Slocum and the Three Fugitives (4 page)

He rolled to hands and knees, clumsily stood, and ran away, clutching his injured shoulder. Slocum picked up the derringer and tucked it into his coat pocket next to the saloon deed Donnelly had returned hours earlier. Heaving a sigh, he went back into the smoky room. For a moment, silence descended, then a roar went up and Slocum found a dozen patrons slapping him on the back and wishing him well.

“Nope, not going to do it,” he said once he had returned to his post behind the bar. “You all got to pay for your own drinks.”

“Ah, Slocum, you're a spoilsport.”

“If there's going to be drinks on the house, it'll be on
your
house,” he told the patron.

This caused a roar of laughter at the man's expense, but he took it well. Slocum slipped him a free beer, put his finger to his lips, then went on collecting another small fortune as he sold drinks along the entire length of the bar.

The crowd began to peter out around midnight, and Slocum saw he had to restock the backbar's whiskey. He knew something of mixing up trade whiskey, but figured he would have turned the saloon back to Annabelle before he had to pour the raw alcohol, gunpowder, rusty nails, and all the rest into a vat to make more. When his last two customers snored peacefully at tables, heads on crossed arms, he went to the storeroom to replenish his stock.

He cursed under his breath. A padlock secured the door to keep customers from sneaking back there and drinking themselves into a stupor for free. Harris had signed the deed over; he hadn't told Slocum any of the details of running the business such as where the key might be found. Slocum looked in the obvious places behind the bar, then returned and checked the door frame for a hole where a key might be hidden.

As his fingers moved across the lintel, finding only dirt, he froze. Sounds from the storeroom warned him someone was moving about there. He knew better than to shoot off a lock. The ricochet was as likely to hit him as it was to break the lock. He drew his pistol and slammed the butt into the top of the lock. It yielded with a loud snap.

He tossed the broken lock away, lifted the latch, and kicked open the door.

“Hands up!” He stepped in, six-gun trained on a man tearing off the top of a crate and smashing the bottles of whiskey against the floor.

Distracted by counting the bottles already shattered, Slocum failed to see there were two men in the room. Apparently they had broken in through the back entrance, which Slocum realized when he looked up and noticed a rear door that was half open. The second man swung a broom against his wrist hard enough to make Slocum's grip go limp. He dropped his six-shooter. Then he was enfolded by strong arms and driven into the wall. He recoiled and brought his knee up to crush his attacker's groin.

The man grunted. The steel grip around Slocum's arms weakened. Slocum jerked around and sent the man stumbling into his partner. They went down in a welter of elbows and assholes amid the broken glass and puddles of pungent whiskey.

Slocum reached for his fallen gun but slipped in the whiskey. This was all it took for one man to heave a broken bottle at him. The sharp edge cut his forehead. The rush of blood momentarily blinded Slocum, but his fingers wrapped around the butt of his Colt. He squeezed off a round, not caring where the slug went. Creating confusion gave him time enough to swipe at the blood blinding him.

Through the black curtain caused by the blood in his eyes, he saw the men going for their six-shooters. He fired again but a third time the hammer fell on a spent round. Slocum cursed his bad luck. He had forgotten to reload after stopping the fight between Annabelle and Pierre.

“Nobody beats on me and lives to brag on it,” growled an intruder. He raised his gun.

The report filled Slocum's ears and deafened him. He kept wiping at the blood and cleared his vision. A sudden gust of cold air hit him in the face at the same instant another gunshot rang out, this one inches from his ear. He flinched away and turned to see Annabelle Harris standing over him, holding a six-gun in both hands.

“Thanks,” he said. “You scared them off.” A gust of wind slammed the back door as the two men fled.

Slocum sat straighter when he saw the look on her face. She stepped away, cocked the thumb buster, and pointed it straight at him.

“Missed them. Won't miss you,” she said.

The bore looked as big as a train tunnel—and it didn't tremble with the least bit of hesitation on the determined woman's part as she curled her finger around the trigger.

