Slocum and the Misty Creek Massacre Read online

  Sneak Attack

  “You hidin’, Slocum? From what I heard about you, I wouldn’t expect you to squat in the dark pissin’ yourself in fear.”

  Even though Slocum knew damn well that Milt was just trying to bait him into coming out so he could get his head blown off, those words still made him want to break from cover just to shut Milt’s fat mouth for good.

  But Slocum didn’t have to.

  Suddenly, silently, a figure lunged in the darkness and pounced on Milt. That silent movement, more than the shape, let Slocum know who it was.

  “What in the hell?” Milt squawked as he was brought down to the ground. Daniel had dragged him down and straddled his chest to rain a series of furious blows down on him, but Milt still couldn’t get a good enough look at his attacker to decide if he was man or beast.

  “Get this son of a bitch offa me!” Milt screamed.

  Slocum winced as one powerful punch cracked against Milt’s jaw and snapped his head to one side. “Sure,” Slocum said while watching Daniel beat Milt some more. “Just as soon as I stop pissing myself in fear.”

  DON’T MISS THESE

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  JAKE LOGAN

  SLOCUM

  AND THE MISTY

  CREEK MASSACRE

  JOVE BOOKS, NEW WORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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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 MISTY CREEK MASSACRE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / March 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN: 9781101560440

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  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Table of Contents

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  1

  DODGE CITY, KANSAS

  Slocum awoke to a bucketful of water being tossed onto his face from on high. His feet thrashed against gritty soil, and his head knocked against a patch of ground that was softened somewhat by the jacket he’d rolled up and placed there the night before. “Son of a bitch!” he snarled while reaching for the holster strapped around his waist. Fortunately for the person holding the empty bucket, that holster was as empty as Slocum’s pockets.

  The woman holding the bucket glared down at him through eyes that were narrowed by the bright prairie sun. “Watch your mouth,” she warned, “or I’ll go back to the pump, fill this bucket, and douse you again!”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Slocum asked while still feeling for his gun. “Can’t a man get a moment’s rest without being accosted?”

  “A moment’s rest is one thing. A few hours of rest is reasonable considering the night you must have had, but it’s been a lot longer than that, which means it’s time for you to move along.”

  It took a few moments for Slocum to sit up straight and rub his head. His hat was missing, along with his watch and one boot. “I ain’t bothering anyone,” he said in a string of words that dripped from his mouth like tree sap.

  “So you say. I can smell you from inside and it isn’t pleasant.”

  Slocum lifted an arm and sniffed under it. The breath he pulled in through his nostrils caused his chest to swell painfully before catching in the back of his throat. “How about you go back to that pump and reload? Maybe another shower is all I need.”

  “That won’t do a damn thing about your breath,” she said while cocking her hip and holding the bucket by its rope handle. “Just being this close to you makes it feel like I was the one to pour half a bottle of whiskey down my throat.”

  Chuckling at the modest estimate of how much he’d had to drink, Slocum dragged himse
lf to his feet and dusted himself off. Every swat against his jeans or sides only served to expand the dirty cloud surrounding him. “What time is it?”

  “Right about noon.”

  “What day?”

  She shook her head as if she was looking at a dog that had gotten its head stuck in the opening of a chicken coop. “Monday.”

  “Least it ain’t Sunday,” Slocum offered with a crooked grin.

  “Sure. Sleeping through the Lord’s day in a drunken heap is real good for the soul. Just collect your things and get off of my property.”

  Slocum looked in the direction that she’d nodded to find his missing boot sitting on top of his hat. Either that had been his first attempt at a pillow or it had been his way of using one to keep the other from blowing away. After sweeping up his hat and slapping it onto his head, he hopped on one foot so he could get into his boot. “I’m not some sort of transient.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “Honestly. I just fell onto a patch of bad luck.”

  After starting to walk toward the large building that faced Chestnut Street, the woman turned on the balls of her feet and asked, “You know who are the first men to say that sort of thing? Transients.”

  “Guess you have me there. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”

  “Soon as you move along and stop stinking up the front of my business, you won’t be bothering me anymore.”

  “Yeah,” Slocum sighed as he looked up to study a sign nailed to the front of that building that read, Lucky Days Stable. It was a large, well-maintained structure that gave off a very familiar mix of scents. “About your business. I was wondering if I might impose on you a bit more.”

  She angled her head slightly and put on an expression that made it seem as if she’d caught another unwelcome sample of his stench. Standing with a confidence that came from within, she planted her feet as if she owned the Lucky Days Stable, the street, and the bedrock below it. “Something tells me I don’t want to hear what’s coming next.”

  Doing his best to look either handsome or friendly, Slocum said, “I need a horse.”

  “You got any money?”

  “Let me check.” He patted the front of his jeans, stuck his hands into his pockets, and even searched the jacket he’d discovered beneath his head. In an attempt to put a smile onto the woman’s face, he turned his jacket upside down and shook it vigorously. When nothing fell out, he said, “Doesn’t look like it.”

  Despite the creases formed in the dirt covering Slocum’s face as he grinned at her, the woman wasn’t amused. In fact, she couldn’t turn away from him quickly enough as she stomped back toward the front door of the stable. “No money. No horse. I run a business, not a charity.”

  “There’s gotta be something you need done around here! I lost a ton of money along with my horse.”

  “I don’t hire transients and I don’t hire gamblers.” Having reached the door, she stepped inside, set down the bucket she’d been carrying, and faced him. “A town like Dodge City has more than its fill of both and they usually fall on hard times. Some may be good men but none are reliable workers. Learned that lesson well enough the second time one tried to clean me out to pay off some kind of debt.”

  “You were robbed?”

  Stretching an arm so it was out of Slocum’s sight for a second, she pulled a shotgun into view from where it had been propped against the door and said, “One robbed me. The one after him only tried.”

