Slocum and the Warm Reception (18 page)

“That ain't none of your concern!” Wendell snarled.

Sanchez nodded slowly. “Seems like I struck a nerve. Also, there's the fact that you still call her Viv, and when you talk about her dalliances with other men, you seem more angry than disgusted. You still hold a soft spot in your heart for that whore?”

After his eyes darted toward the stairs leading up to the room where his wife slept, Wendell hissed, “Don't call her that.”

“What's going on between the two of you?” Sanchez asked.

Wendell seemed ready to stay angry for as long as the men were in his house. Then he let out a breath that deflated his entire chest and allowed his head to hang forward. “Come outside,” he said quietly.

All of them stepped outside, but Wendell acted as if it was only he and Sanchez standing on the front porch. The only acknowledgment he gave to Slocum or Slim was when he offered them all cigars. Slocum took his and stepped back once it was lit so he could savor the tobacco while the messy affair was sorted out.

There was a fence surrounding Wendell's house, which was where he led the others. Propping his leg up on the lowest rail, he puffed on the cigar. Glowing red embers burned brightly to cast a few shadows across his face. He held on to the smoke and let it go before quietly saying, “That little blond filly working in my stable is the sweetest thing I ever did see. She's softer than heaven itself and tastes just as sweet. I heard a few bad things about her, but that was never enough to keep any man away once she got a hold of him.”

“So she's wrapped up in this killing?” Sanchez asked.

After taking another puff, Wendell nodded. “I heard how she wrapped men around her little finger. Made them do things. Made them give her money. Well . . . I suppose she didn't force them, but when she asked for something, it just didn't seem possible to say no. As far as what she's doing in stables, it's like I said before. Ain't no other place in town would hire her and she needed to earn her keep somehow after being run out of a few other towns.”

“Did she kill that stable hand?”

The cigar glowed again, but Wendell stood so still that it seemed a statue was smoking it. He brought his hand up to his face, took the cigar from between his lips, lifted his head, and sent a stream of fragrant smoke toward the starry night sky. “No,” he said in a voice that was colder than the chilled desert breeze. “I killed him.”

“Because of her?”

Wendell nodded. “Me and her have been getting together again recently. I knew it was because of the money I've been getting from my dealings with Mr. Dawson and the whole railroad affair, but I didn't care. It was worth it just to get my hands on that fine, smooth skin. Damn, she's an angel.” As if he was receiving a message from above, he moved his eyes away from the stars and admitted, “Maybe not an angel, but I sure hope there aren't any devils as tempting as Viv.”

“We heard Derrick was killed because he spoke up on Mr. Dawson's behalf,” Sanchez said.

Once Wendell started shaking his head, he didn't seem able to stop. “I don't know what you heard. When I killed Derrick, it was a twitch reflex. He was on his way to climb all over Viv and made sure I knew about it. I just picked up the knife and started stabbing him. I . . . couldn't stop. I just kept on stabbing until that boy was a big, bloody mess. I went and found the sheriff to tell him some damn story or other. All those lawmen had been going on about a man by the name of Slocum, and it was clear the sheriff didn't think much of this fella, so I said he was the one that killed Derrick. After that . . . I don't rightly know what I said.”

Slim stepped up and asked, “You think you may have just tossed in some lie about Mr. Dawson to cover your own hide?”

“No!” Wendell said with absolute certainty. “What I mean is that I was just trying to point the sheriff's nose somewhere else. With him all bothered about Slocum, it was easy enough. Derrick used to be a good friend of mine. That's why it cut so deep when he put his hands on Vivienne.”

“Sounds like plenty of men put their hands on her,” Sanchez grunted.

It seemed the angry fire that had been in Wendell's eyes had burned itself out because there was none left when he shifted his gaze skyward once again. “Yeah,” he replied. “It does seem that way. The sheriff and his deputy probably did some speculating of their own in regards to Derrick's connection to me and my friendship with Mr. Dawson. Word gets spread, rumors gain steam, they take on a life of their own. I've seen it happen plenty of times.”

Slocum didn't doubt that for an instant. He'd seen rumors start off as pebbles that quickly grew into boulders once they got rolling. He was just grateful that a bothersome thing such as that could actually work in his favor for a change. As much as he would have liked to stand back and congratulate himself for getting Dawson's men interested enough to solve the murder that Wendell had tried to pin on him, Slocum had one more thing to do. “You need to tell the sheriff,” he said in a voice that was muffled by the bandanna. Even though he'd never met Wendell, Slocum put a bit more gruffness into his tone to disguise himself even more.

Turning toward him as if Slocum had appeared out of thin air, Wendell said, “I thought that one was mute. First words he chooses ain't exactly ones I like.”

“But they're ones you need to hear,” Sanchez said. “He's right. Mr. Dawson doesn't want to be connected to something like this.”

“He's connected to a whole lot worse,” Wendell pointed out.

