Slocum and the Misty Creek Massacre Read online

  Once again, Everett cut Slocum off with a wild punch. His fist didn’t make contact with anything but air, but his elbow cracked against Slocum’s ribs to send a sharp spiking pain through his side. Since he already had a hold of him, Slocum allowed Everett to twist around so he was in prime position for the knee that was driven into his stomach. When Slocum delivered the short, pounding blow, Everett crumpled.

  “All right,” Slocum said while straightening the other man up as if he was a large doll. “Why the hell did you run?”

  “Why the hell did you chase me?”

  “I just came to that steak house to talk and you bolted.”

  “You could’ve just let me go!” Everett whined.

  “Well, I may not wear a tin star pinned to my chest, but I’ve learned a thing or two from lawmen. One of the first is that innocent men usually don’t have a reason to run from people paying them a visit.”

  “I know why you were coming after me!”

  “Really? Why?”

  Everett didn’t seem anxious to answer that question. Since he wasn’t alert and barely able to stand upon his trembling legs, the cook fell onto his backside when he was shoved again. Looming over him, Slocum said, “I just wanted to ask you about something that happened the night you were working at the Dodge House. There was a card game. Afterward, I…”

  Slocum wasn’t cut short this time. Instead, he stopped talking because Everett had turned and tried to crawl away. Tired of the constant interruptions, Slocum picked him up by what would have been the scruff of Everett’s neck, pulled him to his feet, and shoved him against the closest wall. The entire wooden structure rattled when Everett hit it and the stench coming from within made it more than obvious that it was an outhouse.

  “You know what happened, don’t you?” Slocum growled.

  Everett tried to turn away, but there was nowhere for him to go. When he twisted his head to look in another direction, he was jarred by the impact of his back pounding against the wooden wall.

  “Don’t you?” Slocum demanded.

  “Yes! I’m sorry! It was just the usual arrangement!”

  “You had an arrangement with Cameron?”

  “No,” Everett replied. “With Milt.”

  Even though he knew the name, Slocum couldn’t believe that the older gunman was the one he was after. “You mean the man who wears two guns and has a face full of scars?”

  “That’s him all right. He pays me to steer men his way so they can be jumped in Tin Pot Alley.”

  Slocum squinted as he went through the painful process of sifting through memories that rattled inside his throbbing head. He’d already pieced together portions of the card game and a few moments from his drunken walk from the Dodge House. Staring at Everett allowed him to focus on the few times he’d engaged the bartender in conversation. It was still hazy.

  “You told me to go down Tin Pot Alley?” Slocum guessed.

  “No, I told you that Estrella rented a room down there and wanted to meet you.”

  While Slocum’s guess hadn’t seemed like something that would have gotten him into that alley, what Everett said made a lot more sense.

  “You were buying another bottle of whiskey and asked where she was,” the cook continued.

  It was all rushing back to him now. Slocum closed his eyes and said, “Second building on the left at the top of a set of narrow stairs.”

  “That’s right. That’s what I told you.”

  “And the deal with Milt?”

  “It’s a standing offer,” Everett said. “I steer anyone having a good night down that alley so Milt and Fitz can bushwhack them.”

  “I may have been drunk as a skunk, but I know I wasn’t having a good night at that game.”

  “Maybe not, but he knew who you are. He heard about some of the men you killed in New Mexico and those gunmen you hunted down in the Badlands.”

  Slocum had a vague idea of what Everett was talking about, but his hesitance wasn’t due to any knock to the head. There had just been too many hunts in his lifetime to sort them all out by location. The ghosts of the dead would always hang over his head regardless of where they were buried.

  “Were those dead men friends of his?” Slocum asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He didn’t seem angry about them’s that was killed. Talked like he admired you. Asked me if I was certain you were the real John Slocum and not just some asshole trying to pass himself off under that name. All I said was that you were answering to that name all night long, so he told me to try and steer you down Tin Pot Alley.”

