Slocum 394 : Slocum and the Fool's Errand (9781101545980) (6 page)

Slocum looked down at Jack's face. Although he wasn't seriously considering the possibility that he rode with Oklahoma Bill Dressel, he'd crossed paths with plenty of other folks that had caused more than their share of trouble. Even when he tried to imagine what Jack might look like under all that dirt, he still couldn't come up with anyone that struck a chord. Finally, he said, “Sorry, Doc. It seems like you've just got a common, run-of-the-mill lunatic with three missing fingers.”

“And wolves.”

“Sure.”

“We could still use someone in town to lend Sheriff Reyes a hand.”

“After all you've seen here in this very office, you're going to tell me that the sheriff is the one who needs a hand?”

Bower looked down at the wound he was dressing, shook his head, and started to laugh. “Thanks, John. I needed that.”

When he stepped out of the doctor's office, Slocum had intended on letting Gwen know where he'd been before scraping up some breakfast. With the images of the finger surgery and the stench of all that blood still fresh in his nose, however, he decided on taking a walk to clear his head first. A few minutes of fresh air were all he needed, and he soon found himself back at the Dusty Hill Saloon. Gwen fussed over him for a bit before leading him to a table where Dale brought him some coffee. She disappeared for a little while and returned with biscuits and gravy.

“I thought we had sausages,” she told him, “but some poker players ate the last of them after gambling for eighteen hours straight.”

“Don't mention it,” Slocum said. “Anything remotely looking like a finger wouldn't have set well anyhow.”

“Pardon me?”

“Never mind. When does the sheriff get to his office?”

“Should be there now, I suppose. Why?”

“I've still got some money to collect.”

She nodded and smiled knowingly. “You mean a reward?”

“Call it what you like. I need it.”

“And I thought this might be about the man with the bloody hand.”

“You know about him, huh?”

“Kind of hard not to,” she replied. “He staggered in from the desert without a horse, holding his hand and crying to high heaven!”

“So if he was making such a spectacle, someone other than you must have seen him. Why didn't anyone help him get to the doctor's office?”

“He had a gun,” Gwen told him while standing up to gather the dirty plates. “And he was screaming like a banshee, waving his hand and throwing blood everywhere. I never heard such cussing! He looked like a crazy man. Would you have been so quick to walk up and offer assistance?”

“I suppose not. Does he look familiar?”

She balanced the plates in one hand and propped the other on her hip. “Just because I work in this saloon, you think I'd be familiar with some lunatic who staggers in from God knows where?”

“Yes.” His quick response caught her flatfooted and put a stunned expression onto her face. Before she could rip into him with a reply, he added, “You said he didn't have a horse, so that means he couldn't have walked too far on his own while bleeding so badly. Seems like he could be local, is all I meant.”

“Is it, now?”

“Well, I also meant to put that funny look on your face. Couldn't help myself.”

She rolled her eyes, turned away from him, and walked to the small kitchen situated just off the main saloon. She must have dumped the dishes in a pile for someone else to sort through because she reappeared before the batwing doors could stop swinging. Approaching Slocum's table, she took a seat and crossed her arms. The expression she wore was intently focused, but quickly dissolved into a shrug. “If he is local, I don't think I've seen him. Could just mean he never came into this place before. I don't see much outside these walls.”

“Could be a miner or trapper,” Slocum mused. “Or a hunter passing through the mountains or on his way to somewhere else. Could just be a lunatic who wandered in to scream at a town.”

“All just as likely. Why so concerned?”

“I don't know,” he told her. “Just a strange way to start the day.” He pushed away from the table and stood up. “I'll have a word with the sheriff about my money.”

“Come back to see me soon,” Gwen said as she stood, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him down just enough so she could whisper directly into his ear, “I bet we could do some things that'll make you forget all about that strangeness.”

“I should probably watch my stitches.”

“Then lay down and let me take care of you. I'll be gentle.”

“You'd better not,” he said while giving her backside a firm swat. “I like your wild side.”

Slocum left the saloon and walked along Main Street. In the short time it took to reach the sheriff's office, he couldn't stop thinking about one of the questions Gwen had asked. Why was he so concerned about Jack Halsey and his missing fingers? Maybe, after all of the strangeness he'd seen in his life, Slocum knew better than to just assume some of it would pass him by without further incident. Of course, that didn't mean he had to go looking for it. Rather than concern himself anymore with the crazy son of a bitch, he pushed open the sheriff's door and stepped inside.

Mark Reyes sat behind his desk with his feet propped up and his hands folded across his chest. His hat was positioned over most of his face, and he barely seemed to notice Slocum's presence. Instead of announcing himself formally, Slocum banged a foot against the lawman's desk and let out a loud cough.

Reyes swung his feet down and reflexively reached for his gun. He had enough of his wits about him to keep from skinning the smoke wagon.

“Vigilant as ever, huh, Sheriff?” Slocum chided.

“I can still feel the damn horse beneath me, and those two good-for-nothings who hound me for deputy badges are in their homes tucked into warm beds,” Reyes said while getting to his feet and stretching his back. “You're after your money?”

“That's right.”

“Any way I could convince you to stay on in a more official capacity?”

“Is the pay that good?” Slocum asked.

Having reached into his desk for a small tin box, Sheriff Reyes paused before opening it. “Could be,” he said hopefully. “Over a certain amount of time, that is. Lots of wanted men pass through these parts on their way to Old Mex. I just never had the resources to chase after them. A man could rake in a fair amount of reward money in a few short years.”

From inside the cell, Oklahoma Bill said, “Go ahead and chase whoever you please. Won't take much for you to find a bullet with your name on it.”

“The key stays with me whoever I chase, Bill,” Reyes said. “You'd better hope I stay healthy long enough to unlock that damn door.”