“Speculations and rumor,” the Mexican replied. “Besides, the ones doing the speculating aren't running to the law. If this eventually gets back to the sheriff, he'll want to go running to Mescaline and have a word with Mr. Dawson. Even if it's a small matter of asking a few questions, we don't want anything to happen that might spook our friends from the railroad. You sort it out now and end it.”

Sanchez moved toward the older man, snatched the cigar from Wendell's hand, and held it so the embers at its tip were close enough to cast a red glow onto Wendell's face. “You'll go to the sheriff, admit what you done, and make certain Mr. Dawson's name isn't being dragged through the mud. I don't give a damn what you say about that whore you seem to love, just make sure there's no doubt in that lawman's head that
you
killed that stable hand for reasons that don't involve Dawson or any of his men.”

“I already lost an old friend,” Wendell sighed. “Killed him myself. Viv won't touch me again and neither will my wife. That doesn't leave me with much else to lose.”

“How about an eye?” Sanchez said as he moved the lit cigar closer to that target. “How about both of them? How about your fingers as that kid behind me whittles them down like kindling? How about your business and your house when my mute friend there burns them both to the ground?”

Slocum didn't like being included with a gang of bloodthirsty outlaws, but he doubted any of those threats would come to fruition. There were already tears streaming down Wendell's face and a quiver in his lips as he babbled, “All right, all right. I'll tell the sheriff the truth. I never meant to drag Mr. Dawson into anything. I don't even remember his name coming up. I just wanted to hurt Derrick for taking Viv away from me.”

“Trust me,” Slocum said. “A woman like that . . . she was never yours to begin with.”

That truth hit Wendell like a load of bricks, leaving him empty and defeated. Even knowing what that same man had done to an innocent stable hand, Slocum couldn't help but pity the bastard.

Slocum watched from afar as Wendell made his confession on the front porch of Sheriff Marshal's house. The young lawman stood dumbfounded for most of the time, only lunging forward at the last minute to catch Wendell as he started to fall over. Propping Wendell onto his feet, the sheriff spotted the three men in the shadows and called out for some help. Sanchez led the other two as they turned away and walked off. The sheriff dragged Wendell inside. His prisoner was so overcome that he could barely move. He wouldn't be giving anyone any trouble.

The stable where they'd left their horses was in sight—a large blocky shadow in the distance. They walked along the back ends of a row of shops that were all closed up until morning. The night was so still that Slocum could hear a wind rustling when he stopped and turned to face the other two.

“No complaints from you,” Sanchez said. “We ride out of here now and make camp outside of town. I know where we're going. Just follow close.”

“And then what?” Slocum asked. “The three of you kill me and bury me in the desert?”

The Mexican's eyes narrowed as though he didn't need any light to see every pertinent detail in front of him. “Turning on us?” he scoffed. “I thought this would happen sooner.”

“Did you think I'd trust any of you?” Slocum asked.

“And did you expect any of us to believe that John Slocum would just walk up and join with us? The great hero of Mescaline?”

“Is that what they call me? I'm flattered.”

“You will live forever in those people's legends. That's what happens to all men who accomplish something and then die with their boots on.”

“Doesn't have to end that way,” Slocum pointed out.

“Right. You can come back with us to see what Mr. Dawson wants to do with you.”

“No. I meant it doesn't have to end that way for you. Of course, men like you don't exactly become legends. They're not even missed when they don't come back after a ride in the middle of the night.”

“You want to bet your life on that?” Sanchez growled.

He wasn't going to budge. Slocum could tell that much by the way the Mexican planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and flexed his fingers anxiously above his holstered pistols.

The youngest gunman was a bit tougher to read. Slim was anxious, which also made the kid almost impossible to predict. It seemed just as likely that he could be frozen in fear or try to fire a shot before anyone else.

Slocum watched Sanchez for any hint of movement.

There was none to be seen. Apparently, Dawson had chosen the Mexican because he was the best man suited to walk away from this very situation. Dawson had also tried stacking the deck so Slocum would be outnumbered three to one. But Slocum had already put a plan into place where that was concerned. If Vivienne was good for anything more than causing trouble among men, it was to even up those odds just a bit.

Both men stood less than three paces away from each other. Close enough to read the other's expression in the dark, yet too far to take a swing at each other. While Sanchez prepared to draw one or both of his pistols, Slocum charged at him as if he'd been fired from a cannon.

Slocum covered the distance between them in one and a half bounding strides. Sanchez cleared leather, but his target was now close enough to swat his gun arm to one side and slip in past the firearm and get to the man behind it. Slocum was now less than an inch in front of Sanchez and used his remaining momentum to drive his knee into the Mexican's stomach. Sanchez expelled a gust of air, emptying his lungs and causing his entire body to droop forward. Grabbing the wrist of Sanchez's gun hand, Slocum kept that pistol pointed to the ground as he jammed the barrel of his .44 into the other man's gut.

“Drop it,” Slocum said as he struggled to maintain his grip on the other man's wrist.

