Slocum and the Glitter Girls at Gravel Gulch (9781101619513) (15 page)

He had heard the gunshots, like most everybody else in town, and had wondered what was going on at the upper end of Main Street. He found out when Rodrigo came up and told him that Cassaway and Nehring had been shot dead at the upper end of Main.

“You were supposed to be standing guard at the entrance of the valley, Rodrigo,” Orson had said.

“I got mixed up,” Rodrigo told him. “I thought I was supposed to meet Boze at the Wild Horse. He never came.”

“So you were in the saloon?”

“I was not drinking. I was waiting.”

Orson had sent Rodrigo to look for Hack and Slocum, but he had returned with Boze, who had a nasty cut on the back of his head and was half-addled.

“Well, I sent Rodrigo down to where you and Hack were and told him to stay there all night if necessary. If he hears Slocum or Hack, he’s supposed to open fire.”

“On both of them?” Boze asked.

“Yeah, on both of them. Hack was as stupid as you, Boze. He let himself be taken prisoner by Slocum.”

“Slocum’s as sneaky as they come,” Boze said.

“That he is. That’s what makes him a menace. A dangerous man.”

“He’s probably killed Hack, too,” Boze said.

Orson opened the humidor and extracted a cigar. He examined it a foot from his eyes, then reached in his pocket and brought out a sliding trimmer. He held the device and cigar over the ashtray. He inserted the cigar partways through the hole, pulled back on the tube, then pushed it back until it seated. The tip of the cigar fell into the ashtray. He put the cigar in his mouth, picked up the matchbox, opened it, and pulled out a match. He struck the matchhead against the sandpaper side of the box and held the flame to the cigar.

Boze watched him as if hypnotized.

Orson drew smoke into his mouth and throat, then expelled a cloud a few inches from his mouth.

“Slocum could be hiding almost in plain sight, Boze,” Orson said.

“Huh?”

“You go on over to Hack’s place and take a look. Slocum might be inside Hack’s cabin.”

Boze’s eyes widened.

“Yeah, he could be there at that,” Boze said.

“On the way to Hack’s, you stop in at Ruben Machado’s. Tell him this, will you?”

“What?” Boze asked.

“Tell Ruben to get Salazar and take that wagon full of rifles out tonight.”

“Take it where?” Boze asked.

Orson smiled with the cigar in the center of his mouth.

“He knows where. You just be sure and tell him to haul ass right away. Got that?”

“Yeah, sure, boss. I’ll tell him and then I’ll scout Hack’s place and see if maybe him and Slocum are there.”

“Then report back to me,” Orson said. “Be quick about it.”

Boze stood up. “Slocum took my pistol, Orson. I don’t have no way to defend myself.”

“There’s three drawers in that gun cabinet yonder, Boze. Second drawer down, you’ll find some pistols. They’re loaded. Take one and get the hell out of here and find Slocum.”

“Yes, sir,” Boze said.

He walked to the gun cabinet, opened the middle drawer, and pulled out a Colt .45 with stag grips. He hefted it and then slid it into his holster.

“This’ll do fine,” he told Orson, then turned toward the door.

He slouched out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Orson stood up and walked to the window. He looked down at the dark stretch of Main Street with its flickering shadows from the hotel lobby lamps and the Wild Horse Saloon.

There wasn’t a sign of life.

“We ain’t through with you yet, Slocum,” he said to himself.

He puffed on the cigar and blew smoke against the windowpane. The smoke flattened out and spread across the glass like a soft thin glaze.

Then Orson walked to the gun cabinet and took out a loaded derringer pistol. It fit neatly into a long pocket on his vest. He tucked the pistol inside and patted it for reassurance.

“Just in case,” he murmured to himself.

Slocum watched as Hack saddled up his horse and placed a sack of hardtack and beef jerky in one of the saddlebags.

Moments later, he watched as Hack rode down Second Street and turned the corner, headed out of town.

He walked back behind the log huts and saw two Mexicans in a wagon at the back of the hotel.

One of the men stood in the bed, while the other sat on the seat, holding the reins for the two horses in his hands.

“
Andale
, Paco,” the man in the driver’s seat called out.

