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  Oh, she’d sent him a half loaf of bread, plus jam and fresh butter; the butt end of a pork roast, already sliced for sandwiches; some potatoes, salted and sliced so very thin, and fried up so crisp that they cracked in his mouth; and a load of strawberries, already sugared.

  He couldn’t eat it all, which, for Slocum, was saying something! But he tucked the leftovers back into their box, and saved them for later.

  Sated, he whistled up Rocky, bribed him with a lemon drop, tacked him up again, and once more, started south toward Phoenix.

  It was a nice day to make such a trip. The grass was green, the clover was blooming, the only sounds besides those that came from Rocky’s footfalls and the little squeaks and complaints of saddle leather were the steady hum of bees on the clover and the occasional call of a crow or another desert bird.

  It was the kind of day that made a fellow feel glad to be alive. And then he thought about Jack again, and his face fell. Damn shame, he thought, shaking his head. Just a stupid damn shame. He was still convinced that they could have found Jack a trade not only that he’d be good at, but that he’d enjoy. Oh, well. Too late.

  He rode into the outskirts of Phoenix before dark, and skirted cotton fields and hay fields, plus fording canals and crossing the river, before he got into town proper. And he made straight for Katie’s place.

  She met him at the front door and hugged him so tight he was afraid his eyeballs would pop out, then asked after Jack. She cried when he told her what happened. Cried real tears. And so did the young, pretty, blond whore called Jasmine, who had been Jack’s favorite. Slocum didn’t blame them for it. They didn’t know any better.

  He left his things there, then led Rocky on down the street and settled him in at the livery. Once that was attended to—lemon drops and all—he hiked back up to Katie’s.

  The girls told him Katie was waiting upstairs—which seemed a little presumptuous, even for her—but upstairs he went, and tapped on her door.

  “Come in, Slocum,” she said. Even from out in the hall, he could tell she was still crying. And when he stepped inside the room, she turned her face away so that he wouldn’t see the tears.

  He knew they were there, though. He went to the edge of the bed and sat down, reaching across and pulling her close. “It’s all right, Katie baby,” he whispered, and she tucked her face against his broad chest. He began to rock her back and forth.

  “It’s all right,” he soothed. “It’s all right, Katie darlin’.”

  The following morning, Slocum woke up to, of all things, the sound of rain! A storm had moved in during the night, and Phoenix was getting a real pounding. In a city with no gutters, with no rainspouts, and hardly anything else to handle excess water, it was a major occurrence. For some, it was a major disaster.

  Katie’s place was new, and so was fairly watertight. But inside the place next door, an old adobe run by a Swedish madam named “Missus Kemble,” they were ankle deep in water. Slocum threw in his back and hand along with several other men, and they managed to swamp out the place within a couple of hours, although it was going to take a lot of work to fix up, once it dried out.

  It was no skin off Slocum’s nose. He planned to be long gone by then. Up to Montana maybe. Or Colorado.

  It didn’t much matter really.

  He went to the sheriff’s office late that afternoon, and reported the murder of Jack Tandy, and also that of the now horse thief and murderer, Rupert Grimes. The sheriff wrote it all down, then had Slocum sign it.

  “Don’t know when we’ll get paper on this new stuff,” said the sheriff. He looked at Slocum as if he knew the big man’s feet were itching like crazy, and the wanderlust was on him. “Tell you what. When it comes in, I’ll just put it in your bank account, okay?”

  Slocum gladly took him up on it. He also asked, “You got any new paper on anybody else?”

  “Not a blessed soul, sorry to say.”

  “We’ll hope for better luck the next time.” He put his hand on the latch. “See you!”

  Night was almost on them when he left the sheriff’s office, and he headed back toward Miss Katie’s, smoking a ready-made cigarette and just generally glad to be breathing in the clean, damp air.

  That night was different than the night before. Yesterday, Katie had cried herself to sleep in Slocum’s arms, and Slocum had drifted off soon thereafter. He had to admit that he didn’t have the slightest notion why Katie would be so upset at Jack’s death. She had hardly known him, after all. He had better reason to understand Jasmine’s sorrow, as he learned later that she had just that morning learned she was pregnant. It was Jack’s.

  Slocum told her that he’d be happy to take her to California, to Jack’s folks, but she turned him down. It seemed that she was far too embarrassed about being a hooker. Slocum told her she could go as Jack’s wife, therefore justifying the baby as well, but she only told him she’d think about it. He hoped she’d think quick. He was leaving in the morning.

