If so, Slocum was truly sorry.
“You gents all ready to race?” called out the starter. He fumbled to load his pistol. Slocum edged Black Velvet onto the line, wondering if this race would be different from the earlier one. He had chosen to bring along a rifle this time. His trusty Winchester would even the score with any of Quinn’s bushwhacking henchmen.
If they didn’t backshoot him.
Slocum knew Miss Maggie had alerted the marshal and about everyone else in town about the ambush. The chance Quinn would try the same trick twice was slim. He might even run a fair race, thinking he was better than any of the others.
A stir from back down the street made Slocum turn and look over his shoulder. The man riding Pilot galloped along, hat pulled down and tan duster flapping like thunder behind.
“Ready, set, go!” shouted the starter. His pistol went off with a muffled pop. The man on Pilot hit the starting line at a dead run and flashed past the others. Slocum had to smile. Everyone tried different tricks to get the edge on the other riders. The man who had pulled Slocum’s fat out of the fire in the last race was obviously going hell-bent for leather to win this time.
Slocum put his heels into Black Velvet’s sides and let the powerful horse carry him along. In a few seconds they were outside Scorpion Bend. In a minute they were half a mile toward the rocky canyon Slocum had taken into town less than a week earlier. And then the high, stony walls rose as if to crush him. On either side, riders bumped into him. Then he bent lower and got a new burst of speed out of the powerful black stallion.
This was going to be a race to remember.
Slocum intended to be able to count himself among the top five when he thought about it in future years.
8
Heat in the canyon began to take its toll on him. Slocum reined back and slowed to a walk. He had outdistanced five riders. With the man who had sampled Slocum’s liniment out, that meant Slocum only had three others ahead of him. Unfortunately, that included Quinn. The man had tried to de
lay the racers before using snipers. Slocum knew something else would be in store for Quinn’s opponents today. A rider turning up with a bullet in the head—or back—would cause such a stir not even Quinn would be able to get out of it.
Slocum imagined Quinn dangling in the hot wind with a rope around his neck. The mental picture looked good to him, but Slocum knew he had to get through the day before he could hope to pin Frank Decker’s murder on Quinn.
“Top five,” Slocum said over and over as his strength ebbed fast. The day was hotter than before, and every puff of wind blowing down the rocky canyon sucked that much more energy from him. More often now, he drank deeply from the burlap desert bag dangling behind him over his saddlebags. Evaporation through the damp bag caused the water to cool, giving him much-needed moisture and a crisp taste.
But the horse suffered too, and without Black Velvet’s strength Slocum could never finish the race, much less win. The only consolation he could think of was that the others were similarly handicapped by the oppressive heat.
Slocum dismounted and walked the horse, giving it a rest. As he walked along, he eyed the high rim of the canyon. Any glint of sunlight off a rifle barrel would alert him to trouble ahead. But he saw nothing through the heat shimmer. He touched his pocket and traced the silver concho he had found in the Emporia Hotel after Frank Decker’s murder. The owner was still a mystery, but Slocum reckoned an examination of Quinn’s gear would reveal where it had come from.
“Come on, don’t slow down. Neither of us will be able to move if we actually stop.” He tugged at the balky Black Velvet, and the horse reluctantly kept moving. Slocum knew if he allowed the horse to rest now, he might never convince himself to keep on.
He trudged along for a mile until his feet began to hurt. He mounted and walked Black Velvet another mile. As he topped the rise that marked the middle of the canyon, he saw Cletus Quinn about a half mile ahead. The man was working on his horse’s front hoof. Slocum wondered if the horse had thrown a shoe. If so, Quinn was out of the race. But even as Slocum’s spirits rose, he saw Quinn mount and ride off.