Slocum in the Secret Service Page 2

  Rance Carthage was of medium height, thick chested with short, massive arms and hands like hams. He had brown eyes and a hell of a temper. It was he who had shot Slocum through the thigh. The slug had barely missed the bone—but not the artery—and if it hadn’t been for Amos’s fast and expert actions, Slocum would have bled to death. He still had the scar, too.

  Rafe, the middle brother, had been birthed by a Mexican mama and although he, too, was redheaded, he had the dark skin and hot temper to prove his ancestry. He was tallish, with eyes as black as flint, and half-crazy. He’d shot Slocum, too, but his bullet had only creased Slocum’s skull.

  Rafe had taken a bullwhip to Amos, though. Slocum wondered if Amos still bore those whip marks.

  He probably did.

  Rufus, the youngest of the Carthage boys, had been only seventeen when Slocum and Amos put him and his brothers away. How old would he be now? Twenty-two? Twenty-three, maybe?

  Slocum supposed it didn’t matter. A jaguar doesn’t change his spots, and he doubted that a few years on bread and water in a four-by-six-foot cell had sweetened Rufus’s disposition any at all.

  The fairest of the three, Rufus was pale-skinned and blue-eyed, and about the same height as his brother, Rafe. Might be some taller, now. Rufus hadn’t shot Slocum—not up close and personal, anyway—or come at him with a knife or a whip.

  He hadn’t done Amos any dirt either, except to fire from a distance. And rig a rope across a rutted road right at chest height, which, when Amos rode into it at a gallop, had knocked him off his horse and knocked him senseless to boot.

  But Rufus had committed a far worse crime.

  When he rigged that rope tight across the road and they came galloping, hell bent for leather, around the bend, he hadn’t counted on Slocum’s horse tossing its head in the air at the exact wrong moment.

  Slocum still remembered the exact second when old Speck was half-decapitated. Still remembered how he’d run exactly two more strides before he dropped, covering himself and Slocum in a sea of blood. Poor Speck was dead before he hit the ground, probably dead the second that the rope knifed into his jugular.

  And Rufus, the little redheaded bastard, had thought it was funny. He’d actually laughed.

  Now, Slocum could forgive—or, at least try to forget—a lot of things, but not that, not ever. If the Carthage boys were on the loose, then Rufus was fair game. That was, if Slocum lived through his brothers.

  He picked up his cigar before it had a chance to make a hole in the rug, then looked, once again, at Amos. He looked as serious as a heart attack.

  Amos said, “They broke out of Yuma about a week ago. They’re headed this way.”

  Slocum’s brow creased. “How you know that? You still with the Pinkertons?”

  Amos shook his head, then half-smiled. “No, I chose a job with more miserly pay and more danger. You know me. Always looking for a good time. I’m with the Secret Service, now.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Probably,” replied Amos, and sipped at his brandy.

  Slocum arched a brow. “What do the Carthage boys have to do with the Secret Service?” he asked. “I thought you boys spent all your time protectin’ the president of these United States.”

  “Most of it,” Amos said, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. “This is special. We are sent out, from time to time, to deal with local matters that might go national. My current superior—who I shall not name—believes strongly in federal intervention. Legal or not, if you get my drift.”

  Slocum nodded. “So, you ain’t here in an official capacity.”

  “Correct.” Amos paused. “And neither, my friend, are you.”

  This was getting just a little too convoluted for Slocum to puzzle out, so rather than let it go on any further afield, he said, “What are you sayin’, Amos? I ain’t a part of this.”

  Unless that sonofabitch, Rufus, crosses my path, he thought grimly.

  “Sorry, but I beg to differ, old chum,” Amos said with a perfectly straight face. He placed a hand over his heart. “Your country is calling you.”

  “No,” Slocum said emphatically. He’d already answered his country’s call once. He’d joined on the losing side, but that didn’t matter to him. Once was enough.

  “Oh, yes,” Amos went on, unperturbed. “I’m afraid so.”