  After a satisfying supper, as always, Katie and Slocum sat in the kitchen after the girls had left, talking.

  He knew that she was still upset about Jack, but that she wouldn’t mention it again. Last night had been her period of grieving, and that would be that. She didn’t bring it up again either. Instead, she talked about little Jasmine.

  Slocum didn’t want to hear it, and told Katie so. He said that he only wanted to hear from Jasmine herself, and that she had until the morning because he was leaving. Katie immediately dropped the subject, but before she did, she said, “I was only worried about her.”

  “I know,” Slocum replied softly. He got out a ready-made and scratched a sulphur tip into life. Puffing the smoke, he said, “Jack’s got a real nice grave up there. Lem and his wife took quite a liking to him, and they asked to bury him in the family plot. Right next to their sons, too.” He shook out his match and tossed it on his pillaged plate, where it continued to send up smoke in a tiny, curling wave.

  “Right next to their boys?” Katie asked. It wasn’t exactly a normal thing to do, and Slocum and Katie both knew it.

  “Yeah. Seems they practically adopted him, or as close as they could get to it.”

  Katie just shook her head and muttered, “Right next to their own boys ...”

  Slocum blew out a long plume of white smoke and stared down at the table. “Yeah.”

  Later, they went upstairs to the familiarity of Katie’s room, where Slocum made up for lost time, and Katie was right along with him. After their third go-round—or it might have been the fourth, Slocum had lost track—he got up and walked to the window. It had started to rain again, although it wasn’t the gully-washer of earlier in the day. This was just a light but steady sprinkle of rain.

  Lightning flashed in the far-off sky to the north, momentarily illuminating the interior of the room, and Slocum thought about Lem and Martha, and how things were up at their place.

  He had just seated himself in the plush chair by the window and lit a cigarette when he became aware of a ruckus outside. He peeked out the window.

  The sheriff was running down the center of the sloppy road—their sloppy road—shouting Slocum’s name. Just before he opened the gate to run up to the house, Slocum opened Katie’s window and called down, “What’s got you so shook up at”—he glanced at the clock—“twelve thirty of an evening? Seems to me you ought’a be home with the family!”

  The sheriff called back up, “I sure the hell should. But we got a situation over at the Purple Garter, and I reckon you’re the only thing we’ve got that can take care of it.”

  Had the saloon sprung a leak, too? He asked, “Can’t this wait till mornin’?”

  24

  Fifteen minutes later, a fully dressed Slocum was downstairs and jogging down the street alongside the sheriff.

  “He’s in the saloon,” said the sheriff, mud splashing at his every footfall. “Already killed one deputy and two civilians. The civilians, ’cause one wouldn’t move out of his way and
the other one on general principle, and the deputy because he tried to arrest him for the other two murders.” They stepped up onto the boardwalk, and were out of the rain. “I swear, I don’t know what’s happened to people. I just plain don’t get it.”

  Slocum tried to get information that was more pertinent. “What’s his name?”

  “Don’t know. Nobody’s ever seen him before, though. Might be from outta the territory.”

  Slocum nodded. They were nearing the Purple Garter, and all he could think was, Thank God Jack’s not here. If the sheriff thought the body count was high now ...

  They reached the saloon. The sheriff stayed well back from the windows, out of sight of the killer, but said, “Good luck, Slocum. This one, you can kill. The territory’ll pay.”

  “How much?”

  “At least two thousand. One for the deputy, and one for the two civilians.”

  “Nice to know us civilians are worth so much ...” Slocum muttered as he put a hand on the batwing doors and pushed his way into the saloon.

  The sheriff hadn’t known the gunman, but Slocum recognized him right away. He was Rance Fortney, wanted for multiple murders all over the West—five in California alone—the last time he’d seen any paper on him. And that had been a while back.

  Don’t get cocky, he told himself as he walked up to the bar. He’s dangerous.

  Fortney must have told the other patrons to act normally, because they were spread out, some at the bar, some at tables, and their conversation was kept low. No hoots and hollers from this crowd. But if he’d been playing poker with them, he would have made a mint. Every single one of them was showing a “tell,” which let him know that they were plenty nervous. Fortney was at a table in the far corner of the room, his back to the wall.

  Slocum turned to the bartender and ordered a beer. Fortunately, it was a different man than the one who’d been in charge the day he and Jack took Silas Recker out of there and off to jail.