Paco lifted three or four carbines and restacked them in the wagon bed. He cursed in Spanish and then lifted more rifles and placed them with the others.

Slocum figured the wagon was full of rifles, and he saw what looked like ammunition boxes stacked near the front of the bed.

“These guns are all loose back here,” Paco said in Spanish, which Slocum understood.

“Hurry up,” the driver said.

“Ruben, you son of bad milk,” Paco said, “you could help. These rifles will break if I do not stack them tight.”

Slocum now knew the names of the two Mexicans. But why so many rifles? Where were they taking them? And so much ammunition, too.

He had a good idea as Paco finished snugging down the carbines and climbed onto the buckboard seat.

He watched the wagon rumble off and turn toward Main Street.

One thing was for sure—those rifles were not going into the valley, but into the Arizona desert.

He thought of the smoke signals.

His stomach sank.

Those rifles and ammunition boxes could be going to only one place.

Somewhere, among the buttes and mesas of the desert, the Apaches were gathering. They were going to get Spencer repeating carbines, courtesy of one Orson Canby.

The thought made Slocum wince.

There could be only one reason why Canby would supply the Apaches with arms and ammunition.

He wanted them to raid the valley and slaughter all the miners and prospectors.

Then he would have the town to himself and could lay claim to all the mines.

Diabolical, Slocum thought.

Then, as the sound of the wagon faded away, Slocum had another thought.

Canby would have to give a signal to the raiding Apaches and then get the hell out of town.

That was the only way he could escape the carnage.

A plan began to form in Slocum’s mind. There was a way to beat Canby and fend off the Apaches. He was sure of it.

For now, he had time to think it all through and prepare for what was bound to happen in Deadfall.

He stepped across the street and saw the back doors of the Wild Horse Saloon. There was a loading dock with steps on both sides.

He could hear the Mexican band playing a lively tune.

He climbed the steps and stood by the back doors for a few minutes.

Then he pulled on the handle of one door.

It opened.

Slocum slipped inside the back room like a shadow and waited.

He saw a young man silhouetted against the lamplight streaming down the hallway from the main hall. Then the man disappeared and the way was clear.

Slocum walked to the entrance to the dance hall and stepped out.

He saw an empty table nearby and sat down at it, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light.

He looked around.

Nobody had noticed him.

Then he saw Renata gliding between tables where men were seated with mugs of beer in front of them. More movement caught his eye and he turned his head slowly and removed his hat.

He placed his hat on the chair next to him.

Now, he thought, he might not be so conspicuous.

A young Mexican dressed in a skimpy glitter gal costume noticed him and walked over, a tray in her hands.

“Sir, I did not see you. May I serve you something?”

“Bring me a beer,” Slocum said.

She smiled and curtsied, then turned around.

In another part of the saloon, Slocum caught sight of
Bonnie. She was walking toward him with an empty tray, but she pretended not to notice him.

Moments later, Bonnie stood in front of him.

“John,” she whispered, “what are you doing here? Don’t you know that Canby’s men are looking all over for you?”

“I just wanted to see how you and Renata are doing,” he said quietly.

“We—we feel like prisoners. Marlene, that woman sitting over there with a bunch of men, makes us take these smelly men up to our rooms and—”

“I get the idea,” Slocum said. “You’re unhappy, then.”

“Yes. Very,” she said.

Slocum looked over at the table where Marlene sat surrounded by garrulous men.

“I have to go, John,” Bonnie said. “You’d better go, too, before Canby’s men find you.”

Bonnie walked away and headed for the bar.

The Mexican girl came back with a glass of beer on a tray.

“One dime,” she said.

Slocum gave her a two-bit piece. She thanked him, then walked away with her empty tray.

Across the room, the woman he took to be Marlene looked over at him.

Slocum lifted the mug to his lips and drank. Then he hoisted the glass a few inches and looked at Marlene.

He smiled.

Marlene smiled back, then arose from the table. He saw her lean down and bid the men farewell.

She headed straight for his table, slinky and curvaceous in her black satin gown with its low-cut bodice. Her earrings dangled and sparkled with light from the saloon lamps.

The band played on as Marlene approached Slocum at his table.

