Slocum and the Meddler Read online

  The door opened to the dim interior. Wilson jerked upright. He had cradled his head on his crossed arms and had been asleep until Slocum disturbed him.

  “You?” Wilson squinted. “Git yerself on inside and close the door. The light in my eyes is givin’ me a headache.”

  Slocum dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  “Who killed Michael Holman?”

  “How the hell should I know? That happened outside o’ town. Not my jurisdiction.”

  “You bother to let the sheriff know? Or the Rangers?”

  “Folks in these parts deal with their own woe,” Wilson said. He shifted uneasily in the chair.

  “Maybe Ralston gave you a few dollars to help deal with your woes?”

  “What are you sayin’, Slocum?”

  “Who shot Holman?”

  “There was bad blood ’tween him and Ralston, that’s for certain,” Wilson said. “Ever’body knows that, but that don’t make Mr. Ralston a killer.”

  “He doesn’t seem the sort to do his own dirty work,” Slocum said. “You so much as go out to the Circle H to see where Holman died?”

  “Naw, his missus brung the body into town. Buried him in the cemetery. Not much of a ceremony, but at least she had enough to keep him out of the potter’s field.” Wilson looked uneasy. “She might as well have planted him out on the prairie.”

  Slocum had seen the way Wilson looked guilty when he had accused him of being in Ralston’s pay. Ralston’s cowboys undoubtedly came to town and hurrahed it on occasion, making it necessary to bail them out of jail. Life was easier all around if he had a good relationship with the town marshal.

  And Marshal Wilson liked nothing better than having an easy life, Slocum reflected.

  “Any notion who might have shot him? Any idea at all?”

  “I tole you ’fore, git on out of Abilene. The longer you stay, the more trouble’s gonna come boilin’ up. If it ain’t Finch and the boys off the Crazy Water, it can be Ralston. It’s obvious there’s things you don’t know squat about, and Michael Holman’s killing’s one of ’em.”

  Slocum said nothing as he left. He had taken a good look at the men locked up in the nearest cells. All snored loudly, sleeping off their drunk from the night before. It was the middle of the week so there were only a couple. He doubted any of them had eavesdropped on him and the marshal. Even if they had, they wouldn’t know more than everyone in Abilene already seemed to.

  As the hot sun fell on his face, Slocum paused, aware of someone standing behind him.

  “You come to pay your respects to your hired hand?” Slocum asked.

  “What are you saying, Slocum?”

  “The marshal. You’ve got him bought and paid for, Ralston.” He turned to see if the rancher had brought his foreman with him. He was alone.

  “You got a bunch of loco thoughts,” Ralston said. “I want to make sure you don’t get into any more trouble because of them.”

  “You kill Holman? Or did you tell Barnett to do it?”

  “I wish I had killed the son of a bitch. He was a rustler! He stole my cattle and ran the brands.”

  “You tell the marshal that?”

  “I take care of my own property. I didn’t kill Holman, but I would have shot him or strung him up for the thief he was if I’d ever caught him with my cows on his property.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You and his widow seem tight. Get her to sell.”

  “Even if her cattle has Texas fever?”

  “I’ll take the risk of killing the whole damn herd. My cattle don’t have the disease. And I can use the land since it gives better access to the river so I can water the whole herd.”

  “She won’t listen to me.”

  “Make her,” Ralston said, a sneer coming to his lips. “It can be worth your while. A little pillow talk about how hard it is on the prairie, how running a herd without any help isn’t going to be easy on her. You can put the idea in her sweet little head.”

  Ralston stepped back when he saw Slocum’s expression.

  “You do it, or you’ll both rue the day!”

  The rancher stormed off, every footfall producing a small dust storm.

  Slocum was fed up with Ralston’s threats. All the rancher did was make threats he had no intention of carrying out. Still, Slocum had learned something from meeting Ralston. Whoever it was spreading the rumors, it wasn’t likely to be the rancher. He was gruff, bluff, and grumbled a lot. All thunder without lightning.

