Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens (18 page)

Penny looked shocked.

So did both Swains.

“That's suicide,” Obie said.

“Shadow will kill you,” Jethro said. “Or Sheriff Degnan, or that snot-nosed brother of his.”

“And Willie's no tenderfoot with a gun either,” Obie said.

“John, you can't go there all alone. You don't stand a chance against Willie and his men.”

“It's my fight,” Slocum said. “I don't want Obie getting mixed up in it.”

“Well, I'm damned sure mixed up in it,” Swain said. He pounded a fist on the table. “Look what they did to Jethro, and if you hadn't stopped Sombra and Roger, they might have kidnapped Penny or killed her.”

Slocum swallowed the rest of the coffee in his cup. He stood up.

“Yes, they might have done that if I hadn't been here, Obie,” Slocum said. “And God knows what devilment Adler was up to. I think he was sent here to kill me, and then he probably would have gone after you and the rest of your family. So, it's time for Willie Scroggs and his outlaw brethren to pay the piper. They'll be surprised to see me, maybe, and that's to my advantage. I've run into such men before. When it comes to a showdown, they're all the same, hotheaded and careless. But I don't want them to do anything to you, so stay out of it. This job is mine to do. Mine alone, and I lay claim to it.”

“Jesus,” Jethro said.

Penny's face drained all its color and turned the color of paste.

Obie reared back in his chair and just stared blankly at Slocum.

As Slocum started to walk out, Penny arose from her chair and ran up to him. She grabbed him about the waist and looked up into his eyes.

“John, please don't do this,” she begged. “I—I care too much for you to risk your life this way.”

“Penny, if I don't stop them now, you and your pa will always be in danger, and so will your uncle. Please. I've made up my mind.”

“Oh, damn you,” she said. “It's about some woman in town, isn't it? I can smell her scent all over you.”

“It's about nobody but you and your family, Penny,” he said. “And it's about me. When I see something is wrong, I try to fix it. If Scroggs isn't stopped now, he'll hound you all to your deaths.”

He pushed her away and strode down the hall and out the door.

He picked up the rope to Moses's halter and climbed into the saddle.

“Come on, boy,” he said to Ferro. “We're going to town.”

The sun was high overhead and the land was lit up like some magic landscape, the colors all sharp and brilliant. Somewhere a quail piped, and doves flew past. He heard a crow call, and as he left the Swain house behind him, he saw a coyote and a roadrunner dash across the road, the roadrunner a feathered streak, the coyote a gray shadow slinking through the cactus and rocks like some stray dog.

Slocum had no plan, but he knew what he had to do.

And he knew he had to do it alone.

Linda screamed when Scroggs ripped her dress off, tearing it down the front so that her breasts and panties were exposed.

“Tie her to that straight chair, Morg,” Scroggs ordered. “There's some rope in that wooden box over by the wall.”

Sombra walked to the box and opened it. He pulled out a strand of manila cord, thick as his thumb, and carried it over to the chair where Linda sat, trembling. He grabbed her arms and roughly twisted her wrists in back of the chair and began to tie her hands together. He cut the rope so that he had another of equal length. Linda glared at Scroggs and twisted her wrists to put up some resistance. But Sombra squeezed her wrists together and pulled the rope so tight, it cut into her flesh.

She winced in pain, but did not cry out.

“Her feet, too,” Scroggs said, “and take off them pretty shoes.”

Sombra squatted down, removed Linda's shoes, and bound her ankles together. He rubbed a hand across both breasts as he rose to his feet.

Two women sat on one of the cushions with a male companion. They passed the pipe connected to a single bowl of water that was the hookah and inhaled the fumes of opium. Their eyes floated dreamily in their sockets as Wu Chen looked on in approval.

In the shadows, leaning against the whitewashed wall next to an Oriental tapestry, stood Hiram Littlepage, the shadow of a smile playing on his thin lips. He knew Linda could not see him, had not seen him yet, and that was the way he wanted it. He had never liked his brother and he disliked his niece even more. She had always treated him with contempt, if not outright loathing, and he didn't care what Scroggs did to her. Her screams and her visible pain had no effect on him, just as the pain and anguish of others did not unsettle his mind or beget his compassion.

