Slocum and the Canyon Courtesans Read online

  Several things happened at once.

  The strains of “Camptown Ladies” drifted up through the floorboards as the small band struck up again after their break.

  Slocum snatched up the bottle of whiskey and threw it at Sheriff Scudder. Gloria arose from her chair and screamed at the top of her voice.

  Scudder ducked.

  Slocum rolled out of his chair and hit the floor on his left side. At the same time, he jerked his pistol from its holster and cocked it on the rise.

  Fisk squeezed both triggers and the shotgun belched fire and buckshot. He aimed where Slocum had been sitting, but Gloria stood up and caught both barrels. The heavy lead shot tore her face to shreds and mutilated it beyond recognition.

  Her scream was cut off as her throat opened up and spurted a fountain of blood.

  Slocum squeezed off a shot.

  A black hole appeared in the center of Fisk’s forehead and he dropped the shotgun, falling forward and crashing into Scudder. This threw the sheriff off balance as he clawed for his pistol.

  Slocum scrambled to his feet, stepped toward Scudder.

  “You draw that hogleg, Scudder,” Slocum said, “and I’ll put a bullet where your grub goes.”

  Scudder froze, his right hand turned into a rigid claw inches from his pistol.

  “You bastard,” Scudder snarled. “I know who you are. You’re a wanted man, John Slocum.”

  Slocum strode toward Scudder and swiped him across the mouth with the barrel of his Colt .45. Scudder’s head snapped in a half circle and blood spurted from his lips like a squashed tomato. His right hand shot to his mouth as he winced in pain.

  As Scudder’s knees buckled, Slocum grabbed the sheriff’s pistol and jerked it from his holster

  Scudder glared at Slocum, wide-eyed, as he regained his footing and stood straight up.

  The flyer fell from the sheriff’s hands and floated to the carpeted floor.

  “You’re still a wanted man, Slocum,” Scudder said. “You’re going to jail.”

  “Oh, I’m going to jail, all right, Scudder,” Slocum said. “And so are you.”

  “Huh?” Scudder’s facial muscles sagged as he tried to digest what Slocum had said to him.

  “Drop that gun belt,” Slocum ordered as he reached out and snatched Scudder’s hat from his head.

  “Hey, that’s my hat,” Scudder said.

  Slocum sailed the hat off toward the bed. It hit the floor and skidded underneath the unused bed.

  “You’re lucky I don’t make you shit in it, Scudder.”

  Scudder unbuckled his gun belt and empty holster, the knife in its sheath. He let it fall to the floor.

  “This ain’t goin’ to get you nowhere, Slocum,” the sheriff muttered.

  “Oh, we’re not finished yet, Scudder.”

  “What?”

  “Take your boots off while I’m still in a good mood,” Slocum said.

  “You sonofabitch,” Scudder said.

  “Profanity will change my mood right quick,” Slocum said. “Take ’em off or I’ll blow ’em off.”

  Slocum pointed his gun barrel at Scudder’s booted feet.

  Scudder took off one boot, hopped around in a little circle, and removed the other one. He stood before Slocum in his socks.

  “Satisfied?” Scudder snarled.

  Slocum kicked the boots away with his left foot. He pointed the Colt at Scudder’s midsection.

  “Not quite,” Slocum said. “Now unbuckle your belt and slide your pants off. Just let them fall to the floor and step toward me.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin’, Slocum?”

  “The sight of a naked man thrills me, Scudder. When you get out of those pants, you can take off your shirt and vest, too.”

  “None of this is goin’ to help you,” Scudder said.

  “No? Maybe it’ll help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “Call it a lesson in defenselessness. Like those women your worthless brother kidnapped.”

  “I didn’t have no hand in that.”

  “Off with the pants and all your clothes, Scudder. I’m running out of patience.”

  Scudder slid his pants off and shed his vest and shirt. The badge pinned to his vest seemed to glare up at him and mock him as he stared down at it with a disconsolate look on his face.