  When Slocum had realized he’d been robbed, he was angry at himself just as much as he was angry at the robbers. Upon reacquainting himself with Cameron and the two gunmen working as hired muscle for the gambler, Slocum wanted nothing more than to make sure they were behind the robbery so he could fully savor taking back what they’d stolen either from their pockets or out of their hides. This new bit of information cast a different light on the matter, however.

  “What else did you tell Milt?” Slocum asked.

  “He didn’t ask much of anything else.”

  “Does he know I was staying at the Dodge House?”

  Everett shrugged as if he was getting comfortable dangling from Slocum’s fists. “Probably. Was it supposed to be a secret?”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Cameron’s either at the Dodge House or the Long Branch, where all the big games are played.”

  “No,” Slocum said, emphasizing the word by giving him a single, jarring shake. “I mean where can I find Milt or Fitz when they’re not out hunting for easy prey? Tell me where they live, where they eat, which barber they go to, just tell me where I can find them outside of a saloon.”

  “I don’t know! I swear to Christ! They’re always with Cameron.”

  All Slocum needed to do was place one hand upon the grip of the holstered .38 for Everett to start shaking like a leaf.

  “I told you already!” the cook squealed. “I don’t know!”

  Now that the pounding thump of his heartbeat had eased up, Slocum could hear hushed voices encroaching on him from several different angles. Other folks were taking an interest in his conversation, and he even heard a few whispered mentions of fetching the law to come and deal with the situation.

  Before he ran out of time to question Everett, Slocum asked, “Who the hell is Milt anyway?”

  “Milt Connoway. He’s lived in Dodge on and off for the last couple of years. Came back around not too long ago, working the saloons on his own before throwing in with Mr. Cameron. I do most of my work at the chop house. All I see of Milt or Cameron or that other one is when they ask me to do that little bit of work for them.”

  “Little bit of work, huh?” Slocum said as his grip tightened around the front of Everett’s shirt. “I got knocked on the head so hard that I damn near forgot about the last two days of my life!”

  “Folks get bushwhacked all the time around here! Hell, sometimes it’s the law that does it. People are robbed no matter what.”

  “So you might as well make a few dollars off of it, huh?”

  “Well…”

  “Never mind,” Slocum snapped. “Don’t answer that question or I won’t be able to keep from beating you to a pulp in front of all these people.”

  Everett started to look around at the gathering crowd, but was brought back to the matter at hand when Slocum pulled him in close enough to be heard when he dropped his voice to a low rumble. “Your little side business of steering folks to get robbed ends right now, you understand?”

  Everett nodded.

  “And if Milt or anyone else connected to those two comes up to you asking for leads, I want to know about it. You tell them whatever you have to in order to buy some time without setting anyone else up for a fall. Don’t let them know you’re out of the arrangement. Just get word back to me and I’ll let you know what to do from there. Got it?”

  Everett nodded again.r />
  “You’d best do exactly what I told you,” Slocum warned. “Those back-shooting bastards chose the wrong man to rob. They’ll learn that lesson soon enough. If I have to straighten you out again, you’ll be hard pressed to find three bones in your body that ain’t snapped in two.”

  “So you ain’t gonna kill me now or…break anything?”

  “I’m letting you off this time,” Slocum said with a hint of warning in his voice. “Will those assholes be at the Dodge House tonight?”

  “Yeah, but I won’t.”

  “Yes you will. You’ll find a way to get behind that bar. I don’t care how you do it or who you’ve got to beg, but you’ll be there to tell them exactly what I want you to tell them.” Leaning in even closer, Slocum added, “And let me make one thing perfectly clear. I don’t give a damn if you see a man stagger into that saloon with gold nuggets spilling from his pockets. You won’t set up one more soul to get jumped in Tin Pot Alley. Got that?”

  “Y–Y–Yes.”