  Slocum considered riding out to the Holman ranch but decided to make another stop in the saloon. It was early, and he didn’t expect anyone but the barkeep to be inside, getting ready for the afternoon crowd wanting a beer with their free sandwich. He saw one man seated at a table off to the side, nursing a beer. He went over and sat.

  “You get around,” he said to Herk.

  “Might say the same about you, Mr. Slocum,” the question-mark-shaped man said.

  “What can you tell me about Michael Holman getting himself shot down?”

  Herk’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Now what do ya want to know a thing like that for? Didn’t know him, not personal like I do a lot of these gents. He was a rancher.”

  The way he said this turned Slocum wary. He motioned for the barkeep to bring him a beer, then signaled for two when Herk held up his empty mug. After the two frothy steins dropped to the table and Herk greedily sucked up his, there seemed less urgency.

  “So?” Slocum asked, seeing that the man wasn’t likely to say anything more without prodding.

  “Don’t like speakin’ ill of the dead,” Herk said. “When I’m planted in the ground, don’t want nobody bad-mouthin’ me.”

  “What’s there to say about Holman?”

  He leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t know this fer sure but heard that he was rustlin’ cattle. That’s what got Mr. Ralston all riled up.”

  “You think Ralston killed him for stealing his cattle?”

  Herk shook his head, then said in the same low voice after looking around to be sure he wasn’t overheard, “Mr. Ralston don’t seem the type. Now he bribes the marshal and prob’ly the sheriff, this bein’ the county seat of Taylor County and all. But the sheriff, he ain’t never here in town. Heard tell he’s got his’self a woman over east, over in Jones County, that requires his constant attention.”

  “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

  Herk grinned, showing a broken tooth. Another had been capped in gold, now turned dull from too much chewing tobacco.

  “I can’t hardly git around, so I gotta keep my ears open. And my eyes. I watch.”

  Slocum started to ask about Cantwell, then found himself staring hard at Herk, who returned his gaze and tried to look innocent. Whatever else the man might be, innocent was as far from it as a pilgrim was from water in West Texas.

  “Got to go,” Slocum said.

  “Where might that be?”

  “Out of town,” Slocum said.

  Herk nodded, then ran his grimy, ink-stained finger around the rim of his empty beer mug, looked at what little remained in Slocum’s, then snared it and downed the few drops in a big gulp.

  Slocum laughed ruefully and left, going into the hot sun. This wasn’t the time to be on the trail, but he had enough beer in his belly to make the ride seem easier. He mounted, then considered which way to go. A quick-moving shadow caught his attention. Something flitted into the alley alongside the saloon. By the time Slocum got his horse over to the alley, it was empty. On impulse, he stepped down and returned to the saloon door and peered in.

  Herk still sat in the same place, running his finger around the rims of the beer mugs and then sampling the meager drops he captured.

  Slocum glanced once more toward the alley and shook his head. Although he hadn’t been out in the sun that long, he was beginning to hallucinate. He would have bet money that’d been Herk in the alley, but a cripple co
uld never get in and out of the saloon fast enough. Mounting again, he rode east, not sure where he intended to go. What Herk had said about the sheriff made him wonder if there might not be some leverage applied to that lawman to get a decent investigation of Michael Holman’s murder.

  On impulse, Slocum turned off the road and went to the town cemetery on a lonely hill. It took the better part of ten minutes for him to find a fresh grave marked with a wood cross and Holman’s name. He looked out over the prairie a spell, then decided. He had a nasty curiosity bump. Who killed Holman was chewing at him, but a bigger festering wound was the way Macauley had been gunned down because he’d been sent to the wrong hotel room.

  Slocum didn’t like being used that way, and he certainly found himself wrapped up in something bigger than a simple killing. Somebody had taken the trouble to pour lies into Cantwell’s ear, giving Angelina Slocum’s description.

  Thought of the lovely dark-haired woman brought a new warmth to Slocum as he rode back to the main road. He counted himself lucky she was such a bad shot and even luckier that he had taken it upon himself to help her. The night in the stable had been something he would remember for a good long time.