“I want the deed. Tear it up,” Annabelle Harris said. “Do it now or I'll shoot you.”

Slocum reached into his coat pocket and touched the derringer he had taken from the gambler. It would be a difficult shot, squeezing off a round and firing through his coat. He turned slightly, squeezed the trigger to distract her, and launched himself across the floor. The slick whiskey kept him sailing along. The broken glass slashed at his arm and side, but he crashed into the woman, hitting her just under the knees.

She let out a yelp and threw up her hands in a reaction she couldn't have avoided. It came second nature to anyone falling backward. Her six-gun went flying and hit the wall. When it discharged, she cried out again. But this time, she found herself pinned to the floor, Slocum's knees pressing into her shoulders in a schoolboy pin. Struggle as she might, she couldn't budge his greater weight.

“Settle down,” he said. Slocum had to smile. How often had he said that in the past twelve hours? It always came with Annabelle in some fight. “I'm not going to keep the saloon.”

“What? Why not? You rooked Tom out of it.”

“Did you talk to Dr. Zamora?”

“You paid him off to lie. You must have!”

“I never met Zamora before. Is he the kind of man to be bought off so easily?”

“Easily? You could have given him hundreds of dollars as a bribe. Who knows what a poor doctor's price is?”

“Why bother returning the thousand that your brother had on him? I could have ridden away with his money and the three horses I took from the road agents.”

“Nobody said anything about horses.” She stopped fighting him.

He stared down into her lovely face. Her hair sprayed out around her head, soaking up whiskey. Rocking back, he took some pressure off her shoulders to test what she would do. When he saw the resignation on her face, he knew the fight was gone out of her. He let her up.

He stood, then helped her to her feet.

“I've got booze in my hair. I smell like a distillery,” she said, trying to squeeze out the potent liquor. She cried out when she cut her fingers on glass stuck in her hair.

“Be careful. There're shards all over.” Slocum winced and clutched his side. For the first time he realized how badly cut up he had gotten rolling around on the floor.

“You're bleeding. From that cut on your forehead but also through your coat.” Annabelle reached out. Now her hand shook as she peeled away the coat and tugged at his vest.

“Doesn't feel too bad. My clothes took a worse beating than I did.” Slocum stretched. “Only shallow cuts.”

“Come along,” she said in a tone that demanded obedience. When he stared at her, she said, “I used to be a schoolteacher. Now come along.”

“If I don't, will you make me stand in the corner?”

This brought bright laughter to her lips.

“You might wish for such minor punishment,” she said. “I was quite good with a willow switch.” She snared his hand and pulled him along to the bar.

The two drunks were gone and the front door had been locked. She had closed up and then followed him into the back room.

“You pulled my bacon out of the fire.”

“I saved your life. Admit it,” she said as she tugged on his coat and got him out of it before starting to unbutton his vest.

“You did that very thing,” Slocum allowed.

This took her by surprise.

“You're not arguing the point?”

“No reason. It's true.”

“You aren't anything like I thought,” she said. “Turn around. I can't get your shirt off with you standing there facing me.”

As he turned, she unstuck the cloth from the wound. He had been right. Only a scratch but it bled enough to make it look worse than it was. He cried out, then bit his lip when a sudden rush of liquor over the wound burned like fire.

“A couple pieces of glass are still in the wound. Don't move.”

He sucked in a breath and held it as she fished out the glass with the tip of a knife she took from under the bar. The slivers made tinkling sounds as they dropped to the floor. A second splash of whiskey stung, but not as bad this time.

“Doesn't even need stitches.” She stepped back and studied him critically. Then she looked up at him, opened her mouth, and started to say something but bit back the words.

“What were you going to say?” he asked, turning to her.

Her voice was small and almost too low for him to hear.

“I was going to ask if you wanted me to kiss it and make it well.”