Marlene Vanders did not miss much. As the manager of the Wild Horse Saloon, very little escaped her scrutiny.

When she saw the man dressed in black talking to Bonnie, her interest perked considerably. And the more she stared at the stranger, the more fascinated she became.

He did not resemble any of the miners or prospectors who frequented her watering hole, and he certainly was a cut or two above the gunmen Canby had on his payroll.

No, there was something decidedly different and distinctive about the man she saw at the table near the back entrance. And when he took off his hat, her gaze took in his thick black hair, the way it flowed down the back of his neck above his broad shoulders.

He looked and acted like a courtly Southern gentleman, and she knew he didn’t belong in Deadfall, any more than she did.

She walked over to the tall man’s table after Bonnie had left. Leaning close to him, she asked, “May I join you?”

“By all means, ma’am,” Slocum said. He stood up and
pulled out a chair for her. She sat down and he scooted the chair closer to the table before he sat back down.

“I’m Marlene Vanders,” she said. “I own this establishment. May I ask your name, sir?”

“My name is Jack Smith,” Slocum lied.

“Sure it is,” she said with a merry twinkle in her eye. “And I’m Little Bo Peep.”

Slocum laughed.

“Buy you a drink?” he said.

“Why, I would be flattered,” she said. “But I only partake of soda water when I’m working.”

“You look mighty elegant for a working gal,” he said.

Marlene smiled. Her smile was warm and friendly.

“You know you’re taking a chance coming in here, don’t you, Mr. Slocum?”

“Call me John,” he said.

“I thought it was Jack,” she retorted.

“I answer to many names, ma’am.”

Slocum sipped his drink. Marlene raised her hand. In a few moments, one of the Mexican glitter girls appeared at the table carrying a tray with a glass of soda water on it.

“Thank you, Teresa,” she said. “Mr. Smith will pay you for my drink.”

“That will be one bit,” Teresa said.

Slocum reached into his pocket and laid a quarter on the tray.

Teresa curtsied, then left to go back to the bar. That was after she batted her long black lashes and winked at Slocum.

“I came here to check on the two new gals you hired today, Miss Vanders,” Slocum said.

“Please, John. Call me Marlene.”

“Yes’m.”

“You mean Bonnie and Renata, I assume. Why, they’re
doing just fine. As if they were born to the task of serving my patrons.”

“I hope you pay them what they’re worth,” Slocum said.

Marlene took a sip of her drink and cocked her head.

“Do I detect a faint drawl in your speech, John? You’re not from Arizona Territory, by no means, are you?”

“Georgia, ma’am, Calhoun County. Born and raised.”

“I thought so. I’m originally from Mississippi myself, and I must tell you I miss the Southern charm of the folks down South.”

Slocum sipped his beer.

He looked at Marlene and she was beautiful. But his gaze roamed over the room, and in a far corner, he spotted Obie Gump, who had not seen him. He hoped the wagon driver would not look his way and walk over. It would be awkward and could turn ugly in a hurry if he were to bandy the name of Slocum about.

“John, I had a talk with Bonnie and Renata about their trip out here as would-be brides. They had some interesting things to say about you.”

“I’m sure,” Slocum said.

Marlene smiled.

“They said that not only did you save their lives from the Apaches, but that you proved to be an ingenious and innovative lover.”

“Nice girls don’t tell,” Slocum said as he glanced over her head at new men at the batwing doors. Men he did not know.

“They were anxious to share their experiences with you,” Marlene said. “Did you find them to be pleasurable?”

“Men don’t discuss women in saloons. Especially with such a beautiful woman as you, Marlene.”

“You flatter me, John.”

“You are a beautiful woman,” Slocum said.

“A desirable one?”

“Very,” he said.

She threaded her hair with delicate fingers and tossed her head back like a proud woman.

“I find you very attractive. Handsome in a certain way,” she said.

“You flatter me, as well,” he said.

“Men usually do not interest me,” she said. “But there is something about you that draws me to you. Maybe it’s your toughness combined with a gentility that is a trait of some Southern men, or maybe it’s that you exude a masculinity that is, well, almost primitive. Like a wild wolf that has been partly tamed.”

She smiled again, almost as if she had surprised herself.