  Slocum tossed back the rest of his brandy. “Screw you, Amos.” Angrily, he set down his glass. “Why’d you all of a sudden decide to pick on me, anyhow?”

  “Because you’re the one man I know that I could trust to stand beside me. The one man I know who has the balls to stand up to the Carthage boys. The only one probably still angry enough—and skilled enough.”

  Slocum scowled. Flattery didn’t go far with him, and Amos should know that. He said, “That don’t explain how you just happened to bump into me in this lousy, two-bit hole in the wall of a town. Fess up, Amos.”

  Grinning, Amos leaned over the table and refilled Slocum’s glass. “Because,” he said, “your life is not so private as you believe it to be.”

  “Huh?”

  “Remember last week, when you stopped for the day in Salt Flats?”

  Slocum raised a brow. “Yeah. How in the devil did you know I went through Salt Flats?”

  “Do you remember, when you visited the saloon there—the Red Dog Saloon, I believe it was—a short man at a corner table?”

  Slocum was getting past testy. He snarled, “No,” and then said, “How in the hell’d you know I was at the Red Dog?”

  “Because of that little man you didn’t notice,” Amos replied matter-of-factly. “I even know that you ordered three beers over a period of as many hours, won twenty-five dollars at poker, and spent the night with a young lady named Margarita.”

  Slocum’s mouth fell open, but his eyes were narrowed.

  Amos continued, “And I suppose you paid no attention to the traveling salesman in the barber shop at Show Low, did you?”

  Slocum glared at him.

  Amos shrugged his shoulders. “No reason you should. Although they were the same man. Agent, I should say. Your federal government knows a great many details about famous men such as yourself, old chum. Such as where you are going, and on what business.”

  Spying on him, that’s what they were doing! His own damned government was keeping tabs on him!

  Slocum got to his feet and growled, “Listen here, Amos, you’re a good friend of mine, but I’ve had about enough of—”

  “There, there,” Amos said soothingly. “Let me finish. And do have another drink. It’s actually fairly decent brandy, considering the vicinity to which it had to be shipped and the abysmal conditions I’m certain it was subjected to.”

  But Slocum just stood there, scowling, and Amos added, “Please, Slocum. It’s important.”

  Grudgingly, Slocum sat down again and snatched up his glass. “I’m sittin’,” he said, and downed his glass in one annoyed gulp. “Hurry up.”

  Amos sat forward and planted his elbows on his knees. “Listen, my friend. The government has been keeping an eye on you, off and on, for years. They know they have you to thank, among others, for staving off that second rebel war a few years back. They also know that the cavalry wasn’t a damn bit of help to you. They know you turned up that despicable serial killer at Three Wives. They know—”

  “Sounds like those sonsofbitches know a lot of things,” Slocum said curtly. “I say, screw them.”

  He didn’t take to the idea of folks snooping in his private business, not one bit, and he wasn’t ashamed to say so.

  “But like it or not, Slocum,” Amos continued, “screwed or unscrewed, they do know. And when the information came in that those wretched Carthage brothers were headed this way—and that you were, too—well, I’m sorry Slocum, but it was too fateful a coincidence to pass up.”

  Slocum had a pretty good idea where Amos was going with this, but he said, “What was?”

  “Why, for me to meet you here. For the two of us to go up against those bastards again.” Amos sat back again and added, quite seriously, “And this time, Slocum, it will be the last time.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that we are to act with deadly force,” Amos said. “Without prejudice.”

  “You’re sayin’ that this time we don’t need to haul ’em off to jail?”

  “You know as well as I do that they were responsible for the Holworth massacre. Twelve settlers in that group, and they killed them all down to the last woman and child.” Amos looked disgusted, and Slocum didn’t blame him.

  He wished Amos hadn’t reminded him, because all he could think of now was finding the plundered wagons, the bodies and among them that little angel of a three-year-old blond girl. Poor baby.

  But Amos wasn’t done yet. “They emptied two towns of citizens,” he went on. “Hazard and Ford’s Mill. The ones who didn’t flee wished that they had. And the Lord knows what else they’ve done.”