“No need to get those lovely lips of yours all bloody.” He stepped closer and pulled her to him. She resisted, hands pressing into his bare chest. Slocum held her to keep her from escaping but did nothing to pull her closer. He felt her resistance melting away like snow in a warm spring sun.

She eased closer, then passionately kissed him. It was as if a dam broke. One instant, drought. The next, a flood.

She pressed hard against him. He felt the crush of her breasts hidden behind her peasant blouse. The turquoise necklace and her bracelets cut into him. He never noticed because of the intoxicating taste of her lips. When his lips parted slightly, she boldly thrust her tongue into his mouth. All shyness vanished as she hungrily kissed him.

Their tongues darted back and forth, stroking, caressing, driving like fleshy battering rams. They ebbed and flowed, changing the manner of the kiss until both had to break off and gasp for breath.

She looked at him, eyes wide in wonder.

“I want you so,” she said. “I don't know why, but I do. I need you.”

Her hands fumbled and freed him of his gun belt, then worked on the buttons on his fly. As she popped them open one by one, he occupied himself sliding his hands under her blouse, then lifting. For a moment, they worked at odds, then she stopped her quest for the hardness sprouting from his crotch to raise her arms high over her head. The blouse slipped free, leaving her as bare to the waist as he was.

The necklace dangled now between her bare breasts.

“Your skin is so white and smooth,” he said, running his fingers over the sleek cones, “and the blue stones make them stand out.”

He pressed his thumbs into the taut pink nipples until she closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure. He released them and rubbed the turquoise over her flesh. This excited her even more, the feel of slick cool stone contrasting with the warmth of his fingers.

“I do, I do want you, John,” she said.

Annabelle backed away, then reached behind, caught the edge of the bar, and hopped up. She rocked back, lifted her ass, and scooted her skirt up around her waist to expose her bare pubes.

He bent forward and licked at the cleft. She cried out as he continued to lave the pinkly scalloped nether lips. When he thrust his tongue into her hot center, she collapsed onto the bar.

Slocum was so hard now that he hurt. He finished the chore of opening his fly and slid his arms under her knees. A quick pull flattened Annabelle on the bar and drew her closer to the edge. Slocum bent her double by hiking her knees over his shoulders and leaned forward. The tip of his manhood lightly dragged along her trembling privates.

“Don't tease, John. Do it. I want you inside me!”

He ignored her. He slid up and down, getting her inner oils all over his length as he worked her to a fever pitch. She thrashed about, but he held her securely and controlled her by keeping those two long legs over his shoulders. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he leaned forward and thrust with his hips.

The bulbous tip missed and skittered along her cleft again. She moaned and protested. Then she shrieked in delight as he moved into her with a smooth, long shove. For an instant he was transported to a different world, one of stark pleasure and complete lust.

She tensed around him as he began to pull free. When only the plum-shaped tip of his dick remained in her, he paused, caught his breath, and then slowly reentered. She went wild with desire. He found the slow movements difficult to maintain. His own ardor threatened to cause him to erupt at any instant. Faster and faster he pistoned into her heated core, liquid squishing sounds drowned out by Annabelle's shrieks of desire.

Her legs clamped hard on his ears as she got off. He arched his back and tried to split her in half with his fleshy sword. Then he exploded. His hips flew like a shuttlecock, and he went limp far too soon.

Sweat poured down his bare chest. He backed away and released his hold on her legs. She flopped weakly, her slender legs on either side of his hips. Her chest heaved and her tits bounced about until she caught her breath. She pushed up to her elbows and looked at him.

“I never imagined,” she whispered.

“It can be that way after a close scrape.”

“Scrape? Oh, back in the storeroom,” Annabelle said, shrugging delightfully. Slocum fought to keep his attention on what she said rather than how her body responded now. “That happens now and again.”

“Men smashing your whiskey?”

“Drifters stealing what they can. They—” She bit off the rest of the sentence. Annabelle swallowed hard and finally said, “They weren't stealing the booze. They were destroying it.”

“Why'd anyone do that?”

