Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) (9 page)

He said nothing. He had read her right. She had to be in control and used her sex as a potent weapon. Willingham had been more inclined to spill blood—before Madam Madeleine came. She made him forget, at least for a moment, about his blood lust. She thought she could manipulate Slocum the same way. And truth to tell, he was tempted. The redhead was a gorgeous woman, and he suspected she was damned good in bed. If he gave in now, though, he would be forever indebted.

“Is it that woman you're sharing a hotel room with?”

“Mirabelle? No.”

“Damn me if I don't believe you.” She turned and faced across the room, smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in her dress, making sure she fluffed up her bosoms to let him know what he was passing up, then continued, “I am tired of those two drunks annoying me and my girls.”

“Tell the marshal. He needs something more to do than lock me up.”

“I don't cotton much to the law. You understand that, Mr. Slocum, since you are my kindred spirit in that regard. They have tried to rob me before, they accost my girls outside the house, and they never—never!—come in as paying customers. If they did, I would thrash them soundly.”

“Tell the mayor.”

“Mayor Zamora is an honest man,” she said. “My influence over him is small.”

“Not like with Judge Holbein.”

She smiled at that, one corner of her mouth turning up a little more. She had delightful dimples, but Slocum's resolve didn't weaken.

“He could order them run out of the county, but I want them punished.”

“I won't gun them down in cold blood.”

“Find them. Drag them back here. I'll take care of the rest.”

Slocum considered the situation. He wasn't getting anywhere hunting for the men who killed Isaac Comstock and the rest of his treasure hunting party. And he had no idea where to start in town looking for them, if they were also the ones who had busted him up.

“I'll sweeten the deal.”

“How?”

“Your debt to me for freeing you from jail will be erased,” Madeleine said. “I can also tell you about the men who abducted you after Eckerly's funeral.”

Slocum wondered if she had read his thoughts.

“It's a deal,” he said.

“Deal,” she agreed. Then she smiled devilishly and added, “Then we can see about other . . . arrangements.” She patted his crotch, then stood and walked across the sitting room, her bustle moving in an enticing bump and grind. At the stairs, one foot on the lowest step, she turned and said, “You can go now, Mr. Slocum.”

He went.

9

Slocum went into the Damned Shame around noon, after spending some time with Mirabelle, quieting her nerves and convincing her he hadn't shot his way out of jail. She had returned to the jailhouse to find him gone. Somehow, she had missed how angry Willingham was over losing his prisoner. If he had managed to kill Slocum, he would have been happier.

“Heard you was locked up, Slocum,” Beefsteak Malone said. “How'd you get out so quick?”

“Raised bail,” Slocum said. “Or raised hell. Hard to tell which. Never figured out why the marshal threw me in the pokey.”

“Will can be a nervy sort of fellow,” Malone said. “I'm surprised he let you out.”

Slocum shrugged it off. He had other fish to fry, but he had to ask, “Why's he got it in for me? I ought to have been given a reward, not jail time.”

“Will and Madam Madeleine aren't on the best of terms,” Malone said. “Might be he thought you two was hangin' out together. He can't do much about her, but anyone carousin' with her is fair game.”

“Could be,” Slocum said. “It's passing strange, though, the way he's trying to frame me for a crime I busted up and kept from happening.”

“You keep the peace inside these here four walls, Slocum,” the bar owner said harshly. “Don't go stickin' your nose where it don't belong.”

“In Madam Madeleine's business?”

For an instant, Slocum thought the barkeep was going to erupt in rage. The red tide rising in his face subsided and Malone laughed insincerely.

“You got a real sense of humor, I'll grant you that, Slocum. That's why you keep fights from gettin' too bad. Time for you to get to work.” Malone pointed to a pair of men at the table near the door, where the trouble had begun last night.

The pair traced their fingers over the sketch on the uncleaned tabletop where Madam Madeleine's would-be robbers had plotted and planned their inept crime. Slocum went over, pulled up a chair, and sat with his back to the bar.

“Howdy,” he said.

“We don't want company,” the more belligerent of the two said. “This is a private argument.”

“Don't care. Bust each other up all you want. If you tell me what I want to know, I'll even buy you a couple drinks.”

“To keep me from knockin' this mangy cayuse's teeth down his throat?” The man on Slocum's left half stood, only to be slammed facedown on the table when Slocum grabbed his shirt and yanked hard.

The man recoiled and flopped back in his chair. Before the other man could react, Slocum had his six-shooter out under the table and aimed at his gut.

“Keep it peaceable, gents,” he said. “Beefsteak back there makes me clean up the blood on the floor.” Slocum glanced toward a dark stain on the boards. “Leastways, the blood I spill. The rest doesn't concern him a whole lot.”

“What do you want?” The one on the receiving end of Slocum's Colt growled like a dog, deep in his throat.

