by Jake Logan
“You fellers patrol a lot?” Slocum asked the fourth or fifth one he practically collided with. He’d never before seen them out in such numbers.
“Just lately,” the deputy confided, then spoke no more.
But Slocum knew. They were keeping tabs on Teddy round-the-clock. He decided to go visit Pete.
He walked straight into the U.S. marshal’s office and asked for him, only to be told that he was out on patrol.
“Him, too?” Slocum asked the deputy on duty. “Jesus Christ!”
The young deputy, who looked wet behind the ears, and who Slocum hadn’t seen before, appeared innocent of absolutely everything, and so Slocum stalked off, growling, “Tell Pete I’ll be back. And tell him I said to lay off Teddy.”
“Y-yessir,” the deputy said, blinking. “What was your name?”
The deputy was practically shaking in his boots.
“Tell him Slocum was here,” he said, and let the door slam behind him.
But Slocum didn’t make it back that day. In fact, he didn’t make it back until after dark.
At about six o’clock, Katie and the newlyweds hadn’t returned to Katie’s place, and so Slocum—who was constantly in Iris’s sites—decided to eat out. He walked up the street, noticing the quiet and all the CLOSED signs. Phoenix was a nice town, but they rolled up the sidewalks awful early.
But then he neared the saloon, and that was a whole different story. Lights blared out into the street, and music and laughter as well. He took a hard left at the batwing doors. He hoped they had something to eat as well as drink, but if they didn’t, he figured he could muddle through on beer.
He was in luck, however. A small sign hanging over the bar stated, RESTAURANT IN BACK, so he just followed the sign. He went through a door in the rear and walked into a dark, romantic little café. Whoever had decorated the saloon hadn’t been allowed in the back, because there sure wasn’t anything gaudy about it.
Slocum was wondering if he fit in, when a young lady—and he meant lady, nothing like the whores working the front room—came up and asked, “May I seat you, sir?”
“Sure thing,” he said, and followed her to a small table. Before he had a chance to sit down, she asked, “Will anyone else be joining you?”
When he answered, “No,” she sat him down and offered him a menu, then left him alone.
He saw that he wasn’t alone in the place. Most of the other tables were filled with couples. And just when he was thinking that he sure wouldn’t lead a good woman through that saloon, he saw another door at the back. Well, the back of the saloon, but the front was toward the next street. The building must go all the way through.
He ordered a big steak, along with a baked potato with sour cream and plenty of butter, creamed corn, and green salad, and while he was at it, a dessert of cherry cobbler with real ice cream!
While he sat back and waited, he lit a ready-made and looked around the room, studying faces. In a way, they were his stock-in-trade. But his eyes stopped on a man sitting three tables from him, a man dining alone, as was he, a man just finishing his meal.
The face was familiar, and it took him a few seconds to make the link; it was Rodney Morris, a feller wanted for murder in three states and territories.
Slowly, Slocum pushed back his chair and stood up. Slowly, he made his way over to Morris’s table and moved between diners to stand behind the man’s chair. His hand clasped Morris’s shoulder.
Morris tried to whip around toward him, but his spurs got tangled in the chair’s legs, and he ended up falling over. But not all the way. Slocum grabbed him under the arm and hauled him up—also relieving him of his gun—before the chair hit the floor without him.
“Rodney Morris?” Slocum said. “You’re under arrest for murdering three people and whatever else you done that ain’t caught up with you yet.” Slocum slid Morris’s gun into his belt, then headed toward the door.
“Go ahead and serve my supper,” he said to the befuddled waiter. “I’m takin’ him to jail.”
Slocum marched Morris out the front door, around the sidewalk to the front of the saloon, then down toward the marshal’s office.
“What kinda lawdog eats in a fancy restaurant?” Morris asked as they crossed an alley.
“The hungry kind, I guess,” Slocum said. “Keep movin’!” he ordered when Morris tried to pause.
“I’m movin’, I’m movin’!” came the reply. “Y’don’t need to get so grumpy about it.”
“Grumpy?” snorted Slocum. “Were you feelin’ grumpy the night you killed little Cora Kingman over in El Paso? Were you feelin’ grumpy when you killed that marshal in New Mexico or the storekeeper up in Colorado Springs?”
There was no reply.
“C’mon,” said Slocum, poking Morris in the back with the barrel of his gun. “Move it.”
“Why? So’s you can take me down an alley and club me to death?”
Slocum snorted. “Don’t go givin’ me ideas.”
They walked down the street, then crossed over to the other side, where there were lights on in the marshal’s office. Somebody was home anyway.
Slocum pushed the door open, then shoved Morris inside. The young deputy was nowhere in sight, but there was another at a desk, doing paperwork. “Help you?” he said.
