Slocum Along Corpse River

by Jake Logan

  “Can’t let you in unless you pay up or give the password.”

  “We can shoot our way in,” the Kid said.

  The guard motioned for Slocum to step out and stand by him. Slocum held his rifle, but he watched Kid Summers closely for any sign the outlaw recognized him. The Kid never gave him a second glance.

  “Two men?” The Kid laughed. Then his second-in-command tugged at his arm. He had spotted Gadsden in the armored guardhouse as well as the sentry posted out by the river to make sure no one escaped Top of the World. Even with incredible firepower, the gang would be sure to lose a few of their number with their retreat cut off and the wall blocking progress.

  “Ain’t anything out of the ordinary,” the guard said. Slocum heard the tremor in the man’s voice. He clutched his rifle a little tighter and began to judge distances and where to send his first bullet. The owlhoot with the eight six-guns would be the first to die, even though Slocum wanted to take out the Kid.

  “Steamboat,” the Kid said, looking bored. “That what you want to hear, you idiot?”

  “Open up for the emperor’s guests,” the guard said.

  Slocum shinnied down the ladder and worked to pull back the heavy locking bar. As he swung the gate open, the Kid crowded through and gave Slocum a long, angry look. Then the other five pushed close behind, and the outlaw moved on. He rode off without another look back. Slocum considered his chances sneaking through the gate and taking out the sentry along the river.

  But what good would that do? The sentry didn’t have a horse, and it was a long walk to anywhere. He put his back to closing the gate and getting the bar back into place.

  “He looks like trouble,” Slocum said.

  The guard shrugged.

  “There’s nuthin’ but trouble in town. I got a reward on my head,” the guard said. Seeing Slocum’s look of disbelief, he puffed up and said, “I robbed a train. They want me over in Cheyenne. Real bad.”

  “Desperado,” Slocum said softly. This vague statement settled the growing ire in his boss.

  “Damn straight. And don’t forget it. I can be every bit as dangerous as . . . as them.”

  “You know them?” Slocum asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

  “I know their kind. They’d as soon shoot you in the back as look at you. The baby-faced one. Their leader.” The guard shuddered. “I seen his like come to town more ’n I want to remember.”

  “Why do you think Galligan is getting them all in like he is?”

  “There’s been a lot of them the past couple weeks.” The guard frowned as he looked at Slocum. “How’d you know that? You only been here a couple days.”

  Slocum gave some nonsensical answer. It had been a guess. He had seen the gunman ahead of him ride through without paying. Now the Kid Summers gang had arrived. It made sense that Galligan had summoned others.

  The rest of the watch crept by like it had been dipped in treacle. Slocum was glad when the four guards from town came to relieve him and the others. He walked into town by himself, wrapped in his own thoughts. By the time he got to the main street, it was already dark. He wasn’t too surprised to see gaslights sizzling and casting bright yellow light along the storefronts. For all its remoteness, the town was fairly modern. He doubted there were elevators in the hotel, but other than this, Galligan knew how to live.

  The crash of a six-shooter brought Slocum around. He suspected that Galligan knew how to kill, too. The pit was evidence of his sick pleasure, but that could be amusing only so many times before the blood and misery began to pale. Galligan undoubtedly had other pastimes to keep himself amused.

  Slocum sauntered along the main street getting the lay of the land. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought this was a law-abiding town. The occasional report from a pistol or the scream of someone getting the shit kicked out of him belied that. Nowhere he looked did he see a lawman. But he did see roving bands of men such as the one that had followed him the day before. He didn’t have to be told these were Galligan’s equivalent of a police force, only they were answerable to no one but the emperor.

  He stopped across the street from the fancy hotel where he had seen Galligan talking with the well-dressed man the day before. The lobby was brightly lit and inviting. A sitting room behind a bay window looked out over most of the main street. A chair with a low table to its side sat there prominently. It was a more fitting throne than the one Galligan used atop the pile of logs.

