Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) (8 page)

Shouts went unheeded. He was still operating without knowing he even fought. When the rifle barrel slammed again into his head, he sagged, his body suddenly nerveless.

“Kill the son of a bitch,” came the angry command.

He heard muffled argument, then the rifle barrel crunched down on the top of his head. His hat robbed the blow of its full fury, but it was still powerful enough to knock him out.

8

The flickering light convinced Slocum he wasn't blind, but he wished he were dead. His head felt like a stove-in watermelon, and where he was bandaged on the ribs burned like a million ants chewed away at him. He tried to roll over but couldn't. It was as if his arms were pinned to his sides. He forced his eyes open and saw a kerosene lamp on a table—on the other side of iron bars.

“You finally back among the land of the livin'? Too damn shame. I hoped you'd up and die on me. There's a shit hole out in the potter's field just waitin' for you.”

Slocum levered himself up and let the dizziness pass as he took in his surroundings. The jail cell wasn't the best kept he'd ever seen. Debris on the floor was only part of it. The bars had rusted, and the single blanket covering the straw pallet on the sagging cot had enough moth holes in it to have fed an army of the gnawing pests. Beyond the bars sat Marshal Willingham, feet hiked up on a desk. His bowed legs looked funny with him sitting that way, but what didn't amuse Slocum was the way the lawman played with his six-shooter.

The marshal spun the cylinder, then aimed at Slocum and pretended to fire. Then he'd spin the cylinder again and repeat.

“I got six rounds in the chambers,” Willingham said. “Ain't no call for you to bet on whether you get plugged.”

“All I need to worry about is when?” Slocum suggested.

“You're a bright guy, Slocum. Too bright. Now, should you be kilt escapin' or maybe there's another—” The marshal cut off his planning when the door opened and let in a cold breath of outside. He dropped his feet to the floor and turned Slocum's six-gun toward Mirabelle Comstock.

“I came when I heard,” Mirabelle said, looking at Slocum.

“Now who might you be? You and him, you . . . friendly?” The way Willingham said it made Slocum's skin crawl.

“Why are you holding him, Marshal? He's not done anything.”

“Now that's a matter for a judge to decide. Since Grizzly Flats don't have a full-time judge, we got to wait on the circuit rider to come 'round. Might be a week. Might be two. In this weather, he might decide not to come 'til spring.”

“What are the charges?”

“Now, missy, I don't know what your interest in this varmint is, but if you ain't a lawyer—
his
lawyer—I don't have to tell you jackshit.”

“You can't go 'n lock a man up without chargin' him with some crime.”

“I'm the law in Grizzly Flats, and I do as I damn well please. If you don't want to end up in a cell next to him, you git the hell out of my office.”

“Is there a bail set?”

Slocum knew Mirabelle didn't have a dime to her name. Or did she? Had Ike found more than the two gold coins and she hadn't bothered to reveal that?

“He's not budgin' 'til I say so. What's your name, missy?”

“I'll be all right,” Slocum said, getting to his feet. He leaned against the bars for support. His legs still almost gave way beneath him. “The marshal won't let anything happen to me, will you, Marshal?”

“Shut up, Slocum.”

“Do you feed your prisoners? I'll tell the owner at the restaurant to bring him some breakfast.”

“Ain't time yet,” Willingham said. “Lookee here, missy, you get that pretty ass of yours outta my jailhouse.”

“Tell everyone where I am and how I'm staying put,” Slocum said. He worried that Willingham would shoot him the instant Mirabelle left, claiming he had tried to escape. “After all, a good and honorable lawman like the marshal here's not going to let any prisoner escape.”

Mirabelle went pale when he said that. She understood what was likely to happen. Why the marshal had it in for him, Slocum didn't know, but the murderous intent in the portly man's eyes was obvious. The more people who knew he was in custody and not likely to try an escape, the safer he was.

Willingham fumed at how Slocum tried to box him in. What worried Slocum the most was the chance that Willingham would throw Mirabelle in jail, too, then kill them both in a staged escape.

“I'll be right back, John. Don't go anywhere.”

“I won't.”

“He ain't gettin' outta my jail alive,” Willingham said.

