Slocum at Hangdog Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Teaser chapter

  FIGHT! FIGHT!

  “I’m ready for you,” Slocum said.

  Huggy swung a wide right, which Slocum blocked with his left. He drove a right into Huggy’s gut. Huggy made a noise like a whuff, losing his air. He shot out a left, which grazed Slocum’s temple. Slocum shook it off. He was inside the long arms of Huggy now, and he pounded Huggy’s gut with both fists. Huggy was flailing at Slocum’s back and sides with both his arms. Slocum suddenly straightened up, driving the top of his head into Huggy’s chin. Huggy straightened then. He staggered back again.

  “Goddamn you,” he said.

  Slocum had no mercy. Without warning, he drove a straight right into Huggy’s nose. He knew he had broken it. It was squishy. Huggy staggered, then dropped to his knees. He was still holding his face. The blood was still running. He was making a noise that sounded like a combination of a growl and a whimper. Slocum looked at him for a moment. Then he turned and walked over to Speer.

  “We never finished our supper,” he said.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SLOCUM AT HANGDOG

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / December 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by The Berkley Publishing Group.

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  eISBN : 978-0-515-14226-6

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  1

  Slocum had been sent for. As he rode into Hangdog, he reminded himself of that crucial fact. Looking at the sorry town, he could think of no other reason for riding into it. It had been a while since he had seen a more pitiful place. One road, one strip of buildings. It did not appear to be a place where anyone actually lived. It was a strip of businesses. Nothing more. As he moved on in, he could see that there was one hotel. It had a saloon on the first floor. Slocum thought that it must be a whorehouse, because he could not imagine that Hangdog would ever get enough visitors to support a real hotel. At the far end of the street, he could make out a livery stable. He saw a sheriff’s office, a hardware store, a blacksmith’s shop, a butcher’s shop, a barbershop that advertised not only haircuts but also tooth-pulling, sewing up of cuts, and bullet extraction. Also a couple of small eating places and an undertaker’s parlor. Wait a minute. There was another hardware store and another saloon. A nice place, this Hangdog, he thought. It don’t look like anyone lives here but they got plenty of business.

  He rode up in front of the hotel, if hotel it really was, and dismounted there at the hitch rail. As he was wrapping the reins around the pole, he heard a voice come from a man who was lounging lazily in a chair on the board sidewalk. The chair was leaned back against the front wall of the hotel, perched on its two back legs. The man in the chair was a hefty fellow with a mustache that might have been a handlebar if it had been waxed. Instead, it drooped, covering the man’s entire mouth. The man appeared to be of an average size and was wearing black but dusty slacks, black worn boots, a dusty white shirt, a black slouch hat, and a black vest with a star pinned on one side.

  Slocum looked up at the man. “Sorry,” he said. “Did you say something to me?”

  “I said, ‘You’re a stranger in town.’”

  “How’d you guess?”

  Ignoring the impudence of the remark, the man said, “I know everyone who lives around here. I can spot a stranger a mile away. Maybe farther. I been watching you ride in.”

  Slocum headed for the front door of the hotel. “Yeah,” he said.

  “What might you be doing here?” said the dusty man.

  Slocum paused. He turned to look at the man, and he noticed the shotgun leaning against the wall just to
the man’s right. “I might be just passing through,” he said.

  “Are you?”

  “I might be fixing to buy this hotel.”

  “I kind of doubt that. This hotel belongs to James Ritchie. So does half the town. I ain’t heard that he’s fixing to sell.”

  “Well, then, I might be just looking for a room for the night.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  Slocum reached for the door handle.

  “Why might you be wanting to spend the night in Hangdog?” the other said.

  Slocum heaved a sigh and moved over to lean on one of the poles that held up the overhanging roof overhead. “You’ve got a heap of questions,” he said. “I’ve had a long ride, and I ain’t in a mood to answer them.”

