by Jake Logan
Slocum figured Dugan could keep them pinned down until dark, if he had a mind to.
He signaled Wyatt to draw Dugan’s fire again.
Wyatt shot him a pained expression, but he did it. Slocum kept his gaze on the rock Dugan was firing from behind.
Sure as anything, when Wyatt fired, Slocum saw the top of Dugan’s head pop up, just momentarily, over the top of the rock. He was a little north of where he’d left Red, down where the upthrust of rock was maybe four and a half or five feet tall. Slocum nodded, and whispered, “Now you’re gonna get it, you escape-happy son of a bitch.”
He signaled to Wyatt again. Wyatt, who seemed to be catching on to his plan, nodded and fired over his rock again.
Dugan’s head popped up, just like clockwork. And Slocum fired at the same instant.
Dugan never returned his fire. His head slipped downward, and he was silent.
“Did you get him?” Wyatt shouted.
“Think so. Hold on a second.” Slocum pursed his lips and whistled one shrill, short blast. “Red!” he called. “C’mon, boy!”
He heard some shuffling of equine feet, and then Red stuck his head around the side of the rock and whinnied, as if he didn’t now what to do. Makes sense, thought Slocum. Red had been carting Slocum, then nobody, then Dugan for several days. He didn’t know who to answer to.
Besides, Slocum and Wyatt were behind the rocks, hidden from view.
Slocum took a chance and stepped into the open. “Red?” he said again and held out his hand. “C’mere, old buddy.”
The horse came to him right away, and Slocum made a fuss over him, rubbing his forehead and stroking his neck. “Good boy. Good Red. You had yourself an adventure, didn’t you?”
The horse whickered softly.
Wyatt came out, too. “Don’t seem to have suffered any damage.”
“No, he’s in a fine fettle,” said Slocum happily. “But mebbe we oughta check out Dugan.”
“Got ya.” Wyatt trotted off to the rock opposite them, and a few moments later, he shouted. “Nice shootin’! Got him square between the eyes!”
Slocum relaxed. In fact, all the air went out of him, and he slid to the ground.
19
When Wyatt came back to fetch Red, Slocum was flat on the ground. At first, Wyatt thought he was dead. Could Dugan have fired without their realizing it? But then he saw Slocum’s chest gently rising and falling, and realized Slocum was sleeping! Sleeping at a time like this?
Wyatt shook his head. He would never, so long as he lived, understand some people. He bridled Red, then grabbed his reins and led him back to where Dugan’s body waited.
He later admitted, just to Virgil, that he gave the body a good kick, just in case. Dugan had escaped so many times that he didn’t trust him to actually be dead, despite the bullet hole in his forehead. But he still didn’t move, didn’t take a breath, didn’t pull up a gun.
And so Wyatt heaved him up onto Red, roped him into place, and led him back to where Slocum lay sleeping with the other horses. He knelt down and shook Slocum awake.
“You in there, Slocum?”
Slocum grumbled something indiscernible.
Wyatt shook him again. “Hey, you big ol’ bounty hunter! Wake up!”
Slocum opened one eye, then, from instinct, brought up his hand—with the cocked gun still in it. He aimed it straight at Wyatt’s face until his head seemed to clear, and he lowered his right arm, saying, “Sorry, Wyatt. Force of habit, I reckon.”
“Reckon you’re right,” Wyatt said, although he didn’t smile until Slocum had holstered his Colt. Whether he knew it or not, Slocum was a lethal weapon.
Slocum stood up, although somewhat creakily, and nodded toward Red and his baggage. “He dead?”
Wyatt nodded.
“You sure?”
Wyatt grabbed Dugan’s hair and lifted his head. The bullet hole was still there, in the center of his forehead. Wyatt let go, and the head dropped back down. “Deader’n a doornail.”
“Finally,” said Slocum, with no small amount of relief.
“Let’s get him back to town.”
“I’m with you on that.”
The two men and their cargo rode into Tombstone after dark. They rode straight to the sheriff’s office, and Wyatt dismounted at the same time the door opened and Virgil stepped out.
“I’ll be double-dogged!” Virgil shouted, and held out his arms to hug his brother.
