Slocum and the Meddler Page 3

  “What’s the difference?”

  Finch didn’t have any good answer but loosened the rope so Slocum could breathe a little easier. He slumped forward and held the pommel with his bound hands. Turning his head to the side, he saw a couple dozen men and a few women watching with real anticipation. This was the most excitement they’d had in Abilene for weeks. At the edge of the crowd Herk moved about. From the way he bobbed about, Slocum thought he was picking pockets.

  Every now and then Herk stopped and whispered to a man, always producing great consternation. Slocum wondered what the crippled man was saying. And then he had more trouble on his hands than he could deal with.

  “Give that horse’s rump a swat. I want to see this varmint’s heels kickin’ in the air.”

  “I didn’t kill Macauley,” Slocum called out, stalling for time. He twisted around and groped at the saddle flap on his right side. His fingers slid across the horn handle of a small knife he hid there. When the horse began acting all skittish, he almost lost his balance. The rope pulled him upright, and his fingers missed the knife handle entirely.

  “You were there, you were responsible,” Finch said. “We’re only carryin’ out justice poor ole Willie won’t.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Marshal Wilson hurrying forward, the sawed-off double-barreled shotgun waving around like a flag in the wind. As fast as the marshal came, he would be too late.

  Slocum heard a palm slap down hard on his horse’s hindquarters, then the animal reared. The noose tightened and choked off his wind. Gagging, he blindly groped out, but there wasn’t anything he could do to save himself.

  3

  Slocum’s horse reared again, forcing him to contort his neck to keep from being pulled from the saddle, but when the horse dropped down with all four legs on the ground, it had moved back enough to give some slack in the noose. Fingers working frantically, Slocum found the hidden knife and pulled it out from under the saddle flap. Reaching up and slashing at the rope took but an instant. Then the horse decided to bolt.

  Slocum dropped the knife and felt the noose jerk hard around his neck—then the few remaining strands he hadn’t cut snapped from the pressure. Unbalanced, he twisted about and fell from the horse.

  The roar of a shotgun firing drowned out the mob’s angry cries at being thwarted.

  “You git yerselves back. Away. I tell you, git away from him!” The shotgun blasted again.

  Slocum pushed himself up and gagged. The noose was still tight around his throat.

  “Wait a second, mister.”

  Slocum almost passed out as air rushed into his lungs when the rope was pulled free. He got to his feet and stood behind Marshal Wilson, who menaced the crowd with an empty shotgun. The lawman didn’t seem to remember he had fired both barrels. More important to Slocum’s well-being, the crowd ignored that, too, and backed off.

  “We need to string ’im up, Willie. He kilt Mac!”

  “Hush up, Finch,” the marshal said. He turned to Slocum and asked, “Kin you git yerself cut free?”

  Slocum looked around and saw the small knife in the dirt. He fetched it and began clumsily working on his wrist bonds. The ropes finally yielded. He grunted as pain shot through his hands when circulation returned. Then he gripped the knife, ready to use it on Finch and any of the others.

  “He shot us up, Willie. He ought to be locked up fer that.”

  “Might be a better case for self-defense,” the marshal said. His hand began shaking. Slocum knew he had finally remembered that he faced an angry mob with an empty weapon.

  “You let us string him up or—”

  “Or what?” Slocum stepped around, the knife in his hand.

  “You’re not scarin’ us, you son of a bitch. The marshal might have got your neck out of that noose now, but we’ll find you. We’ll make you pay!”

  Slocum didn’t bother winding up as he swung. His fist connected with the tip of Finch’s chin and knocked the man backward. Two men in the crowd caught him. Otherwise, he would have fallen.

  A moment of shock caused the crowd to fall silent. Slocum acted to retrieve his six-shooter. It felt better in his hand, but he didn’t have enough rounds left to make much of a dent if the crowd decided to continue their necktie party. That didn’t matter. He would kill enough of them, starting with Finch.

  His attitude caused the crowd to hesitate. At the rear some onlookers began slipping away to return to their humdrum lives. The sun poked up higher in the cloudless sky, making everyone hot and increasingly miserable.

