by Jake Logan
Wyatt thumbed back his hat, shook his head, and softly swore. “Shit,” he said. “Maggoty shit on a pie plate.”
Slocum raised a brow. “That bad?”
“Damn right it is. I figure we could hide out behind a rock of our own—if’n we had one—and wait him out. You sure ain’t gonna be no good at tippy-toein’ up there. You can hardly walk.”
“Rub it in, why don’tcha?” Once again, Slocum peered at the boulder behind which Dugan was hiding. “Wyatt, how big you reckon that rock is?”
Wyatt thought a moment, then said, “Gotta be mayhap seven feet or more. Can’t even see his horse’s ears over it.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’. What you say we ride on up there, close to the backside of the rock as we can get, then split up. You go round the foot end, I’ll go round the other. He can’t shoot us both, ’less he’s got two guns. And even then, he’s liable to miss at least one of us.”
“Good thinkin’.”
They began to move forward, very slowly.
“One thing,” Slocum whispered.
“What?”
“When we get around that rock—if we get around that rock—and we’re faced off on either side of him? Don’t shoot me.”
Wyatt slapped a hand over his own mouth to hold the laughter back. They both moved forward, eyes alert for any signs of movement, ears keen for any sound out of the ordinary—and Wyatt still tittering behind his hand.
When they were about ten feet out from the boulder, Dugan’s legs moved. Not much, but enough that both men stopped dead.
“He awake?” Wyatt whispered.
Slocum signaled with his hand for Wyatt to hush up. Dugan’s legs showed no further movement, so after a while, Slocum signaled them forward.
They split up, with Wyatt going west and Slocum going east to surround the rock. When Slocum crept around the eastern side of the massive boulder—and the back end of Dugan’s horse—he found Wyatt, gun cocked, standing over a sleeping Dugan.
Asleep, he didn’t look dangerous at all. He just looked like a sleeping man, maybe one that’s had too much to drink. Slocum knew different, though. He knew that Dugan was just sleeping off all those hours and hours of no sleep.
He crept forward and carefully slipped Dugan’s Colt from its holster, then tucked it in his own belt. Dugan didn’t rouse. Slocum took a step backward and looked at Wyatt. Although his first instinct was to simply plug Dugan and get it over with, once he drew his pistol, he just stood there. Eventually, he looked over at Wyatt and shrugged.
Wyatt returned the gesture. It seemed that neither one of them had it in him to shoot a sleeping man.
After a moment, Wyatt kicked Dugan’s boot and said in a loud voice, “It’s the end of the trail, Dugan. Wake up.”
Dugan woke slowly, and Wyatt had to kick him again. He finally opened an eye, got one look at Wyatt, and his hand immediately slapped his empty holster.
“Sorry, Dugan,” Slocum said a little smugly. “You been disarmed. Didn’t nobody ever tell you that sleeping into the afternoon ain’t good for you?”
Apparently, if somebody had, Dugan hadn’t listened.
He pounded the dirt with his fist and shouted, “Damn it, anyhow!” He turned toward Slocum—who was presently leaning, with his right shoulder, against the rock—and asked, “Won’t you ever die, you bastard? You got more lives than a barn cat!”
“I do my best,” Slocum drawled lazily. Actually, his chest and left shoulder were killing him, and he wanted nothing more than to switch places with Dugan, just to lie down for a few minutes. But Wyatt had other ideas.
“Stand up,” he barked at Dugan.
Dugan struggled to his feet and stood there, glaring at them.
Slocum said, “Your call, Wyatt.”
“How’d you bring him in the first time?”
“Over his horse.”
“Good idea. We’ll do ’er again. Keep your gun on him, Slocum. I’ll tack up his horse.”
They made it back to the place they’d stopped for lunch, and decided to stop there. Although the sky held no clouds and there was no scent of oncoming rain in the air, Wyatt and Slocum agreed that this was the place. Four smaller boulders were ringed in a crude circle, which might provide some shelter should they need it, and the vegetation had dried some more, providing Wyatt with plenty of kindling and wood to construct a fire.
They saw to Dugan first. The ropes that bound him to his saddle were released, and they dragged him, still hog-tied, to sit, leaning against the smallest rock. Slocum had warned Wyatt about Dugan’s mouth, so he remained gagged. He wasn’t very happy about it.
