Slocum and the Bandit Durango 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

  Chapter 22

  Teaser chapter

  Dangerous Liasons

  “I want to go, too.”

  Slocum shook his head. “I can’t let you. Too dangerous. You know no one. No. If it was your village, I’d say okay. But you don’t know who you can trust in there.”

  “I am not a child.”

  He took her threatening fist into his own, and slipped away with her in a waltz. The crowd was growing and the revelry grew louder.

  “You’re not even thinking about it, are you?” she demanded.

  “I’m thinking I don’t want to see you dead. This man’s a rabid killer.”

  She hugged him. “I want to help you, understand?”

  He moved her in small circles through the crowd. “Too damn dangerous.”

  “We’ll see what’s dangerous when we get into bed tonight.”

  Slocum pulled her closer, so he could feel her body against his. There would sure be a fight—but he knew when she made her mind up, Hell couldn’t stop her.

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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 BANDIT DURANGO

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / December 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  eISBN : 978-1-440-64037-7

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  Prologue

  With her thick arms folded over her large bust, Madame Mustache stood in his way. Dressed in a low-cut, ruby red velvet dress, she planted her lace-up black shoes on the polished hardwood floor, blocking him from getting past her. Her upper lip was covered with coarse black hair. That’s why he called her Madame Mustache instead of Cheery O’Leary, her real name.

  “I must talk to Señor Benton,” Enrique Jimenez said, feeling overpowered by this six-foot-tall woman with the long wavy dark hair, standing in front of him with her breathtaking perfume.

  “Señor Benton is busy right now.”

  “But I have ridden many miles to find him. Many people’s lives depend on me getting to talk to him.”

  “Your skinny ass ain’t worth getting blown off. He don’t like being disturbed when he’s busy.”

  “I came from many miles to seek him.”

  “Go upstairs and get blown to smithereens. I ain’t gonna be responsible. He’s in Room Three.”

  “Gracias, gracias,” he said, edging around her and swallowing hard. Such a huge woman—to be in bed with her would be like trying to make love to all the Sierra Madres. He put on his straw sombrero, and his gritty sandals took the polished wooden steps two at a time. This palatial whore-house with the big chandelier hanging from its high ceiling made him feel inadequate.

  He stopped before Room Three and listened with his ear to the door.

  “Get your butt up more.”

  “I am, I am,” a woman’s voice complained.

  He grunted like a pig. “There. Now I’m getting deep enough.”

  “That hurts,” she whined.

  “It won’t for long—”

  Enrique could wait no more. He began knocking.

  “Who in the hell’s out there?”

  “Enrique, Enrique Jimenez, Señor.”

  “Get the hell out of here. Can’t you tell—” He grunted again. “Come back later.”

  “The outlaw Durango has taken over our village. He and his men are raping our women.”

  “Ain’t no damn worry of mine—ah, shitfire—just quit. I’ll go send him away.”

  “But you have no pants on,” the woman said
, aghast.

  “Fuck the pants,” he said to her, and then unbolted the door. He stood in the partially open doorway with his half-expired erection sticking out from under his shirttail. “You live at Antonio?”

  “Sí, Señor. Durango is back in my village. They are raping little girls even.”

  Benton was a short man. His salt and pepper handlebar mustache drooped on the ends and his blue eyes looked like the sky, but they missed no detail. “Ride up to Mesilla and find Slocum. If he thinks we should go help you, I’ll go along.” He started to close the door.

  “Gracias, señor. Gracias, señor. Do you know where I can find Señor Slocum in Mesilla?”

  “Hell, try the whorehouses first, then any good-looking widow women. You’ll find him.”

  “I will, Señor.”

  “Now get the damn hell out of here!” Benton slammed the door and shouted at the whore, “Get your ass back in bed. I ain’t done with you yet.”

  Encouraged by the man’s words—If he thinks we should go help you, I’ll go along—Jimenez came down the stairs two at a time, and almost collided with with Madame Mustache.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he would help my people. I must go find Señor Slocum in Mesilla.”

