Slocum at Scorpion Bend 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

  FIGHT TO THE FINISH

  A bell rang and Slocum stumbled into the middle of the ring. He circled, trying to keep the sun out of his eyes, but Quinn was cagey and knew all the tricks. Dirt under his shuffling feet kicked up small clouds of choking dust.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Slocum.”

  Slocum didn’t rise to the challenge. He knew the tricks. If he hesitated, if his attention drifted for just a second when Quinn taunted him, the other man would strike. Slocum blocked two punches to his face. A roar went up from the crowd.

  The fight was on.

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  SLOCUM AT SCORPION BEND

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / May 1999

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1999 by Penguin Putnam Inc.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-17940-6

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  1

  The thunder of hooves behind him on the trail to Scorpion Bend, Wyoming, caused John Slocum to reach instinctively for the ebony-handled Colt Navy slung in his cross-draw holster. He looked around the narrow draw and saw no escape. Visions of a posse hot on his trail flashed across his mind. Then he pushed them away. He had left that trouble far behind him in Colorado, along with a dead gambler and a distraught woman hungering for his scalp. Whatever the reason for the pursuit along the narrow, winding trail through the sheer-walled pass in the mountains, it had nothing to do with the law.

  He hoped.

  Slocum had too many Wanted posters floating around the West with his picture on them to rest easy—or to be complacent.

  “Come on,” he said, patting his sorrel’s neck. “It’ll be a climb for you, but it’ll be worth it.” He dismounted and tugged at the reins of the increasingly skittish horse. The pounding hooves behind him became louder, more insistent. Slocum jerked at the reins in his hand, and got his horse moving up a gravel-strewn trail off the main road—if the double-rutted path could be called a road.

  Twenty feet up into the rocks was as far as Slocum got before the dozen mounted men, hunkered down next to their horses’ necks, came riding like the wind. They bumped each other, trying to force each other into the rocks and off the road, but aside from this nothing disturbed their mindless rush.

  Slocum relaxed a mite after the clot of riders passed by. The dust choked him, and he had to wipe it off his face and out of his watering eyes. But relief flooded him. Those weren’t lawmen. He wasn’t certain what they were, other than damned fools trying to kill their horses in the stifling canyon heat, but they weren’t after him.

  “Sort of makes me want to ride somewhere other than Scorpion Bend,” Slocum told his horse. “If the whole town is chock full of dolts like them, we’re better off sleeping under the stars another night.” Even as the words slipped from his lips, Slocum knew he would press on to Scorpion Bend for a meal he hadn’t fixed, a hot bath, and a soft bed, even if he had to wrestle the bedbugs and deal with those riders.

  Any band of men who rode like that had to work up a powerful thirst. They’d drink until they staggered, get drunk and mean, and start shooting up the saloon. He had seen it too many times.

  But seldom had he seen men so intent on riding without a purpose.

  This caused him to sit on a rock and wait a spell to see if anyone—or anything—pursued the riders. Ten minutes after the echoing from the horses’ hooves had died down, Slocum had still heard nothing but the faint whine of wind through the rocks around him. The day was turning hot, even for a Wyoming summer. He looked up at the burning sun, wiped more grime and sweat from his face, then fastened his now-damp blue bandanna around his neck again.

  “Time to get on into town,” Slocum told his sorrel. The horse snorted and tried to rear. He held it in check. Truth to tell, he was more than a little curious about the riders and the big hurry they’d shown along this trail to nowhere special. Not one of the men had noticed him standing in the rocks, or even the spoor he had left along the canyon road. The hot wind he had experienced on the flats leading to the mountain pass might have erased some of his tracks in the dry dust, but after he had started along the chute through the mountains, even this had died down.

  He mounted and rode at a more leisurely pace than that of the men who had passed him by in a twinkling. The hot wind blowing harder into his face after another half hour of riding told him he was getting near the end of this rocky chasm. A few minutes later, the odor from Scorpion Bend hit him full in the face.

  Civilization, or what passed for it in the center of the wilds of Wyoming.

  Scorpion Bend sat like a wooden jewel in the middle of a large green bowl. Good pastureland surrounded the town, and a small stream meandered down from higher in the mountains to furnish abundant drinking water. From the number of saloons he could see, Slocum reckoned the town had a population of four or five hundred. What kept it going was something else. He didn’t see any evidence of mining. That left ranching. If he found himself so inclined, he might look for a job on a spread and stay around for a few more months. Scorpion Bend didn’t look like too bad a place to dally.

  For a while.

  A big canvas banner stretched from one side of the main street to the other. All it said in sloppily painted red letters was BIG RACE. For the middle of the day Scorpion Bend seemed especially lively. Men came and went from the saloons, and womenfolk moved from one store to another. Something had brought them to town for a big celebration.