Slocum was having a tough time moving, now. It seemed as if even the slightest gesture sent arcs of pain through his chest and shoulder. It must have shown on his face, because, in the middle of slipping the tack off his bay, Wyatt came to where Slocum was slouched against the rock opposite Dugan’s and slipped the little packet from his pocket again.
“Not all at once,” he cautioned. “Doc said all of it would kill you. Take a third and hold it under your tongue.”
Slocum nodded, but before he dosed himself, he asked, “How strong is this stuff, anyhow?”
“Strong enough to knock down even a big ol’ red-neck like you, ol’ buddy. But not right away, I reckon.” He slid his horse’s halter on and hobbled it. “Imagine you’ll stay with us long enough to put away some ham.”
“That’s good news.” Slocum poured about a third of the powder straight from the packet into his mouth. And gagged. He held the powder in his mouth though, letting it dissolve under his tongue before he said, “Damn it, Wyatt! Tastes like shit!”
Wyatt shrugged innocently. “It’s what the doctor ordered, Slocum. Now, why don’t you sit down and take it easy?” He moved to loosen Apache’s girth. “I’ll get supper on soon’s I take care’a this spotted horse a’ yours.”
Slocum slid down the rock, letting his back take the pressure, until he landed in a sit. “Hobbles in the saddlebag,” he said to Wyatt. The words came out slightly slurred. Was he already feeling a little dizzy?
16
The next morning found them on the trail again. Wyatt figured that they’d make Calisto late this afternoon, even if they couldn’t gallop. He was concerned for Slocum. The heroin had knocked him out, all right—he’d passed out halfway through his ham dinner, and Wyatt had spent the night intermittently napping and snoozing, waking every few minutes to come full awake and level his pistol at Dugan. Dugan had gotten a full night’s sleep, though. Like Slocum, he had spent the night without moving a muscle. Slept like the dead, as a matter of fact.
Good thing, Wyatt thought. He’d better get used to it. He was going to be taking a dirt nap for eternity about a day after they got back to Tombstone.
And Slocum was bearing up pretty well for a man who was supposed to be bedridden for a week or ten days. He couldn’t yet pick up his saddle, but he’d managed to stand up by himself this morning. That had surprised Wyatt. He thought it had surprised Slocum, too.
Then again, last night, while Wyatt was off in the brush, peeing while he kept an eye on Dugan—who was similarly engaged—Slocum had simply rolled on his side and let loose a stream next to the fire. He did it in a spot where nobody had taken up residence, but still, it wasn’t like Slocum.
Wyatt supposed it was the medicine. If it had that big an effect on Slocum, Wyatt imagined once word about it got around, there’d be a big call for it.
They stopped around noon and grabbed some lunch, during which time Wyatt saw fit to leave off Dugan’s gag a little longer than usual. This only served to give Dugan a chance to spew out more expletives at both Slocum and him, so he retied the gag, even though Dugan hadn’t finished his lunch. Slocum only snorted his amusement.
In fact, Slocum was less communicative than usual, in fact he was now indecipherable. He’d talked some last night at the campfire. But not more than two words since then. As Wyatt remembered, he’d asked for coffee and said, “Go
od ham” and “Don’t forget to pee, Dick-wad Dugan,” before he’d passed out. Not the most elevating conversation.
And today, he’d just grunted. Or snorted. Wyatt wasn’t sure you could count those as words, but considering it was Slocum, he did.
And now it was nightfall, and Wyatt began to recognize the road that would take them into Calisto. Juan, from the bar, was on the street, and he was the first to greet them. “Señor Slocum! Señor Wyatt!” he shouted. “Have you killed your desperado?” He spat near Dugan’s horse’s feet and swore an oath in Spanish.
And then Maria poked her head out of the cantina and let out a squeal of delight. She ran toward them, laughing and thanking the Lord that Slocum wasn’t dead. Slocum didn’t even have a word for her. Just a nod and a silly smile. By the time they had ridden to the livery, they had attracted quite a crowd. Well, quite a crowd for Calisto. Wyatt guessed that there were fifteen people in their wake.