“He’ll be double-dogged, and he don’t know the half of it,” Slocum said, and dismounted. The pain had lessened as the day wore on—especially after Dugan had been killed, and at the moment, Slocum was barely feeling any pain at all. He wondered how Will was doing, then felt bad for not having given him a thought for so long. Well, if he went to see Doc Goodnight, he’s probably right as rain by now, Slocum thought. He swung down off Apache, and was immediately reminded of his wound.
He must have had a pained expression, because Wyatt turned away from his brother and asked, “You all right?”
“Yeah,” Slocum said. “Slug hole’s just actin’ up a mite, that’s all.” He stuck out his right hand. “Howdy, Virgil. How’s Morgan doin’?”
“He’s up and around,” Virgil said, “and drivin’ everybody crazy. You’d think he’d just been attacked by a passel of Apache!”
“That Morg!” Wyatt said, and broke out laughing.
Slocum, grinning, followed them inside the office. He figured that once they got the amenities seen to, and the paperwork, he was going to go have himself a bottle of champagne. A whole one, all to himself. He’d been feeling hot, and he was also thinking about that bucket of ice they served it in.
Morgan was in the office, and when he saw Wyatt and Slocum he called out, “Welcome back, you two ol’ hound dogs! Glad to see you, glad to see you!” He, too, hugged his brother, then shook Slocum’s hand. “Did you get him? Did you bring that rattlesnake back?”
“Got him,” Wyatt said, then poked his thumb toward the door. “He’s outside over a sorrel horse, deader’n a swamp log.”
Wyatt and Slocum pulled out chairs facing the marshal’s desk. It was good to be sitting down again, and on something that wasn’t moving. Morgan got them all some coffee while Virgil sat down behind the desk.
“So, what happened out there?” Virgil asked as he accepted his cup. “And what happened to you, Slocum?”
“Dugan,” Slocum said, and took a sip of his coffee. Wyatt’s was good, but there was something about stove-cooked coffee that was better. He took another drink. “Shot me in the chest.”
“That rat-bastard,” muttered Morgan.
“His aim was off some, though,” said Wyatt. “Didn’t manage to hit anything important, just tear up some muscle. And Slocum wouldn’t have any truck with the doc’s orders. He was supposed to be laid up for a week or ten days, but we were off the next mornin’, trailin’ that horse’s butt.”
Virgil’s brow creased. “You mean he got away from you again?”
Wyatt shook his head. “No, no. We’d just caught up with him in some little Mex town. What was the name of it, Slocum?”
“Calisto,” Slocum said, thinking that maybe he’d put off the champagne for tonight. He was already feeling drowsy in addition to achy.
“That’s right,” said Wyatt.
He kept on talking, but Slocum began to lose the thread of the conversation, and then whole chunks of it. He didn’t know how much time had passed when he came full awake to find Wyatt’s hand on his shoulder.
“C’mon, ol’ buddy,” Wyatt said. “We’d best get you to the hotel, I reckon.”
Groggily, Slocum stood up, then said, “Wait. Gotta take care’a my horses.”
“Don’t worry. Morgan’s already seein’ to it.”
Slocum nodded, although he wasn’t too sure about Morgan. But he supposed it was better than nothing. He allowed Wyatt to walk him to the Oriental, where Wyatt got him a room.
“No charge,” he told the clerk. Slocum had for
gotten that Wyatt was part-owner of the place, and nodded his thanks as Wyatt guided him up the stairs. “Anythin’ else you need? Food? Female companionship? Beer?” Wyatt asked. He let Slocum slide down to the edge of the bed.
Slocum said, “Nope, not tonight. Just wanna sleep.”
Wyatt said, “Okay, ol’ man. Good show out there.”
Slocum touched the brim of his hat. “Right back atcha. And thanks again for the room.”
“Anything you want, all you gotta do is ask.”
Slocum nodded. He was so weary that he couldn’t even think of taking off his boots, let alone his guns. It all seemed like too much work. And his chest was aching like a son of a bitch. He wished he hadn’t run out of heroin.
He raised his right hand. “Thanks, Wyatt. G’night.” And then he thought of something. “My guns . . .”