  A single step into the street and Slocum froze. He slowly stepped back and found a bit of shadow to cloak him. Galligan and Beatrice came down the stairs from the hotel’s upper floors. They were arm in arm, and she had her head resting on his shoulder. Her coppery hair spilled over and partially obscured his gaudy jacket cut so that he could easily reach the six-gun holstered at his side. Slocum didn’t have to hear what Beatrice was saying to know what she suggested. The idiotic grin on Galligan’s face told Slocum it was something salacious, something lewd and probably illegal in most other towns.

  That Beatrice was sleeping with Galligan wasn’t as much a surprise to Slocum as the way she clung to the outlaw’s arm the way a drowning woman would hold on to a log to keep from going under. Galligan stopped in the center of the lobby. As if they were dewdrops forming on leaves in the cool morning, three gunmen came from hidden corners of the lobby to stand behind Galligan.

  He spoke to them, and they hurried out into the street, each going in a different direction. Whoever Galligan had summoned wasn’t obviously in a place known to his henchmen. And Slocum never doubted for an instant that the emperor had sent the trio of gunmen to bring back someone to his court.

  Galligan sat in the chair in the window, Beatrice standing obediently behind him. A waiter came up and placed a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey on the table. Galligan waited for Beatrice to pour for him, then downed the drink. He didn’t offer her any of the liquor, and she didn’t seem surprised at the oversight.

  This bottle was for the emperor’s palate alone.

  Slocum rested his hand on the cold butt of his Colt Navy and considered how easy it would be to fire a single shot. Through glass was a problem. As it broke, the bullet would be deflected. But if he fired fast enough, the plate glass would shatter and leave a clear trajectory for his second and third shots.

  He didn’t draw. There was too much he didn’t understand about Top of the World. If the leader was killed, what would happen? Galligan was no fool. He would take precautions, but how many in the town would welcome his death?

  How many wouldn’t? Slocum stared at Beatrice, who seemed completely devoted to Galligan. Had her plea at the lake been nothing more than a test to find out where his loyalty lay? If so, Slocum knew he was in a world of trouble should his name come up or if Galligan asked Beatrice.

  He slipped along the darkened boardwalk and went to the solitary saloon now overflowing with men who looked nothing like the pictures on their wanted posters. Sidling up to the bar, he ordered a beer. From the nickels he had remaining in his vest pocket, he could order a couple more. Then he would either have to sit and play the gate guard a few more hands of poker or figure another way to earn money. Nothing had been said about him getting paid for his sentry duty on the wall. He had been ordered, and he had gone.

  The beer was so bitter that he almost spit it out. But once he had choked it down, the familiar warmth of raw alcohol blazed in his belly and soothed the aches and pains. The barkeep knew how to mix his brews.

  After the second one, Slocum decided to call it a night. He still wanted to prowl around the town and try to figure out what Galligan was up to. More than this, he needed a more permanent place to sleep other than the stables with his horse. The stableman had reluctantly allowed him to curl up on some straw but had warned him about not spending a second night there. He might have to be content with taking his bedroll and finding a sheltered spot at the edge of town where he could sleep under the stars. This high up in the mountains it got downright cold at
night. If he didn’t find a way out of town soon, he would be sleeping in a snowbank.

  He set the beer mug down on the bar with a click, turned, and plowed into Kid Summers, knocking the boyish bandido back a couple steps.

  “Sorry,” Slocum said. “Didn’t see you.”

  “You callin’ me short?” The Kid squared off, hands poised over a six-gun holstered at either hip. Slocum had seen only a couple gun slicks who could use either hand equally well, and from what he remembered, the Kid wasn’t one of them. All he had to do was pay attention to his right hand. If it twitched, then Slocum drew and fired. At this range he wasn’t going to miss.

  But he looked over the Kid’s shoulder and saw the owlhoot lugging around the small arsenal and another of the gang. They separated so each could get a good shot at Slocum.

  “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “I know you,” the Kid slurred. His eyes widened. “I know you!”

