Slocum and the Warm Reception (3 page)

Running his hand through the spilled water was barely enough to get his fingers damp. The desert had soaked up the rest of the water already, leaving just enough for him to clear away some of the dirt caked onto the dead Indian's face. That little bit of progress was enough to put a thoughtful scowl onto his face.

“Well now,” he muttered. “If you were such a mad dog killer, I'm guessing someone might be looking for you. And if that's the case,” he said while positioning himself at the Indian's head so he could slip both hands under the corpse's shoulders, “then someone might pay a dollar or two to the man that found you.”

The Indian may not have been a big fellow, but he was now deadweight. It wasn't easy bringing him to the spot where Slocum's horse was waiting, and when he got there, Slocum was ready to be done with the entire task. The raiding party had to have horses somewhere. Even if they were tough and crazy, those Indians still needed something other than bare feet to cover miles of scorched earth. But the longer Slocum stayed in that spot, the more he wanted to leave it. There were things to be done and less time in which to do them so he eased the body off his shoulder to drape it across the back of his horse. The gelding shifted and fussed beneath the weight, but quickly settled down.

“Don't worry, boy,” Slocum said as he climbed into the saddle. “You won't have to drag this extra weight for long.”

By Slocum's recollection, there were a few towns scattered in or around the desert to the south of Mescaline, but he wouldn't have been at all surprised to find skeletal remains of a settlement instead. When he saw a hint of smoke rising like a smear being slowly dragged to the west, Slocum felt the touch of hope. If that smoke came from the stack of a steam engine, it could mean at least one of those settlements he'd glimpsed some time ago had fallen upon a bit of good fortune.

Slocum's good fortune came when he saw a thriving little cluster of well-maintained buildings in a spot where he'd been expecting a ghost town. He pointed his gelding's nose in that direction and rode as quickly as he could until he reached a sign that let him know he'd crossed into the town limits of a place called Davis Junction.

Apparently, some time during the years since he'd last made his way through the Smoke Creek Desert, a railroad line had been laid down and this town had reaped its reward. As the trail became a proper street and more businesses showed up on either side, Slocum glanced back at the load he was carrying. The dead Indian hadn't gone anywhere. In fact, since the sun was hot enough to bake the muddy flesh into a texture similar to rough pottery or cracked clay, the sight wasn't as bad as when they'd started riding together. Even so, it was still a sight that drew some attention.

Plenty of folks took notice of him and his grisly cargo as he made his way farther into town. Having caught sight of the sheriff's office right away, he steered for the squat little building down the street from the long train station that looked to be the center of Davis Junction. Even before he reined his horse to a stop in front of the office, a gnarled old-timer in a wide-brimmed hat and sweat-soaked shirt walked to the edge of the little porch outside the sheriff's front door.

“Hello there,” the old-timer said while hooking both thumbs over his belt. “Looks like you've had a hell of a mornin'.”

Slocum looked down at him and replied, “Would you believe I feel worse than I look?”

“Sure would, especially seein' as how you rode in on something other than a train. Desert or no, it still seems you're doing a whole lot better than that one right there.”

Since the old man was pointing to the gelding's back, Slocum looked over there as if he didn't know what had caught his eye. “Yeah. Thought I'd let the law know about my guest before too many eyebrows were raised. So, are you the man I need to talk to?”

For a moment, the old-timer looked stunned. He even shifted to glance over his shoulder as if Slocum had suddenly gained the ability to look straight through him. Finally, he said, “Me? I'm just a deputy.”

“What's your name?”

“Patrick.”

“John Slocum,” he said while extending a hand.

The deputy shook Slocum's hand with vigor. “Pleased to meet ya! I heard tell about what happened in Mescaline the last time you were there. So . . . you some kind of bounty hunter?”

Slocum didn't appreciate being lumped in with the kind of scum that generally found work collecting bounties. Reminding himself that he'd ridden into town with a corpse strapped to the back of his horse put things back into perspective. “I'm not a bounty hunter,” he told the deputy. “I just crossed paths with this one and a couple of his friends about ten miles outside of town.”