  He crossed the main road, then cut toward the northwest until he found the double-rutted road Angelina had said went past her ranch. The range was spotted with barbed wire fences. He suspected these parcels belonged to Ralston, but they might as well have been Michael Holman’s doing since the purpose was to keep a cow on one side or the other.

  The terrain became more rolling hills and occasionally green. Spring rain was often a stranger to this country, but this year there had been enough to give a fair cover of grass for the cattle. Several head per acre might graze comfortably.

  As the road wound around, Slocum grew increasingly uneasy. The sensation of being watched warned him of danger. But a slow scan of the horizon revealed nothing. On impulse, he doubled back on his trail, then left the road and trotted in a large circle that brought him back to where he had felt the eyes on him. This sense had kept him alive during the war, and he still trusted it.

  Somebody was watching him. Only he couldn’t figure out who or from where.

  When he saw a stand of post oak a quarter mile off the road, he knew he had found a stock pond. His horse was thirsty, and he could do with a serious draft of water himself. As he found the trail and followed it, he got the overwhelming urge to turn and ride away.

  He jerked to the side the instant he saw sunlight glinting off a rifle barrel. A split second later lead sang past his ear. Slocum threw his arms up in the air and tumbled from the saddle. He landed hard, moaned, rolled onto his side, and then waited. Every bone in his body aching, he waited. And waited. Not twitching a muscle, he waited.

  Finally a man came toward him from the trees beside the stock pond, rifle pulled in snug to his shoulder, ready to fire again. He came closer. Slocum watched through half-lowered eyelids, acting only when he was sure of his shot.

  He rolled onto his back. His Colt slid free, and he fanned off three quick shots at the rifleman.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  7

  One of Slocum’s bullets ripped through the brim of the man’s floppy-brimmed hat, sending it flying. The light suddenly in the gunman’s eyes did more than cause him to flinch. Slocum recognized Barnett. He tried to get off another shot, but Barnett began pumping the lever and shooting as fast as he could, sending death driving hard at Slocum until his rifle barrel had to melt from the rapid firing.

  One slug creased Slocum’s arm, sending a flash of pain all the way up into his shoulder. He tried to squeeze the Colt’s trigger and found he had lost strength in his right hand. He tossed the six-shooter to his left hand. He was nowhere as good a shot with that hand and certainly couldn’t fan off the remaining three rounds, but he was good enough to fire once and have his shot find a berth in Barnett’s body.

  Where the slug had injured the man, Slocum couldn’t tell. He was more interested in swinging about, avoiding the wild fire still coming his way, and trying not to die. Barnett finally came up empty, but Slocum was in no position to make the killing shot. The six-gun hung down in his left hand. He flexed his right hand, then used his right forearm to brace the pistol. New pain joined that already in his right arm as the barrel burned through his coat sleeve.

  “Give up, Barnett,” he called after the running man. “I won’t kill you if you give up!”

  He heard a string of curses and knew this was all he was likely to hear from Ralston’s henchman. Slocum shook his right hand and endured the pain long enough to know that he wasn’t too seriously wounded. The bloody track on his arm was messier than it was dangerous, but the tingling in his hand told him Barnett’s bullet had hit a nerve. He kept shaking his right arm until the tingles died away and feeling came back.

  It was risky staying out in the open but he couldn’t get to any cover—there wasn’t any save for the trees where Barnett had run. Slocum clumsily reloaded, shook his right arm again, and then transferred his six-shooter back to his gun hand.

  He could track Barnett, being cautious and taking advantage of what little cover there was between him and the stock pond.

  Slocum put his head down and charged like a bull, giving voice to a roar that combined his fury and frustration. He burst through the ring of trees and looked around the small stock pond. Someone—Ralston?—had built up a dirt lip around a pond that might have already existed naturally. The water bubbled up from beneath the ground and gave added drinking water to the cattle and any passerby on the road.