Still grumbling to Ed, who sat with his back against the cell's other wall, Bill sat on the edge of his cot and rested his arms over his knees.

“I couldn't stay on for any real amount of time,” Slocum said.

“It's a nice town to settle in. No big problems apart from the occasional dust-up.”

“Exactly. You're looking for a permanent resident and that ain't me. I'm more of a passerby.”

“Then pass on by, asshole,” Ed grumbled from the same cell.

Still wearing the easygoing smirk on his face, Slocum drew his pistol and pointed it at the prisoner. “And how much of a fuss do you think the sheriff will make if I move along after putting a hole through your ugly head?”

Ed didn't have an answer to that, and Reyes wasn't quick to squash the threat.

“That's what I thought.” Slocum eased the Schofield back into its holster and shifted his attention back to the sheriff. “Appreciate the offer, Mark, but I think I'll take my money.”

“Well, you wouldn't have to stay forever, John,” Reyes said while opening the tin box and sifting through its contents. “Think it over and let me know if you'd like to spend some time here,” he said while handing over his money. “However much you can give me, you won't regret it.”

The moment the door was pulled open so Jack Halsey could shuffle inside, Slocum regretted staying in that office for as long as he had. Judging by the trouble Jack seemed to have in lifting his feet, one might have thought he was missing toes instead of fingers. He coddled his wounded arm against his chest, and on top of the layers of bandages the doctor had applied, there were now additional layers of old cloth as well as a thin jacket wrapped around that arm. Upon seeing Slocum in the office, Jack put on a weary smile and said, “There you are!”

“Yep,” Slocum said. “Were you looking for me?”

Jack winced dramatically before saying, “Not at all. I just meant . . . there you are.”

“And here I go.” Tipping his hat to Reyes, Slocum said, “Good day to you, Sheriff. If you find yourself at the Dusty Hill, I'll gladly buy you a drink. Jack, hope that hand feels better, and as for you boys,” he said while turning toward the cell, “well, you can rot in hell. Nice meeting you, gentlemen.”

Apart from his tussle with Gwen under the sheets, walking out of the sheriff's office was the best Slocum had felt in a long while. The sun was bright in the sky, and the air was already warming around him. He had money in his pocket and a pretty lady waiting to help him spend it. Maybe nothing fancy as far as luxuries went, but they were more than welcome. Rather than walk straight back to the saloon, where he would very likely be drawn into a poker game that might last until the wee hours of the following morning, Slocum headed to the livery where his horse was being kept. One advantage to riding in the sheriff's posse was that his horse was given a stall free of charge. Oddly enough, that offer was made at the other livery in town that wasn't partly owned by Oscar, who wanted so desperately to be a lawman.

“Free ride ends now,” the liveryman said. He was tall with skin that obviously wasn't accustomed to the desert sun. His features were distinctly Nordic, and his hair had the color and consistency of old straw. The coveralls hanging on his solid frame were just as faded as the sign nailed to the front of his stable.

Handing the man some money, Slocum asked, “How long will this cover me?”

“Through tonight.”

“What? That should be good for at least three days!”

“I don't know where you got your information, mister,” the liveryman said while holding Slocum's cash as if it were something he'd found beneath a moldy rock. “This here's only good for one day.”

“Are you trying to make up for the money you lost when the sheriff told you to put up my horse as a courtesy for riding in the posse?”

The liveryman didn't say anything for or against that statement. He merely glanced up the street and said, “You want to use a badge to impress someone, go do business with Oscar. His place is right up that way.”

“You know those men the sheriff and I brought in could very well have stolen every horse in here and set your barn on fire?”

The liveryman shrugged.

“Do you know I could set your barn on fire?”

“You want to rent a stall or not?”

“You've got my money,” Slocum said. “I'll take the stall.”

“You want greens along with the regular feed? It's extra.”

Slocum thought of plenty he could say, but decided to pass up the chance. “That's all the money I'm handing out today, but I will be taking my horse for a ride. For some reason, I can't stand the smell around here.”

“Suit yerself. I'll have the stall clean for you when you get back.”

“Thank you kindly.”

Slocum had ridden a light gray spotted stallion into town. The horse wasn't going to win any prizes, but it was hardy enough to brave the desert and had done just fine when tracking down Bill and his men. In fact, the stallion was so agreeable when he was saddled that Slocum felt badly for making him stare at such a jackass liveryman for most of the day.

“Mr. Slocum!” someone shouted.

When he led his horse outside and saw who was rushing across the street, Slocum practically jumped into his saddle.

“Wait! John!” Still cradling his arm, Jack Halsey picked up his pace as if he had every intention of throwing himself in front of Slocum's horse.

“Aw, hell,” Slocum muttered to himself.

Jack was pale and covered in sweat. The wind that ripped through the middle of town cut Slocum to the bone, but acted like a splash of cold water on Jack's face. “Wonder if I could impose on you for a moment of time?”

“You can speak pretty well when you're not hollering like a lunatic,” Slocum pointed out.

“Yeah, well, it ain't every day that I get my fingers chewed off. Maybe you would've handled it better?”

“I'd like to think so,” Slocum replied, “but I see your point. What do you need?”

“I could use a ride to collect my horse and gear.”

“So you do have a horse?” Slocum asked.

“Yes, sir. I was camping a few miles outside of town when I was attacked. Damn wolves caught me when I was out collecting firewood. Didn't see my horse right away and thought it might have been killed so I started running here before I lost the strength to do much else. Maybe my horse is dead, but maybe it ain't.”

“You had plenty of strength when I saw you.” Since he hadn't had another destination in mind apart from getting away from town for a little while, Slocum asked, “Where was your camp?”

“About three miles north of here. I can direct you when we get closer. If it's too much of an inconvenience, I understand.”