Slocum and the Hellfire Harem (9781101613382) (2 page)

2

Slocum bolted from the Lucky Stiff Saloon. As he mounted his Appaloosa, standing hipshot at the rail out front, he saw Hap Roderick's old buckskin, Sammy, head drooped as if he knew what had happened. Blood smeared Hap's saddle.

As Slocum booted his horse into a hard gallop out of town, he tried not to think of his friend as a dead man. Surely Tunk hadn't hurt the Monktons, too? Maybe the shots Hap had heard were just harmless warning rounds intended to scare them. But Slocum knew that the warning bells pealing in his head weren't lying to him. For once, though, he was desperate to prove his instincts wrong. Maybe it had all been a mistake—maybe the doc could revive Hap.

Stop it, you damn fool, he told himself. Hap's dead and you'll be the first back to the ranch and you'll find the Monktons dead, too. And for what? He was sure Tunk Mueller had hoped to find a safe filled with bank notes, gold coins, and all manner of valuable jewelry. But the truth was that most ranchers lived from the proceeds of one drive to the next, and limped along as best they could, scratching out a living.

Didn't Tunk know that the Monktons barely had two pennies to rub together? At least, not until the drive's boss, one of Monkton's friends from a neighboring ranch, returned with whatever the Rocking D's earnings would be after they sold the cattle in Ogallala. And even then, they would be lucky if they came out with enough to scrape through another year, and then they'd do it all over again.

It made it even worse that they were good people, kindhearted folks who had been on their place since they'd been a young couple. Raised and lost three children there, all to childhood diseases, and all buried in a plot on a knoll behind the house, one tall pine shading the three white wooden crosses.

Slocum made it back to the Rocking D in half an hour. The little ranch house's front door was open, not a good sign. He rode right up to the front steps, shouting even before he dismounted. “Mrs. Monkton? Dez? You home? Anybody here?”

He dashed up the steps and pushed the door wide, stopping in his tracks, his gut tightening and a feeling of cold overcoming him. Laid out on the bare wood floor before him was Dez Monkton, belly down and bleeding, arms outstretched and facing the kitchen at the rear of the house, as if he were crawling toward it. And facing him, as if crawling forward from the kitchen, lay Mrs. Monkton, also amid a spreading pool of her own blood. Their outstretched hands still groped a foot apart by the time they'd succumbed. He gritted his teeth and checked each of them on the neck for any sign of a pulse, but found none, their warmth already fading.

Slocum stood still, his hands clenched into fists at his side, his breath hitched in his throat. He'd taken lives when given no other option; he'd seen many people die, on the battlefield, in accidents on cattle drives, and in fair fights when both sides were on equal footing. But it was the murders, brutal, senseless murders, most always committed for greed, for want of what someone else had—even if they didn't really have it—that gnawed the harshest at Slocum. Murderers were the lowest of the low, a step below men who abused women and children. And Slocum had no tolerance for any of them.

He turned from the grisly scene, and walked onto the porch. Soon he heard hooves pounding and looked up to see a dozen riders headed toward the ranch, dust clouding about them. They were led by Sheriff Brolinski.

“Slocum!” he reined up and dismounted. “Are they . . .”

Slocum slowly shook his head, and that one gesture told them all just what they didn't want to hear.

The sheriff stepped into the front room and took off his hat. He looked on the scene for himself, then stepped back out onto the porch. “Rollie,” he said, working his hat brim with fingers unaccustomed to helplessness. “Ride on back to town, fetch Delbert and his wagon, tell his son to make a couple of coffins. And send some women out here. You know which ones, Mrs. Monkton's friends.”

“Hold up a second there, Rollie,” Slocum interrupted. “Can I make a suggestion, Sheriff?”

“Sure, Slocum. Sure.”

“Bury Mr. and Mrs. Monkton together in one box. I never saw a couple so devoted to each other. From the looks of things in there, they wanted to be together. And maybe bury Hap with them on the knoll out back in the family plot, too. From what I've heard, he'd been with them a long time.”

Several of the gathered men murmured their assent, and the sheriff nodded, “That's true, that's true. Sound thinking, Slocum. We'll see to it.” He turned again to the man waiting on horseback. “Rollie, bring ol' Hap back here to his home, tell Delbert to bring his undertakin' equipment on out here.”

Rollie nodded, booted his buckskin into a gallop, and headed for town.

“I reckon we'll hold a service tomorrow,” said the sheriff. “Right now, I need a few deputies. Who's up for helping me bring in that murdering Tunk Mueller?”

To a man, the group shouted approval. The sheriff turned to Slocum. “How 'bout you, Slocum?”

“I'm going for him, but I ride alone. No offense, but I've tracked men before and I can make better time on my own. And I will not give up.”

