Slocum 420 (8 page)

They got their free drinks, and by the time he'd had his third one, which was not on the house, Womack wasn't so cross about footing the bill. That timing was ideal, since he passed out after his fourth drink. Since he had plenty of friends at the Axe Handle and had already paid what he owed, the barkeep was happy to let him sleep it off on a cot in the back room while Slocum and Merle crossed the street to the Second Saloon.

“Darryl was supposed to be here by now,” Merle said. “He could still be workin', so it's probably easier if we just go see him.”

Looking at the front entrance to the saloon, Slocum asked, “He works here?”

“Yeah, but don't worry. That shouldn't interfere with our hunting trip.”

“I wasn't thinking it would. Just noticing what a small world it is.”

Merle wasn't interested in what was going through Slocum's mind. After kicking open the front door, all he did care about was searching the place with bleary eyes until he found the man he was after. “There he is!” he declared while staggering across the room toward the gambling tables.

Slocum followed on feet that were slightly unsteady as well. His lack of balance reminded him of the fact that he and Merle had polished off an entire bottle of whiskey after Womack had keeled over. Neither of them was in any danger of falling on their faces, but it did take some concerted effort to walk a straight line. Fortunately, they didn't have far to go.

At the end of the room where the faro tables were, a pair of men were locked up like a couple of rams butting heads over a mate. They had their heads down and were grabbing at anything they could reach to gain an advantage over the other. One man had a full beard and a round belly. The other had bristly, unevenly cut hair and the grizzled appearance of something that had been chewed up and spat out several times. At first, the portly fellow seemed to be getting over on the other one. He used pure muscle to shove his opponent against a table, pull him back, and slam him against another. Slocum noticed that Eliza was one of the faro dealers who jumped away from their table as cards and chips were sent to the floor.

Even as he was knocked around, the grizzled man had a smile on his face. “You got a hell of a lot of steam in you, Emmett!” he said. “All this over a lousy three dollars?”

Emmett grabbed a handful of the other man's shirt and held him at arm's distance. “It ain't about the three dollars! It's the point of the—”

A chopping blow from the grizzled man's knee to Emmett's groin ended that sentence before it could be completed. Whether Emmett was a tough bastard or he was just full of liquor, he wasn't about to be put down. The other man must have recognized as much because he grabbed hold of Emmett's crotch as if he was ripping an apple from a branch and crushing it into cider.

“I think I know what yer point is,” the grizzled man snarled. “I can feel it right now.”

Slocum looked over to Merle and asked, “Is that Darryl?”

“The one about to tear off that fat asshole's plums?” Merle replied. “That's him, all right.”

“Looks like he might be in some trouble.”

“Doesn't look that way to me.”

“Then you're not looking hard enough. Check those tables on the right.”

Merle glanced over in that direction and his proud smile quickly faded. Although everyone at the nearby poker tables had suspended their games to watch the unscheduled floor show, three of them were separating from the rest. One wore a duster, which he flipped open so he could draw a pistol from his gun belt. Another was dressed in wrinkled trousers and a shirt that looked more like a burlap sack. He drew a knife from a scabbard behind him and started sidestepping around the table closest to him. The third man made Emmett look like a reed in comparison. His gut was so large that it almost completely flopped over the holster strapped around his ample waist.

“Darryl!” Merle shouted. “Behind you!”

Darryl turned his grizzled face around to look over his shoulder. When he turned back again, Emmett pounded a meaty fist into his chin. Smiling even wider than before he'd been hit, Darryl spat some freshly spilled blood into the other man's face and said, “You shouldn't have done that.”

From there, everything went to hell.

Darryl shoved Emmett back so hard that the larger man's knees buckled against the table behind him. Although he didn't fall, Emmett was unable to do much of anything once Darryl unleashed a torrent of punches and kicks into any part of Emmett's body he could reach. Like coyotes descending from high ground, the other three that Slocum had spotted rushed forward to lend a hand. Slocum might have been content to stand back and watch the fight unfold if not for the fact that Eliza was about to be dragged into the thick of it.