  She raised one of her sleepy eyelids toward the head of the stairs. “What can that old man up there do for you against these outlaws you speak about?”

  Enrique turned an ear to the cries of the woman in Room Three. He smiled. “There is a saying in my land that snow on the mountain does not mean the fire went out.”

  The moaning from Room Three grew even louder, and then all at once the woman went silent.

  “Sumbitch. Why, she’s fainted,” Madame Mustache said. She put a large hand with many rings on her fingers atop the curled end of the railing, halting Enrique’s exit. She looked at the upstairs in disbelief and then shook her head. “I’ll be gawdamned. That old son of a bitch made her faint. I’ve heard it all now.”

  “Excuse me. I must ride to Mesilla.”

  She turned enough to let him slip by and he was past her in a flash. Mesilla was many miles up the road from El Paso. He had no time to waste.

  Before he reached the cut-glass front door, she shouted, “Don’t slam it.”

  “I won’t, Señora.”

  It was before dawn the next day when Enrique ran inside the ornate El Morocco Bar in Mesilla. An old man sat on a bar stool as if he’d been there all night. Bent over with age, he cast a look down the bar at Enrique. “What in the hell do you want?”

  “I am looking for Señor Slocum.”

  The old man chuckled. “He ain’t no Señor.” He waved Enrique closer, and did it again when Enrique did not move. “Get down here. I’m a damn good friend of Slocum.”

  “I must talk to him right away.”

  “Have a stool.” He patted one beside him.

  Enrique felt suspicious of this craggy-faced hombre. What did he want from him?

  “You want Slocum, you’ve got to listen to me,” the old man said, slurring his words a little from drinking.

  “Do you know where he is at?” Enrique asked.

  “Hell, yes, I know right where he’s at, boy. Now what do you expect from him?”

  “There is an outlaw named Durango who is holding the people in my village hostage in Mexico. I need him and Señor Benton to help me drive them away.”

  The old man leaned back on his stool and looked Enrique over. “Ha, a hatch-ass like you would need more than them two to help you.”

  “I know of no one else I can ask for help, Señor.”

  “Well—” The old man finished his drink in one gulp and slammed the glass down. “By God, boy, we’ll go find the man hisself.”

  “Gracias, señor.”

  Enrique started for the door, hoping the old man was right behind him. When he looked back for him, the old man was busy counting coins from a handful of change to pay his bar bill. Then he thanked the bartender and started in a stoop-shouldered walk toward the front door. Dressed in the clothing of gringos, he wore a snap-brim straw hat with a wide cloth band on which pictures of naked girls were hand-painted. His feet were in sandals.

  Outside, Enrique was already in the saddle of his weary bay mustang, Pedro. He’d ridden the tough wiry bronc hard for many days. The old man went around the side of the building, and soon came back leading a medium-sized white mule.

  “Whoa. Whoa, Blanco,” he growled at the animal, jerking on the bridle until Blanco stood still. “Damned old mule anyway.”

  He used his free hand to pull his left leg up and inserted his foot in the iron stirrup, and then, talking aloud to the animal the entire time, he sat on the McClellan saddle. When the reins were gathered, he wheeled the mule around and set out in a dead run down the street. To catch up with this crazy old man, Enrique had to spur Pedro after him.

  “My name is Dyke,” the man shouted at him as they loped their horses in the darkness through the flat farmland. “Dyke Von Schultz.”

  “Sí, señor.” Enrique wondered how far they had to go.

  “Damnit, call me Dyke, boy.”

  “Sí—Dyke.”

  “Now tell me about this bastard Durango.”

  “He was once a small bandit. He robbed some lone men on the road. Then he tried to be a big bandit. One day, he brought his gang to the cantina in Antonio. But Señor Slocum and Señor Benton were there having what you call a celebration.