  Slocum held up his hands. No longer trying to charm her, he merely said, “I’m no transient and I’m no gambler.”

  “How did you wind up sleeping in the dirt outside of my stable?”

  “It seemed comfortable when I was full of whiskey.”

  “And I suppose you lost your watch and gun the same time you took that knock to your head?”

  Reaching instinctively to one of many aching spots on his skull, Slocum found a large patch of crusted blood in his hair. That dry crust against his fingers, along with the throbbing pain beneath it, brought back more memories of what had led him to that spot. And the more he recalled, the less he liked what sprang to mind. “All right, so maybe I’m just not a professional gambler. Surely you can’t hold one bad night against a man.”

  She stared at him as if she meant to point the shotgun at his chest, but that intensity quickly faded. The weapon was set back into its spot so she could study him once more while drawing a long breath. “What kind of work can you do?”

  “Whatever needs doing.”

  “What sort of pay are you expecting?” she asked.

  “Whatever you think is fair.”

  At first, the disgruntled expression that drifted onto her face made Slocum think he’d somehow talked himself out of a job. Then, she sighed as if she was more upset with herself when she told him, “I’ve got some stalls that need cleaning—”

  “Done!”

  “And,” she added while raising a finger to prevent him from cutting her off again, “a loft that needs repairing. One of the support posts was kicked out by a crazy old mule that didn’t want to be shoed. Do you know anything about carpentry?”

  “I did work of all sorts on my family farm in the Allegheny Mountains.” Slocum’s casual expression darkened a bit as memories rushed in from all directions. “Had to build and rebuild pretty much everything at one time or another, so yeah. I think I can handle patching up your loft.”

  Seeing the severity of Slocum’s expression caused the woman’s to soften. She wasn’t about to break out a wide smile, but nodded and extended her hand. “I’m Anne Wolkowski.”

  “John Slocum,” he replied while shaking the hand she offered. Her grip was strong, but not as though she was trying to impress him with it.

  “I don’t have any money to give you in advance, but I should be able to pay you in a few days. May not be enough to buy a horse for a while, so if that doesn’t suit you…”

  “That suits me just fine,” Slocum said. “I could also use a place to sleep.” Just as a sour look began to cross Anne’s face, he added, “One of the stalls would be fine. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept on a pile of straw.”

  She looked him over as if waiting for something that would change her mind. Now that Slocum stood there without plastering a grin onto his face, she nodded and stepped aside to clear a path through the doorway. “I’ve got a few empty stalls right now, but they’re dirty. It’s your job to rectify that.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And if a paying customer wants that stall, you’ll have to move your things and find another one.”

  The smirk that came to Slocum’s face now was smaller but genuine when compared to the ones he’d worn earlier. “Seeing as how I barely have any things, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  When she bowed her head, long strands of straight brown hair fell to cover a portion of her face. Slocum had no doubt the move was intended to obscure the visible signs of a giggle that rustled in the back of her throat. “I pay my hands by results, not by time put in. Start when you like, and when I have enough to divvy out, I’ll reimburse you for what you got done.”

  Slocum placed a hand upon the exterior of the building beside the door frame. Rather than take a single step inside, he used his other hand to tip his battered hat. “Much obliged. I’ll get started as soon as I check in on some other unfinished business.”

  “Business that’s more important than doing the job you just about begged me to give you?”

  “Afraid so, but don’t worry. I doubt it’ll take more than a minute or two.”

  The friendliness that had been on her face a few moments ago evaporated quicker than alcohol spilled onto a stovepipe. Without a word, she moved away from the door and slammed it shut. Slocum couldn’t make out the words she muttered, but was fairly certain they weren’t complimentary. He put the stable behind him and headed toward Third Avenue.

  Dodge City was seldom quiet, but this time of day was filled with noises that appealed more
to common folk than the bawdy commotion erupting from the saloon district at night. Horses pulled carts and wagons from one storefront to another while some carried lone riders into or out of the town limits. Most people’s eyes darted in every direction, looking for familiar faces or signs of trouble. Considering how many souls resided in Dodge, something was bound to happen at any given time. For some, that was a trial. For others, it was a reason to come to town in the first place. John Slocum could sympathize with either end of that argument.

  By the time he’d reached Bridge Street, he’d given his pockets and person a more thorough once-over. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of a difference since the last time he’d examined them. Empty was empty no matter which way you cut it. Now that the blood was flowing a bit quicker through his veins and a good amount of fresh air had brushed over his face, Slocum’s senses were fully returning to him to fill in some gaps as to what had landed him on the street in front of the Lucky Days Stable. They also reminded him that the air in Dodge City wasn’t exactly fresh under the best of circumstances.

  Sounds of men’s voices and a piano player from a nearby saloon jarred memories of when he’d recently been in the Dodge House Hotel and Saloon.

  The taste of stale whiskey in the back of his mouth harkened back to all the bottles he’d helped drain during his most recent stay there.

  The feel of the rough, uneven ground beneath his feet as he cut through Tin Pot Alley reminded him of a few nights back when he’d staggered drunkenly in search of a place to lay his aching head.

  But it was the three men standing in the lot near the end of Military Avenue that filled in the rest of the gaps. All of those memories coalesced around the sight of the horse tied to the post directly behind those men. It was the same horse that he’d ridden across the plains of Kansas.

  “Well, well,” one of the men said. “What have we here? Come back for another game?” He was a tall fellow wearing clothes that were freshly pressed, but didn’t seem at all fitting upon his bulky frame. A small bowler hat partially covered a lumpy head with hair that sprouted in irregular clumps like grass growing from a poorly tended field. The cocky tone in his voice and wicked glint in his eye marked him as a man who enjoyed watching others suffer. Dodge City was full of ones just like him.