Slocum and the Sonoran Fugitive

by Jake Logan

The boy scowled at him but said nothing further. Slocum had given him a quick visual once-over already, to make sure he wasn’t carrying. That’s all he’d need right now, to have some idiot kid gun him down, just to get a reputation. He went ahead and checked the horses Dugan’s gang had stolen from the folks over in Monkey Springs. They looked fine, too. He took a peek at Duster, too, so long as he was out there. Once again, everything was just fine.

  He left, but not before he called out to the belligerent stable boy again. “Nice job, takin’ care’a my horses. I appreciate it.”

  The boy looked like he was going to smile, but he managed to cut it off midway, and scowled instead. It seemed like he wasn’t going to give an inch to Slocum.

  Slocum opened his mouth to say something else, like Relax or Take it easy, kid. But he closed it again without uttering a word. The kid had a burr under his blanket, all right, and Slocum wasn’t going to volunteer to remove it for him.

  Well, no one would ever accuse Slocum of being a humanitarian.

  He left the livery and slowly strolled down the road, to the bank. Allen Street was lively even at one in the afternoon. As Slocum walked along, painted women beckoned from second-story windows, and the sound of heavy-handed piano playing competed with the occasional somewhat lighter touch on the keyboard, and the even more occasional nickelodeon. The sidewalks were crowded with cowhands, miners, and the gussied-up gambler or two. They were all sorts of races, from white to black to Indian to Chinese to Mexican. Most had been relieved of their guns, but some either hadn’t seen the signs or didn’t give a rat’s ass.

  Slocum figured it to be the latter in most cases. These boys didn’t look like they took to arbitrary rules any too kindly.

  Slocum guessed the kid down at the stable hadn’t been up this way today. If he wanted to pick a fight, he’d undoubtedly find a lot of takers up here.

  Slocum decided to cross the street and walk back up to the Oriental on the other side, which wasn’t nearly as rife with bars and pleasure palaces and such. It was, in fact, like being in a whole other town. Here, the watering holes and dens of iniquity had been replaced by assayers’ offices, millinery and dressmakers’ shops, notions shops, tobacconists, dry goods and feed stores, and so on.

  He reminded himself to ask Wyatt if there was some kind of a law that had gone into effect to split Allen Street that way or if the separation had been voluntary.

  He almost ran into Virgil, who was just stepping out of a tobacconist’s shop. “Whoa!” Slocum said, and grabbed Virgil’s shoulder to keep from running into him.

  Virgil said, “Well, as I live and breathe! Slocum’s back from the dead!”

  “Almost, but not quite,” said Slocum with a laugh. “I trust that you ain’t seen Wyatt yet?”

  “Nope. Reckon he’s up at the Oriental, dealin’, while I been doing my marshal duties.”

  Slocum tipped his head across the street and down the road. “Bunch a’ boys down there with iron on their hips. That part of your marshal duty?”

  Virgil snorted. “Reckon the boys from out at the Clantons’ place are in town again. Well, I’ll wait for Wyatt or Morgan. They respond better to a group.”

  “Know what you mean,” said Slocum. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Mandy, would you? A little blonde, ’bout—”

  Virgil cut in. “Oh, everybody knows Mandy. She’s stayin’ over at Nellie Cashman’s these days. Comin’ up in the world, I guess.”

  Slocum raised a brow. He knew Nellie Cashman from up north, in the mining camps, and he knew she didn’t allow soiled doves, at least those that were plying their trade, under her roof. Unless they were in a peck of trouble, that was. Miss Nellie had a soft heart.

  “Where’s Miss Nellie’s?”

  Virgil pointed down the street. “It’s on Tough Nut, down a block or so.”

  “Thanks, Virgil.” Slocum tipped his hat. “Best get some ready-mades while I’m here.”

  Virgil nodded. “See you. Stay alive.”

  “Do my best.” Slocum opened the shop’s door and went in, accompanied by a tinkling bell.

  He bought his ready-mades—three packs—a box of sulfur-tips, and went on his way. He’d been thinking about Mandy, thinking hard. And he was pretty sure that he’d come up with something, something that was good for both him and her, something that would give them both a lot of pleasure.