  When he reached the edge of the pond, Slocum dropped to one knee, used the dirt berm for protection, and carefully hunted for Barnett. The bushwhacker was nowhere to be seen. This made the hair on the back of Slocum’s neck bristle. He had the feeling of being watched but couldn’t locate the man anywhere.

  He frowned when he realized he had experienced the same sensation in Abilene and along the trail out of town. It hardly seemed likely Barnett had watched him all that time. If he’d intended to gun him down, he could have done so any time.

  Sudden movement in the undergrowth across the pond sparked a reaction from Slocum. He stood and fired. The fingers on his right hand betrayed him. They let the pistol slip just a tiny bit and the shot went wide. The yelp he got in return of the lead he sent winging toward Barnett was more of surprise than pain.

  He fired again into the brush where Barnett had dived. Nothing. Circling the pond, Slocum stayed alert for not only Barnett but any of Ralston’s cowboys that might be with the foreman. When the brush rustled, Slocum started to fire, then held back. The brush shook again but he saw a rope around the stem. The rope vanished after a couple feet, but Slocum had the direction. Barnett had tied the rope there to rustle the leaves and draw Slocum’s fire.

  He drew fire, but not the way he expected. Slocum guessed where Barnett had to be hiding and filled that bit of undergrowth full of lead. This time the cry he won from his accurate fire was one of pain. He had winged Barnett.

  He wanted to kill him for the attempted dry gulching.

  Then Slocum settled down to serious stalking. He’d kill Barnett if he had to. He’d prefer to see the man in jail, hating every day of his incarceration, knowing Slocum was the one who put him there.

  Slocum came to the brush where Barnett had crouched. The end of the rope was damp with fresh blood. He had winged the man, all right, hitting him in the arm from the look of the bloody fingerprints. A cruel smile came to Slocum’s lips. He had done a better job of disabling his enemy than Barnett had. Slocum shook his right arm again, to be sure it responded and all traces of the tingling were gone before pushing on through the thorny undergrowth.

  Here and there he found fresh blood. Then he heard a horse’s hooves pounding away. Only long experience kept him from rushing forward after a fleeing killer. Barnett might have spooked his own horse to lure Slocum from cover. But as Slocum worked his way through the stand of trees, he knew that hi
s caution was misplaced. Barnett had been astride the horse when it had galloped off.

  He found tracks in the soft dirt and read them as easily as a schoolmarm read a primer. Barnett had run to his horse. Boot prints showed where he had mounted and the direction the horse had gone in a headlong rush to get away.

  Slocum slid his pistol back into his holster and took a circuitous route back to the pond. He still had the feeling he was being watched, but it wasn’t as strong now. At the pond, he cocked his head to one side and listened hard. It might have been the wind or his imagination but he thought he heard a receding horse—and it couldn’t have been Barnett’s. Making a careful circuit of the pond, he found a spot where a horse had been allowed to drink. Small boot prints showed where the rider had walked his horse forward. Slocum measured the distance and decided the rider couldn’t have been more than five-foot-five. The stride was sure but not long.

  Dropping to the ground, he examined one distinctive print in the soft dirt and found how the right boot heel was worn down on the inside. It didn’t match the left. But pressure on the ball of the foot was even. He could only guess that the boot heel had fallen victim to a sharp rock or been partially shot off.

  He took a break and splashed water on his face, then peeled back his coat and shirtsleeve to examine the wound from Barnett’s rifle bullet. It had bled like a stuck pig but wasn’t serious. The worst of it had come from the numbness in his gun hand. He thrust his hand into the pond and moved it around until the flesh turned downright cold. He pulled it out, held it up in the hot sun, and flexed all the fingers.

  “Good as gold,” he decided.

  Then he hunted for his horse, which proved easy enough. The gunfire had spooked his mount, but the lure of water in the pond was too great to simply run away. After a decent time, he pulled the thirsty horse away and mounted. He had a dry gulcher to catch. He rode after Barnett.