Another set of boots knocked against the boards in front of the sheriff's office. The man in them wore battered jeans and a brown shirt beneath what had probably once been a fairly elegant suit jacket. Although the garment may have started off as a fine specimen, whatever dandy it had been tailored for was most definitely not the man who wore it now. He was a few inches taller than Patrick and at least ten years the deputy's junior. Coal black stubble marred a lean face accented by a thin nose that cut a straight line between a pair of high cheekbones. While he didn't draw a gun, he placed his hands upon his hips as if to display the holster wrapped around his waist.

“How many friends were there?” the younger man asked. His jacket may have been a bit too big for him and the buttons had lost their shine, but the star pinned to his chest sure hadn't.

“You'd be the sheriff?” Slocum asked.

The younger man nodded. “Marshal.”

“Sorry. You're the marshal.”

“No. I'm Sheriff Marshal.”

“Which is it?”

As the younger man let out a tired sigh, Patrick chuckled nervously. “Marshal is his family name,” he explained. “Funny bit of luck him becoming sheriff.”

“Could be worse,” Slocum said with a grin,

With patience that was clearly strained, the lawman said, “I know. I could have been
Marshal
Marshal.”

“Heard that one already?” Slocum asked.

“Many times. Tell me what happened to put you in the possession of that poor soul laying across your horse's rump. Not that that isn't a perfect spot for him.”

“Sounds to me like you two are already acquainted.”

“Could be. Depends on your story.”

“You mind if I put my horse up first?” Slocum asked. “He's got a few cuts that need tending and after that I could use something to drink.”

“You came into my town with a dead body, mister. I'd say that means you owe me an explanation.”

“All right then. The first part of my explanation is that I've been in the desert for a few days. Isn't that enough of a reason for me to want to take care of my horse as well as my own thirst?”

The lawman may have been younger than his deputy, but the longer Slocum looked at him, the more years he tacked on to his estimate of the sheriff's age. By the time Marshal let out his next breath, he seemed to be even older. Slocum took that as a good sign. Usually honest lawmen were a lot wearier than crooked ones.

“Patrick,” Marshal said, “how about you show this man to a place where he can see to his horse and get some water?”

“Right away, Sheriff.”

Leveling a stern glare at Slocum, the sheriff added, “Because of the circumstances of your arrival, I'll have to ask that your guns and that body stay here with me. You can collect them after I sort through what brings you to Davis Junction.”

“All I'll want is my guns back,” Slocum said as he handed them over. “You can keep the body.”

“Strangers bearing gifts,” Marshal sighed. “A fine way to end the day.”

* * *

Patrick wasn't much of a guide, which suited Slocum just fine since he wasn't in the mood for a proper tour. Even if the deputy was intent on showing him the sights, Davis Junction didn't have many to offer. After seeing as many little towns as Slocum had throughout his years of riding from one to another, they all started looking alike. It wasn't until he'd spent some time walking a town's streets and swapping stories with the folks who lived there that he got a real sense of a place. Until then, every town was just a collection of buildings divided by a street or two.

There was a general store and a couple smaller places that offered dry goods.

There was a tailor and a blacksmith.

There were places to buy a meal.

Of course there were saloons.

Scattered here and there were houses as well as other places of business that Slocum didn't bother studying. Perhaps he saw a dentist's office situated up on a second floor. One thing that caught his eye was the small group of men clustered around a little telescope set up on a tripod. There was another cluster farther on, both sets of men being within spitting distance of the railroad tracks running through town.

As soon as Slocum spotted the livery stable close to the end of the street that Patrick had chosen, he didn't care about much of anything else. The gelding had done well to make it this far and was young enough to keep going without a fuss despite the cuts and scratches he'd collected during the fight. Even so, Slocum wanted to get him into a clean stall where the saddle could be unbuckled from his back. Patrick made small talk with a liveryman as Slocum saw to it that those things were done. Once the gelding had his snout cooling in a trough of water, Slocum patted his side and draped the saddlebags over one shoulder.

“How much for the stall?” Slocum asked.

The liveryman was a tall weed of a man with filthy gloves covering his hands and an old smock stained with whatever he'd fallen into while cleaning out his barn. “How long will you be needing it?”

“Don't know yet. Probably just a day or two.”

“My price normally includes a grooming for the horse. Usually a nice brushing and such. You probably saw the sign posted out front.”

“Yeah,” Slocum said, although he didn't know what the hell the liveryman was referring to.