  “Mother of God, I swear they killed three of the gang. Busted up some more, and then they took Durango and those still alive to the federales and had them thrown in prison for life.”

  “How in the hell did they get out?”

  “Oh, Señor, someone probably sent a político some money and Durango was pardoned. There is much corruption in my country.”

  “I know that. I know that.”

  “How far is it to Señor Slocum? My horse Pedro, he is getting mucho tired.”

  “Why, hell, we’ll slow down then. Whoa.”

  They rode down a sandy wash and soon skirted the Rio Grande. Cottonwood trees rustled and birds began to sing in the predawn.

  Dyke turned his mule up a driveway. The rising sun shone on the red tile roof of the two-story house. This was a great house that in the sunrise looked like the finest hacienda that Enrique had ever seen.

  “This the señor’s ranch?” Enrique asked Dyke.

  The old man shook his head.

  “Your ranch?”

  “No, this belongs to Adriana Morales Garcia.”

  “Who is she?”

  Dyke grinned at him. “A rich bitch that really likes Slocum.” Then he broke out laughing and slapped his knee. “By God, I mean a real rich one, too.”

  Enrique nodded. He hoped he could talk Slocum into leaving this grande casa and going back to Mexico with him and Benton. He looked at the brightening sky and crossed himself. “Mother of God, help me . . .”

  They reined up before the large house. Dyke kicked out of the stirrups and scrambled off his mule. Enrique stopped the tired Pedro and stepped down. His leg muscles were as tight as a bowstring. It was unusual for him to be at the front entrance of such a place as this. If he had not come with this snow-whiskered old man, he would never have been there when Dyke knocked on the tall double doors.

  “Señor Von Schultz,” a buxom Hispanic woman shouted, and hugged him.

  She had such big breasts that Enrique wondered, as short as he was, if she’d smother him to death in between them with such a hug.

  “Reya, this here is Señor Jimenez. He’s come all the way from Mexico to see his amigo Slocum.”

  To Enrique’s relief, she curtsied. “Señor Slocum is in the kitchen. I will get him at once.”

  Dyke had taken off the naked lady hat, and was tapping it against his leg as they walked into the tile-floored front room. Enrique held his filthy straw sombrero. The tall arches above him led to a high-ceilinged room beyond. He could hear a fountain in that room. Maybe it had a
statue of a boy peeing. He saw one once in Quaymas. That was the farthest he had ever been from his mountain valley until now.

  “Enrique, mi amigo,” Slocum shouted, and his voice reverberated in the great room as he crossed it. “Dyke, where did you find him?”

  Enrique felt much better when the big man recognized him and hugged him.

  “He came in the El Morocco looking for you,” Dyke said.

  Slocum led them across the great room and past a long black walnut table that had high-back chairs covered with red velvet like those kings sat on. The whole place awed Enrique. Then they entered the kitchen, which smelled of cinnamon, and he saw some coffee-colored faces look up and smile.

  “What brings you here, Enrique?” Slocum asked.

  “Coffee?” a lovely young girl said with cups in one hand and a pot in the other.

  “Hell, no, I never drink that sh—stuff,” Dyke said, as if he was offended that she’d even offered him some. “Bring me some scotch.”

  “Will you have some coffee?” she asked Enrique. She looked hurt by the old man’s gruffness.

  “Sí, muchas gracias,” Enrique said. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had a perfect figure, with slender willowy hips and budding high breasts. Swallowing became hard for him.

  “I am sorry, Señor Slocum,” he said. “I have been very busy trying to find you and Señor Benton. I found him yesterday in El Paso—” He looked around to see if any of the women were close enough to hear him. “He was in a house and he said if you would go—”

  “Here is your scotch,” Reya said, delivering the bottle and a glass to Dyke.

  The old man set them down on the counter. “Now ain’t you lovely.” Then he did a dance with her around the kitchen. “By damn, a girl of my own heart.”

  “Señor, he said if you would go, he would go, too,” said Enrique.