  Slocum figured it had to be the “big race.”

  He swung his long leg over the saddle and dropped to the dusty street. Walking slowly to get the kinks out of his legs and some circulation back into his butt, he tethered his horse and saw it could reach the watering barrel outside a tent saloon. He wiped more dust from his face, then ducked low, went into the dim canvas-walled gin mill, and waited for his eyes to adapt to the lower light level inside.

  The smell
of stale beer hit him like a hammer and made his mouth water. It had been too long since he had downed a frothy brew or a shot of whiskey or even that Mexican rotgut they called tequila. This was one of the penalties of being on the run—no time to stop and appreciate the simpler pleasures.

  “Beer and lunch for a dime,” called out the barkeep.

  “Done,” Slocum said, reaching into his shirt pocket and finding a silver dollar. He dropped it on the broad plank supported by two sawhorses that formed the bar. Before the coin had stopped its dulcet ringing, the bar-tender had scooped it up and replaced it with a mug of beer and a sandwich on a plate.

  “I want change from that,” Slocum said pointedly.

  “Double or nothing?” suggested the barkeep, a hopeful note in his words.

  Slocum hesitated. He didn’t have much more than that cartwheel to his name, but something about the barkeep and the atmosphere in Scorpion Bend made him nod.

  “High-low or just a flip of the coin?” asked the barkeep.

  “No need to break out a fresh deck of marked cards,” Slocum said. He motioned for the barkeep to come closer. “You flip and I’ll call.”

  The silver dollar caught every ray of light inside the saloon as it spun over and over.

  “Tails,” Slocum said, his hand moving fast to clamp the barkeep’s down to the plank. He lifted the man’s hand away from the coin and smiled. “I win,” he said.

  “Here’s your dime,” the barkeep said. “And the beer and food’s on the house.”

  “The bet was for the silver dollar,” Slocum said.

  “No, no, it wasn’t. It was just for your beer.”

  “Consider the other ninety cents your tip,” Slocum said, not wanting to argue. His belly grumbled from hunger and the beer was cold enough to whet his thirst for more.

  “You got a way about you, mister,” said a woman’s gravelly voice. Slocum turned to look at the woman, maybe pushing fifty from her gray hair and lined face, but with eyes that sparkled and a manner that bespoke of still enjoying life to the fullest.

  “What? That I let him sucker me out of the rest of the bet? If I’d lost, he would have kept the dollar.”

  “Jed’s like that,” she said, pushing a strand of hair from her eyes. “I’m Miss Maggie, and I own this place, such as it is.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Slocum said, touching the brim of his Stetson politely.

  “You’re a gambling man. I can tell. You want to lay a bet?” she asked.

  “On the big race?” Slocum asked, guessing.

  “What else? The Annual Scorpion Bend Horse Race and Pissing Contest is about the biggest thing to bet on in the entire territory.”

  “After this beer, I’d be more inclined to enter the latter,” Slocum said, draining the mug and pushing it across the bar for a refill.

  “No bet? I’m backing Mormon Will this year. He can’t lose. The man rides like he was born in the saddle. I think he’s part Arapaho from the way he controls his horse. Put in a bet now and you might walk away with a couple thousand.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “No odds right now. The first leg of the race is this weekend. Anyone with a ticket on any of the first ten finishers can sell the ticket for a princely sum. Then in mid-week the field’s reduced to five, and on the following Saturday the last race determines the winner.”

  “So everyone buys a ticket, the money’s thrown into a pot, and everyone holding a ticket on the winner divvies up the pot?”

  “That’s it. Might be five thousand dollars a ticket,” Miss Maggie said.

  Slocum let out a low whistle. “That’s mighty big money.”

  “The real money’s made on the side bets. Since Mormon Will’s the favorite, he might not get more than three- or four-to-one odds.”

  “Mighty high for the favorite,” Slocum pointed out.

  “This isn’t just any race, mister. This is the Scorpion Bend race.”

  “You’re saying it might get dangerous because of so much money changing hands?” He saw how a man’s ticket might go up in value should an opposing rider not finish the race. “How much goes into the big boodle?”

  “Might be as much as fifty thousand dollars. We charge a hundred a head for a rider to enter, and we got almost eighty right now. Ten dollars a ticket on any rider of your choice, buy as many as you want.”

  “No need to buy more ’n one, from what you say,” Slocum said, smiling crookedly. “I got no reason to disbelieve you when you say Mormon Will is going to win.”