  He turned the corner at Tough Nut and proceeded down to Miss Nellie’s. The Russ House, she was calling it, but her name was on the sign, too. An old miner sat outside on one of the sidewalk chairs, smoking a pipe. “Lookin’ for Miss Nellie, are ya?” he asked in a gravelly voice.

  Slocum stepped up on the walk. “Kinda. Lookin’ for one of her boarders.”

  “Got quite a few, quite a few,” the old man rasped. “Who you lookin’ for, ’xactly?”

  Slocum couldn’t see that it was any of his business, but he figured to humor the old coot. “Lookin’ for a lady named Miss Mandy. Just moved over a few days back.” A few days! Had it only been a few days? “Mighta been more like a week,” he added.

  “Oh, sure,” said the old coot, this time with a cackling laugh. “I know Miss Mandy. Used to live over by the cribs.” He pointed toward the alley where the working girls kept shop. “She’s retired, or so she says. Shame, ain’t it?” He looked at Slocum as if he expected an answer.

  “Yeah,” Slocum said. “A real shame. I guess. She here now?”

  The old-timer shook his woolly head. “A real shame. Yup, she’s here now. Room number seven. And you treat her right, you hear? She’s outta business!”

  Slocum smiled. He was glad she had defenders at the Russ House, even if they didn’t pose much of a threat. He tipped his hat, then walked inside.

  The lobby was homey. A painting of Nellie Cashman hung across from the front desk, next to an old coat tree, and Nellie herself was behind the desk.

  “Can I be of help to you, sir?” she asked before she took a closer look. “Slocum?” And then the question went out of her voice, and she cried, “Slocum! My God, they were tellin’ me you were dead as a tinned herring!”

  He grinned at her, grinned wide. “I’m gettin’ a lotta that lately. Hope you ain’t disappointed.”

  She came out from behind the desk and threw her arms around him. He’d forgotten what a tiny thing she was.

  “Disappointed?” she said, squeezing him tight. “By Holy Mary and all the saints, it’s delighted I am to see you walkin’ and talkin’!”

  “Back atcha, Miss Nellie,” he said with a laugh. “Good to hear the old sod drippin’ off your tongue, too!”

  “I’m still remindin’ you of your sainted mother, then?”

  “That you do, lass,” he said. “That you do. I’m lookin’ for one of your tenants, Miss Nellie.”

  She let go of him and backed up a step, still smiling. “And who would that be?”

  “A little blond thing, name’a Mandy.”

  “Now, Slocum, you wouldn’t be plannin’ on any funny business under my roof, would you now?” she said, pretending to scold.

  “And damn my soul to eternal perdition? Miss Nellie, you know me better than that,” he said, pretending to be hurt.

  “Aye, that’s the trouble, John Slocum,” she said with a laugh. “I do know you! Number seven, and no monkey business!”

  Slocum tipped his hat, said “Yes, ma’am!” and went down the hall.

  21

  “That’s the deal, Mandy. Take it or leave it.” Slocum sat across from Mandy—he on the bed and she in the chair—and he was grinning like an idiot.

  “But Slocum—” She looked shocked, and she could barely get the words out.

  “Don’t be silly. It’s a good deal. In fact, it’s a great one, if I don’t mind sayin’ so myself. You got a bank account here in town?”

  “Well . . . yes,” she said warily. “But—”

  “Good!” he said, and took his feet. “And no ‘buts’ about it.” He held down his hand. �
��You comin’, little bird?”

  “I . . . I guess.” She took his hand and rose to her feet. “But Slocum, I don’t understand! How did you—”

  “Get it?” he said, finishing her sentence. “It’s all legal, trust me. And I can’t think of a better way to get rid of it.”

  He led her to the door, down the hall, past a curious Nellie Cashman, and outside. “Let’s us go to the bank, Mandy!”

  He’d been thinking about it long and hard, and had finally settled on a conclusion. Fair and just, to his mind. He knew that Mandy had been saving for a very long time—ten years, in fact—to get the money to retire, a thing that she was about to do. But he had a mind to let her retire in style.

  When they came to the bank, he transferred five thousand dollars into her account. “Now it’s yours, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He watched as she signed the form with shaky hands. He’d done a good thing, he thought. A very good thing.