  “All right, then.” Like any good fisherman, Slocum let his minnow go only after he was sure the hook was set good and tight.

  And like any good piece of live bait, Everett couldn’t wriggle away fast enough.

  As the petrified cook darted toward Front Street, Slocum tipped his hat to the small crowd that had gathered nearby and strolled toward Military Avenue.

  3

  It was a fairly good walk to Chestnut Street, which did wonders to clear Slocum’s head. The day was taking on a dry heat that was driven off nicely by the many awnings lining the boardwalk. Unlike the wetlands of Louisiana or the mountainous regions of the Appalachians, the heat wasn’t a wet, clinging substance that followed a man no matter where he sought refuge. The Kansas sun shone down with a powerful intensity to bake the dirt without having the teeth of an oppressive humidity. By the time Slocum returned to the Lucky Days Stable, he’d managed to piece together even more of what had happened on the night when he’d taken his unfortunate stroll down Tin Pot Alley. It was an ugly picture that left him feeling angrier at himself for allowing it to develop in the first place.

  Anne was brushing down a fine-looking dun inside the stable when Slocum knocked on the frame of the open door. She didn’t bother looking over at him before saying, “You seem even worse than you did this morning.”

  “Can you smell me from there?”

  “Yes,” she chuckled, “but that’s not what I meant. I saw you walking down the street. Looks like there was a lot on your mind.”

  “A lot’s coming back to me.”

  “Like why you curled up in a ditch when you had a perfectly good room at the Dodge House?”

  Despite everything else that was troubling him, Slocum couldn’t help laughing at that. “Did you know about that the whole time?”

  “You were flopped over in front of my stable for a whole day. Covered in filth and not moving. I thought you were dead. I tried splashing some water on you several times on Sunday, but that just got you riled up for a minute or two.” As she spoke, her hands went through the motions of brushing the dun. Both she and the horse were soothed by the simple chore. “I went to the marshal to have you removed and he recognized your face. Asked me if I could let you sleep where you lay until you woke up in the mud with a headache that made you want to blow your own head off your shoulders. His words, by the way.”

  Slocum shook his head and sighed. “Of course.”

  “Seeing as how I don’t run a hotel and the sight of you drove away at least one paying customer, I splashed you again sometime after that. If you would have woken up in a more agreeable state, I would have explained things to you. As it was, I didn’t appreciate being threatened on my own property.”

  “I explained myself,” he told her. “And I apologized. Didn’t I?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  “Just like I couldn’t recall my room at the Dodge House right away. And I’m apologizing now.” Removing his hat and sweeping it across the front of his body in a formal bow, he said, “I apologize, ma’am, for all the grief I may have caused you.”

  Anne put her back to him as she continued to brush the horse. Despite all of that posturing, she couldn’t keep him from seeing the grin that drifted across her face. “I take it you won’t be needing to sleep in one of my stalls.”

  “No, but I will be needing a horse.”

  “I thought you would have had one put up near the Dodge House.”

  “Lost it in that poker game.”

  She swiveled around on the balls of her feet, looking angrier now than at any other point since he’d met her. “Your horse was stolen along with your gun?”

  “No, I lost the horse fair and square. I remember as much now, which is part of the reason why my head keeps hurting so badly. A bad night in poker can be worse than several knocks to the head.”

  “Well, I have a cure for that. If you still need to earn some money, you can start right now.” She took hold of one of his hands and slapped the brush into it. “Finish up with this lady and clean up those other two. Then you can scoop out the stalls.”

  “Right now?”

  “Did you have any better plans?”

  It was still early afternoon, and Slocum knew it would be a while before his bait would collect himself enough to show his face at the Dodge House. “Actually,” he said, “I was hoping to get some rest. My head’s still splitting.”

  “You’ve had too much rest,” she replied. “That’s why you feel so tired. As for the headache, I’ll whip something up for that. Just get to brushing.”