  “My name’s Thaddeus Speer,” the man said. “I’m the sheriff of this town. It’s a small town, and I guess I kind of mind everyone’s business. We don’t get many strangers in town. When we do, I’m interested. Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, are you going to tell me your business in Hangdog?”

  “What if I don’t? You going to arrest me?”

  “Don’t reckon I’d have a charge that would stick.”

  “I’m tired, Sheriff,” said Slocum. “I’m going in to get a room.”

  He stepped back over to the door and jerked it open, but as he walked through, the sheriff was right behind him, and he heard the hammers on the shotgun click. He stopped still. The man behind the hotel desk looked up with wide eyes. The hotel lobby was a small part of the big room. The main part of the room was a saloon, and it was surprisingly busy for a place in such a small town with no houses in it. There was a stairway leading upstairs, presumably to rooms, but Slocum was too preoccupied with the shotgun behind him to take much notice of his surroundings.

  “I’ll just take your Colt,” said Sheriff Speer.

  “I won’t argue with that gun you’ve got in my back,” said Slocum, “but I wish you’d point it away from me and ease those hammers back down.”

  Speer reached forward and slipped the Colt out of the holster at Slocum’s side. He tucked it in his belt with some difficulty because of his paunch. Then he eased the hammers down and lowered the shotgun. “We’ve got an ordinance against carrying sidearms in this town,” he said.

  “You could have told me that without poking a gun in my back.”

  “You’re a stranger. For all I know, you might have drawed it out and shot me dead. I’ll have this in my office for you when you get ready to leave town.”

  “What about my Winchester?” Slocum asked.

  “Where is it? Saddle boot?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ain’t no law against long guns,” Speer said. “Have a good night—stranger.”

  Slocum walked on over to the desk, and Speer turned and walked out the door. The wide-eyed clerk stammered, “You—you looking for a room?”

  “You have any?” said Slocum.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sign me up.”

  The clerk pointed to the book, and Slocum signed his name. He paid for the room, for just one night, and got his key.

  “Top of the stairs and to the right,” the clerk said.

  “Can I get a bath?”

  “It’ll take a while,” said the clerk. “And it’ll be another ten cents.”

  Slocum slapped a dime on the counter. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Ryan Walter,” said the clerk. “I’ll get right on the bath, sir.”

  “I’ll be back,” said Slocum, and he walked out the door. Unhitching his horse, he mounted up again and rode the length of the street to the livery stable. A skinny, scruffy little man met him at the door.

  “Morgan Dyer,” said the man. “What can I do for you?”

  “Put up my horse,” said Slocum. He read the prices on a sign posted on the front wall, and he dug out some coins and handed them to Dyer. “Feed him and rub him down. Put him in a stall for the night.”

  “Just one night?” said Dyer.

  “So far,” said Slocum. He pulled the Winchester out of the boot, untied and removed the blanket roll, and turned to walk back to the hotel. When he reached it, he walked to the bar and slapped the blanket roll and the Winchester on the counter in front of him. The bartender walked over, staring at the Winchester. “What’ll you have, mister?”

  “A bottle of good bourbon,” said Slocum.

  The barkeep poured the first drink, left the bottle, and Slocum paid him. “Tell me something,” Slocum said. “Where do all these people come from?”

  “Couple of big ranches outside of town,” said the barkeep. “Mostly.”

  Slocum downed his drink, picked up his bottle, his roll, and his Winchester, and turned. He saw Sheriff Speer at the hotel counter. He smirked. He imagined that the lawman was checking his name in the register. Then he noticed that several of the customers in the saloon were wearing sidearms. He walked over to the hotel counter. “Hello, Sheriff,” he said.

  Speer turned to face him. “Howdy, Mr. Slocum,” he said.

  “I see you’ve done your snooping.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Well, you can drop the mister. I don’t go by it.”

  “Just Slocum?” asked the sheriff.

  “Just Slocum.”

  “I think I’ve heard of a Slocum.”