“You saying we'd give up and go home?” A bald man tending toward fat stepped forward. “The Monktons were our friends, too, you know. Longer than you knew them!”

Slocum shook his head. “I'm not arguing that. But you all have families and a service to hold for three good people.”

Slocum stepped down off the porch. “I'm not saying don't go. I'm saying don't feel bad when you feel you have to come back home.” He snatched up the Appaloosa's reins. “Me, I have no home. But I do have a killer to catch, and I will catch him—if it takes a month of Sundays. You have my word on it. Now I have to go. Mueller's trail is getting colder by the second.”

It took him five minutes to gather his traps, scare up leftover biscuits, a loaf of bread, a slab of canvas-wrapped bacon, a sack of Arbuckles, and a handful of dried apples, all from the cook shack. He filled his canteen, let the Appaloosa drink, then rode over to the men still gathered in front of the house. They didn't seem to know what to do while they waited for the folks from town.

Finally, the sheriff adjusted his hat and squinted up at him. “I daresay there will be a reward, Slocum.”

Slocum shook his head and looked toward the house. “I don't want it. Use it for something they would have wanted done with it.” He fixed the sheriff with a steely glare. “But you make damn sure that the poster says ‘Dead or Alive,' because I'm not making any promises about Tunk Mueller's condition when I drag that murdering bastard back here.”

He nodded to them once, then booted the Appaloosa into a trot. The group of sullen men stood silent, watching the tall, rawboned cowboy, nearly a stranger to them, ride northward, the direction they'd heard Hap say the killer had gone.

Yes, he was as much a stranger to them as Mueller had been, but somehow they knew they could trust him to find Mueller, this man named John Slocum.

3

He knew he'd been on the man's trail, but for the life of him, he couldn't get Mueller in sight. He always seemed to be a day behind, no matter how hard he pushed. But by the sixth day out, judging from the sign, tracks, and the steaming remains of both horse and campfire, Slocum felt sure he was closing the gap. It was possible that Tunk had begun to relax his vigilance, thinking that perhaps no one had followed after his misdeed. By the time Slocum made it to the little Nevada town of Slaterville, he was feeling more optimistic than he had in days. He dismounted in front of the sheriff's office and roused a napping young man wearing a badge.

“Sorry to disturb you, Deputy.” He stepped inside, extended his hand. “I'm John Slocum. Do you mind if I look through your dodgers?”

“No, help yourself,” said the young man, stretching and yawning. “Fact is, I was about to fix myself a cup of coffee. You want one?”

“Thanks,” said Slocum, dragging the stack of wanted sheets toward him. “Don't mind if I do.”

The deputy set a tin cup of steaming coffee in front of him. “You a bounty man?”

“Not really, but I'm on the trail of a man who killed three friends of mine little more than a week ago, down Arizona way.”

The young man gulped, his eyes widened. “A killer?” He looked over his shoulder out the window, as if the man might be peeking in at him. “You think he's here, in Slaterville?”

“Well, I don't know where he is.” Slocum sipped his coffee. “But I believe he at least made it this far in the last day or so. Goes by the name of Tunk Mueller. Could be an alias, but at the least I'd guess his first name is a nickname and not his given name.”

“What's he look like?”

“Not tall, maybe half a head shorter than me. Sandy hair, could use a barbering. Brown felt hat, ragged band, not one for regular shaving, has a smart mouth on him. And he rides a dun mare. At least that's what he stole from the ranch, near as I could tell.” He eyed the kid, whose eyes had widened again. “You've seen him, then?”

“Yes sir, I believe I have. A day back, as you say.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “Sheriff's away, so I been tending to things here.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Only I ain't had to deal with anything more than the odd drunk cowhand of a Saturday evening, if you catch my meaning.”

Slocum nodded. “I understand. But you wear that badge, you're in line for whatever comes your way, good, bad, or indecent.”

“I know it, I know it. My mama is forever telling me to quit it while I'm ahead, but I just can't leave the sheriff in the lurch like that. Besides,” he said, grinning again, “I kind of like it.”

“It gets in the blood. Just be sure you don't spill your own. Now this Tunk Mueller, he make any waves, do anything while he was in town?”

The kid scrunched his cheeks in thought. “He visited the saloon, but hell, everybody does that.” He snapped his fingers. “I know, it was odd. He swapped some stuff for food at Orton's Store.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Things a man didn't normally carry, forks and spoons and the like. Good stuff, too, at least that's what Mrs. Orton said.”

“These Ortons, they good people?”

“Oh yeah, salt of the earth.”

“Good. Thanks, kid. I mean, Deputy.” He extended his hand.

As they shook, the deputy said, “Oh, it's all right. I know I'm young looking. But I'll be eighteen next year . . . or so.”