  Slocum had seen this before. If a man learned something drunk, he could only remember it when he got drunk again. Kid Summers had ridden up sober and hadn’t recognized Slocum. Now that he was knee-walking drunk, he remembered their encounter in Abilene.

  “You probably didn’t recognize me sooner because you still have your clothes on,” Slocum said. “You going to dance naked for us anytime soon and show everybody how really short you are?”

  The Kid went for his six-shooter, but Slocum had pegged him right. The left hand was slow and awkward so all he had to do was stop the right from reaching the pistol hanging at his side. He stepped forward, reached out, and batted the Kid’s hand away so his fingers just brushed the butt of his six-gun. He never got a chance to draw. Slocum’s fist ended on the point of the jutting chin, snapping his head back. The Kid’s legs buckled and he sat down, stunned.

  Slocum recovered his balance, stepped over Kid Summers, and had his Colt out before either of the two outlaws could so much as move for their own six-shooters.

  No one said a word. For a moment Slocum was caught like a bug in amber. Quiet. No movement. Then he pushed past the two gunmen and rushed into the street, sucking in a deep breath of the cold mountain air. The haze that had settled on his brain from the beer vanished in a flash. He took a second breath and knew he had avoided leaving bodies behind on the saloon floor.

  One of those bodies might have been his if there’d been a third henchman in the saloon.

  He walked quickly toward the hotel Galligan had turned into his palace, but a loud cry from behind forced him to stop and turn.

  Kid Summers squeaked out his challenge.

  “Never knew yer name. I like it that way. They can bury you with just a X on the headstone.”

  The Kid wobbled, but he was enough in possession of his senses to stand in a half crouch, his hand at his side, ready to draw. Slocum reminded himself that some men learn skills drunk and can’t repeat them unless they get drunk again. He suspected the Kid had fought in enough throw-downs drunk to be adept.

  “I killed six men. Yer gonna be lucky number seven!”

  “You want to die?”

  “I ain’t gonna die. You, you’re the one’s who’s gonna die!”

  The Kid twitched, and Slocum went for his six-gun. Slocum was no gunfighter, but he was fast and accurate. He cleared leather and had the hammer drawn back when the report echoed down the street. He stood frozen, his Colt aimed at the slowly collapsing Kid Summers. He turned and covered the two henchmen, who stared in disbelief.

  “You killed him. You killed the Kid,” muttered the outlaw with the wagonload of six-shooters hanging all over him.

  Before Slocum could deny he had fired a shot, he heard the click of boot heels on the boardwalk to his left. A quick glance revealed Galligan, a still-smoking pistol in his hand.

  “I killed him. I didn’t give orders for him to kill nobody or screw nobody tonight. Till I do, you keep your guns in your holsters and your dicks in your jeans.”

  Slocum jumped when Galligan fired a second time, dropping the lesser armed member of the Kid’s gang. His former gang.

  “I didn’t like his looks.”

  “You like mine?” The man with all the weaponry squared off.

  “You’re new leader. What’s your name?”

  “Pancho. Pancho Smith.”

  “Well, well, Mr. Smith, this is your lucky day since my dealings with the former Kid Summers are very lucrative.”

  Slocum saw how Galligan played the outlaw to win him over. If Smith didn’t watch his back, Galligan would put a couple rounds into his spine and never think twice on it.

  Beatrice came up behind Galligan and laid her hand on his left shoulder. Her expression was one of pure evil. She looked for all the world like the men who had gathered around the pit the day before, expecting to see someone torn apart by rats or die from snakebite.

  For the briefest instant, their eyes met, but Beatrice quickly rested her head on Galligan’s shoulder as she whispered more in his ear.

  “You gents remember this. Nobody dies in Top of the World unless I order it.” He looked significantly at Slocum, then tucked his six-gun away and walked arm in arm back to the hotel with Beatrice.

  Slocum saw Smith twitch as he started for a pistol. He wasn’t above shooting Galligan in the back after what he’d done, but he settled down, gave Slocum a look of pure hatred, then stalked off. It took all his control for Slocum to keep from calling out that Smith had done the right thing. On the roof of a building across the street, outlined against the rising moon, stood a sniper. Slocum wondered if there were others posted to protect Galligan.

