by Jake Logan
Not So Innocent . . .
Slocum turned his attention to the next lowlife, who hadn’t made much progress in getting the girl to the alley. The man growled and grunted, all the while trying to rip her purse from her arms.
With a quick, short jab to the head, Slocum dizzied the lad enough that he lessened his grip on the girl’s face. Then Slocum set himself up for another punch, this time to the man’s now exposed midsection. Just before he landed it, the kid yowled a blue streak and lurched forward into Slocum’s fist. It caught the kid square in the chest and he spun sideways, and kept spinning as if he were a schoolkid trying to dizzy himself up.
Soon enough he righted himself and took off lurching down the street.
Slocum dropped to a knee and extended his hands to help the girl. “Miss, you okay? Did they hurt—”
But that was all he was able to say because he felt a hot stab of pain in his left side, just below the ribs. “What did you do?” He pulled away his fingers and saw, in the scant light shed from the saloon windows, that his fingertips glistened. “You stabbed me.” He looked at her. “You stabbed me!”
“I . . . I thought you were one of them.”
He straightened up as she approached him, stiffening and turning his good side toward her. “You better think twice before you cut me again. Woman or no, I’ll lay you out cold.”
DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.
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The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.
SLOCUM by Jake Logan
Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.
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An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.
DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer
Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .
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SLOCUM AND THE HIGH-COUNTRY MANHUNT
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61016-9
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / July 2013
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Contents
More All-Action Western Series
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
1
Bismarck, North Dakota, hadn’t been the place John Slocum intended to find himself, nearly broke, in the middle of winter. But when the last drive had ended back in Abilene, he’d agreed to work as an outrider for a freighting company. He’d done that for a number of months, right on through late fall, Christmas, and into the new year. And then, without warning, the company went belly up, leaving him stranded in Bismarck with his horse, his gear, and very few dollars in his pocket.
He also held a promissory note for his previous month’s wages, which were to have been paid to him on his return to Abilene. But there was fat chance of ever seeing that cash. He’d had it on good authority that a long series of shady moves by the company’s trusted accountant had wiped out the outfit’s coffers.
When they heard the news, some of the teamsters had been quick enough to mosey to unknown areas farther west. These hired drivers figured it was their right to abscond with their mules, wagons, and loads in lieu of payment. Slocum couldn’t blame them, but as an outrider, he had no such option. Best he figured he could do was hunker down in Bismarck for a spell, see if he could maybe deal some faro, or work for his and his horse’s keep at the livery.
And that was just what he had done, biding his time, making enough to keep him and the horse in modest style with the occasional shot of bourbon and bate of oats to bolster their spirits. And they’d needed it a few times during a run of particularly dark, stormy days when it seemed nothing much happened except snow falling.
He didn’t dare ride on out given the weather of late, but he figured that in another few days it would be February, and an old-timer at the bar swore his rheumatics told him they were in for a nice, long stretch of temperatures almost above freezing. That was good enough for Slocum. Anywhere south of Bismarck was a good direction—couldn’t be worse.
On one mid-February day, the afternoon train churned into town, in the midst of this whited-out wash of grim winter landscape, where everyone did their best to stay drunk and not fight, and often succeeded too well at one and not well at all at the other. Normally the train hauled in very few interesting people, and goods most folks couldn’t have afforded even if they’d wanted them. But on this particular frigid day, into the bar where Slocum and too many other men were drinking walked a singular young woman t
he likes of whom had rarely been seen in Bismarck.
She was bedecked from head to toe in what must have been high fashion. An ostrich-feather hat trimmed in rich black fur perched atop her high-piled honey blond hair. The hat bore deep purple accents that matched a long, glimmering purple satin dress that fit her fetching form so closely above the waist that she looked as if she’d been dipped in an artist’s paint pot.
But it was her face that caught Slocum’s breath in his throat. For a moment it even stopped his glass’s motion in midair as it rose to his mouth.
