Slocum and the Ghost of Adam Weyland 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

  Chapter 21

  Watch for SLOCUM AND THE BANDIT CUCARACHA

  Safety First

  “What about that friend of yours, Ed Triedle? Are you speakin’ for him when you say that?”

  “I don’t know everything he does.”

  “So they weren’t honest games?”

  Slocum started to speak in his defense, but had to bite his tongue while ducking under the iron hook that sliced through the air on its way to his temple. While he was down there, he thumped a few quick punches into the butcher’s stomach. Although the man’s gut was thick and round, Slocum’s knuckles bounced off what must have been mostly muscle. He stepped to one side and twisted his body around to avoid a downward blow from the meat hook.

  Since the butcher had left himself completely open by missing that swing, Slocum had a choice to make. He could either draw his Colt and put the big man down for good or he could take his chances by trading a few more punches with the man. Whichever he decided on, Slocum knew he had to pick quickly if he was going to get out of town without a hook buried somewhere in his body.

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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 AND THE GHOST OF ADAM WEYLAND

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / May 2011

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  1

  BICKELL, TEXAS

  Slocum’s latest ride had taken him from New Mexico and was supposed to go all the way through Texas into Louisiana. It was a simple courier run to deliver some rich man’s documents into New Orleans. Actually, Jerry Dawes might not have been rich, but that didn’t stop him from looking down his nose at damn near everyone. From what Slocum had gleaned during his short time in Jerry’s company, even his family didn’t exactly feel blessed to spend time with the prick. Dawes was short-tempered, self-centered, and arrogant even though he didn’t have the sense God gave a mule. That made Slocum more than ready to accept the job that was offered just so he could take that man’s money and ride the hell away.

  After two days, he’d found himself in Bickell. The Dusty Rose Saloon was the first watering hole to catch his attention, so Slocum stopped there for a spell to throw back some whiskey. Just when he’d been about to tip his hat, pay what he owed, and move on, someone shouted at him from across the room.

  “Hey, stranger!”

  Slocum ignored the loud greeting, having had his fill of blustering idiots back at the Dawes place.

  “Hey, asshole! I’m talking to you.”

  Unwilling to let that one slide, Slocum turned around to face the table at the opposite side of the room. Although the men at that table were as far away as they could get from the bar, the cramped space of the Dusty Rose’s interior didn’t put them out of pistol range. Slocum lowered his hand to rest upon the grip of his holstered Colt Navy and asked, “You sure you’re talking to me?”

  “Yeah! You deaf?”

  “No. Just impatient. I’ve also got business to tend to, so if you ease back on the smart lip, I can get back to it before you wind up on the floor with your head cracked open.”

  There were three men sitting at that table, two of which barely looked old enough to be drinking liquor instead of sarsaparilla. The third was about Slocum’s age. At his table, he was the elder spokesman. After seeing the deadly promise in Slocum’s eyes, however, he quickly changed his tune to one with a little less fire.

  “No need for all of that, friend,” the spokesman said. “I just had to catch your attention before you walked out that door.”

  Walking across the room to stop a few paces from the other man’s table
, Slocum said, “You’ve got it. Now what?”

  “Now you can sit down and join us. That is,” he added with a smirk, “if you’d grace us with your dignified presence.”

  Although the man was definitely a smart-ass, Slocum didn’t think he was a dangerous one. “What’s your name?”

  “Ed Triedle. And you?”

  Since he couldn’t be completely sure about any of the men, Slocum decided not to gamble on one of them recognizing his name from a number of possible stories spreading across Texas. Some of those tales could earn him several rounds of free drinks in the Dusty Rose, but others might send a whole mess of hot lead flying in his direction. Hoping to avoid all of that, he simply replied, “I’m John.”

  That was good enough for Triedle, who kicked an empty chair a few inches away from the table. “Have a seat, John. You know how to play poker?”

  “I may have dabbled.”

  “A dabbler, huh? Sounds like just the man we’ve been looking for. Poker just ain’t as good with less than four in a game.”

  “Then why’d you start one up shorthanded?”

  “Because the last man to sit in that chair lost a few hands and went home cryin’ to Momma,” Triedle replied. “Something tells me you’re not that sort of fella.”

  The two younger men at the table sat with their eyes wide open and perched upon the edge of their seats as if they were ready to jump out of them at any moment. Triedle was another story. He was too loud to be taken completely seriously but too confident to be discarded. The gun at his hip was in a holster that looked as if it had seen some use, but there was no way for Slocum to be certain if Triedle had been the one doing the shooting or had simply won it off a more experienced fighter.

  Under normal circumstances, Slocum might very well have tipped his hat and walked away from that offer just as he’d been ready to walk away from the bar. Jerry Dawes would have wanted him to put his nose to the grindstone and get back to the task for which he’d been paid. When Slocum thought of getting paid, his eyes were drawn immediately to the stacks of money in front of the three men at that table. There was enough there to double or even triple the fee Dawes was offering.

  “So what do you say, John?” Triedle asked.

  “I say you’re absolutely right. Poker ain’t any fun unless you got four men at the table.” With that, Slocum settled into his chair and dug into his pockets. “How much to buy in?”

  A few hours later, Slocum was sitting behind a stack of cash that was four times bigger than the one he’d started with. Triedle drank like a fish and never got cross when he lost. Granted, he didn’t lose very often compared to the two younger men at the table. Those boys kept their mouths shut and their eyes on their cards, which didn’t help them in the slightest. Like most men their age, they had the fire in their bellies, but not enough experience to make anything burn.

  “What’ve you got?” the one with the younger features of the two asked impatiently.

  Slocum laid down three fours, a deuce, and the ace of clubs. Knowing the kid didn’t have him beat, he could only sit there and try not to chuckle as the younger man stared daggers at the cards.