  He suspected there were.

  He had to find himself a place to sleep for the night. As he passed the open door to the hotel, he saw that Beatrice wouldn’t have to worry about finding a bed for herself that night. Galligan herded her up the stairs, his hand on her rump.

  Slocum wondered what their bedroom talk was like. He hoped that his name was never mentioned. His quick strides took him to the stable, where he got his gear and finally pitched camp behind a woodpile at the edge of town. Sleep came slowly, and when it did, his dreams were filled with Beatrice laughing at the sounds of dead bodies splashing in the raging river.

  Corpse River. That was all he could think to call it. Corpse River.

  6

  Slocum stirred and then sat up. The sun crept above the distant peak, telling him that he had overslept. The dawn came late in the pass and sunset early up here in the mountains. He stretched, then reached for his six-shooter when he heard a rustling noise in the pine needles a few yards away. He swung around, got his back to the woodpile, and waited.

  A flash of red preceded Beatrice creeping from the wooded area. Slocum held his six-gun, wondering if he ought to holster it or just shoot her. She saw him and her face lit up like the sun coming over the mountain.

  “John,” she said, hurrying forward now that she was sure he had spotted her. “I tried to find you last night.”

  “Why?”

  “You . . . you weren’t hurt when Kid Summers called you out?”

  “You know I wasn’t,” he said. “You were at Galligan’s elbow when he shot the Kid.”

  “Why’d he want to shoot it out with you?”

  Slocum didn’t want to get into the sordid history. He shrugged and finally said, “A drunk gets his dander up mighty quick. He had the look of being a mean one about him.”

  “He seemed to know you,” she said slowly. Her emerald eyes bored into him. “Did you ride with him?”

  “With him?” Slocum snorted. “One of us would have been dead a long time before last night if I had.”

  Beatrice looked worried.

  “You sorry he was killed?” Slocum watched her face closely for the reason behind her questions. Something ate away at the woman and he wasn’t sure what it was. A nagging idea chewed on him like a rat on a piece of leather that Galligan had put her up to asking these questions.

  “What? Him? I didn’t know him and he was far too arr
ogant for my liking.” She looked hard at him again. “What’s wrong? I wanted to find you last night to . . . to invite you into a more comfortable bed.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’d be a mite crowded, and I’m not used to sharing, especially with someone like Galligan.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I saw you with him.”

  Beatrice looked angry, then laughed unexpectedly. The sound was bitter.

  “I have to,” she said. “How many women have you seen in Top of the World?”

  “Haven’t had a chance to look.” He thought on the saloon and didn’t remember any pretty waiter girls or hostesses plying their trade.

  “There’re damned few. I can be a whore or I can prostitute myself with one man. I prefer Galligan to dozens of the scum that drift through town. As long as I keep him happy, he’s not likely to put me out to pasture—with a whole herd of horny bulls.”

  Slocum nodded slowly. There wasn’t a whole lot he could say. Being under the self-styled emperor’s protection was preferable to being sold for a quarter a bang in some whorehouse to any gunman who rode through.

  “I was with you, John, because I wanted to be.”

  “Not to find out my plans?”

  “I want your plans to be the same as mine—to get out of here.”

  “More outlaws are coming into town. Do they all meet with Galligan?” Slocum asked.

  “They do. There must be a couple dozen cutthroats come to town in the last month.”

  “Is he recruiting an army?”

  “I never thought of it that way, John,” she said. “He might be. But why?”

  “Tell me about Thompson.”

  “That’s where we have to escape. Out the west gate. It was a small town until a few months ago, and from what I hear from those coming up the pass from town, it’s more than doubled in size.”

  “Why?” Slocum knew that rumors could cause towns to swell in size and then become ghost towns overnight on the basis of rumor alone. Gold? Silver? He had seen his share of boomtowns and wondered if Galligan had heard such rumors and brought in his army to jump a claim or two.