  The teller handed her back her bankbook, which now showed a total of $9,998.42. It was a goodly sum of money for anyone to have, Slocum thought. Enough to buy her a house and furnish it, enough to live out the rest of her life in comfort. Modest comfort, but comfort nonetheless. She’d never go hungry, he figured, or have to work again.

  She was staring at her bankbook like it was from another planet. “Slocum,” she said slowly, “I can’t find words.”

  “Not necessary,” he said with a quick wave of his hand. He walked her to the door, then out onto the sidewalk.

  They talked for a few minutes—not about the money, because he had banned the argument from their conversation, but about where she wanted to go to settle down. Prescott seemed to be high on her list. She’d never been there, but she’d heard good things about it.

  “You’d best talk to Will,” he said. “He lives up there, seems to like it.”

  Just then, he caught a glimpse of someone he halfway knew—the surly youngster from the livery. The boy was coming across the street, leading a fully tacked-up horse. And the kid was wearing a Colt pistol on his hip.

  He looked like 150 pounds of trouble.

  Slocum moved Mandy down the walk a ways, then told her to go on back home. “I’ll join you in a little while,” he said, and swatted her backside.

  She moved away, wagging her finger at him. “No funny business at Miss Nellie’s, now . . .”

  He grinned. “I know, I know.” He watched her make her way down Allen, and turned around just in time to see the kid tie his horse out front of the bank. The boy stood there a moment, nervously fingering his vest, then took a deep breath.

  He stepped up onto the sidewalk, then into the bank.

  Slocum was on him like white on rice, catching the door before it closed behind him, and entering just in time to see him draw his gun and hear him say, “Take it easy, everybody. This here’s a stickup.”

  Slocum drew his pistol, flipped it quickly around in his hand, and cracked the kid over the back of his head, knocking him out cold. The kid slipped to the floor without ever cocking his gun.

  “Somebody wanna go get the marshal?” Slocum asked, holstering his unfired gun.

  All around him, everyone was frozen—tellers and customers alike. But finally one of the tellers “unfroze” and suddenly came zipping out from behind his cage. “Thank you, sir!” he said as he came across the room. “Thank you very much!” He was out the door, and Slocum could hear him crying, “Marshal! Marshal Earp! Sheriff Behan!” Apparently he was calling on everybody he could think of.

  Just as well, Slocum figured.

  At Slocum’s feet, the boy groaned softly. Slocum quickly moved to kick the gun out of his reach. In the far corner, a man was using his bankbook to fan, to little avail, the face of a large woman who had fainted.

  The bank’s door finally opened, admitting both the bank teller and Morgan Earp. “Everybody all right?” Morgan asked.

  “Think so,” said Slocum. “ ’ Cept him.” He pointed to the boy on the floor.

  Morgan whirled around and seemed surprised to see him. “Hey, Slocum!” he said, then shook his head. “I shoulda known,” he added, grinning.

  “Shoulda known what? That it was me or him?” Slocum, a half smirk on his face, pointed toward the boy on the floor. He was waking up.

  Morgan shook his head. “Both, I reckon.” He nodded at the floor. “That’s the kid from over at the O.K. Corral, ain’t it? I swear, don’t know why they hired him in the first place. Kid’s just bad news waitin’ for a punch line.”

  “Reckon he’s got one now,” Slocum said.

  Slowly, the boy had pushed himself up into a sit, and now he glared up at Slocum. Softly, he hissed, “I’m gonna get you, mister.”

  Suddenly, Morgan grabbed the kid’s collar and jerked him to his feet. “You ain’t gonna get nothin’ but jail time, junior,” Morgan said. “Mayhap a trip to the wood-shed, to boot!” He had already picked up the boy’s gun and stuck it through his belt. Now he brought out a pair of handcuffs and slapped them on him. As he opened the door, Morgan said, “Stop up by the office later, Slocum, let Virgil take a statement, okay?”

  Slocum nodded his agreement as Morgan and his prisoner went out onto the sidewalk, and Slocum heard, through the closing door, “Dadgum it, there’s silver just sittin’ around all over for the takin’. How come you gotta go bother the folks at the bank? And consider yourself lucky that Slocum just buffaloed you. Coulda rammed that gun a’ his straight up your behind and it wouldn’t have made me no never mind . . .”

