Slocum and the Three Fugitives (3 page)

“You're welcome for me returning those horses.” Slocum couldn't help adding, “Mighty strange that you put horses out to pasture all saddled like that, though.”

Deutsch roared and fired his rifle in the air. Slocum held his Appaloosa steady with his knees. He had seen the man's anger reach the boiling point and had been ready for the discharge. Taking pleasure in taunting the man had been dangerous, but he had learned a few things. Rory Deutsch was not only an arrogant bastard but also a whale of a liar.

Slocum caught movement in an upstairs window. He shifted to go for his six-shooter, then saw a young woman watching him. Ignoring Deutsch, he tipped his hat to the woman, then rode off. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He couldn't tell if the reaction came from waiting for a rifle bullet to shatter his spine or the pretty woman's hot gaze.

Slocum rode with one eye on his back trail. Rory Deutsch hadn't given any hint of hospitality or gratitude at getting his three horses back. Slocum didn't believe for an instant the horses had been stolen, not saddled like they were. Demanding to search the saddlebags to see if Slocum had stolen anything showed that the rancher knew who had ridden those horses. Slocum didn't have to be a betting man to figure that Deutsch himself rode one of them, probably the paint since the road agents on the two chestnuts were larger men.

Slocum kept a
very
sharp eye out for the three ambushers to come after him.

He camped in a cave to reduce the chance that they might see him easily out in the open. The cave was shallow and cold, and he had to build his cooking fire just beyond the mouth, giving away his position to anyone with a sharp eye. He considered the chances of someone sneaking up on him while he slept if he kept the fire for warmth against the mountain chill. His survival instincts told him to pull the blanket up around his shoulders a little more and let the fire die.

Midmorning the next day he rode back into Taos, still aching from the night spent in the mountains. The pueblo with its winding streets lined with adobe buildings offered him a good change, not only from sleeping on the trail but also from the big-city rush of Denver, where he'd just spent some time. He couldn't help thinking of the differences between himself and Tom Harris. Harris had been going to Denver with a wad of greenbacks big enough to choke a cow. Slocum had ridden from that city with only a few dollars in his pocket. Harris had been killed; Slocum had survived. Strangest of all, Harris had owned the Black Hole Saloon and that was now Slocum's. Legally, it was his, but he had done nothing to deserve it and certainly nothing to take it away from Annabelle Harris.

He needed to talk to her, but first he wanted to have words with the marshal about Rory Deutsch and his part in killing Harris. It was spiderweb-thin evidence at best, but anyone who sent out his cowboys to waylay a businessman had to be suspected of other crimes.

The jailhouse looked no different from the other buildings around it. The adobe walls might be three feet thick instead of two and some windows had bars over them. Otherwise, he wouldn't have found it without the sign swinging on a post in front. He dismounted, considered what he expected to learn and if it was worth the risk that the lawman had a poster with his likeness nailed up on a wall, then lashed the reins to a hitching post and went inside.

A smallish man with a full beard and a trapped look snapped alert from cleaning his gun on a battered desk set in the corner.

“You the marshal?”

“Name's Donnelly. What do you want from me?”

Slocum pulled up a chair and sat opposite the man. The marshal's eyes darted around, as if Slocum intended to do him harm and he sought a way to escape.

“You heard about Tom Harris getting himself shot up.”

“Poor bastard died. You the one what brought him in to the doc? Zamora gave a good description of you.”

Slocum touched the deed in his pocket but decided he was more curious about Deutsch.

“The road agents who killed him rode horses with the X Bar X brand. I took the horses back to Rory Deutsch. He spun some tall tale of how the horses were stolen from his pasture.”

“Not my jurisdiction. He's too far out of town fer me to be involved.”

“He had the look of a prosperous rancher. Why would he send his men out to rob Harris?”

“You got proof he done that? Take it to the sheriff.”

“More interested in hearing about Deutsch. He the kind to skirt the law or maybe even bust a law or two, just to get his way?”

“What rich man don't do that?” Donnelly peered at Slocum. “This ain't any of yer business. Why don't you ride on out and let things be?”

“Tom Harris was an upstanding citizen of Taos, from all I hear. You're not interested in who killed him?”

“Happened out of town, not my jurisdiction. I liked Tom good enough. He stood me a drink or two when I made my nightly rounds. Even my deputies liked him, and they don't like nobody much.”