Mirabelle left. The marshal moved to a few feet just outside the cell door, the six-shooter still in his hand. The way he balanced it made Slocum wonder if he wasn't going to kill him inside the cell and then toss in a pistol after the murder to justify his actions.

“You got a big mouth, Slocum. You ain't got no call mixin' that sweet little thing up in your crimes.”

“I tried to stop a robbery, Marshal. Ask the woman in the house.”

“Madam Madeleine? That bitch would always lie.” He laughed harshly. “Hell, that's her business. Layin' drunk cowboys and other degenerates makes her more prone to lie.”

Willingham lifted his pistol. Slocum understood the term “shooting fish in a barrel.” The small cell gave no place to hide. The marshal could kill him without even being a good shot.

“I am so glad you hold me in such high esteem, Marshal,” came a soft voice from behind the lawman. It might have been velvet toned but it carried a knife's edge of sarcasm.

Willingham swung around.

“Oh, do put that silly gun down. You might shoot yourself again. You do remember, don't you, Marshal? How you were showing one of my girls how to do a fast draw and shot yourself in the foot? Who was that? Oh, yes, Jezebel. She's still talking about it. To everyone.”

The tall redhead from the whorehouse closed the jailhouse door behind her, took out a dainty handkerchief, and brushed off the marshal's chair before sitting. Slocum ought to have been paying attention to the marshal, but he couldn't take his eyes off the madam. She wore a scoop-neck lime green dress that let her ample bosoms push up in delightful white mounds, almost spilling out. Her coppery hair had been arranged since Slocum saw her last, making her look as if she were ready for a night at the theater, escorted by some wealthy railroad magnate.

Her gloved hands carefully rearranged her long skirts, flashing just a hint of ankle to be wicked. If Willingham had been a couple steps closer, Slocum could have grabbed the pistol from his hands, but Slocum was as engrossed in the hint of trim ankle and the shapely calf above as the lawman.

“He's my prisoner,” Willingham said, as if she argued the point with him.

“I see that. What are the trumped-up charges, Marshal?”

“I got plenty on him.”

For a moment Slocum worried the marshal had seen one of the wanted posters on him for killing that carpetbagger judge back in Georgia.

“Oh, tell me one. Just one.”

“He . . .”

“As I thought. You came running when you found that my house was being robbed. You became confused when this gentleman—Mr. Slocum, isn't it?—so gallantly came to my defense and ran off the two scalawags intent on their criminal ways. I can see how it might happen, it being dark and you seeing Mr. Slocum with his six-shooter drawn and me in my kitchen all . . . in dishevelment after being roused from my bed.”

“Your bed?”

“Where I was alone, Marshal Willingham, quite alone. A poor lil' ole thang like me, alone. Imagine that.”

Slocum held back his laughter. Madam Madeleine fed the marshal a fantasy that diverted him from wanting to murder his prisoner. Her put-on Southern accent hardly went with her appearance. As if to seal the deal, she lifted her skirts just enough to show her ankles again and crossed her legs in a most unladylike way.

“I caught him red-handed.”

“In the act of saving my life! I owe him so much. I am sure this confusion can be squared. Is there any fine he must pay? Bail until the judge arrives? I think Judge Holbein is making the circuit this month. He and I are
such
good friends.”

“I heard that,” Willingham said.

“Excellent. Do let Mr. Slocum out of that terrible cage.” She stood and smiled winningly. Then she said in that razor-edged voice of hers, “Now.”

The marshal jumped like he'd stepped in a fire. He dropped the six-shooter on the desk and fumbled for the keys in the top drawer. As he came to let Slocum out, Madeleine scooped up Slocum's holster and six-gun.

“You ain't gonna get away with this,” Willingham mumbled under his breath.

“Oh, Marshal,” said Madam Madeleine, “he's not going to get away with anything. I assure you of that.” She silently handed Slocum his pistol.

It felt good, cold, substantial in his grip. For two cents he would have drilled Willingham and the devil take the hindmost. Madam Madeleine shook her head just enough to dissuade him. Instead of gunning down the marshal, he strapped on his cross-draw holster and pushed past the lawman to leave.

From inside the jailhouse, he heard Madeleine say, “You are such a sweet man, Marshal. Do come by sometime. Jezebel would love to spark with you again.”