  Slocum recalled riding into Ford’s Mill with Amos at his side and discovering two men, tied to the paddle wheel of the mill. They had been long dead, white, bloated, and nibbled at by fish.

  That, and a ransacked town and a fresh but crude carving on the wall of what had been the mercantile, that read, RUFUS CARTHAGE WAS HERE.

  Slocum stiffened. “That was before.”

  Amos nodded. “Before we put them away, you mean. If you will recall, the federal authorities thought they should be put to death. Several times over, if possible, and I remember you agreeing . . . well, strongly might be too soft a word. It was only because the Arizona Territorial governor at the time was a little . . . softhearted. Modern, he called it, as I remember. Rehabilitation and all that rot.”

  “More like he w
as paid off,” Slocum rumbled. It still pissed him off, just thinking about it. He looked up, looked Amos right in the eye. “Goddamn lily livered toad sucker. Come right out with it, Amos. You’re tellin’ me that this time, we’re supposed to kill ’em, aren’t you?”

  “Unofficially?” Amos said, cocking a brow. “Yes. In other words, no legal action whatsoever will be taken if any or all of the Carthage brothers turn up dead with bullet holes between their shoulder blades. Even if you and I are standing over them with pistols in our hands.”

  Slocum snorted. “You mean if there happens to be another Federal agent around to stop somebody from hangin’ us before we got a chance to explain.”

  Thoughtfully, Amos scratched his head. “Well, there’s that. But this should help.”

  He dug down into his pocket, pulled out a small, black wallet, and handed it across the table to Slocum. Slocum took it with a raised brow.

  “Open it,” Amos said.

  Slocum did. Inside was an identification card, all filled out with his name on it. And a badge that read SPECIAL AGENT, UNITED STATES SECRET SERVICE.

  “That’s only in case of dire emergency, of course,” Amos added.

  Slocum was silent for a long moment, staring at the damned badge, before he put it down and refilled his own glass. He hated badges, and hated wearing one even worse, but then he thought about that terrible moment with Speck, with the blood washing back over him like somebody had tossed a bucket of it into the air.

  And the groan, that terrible, brief strangled groan that Speck had made.

  That, and that little blond girl.

  Taking a thoughtful puff on his cigar before he drank, he said, “Amos, you’re a sonofabitchin’ bastard for haulin’ me into this. I don’t like it. Don’t like it at all. But, to put it mildly, I’ve got even less admiration for the Carthage boys. So you win. I’m in.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Amos said with a crisp nod. He smiled once more. “I thought you’d say that. So drink your drink, then go put on your boots. And your hat. You look odd without it. And then let’s go have some dinner. I’m so hungry I could . . . what do you people say out here? I’m so hungry I could eat a mountain lion.”

  “Bear,” Slocum said, standing.

  Amos shrugged, and stood up, as well. “Whatever,” he said, grinning. “In any case, a large, rather testy, wild animal. Raw.”

  3

  Amos Marple waited a few moments after Slocum left, then stepped out into the hallway to wait for him. They were good friends, he and Slocum, and the fact that Slocum had agreed to help in Amos’s pursuit only proved it.

  Although they saw each other only every few years, they knew each other like brothers. Well, Amos liked to think so, at any rate.

  If it hadn’t been for Slocum’s dark hair—as opposed to Amos’s yellow crop—and their eyes—Slocum’s were green, while Amos’s were blue—and the fact that Amos had been born in Bath, England, they might well have been kin.

  Amos attributed this to a mere accident of birth. He imagined Slocum would have simply snorted derisively if confronted with this theory, however.

  Just like good old Slocum, Amos thought with a grin. They were even about the same age, Amos being less than one year Slocum’s junior.

  “Between the two of us,” Amos said softly, “those Carthage boys don’t stand a chance.”

  “You always were an optimistic sonofabitch,” Slocum said, startling him. He was just coming out his door and settling his hat on his head.

  Amos glanced down at Slocum’s feet. “Boots. Better. Your feet were a tad gamey, old man.”

  Slocum grunted. “Nice’a you not to say anything,” he growled, “till now.”

