Slocum and the Forgetful Felon

by Jake Logan

  7

  Wash woke up two whiskeys and three more beers later, or around noon, depending on how you were counting. Slocum had mellowed out enough that he was counting drinks. It seemed more . . . civilized.

  And Earl Scrivener agreed with him. It turned out that Earl was actually an earl. Sort of northern Arizona’s answer to Lord Darrell Duppa down Phoenix way, Slocum supposed. Well, the two sure had the booze in common. Earl soaked it up like a sponge, and so did Duppa. Slocum wanted to ask him just how much his family paid him to stay away—Duppa’s did, he knew for a fact—but he couldn’t quite crank up the nerve, on such short acquaintanceship, to bring up the subject with Earl.

  He never found out just what Scrivener was the earl of either, because just as he opened his mouth to ask, Teddy cried, “He’s awake!”

  Slocum turned toward the voice. Now Teddy’d been watching Wash for signs of life. In fact, he’d dragged a chair across the room and was sitting right over Wash’s face. And there was a great big smile on his face, like he’d just won the turkey shoot. Wash twitched and softly groaned at Teddy’s feet, not yet fully conscious.

  “Give him a few minutes, Teddy,” said Slocum.

  The brothers had long since vacated the saloon—probably to go tell the know-nothing sheriff all about the goings-on down at the saloon. But the sheriff hadn’t surfaced yet.

  It was just as well, Slocum thought. He had no intention of parking Wash Trumble in the local jail—where he was likely to get busted out by morning. No sir. He and Teddy were going to pack up Wash and head south, to the marshal’s office in Phoenix. If you were going to drop off a killer into custody, that was the best way to do it, Slocum figured.

  Course, he hadn’t discussed this with Teddy, but he couldn’t see the boy giving him any trouble on the matter. Teddy was turning into quite the bounty hunter.

  The sound of sloshing water got Slocum’s attention again—Teddy had just doused Wash with a glassful. Sputtering, Wash twisted on the floor, trying to get his hands up to wipe off his face. He didn’t have any luck, and so rolled onto his back and sat up. “What’s goin’ on?” he slurred. “What happened?”

  “You been caught,” Slocum said before the grinning Teddy could get a word out.

  But Teddy did manage a soft, “Nyeh, nyeh, nyeh!” which, thankfully, Wash didn’t hear. Man! Slocum thought Wash looked like he’d shoot his own ma for a nickel and toss away the change!

  Teddy apparently shared his thoughts, because he gave Wash a kick in the ribs with his boot.

  Earl slid his beer onto the table. “That should do it,” he said softly. He stood up and stepped back from the table.

  Slocum should have been more attentive to Earl’s motions, but he wasn’t. Wash was tied up, and Teddy had a gun on him. What could Wash do?

  Quite a bit, as it turned out. Suddenly, Wash threw himself onto his back and lifted his legs, kicking Teddy in the head. Teddy’s gun went sailing to land on the floor on Wash’s far side, and Wash immediately started rolling over and over, fast as lightning, to get to it.

  But Slocum already had his Colt drawn. He fired it into the floor, just above Wash’s rolling head. But Wash’s full attention was on his own gun. He’d get to it on the next roll, and Slocum did the only thing he could think to do: He shot Wash, aiming for his shoulder.

  Wash was moving too fast, though. The slug caught him high on his back, dead center.

  He immediately stopped rolling and landed on his back.

  “Aw, shit,” said Slocum, and made a face. He’d seen this before, but he hadn’t been the cause of it. He hoped he was wrong.

  He holstered his gun and went over to Wash, then bent to roll him over on his stomach again. “Aw, crap,” he muttered. “Move your legs, Wash.”

  Nothing.

  “Move your arms.”

  Again, nothing.

  Slocum rolled him again, this time onto his back. “Talk to me, Wash.”

  There was a pause before Wash snarled, “Screw you. Why can’t I move nothin’? Whad’ya do to me?”

  Slocum backed up to a chair and yanked it out, then sat down on it, backward. “I’m awful sorry, Wash. It was an accident.”

  “What was an accident, you shithead?”

  Earl spoke up. “I believe what Mr. Slocum is trying to say, Wash, is that he shot you, intending to wound you only. Correct, Slocum?”

  Slocum nodded.