  Morgan’s voice faded with distance, and was drowned out by the hubbub that suddenly filled the bank. Everybody began talking all at once—save for Slocum, of course—and the fat woman had revived and was now convulsed with tears and demanding that someone force brandy down her throat.

  It seemed like a good time to make a getaway, which Slocum did. He went all the way up the street and back into the Oriental, where Wyatt was quietly dealing faro. Slocum got himself a table and ordered a beer.

  He figured he deserved it.

  He was on his second beer and just thinking that maybe he ought to go take a nap, when Will came down the stairs. He raised a hand, grinned, and headed straight for Slocum’s table.

  After he was seated and had ordered a beer, he said, “So, Slocum! Whatcha been up to? Get out to take some air, or you just down for a drink?”

  “Oh, I’ve been an active hand, Will. Been over to the stable and checked the horses. Duster’s fine, by the way. Strolled down the street, went over to Miss Nellie Cashman’s boardinghouse and saw Mandy.”

  Will smirked, but Slocum cut him off. “No, just saw her. Then we went up to the bank and took care of some business before I had to stop a bank robbery, and then—”

  Will raised both hands as well as his eyebrows. “What? You stopped a bank robbery? Single-handed?”

  Slocum smiled. “Long story. It was that punk kid from over at the livery. Thought he looked kinda sneaky. Just thumped him on the back of the head before he had a chance to shoot anybody, that’s all.” He took a long draw on his beer. At least Will hadn’t asked him why he and Mandy went to the bank together. He didn’t want anybody spreading rumors about his being too nice a fellow. Bad for the reputation.

  Will shook his head. “Well, by God, Slocum! Thought you were supposed to be takin’ it easy, but the first chance you get, off you go, thwartin’ bank robbers!” Will rubbed his forehead. “I believe you’re givin’ me a headache.”

  Slocum laughed, and Will looked even more perplexed.

  “Oh, by the way, I think Mandy’s wantin’ to talk to you,” Slocum said.

  Will brightened. “Me?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, hoss. She’s outta business. Retirin’.”

  “Does she gotta do it right now?”

  “ ’ Fraid so,” Slocum said with a small grin. “ ’ Sides, she’s my girl. For the moment.” Slocum wasn’t yet quite ready to share. “She’s wantin’ to talk to you about Prescott. How you like it livin’ up
there and such. Think she’s givin’ it consideration for a place to put down fresh roots.”

  “Be happy to talk with her!” Will said. “Course, I’d be happy to talk with her about anything. She’s sure a looker, Slocum.”

  Slocum nodded.

  “I think she’d like Prescott, if she don’t mind a little winter. We get snow up there, y’know. She thinking about buyin’ or rentin’?”

  “Buyin’, I think.” With almost ten grand in the bank, she’d be crazy not to buy, Slocum thought, but he kept his council.

  “There’s nice houses up there. And lots of ’em. She could get a real nice new Victorian for about a thousand. With inside water!”

  “Sounds like you’re the man to talk to, then. Glad I steered her to you.”

  “Appreciate it, Slocum. I’m always ready to talk Prescott up. But . . . She don’t wanna open a house there? I mean, you know . . .”

  “No, Will.” Slocum shook his head. “She wants a fresh start in a new place, that’s all. And you’d best keep anything you know otherwise under your hat, got it?”

  Will sighed and gave his hat a tug, as if to seal it shut on all of Slocum’s secrets, as well as Mandy’s and his own. “Yeah, I got it. Loud and clear.”

  22

  When Slocum woke this time, it was dark out. He lit the lamp by his bed, shook out the match, and checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He supposed it wasn’t too late to take a walk up to the marshal’s office and give a statement.

  Slowly, favoring his shoulder and chest, he swung his legs to the floor and got out of bed.

  This is ridiculous, he thought. If I’da had half a brain, I woulda just let that son-of-a-bitchin’ shirttail kid rob the damn bank and saved myself some time and trouble.

  But then he realized that if he had done that, the kid and his money—and Mandy’s money, and Will’s money—would be gone, too. And he would’ve most likely been drafted to go hunt the kid down before he did any more damage to anybody else.

  Okay, going to the sheriff’s office at night wasn’t so bad, was it? At least, not compared to the alternatives.