Slocum and the Dirty Dozen 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

  Last Warning

  Slocum half turned, but something hard and heavy crashed into the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. Stunned, he lay there. Through pain-misted eyes, he saw a boot kicking straight for his belly. He curled up in a tight ball and brought his arms around in time to rob the blow of much of its power.

  Slocum forced himself outward, got his hands and knees under him, then pushed to his feet. He swung around and caught a hard fist to the belly that almost knocked the wind from him. Doubling over, he grabbed and caught a second fist coming to add to the damage of the first. He clung to the arm with all his strength, then spun enough to drive his shoulder into his attacker’s chest, knocking him back.

  Slocum let go and stumbled back. He grabbed for his six-shooter and drew.

  He had Randall Bray dead in his sights.

  “Don’t go for it. You’ll be dead before you clear leather,” Slocum warned.

  Bray ignored him and grabbed for the pistol at his hip . . .

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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 DIRTY DOZEN

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / October 2010

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  1

  John Slocum turned a little in the hard chair so his hand would rest closer to the ebony handle of the Colt Navy slung in the cross-draw holster. He had been gambling in the Cross Timbers Saloon for almost twelve hours and never saw a hand like this. He wasn’t going to be cheated out of it—and the dealer across from him had been palming cards and adding some from under the table whenever the mood suited him. Slocum hadn’t cared since he was never on the losing end of the cheating.

  And he wasn’t going to start now that he had a real hand.

  Ignoring the din around him became easier as he concentrated on the game. Two of the players didn’t count. One was a drunk cowboy about ready to topple from his chair and onto the sawdust-covered barroom floor. The other looked to be a lawyer or maybe even the town’s doctor. Whatever he was, he played with an intensity that was sure to put even more money into Slocum’s pocket.

  “I got to raise,” the lawyer said, pushing twenty dollars in greenbacks into the pot. The drunk cowboy belched and shoved the rest of his poke in. A quick glance assured Slocum this didn’t amount to more than a few dollars.

  The real money would come from the gambler to his left.

  Slocum didn’t have to look at his cards again. The four jacks were burned into his brain. Playing for months on end, he had not seen this good a hand. He almost laughed when the gambler not only matched what both Slocum and the lawyer had put in but upped it another twenty dollars.

  It was time to do some acting for an audience of only two since the cowboy had passed out.

  “You reckon he wants a card?” the gambler said, looking at the unconscious cowboy as he riffled through the deck of cards in his left hand. “He sure as hell can’t stand!”

  The man liked his own joke and laughed heartily. Slocum watched what he did with the deck to be sure seconds weren’t dealt or some other sleight-of-hand trick did him out of his win.

  “Let him be,” the lawyer said. “I’m bumping the pot a hundred for him. That’s what it’d take to call, right?”

  This surprised Slocum and made him wonder if he wasn’t being worked from two directions. The gambler might draw his attention while his partner—was he really a lawyer at all?—came in for the kill. This made Slocum warier than ever, watching how the gambler handled the deck and where all the cards went.

  All of them, es
pecially those going to the lawyer, who out of some hidden charitable urge kept the cowboy in the game.

  “Why you betting his hand as well as your own?” Slocum asked. He worried about the real answer, not the one the lawyer was likely to give. If they had stacked the deck so the lawyer got cards after a certain number were dealt, he had to keep the cowboy in the game. Otherwise, the careful deck stacking would turn his hand to dross when he drew.

  “I owe him. He did me a favor a while back. Who knows? He might have the winning hand.”

  “Are you taking any cards?” the gambler asked. The lawyer took three and waited to see what Slocum did.

  There was no call to throw away anything. He couldn’t improve on four jacks. Slocum slipped the cards back and forth across the table, then said, “Give me one.”

  He wanted to see if either the gambler or the lawyer reacted. Neither did, to his surprise. From their reactions, they thought he was drawing to a straight or maybe a flush. But he was definitely on a draw. He read that in their expressions.