“I do that to stay competitive with the stable down the street, but if you wouldn't mind forsaking the brushing, I'll take a piece off the price.” Wiping his hands on the spot of his smock that was the least stained with manure, he added, “I've had my fill of cleaning for one day.”

“I'd be willing to pay a bit more than the daily rate if you tend to those cuts on my horse's sides. How's that grab ya?” Slocum asked.

“I can do that . . . for an extra dollar.”

“Per day?”

“Just a one-time fee,” the liveryman said with a shrug.

“Deal.”

Both men shook hands and Slocum settled up for the first day's rate using some coins kept in a pouch strung around his neck. On his way out, he caught sight of a pretty little filly in the stall closest to the door. She was the kind of filly who walked on two legs, had long blond hair that was straight as straw, and wore a white cotton dress that clung to her body thanks to the sweat she'd worked up while fixing a latch on the stall's door.

“How'd I miss you?” Slocum asked as he walked by.

She smiled and turned her head. When she looked back at him, the blond woman showed Slocum a pair of eyes that were the same blue as the sky on the first day of spring. “Keep walking, mister,” she said. “Plenty of work to be done.”

Slocum meant to have a few more words with her, but was convinced to keep moving by a sharp knock on his back from a bony hand. “You heard the lady, John,” Patrick said. “Keep walking.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, but she ain't the only one that's got a job to do.”

“Am I still allowed to have some water?” Slocum asked.

The deputy tipped his hat to the blonde and gave Slocum another shove. “Sure you are. There's a place on the way back to the sheriff's office that serves up some mighty fine pie along with that water. I think I'll join you.”

Now that he was outside of the stable and the door had been kicked shut, Slocum put his back to the place and started walking. “She a friend of yours?”

“No. She's a distraction. You still got some explaining to do to the sheriff and he won't tolerate distractions.”

“We have time. I'm not even armed, remember?”

Patrick nodded halfheartedly.

“Who is that lady?” Slocum asked. When an answer wasn't forthcoming, he added, “She your sister?”

“Not hardly,” the deputy chuckled. “She does tend to turn heads.”

“I suppose we have that in common.”

“That you do, friend. That you do.” Patrick stopped and took a quick peek back at the stable before lowering his voice and saying, “You don't seem like the sort who's looking to plant any roots in a town like this.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“It means you'll be moving on sooner rather than later. That also means it's in your best interest to steer clear of trouble so as to make your stay here a pleasant one.”

Slocum grinned. “Sounds like you've given that little speech once or twice before.”

“I give it plenty of times,” Patrick told him. “To damn near every vagrant or wayward miner that wanders in from the desert. It's good advice.”

“For a vagrant or a miner perhaps. I ain't neither.”

“You seem like a good enough fella, John. Mind if I call you that?”

“It's the name I was given.”

Pointing back toward the stable, Patrick said, “That lady back there is mighty pretty and you ain't the first to take notice. Plenty of fights been started on her account.”

“Is she married?”

“No. Just real pretty and she knows it. Sometimes that's a lot worse than just being married.”

“What kind of trouble has been started?” Slocum asked.

“Fights and such. One man wants to take a run at her and another gets the same idea in his head. Next thing you know, they're locking horns like a couple of rams in a field.”

“Doesn't that sort of thing happen a lot when women are involved? At least, often enough that it's not a very new predicament.”

“It ain't a new predicament,” Patrick snapped. “And this ain't my first time wearing a tin star. I ain't no fool. I've kept the peace in plenty of towns bigger than this one, and a big part of doing that is knowing where the trouble lays. That little thing back there is trouble. It don't just follow her. She stirs it up and she enjoys every bit of it.”

Slocum nodded. “I've met a few women like that.”

“There's something else about her, though. I think she used to be a whore in California. Some say she cheated some poor soul out of every dime he earned sifting through river dirt in the Rockies.”

“Doesn't explain why she's cleaning horse manure.”

“Could be she's laying low,” Patrick explained as he started walking again. Since Slocum was following him, he slipped back into his former easygoing mannerisms. “Could be she's waiting for some kind of storm to pass. Perhaps she's biding time before she can get to that money she stole. Who knows? All I do know is that she's got a wicked glint in her eye that I don't like.”

“I've met other women with that glint,” Slocum said with a wink. “Wicked women know plenty of things that sweet ones don't.”