  “You better collect your horse and ride on out,” Wilson said. “Not sure how long I kin hold ’em at bay.”

  “Not very long at all with an empty shotgun,” Slocum said. He slammed the Colt into his cross-draw holster and brandished the small knife that had saved his life. Throwing a knife this small was pointless, but Slocum couldn’t restrain himself. He reared back, then released the blade. It cartwheeled twice through the air, a silver blur, and then ended up point first in the dirt between Finch’s boots. The cowboy jumped back, causing more furor behind him.

  “Get outta town and good riddance,” Marshal Wilson muttered as Slocum spun and went to catch his horse. It had stopped to drink from a trough a few yards down the street.

  He felt prickles up and down his spine, imagining Finch or the others drawing a bead on him. He never looked back as he snared his reins and swung into the saddle. The edge of town beckoned.

  “You’re not gettin’ by with this! You can’t kill my friend and not pay for it, you murderin’ sidewinder!”

  Finch waved his fist in the air as others took up the jeers.

  Slocum couldn’t leave Abilene fast enough.

  He rode steadily for an hour, then left the trail, made his way through low hills, and doubled back to see if he had a posse on his tail. Waiting close to a half hour convinced him Finch hadn’t bothered getting his friends together to bring their vengeance down on him. As he studied the empty, dusty road, he thought hard about what had happened in town. Not much of it made sense, but coincidence was possible. Slocum would never bet that way in a poker game, and life hardly showed coincidences, but they did happen. Macauley just happened to kick in the wrong hotel door and somebody just happened to be in position to gun him down.

  Slocum shook his head as he worked over what the crippled-up Herk had told him. Might be that gossip set the wheels spinning that ended up with Macauley dead and a rope around the wrong man’s neck. He rubbed the burns on his throat and got mad all over again.

  He took a swig from his canteen, rolled the tepid water in his mouth, and then spat to get rid of the trail dust. A second drink didn’t satisfy his thirst but made traveling on more bearable.

  Turning his horse’s face, he returned to the double-rutted trail and the next town, whatever that was. When he took a break at midday, he began to feel a trifle uneasy. Rather than dig out food from his saddlebags that had to be cooked, he grabbed a piece of jerky and ate as he rode north off the road. It took an hour, but he found some elevation that suited his purpose. He dismounted, got his field glasses, and started a slow study of the horizon along his back trail. In less than a minute he saw a dust cloud not kicked up by the restless West Texas wind.

  Sitting and bracing his elbows on his raised knees, he watched as the dust cloud came closer, then moved back toward the road he had left.

  “Damn.”

  The riders took form. Jerome Finch rode at the head of five cowboys. Slocum recognized a couple of them. They hadn’t taken Wilson’s advice to let the matter drop.

  “Now, why are you doing this?” Slocum asked the fitful breeze whirling over the desert. It made no sense to him that Finch kept after him. If all the cowboy wanted was Macauley’s wife, he was better off letting Slocum ride away. He could play the big man who had run off the killer—or he could even lie about it to Martha Macauley and tell her he had killed the man who shot down her husband. Any way he played his hand, he stood tall in the wid
ow’s eyes.

  The way Finch doggedly hunted him made Slocum think he was genuinely aggrieved over the death of a friend and wanted justice done. No matter that the marshal told Finch he had the wrong man. Slocum understood evening the score when it came to murdered friends.

  Finch was better off letting the matter fade away if all he wanted was the widow woman. He would never rest if he wanted revenge for a friend’s murder.

  Slocum lifted the field glasses to watch as one of the riders found a small hint as to the direction Slocum had taken. They all dismounted and began searching the ground, looking for more signs. They found it. Finch pointed in the direction Slocum had ridden. It took only seconds for them to hurry on the trail.

  Getting to his feet, Slocum tucked the field glasses back into his saddlebags and knew he had to show more skill than he had so far. He might use his Winchester to pick off the men one by one. Eventually they would either give up or all be dead. If he shot Finch first, that might end the pursuit.