  “But that unfortunately, you were rolling so fast for the gun that he missed. I believe your spine is severed.” Earl gave that a second to settle in, and when it didn’t seem to take, he added, “You are paralyzed.”

  Teddy was still passed out on the saloon floor, Wash’s boot having left a red welt on his temple, when the doctor arrived.

  Dr. Rush knelt at Wash’s side at the same time he said to Slocum, “Throw some water on that man, please. Earl! You didn’t tell me it was Wash Trumble!”

  “Only because we needed your presence, Doctor,” Earl replied. He slid a smile toward Slocum, who was about to douse Teddy with a pitcher of water.

  “Wash,” Earl went on, “I’m sure you know Zeke Rush, our town doctor. Or at least you’ve seen him on the street,” he added a bit snidely.

  Teddy woke up, twisting his head, and gasped, “What’s goin’ on?”

  “You all right?” Slocum asked him.

  Teddy’s eye landed on the downed Wash, the kneeling doctor, and Earl, standing by. “Fine. What’re they doin’?”

  “Hush up.” Slocum helped him to his feet.

  They went over to where the doctor was working on Wash, and pulled out chairs at a nearby table. Teddy asked, “What happened?”

  “He was rollin’ for your gun, faster than a sidewinder. Thought I was shootin’ him in the shoulder, but he was spinnin’ too fast. Caught him in the back instead.” Slocum shook his head. He had wanted to take Wash in alive and breathing, not strapped to a travois and paralyzed.

  “Can he move anything?” Teddy asked, leaning forward.

  The doctor turned his head toward Teddy. “Not yet.” He turned back to Wash, shaking his head.

  Minutes passed, the doctor feeling here and there around the bullet hole, then probing slightly with a medical instrument, periodically asking Wash if he could feel this or that. Wash’s answer was always, “No.” Then the doctor sat back on his heels with a sigh.

  He looked up at Slocum and shook his head. “He won’t walk again. Be a miracle if he lasts out the night.”

  “There someplace we can make him comfortable?” asked Slocum.

  Later that afternoon, after they’d hauled Wash to the jail, filled out paperwork for the sheriff, and Slocum had managed to talk to Marshal Pete over the sheriff’s office’s excuse for a telephone, he and Teddy took themselves, first, to the stable, where they settled in the horses, and second, to the hotel, where they took rooms.

  “Don’t know if I wanna go over to that saloon again,” Teddy declared as he lingered in Slocum’s doorway.

  “Know whatcha mean,” Slocum replied, “but I’m goin’ anyways. Only place in town where a man can get a drink, and I need one bad.”

  Teddy sighed. “All right. I’ll go with you.”

  “We’d best eat, too. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  It turned out that the town’s only eating establishment was the saloon anyhow, so they each had a fair-to-middlin’ roast beef sandwich. Teddy had beans on the side, Slocum had ranch fries. And they both washed it down with a couple of beers. Slocum switched to whiskey the second the plates were taken away.

  Now, Slocum had asked Pete to put the full amount of the reward into his account. He fully intended to give Teddy his fair share, but if the kid all of a sudden got his memory back, Slocum, by God, wasn’t going to help him pay for his getaway!

  In the meantime, he felt he ought to pay for Teddy’s meals and lodging. Seemed fair somehow. So he paid the tab for dinner and signaled the barkeep that he was paying for drinks, too. The barkeep, who had spen
t most of the afternoon passed out behind the bar in mortal fear of Wash Trumble, nodded skittishly, as if all the meanness that had filled Wash had somehow trickled out and he just hadn’t figured who it had gone into yet.

  Slocum was in a stoic frame of mind. He didn’t feel so bad now about having paralyzed Wash. If Wash died tonight, it’d at least save him having to go to trial, then hang. That was a blessing for both Wash and the taxpayers, he supposed. And if the crowd that filled the saloon tonight was any indication, it was a blessing for the town, too.

  The sheriff had suddenly remembered Wash, after they told him Wash would likely die tonight. And Slocum thought he saw a smile hiding behind the man’s eyes while he filled out the papers on Wash. The town, it seemed, had been cleansed of a dirty little secret, and it was Slocum who had done the cleansing.