After he pulled down Dugan—and stopped the crowd from kicking the helpless man who’d shot “their” Slocum—Wyatt managed to pry Slocum off Apache. Juan helped him get the horses put up—and promised to stand guard over them through the night. Wyatt checked on Red, who was happy as a clam and glossy as a housecat, having been pampered by half the town just because he was Slocum’s horse.
Wyatt shook his head. It must be something to have a whole town consider you their savior. But then, it’d sure be a hard thing to live up to.
Ramon came over from the hotel, and he and Maria helped Slocum get up to his room, while Wyatt saw to Dugan. He got a double for him and Dugan, and tied Dugan to the bed as firmly as he could, then cuffed him for good measure.
Dugan signaled that he wanted his gag taken out, but Wyatt said, “No dice, Dugan. Don’t want you disturbin’ the other guests with that mouth a’ yours.”
Dugan muttered something back at him—likely filthy—then settled into silence.
Wyatt ordered dinner from the cantina, left Ramon to guard Dugan, and went in to see Slocum. Wyatt found him sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at the paper packet he’d just pulled from his pocket. Slocum looked up at him. “I’m s’psed to take half this tonight, right?”
Wyatt, surprised by this outburst of conversation—almost an oration, all things considered—simply nodded.
Slocum tipped the packet back, into his mouth. Immediately, his face twisted. “Tastes like shit.”
“You said that last night.”
“True today, too,” Slocum said with a lopsided smirk.
“Ordered you some dinner. Should be over in slap time. Hope you like enchiladas.”
“Almost as good as steak,” Slocum mumbled, and Wyatt wondered if he’d still be awake when his dinner was delivered.
“May I enter?” Wyatt looked up at the voice. It was Dr. Ramirez.
“Sure,” Wyatt said. “Was about to send for you anyhow.”
“How is our patient?” Ramirez sat on the edge of the mattress and began to unbutton Slocum’s shirt. Slocum gave him no fight, just an evil look.
“He’s doin’ just grand,” Wyatt lied. But then, he wasn’t really lying, he realized. Slocum was doing very, very well, all things considered.
“Good. He hasn’t bled through his bandages. Always the good sign,” the doctor muttered. He began to snip away at Slocum’s wrappings. “If you would help me in a moment, Señor Wyatt?”
Wyatt moved to the other side of the bed, and when the doc was ready, they helped Slocum sit up so they could get him out of his shirt and the rest of his bandages. Even Wyatt could tell that the wound was healing rapidly and cleanly. He could give the doc some of the credit, but he gave most of it, although silently, to Slocum. He didhave more lives than a barn cat!
Later, after the doc had re-bandaged him with fresh wrappings, Slocum ate his dinner. He seemed to enjoy it, or what of it he ate. Once again, he fell asleep before he finished. Wyatt figured he’d gotten more of it down this time, though. He quietly gathered Slocum’s plate and coffee cup and left for his own room and dinner—and Dugan’s—closing the door behind him.
Dugan was in a foul mood, as usual. The first thing he said after Wyatt took the gag off was “He dead yet?”
Wyatt shoved his dinner plate at him. “Shut up and eat.”
“You’re just givin’ me a spoon to eat enchiladas with? And how ’bout untyin’ me?”
“Nice try,” said Wyatt around a mouthful of Spanish rice. Then he repeated, “Just shut up and eat.”
That night, in the cantina, Wyatt relaxed with a beer. He’d left Juan to babysit Dugan this time, giving him orders to not remove the gag, and not to let him take a piss. Wyatt had let him empty his bladder into the chamber pot before he left, so he figured he could just sit there until he got back. And with the gag in, he couldn’t use any fancy talk on Juan.
Or course, he didn’t figure Juan would fall for it. The whole town was still mad at Dugan for what he’d done to Slocum. Mad? Mad wasn’t the word for it. They were ready to hang him. Never let a bunch of Mexican farmers get on your bad side, Wyatt told himself, even though the same fate awaited Dugan once they got him back up to the states. Now, that’d be a hanging Wyatt would admire to see, and he wasn’t much for spectating. He imagined Morgan was looking forward to it, too, as well as Virgil.
His brothers were “by the book” lawmen.