“You're sitting at a table where two customers sat last night.”

“So?”

Slocum had the pair of them to contend with again. The one whose face he had slammed into the table had recovered and was working up a decent head of mad.

“You've seen them in here before, I'd wager. You were both in here last night.”

“Go—” The one with Slocum's six-gun pointed at his gut chopped off his advice when that pistol cocked. To him it must have sounded like the peal of doom.

“What're their names?”

“Don't know their monikers.”

“Shut up, Gus. Tell him and we can go about our business.”

“Sound advice, Gus. And I really don't care if that business is killing each other, since you're going to take that fight out back.” Slocum saw the man waver and then his resolve melted like snow in the spring.

“One's Kel. The other's Malcolm. Herb Malcolm. They're a pair of drifters what blowed into town a month back and stuck like horseflies on flypaper. They spend most of their time down the street in the Lazy Ass Saloon.” Gus snorted. “Fits the two of them. Lazy sons of bitches, always cadging drinks and then sneaking out.”

“Heard tell they was Peepin' Toms.”

“Don't doubt that,” Slocum said. He pushed back from the table and holstered his pistol. “You want those drinks or you want to kill each other?” He saw their expressions and yelled over his shoulder, “Beefsteak, these two fine gents deserve a drink on me. Just one, though, since I suspect their thirsts are mighty big.”

Slocum backed from the table, spun, picked up the two shot glasses, and dropped the whiskey in front of the men. He went to the door and waved to Malone.

“Back in a few minutes.”

“Slocum!”

He let Malone's angry call slide right on by him. There wouldn't be any trouble. The men's rancor would be forgotten until the warmth of the whiskey faded in their bellies. He intended to be back before then.

Walking fast, he went down the street, turned the corner, and made a beeline for the Lazy Ass. He had been in there once, right after he hiked into town and was hunting for a job. The owner had thrown him out, and Slocum had landed the job with Malone less than an hour afterward. That had suited him.

He kicked open the door and looked around the interior. The Damned Shame was usually smoky inside, with everyone puffing away on a stogie or a hand-rolled cigarette. The two went together with serious drinking. Inside the Lazy Ass, men smoked but the air was clear because of the huge cracks in the walls letting through the wind whipping down off the mountains west of town. There wasn't anything a decent carpenter or even a handyman with some caulking couldn't fix, but Randall Cassarian wasn't inclined to spend one thin dime to improve the lot for his customers.

The short bar owner wore a heavy coat and gloves with the fingers cut out against the chill.

The man walked behind the bar on old crates so he would be about level with his customers. Slocum guessed Cassarian might not top out at five feet but he had never seen him outside this saloon and didn't much care one way or the other. Short or tall, the man was bitter and never had a good word for anyone.

“What the hell are you doin' in here, Slocum? Lookin' fer some high-class company?” Cassarian's high-pitched voice cut like a knife. Slocum ignored it and went to the bar.

“Heard tell a customer of yours is owed some money.”

Cassarian's eyes narrowed.

“Whatcha sayin'? If any of the lowlifes what come in here owe you money, that's their business. Either buy a drink or get out.”

“I'm delivering some money owed to Herb.”

“Don't know anybody named that.”

“Herb Malcolm.” Slocum took out one of the gold coins Mirabelle had given him and spun it on the bar. It fell to its rim and made a final drop, filling the saloon with the distinctive ring of gold against wood.

“Somebody owes him that?” Cassarian's eyes never left the coin.

“I'm delivering this as a favor. Where is he?”

“Not here. I'll give it to him.” The bar owner grabbed for the gold, but Slocum was quicker.

He drew his six-shooter and slammed the butt down on the back of Cassarian's hand, making the diminutive barkeep shriek in protest. Slocum kept the pressure of the butt against the hand and added the extra incentive of cocking the Colt. It pointed straight at the man's face.

“You ain't got no call to do that.”

“Just doing my job. Might be, Herb gets generous to the man delivering so much money. Doubt it, but I'm not passing up the chance.”

“That's Malcolm, all right. Cheap ass bastard.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Outside of town. A mile or two down the road toward Mount Pleasant and a bit south. Him and that no-account partner of his have a camp there.”

“You got your wish,” Slocum said, letting up on the man's hand. Cassarian tried again to grab the gold coin but he wasn't able to bend his fingers right. Slocum snared the coin and returned it to his vest pocket before slipping his six-gun into its holster.

“What wish's that?”

“You got rid of me. And I got my wish, too.”

“Findin' where Malcolm squats?”

“Not having to look at your ugly face.” With that, Slocum stepped away, made sure Cassarian wouldn't go for a gun under the bar, then spun and stepped out into the brisk autumn wind.