  No bodies were in evidence. He supposed Fortney’d had them dragged out back, or at least out of sight. Smart.

  The barkeep brought his beer, and he took a few sips before he turned his back to the bar and leaned against it casually. He was careful to hold his beer with his left hand, leaving his right hand to hang free. Its elbow was cocked on the bar top, ready to slide the hand down to his Colt at a moment’s notice.

  As he stood there, slowly sipping his beer, he remembered that he hadn’t asked the sheriff his name. He kept meaning to, but something always threw it off. If he got out of this alive, he was going to ask him, straight on.

  He wished he knew what kind of firepower Fortney was carrying. He liked to know what the odds were. Not that it mattered that much this time. If the sheriff had told him it was Fortney, he would’ve gone back to sleep. It was, after all, the town’s problem, not Slocum’s. But he was stuck with it now.

  On the other hand, Fortney must be worth a heap of money, all told ...

  He checked his situation. Fortney wasn’t a straight shot from here. He was at a rear table, so that precluded just shooting him. There were too many men sitting between them.

  He checked the tables, and found he was in luck—there was a table against the wall at the side of the room that nobody had chosen to sit at. From there, he’d have a clean shot. He hoped.

  Carrying his beer, he slowly ambled toward the table, excusing himself when he came too close to any man’s back or side as he walked. Just a drifter, in town for a drink, that was him. Not looking for trouble, no sir.

  He finally reached the table he was aiming at, and pulled out a chair, his back to the window. It wasn’t his favorite place—Fortney already had that one—and he hoped to hell that the man didn’t have a friend outside. He’d just have to trust that the sheriff had finished clearing the street out front.

  He scooted back a bit and slung his boots up on another chair, took a pull on his beer, and eased his hand down toward his Colt. The hammer was resting on a full chamber. He’d checked that before he walked in.

  Fortney hadn’t even looked at him, except when he walked in.

  The only easy shot he could get off would be under the table, which would hit Fortney in the side. If he aimed a little higher, he had a chance of taking him through the heart, but that was a tough one. Fortney, a big, blond man built like an ox, kept moving his arm around.

  But Slocum was patient. He waited until Fortney’s arm was comfortably propped on the table before he drew his Colt.

  The shot rattled the glass and scared most of the already frightened patrons out of their seats. Except for Fortney. He had fallen, face first, on the table.

  “Sit down!” Slocum ordered, and men dropped their butts into chairs with an echoing thud.

  He pushed back his chair and made his way over to Fortney’s body. He hoped. Fortney had lived long enough to draw his gun, which now dangled uselessly from his forefinger. If he’d been another second slower ...

  But Fortney was dead, all right. Slocum slid the gun off the other man’s finger and stuck it through his own belt, then felt the man’s neck for a pulse, just in case.

  Nope. Dead as a hammer.

  Slocum turned toward the bartender, who had dropped the glass he was polishing, and said, “Go get the sheriff. I left him right outside.”

  The man didn’t say a word, just scampered from behind the bar and out through the batwing doors. It wasn’t five seconds before the sheriff opened them again and came striding in, his gun out and ready.

  When he spotted Slocum, sitting beside Fortney’s body, he walked over gingerly and asked, “Is it safe?”

  Several of the townsmen answered for Slocum. Most were proud that they’d lived through it, while several were still in a state of shock.

  Slocum let them—and the blood pooling on the tabletop and beginning to drip to the floor—answer for him. But he asked one question. “Sheriff, what the hell’s your name?”

  The sheriff looked surprised, but said, “Sorry, didn’t I give it before?”

  “Nope. And we been doin’ a lotta business lately.”

  “It’s Henderson. Gale Henderson.”

  Slocum stood up. He didn’t want to get blood on his boots. He said, “Well, Gale, there he is. You’d best check with the territorial marshal to see what he’s worth. I reckon it could be up around ten thousand by now, dependin’ on who-all he’s killed. Maybe more.”

  And with that, he went back to his own table, picked up his beer, and downed it. Maybe it had been a good thing he’d come out with the sheriff, after all.

  He was halfway to the batwing doors when the sheriff called, “Hey, Slocum!”

  He stopped and turned around. “What?”

  Henderson smiled. “Come back anytime, pardner.”

  Slocum returned the smile. “I will, Gale,” he said. “I will. And I’ll see you come mornin’.”

  Watch for

  SLOCUM AND THE GHOST OF ADAM WEYLAND

  387th novel in the exciting SLOCUM series from Jove

  Coming in May!