She was doing a good job of keeping her eyes on Darryl and Emmett, but didn't seem to notice the man with the knife circling around toward her table. From his vantage point, Slocum could tell the man with the knife meant to get in close by approaching Darryl's blind side. Merle, on the other hand, was charging into the fray while hollering like a banshee.

Rather than try to circle around or make any other sort of subtle move, Slocum took a page from Merle's book and ran at the problem head-on. After a few heavy steps, Slocum had covered almost half the distance between himself and Eliza. He was in the process of drawing the .44 Remington at his side when the man with the knife looked directly at him. For a moment, Slocum thought he might have done enough to frighten him away from Eliza's table. That moment passed when the man pivoted to snap his wrist and send his blade spinning through the air.

Slocum leaned back and turned to one side as the blade sailed so closely to his head that he could hear it singing to him when it passed. He could see the man who'd tossed the knife drawing another from his boot with one hand and reaching for Eliza with the other.

“Don't touch her!” Slocum shouted.

The man with the knife smirked, grabbed Eliza by the back of her collar, and pulled her in close to discourage Slocum from taking a shot at him. If he'd had another moment or two to aim and hadn't been in the process of running, Slocum might have been able to pick the other man off. As it was, he would be lucky if he merely wounded Eliza instead of killing her outright. Before Slocum had a chance to swear under his breath, the man threw the boot knife at him.

This time, Slocum was watching closely enough to gauge the other man's movements. The blade hadn't even made one complete end-over-end turn when he reached out with his left hand to snatch it from the air. Slocum was more surprised than anyone when he not only grabbed the knife, but wrapped his fingers around the handle instead of its blade. Still running at full speed, he lowered his shoulder to knock both the man and Eliza back.

Eliza let out a surprised yelp as she was shoved to one side.

Slocum took the man with him to the floor, shattering a wooden chair along the way. As soon as he had a chance, Slocum rolled toward the other man and drove an elbow into his chest. Since the man refused to stay down, Slocum returned the knife he'd plucked from the air by stabbing it into the other man's shoulder.

“Men like you can never do anything the easy way,” Slocum growled.

The man with the knife was winded, battered, and stunned from the sharp pain coursing through his fresh wound. After knocking him out with one last punch, Slocum pulled himself to his feet.

“John!” Eliza said breathlessly. “What are you doing here?”

“Just out for a friendly drink,” he replied. “You'd best find a safer place to be.”

She placed a hand to her chest as if to steady her racing heart as she moved away from her table and went to the bar.

The other two men who'd intended on flanking Darryl had their hands full with Merle. The fat fellow had taken a couple of lumps already and was slumped against a poker table trying to catch his breath while the man in the duster fought for his life. Merle swung his fists like a wild man, even as he absorbed some punches of his own. Now that he'd collected himself, the fat man raised a pistol he clutched in one hand.

“Enough!” Rolf shouted from behind the bar. When nobody paid him any mind, he brought up a shotgun from where it had been stashed and fired a barrel over his head. The men involved in the fracas were still too busy defending themselves to stop now.

Slocum turned toward the bar and shouted to Rolf, “Toss me that shotgun!”

The bartender wasn't about to do any such thing until Eliza convinced him otherwise with a few sharp words. Finally, Rolf tossed his weapon toward Slocum and backed away.

Slocum grabbed the shotgun and ran across the saloon. Darryl and Emmett were still fighting tooth and nail, but Darryl was considerably less bloody than his opponent. Since Merle was outnumbered and about to be shot, Slocum set his sights on that section of the room.

“Hey, fat man!” Slocum shouted.

The portly fellow turned toward him and immediately shifted his aim when he saw the shotgun in Slocum's hands. Kicking over a chair rather than waste precious time in walking around it, Slocum got to within a few paces of the fat gunman before taking aim and pulling the shotgun's second trigger. The weapon roared in his hands and the fat man reeled, upending the table he'd been leaning against before dropping to the floor.