One hand on the doorknob, Wyatt waved the other. “Don’t fret ’bout it. Reckon Virgil can make an exception for you this time.”
“Thanks,” Slocum said.
And then Wyatt bid him good night and was gone. Slocum didn’t even take the time to straighten out on the bed. He just lay back—fell back, really—and he was asleep, feet on the floor.
When he next awoke, he found Doc Goodnight bending over him.
“Well, he’s awake now,” the doc said to someone behind him.
Then Will stepped into view, grinning like a fool. “Welcome back, stranger!”
“How long?” Slocum asked. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that it was mid-morning. He just didn’t know what day.
“You were infected,” Will said, still all smiles. “You been out three days, you big ox.”
Doc Goodnight nodded. “Lucky you got back to town when you did, Mr. Slocum. If that infection had gone on much longer, the Earps’d be out there on Boot Hill, dig-gin’ you a hole right next to Bronc Dugan’s. You’re one lucky bastard, if you don’t mind me sayin’ it.”
“Been called worse,” Slocum said, with a hint of a smile.
“You shoulda seen your bandages when we peeled you outta them,” said Will, shaking his head.
“Smelled ’em, more like,” added Doc Goodnight. “What kind of a butcher’d you see down there?”
Slocum had liked Doc Ramirez. He’d thought he’d done a good job, and he told Doc Goodnight so.
“Good job, my ass,” the doctor grumbled. “He’s the one who gave you that heroin, too, ain’t he?”
Slocum nodded. “So?”
“Don’t you trust that stuff,” warned the doctor. “I don’t. Seen folks get hooked on it, get hooked on it worse than those people down at the opium tents.” He scowled at the wall. “Stay away from that stuff, you hear?”
“I hear,” said a dutiful Slocum. Whatever Doc Goodnight had been doing for him the last few days, it had worked wonders. He had stopped feeling feverish, and the pain in his chest had focused in, to a point much smaller and finer than before. Much less painful, too.
There was a tap at the door, and Will went to answer it. He couldn’t hear the questioner, but he heard Will say, “Oh, he’s a whole lot better. You wanna see him?”
He led Mandy around Doc Goodnight, and she immediately left Will behind to crouch on the bed next to Slocum. Her arms went around him somewhat gingerly, and she whispered, “You’re alive, you’re alive!”
He chuckled. “Hope to kiss a pig, I am.”
When she pulled her head back and looked at him, puzzled, he added, “Nothin’ personal, baby. Can’t tell you how really great it is to see you again.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead, and she replied by kissing him on the mouth, long and hard.
“Easy, baby,” he said with a chuckle, once he had the use of his lips back. “I’m still tender.”
“He’s right, Mandy,” came Doc Goodnight’s voice. “Don’t go doin’ anything that’ll make him pull out those new stitches.”
“Wouldn’t hurt him for the world, Doc,” she said, running the back of her fingers down Slocum’s cheek. “He’s one in a million, our Slocum.”
“You can say that again,” Will stated. “Slocum, me and Morgan been taking real good care’a your horses. If you ever get down to the stable, you’ll find ’em in a fine fettle.”
“If I ever?”
“Aw, hell. You know what I mean. I’m just real glad you’re among the livin’, Slocum. You shoulda seen all the pus and stuff that came out!”
Mandy wrinkled her nose.
Doc Goodnight was putting on his jacket again. He nodded. “He’s right, Mr. Slocum. You were in one hell of a mess.”
“It’s just plain Slocum, Doc,” Slocum said. “Mr. Slocum was my pa.”
Goodnight nodded quickly and straightened his coat. “Take it easy, Slocum. I mean, real easy. You’re not allowed to get out of that bed until tomorrow, midday. And that’s if you don’t have any more problems with the wound. You do, you get hold of me right away, all right?” He handed Slocum a card, engraved with his name and address.
When Slocum looked perplexed at such a fancy, engraved business card, the doc said, “We’re not all living in the Stone Age, Slocum. Good day now.” Medical case in hand, he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him.
20
“Well!” said Will. “Guess he told you!”
Slocum grinned and tightened his grip around Mandy’s waist. It felt good to be himself again. He said, “Really? Three days?”
Will nodded. “Thought you were gonna kick the bucket for a few days there. It’s sure good to talk to you, pal.”