Sheriff Degnan watched as Scroggs puffed on his cigar until the tip glowed an angry orange and red.

Then, Scroggs stepped up to Linda and leaned down close to her face, so that they were eye to eye.

“One last chance, dearie,” he said, his voice oily and nasty as slime oozing from an ugly metal pipe. “I want to know where Slocum is right now. Is he with Obadiah Swain? Is he at Jethro's? You tell me and all this will be over.”

“I don't know where he is,” Linda said.

“But if you did know, you would gladly tell me, isn't that so?”

“I wouldn't tell you shit,” she said, and her eyes blazed in angry defiance.

A wry smile curled on Scroggs's lips and then his expression changed.

“You think you're a damned queen, don't you, Linda. But you're nothing but a greedy whore, livin' off the backs of other gals. Well, it's about time you got what's comin' to you. You won't talk, maybe, but you'll scream, lady. You'll scream your damned lungs out.”

He puffed once more on his cigar until the tip raged with flame, then stabbed Linda's left breast. Her skin sizzled as the hot cigar tip sucked up all the moisture and seared her tender flesh.

Linda screamed.

She kicked both legs, but the ropes only tightened around her ankles.

Scroggs buried the tip of his cigar on the nipple of the other breast. Linda screamed again. She writhed in her chair as the pain shot through her nerve cells and electrified her brain. Tears gushed from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

She moaned as the pain paralyzed her, robbed her of her senses.

Scroggs smiled.

“See how easy it is?” he said. “Fire is a wonderful thing. It can make you forget who you are. It can make you crawl and beg. It can eat you alive.”

“You bastard,” Linda said, her voice laden with hatred, with loathing.

“See? Fire can even make you talk.”

“I hate you,” she said.

“Just tell me what I want to know, Linda,” Scroggs said. “Then it will all be over. You can walk out of here and go home to your dog and cat, your pretty flowers, and your shady patio.”

“You go to hell, Willie,” she said, biting off the pain that threatened to twist her into a knot.

Hiram strode into view as if he had been just a casual passerby.

“Hello, Linda,” he said in his most sarcastic tone of voice. “Enjoying yourself? My, what pretty breasts you have and I'll bet there's a big secret under those thin little panties of yours.”

“Hiram, you scum,” she said.

“Do it again, Willie. Burn her tits. I like hearing the bitch scream.”

Scroggs held out his cigar to Littlepage.

“Here, you burn her, Hiram,” he said. “You might enjoy it.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said. He took the cigar and held it close to Linda's neck, so close that she could feel the heat of it on her skin. She tried to shrink away from her uncle, but she was trapped in that chair, roped and hogtied like a white-faced calf.

“I know you won't tell Willie what he wants to know, so I'll give you something that might loosen your tongue.”

Littlepage jabbed the cigar tip onto Linda's throat and pressed hard. She gasped in pain and cried out in agony.

“Now?” Littlepage asked and jabbed her again on her lips. Tears streamed from Linda's eyes and she doubled up in pain as much as she could, drawing her knees up and straining against her bonds.

They all heard a yell from upstairs in the saloon.

Littlepage stepped away from Linda and handed Willie's cigar back to him.

“What's that?” Scroggs asked.

“It sounds like Roger,” Degnan said.

“Roger? I thought he was laid up.”

“He ain't hurt so bad,” Degnan said. Then he looked up and yelled out. “Down here, Roger.”

A moment later, Roger came bounding down the stairs, wide-eyed and flushed of face.

“He's a-comin', I think,” he yelled. He had his pistol strapped on and his side bulged with thick bandages under his shirt.

“Who's comin'?” Paddy demanded.

“That Slocum feller. I'm sure I seen him. He's on a black horse and he's pullin' an old swayback behind him, and . . . and . . .”

“And what?” Sombra asked, suddenly interested.