“Jesus Christ!” gasped the man scuffling with Merle. Having been distracted by the shotgun blast that had dropped his rotund partner, he left himself wide open.

Merle wasn't about to let an opportunity like that pass him by, so he delivered a punch to the jaw with everything he had behind it. The man's head snapped to one side and he spun partway around before staggering back and falling into the lap of a nearby gambler who'd been caught in the middle of the fight. More concerned with guarding his chips, he shoved the man to the floor and dusted off his suit.

Darryl and Emmett stood in front of each other, both gasping for air and covered in blood.

“Well now,” Darryl said. “Ain't this production a bit much for three dollars?”

“I told you already,” Emmett replied. “It ain't the money. It's the point that I was cheated.”

“Oh! You were cheated?” Darryl proclaimed. “Well, why didn't you say so?”

Emmett was about to speak on his own behalf when Darryl drove a fist into his gut and shoved him into the waiting arms of the two young men Rolf had sent over. After spitting some blood onto the floor, Darryl looked at the two young men and asked, “Well, where the hell were you two?”

One of the young men pushed Emmett toward the door while the other replied, “You told us not to get in your way whenever you had to knock some sense into someone.”

Screwing his face up as if purposely trying to look uglier, Darryl smiled and grunted, “Yeah. I suppose I did.” Then he shifted his attention to Merle and asked, “Who'd you bring with you?”

“This here is John Slocum,” Merle said.

“John Slocum. I heard that name before.”

“He's supposed to be some sort of gunman. The boss from the mill has been going on about him like he was the second coming.”

“Nah, that ain't it.” After a few moments of deliberation, Darryl snapped his fingers. “I know! You're the one that's been puttin' it to that whore across the street on a regular basis! Nellie, I believe her name is.”

Slocum shrugged. “I wouldn't say it's worth gossiping about, but I've been paying her a visit from time to time.”

“Well, you know how the hens like to gossip. A few of the girls around here were talking about you. Of course,” Darryl added, “that was when Lester Quint was coming in here trying to pass himself off as someone else.”

“You knew it was Lester?” Slocum asked. “Why the hell would you let him get away with that?”

Darryl merely shrugged. “His money spends just as well one way or another. He can call himself Abraham Lincoln just so long as he keeps spendin'. Personally, I thought it was a hoot to watch him strut about the way he was.”

“He's not strutting anymore,” Slocum said.

Darryl slapped him on the shoulder. “And it would have been a hoot to watch someone slap Lester down. Considering what a cold-blooded killer you are, I suppose ol' Lester should be glad he's still walkin' and talkin'.”

Slocum didn't care for the familiar way Darryl treated him and he liked the accusation even less. Looking down at the dirty hand that was still on his shoulder, he asked, “Cold-blooded killer? What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean what you did to the fat man over there. You walked up and shotgunned him into next week without so much as a tip of yer damn hat!”

Looking over at the spot where the fat man in question had wound up, Slocum watched as the rotund fellow pulled himself upright, groaned, and pressed both hands flat against his chest. The man's blubbery face contorted in pain when he touched the little bloody spots that had formed on his shirt, but was able to make his way over to a chair and sit down. Slocum then looked back to Darryl and said, “That shotgun was loaded with rock salt.”

“Rock salt?” Darryl then looked over at the fat man. The glee that had been etched onto his face a moment ago was replaced by confusion and a hint of disappointment. “Huh. I suppose it was. How the hell did you know that?”

“That barkeep fired one barrel into the ceiling and barely did any damage,” Slocum replied. “I figured the other barrel was loaded with the same kind of shot and put it to use.”

“And what if it hadn't been loaded the same?”

“Then that fat man over there would've had a very bad night.”

Darryl found his gleeful expression again and marked its reappearance with another slap to Slocum's back. “He sure would have! And I would've had to clean the damn mess! Ha!” Looking at Merle, he said, “Where the hell did you find this one, little brother?”