  The gambler flipped the requested card across the table. Slocum didn’t bother looking at it. He bet everything he had, almost a hundred dollars. When he won, he’d have close to five hundred and could get the hell out of Wyoming. The only reason he knew the name of this town—Clabber Crossing—was from the fancy sign erected on the only road in. Whoever Clabber was, he had an inflated sense of his own worth and the town he had no doubt named after himself. He probably considered erecting the fancy sign with its gold lettering and fine carving a civic duty.

  “That’s a righteous bet, partner,” the gambler said. “I have to fold.” He tossed his cards to the table.

  “What about him?” Slocum asked, pointing to the passed-out cowboy.

  “He can’t call. He’s plumb out of money, and I don’t see any point in staking him anymore,” the lawyer said. He reached over and pushed the man’s cards to the center, where they mingled with the gambler’s mucked hand. “But I, on the other hand, have a good hand and I’ll raise you five hundred.”

  “I can’t match that,” Slocum said. He took a deep breath. “Let me see the color of your money.”

  “That’s not a problem,” the lawyer said, adding a thick wad of greenbacks to the pot. He stared hard at Slocum. “You can’t call, the pot’s mine. Those are the rules.”

  “I’ll call. My horse and gear ought to cover the raise.”

  “Not even tossing in that well-used six-shooter of yours would match my raise,” the lawyer said, “but settle down now.” He held up his hand to keep Slocum from drawing his Colt Navy. “You think you got the best hand, don’t you?”

  That was obvious. Slocum studied the man like a hungry coyote might look at a slow rabbit.

  “Now, I have a good hand myself, but I don’t gamble for the money. I got all the money there is around here.”

  “Why do you play cards?” Slocum asked, but he knew the answer.

  “I like to win. There’s no thrill for me if I pulled in this huge pot because you couldn’t match my bet, but there would be if you called and I beat you fair and square. You see, that’d mean I outplayed you. That’d mean I won.”

  “So you’ll accept my horse and gear?”

  “Not at all. I’ve got all the horses I want and, no offense, I suspect your gear isn’t of the finest quality.”

  “It’s well used,” Slocum said. He had been in the saddle too long. Drifting up from New Mexico, he had spent a couple weeks in Denver before getting restless. Word of ranchers needing hands had lured him to this corner of Wyoming, but the rumors had been false. There wasn’t a ranch in the area hiring, even a man of Slocum’s experience. He had gambled enough to make it worthwhile to stay until now. When he won this pot, he’d be set for months. San Francisco and the fancy clubs on Russian Hill beckoned. He wouldn’t have to settle for the dives along the Embarcadero. With those highfalutin clubs came elegant women, and Slocum had been developing a taste for them over the past few months.

  If a man didn’t sample the best now and again, what was the use of living?

  He certainly wasn’t going to find it in Clabber Crossing, Wyoming.

  “I will accept a different coin,” the lawyer said. He glanced down at the six-gun holstered at Slocum’s left hip.

  “I’m not a gunman, and I don’t kill for money.”

  “Ah, but you have killed. Perhaps when you thought they needed killing.”

  “I was in the war.”

  “Of course you were. We all were,” the lawyer said, his tone turning grim. The moment passed and he smiled insincerely. “I want service for one month. While you might be required to use your pistol, that is not the primary job. You see, the rodeo is coming to town and that always brings a rowdy element intent on disturbing the peace.”

  “You’re not the town marshal. I don’t see a badge pinned to your vest.” What Slocum did see was a shoulder rig and a small pistol tucked under the man’s left arm.

  “You noticed the town’s name when you rode into town?”

  “Hard to miss,” Slocum allowed. “I’d say Clabber is a ...” He caught himself from saying more since he realized then who his opponent was.

  “Yes, many men call me that. I’m Clyde Clabber and this is my town.”

  “And ’bout everything in it,” piped up the gambler. “The Cross Timbers is his and—”

  “I made a fortune in lumbering in the Pacific Northwest before coming to Wyoming.”