  Since Slocum didn’t have a chance to protest before she marched out of the stable, he peeled off his jacket, hung it over the gate to a nearby stall, rolled up his sleeves, and got to brushing. The simple task did wonders for his aching back and limbs. After no more than a few minutes, the throbbing behind his temples died down and muscles that had been tender after an uncomfortable night’s sleep were warmed up again. Compared to the exercise he’d gotten chasing after Everett, this was like a firm massage that soaked all the way down to his joints.

  Once the dun was brushed, Slocum moved toward a spotted mare two stalls down. She stamped her hooves impatiently and stretched her chin out past the stall to nudge the hand that carried the brush. “Hold on, girl,” Slocum said while patting her muzzle. “You’re about to get your turn.”

  Before he’d completed his first stroke with the brush, the side door to the stable was pushed open so Anne could step inside. “She likes you,” Anne said. “But don’t think you can just ride away with her with nothing but credit.”

  “I didn’t even consider I’d be so lucky.”

  “Good,” she told him while handing over a dented cup that looked more like a large ladle that had gotten its handle ripped off, “because you won’t. That string of bad luck may take a turn for the better once you get a sip of this, though.”

  Slocum took the cup from her and sniffed its contents. At least, he tried to sniff them before the pungent odor of the steam emanating from the murky liquid reached up to slap him in the face harder than a disgruntled debutante. “What in the hell is this concoction?”

  “It’s a cure for what ails you.”

  “I’ve heard that before, but usually from a shady salesman.”

  “Only I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. Stop trying to smell it and drink up.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Knowing that won’t make it taste any better. Just know that it works.” When Slocum stared at her without moving the cup one inch closer to his mouth, she sighed and explained, “Most of the hired hands that have worked for me either came here needing money after spending too much time in the saloon district or wind up going to Front Street the moment I pay them. Either way, they come back to me drunk and try to use that as an excuse to stretch out in a corner somewhere when they should be working.”

  “So you’re telling me I’m not the first man you’ve awoken using a barrel of water?”

>   “Not even close to the first, Mr. Slocum.”

  “Please, call me John.”

  “All right, John. Drink.”

  “You swear you’re not out to poison me?” he asked.

  “Take a look at these stalls. Now take a look at the coats of those horses. There’s too much work to be done around here, and I don’t have any other hired hands to help me do it. If I meant to poison you, it would be somewhere between the time when the work’s done and I get the money to pay you.”

  “I suppose you make a good point.” Slocum lifted the cup in a halfhearted toast, which also served to befoul the air directly in front of his nose. “Care to join me?”

  “I’m not the one who needs it.”

  Without further ado, he brought the cup to his mouth and knocked it back while angling his chin toward the roof. The drink tasted like salty turpentine that had been boiled in a batch of old tomato soup. He had to fight back the urge to spit it out before swallowing his first gulp and was soon glad he did. Although the stuff was atrocious, it somehow pushed down the bile that had been rising up toward the back of his throat ever since he’d opened his eyes that morning. As the fumes permeated his head, they dispersed the pains inside it like smoke that had been chased away by a fan.

  Just when he thought he was feeling better, Slocum exhaled and unleashed a horrific torrent of breath. “Good lord,” he groaned. “You’ve got to tell me what’s in that!”

  “You sure you want to know?”

  While Slocum considered that question, he took another sip. This one was just small enough to go down his throat without spending too much time on his tongue and just large enough to do some good once it got down. “Yeah. I wanna know.”

  “Water, garlic, salt,” she said while ticking the ingredients off on her fingers. “Orange rinds, coffee grounds.”

  “Coffee grounds?” Slocum asked while running his tongue along the grit that coated his back teeth.

  “Yes. Also, pepper, celery, ground eggshells—”

  “Stop right there,” Slocum cut in. “Something tells me you’re starting off with the least offensive ingredients and already it sounds like you scraped out your trash and boiled it in tomato juice.”