He turned up his collar as he returned to the Damned Shame to put in his time. Malcolm and his partner weren't likely to come back into town for a day or two. They'd want any trouble to blow over and have Madam Madeleine and everyone else thinking about other, more recent things than them trying to rob the whorehouse.

The rest of his workday and night passed slowly and uneventfully. Slocum didn't even have the satisfaction of throwing the two arguing men out of the Damned Shame because they'd left before he got back.

*   *  *

Slocum had no trouble finding the camp from Cassarian's directions. For a while he thought he was heading back to the site where Isaac Comstock and the others were murdered, but the sight of a small fire off to his left convinced him he wasn't returning to the burial ground. He guided his horse through the darkness and watched attentively for any sign Kel or Malcolm was standing watch for intruders.

From all he had seen of them, he doubted either had the foresight. Even after their failed robbery, they wouldn't be that alert. He rode almost into their camp before he spotted two filled bedrolls near the fire. The blankets rose and fell with the rhythmic breathing of men passed out from too much booze.

Slocum didn't have to examine them to know that. Two empty quart bottles attested to their bender. He dismounted and walked to pick up the first bottle. The label was peeling and faded. He didn't recognize the brand and decided they must have bought this from the Lazy Ass.

“Wha?” The man under the blanket nearest Slocum stirred and sat up. He had a six-shooter in his hand. Slocum took two quick steps forward and swung the empty bottle.

It smashed against the man's head and knocked him flat on his back. The sound of the breaking glass woke the other man. Slocum whirled around and kicked. The toe of his boot caught the man's hand and sent his six-gun spinning into the night.

“You cain't rob us! What've you done to Kel?”

Slocum kicked again and caught Herb Malcolm in the chest. Then he stepped down, pinning him to the ground.

“You must be Herb if that one's Kel.”

“Who're you?” Malcolm squinted, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes.

To clear up those eyes, he'd have to cut his own throat and drain them like a swamp. Slocum wasn't about to give him the chance to take any weapon in hand.

“I've been sent for you.”

“Sent? Somebody wants us?” Then the import of that sank into his besotted brain. “No, you cain't. You—”

Slocum applied more weight to his boot. Malcolm grabbed at his leg and tried to force him off, but Slocum maintained the pressure until the man passed out.

He looked around the camp and decided there wasn't anything of value—not that he expected there to be with a pair of drifters and sneak thieves. For all their careful planning, they weren't too smart. But then they'd been drunk the night before and they were drunk now. Slocum doubted they strayed much from this state of intoxication.

Finding their horses, he lashed their bridles together, then looped the single reins around the saddle horn on his mount. It took him the better part of fifteen minutes to cut ropes to bind the men's hands. He considered leaving behind their boots, then decided whatever Madam Madeleine intended for these two, he ought to deliver them as intact as possible.

When they'd both recovered enough, Slocum had them put on their boots, then hoisted them to their feet and ran longer ropes from their bound hands to the saddle horn before mounting.

“We got a ways to go, so you'd better step lively. If you don't, you get dragged. I want to be back in Grizzly Flats before sunup.”

Kel and Malcolm cursed for almost a mile, then he picked up the pace and forced them to half run to keep from being dragged. They realized he wasn't fooling and would not bother letting them up should they fall. Slocum had set himself a time limit of sunrise to reach town. He bettered that by twenty minutes.

“You—you cain't turn us over to that bitch!” Kel protested. “She'll do us harm!”

“He's right,” Malcolm cried. “She'll murder us!”

“Is that so, Madeleine?” Slocum asked when the tall woman strutted out onto the back porch. “You intending to kill these two sneak thieves?”

“Not at all, sir,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “Why, my girls have nothing but special treatment in store for them.”

She gestured and four women came from inside the cathouse. Slocum looked them over and decided their employer might be lovely but had lower standards when it came to hiring. Two were fat to the point of waddling. Another made up for it. Her skeletal frame allowed her clothing to flap about her body. The fourth looked as if she was better suited to work the mines. Slocum vowed never to arm-wrestle her. He would lose.

“Give our special guests a good bath, ladies,” Madeleine said.

The powerfully built woman stood, looking up at Slocum, and asked, “What about this one? I could just eat him up.”

“Now, now, Esther, leave something for me to do,” Madeleine said. She laughed at Slocum's wry grin.

The four hookers grabbed the men and shoved them toward a bathhouse. Slocum didn't see smoke curling up from the stove and asked about that.

“Hot water for their baths? Don't be absurd. I'm not going to that much trouble for them.” Barely had Madeleine said this than outraged cries came from the bathhouse. Malcolm and Kel were being scrubbed down with water mixed with ice.

Slocum dismounted and hitched up the horses to an iron ring set high on the back wall. Customers likely came in this way, not wanting to be seen entering the front door. Madeleine's four whores came back, pushing the two naked men in front of them.