  Slocum reached down, picked up Scudder’s pants, and shook them. He heard a jingle and reached into that pocket. He pulled out a set of keys and a wad of greenbacks. He stuffed them both in his right pocket.

  “Now you see if your deputy has handcuffs on him,” Slocum said as he dropped the pants back in a heap.

  Scudder searched Fisk’s back pockets and produced a set of handcuffs. He dangled them in the air.

  Slocum snatched them out of Scudder’s hands.

  “Get his handcuff key and hand it to me,” Slocum said.

  Scudder dug out a tiny key from one of Fisk’s front pockets and held it in the palm of his hand. Slocum moved in close, grabbed the key, and unlocked the cuffs.

  “Turn around, Scudder, and put your hands behind your back.”

  “What the hell . . .”

  “Be quick about it. This Colt’s got a hair trigger and my finger’s getting mighty nervous.”

  Scudder did as he was told and Slocum slipped the cuffs over both of his wrists.

  “You stole my money, Slocum. I’ll get you for that, too. And for murderin’ my deputy.”

  “What you have, Scudder, is a handful of shit and you’re about to get a lot more. Now march out of here and down the stairs.”

  “There are folks down there.”

  The band was playing “Home on the Range,” and they could hear it better out in the hallway. Slocum jabbed the barrel of his pistol hard in the small of Scudder’s back and the man stepped out and walked the hall to the head of the stairs.

  They walked down the stairs as the band fell silent. Many of the patrons and the other glitter gal were gathered at the bottom, all looking up at the naked man with his hands cuffed behind his back.

  “Give us room,” Slocum ordered, and the crowd parted.

  Slocum glanced at the two bartenders.

  “Either one of you reach down for a gun or a bat and you’ll regret it for the rest of your short life.”

  Both bartenders froze and raised their hands when Slocum waved his pistol in their direction.

  “Out the door, Scudder,” Slocum said.

  As they passed the end of the bar where Horace stood, Slocum dug out some bills and laid them on the bartop.

  “There’s a mess up in Gloria’s room,” he told the barkeep. “Clean it up and this should pay for Gloria’s funeral.”

  “Yes, sir,” Horace said, but made no move to grab the money.

  People stared at Scudder but remained silent until the two men parted the batwing doors and walked out into the night. Then a buzzing rose up behind the two men. They continued toward the sheriff’s office.

  “Where you takin’ me, Slocum?” Scudder asked.

  “Where you belong, Scudder. I’m taking you to jail.”

  “You’ll pay for this, you bastard.”

  “Shut up, Scudder. I can always change my mind and send you straight to Boot Hill.”

  Scudder kept silent the rest of the way. Slocum used one of Scudder’s keys to open the office. It was dark, but he saw a door past the sheriff’s desk.

  He pushed it open. There were two cells with iron bars. Both were empty. Both doors were open. He shoved Scudder into one of them and then closed the door. He found the right key and locked it.

  “You can’t do this, Slocum.”

  “Sleep tight,” Slocum said. “I’ll leave your keys on the d
esk.”

  “That won’t do me no good.”

  “If somebody lets you out, you’d better pray that you don’t meet up with me again, Scudder. I’ll shoot you on sight.”

  “You lousy, low-down sonofabitch,” Scudder snarled.

  Slocum said nothing as he left, slamming the door to the cell area and locking it. He threw the keys on the desk and walked out into the night. After ejecting the empty hull, he put a fresh cartridge in the cylinder of his pistol, closed the gate, returned the gun to the holster.

  Then he walked to the hotel and passed the empty desk. He climbed the stairs to Room 220 and tapped on the door.

  Melissa opened it.

  “Pack your bag,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

  “What? I was just getting ready for bed.”

  “We have to find another place to stay,” he said. “I had a run-in with Sheriff Scudder. He’ll tell his brother where we are.”

  “Where are we going to sleep?” she asked.