“I’m Slocum. Tell Pete I got another one for ’im. Rodney Morris, wanted for murder.” He gave Morris another little shove, but this time he reacted all out of proportion, falling forward and landing on a table on his belly.
Quicker than snap, he was up again and whirling around, and butting Slocum in the belly with his head. Slocum was knocked back against the wall before the deputy could get up from behind his desk.
Slocum didn’t think twice. The Colt was still in his hand, and he used it. Not to kill, but to wound. He hit him in the right shoulder, and he figured Morris wouldn’t be hefting anything heavier than an ink pen for quite some time.
The bullet’s hit spun Morris around, right into the deputy’s clutches. And after the deputy got him on his feet, he said, “Hang on, Slocum,” and took Morris back to the cell block.
He had no more disappeared through the cell block door than the outside door burst in. It was Pete, gun out, shouting, “What’s goin’ on in here?”
“You’re too late,” said Slocum, from the floor. “That party’s over, I reckon.”
“Jesus Christ,” Pete muttered, holding down a hand to him and helping him up. “Tell me what happened.”
“Only if you’ll let me buy you a steak. You had any chuck yet?”
“Perfect timing, Slocum. I didn’t have no lunch, and I could eat a raw buffalo right about now.”
Slocum limped toward the door. “Well I can’t promise you raw buffalo. Steak do instead?”
“Do me fine.”
Just then, the door in back opened and the deputy walked in.
“There you are, Seth,” Pete called. “Was beginning to figure you were doin’ your paperwork in the outhouse.”
“Real funny, Pete,” replied Deputy Seth. He nodded toward Slocum and said, “He brung in a man. I was just puttin’ him in a cell. He’s a tricky bastard. You best watch ’im.”
“Wanna tell me who he is?”
“Oh, sorry, Pete,” the deputy said. “He’s Rodney Morris, right Slocum?”
Slocum nodded, antsy to get back to the restaurant and his steak.
“Pete . . .” he said.
“All right, I’m comin’,” Pete said. “Hold the fort, Seth!” He started toward the front door, then stopped cold. “Hey Slocum, you know you’re limping?”
Slocum, whose left hip was hurting like a bastard, said, “It’s temporary, dammit. C’mon! Don’t want my steak to go gettin’ cold!”
Epilogue
Later, while Pete cleaned his plate, Slocum sat back, enjoying a ready-made. The bad guys just seemed to be dropping into his lap lately, and he couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with Teddy. Teddy’d brought him luck, all
right.
But everything eventually came to an end, and Slocum had the feeling that maybe this was it. Once he left Teddy behind, there wouldn’t be any more easy catches, no more “fortunate” deaths. It would just be him again, just Slocum. And just Teddy—with Sally, of course.
He had mulled this over a hundred times, and what it boiled down to was that he’d be sad to leave Teddy. Teddy, despite their short acquaintance, had become like the son he never had. That he knew of anyway.
And tearing himself away at this stage, when everything seemed new and fresh and bright, when Teddy’s future seemed to glisten before him, was almost more than he could bear.
It was an odd feeling for the big man, one he hadn’t much experience with. At this level anyhow. It was why, midafternoon, he had let the others go on furniture shopping without him. It wasn’t just boring, it was painful!
He’d felt hot tears pushing at his eyes during the wedding ceremony. Not tears of sorrow or loss, but tears for himself, that he wouldn’t be around the man-boy any longer, wouldn’t be around to hold his first baby, wouldn’t be there to see him experience a lot of firsts.
And then, it all clicked into place for him.
He wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. Why? Because Slocum never felt sorry for himself, that was why!
He stubbed out his smoke on his empty plate. He’d had it with self-pity, was sick of mourning something that wasn’t even dead. Why, he’d be back through Phoenix again, probably sooner than he wanted!
And Ted? Well, Ted would be fine. He had Sally to take care of now, and she was there to take care of him. They’d both be fine.
There was one thing niggling at the back of his skull, though. Katie. Well, he’d be back for her, sooner or later. When his feet stopped itching anyhow. He and Katie could grow old together, sitting lazily on their front porch, her with her knitting and him whittling. And they could have Ted and Sally over once a week for a meal.
He didn’t know that Katie would take to anybody calling her “grandma,” but at this point, he’d almost pay the kids to call him “gramps.” It sounded nice. It sounded homey.
“Where you goin’ next?” Pete asked, working his napkin between his hands.
Slocum shrugged. “I dunno. New Mexico, California, maybe Colorado. You tell me. Where’re all the big-ticket bad boys hangin’ out lately?”
Watch for
SLOCUM AND THE JAMES GANG
382nd novel in the exciting SLOCUM series from Jove
Coming in December!
And don’t miss
SLOCUM ALONG ROTTEN ROW
Slocum Giant Edition 2010
Available from Jove in December!