“Well, you've been helpful. I have to visit the store myself to stock up for the trail.” He stopped in the doorway. “Deputy, do me a favor. I doubt he will, but if this Mueller should come back through here . . .”

The kid put his hand on his side arm. “Don't worry, I know what to do.”

“No,” said Slocum. “Don't do that. Just let him go. He's a rattler. You poke him and he'll bite. You leave that killer alone. Let the sheriff handle him.”

“Okay, Mr. Slocum. All right.”

“Thanks. Be seeing you.” Slocum walked the Appaloosa to the store across the street.

As he pushed his way in through the door, a brass bell tinkled overhead and a thin older man, bald and with a close-trimmed beard and spectacles, glanced up from behind the counter. “Hello there, what can I do for you?”

Slocum nodded and glanced around. It was a full store, lots of goods hanging from beams, stacked on the floor, a cracker barrel half-full near the potbelly stove, and a decent assortment of canned goods lining shelves behind the counter.

“You'd be Mr. Orton?”

“That I would. I know you?” The man looked at Slocum over his spectacles.

“No, the deputy sent me over.”

“Oh, Jeff's a good boy. A bit keen, especially when the sheriff's out of town. But a good boy.”

“Yes, he seems it. He mentioned a stranger came through only a day or so ago, sold you some flatware?”

Orton straightened, one eye narrowed. “Yes, what of it?”

“Well, the flatware belonged to a woman who was murdered.”

“Oh dear.”

Slocum and Orton both looked up to see an older lady with a hand to her mouth. She was short and not thin, but dressed well and wearing an apron.

“Maudie, I didn't see you there.” Orton turned to Slocum, “My wife, Mr., ah . . .”

“I'm Slocum, John Slocum.” He held out his hand to the merchant. “About the flatware, ma'am.”

“I'll handle this, Maudie.” Orton put both hands flat on the glass-topped display case.

“Oh, Horace, don't get yourself all worked up. Let's hear what the man has to say.”

Slocum smiled at them both. “From your reactions, I'd say that you have, or had, the flatware. As I was saying, it belongs to a woman and her husband, of my acquaintance. They were murdered by the man who sold it to you.”

“Oh dear!”

“Maudie, you said that already.” Orton still eyed Slocum as if he were undecided about him.

“They were ranch owners down in Arizona. I worked for them. He also killed our foreman. I've been tracking him the better part of a week now. His name's Tunk Mueller—at least that's what we know him by. Not that it matters. I'll catch up to him soon.”

“The silverware. It . . . Horace let me buy it from the man.” Mrs. Orton looked down at her rough, red hands.

She'd probably been doing laundry, thought Slocum. Lye soap was rough on the hands.

“There weren't many pieces, eleven in all. I thought it odd that he had them in the first place, and those that he did have made up an odd number, not really a set.” She looked at her husband. “Enough for two people to use.” She looked at Slocum. “If I had known, Mr. Slocum, I never would have bought them from him, never would have helped him that way. But they were so fine, such pretty pieces. Something we could never afford.”

“Maudie . . .”

“I understand, ma'am.” Slocum turned his hat in his hands. “To my knowledge, they didn't have any living relations, so it's possible no one would miss the pieces. I'd be happy to find out for you once I get back to Arizona.”

“I'll get them.” Mrs. Orton headed back toward what Slocum assumed was their living quarters at the back of the store.

“No, please. I have hard riding ahead. It would be better if you held on to them for the time being.”

“I could never think of them the same way again.” She didn't look at him.

“If you knew Mrs. Monkton, ma'am, you'd know she'd probably be pleased that you're so fond of her things.”

“That was her name? Monkton?”

“Yes, ma'am. Why, does that mean anything to you?”

“No, not really. But it explains the engraved ‘M' on the pieces.”

“I see. Well, if it helps any, they didn't have much, but they were fine people, very kind.” Slocum looked at Mr. Orton. “You don't happen to know anything else about Mueller? Anything that might help me? Maybe which direction he headed?”

The merchant scratched his beard in thought. “Well, he definitely left town via the north road. I thought that odd because not many folks do that. I happen to have seen him because I was out back . . . heading to the privy, when I saw him ride off. Hard to miss—bright red shirt riding northward.”

“Why don't folks head north from here?”

“Oh, that old road is seldom traveled. There are easier routes to get to other places, California, Oregon. Most folks travel west or east or south. The north road leads through what we call God's Gulch.”

“Some of you do,” said Mrs. Orton. “I don't hold with speaking such sacrilege.”

Orton shot Slocum a wearied look. “It's because of Old Man Tinker. He's about the only one out there now. Not a bad valley for farming, but there are easier plots to be had. I suspect the man likes his privacy.”