“It looks like a dead man,” Roger said. “Fact is, I think it's . . .”

“Who?” Scroggs asked.

“It—It looks a lot like Gus. Only he's dead and all bunged up, like he was trampled or beat to death with a board or a damned rock.”

“Well, get after him, Morg,” Scroggs said. “Don't just stand there with your thumb up your butt. You, too, Paddy. Go on out there and shoot the bastard.”

He paused as Sombra started for the stairs, followed by Sheriff Degnan.

“Shoot the bastard dead,” Scroggs repeated.

Then they all heard it. Hoofbeats sounded on the saloon floor above them.

It sounded like a cavalry troop had entered the saloon. The thumps of iron-shod hooves pounded on the wooden floor that formed the basement ceiling.

“Shit,” Sombra said as he drew his pistol.

Just then, Linda screamed.

It was not a scream of pain, but a cry for help.

“John, I'm down here!” she shouted, and everyone in the room froze and looked at her as if she were the Angel Gabriel and he had just blown his horn.

The horn that called all the living and the dead to judgment.

Sombra wheeled and cocked his six-gun. He took quick aim and fired at Linda.

She screamed again as the bullet smashed into her chest, right between her scarred breasts.

She slumped over as blood gushed from her wound and spilled out of her mouth. Her head fell over her chest and her hair hung in long lifeless strands.

The shot echoed in the room. The trio who were smoking opium looked for a place to hide.

Wu Chen ran to a corner and crouched there in fear.

Hiram swallowed hard and rested his palm on the grip of his sidearm.

Sombra clambered up the stairs, smoke curling from the muzzle of his pistol.

Right behind him came Paddy and Roger, both with guns drawn.

And then, there was only a silence from the saloon. No more hoofbeats. Nothing.

Nothing but that terrible silence that was as loud as a volcano's roar. That same silence that engulfs an abyss on the edge of eternity.

The silence of not knowing and not seeing.

Just an empty, ominous silence above the sounds of boots on the stairs.

Slocum rode slowly down the street toward the Socorro Saloon. Passersby and shopkeepers stared at the strange sight of a man in black clothes leading a blind horse with a badly battered dead man tied on the saddleless horse's back. Liquid Spanish phrases floated to Slocum's ears, whispers between startled women and exclamations of surprise from men with carts or on foot, packing homemade pottery and colorful blankets on their backs.

As he approached the saloon, he saw a familiar figure outside. The man stood there until Slocum drew close, staring at the dead body on the blind horse and at him.

Slocum switched the reins to his left hand, raised his right, and pointed his index finger at Roger Degnan. Then he flexed his thumb so that it came down like a pistol hammer.

Roger turned then, and ran into the saloon. Slocum noted that he was packing a sidearm and there was a bulge in his shirt on his right side.

Slocum rode up to the batwing doors and touched his blunt spurs to Ferro's flanks. He leaned to one side and pushed in on the left door. Ferro pushed through the doors and Moses followed. Their hooves resounded on the hardwood flooring, echoed throughout the saloon like drums in a hollow cave.

He heard Roger's footsteps sounding on distant stairs somewhere down a dark hallway.

Then, he heard a woman's scream, followed by a plea for help using his name.

Slocum knew who it was the moment he heard her voice crying out for him to come to her rescue.

His heart pumped fast as he rode toward the hallway. He reined up Ferro and dismounted. He dropped the halter rope and led Ferro back to the batwings and slapped him on the rump. Ferro pushed through the doors and stopped in the street. He turned his head to see if his master would follow him. But when Slocum didn't, the horse stood there and waited, looking at the people standing in shop doorways or in the middle of the street. All stared at the front of the saloon with startled looks on their faces.

Lamps still glowed on the wall behind the bar and in corners of the saloon. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, spraying the floor with a misty haze of gold. Dust motes danced in the rays like ghostly fireflies and the room settled into a deep stillness.

Slocum heard frantic voices from downstairs. Then there was another scream, followed by a single gunshot that seemed as final as a vault door slamming shut on a tomb.