She had such an unblemished complexion and a small pretty mouth, the corners of which seemed to hold an arched pose, as if in mischievous collusion with her clear green eyes, which seemed to take in everything all at once. Slocum decided she was both confident and as nervous looking as an abandoned fawn.
As a rule, Slocum was not all that interested in women who sported a fair amount of jewelry. But the adornments this woman wore reflected obvious wealth. Earrings that had the weight, luster, and glittering dignity of real gems matched her dazzling diamond choker. On most other women, Slocum thought that this combination of jewels, dress, hat, and long black gloves trimmed high with fur would look garish, might even hint at a dove trying too hard to impress. But on this young woman, whose bearing was so dignified, the effect was regal—and out of place. One look at her, and all activity in the vast barroom ceased.
A few seconds later, men unconsciously smoothed their hair, mustaches, and beards. They wiped their mouths to dislodge crusted tobacco residue that had built up after hours of fervent chewing, spitting, and gambling.
Slocum found he was as curious about her as every other soul in the Hoyt House Hotel and Bar. Curious enough that he kept an eye on her as she advanced across the room. All the while he felt pleased that he had chosen to do his afternoon’s drinking here instead of the Crowhop Saloon—his usual spot, though only because the drinks at the Crowhop were taller and cheaper.
Instead of working to dispel attention and blend in—not much of a possibility in that crowd—Slocum was surprised to see the young woman stride up to the largest games table, at the back of the place, the spot reserved for serious gambling.
“Gentlemen,” she said, placing her gloved hands on the back of the table’s one empty chair. “Might I sit in on a hand or two?” Her voice was like a tinkling bell. Without waiting for an answer, she slid the chair out from the table and sat down.
In such an instance, it could have been all too common and easy to laugh in the pretty young thing’s face. But there was something about her that seemed like she would not tolerate such boorish antics. Something about her told them all that regardless of her motives for joining them, here was a lady, a delicate but bold creature in their midst, something as uncommon in Bismarck in winter as a slender rose blooming in a snowdrift.
Once they got over their shock at this unexpected and odd development, several men at the table, and a few from nearby, jumped to their feet—too late—to help the young woman with her chair.
Who says manners don’t stick with a man, even after years away from his mama? Slocum smiled and turned back to his drink, keeping an eye on the purple-clad beauty and curious about her boldness. He was eager to see what sort of a gambler she would turn out to be.
He didn’t have long to wait. One of the men at the table began to dole out the cards. Slocum sipped his drink and noted that all at the table looked bright-eyed and uncomfortable. The girl, on the other hand, seemed most amused and looked to be having a fine old time.
Slocum assumed she must be staying at the Hoyt House, the fanciest accommodation in town, since she had strolled into the bar without any outerwear or luggage. He bet she was staying in one of the fancy rooms on the third floor, none of which saw frequent visitors.
He shifted his attention back to the game. Before long it became painfully obvious that the woman, as commanding a presence as she had, sported just the opposite in the way of card games. It was outright embarrassing, in fact. She’d set her purse, a small purple thing trimmed in fur, atop the table beside her. As the game progressed, she dipped into it with more frequency, recklessly pulling out a wad of paper money and high-denomination coins that shone in the smoky light of the bar. Here was a wealthy young woman and, noted Slocum, one whose initial confidence and boldness were on the wane.
As always happened in such situations, the men in the place acted as wolves closing in on a helpless fawn. They all but slavered every time the foolish young thing opened her purse. Greed glinted in their eyes, and soon Slocum saw them scrutinizing her glittering pretty things, the jewels that adorned her neck and ears and one wrist.
What was she thinking? What was her game? A conniving woman out to dupe the locals by first seducing them with false innocence? Somehow he didn’t think so. She looked genuinely innocent and genuinely scared.
Slocum nursed the rest of his beer and watched, as most everyone else in the place did now, with unvarnished interest. One curious thing he noticed about the young woman was that she seemed to spend a lot of time watching the faces of not only her tablemates but those in the crowd around her. This was not the demeanor of a person serious about her card game.
It meant one of two things: She was woefully inexperienced at gambling, or she was looking for someone. Either way, she was playing poorly and losing money at a rapid rate. It was her business, of course, but it was foolish to Slocum nonetheless.