  Miner after cowboy after miner after shopkeeper after miner came up to Slocum’s table, expressing their thanks and offering their goods or services. Teddy opened his mouth several times at the offers of free merchandise or free services, but Slocum always managed to cut him off with, “Glad to be of service, but no thanks.”

  Finally, during a break in the proceedings, Slocum said to him, “You can’t go acceptin’ anythin’ from these folks. That’d make you just like Wash. See?”

  Teddy sighed and dropped his head to one side. “I s’pose,” he said begrudgingly. “But I bet Wash didn’t wait for people to offer him stuff.”

  Later that night, when the doctor came by to let Slocum know that Wash had passed on, a cheer rose up in the saloon that nearly took the roof off.

  Slocum did not participate.

  Not much of anyone turned out for Wash Trumble’s funeral. They buried him in the town cemetery with little fanfare, although the saloon did a record business once he was put underground for good and all.

  And Earl had a marker made of Vermont granite, a tombstone that said:WASH TRUMBLE

  1837-1893

  ROBBER, RUSTLER & MURDERER

  OF

  MEN, WOMEN & CHILDREN.

  KILLED BY JOHN SLOCUM,

  TO WHOM WE ARE FOREVER INDEBTED.

  WITH GRATITUDE,

  THE CITIZENS OF RIDGELAND, ARIZONA

  Slocum and Teddy were long gone by the time the hurrah built to a roar, however.

  Slocum had picked his next mark from the posters in the folder—this one was Homer Crabbe, worth six grand, and last seen up in Flagstaff—and he and the kid had set off after him, to the north.

  “Y’know, this is pretty easy, what you do for a livin’,” Teddy had remarked when they were halfway to Flagstaff.

  Slocum’s brow furrowed, but all he said was, “Just you wait, kid. Just you wait.”

  8

  It took them a couple of days to reach Flagstaff, and Teddy, for one, was quite taken with the railhead. Slocum turned him loose for the while it took him to check in with the sheriff, and Teddy had himself a time, crawling around under the cars and looking inside them, and imagining where they’d been and who they’d taken there.

  He was a lot more taken with the railway yard than the town, which was sleepy and dusty, despite all the new buildings they seemed to be putting up. But at least they’d have a choice of where to eat and where to drink. He’d seen three cafés and a couple of hotels just coming from the sheriff’s office down here.

  Speaking of which, he supposed he’d best get up to the depot platform. Slocum was to meet him there. He started hiking back up between the cars.

  He still didn’t understand what the marshal in Phoenix had against him, to stick him in Slocum’s company for six whole months. He was still a little mad, but he had thought and thought, and couldn’t remember anything else he was supposed to be doing. And he liked Slocum, so he guessed it wasn’t that bad, after all. He liked what they were doing, too! He recalled big ol’ Slocum buffaloing Wash upside the head, and grinned. Now, that had been something to see!

  A job where all you did was hunt down bad boys and haul them to jail—or kill them and avoid the process entirely? Now, that was a trade he could take to!

  He was in a good mood when he gained the platform. There was nobody else there, so he sat down on the bench and rolled himself a smoke. When he lit it and the tobacco filled his lungs, he decided, just like that. He would be a bounty hunter! None’a that “get your kipsack and set out after the strays, Teddy,” or “That sidewalk ain’t swept half good enough, Teddy,” or “Teddy, bring up a jar of pickled eggs.” No sir, not for him.

  And if he could hang out with Slocum for as long as he’d allow, he could pick up all kinds of tricks of the trade from him. He figured there wasn’t anybody better to learn from. And besides, hadn’t Slocum seen this deal from both sides? He remembered, when he was a kid, seeing a poster with Slocum’s face and a bounty on it, for stealing. He couldn’t remember what it was that Slocum had thieved, but it was something big enough to get paper made out on him anyways.

  “Teddy?” A strange voice.

  But Teddy answered, “Yeah?” anyway. And he looked up to stare directly into the barrel of a long-nosed Smith & Wesson. He gulped, then slowly raised his eyes to peer over the gun’s muzzle and into the face of its wielder.

  He was shocked.

  The voice belonged to a kid, a kid who was sixteen years old if he was a day! He looked mean and ornery, and he was scowling out of a face too big for his bone-thin body. He spoke again. “Get up. No funny stuff.”

  Slowly, Teddy complied.