“Good to be hearin’ you, too,” Slocum said, and smiled. “You go see him yourself?”
Will nodded. “Said it was . . . Hell, I can’t remember. But he gave me some pills, and I’m a whole lot better now.”
Will was his same old self, and Slocum was glad. To Mandy, he said, “Sorry, honey, but I think I’d best lie down again.”
She smiled. “With or without me, baby?”
“Sorry, Mandy. I’m just too damn tired.” He was, too. His lids were drooping already.
“That’s all right, Slocum,” she purred. “In case you need something to do later, when you wake up, I brought you some things to read the other day.” She pointed to the bed stand, where newspapers and a few dime novels were stacked.
He grinned sloppily. “Thanks, honey. Thanks a lot.” He pushed himself back on the bed and lay down, pulling his legs up after him. Only then did he notice that he had been stripped down to his long johns, and those had been peeled down to his waist. He was still bandaged across his upper chest, although the bandages were fresh.
Mandy kissed his forehead, whispering, “Feel better soon, big man,” and was gone before he knew it.
“I’ll be gettin’ along, too,” said Will. “I’m just down the hall, if you remember. Same room.”
Slocum nodded, and his head felt like lead. How could just sitting up for a few minutes take so much out of him? He didn’t know. He just wanted to go to sleep.
His eyes closed and he heard Will exit the room. And then he heard nothing. He was asleep.
Within three more days, Slocum was up and around, and actually walked down the stairs by himself. He stopped in the bar and ordered himself a beer and a thick roast beef sandwich, and spoke a few words with Wyatt, who had just come in to take his shift at the faro table.
He stopped by Slocum’s corner first, though.
“You’re up!” he said as he pulled out the chair opposite Slocum.
“That I am. Not exactly fit to fight off my weight in bobcats yet, but at least I’m standin’ and sittin’.”
Wyatt laughed. Then his face turned serious, and no one could look more serious than Wyatt when he wanted. That long, droopy mustache made it seem like his frown was headed for boot level. He said, “We buried Dugan almost a week ago. Nobody came. Big surprise.”
“You check to make sure he didn’t dig his way out?”
Wyatt grinned. “Morgan’s been up there three times since. I think he’
s checkin’.”
A chuckle escaped Slocum. And it didn’t hurt! He said, “Good for Morgan. I’d be goin’ up there myself, if I was him. Even if I was me.”
Grinning, Wyatt shook his head and scraped back his chair. “I’ll bet you would. I’d better get my ass to work. See you later!”
Slocum had noticed the faro table was busy before, but when Wyatt sat down to deal, an even bigger crowd gathered. Slocum suspected it wasn’t his deal that pulled in the rubes, it was his company.
When Slocum finished his sandwich and beer a few minutes later, the bartender informed him that his money was no good at the Oriental. Wyatt’s orders.
“Thank you kindly,” said Slocum to the barkeep, who smiled back at him.
“What the boss wants, the boss gets,” he informed Slocum before he glanced over toward the faro table.
“Boy, he sure does get folks to buck that tiger on a regular basis.” He gave his head a shake.
“Sure does,” agreed Slocum. “He surely does.”
Slocum’s next stop was the livery. He found Apache and Red turned out in the corral, both looking like they were a couple of statues, they were so clean and sleek and shiny. The Earps had done a helluva job, that was all he could say. And everything free at the Oriental? If he hadn’t been in Tombstone, and it hadn’t been the Earps, he would have figured that there had to be a catch somewhere.
But he had his money, and he’d brought in his quarry—twice. Plus, Dugan—despite his bad aim and his even worse temperament—was now underground, and wouldn’t bother anybody anymore.
“Hey you!” a voice called. “The marshal know you’re carryin’ them guns?”
Slocum turned to find himself confronted by the stable hand, a boy of about seventeen or so with a very annoyed expression on his face.
“As a matter of fact, he does,” Slocum said, keeping his tone even. This kid had best figure out where he was and who he was confronting. For many in Tombstone, killing a man was as easy as asking him to pass the salt. “You’d best watch your tone, kid,” he said. “Not everybody’s as forgivin’ as I am.”