  But Slocum wasn’t that kind of killer. The more he thought on it, the more he believed Finch was an honest man looking to avenge a friend’s death. That wasn’t the kind of man who deserved Slocum’s deadly attention.

  He rode farther north, found a rocky patch, cut across it, then endured the hottest part of the day to angle northwest before turning southwest. The trail he left might be followed—but he didn’t think any of the men behind him were Apaches with Apache tracking skills. Using every trick he had ever learned and a couple he had thought up on his own, he eventually made his way westward.

  It took him close to a week to find a small town along the main road from Abilene. The best he could tell, he had left Finch and his men wandering aimlessly out in the desert, following sidewinder tracks in the shifting sand dunes, hurrying after dust devils, and maybe even finding themselves so thirsty they had to give up the hunt.

  Never once had he left spoor showing he was headed west. By now Finch might be scouring Palo Duro Canyon. Or he might have returned to the ranch where he worked and once more did useful work tending a herd. Slocum didn’t much care which it was if Finch had given up on his vengeance.

  He rode slowly into town. He hadn’t bothered to decipher the name on a post a hundred yards behind him. The wood had splintered and the whitewash lettering had long since faded. All that mattered was being away from Abilene, Marshal Wilson, and the murderous Jerome Finch.

  Back aching, he dismounted, stretched, and winced at the pain in his shoulders and legs. The town was so small, there were only a pair of saloons. He went to the nearest one. The smell of cigar smoke and stale beer blowing from inside was sweeter than any perfume to his nostrils. Climbing the steps, he paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the dimness inside.

  “Come on in,” greeted the bartender. “What’s your poison?”

  “Looking for a cold beer and some food,” Slocum said.

  “You found the right place. The Horny Toad Saloon’s got the best damn food this side of the Rio Grande. You want meat or you want beans?”

  “Both,” Slocum said. His belly rumbled at the thought of real food. He had lived off oatmeal and jerky for the past week, hardly taking time to eat so he could put the crookedest trail possible between him and Finch.

  “And a beer, comin’ right up. Set yourself down.”

  Slocum sank into a chair, moved it around so his back was to a wall, and looked at the other three customers. One had passed out. The other two bet each other which was the stupidest. The cowboy with the knife stabbing between his outstretched fingers won Slocum’s bet. The cowboy yelped when he missed and stuck himself smack in the back of the hand, causing his friend to laugh in glee.

  “They do that all the time,” the barkeep said, putting a plate of beef and beans in front of Slocum along with a fork and a mug of foamy beer. “You should see the scars they got on their hands.”

  “Not much else to do in town?” Slocum guessed.

  The barkeep laughed and walked away, giving Slocum all the answer he needed. Some towns existed for no other reason than the inhabitants forgot to leave. From what he could tell on his ride into this almost ghost town, ranching in the area was the sole livelihood. With the land as arid as it was, a rancher couldn’t graze too many head of cattle on an acre and providing water was a constant problem.

  Slocum forgot about water and fodder as he dived into his meal. The beer went down well, not in the least bitter. He drained the last of it and rocked back, ready to order another, when he saw a furtive shadow against the window. Twilight had cooled off the desert already and left behind long shadows.

  He reached under the table and pulled out his six-gun.

  The shadow moved back and forth outside, as if pacing, then vanished. The creak of boards in the doorway caused Slocum to swing his six-shooter around. If Jerome Finch stepped through the door, he was a dead man.

  Slocum cursed under his breath when Herk stepped inside the saloon.

  The mangled man spotted Slocum immediately and came over, his left leg dragging slightly.

  “Didn’t ’spect to see you, Mr. Slocum,” Herk said. “You get around, but a man like you’s got to, I reckon.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “Didn’t walk, that’s for certain sure,” Herk said, laughing. It sounded more like a crow’s call than anything human. “No, sir, I hitched a ride with a freighter. He was bringin’ over food and durables, so’s I kept him company. He muchly appreciated it, he did.”