  “I ain’t the only one in the country.”

  “No. I don’t suppose you are.”

  “I noticed several fellows over there in the saloon carrying sidearms, Sheriff. You going to go over there and relieve them of that extra weight?”

  “Nope.”

  “How come you took my gun and not theirs?”

  “You’re a stranger. And you wouldn’t answer my questions.”

  “So the law’s only for strangers?”

  “Tight-lipped strangers, I’d say. I interpret the law as I see fit. A man that just goes by the book ain’t much of a thinker. I see you’re toting your Winchester.”

  “Yeah. You said I could do that.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going up to my room now.”

  “Your bath’s ready, Mr.—uh—Slocum,” said Walter.

  Slocum tugged on the brim of his hat, turned, and walked toward the stairs. As he mounted the stairs, Sheriff Speer, staring after him, said to Walter, “You find out anything about him?”

  “Just the name, Sheriff,” said Walter.

  “He didn’t say nothing about his business here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Um,” said the sheriff. “Tight-lipped.”

  Slocum was settled into the bathtub with a cigar and a glass of bourbon. He had already scrubbed up and was just relaxing in the tub. In another few minutes the water would begin to get tepid, so he meant to enjoy it while he could. Then there came a knock on the door.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered, and then in a louder voice, he shouted, “Come back later. I’m busy.”

  “The hell you are,” answered the voice from out in the hall. “I’m coming in.”

  “The door’s locked.”

  He heard him fiddle with the latch, and then the door opened, and David Mix stepped in with a wide grin on his face. “Busy, are you?” he said.

  “Shut the door, you son of a bitch,” said Slocum.

  “I never expected to catch you like this,” said Mix. “How the hell are you?”

  “The question is, how are you? You sent for me.”

  “Yeah, I did, but we don’t have to get right down to business just like that. We ought to get reacquainted a little bit first. What the hell you been doing these last few years?”

  “Nothing to talk about,” Slocum said, “and that ain’t why you sent for me anyhow. What’s it all about?”

  “You ain’t changed a bit,” Mix said as he pulled a chair over close to the tub and twirled it around to mount it like a horse. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and lit it with
a match. The air of the small room was already filled with smoke from Slocum’s cigar. Slocum grabbed the bottle off the small table there by the tub and handed it over to Mix.

  “There’s another glass over yonder,” he said, nodding toward another small table that stood against the wall. Mix got up and fetched the glass. He went back to the chair and straddled it again and poured himself a drink. He took a satisfying sip.

  “All right,” Slocum said. “What’s this all about?”

  “Slocum, ole pard,” said Mix, “since we parted company, I’ve had some pretty good luck. Been real fortunate. I struck some color out in Californee. Not enough to make me rich, but enough to get me started. Sold out my claim and came out here and invested in a cattle ranch. Did real good. Opened up a saloon and a hardware store here in town. Business is good too. At least it was for a while. Then Ritchie come to town.”

  “James Ritchie?” Slocum said.

  “You’ve heard about him?”

  “Just since I rode in. Your overly curious sheriff informed me that I’m staying in his hotel. Said he owns half the town.”

  “He was right about that. I own the other half.”

  “That well off, huh?”

  “It’s been a struggle since Ritchie hit town. He come in with a bunch of cash from God knows where, and he started buying things up. Took me by surprise. Just a little at first. Next thing I knew, he owned half the town, like the sheriff said, and not only that, but he’s got a big cattle spread outside of town that rivals mine.”

  “That just sounds like business, Davey. How come you sent for me?”

  “On account of I think it’s more than just business. At first, I didn’t. Oh, his hardware store took away some of my business, but really, there’s enough to go around. I didn’t let it worry me too much. Then he picked up some of my beef contracts. That hurt a little, but like you, I said that’s just business. But lately, I’ve been losing some cattle.”

  “Rustling?”

  “Looks like it. I can’t prove nothing. Then I lost a freight wagon.”