  They started down the hall. It was quiet now, except for the soft sounds of brooms at work floating up the stairs. “Wanna eat here?” Slocum asked.

  “I think not,” Amos replied as they reached the landing and surveyed the scene below: the aftermath of unbridled and enthusiastic breakage and vandalism. “Food’s apt to be laced with broken glass. And the way you eat?” He shook his head. “I’d hate to lose you before we even get started on our quest.”

  Slocum grumbled, “Goddamn smart ass,” but he walked down the stairs. They moved through the bar and out the batwing doors, their boots crunching broken bottles, mugs, windows, and mirrors.

  Amos directed them to the Roadrunner Café, the only place in town—besides the saloon—to eat, and they settled in at a corner table, each man taking one of the two chairs that backed to the wall.

  Old habits died hard, Amos thought. If Slocum noticed how they’d automatically picked those two exact chairs, he gave no sign of it.

  Typical, Amos thought, and gave his head an amused shake.

  “Your 16 ounce steak,” announced Slocum to the waiter, who had just appeared. “Charred on the outside,” he continued, “and still mooin’ on the inside. With all the trimmin’s and a side of grilled onions. And apple pie. With cheddar cheese. Oh, and coffee.”

  Amos didn’t even glance at the chalkboard menu. “Same for me,” he said amiably. The waiter left before he said, “Hungry, Slocum?”

  “Tipsy,” was all Slocum said, and Amos understood immediately. The fair Tipsy had given him quite an appetite, too.

  But this time, it was for food.

  Slocum lit a cigar while they waited for their food. “So why Armpit?” Amos’s alter ego asked, once he’d exhaled a plume of smoke. “Why the hell does anybody come to Armpit, except for the whores? And I got a feelin’ that those boys took care of their urges about fifteen minutes after they cleared the prison walls.”

  Amos nodded. Slocum was right on the money, as usual.

  He said, “You’re correct. They did take care of their urges. They raped a seventeen-year-old girl just outside Yuma, then killed her.”

  Amos watched as Slocum closed his eyes and lowered his head. He knew it wasn’t a prayer. It was anger, pure and simple. Amos remained silent and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long before Slocum looked up, looked at him, and said, “Our killin’ ’em is too bright a future for those boys.”

  “No argument here,” Amos said solemnly.

  “So why they comin’ to Armpit?”

  “They’re not,” Amos said. “They’re headed in this general direction, however. I simply swung over this way to—”

  “Pick me up,” Slocum said, finishing the sentence for him.

  Amos smiled. “Precisely.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Tonight would do nicely, old man.”

  Slocum scratched at his ear. “Well, Tipsy’s glamor has kinda worn off, seein’ as how we were plowin’ the same field.” He shot Amos a look that made him cringe a little. But then Slocum suddenly grinned and added, “But we got time to eat, Mr. Secret Service man?”

  “Wouldn’t have brought you here if we didn’t,” Amos replied just as the waiter arrived with a gigantic tray covered with steaming plates.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Slocum said as the waiter slid a steak in front of him and another in front of Amos. Smothered in grilled onions, the steaks were so huge that they hung over the edges of the plates.

  Slocum picked up a knife and a fork. “That’s real good, Amos, cause I plan to do a lot of it.”

  Roughly forty miles away, the Carthage boys had built themselves a fire, and Rufus, the youngest, was practically up to his armpits in blood. He had been assigned the task of butchering the calf they’d stolen late in the afternoon.

  While his brothers, Rance and Rafe, roasted the nicest morsels over the fire, he was stuck carving up most of the rest of the meat into strips, which he was hanging over the bushes to dry, for jerky.

  He’d used up all the brush in the vicinity in the process, and was now having to walk about thirty feet away from the fire each time he had a fresh load of beef strips.

  “You’d best come out here and help me light another fire,” he called to his brothers. “I got a coyote out here that’s swipin’ our beef.”

  Rance laughed. “Build it yourself, kid.”

  “Kill it,” Rafe said, without bothering to turn and look at him.