  Slocum started to speak, then clamped his mouth shut and thought hard.

  “What’s wrong? You look like you got somethin’ chewin’ at yer gut.”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  Herk straightened a little. His eyes widened and then returned to their normal squint.

  “Why, I heard the marshal sayin’ it back in Abilene.”

  “He never got my name, not by the time you called me by name the first time.”

  “You must be mistaken. I know I heard it after you left under such a cloud.” Herk snickered. “That Finch is a caution, almost hangin’ you the way he did. That would have covered his tracks real good. Nobody’d ever think he was the one what killed Macauley.”

  “So you say.”

  “Might be wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time, but he’s a conniver, that one.”

  “Do tell,” Slocum said.

  “You want another beer?” The barkeep directed the question at Slocum but scowled in Herk’s direction.

  “Do you? I could use somethin’ to wet my whistle, too.”

  “Two beers,” Slocum said. He pointed to the chair across the table from him. He leaned forward just a bit and slid his pistol back into his holster. He didn’t see any evidence that Herk was dangerous. Not like that.

  “Much obliged, Mr. Slocum. And that is your name, I know. I know ’cuz—” Herk bit off his explanation when the bartender returned with the beers. Only when he was out of earshot did the man continue. “I know that ’cuz you got big trouble doggin’ your every step.”

  “Finch and the cowboys with him,” Slocum said. He put on a poker face when Herk vehemently shook his head.

  “Not them. They don’t count. Finch is not gonna try comin’ after you. He’s got a job.”

  “And a new woman to keep happy,” Slocum said.

  “What? Yeah, that’s right. He’s got Mac’s woman to tend now.”

  Slocum sipped at his beer and waited. Herk would get around to saying his piece eventually. He finally drained enough of his beer to lick his lips in noisy appreciation.

  Then he leaned forward and said in a hoarse whisper, “You got a bounty hunter after you. You got to be careful, Mr. Slocum, or he’ll run you to ground.”

  “There’s no call for a bounty hunter to be after me,” Slocum said in as level a voice as he could. Truth was, he had more than one wanted poster on his head. The one that had proven the hardest to ignore was for killing a federal judge. The carpetbagger judge had
deserved the couple ounces of lead Slocum had given him, but the law didn’t see it that way.

  No matter that the judge had forged documents showing no taxes had been paid on Slocum’s Stand during the war and that he wanted its prime pastureland for a stud farm. He and a hired gunman had ridden out to seize the land that had been in Slocum’s family since it was deeded by King George II. The judge had gotten a bit of land, but not what he had expected. Slocum had buried him and the gunman by the springhouse, mounted, and ridden westward without so much as a backward look.

  The judge had deserved his reward. But a different kind of reward had been put on Slocum’s head. How had any bounty hunter come across that wanted poster and found him in West Texas? It hardly seemed possible.

  It hardly seemed any more possible than a stranger kicking open his hotel room door, then getting gunned down in an ambush.

  “You watch your step, that’s all I’m sayin’,” Herk said.

  “Where did you hear that a bounty hunter was after me?”

  “I got nuthin’ better to do than sit in saloons and listen. All day long, all night long, ole Herk listens to what gents have to say. Sometimes folks are good to me and buy a beer.” He hoisted his empty mug in silent salute to Slocum. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to say any more, Slocum gave in to the extortion and had the barkeep bring another beer.

  Herk drank with gusto, then smacked his lips.

  “Yes, sir, I listen good. The bounty hunter come all the way from El Paso and is after you.”

  Slocum started to ask how that was possible. He hadn’t been to El Paso in a couple years. There wasn’t any way in hell a bounty hunter could have picked up his trail there since there just wasn’t any trail to follow.

  “He knows you real good. Said you was wanted for a terrible crime.”

  “Everyone’s wanted for something,” Slocum said.

  “Not like yours. Not for murder.”

  “You’re getting what happened in Abilene confused with…” Slocum’s voice trailed off. There was no reason to tell Herk anything. The man had collected his due in a couple beers.