“He alone, this Tinker?”

“Land sakes, no,” said Mrs. Orton, setting three mugs on the counter and pouring coffee from a pot on the woodstove.

Slocum could tell they were leading up to something, but he started to get that jittery feeling. He had to get his supplies and get out of there. He suspected he'd gotten all the useful information from them he was going to get; the rest of it was shaping up to be a gossip session. But he took the offered cup of coffee and was surprised at how good it tasted. They were nothing if not a coffee-offering bunch in Slaterville.

“Tinker's a Bible-thumper from way back. Real brimstone type. We don't see him much, but when we do, you can be sure a trail of angry people and arguments dog him until he leaves town. He's just one of them fellas who can't leave well enough alone, accuses everyone of being in league with the devil. Devil this and devil that. Been out there for a couple of decades now, scratching out a living with his brood.” Mr. Orton sipped.

“Hmm, some brood. They say”—Mrs. Orton leaned in and lowered her voice—“that he's . . . well . . . not a very good husband, and an even worse father. If you know what I mean.” Her eyebrows rose.

Slocum didn't really know what she meant, but he didn't have time to figure it out. “I hate to be rude, but Mueller's getting further away from me with each minute. I would like to lay in some supplies for the trail.”

He recited his order of coffee, jerky, flour, and an extra box of cartridges. And when it came time to settle up, the Ortons didn't want him to pay. “I can't do that, folks. It's very kind of you, but it wouldn't be right.”

Horace Orton looked pained but didn't offer up a total. Slocum smiled and said, “I'll need a tally, Mr. Orton.”

“All right then, make it two dollars.”

Slocum knew it was at least double that, but he also didn't want to offend them, so he set three dollars on the counter, scooped up his supplies, and nodded to them. “Ma'am, Mr. Orton. I appreciate your help. And with luck, I'll be back through here before too long, with Mueller in tow.”

Out on the street, he wedged the goods into his saddlebags. As he watered the Appaloosa, the young deputy came running across the street. “Mr. Slocum! Hey, Mr. Slocum.”

Slocum glanced at the three other folks out and about on the main street of Slaterville, and groaned. What now? He'd never get out of this town.

“Boy, am I glad you're still here.” He handed Slocum an old, dog-eared dodger with a crude drawing on it. “I got to thinking about that Mueller fellow and something told me to go back through the old posters. We keep them in a different drawer. I only showed you the most recent. Anyway, I think this is him.” The kid tapped the paper.

“Says here that his name is Thomas Miller and that he's a known murderer and thief, things I already know.” Slocum glanced at the kid. “And this drawing's so bad it could be anyone.” He did notice there was a bounty on the man from El Paso for $500.

But the kid was still smiling. “Turn it over.” He nodded at the paper.

Slocum did and in an old hand, angled across the top left corner, it read, “AKA Tunk.” Well now, that was something. “Good police work, Deputy. Mind if I keep this?”

The youth, now beaming from the compliment, said, “It's yours. I already wrote down the particulars for the sheriff.”

Slocum mounted up. “I appreciate this, Deputy. I have a feeling it'll prove very helpful.” How, he wasn't sure, but he wanted the kid to know he'd done well. “Time to go. Tell the sheriff everything I told you so there are no surprises when I come back through. And if I don't, well, you'll know why.”

The face on the paper looked like a poorly drawn sketch of a sketch, would not look out of place on a cave wall. But it gave him slightly more information about the killer—and knowing that the man had a history of criminal behavior behind him only served to keep Slocum focused on the task at hand. He tucked the dog-eared, oft-folded dodger into his saddlebag.

He touched his hat brim and urged the Appaloosa into a loose trot. At the end of Slaterville's Main Street, he reined the horse northward. And within a mile, the roadway narrowed. Within three miles, it narrowed further at times from the inward creep of scrubby bushes until it was scarcely wide enough for a man on horseback to ride through.

A long time ago, someone had carved a road through an often thickly treed route. Now the landscape to either side had grown over it, and to get northward would require constant vigilance and slow going, lest a horse break a leg in the uncertain terrain. So it was a sure bet that the intermittent tracks he'd been following were probably Mueller's.

Given that he was in unfamiliar territory and the terrain had proven to be unpredictable, even on the trail, Slocum decided to hold up and make camp. There was little chance of catching up with Mueller that night, or even the next day, unless Tunk's horse came up lame. No, he'd do best to lie low and hit the trail again early in the morning, before first light. He'd pushed the horse hard all week, and other than getting slowed up in Slaterville, he knew the beast could do with a night's rest—and so could he. And with fresh supplies, he figured to make biscuits, bacon, and coffee, a real trail feast. It being high summer, there was plenty of green growth for the Appaloosa to browse.