  “Safest place I know,” Slocum said.

  “Where is that?”

  “The livery stable,” he said. “I’ll grab up some pillows and bedding and off we’ll go.”

  “Sleep in a stable? Not me.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “You don’t want to come, you don’t have to, but when Scud comes for you, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him where I am.”

  He picked up his saddlebags, bedroll, and rifle and started for the door.

  “I won’t tell anyone where you are,” she said.

  He handed her some bills, the ones left over from Scudder’s pocket.

  “Here’s a little money for you,” he said. “See you around maybe.”

  “John, you don’t have to do this. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You know where I’ll be. Look for me up in the loft. If you get lonesome, that is.”

  She looked at the wad of money in her hand.

  “Maybe this will be enough to get me back to Amarillo,” she said. “Or to Quitaque.”

  “Melissa, I think Scud put those advertisements in the paper for you and other would-be brides. I think he knew you were coming, and from where. There is no marriage waiting for you in Quitaque or anywhere else.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, on the verge of tears.

  “I’m going to see if I can find your gal friends and rescue them. If you’re still here, I’ll take you with me and ride back to Amarillo and see that you all get safely back home.”

  With that, Slocum walked out the door. He could hear Melissa sobbing as he walked down the hall.

  It couldn’t be helped. As soon as someone found Scudder and freed him, a bunch of guns would be after him. He wouldn’t have much of a chance in a town as small as Polvo. Besides, he wanted to find those kidnapped women and Scud. Scud was a payment due in his book. He killed two men, stole four of his horses, and now it was time to pay the piper.

  It was, he knew, going to be a long night.

  12

  Caleb Lindsey was asleep when Slocum entered the livery stable. He lay on a pile of horse blankets near the tack room at the back of the stable. When Slocum stepped on a broken piece of salt lick, the crumbling brick made a sound that woke the stable boy up.

  “Who’s that?” Caleb said as he sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “Wilson,” Slocum said.

  Caleb clambered to his feet.

  Moonlight filtered in through the back doors, bathing the two men in a gauzy haze of pale white light. Slocum set his bedroll and saddlebags down next to the pile of saddle blankets.

  “You awake, Caleb?” Slocum asked. “Wide awake?”

  “Yes, sir. I was just dozin’. It’s been pretty quiet here.”

  “Yesterday. Think about yesterday.”

  “I slept most of the day. Did some chores for my pa and ma.”

  “Did you notice any new horses in the stable tonight when you came to work?”

  “Um, yes, sir, they was two horses come in that I never seen before.”

  “Did you look at their hides real close?”

  “Their hides?” Caleb scratched the back of his right ear.

  “Were they saddle horses, or did they have marks on them from being in harness?”

  “Why, I reckon they did. I mean I noticed that right off. They weren’t saddle horses, Mr. Wilson. They was wagon horses, sure as shootin’.”

  “And did you hear anything about three women who rode those two horses?”

  “Yeah, sure. When Lew Ralston, the day man, showed me them horses, he said they was rode in here with three pretty gals on their bare backs.”

  “And did you think that was kind of unusual?”

  “Sure I did. So did Lew. He said them gals was all mussed up, hair atangle, dirty dresses, dirty hands, and scratched legs.”

  “They came in with Scud, right?”

  “Yep. Scud was with ’em. That’s what Lew said.”

  “And do you know where Scud took those women?”

  Caleb hesitated. He looked up at the dark ceiling and down the rows of stalls. Empty-eyed, like a lost pup.

  Slocum waited. He saw that the boy was nervous and perhaps too timid to answer his question right away. Finally, Caleb met his gaze and swallowed hard.

  “I guess he took ’em where he always does when some new gal comes to town,” Caleb said.

  “And where is that? Exactly?”

  Caleb looked around furtively as if someone might overhear him. It was instinctive. He knew that they were the only two people in the stable.