  “You ain’t gonna change ’em that way,” Triedle said. “Just show or fold. Ain’t no shame in admitting you’re beat.”

  The kid threw his cards onto the table and shoved his chair back far enough to stand up.

  “You gonna pitch a fit?” Triedle snapped.

  The kid’s mouth twitched, but he couldn’t collect his thoughts well enough to put them into words. When he lowered his hand to within an inch of his gun, Slocum cocked his head and narrowed his eyes to glare at him.

  “We’ve all lost a few hands, kid,” he warned. “Take it like a man.”

  “I’m a man all right,” the kid said. “Don’t you worry about that. Did the two of you arrange this?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Triedle asked.

  The kid snapped half a glance toward Triedle’s side of the table, but preferred to keep his gaze locked on Slocum. “You heard me, Ed. I think maybe you set it up for this stranger to come along so you could soak me and Nate here for all we got.”

  “I don’t need any help with that,” Triedle replied. “All I needed was a fourth to sit down so you’d stop whining about there not being enough at the table.”

  Slocum watched the kid carefully. He was definitely inexperienced with that weapon. As the kid’s hand drifted closer to his gun, he looked more and more like he was lowering his britches in front of a woman for the first time. And right when it seemed things were about to cool down, Nate decided to stand up and throw in his two cents. “What’ve you got to say, Ed?” he asked. “Were you setting us up or not?”

  Ed’s response was short and sweet. “Nope.”

  “That good enough for ya?” Slocum asked. “Or should we make this into something bigger?”

  The kid may have been young and inexperienced, but he knew when he was in over his head. Even so, he wasn’t anxious to back down in front of his friend. Slocum gave him an out by leaning back and saying, “Have a seat and relax. Drinks are on me. After another hour, if you seriously think we’re setting you up, I’ll give your money back.”

  Reluctantly, the kid agreed. By the time the hour was up, he was too busy laughing at Triedle’s jokes and enjoying his free drinks to notice he’d contributed even more to Slocum’s chip stack.

  The four of them agreed to meet for a game the following day. Slocum wasn’t in any rush to get to New Orleans. Rather than oblige an asshole like Jerry Dawes, he rented a room at the Dusty Rose and played the next day’s game. The day after that, more people threw in their ante to join the game until it grew into a genuine event. A rancher passing through town recognized Slocum, but that only added to the game’s popularity.

  Thanks to a few good hands and some more free drinks, Slocum found himself with some serious cash in his pockets. If Jerry Dawes found out about all the time spent dawdling in Bickell, he would have thrown a fit worse than the kid’s.

  That made Slocum grin.

  When he came downstairs on his third day in town, the Dusty Rose was busier than ever. Even though there were still a few empty seats to be found, the barkeep couldn’t have been happier. He was a squat man who looked as if he’d been carved from a pile of beef with a dull cleaver. There was no real definition to his lumpy body and his skin was tanned to the color of old leather. According to the look on the barkeep’s face, seeing Slocum come down from his room was akin to seeing a bag of money delivered to his doorstep.

  “Mornin’, Mister Slocum! Got quite a crowd for your game today.”

  “Mornin’, Harry. Since when did it become my game?”

  The barkeep shrugged, wiped off some spilt beer in front of him, and asked, “Set you up with a round of drinks for the players like always?”

  “Ah,” Slocum mused. “So that’s why it’s my game.”

  His first instinct was to save some cash and decline the offer. Then again, since most of the men already playing had proven to loosen their purse strings after a few splashes of whiskey hit the backs of their throats, Slocum considered paying for those drinks to be a good investment.

  “Sure,” he said, which was enough to make Harry’s face light up brighter than the noonday sun. “Set me up with two bottles, but no more than that. Anyone comes nosing around, you let them pay for their own damn drinks. I won’t stand for what happened last night.”

  “Honest mistake,” the barkeep said while raising both hands.

  The incident in question came during a string of intense hands between Slocum and Triedle. During that time, a few of the observers got themselves drunk by telling the barkeep that Slocum agreed to pay for them to do so. Those men eventually sat down to play, but Slocum wasn’t about to take that gamble again.

  “I’ll take that first drink now, Harry.”

  “Sure thing, Mister Slocum,” the barkeep replied while anxiously filling a small glass with his best whiskey.

&
nbsp; Slocum downed the firewater, closed his eyes for a moment, and waited for the burn to kick in. As always, it started in his throat and rolled like a wave through his entire body straight down to his toes. When he opened his eyes again, everything in the room seemed to be brighter. “Nice stuff,” he said while holding up the empty glass. “Everyone else gets what’s in that bottle, though.”

  Harry didn’t have to look to know that Slocum was pointing to a less expensive brand. His smile dimmed, but came back a little as he asked, “Another late night?”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Yeah,” grunted another man a little farther along the bar. “We’ll just see about that.” He stood less than an inch shorter than Slocum with light blond hair and eyes that were blue enough to stand in stark contrast to his pale face. His clothes hung on him as if they’d been carelessly thrown over the back of a chair and his shoulders were only slightly less angular than a wooden frame. He gripped a tin cup overflowing with beer foam, and judging by the shakiness of his hand, it wasn’t the first one he’d had that night. When he realized that Slocum had taken notice of him, he straightened up as if to accept a silent challenge. “What the hell you lookin’ at?”

  “Someone who needs to check where he points his damn mouth before he starts shooting it off.”

  “I know what I’m doin’.”

  Now that he’d heard the man slur a few sentences, Slocum was willing to let it pass. He wasn’t one to put up with guff like that for no reason, but he had better things to occupy his time than knocking some idiot drunk on his ass.