“So—” Slocum was interrupted when the jail door slammed hard against the wall.

A man with a serape slung over his shoulder stood just outside. His sombrero about filled the doorway.

“Marshal, you must come quick. There's a fight.”

“Settle down, José. You're all out of breath.”

Slocum moved his chair to take in both the lawman and the messenger. José gulped down several deep breaths of the thin air and finally blurted out, “He is going to kill her! Señorita Harris. He waves his knife all around and will cut her!”

“At the saloon?” Marshal Donnelly fumbled to put his six-shooter back together. If his marksmanship was as good as his mechanical skills, Annabelle Harris was doomed.

Slocum pushed to his feet.

“The marshal will be along soon,” he said. “Are they at the Black Hole?”

“
Sí,
yes, at the Black Hole.”

Slocum mounted and trotted through the dusty streets to the saloon. From the outside, nothing appeared wrong. When he came even with the door, he heard Pierre shouting in French. Slocum didn't have to know the language to understand dire things were happening.

He kicked free of the Appaloosa, dropped to the ground, and stepped just inside the door. The lamps were turned down, turning the interior to twilight. Hand resting on his six-gun but not drawing, Slocum homed in on the shouting.

At the rear of the saloon Pierre waved a wicked long-bladed knife about. The bright shaft reflected the wan light and left silvery trails in the air as he slashed back and forth. He was a menacing figure, but Annabelle Harris seemed no less threatening with a broken whiskey bottle in one hand and a bung starter in the other. Pierre lunged for her. She blocked the thrust with the mallet and viciously swung for his face with the sharp-edged bottle.

“You slut. You have no right to be here.”

“I told Tom you were a crook, that he should have sent you packing.”

“Both of you, back off,” Slocum bellowed.

For a moment, they stared at each other, then realized a third combatant had entered their fray. Slocum aimed his Colt at a spot between them. The threat was obvious. If either crossed his line of fire, they'd catch a bullet.

“This is not your fight,” Pierre said. “Leave now.”

“He thinks he owns the Black Hole because Tom's dead. He's wrong.”

“I worked for pennies. He owed me. I claim the bar for my own!”

Slocum fired as Pierre surged forward. The bullet missed the Frenchman's hand but tore away part of his left sleeve, revealing the sheath along his forearm.

“Damn,” Slocum said. “I'm usually a better shot. Next one goes through your heart.”

“Kill him!” raged Annabelle. “Go on, shoot him down! He deserves it, trying to steal Tom's property.
My
property now.”

Slocum fired again as both of them stepped forward to renew their fight.

“What's going on here?” Marshal Donnelly crept in, a shotgun in his trembling hands. Slocum saw that the lawman wasn't wearing his six-shooter. It probably had been too much of a chore to reassemble it, and it must still have lain in pieces on his desk.

“This is a private squabble, Marshal,” Pierre said. “I own the Black Hole, and she tried to kill me.”

“My bother died! I'm his only kin. The Black Hole is all I've got!”

Slocum fired again as Pierre and Annabelle squared off to renew the fight. He ignored the marshal and his shotgun. The flustered lawman might have left his office in such a rush that he hadn't bothered to load the gun.

“Turns out, you're both wrong,” Slocum said. “I'm the owner. Tom signed it over to me before he died.”

Silence fell on the saloon so intense it almost hurt Slocum's ears. Finally, all three of the others spoke at once.

“No, it is not possible.”

“He wouldn't!”

“Who're you to be—”

Slocum fired again. He was quickly approaching the point where he needed to settle this dispute peaceably or reload for a real fight.

“Everyone settle down. Harris signed over the saloon to me on his deathbed, and Dr. Zamora witnessed it.” He pulled the deed from his pocket and held it out for the marshal.

The man took the sheet as if it would burn his fingers. He squinted and sucked on his teeth and finally said, “Looks all signed and proper to me.”

“It's a forgery!” Annabelle blurted out. “Tom would never give the Black Hole to a stranger!”

“It is mine by right. I worked for nothing because he promised me the deed when he died.” Pierre puffed himself up and crossed his arms.

“He did no such thing,” Annabelle said, angrily facing Pierre. “I never liked you. I don't know why Tom kept you around since you were stealing from him! From me and him!”