Well, he supposed he was, too. Elsewise, he would have just shot Dugan back down where they picked him up.
And maybe they should have.
Maria came over to his table and sat down opposite him. She asked, “Slocum, he does well?”
“He’s doin’ all right,” Wyatt answered with a curt nod. “That medicine Doc Ramirez gave him is workin’ like a charm. He’s out like a light.”
Maria said, “It makes me glad that he is doing so well. He will recover?”
Wyatt nodded again. “Yeah, he’ll do fine.” He hoped to hell he wasn’t lying.
He had another beer with Maria before he said good night and made his way back over to the hotel. He was dog tired and looking forward to sleeping in a bed for a change.
When he got back to the room and had said good night to Juan, he got Dugan up and let him have a last shot at the chamber pot for the night, then tied him up again and lay down on the other bed—fully dressed, gun in his hand and pointed toward Dugan.
“Don’t try anything, you son of a bitch” were his last words before he dozed off to sleep, off and on, throughout the night.
Slocum woke the next morning all by himself, got up, and used the chamber pot. He checked his bandages in the mirror over the bureau. The bandages were still fresh, and when he had tried to move his arm earlier, he hadn’t felt like hot knives were stabbing him. Cold knives, maybe. But it was a vast improvement.
He found his shirt and put it on all by himself, gathered up what gear Wyatt had brought up for him, and opened the door before he realized that he didn’t know where Wyatt and Dugan were. He’d be damned if he was going to go up and down the hall rapping on every door, so he went to the head of the stairs and called down.
“Ramon? Ramon, you down there?”
Ramon stuck his head around the corner and into view at the bottom of the steps. “Sí?” Then, delighted, he said, “Señor Slocum! You are better?”
Slocum grinned. “Better, yes, Ramon. Where’s Wyatt and the prisoner?”
“Nombre 107, Señor Slocum.” He puffed out his chest a little. “I aided in the guarding. So did many here.”
“Well, thank you, Ramon,” Slocum said. “Thank you very much.”
“De nada,” said Ramon with a little bow.
Slocum nodded at him and Ramon saluted in reply. Slocum chuckled and waved his hand. His right one. He still didn’t have much faith in the left.
He walked back up the corridor to room 107 and rapped at the door.
Wyatt stuck his head out. “Slocum!” he said, surprised and obviously happy. “You’re up!”
Slocum grinned back.
“Feelin’ some’at better, too. How’s Dugan?”
“Well, he’s awake anyhow. C’mon in.”
Slocum entered the room to find Dugan sitting on the edge of his bed, looking cranky as hell and still bound. He was still gagged with the same bandana, too.
Wyatt said, “You reckon we can trust him far enough to cart him to the cantina for breakfast?”
Slocum replied, “Reckon we’re gonna have to, ’cause I seem to have built up a powerful hunger durin’ the night.” He looked at Dugan. “You promise to be a good boy?”
Behind the gag, Dugan sneered at him.
“Well, best untie his feet then. I ain’t gonna carry him,” said Wyatt, and bent to the task.
They packed in a good breakfast at the cantina. Slocum even had a beer, seeing as how they weren’t leaving until after nine. Juan, having run across the way, had their gear and horses all ready for them when they arrived at the stable.
“Thanks, Juan!” called Wyatt. “Wish I could get this kind of help up home.” He laughed when he said it. He got Dugan’s feet hog-tied—with little struggle from Dugan—and got him up over Red’s back and secured. They sold his horse back to the livery, and Slocum insisted that Wyatt pocket the money.
He said, “They don’t pay marshals enough, and he ain’t got no kin, far’s I know.”
Wyatt shrugged, but finally pocketed the forty dollars. Although he grumbled about it.
Slocum got on his horse by himself—well, with the aid of a mounting block—and they waved good-bye to Calisto and its residents and headed north.
“I don’t figure we’ll make Bisbee tonight,” Wyatt said as they rode along. “You’re likely not up to gallopin’ yet.”
Slocum, full of eggs and tortillas, shook his head. “But try me after lunch. Might be up to a good run then, maybe.”
Wyatt raised his brows. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see.”
Slocum cocked his head to the side, but simply rode on.