Slocum didn't hear Willingham's reply but Madeleine said, “Keep going to that hussy Lorelei's house and you'll get the clap so bad your dick will fall off. Do have a pleasant day, Marshal.”

She exited the building, looking pleased as punch. She ran her arm through Slocum's and indicated he should escort her back to her house.

“You've got a lot of clout in this town to talk to a lawman like that,” Slocum said when they were out of the marshal's earshot.

“Grizzly Flats isn't so large there are a lot of opportunities for men to find female companionship. My house is the best in town, or so I prefer to believe.”

“Better than Lorelei's, from what I've heard.”

“You don't dip your wick there, Mr. Slocum. Or with any of the other ladies in town. Since you've been here for a couple weeks, I find that strange.”

“I don't pay for a woman's favors.”

“Ah, I can see why,” she said, giving him a once-over.

“Besides, I walked into town with my saddle on my shoulder.”

“I know. And that boss of yours is a skinflint, hardly paying what you are worth.”

“Is there anything you don't know that goes on in Grizzly Flats?”

“Quite a lot, actually, but I try not to let it bother me unduly if I can't find out. A woman in my position must stay informed.”

“As a leading businesswoman?”

“My position is more likely to be on my back,” she said harshly. “I don't sugarcoat what I do. I find horny men and extract as much money from them for my favors as possible.”

“You look like you'd be mighty good at that,” he said.

She laughed. The sound was musical.

“A Southern gentleman to the end, I see. I am good enough that I can employ four other whores. Oh, don't look so shocked.”

“Most madams try to make their business sound respectable.”

“It is respectable. At least, it's not illegal. I pay my weekly bribe to the marshal for his bogus health inspection. What he gets paid to do and what I
actually
do is just that. My girls are healthy and reasonably happy.”

Slocum doubted that. Most soiled doves were addicted to opium or laudanum to kill the pain they felt, both physical and mental. He understood the need to dull what the world did. He preferred whiskey.

Madam Madeleine sighed, causing her considerable bosoms to rise and fall, then jiggle slightly.

“I wish my position in town was more secure. Because of my high standards, most everyone else thinks I am snobbish. Oh, I get plenty of business, but I am not held in any esteem. Grizzly Flats is quite parochial and many here consider me an interloper, my arrival being so recent.”

“I appreciate you getting me out of jail,” Slocum said. He started to disengage his arm, but Madam Madeleine wouldn't have any of it. She gripped down hard enough to dig her fingernails into his flesh and draw blood.

“We have a few things to discuss,” she said.

They entered her house through the front door. Slocum saw that one pane of beveled glass had been broken and a hinge had been pulled free of the doorjamb by the fleeing robbers.

“You want me to fix that up?”

Madeleine raised a carefully plucked eyebrow.

“All that and a handyman, too? I should have suspected.” She pointed to a love seat. “Sit there.”

The way she spoke wasn't an invitation as much as an order. Slocum dropped into the love seat and watched her go to a cut crystal decanter and pour two drinks. She handed one to him and then sat next to him, her thigh pressing warmly into his.

Madeleine lifted her glass in a toast and said, “To our new partnership.” Her emerald eyes fixed on his.

“May it be mutually profitable,” Slocum said. He downed the whiskey and wasn't surprised to find that it was much smoother than anything Malone served over at the Damned Shame Saloon.

“You are a cautious man, too, I see,” the redhead said. She took the glass from his hand and shifted in the love seat.

Her whiskey-scented breath was hot and sweet as she bent closer. Her lips touched his, a fleeting caress more tentative than he'd expected. Madeleine drew back so she was just inches from him.

“Let's go upstairs,” she said. “My bed is all mussed from being roused so early. There's no reason not to muss it further before the maid makes it up.”

“No.”

For a moment the woman stared. Then she blinked and backed off another inch. Her ruby lips parted, clamped shut, and then she finally said, “You are not joking, are you, Mr. Slocum?”

“You want something else from me. I owe you. Let's get that debt paid before adding others to the bill.”

She rocked back and stared at him.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I've never run across a man quite like you before,” she said.

“One who turned down your advances?”

“I don't make advances,” she said sharply. “Men come to me, begging for what I have to offer.”