  “Where he’s made another fortune in cattle raising,” the gambler went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Fact is, there’s not much around here Mr. Clabber doesn’t own.”

  “Except me,” Slocum said. “No man owns me.”

  “I only want to, shall we say, rent your services.”

  “If you win.”

  “When I win,” Clabber said. His face went expressionless. “Deal? Your expertise for one month?”

  Four jacks lay under Slocum’s hand. Four. Almost a thousand dollars was in the pot.

  “Deal. I call.” Slocum turned over the cards. He had been dealt a deuce as his fifth card, not that it mattered. Nothing was going to beat four jacks.

  Clyde Clabber dropped his hand onto the table. Slocum felt as if he had fallen off the highest peak in the Grand Tetons as he stared at four queens.

  “Go on, drink up,” Clabber offered, pushing the whiskey bottle over to Slocum. After seeing the queens, Slocum had considered backing out of the deal. Clabber would have a sizable pot to content himself, but as he said, it wasn’t about the money. Winning mattered the most. “I’m not charging you, Slocum. In fact, I’ll probably pay you in ways you never thought you’d see in a town like this.”

  A sample sip convinced Slocum that the man who owned the town and everything in it had decent taste in whiskey. He did more than wet his lips with the second taste.

  “What do you want me to do?” He looked around the saloon and saw some rowdy cowboys pushing and shoving. It wouldn’t take much for this roughhousing to end up as a full-fledged brawl. “Break up the fight?”

  “Them? No, not at all. I let the fights go on. Keeps the patrons coming back since they’ve come here to let off steam. What do I care if they bust up the place so long as they pay for it—or their boss does?”

  “You got a lock on every door around here. What do you really want from me? It’s not the favor of a drinking companion.”

  Clabber laughed.

  “You have quite a sense of humor, Slocum. You’re going to fit in just fine. Bring the bottle if you like. Otherwise, let’s head out to the edge of town. That’s where you’re going to work off your month of service.”

  “Service or servitude?”

  “You’re a proud man, Slocum. I see that. I have a sense of honor myself, which is why I have need of your services.” Clabber walked to the rear of the saloon and left through a door hardly large enough to squeeze through. Slocum followed, having to turn sideways to keep his shoulders from brushing the frame.
Clabber was already a ways down the alley behind the saloon. Slocum tried to make out what the other buildings were on the adjoining street, then found himself almost running to catch up. He’d have plenty of time to explore Clabber Crossing if he was stuck here working for Clyde Clabber for a full month.

  “There it is,” Clabber said. He stopped and stared at a two-story house some distance from the edge of town. “Victorian bric-a-brac, straight from London. Damned expensive, but worth it to keep Severigne happy. You’ll like her. I predict you’ll want to keep her happy, too.”

  They went up the steps. To Slocum’s surprise, Clabber knocked on the door. For some reason, he’d thought the man would push on inside. The lace curtain hiding the house’s interior pulled back, but Slocum couldn’t see who peered out. Clabber waited patiently as the door was unlocked and opened to admit him.

  “My dear,” he said. Slocum thought Clabber might have bent to kiss the woman but couldn’t be sure. “I’ve brought you the man you requested.”

  Clabber motioned for Slocum to enter. He thought he had been transported to a different country—a different world. Elegant furnishings and artwork, both paintings and sculptures, were strategically placed throughout the entry-way and the adjoining parlor room. Steps straight ahead went to the second floor.

  As rich as the house was, the woman who greeted Clabber caused such material beauty to dim in comparison. Hardly five feet tall, she seemed larger, more dominant. Her finely boned cheeks and Roman nose were classical. Ruby lips, full and sensuous, parted as if to kiss him. Instead, she spoke.

  “You have some sensibility?”

  “Severigne, please, would I bring you a barbarian?”

  “You have before,” she accused. A toss of her head took her mane of thick black hair out of her blue eyes. She studied Slocum like he was some kind of bug and she was considering whether crushing him was worth getting the sole of her shoe dirty.