  “Hands on top’a your head.”

  Teddy raised his arms, and the boy swiftly relieved him of his Colt. “Look, kid, I dunno what you’re thinkin’, but I’m here for the U.S. marshal’s office, and . . .”

  “Shut yer pie hole!” the boy spat. He motioned with Teddy’s gun, which he was pointing at Teddy with his left hand. “Now, walk on up the street to the sheriff’s office.”

  Teddy shrugged. “All right, but you’re gonna—”

  The barrel of one of the guns—the Smith & Wesson, Teddy thought—poked him sharply in the back, and Teddy said, “All right, all right!”

  Disgusted, he walked on up to the jail. Boy, was this kid gonna get an earful when they got to Slocum!

  “And that’s the story, Jethro,” Slocum said, rising.

  Across the desk, Sheriff Jethro Tanner stood up, too. “Glad you seen fit to check in, Slocum. Save us both some time. You gonna be in town long?”

  “Probably just overnight. Gonna check out the ladies,” Slocum said with a smile.

  Jethro laughed. “If I know you, you’re gonna do a lot more than check ’em out.”

  “Mayhap, may—”

  The door burst open, and in walked Teddy, followed by a half-grown kid Slocum didn’t recognize. He recognized the gun, though.

  Both boys started talking at once.

  “I was mindin’ my own business when—”

  “Have at him, Jethro. It’s Teddy Cutler. You can pay me any way you—”

  “Pay you?” said Teddy. “I want him thrown in jail for kidnappin’!”

  Slocum stepped between them. “Quiet, the both of you!” he shouted.

  They both shut up.

  Jethro spoke next. “I was afraid a’this. Howdy-do, Teddy.” He nodded. “And how you doin’, Jack?”

  The second lad said, “Not too damn well, Jethro! I said, this here’s Teddy Cutler! I found him down at the train station, rollin’ a cigarette and sittin’ on the bench like he owned the whole place!”

  Jethro slipped his arm around Jack’s shoulders. “I wanna have a little talk with you, Jack. In private. Meantime . . .” He slid Teddy’s gun from Jack’s hand, and held it out to Teddy.

  Jack shouted, “Hey!”

  “In private, Jack,” Jethro said, and turned Jack back toward his desk and chairs. Over his shoulder, he said, “Thanks again, Slocum. See you, Teddy.”

  “But, Jethro . . .” the boy began as Slocum, ushering Teddy before him, closed the door and started down the darkening stree
t.

  “What the hell was that about?” Teddy demanded. He was as hot as a roasted rattler on a plate full of peppers.

  “Ain’t about you,” Slocum lied. “It’s about Jack. He’s a local—a half-cracked local—who fancies himself a bounty hunter. Imagine that right about now, Jethro’s tellin’ him to leave us alone.”

  “But how’d he know my name?”

  Slocum shrugged. “Hard tellin’. Who knows? Now, let’s go get us some dinner!”

  “But—”

  “Jethro says they got fresh crabs in on the four-ten from Portland over at the Red Curtain Café,” Slocum said. “You got a taste for seafood?”

  Teddy kicked at a rock in the road. “Don’t know. Never had any’a them sea-bugs.”

  “Well, what’d you say you try ’em tonight?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good!”

  After checking in at the hotel and bedding down the horses, the two took themselves up to the Red Curtain Café. The place wasn’t packed, but they were doing a pretty fair business. Slocum looked around. Most of the diners were chowing down on platters of crab, so they were in the right place. He said, “Hope they ain’t sold outta the stuff,” as he and Teddy took a table.

  Teddy had started in again—about how in the hell Jack had known his name—down at the stable, but Slocum had just shrugged his shoulders and told Teddy that he didn’t know, and to shut up about it already.

  Teddy had taken him at his word, although grudgingly, and hadn’t uttered another word about it. Thank God.

  They sat at a table toward the back of the restaurant, and it wasn’t but a few minutes before a waiter brought them menus. Slocum, however, waved his away.

  “Beer to drink, and crab,” he said. “Lots of it.”

  The waiter scribbled on a notepad, then said, “Potatoes or rice?”

  “What kinda potatoes you got?”

  “Fritters, hash browns, mashed, baked, and cottage fried.”

  Slocum nodded. “Baked. With sour cream, if you got any.”