“Hush up, everyone. I'll take this over to the doc and see if he can back up the claim.” Donnelly peered closer at the paper, then up. “You're this here John Slocum named in the deed?”

“Better get to it, Marshal,” Slocum said.

“I'm coming with you,” Annabelle said.

“I, too, will accompany you to end this farce!” Pierre tucked his knife back into the forearm sheath. From the way his right hand twitched, he wanted to use it on Annabelle.

For her part, she put down the broken bottle and then tossed the bung starter on top of it. The trio stormed from the saloon, leaving Slocum alone. He holstered his six-gun, found a broom, and began cleaning up. It wouldn't do to have his watering hole all dirty.

 • • • 

After a couple hours behind the bar, Slocum began to tire of the constant din and requests for more beer, more whiskey, more fancy drinks. He had found a bartender's guide with recipes for the outrageously named drinks, but ignoring the proportions proved a hit with the customers. They didn't want strange, new flavors. They wanted alcohol to get drunk.

Slocum furnished floods of it, but being a solitary creature, he was finally worn down by the constant demands on his attention. What didn't bother him at all was the overflowing ceramic pot stuffed with money. Half was greenbacks that might not be worth using to light a quirrly, but the coins jingled and clanked nicely as he dropped them in. Several of the cowboys and vaqueros paid with gold coins. These he slipped into his vest pocket because it felt good having money again after so long. Best of all, he didn't have to rob anyone to get rich. The customers almost forced the money on him.

That eased his discomfort at having so many crowded into the small saloon.

But as the evening wore on, he realized he had to sign the business over to Annabelle. He had earned it by fighting off the road agents, at least in Tom Harris's eyes. As he set up more beer mugs and wiped clean the used ones, he wondered if he could get Annabelle to take him on as a partner. She was a mighty pretty filly, but he had seen how her temper flared. Pierre hadn't deterred her with his knife. She had stood up to him and given as good as she got.

Such a feisty woman would be a handful. Slocum let his mind drift as he mindlessly swabbed off the bar and took money in exchange for the beer. Having her beside him as a partner—maybe even a bed partner—appealed to him. He knew nothing about the nuts and bolts of running a business. Right now, he served liquor already stored in the back room. Harris had been on his way to Denver to buy more.

Slocum had no idea what made a good deal buying booze.

“You backstabbin', no-account cheat!”

The insult rang out over the din in the Black Hole and drew Slocum's attention to a table at the rear where five men played poker. He had considered putting in a faro table but there was little enough room. He knew tonight's crowd would fade over the weeks. Right now everyone flocked in to see the new owner. It would take games like faro with a pretty dealer or waitresses showing a bit of ankle and breast to keep the crowds coming back.

He shook himself. He was planning for a future he didn't want to live in.

Slocum vaulted the bar and took four quick steps through the crowd, pushing men away in time to grab a gambler's wrist as he drew a derringer. A quick turn twisted the man's arm back at an unnatural angle, forcing him to drop the hideout gun.

“No gunplay, not in my place,” Slocum said. Over the years he had worked as a bouncer in even rowdier saloons. Quelling the fight fast made sense. If it got out of hand, everyone would be trading punches and would wreck the place. “What's the trouble?”

“He had three aces!” The cowboy across the table was so close to passing out, he hardly focused his eyes. Slocum looked closer and saw one eye wandered off all by its lonesome. The dozen shots of whiskey hadn't done anything to keep it in the corral.

“So? That's a winning hand,” grumbled the gambler as he rubbed his wrist where Slocum had wrenched it around.

“Two of 'em was spades! Ain't no honest deck that has two aces of spades in it!”

Slocum slammed his hand onto the cards in front of the gambler to keep him from scooping them up. He flipped them over, then looked up.

“You're wrong,” he told the cowboy. “There aren't two aces of spades.”

“But—” the man protested, turning his head so the wandering eye could better see the cards spread out on the table.

“There's three.” Slocum grabbed the gambler by the collar and lifted him bodily. “No cheating in the Black Hole.”

Slocum heaved him out into the street. The gambler sat and reached for a vest pocket. Slocum cleared leather and fired before the tinhorn pulled out a second derringer. The slug ripped into the man's right shoulder and knocked him flat onto his back.

“Next shot will be through your heart, though I might not be a good enough shot to find something that small and rotten.” Slocum saw comprehension dawn on the gambler's face that he had just committed an act that should have ended his life.