With his back to the bar, he took the opportunity to scan the crowd. Situations like this always brought out the seediest creatures looking for an easy slide of it. And before too long he spied one—a tall, thin goober whose ratty face wore frostbite like some sport two-day beards. He appeared to have trouble with one eye, and every so often his head twitched once, then twice, as if engaged in little nods. But he was directing his sight line across the crowd toward . . . who?
And then Slocum saw him, a thicker, shorter blond man, unkempt and with a moth-eaten wool cap riding high on his unwashed hair. He, too, appeared to be experiencing the same facial tics that afflicted the tall, rat-faced man. Slocum sighed. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence. Even as he thought it, the second man nodded to the first, who appeared to melt back into the crowd and make his way to the door, then he slipped outside. No one noticed. No one but Slocum.
As he scanned the rest of the room, and kept an eye on the blond man, Slocum knew them to be common dry gulchers, thieves of the lowest order just waiting for their chance to prey on the young, foolish woman. He wondered how long she might hold out at the table. Her wad of cash had diminished somewhat, having made its way from her purse to the center of the table, but she still had plenty to offer, assuming her jewelry was as valuable as it appeared to be.
It didn’t take the earlier mood of the men at the table long to turn from cautious, curious, and mildly bemused to smug, loud, and too confident. And Slocum noted that the same thing happened in reverse with the young woman. Despite all her seeming confidence when she had approached the table, she had no business sitting in with those men, none of whom appeared to him to be a professional gambler, but all of whom appeared to be able to hold their own at most any games table throughout the West.
The girl? If she was lucky, her skills might best be suited to a friendly game of whist at home in a parlor back East somewhere, with an elderly aunt or a kid brother. But not here in the frozen, bitter North, where men killed other men over the outcome of a card game—or the direction one might be headed.
Slocum swigged his beer again, polished it off, and as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, he reckoned the girl had about reached the end of her tether. For the first time he saw cracks appearing in her cool and collected façade.
Even from his distance, back to the bar, Slocum saw her mouth tighten into an unflattering rigid line, and her chin tremble ever so slightly.
Fold, he willed her with his mind. Fold
and get the hell out of that game, girl. Get out before they eat you alive and leave you with an empty purse, no jewelry, and a sore hand from writing out IOUs.
And wonder of wonders—she laid down her remaining cards, smiled demurely, and held up her hands, palms out, in the universal sign of backing off. The hue and cry rose as the men around the table all whined, their greedy lips pooched out, their cigars nubbing down to little stubs from their fervent suckling. But she would not be dissuaded, and Slocum breathed a little sigh of relief for her.
Then he remembered the grungy blond man. Try as he might, he could not locate him again in the crowd. Had he, too, slipped outside? What were they planning? And then it occurred to him: This was one of those establishments that, while it shared a kitchen with the first-floor dining room of the hotel, made its patrons enter and exit through a side street front door.
Any guests of the hotel also had to enter and leave the saloon via the side street door. Slocum guessed it was that way because so few patrons of such a fine hotel spent as much time in the saloon as the locals, and the hotel owner probably didn’t want locals tramping through the lobby instead of outdoors after a night of drinking. Understandable, but inconvenient for the rare gambling hotel guest.
All that mattered was the tight ringing feeling he got in the back of his head, the chiming sound in his skull that warned him danger was afoot. The girl had gathered her purse and nodded to her fellow players. But now that they had a wad of her money, few of them fawned as they had when she’d first showed up. Only one old soak offered to pull out her chair for her. The rest, Slocum shook his head over. He was good and sick of this town, and the winter was only half over. As he kept promising himself, the first chance he got, he was heading south.
He admired the woman as she walked to the door, and he moved in that direction himself. No one seemed to pay her much mind now that the commotion at the table had bubbled to a frenzied level of excitement.
As he strode by the table, Slocum overheard a flurry of voices, snatches of excitement: “See them diamonds?” “How much more you figger she’s got?”