She sat up and wiggled a bit to get her skirts down around her legs. She was still naked to the waist. She shivered and gooseflesh appeared to mar her smooth skin. Putting her hands on his shoulders for balance, she hopped down, bent, and retrieved her blouse. As much as he hated to do so, Slocum knew he had to get dressed, too.

As she pulled the blouse back down over her head, she mumbled to herself. When she was decent again, Annabelle said, “Tom worried about something before he left for Denver.”

“Why go all the way north to buy whiskey? Couldn't he buy it here? How hard is it to distill alcohol and then spruce it up?”

“Tom always liked to give the customers a choice between rotgut that would rip out their throats and good stuff from Tennessee and Kentucky. He used to buy it from whiskey peddlers, but they stopped coming by a few months ago.”

“Why?”

“I can't say. Tom always took care of supplies.”

“And hiring?”

“I never liked Pierre, but Tom insisted on keeping him. He's a good barkeep, but he always treated me with contempt.”

“His loss,” said Slocum. “You need to be treated in an entirely different way.” He ran his fingers through the hair at the back of her head and pulled her close for a quick kiss.

“Oh my, yes, his loss.” A shy smile danced on her lips. “My gain.”

“You have enough stock to keep the bar going, even after a couple cases of whiskey were broken?”

“I need to see what was damaged. But why would anyone bust it up when they could steal it?”

They returned to the back room. Annabelle lit a kerosene lamp and started to move closer to the stacks of boxes when Slocum held her back.

“The fumes might cause the whole saloon to go up if they catch fire.” He went to the rear door, saw how it had been pried open. The crowbar they used lay in the dirt where it had been discarded. He used the crowbar to prop open the door to air out the storeroom.

He looked around the alley but finding the men would be impossible. They'd had plenty of time to hightail it. Stepping back in caused glass to crunch under his boots. Annabelle already swept the broken bottles toward the door to clean up but missed the smaller shards.

“A couple cases are damaged. You must have caught them just as they started.”

“You say the whiskey peddlers you used to buy from stopped coming to town a few months back?”

“I heard Pete from over at the Santa Fe Drinking Emporium complain about running low, but that was weeks ago.”

“Did he close up?”

“No,” she said. “He has plenty of liquor. Wonder where he gets it. I can't see him riding to Denver to buy from dealers there.”

“Would his saloon still be open?”

“He runs all night long and only closes up at dawn. Why?”

“I have a couple questions to ask.”

“I'll close up,” she said, walking over to the back door, removing the crowbar, and slamming the door shut.

Slocum waited for her to leave the storeroom then secured the inner door the best he could without a lock, and returned to the main room. Walking past Annabelle, he went out into the street in front of the Black Hole. She joined him in a minute, carefully locking the front door.

Annabelle grinned. “I still have the keys. Unless you want to take them.” She smiled coyly and dropped the keys down her blouse between her breasts.

“I'll hunt for the keys later,” Slocum said. His mind wandered to other things.

Annabelle cupped her breasts and bounced them. A tinkling sounded as the keys bounced against her silver and turquoise necklace.

“Sure you don't want to carry the keys?”

“Where's Pete's bar?”

“We can open a case of the best whiskey left. Tom had a good palate for buying bourbon. There's even a decent bottle of brandy that's hardly been touched behind the bar.”

He took her by the elbow and steered her toward the town plaza. Annabelle sighed, hung on his arm, and laid her head against his shoulder as they walked.

“He hasn't closed yet,” she said, pointing across the plaza to an adobe with an open door and light spilling out. “Won't be long, though. It's almost dawn.”

Slocum walked faster when he saw a man struggling to pull the door shut.

“Pete, wait a second,” Annabelle called.

“
Hola
, Miss Harris,” the man said. “Sorry to hear about your brother.”

“Thanks. You closing?”

“Got a couple customers left to toss out. It's been a busy night, and I'm all tuckered out.”

“If you'd answer a question, I'd appreciate it,” Slocum said. “Miss Harris would appreciate it.”