  Miss Maggie laughed. The sound was joyous but like rocks grinding together. “You have a wit as well as a quick hand,” she said. Her eyes dropped to the worn handle of his six-shooter and the easy way he carried it. “I saw how you moved when you slapped Jed’s hand down on the bar.”

  “I’m not a hired gunman,” Slocum said tersely. “I’m just a cowboy passing through.”

  “Passing through to where? This is the end of the earth, ’cept for the big race,” she said. Miss Maggie motioned to Jed for a bottle and two shot glasses. “My personal bottle.” She expertly poured two drinks, not spilling a drop. Slocum could almost believe this was her own bottle from the way she handled it.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked, taking the shot glass. The smell of the whiskey took him back to days on the Mississippi and real Kentucky bourbon.

  “This is Billy Taylor’s Reserve, ’bout the finest I can get out here. Drink up.” The woman tossed back the drink expertly, then licked her lips as if she could spend the rest of the day working on the bottle. Her eyes darted from the bottle back to Slocum.

  He drank the smooth whiskey and expressed his regard for the quality.

  “A real Southern gentleman you are too. I’m a good judge of men, since I’ve been married five times,” she said. “You’re honest. I can tell.”

  “Don’t go making claims you can’t back up,” Slocum said. This caused Miss Maggie to laugh again.

  “You see real clear concerning the race. A little mishap and a rider’s chance for glory is gone for another year. I want Mormon Will to have a fair shot at winning—I know he can if the race isn’t rigged. I can see to that part, but what I can’t see to is some yahoo busting him up before the race. Or worse.”

  “Men have been killed before the race?”

  “And after winning the first leg,” Miss Maggie said soberly. “I’ll pay you ten dollars a day, room and board, no whiskey, to watch after Will.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  Miss Maggie nodded.

  Slocum considered a half dozen things, all at once. He had nowhere in particular to go. Mostly, he just didn’t want to be down in Colorado with its passel of lawmen all wanting to stick his head in a noose. From what he had seen of Scorpion Bend, the town was wide open and the law wasn’t too concerned with Wanted posters. Everyone concentrated completely on the big race. He had to smile at the sign flapping outside in the hot afternoon breeze since it summed up everything he had seen about Scorpion Bend.

  “That’s better pay than I’d get punching cattle,” he said.

  “Harder, more dangerous,” Miss Maggie said.

  “You’ve never tried to stop a stampede,” Slocum said.

  Miss Maggie laughed. “And you’ve never seen how vicious men get when it gets time for the race. I’m not looking to run you off, but this isn’t going to be a picnic.”

  “Mormon Will?” Slocum said, rolling the name over and over and then letting it slip off his tongue, as if sampling more of Miss Maggie’s fine whiskey.

  “That’s what he calls himself. Might be a summer name, but no one’s asking, no one much cares.”

  “Least of all you. He’s a good rider?”

  “The best. You can start right away. Mormon Will’s ready to go for a practice run down the canyon and back.”

  “My horse might not be able to keep up.”

  “Then tell him to practice outside of town, down in Meegan’s Meadow.”

  “Done,
” Slocum said, thrusting out his hand. Miss Maggie shook it with a grip firmer than most men.

  “Get your carcass on out of here and watch over him. You can’t miss him. He’s a big galoot, half a head taller ’n you, and big. Really big.”

  Slocum ran his finger around the rim of the shot glass and sampled the last of the whiskey, then left the canvas tent saloon to find Mormon Will. It didn’t take long, because the giant of a man was arguing with the stable owner.

  “What’s the trouble?” asked Slocum, coming up. The owner of the livery was a midget compared to Mormon Will, but he wasn’t backing down. He shoved out his chest and banged it against Mormon Will’s immense belly.

  “He’s refusin’ to pay up,” the livery man told Slocum. “Owes a week’s keep for his nag.”

  “You go talk to Miss Maggie ’bout it,” said Mormon Will. The giant smelled of alcohol, making Slocum wonder where the man’s handle came from. Slocum had never known a practicing Mormon to drink at all, much less as much as this one obviously had in the past few hours.

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. You’d take the horse and never be seen again.” The livery man backed off, rubbed the stubble on his chin, and said, “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I kin charge twice what yer payin’ when the rest of them fools get into town to race.”

  “How much?” asked Slocum.

  “A dollar.”

  Slocum handed over his silver dollar, thinking he would add this to his bill with Miss Maggie. Right now he wanted nothing more than to get the practice session over so he could grab some sleep. He had been in the saddle a long time and needed to rest. More than that, the heat was getting oppressive in Scorpion Bend. A cool meadow would be far more relaxing than any town.

  “Much obliged, stranger.” Mormon Will thrust out his hand. Slocum knew what to expect and clamped down hard, matching Mormon Will’s grasp ounce for ounce.