Rather than spit any kind of response at him, Sanchez shifted his other arm to try and pull the second pistol from his double-rig gun belt. Slocum did his best to keep him from getting to the weapon, but couldn't do much from where he stood. Once he knew Sanchez had gotten to his other pistol, Slocum's only recourse was to push his .44 in even harder and pull his trigger.

The gun thumped once and then again, lifting Sanchez off his feet with each shot. Blood filled the air behind him in a thick mist and Sanchez's last breath escaped from his lips. Slocum let the Mexican drop so he could turn and face the youngest gunman. Slim stood with his gun in hand, but hadn't taken a shot yet because there was no way he could keep from hitting Sanchez in the process.

“Dawson wants you to kill me,” Slocum said. “What are you waiting for?”

“I don't wanna die.”

“Dawson wouldn't send some innocent kid on a ride like this. I heard what that Mexican said when he was making threats to Wendell. He knew damn well you could torture and kill just as good as anyone else.”

Slim had indeed been trying to play the part of an innocent. His eyes were wide and his hands shook. And yet somehow the hand with the gun in it never turned all the way from Slocum's vicinity. In the blink of an eye, Slim's entire countenance changed. His expression shifted into one of a murderous animal and his body angled sideways into a duelist's stance.

The kid brought his gun up and clenched his finger around his trigger. By that time, however, Slocum had already taken his shot. The .44 bucked against his palm, sending a single round through a portion of Slim's chest. Since the kid had been standing sideways, the grazing bullet spun him around to present his back to Slocum.

Without wasting another second, Slocum started racing toward the stable. The signal they'd agreed upon was a gunshot, which meant Mikey had just been alerted to the fact that there was trouble. When he heard the rustle of movement behind him, Slocum paused just long enough to take a look over his shoulder. Sure enough, Slim had turned around and was bringing his gun up again. Slocum fired one more shot, which punched a hole through the younger man's heart, and dropped him right then and there.

Slocum broke once more into a run. Even though the stable wasn't far away, it seemed to take him an hour to reach it. When he got to the back door, he almost knocked it off its hinges with a single well-placed kick. He charged into the stable, ready to open fire or dive for cover depending on what he found inside.

Mike stood with his gun belt in one hand and his britches in the other. One leg was stuck through the leg of his jeans and a panicked expression covered his face now that he'd gotten a look at who'd stormed into the stable. Vivienne lay in a bed of straw, buck naked and legs spread. Upon seeing Slocum, she merely sat up and waited to see what would happen next.

“Funny,” Slocum mused, “but I'm usually the one caught in this sort of predicament with a woman. Feels a whole lot better to be the one with all my clothes on.”

“You're always sneaking up behind me,” Mike said. “This time you had to wait for when I'm dipping my wick before you could get the drop on me.”

“This isn't about you, Mike. I've got bigger fish to fry and you just happen to keep getting in my way.”

Mike yanked the pistol from his holster and fired a shot as he dove toward one of the stalls.

Slocum dropped to one knee as the wild shot hissed by, extending an arm to sight along the top of the .44.

After crawling through the loose straw on the floor, Mike got behind a wooden partition and tucked his legs in close to his body. When no more shots were fired or words were thrown at him, he couldn't help but take a look to see if he could find a juicy target for his next bullet.

The instant Mike's head popped around the partition, Slocum put a bullet through it. Mike flopped over and twitched through his last motions before giving up the ghost. Slocum refilled the spent rounds from his pistol as he walked over to make sure the other man was down for good.

“I knew you'd come back,” Vivienne said while climbing to her feet and rushing over to embrace him. She wrapped her arms around Slocum and pressed her naked body against him. “Seeing you fight to protect me that way . . . it was so exciting.”

“Wasn't protecting you,” he said while reaching down to scoop up Mike's gun belt and pistol. He then moved her aside and went to his horse. “Didn't think you needed it.”

Despite being naked, Vivienne stomped over to Slocum and shoved past him as if she was armed to the teeth. “You're taking me with you!”

“No, I'm not.”

“I did this for you,” she snapped while pointing down at Mike. “You owe me!”

“You did this for yourself,” Slocum replied. “Which is the same reason you've done everything else.”

“I'll tell the law about the men you killed here.”

Slocum took the reins to his gelding and led the horse toward the stable's large front doors. “Do what you like, since the law should be here any second. Won't make a difference since any of the men you intended on robbing are either dead, in chains, or headed in one of those directions. You want my advice? Pack your things and find another bunch of idiots to string along. The ones in this town are through with you.”

Vivienne finally pressed the dress she'd picked up against the front of her body and stomped her foot. “I won't spend another day in a goddamn barn!”

Now that he was outside, Slocum climbed into his saddle. Figures were approaching from the sheriff's office, shouting back and forth to each other as they closed in on the stable. Turning toward Vivienne, Slocum said, “Seems to me, a barn is where you belong.” He then snapped his reins and rode north.

The sheriff shouted up a storm and even fired a few shots his way, but couldn't do much more than watch as his shadowy target disappeared.