  “Scud, he’s got him a special house. A ’dobe house where he keeps women. He has Mrs. Gonzales clean ’em up and dress ’em up, I reckon. Then he puts the gals to work at the Desert Rose or hires ’em out as cooks or laundresses.”

  “So Scud has done this before,” Slocum said.

  “Not exactly. I mean, some of the gals come to town by coach or wagon. They’s been a passel of ’em come in that way the past year or so. Most work up by the mines in that big old ravine where the diggin’s are. The pretty ones, they work at the saloon.”

  “I only saw two women at the saloon tonight.”

  “He had about five a month ago. Two of them run off with men, and another died.”

  Slocum was getting a picture of just what Scud had been up to in Polvo since he founded the town. It was an ugly picture. He drew in a deep breath and shifted his rifle from his left hand to his right.

  “Tell me where that adobe house is, Caleb.”

  There was a twitch in Caleb’s face that Slocum could see in the pale glint of moonlight that passed like a shadow between them. Caleb shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “I don’t know if I should tell you, Mr. Wilson. I mean, Scud is really my boss and he don’t want people to know too much about his business. ’Specially about that ’dobe where he keeps his new gals.”

  “Let me put it this way, Caleb. I like you. You’re a nice, decent boy. But those three women were kidnapped by Scud and he had Indian helpers who shot and killed the driver of that wagon and another boy just about your age.”

  “Gawley,” Caleb gasped.

  “Now, if I let Scud get away with that, then I’m not a man, and if you don’t tell me about that adobe, you won’t be much of a man either. Ever.”

  Slocum hammered that last word so hard it made Caleb jump.

  He was ready to talk.

  “You go to the end of this here street,” Caleb said. “Like you was goin’ out to that big ditch where they’re diggin’ for gold and silver. A little ways after the street runs out, there’s a ’dobe off to your right. It’s got a ’dobe wall around it but that ain’t but about four foot high. There’s a gate in front and
a gate in back. I think Scud has some men with rifles walkin’ inside that ’dobe wall. They can see real plain who’s a-comin’ and they can duck down behind it and pick off anybody who don’t belong there.”

  “Thanks, Caleb,” Slocum said. He patted the young man on the shoulder. “Now I’m going to take my bedroll and saddlebags up in the loft to get some shut-eye. I might go out later and I’ll leave my rifle up there. I expect it will be there when I get back. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, sir, I won’t take your rifle.”

  “One more thing, Caleb.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t tell anybody, and I mean anybody, that I’m bunkin’ in the livery.”

  “Are you hidin’ out, Mr. Wilson?”

  Slocum smiled.

  “That’s right, Caleb. I’m hiding out. Now go back to your snoozin’ and pay me no mind while I set up in that loft.”

  “I—I’m too nervous to sleep no more, Mr. Wilson. But I won’t tell nobody you was here or you’re bunkin’ up in the hayloft.”

  Slocum picked up his gear and climbed a ladder into the loft. He found a spot near the front under the lone shuttered opening. He lay out his bedroll and placed his saddlebags at one end and slid his rifle under his blanket. He checked his pistol, spun the cylinder, and put it back in his holster.

  He lay down, using one saddlebag for a headrest, and closed his eyes.

  He would go to the adobe just before dawn when the men guarding the place would be most vulnerable, perhaps sleepy and tired and, most likely, bored. He was facing sturdy odds, he knew—at least three armed men and three defenseless women. He doubted that Scud would be there. He would find him in due time and call him to account for his vile deeds.

  In moments, Slocum was asleep, but he had a timer in his head. He placed one hand on his bellygun, tucked behind his belt buckle. He wished he had not left his shotgun in Amarillo, but he had two handguns and that should be enough to return any fire he might draw from those guards. His gun belt was nearly full of .45-caliber cartridges and the bellygun held six lethal rounds of .32-caliber cartridges.

  Small beams of moonlight streamed through cracks in the walls of the barn. Dust motes bobbed and floated like tiny insects, soundless as the night itself.