Slocum 394 : Slocum and the Fool's Errand (9781101545980) (3 page)

“It's nothing,” he said. “Just a flesh wound.”

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened? One of those assholes shot me!”

“Next time I'll fire the shot myself,” the man in the Army coat said as he was shoved toward the sheriff's office. “Then you won't be around to grouse about it!”

Caroline scowled at him as well as the other two that were being led away. One was in shackles and had been collected from around the corner where the gunmen had made their initial stand. He was taken into the office, but the rough gunman who'd taken a run at the ladies was being led down the street by Oscar and Stan. “Where's he going?” she asked.

“I've been told a doctor lives down that way,” Slocum said. “He's going to be stitched up and then tossed into a cage with the rest of 'em.”

Gwen reached out to rub his arm, but settled for gently touching his chest. “That's where you should go, John.”

“A cage?”

She smacked his chest as she replied, “No! The doctor. How bad is your arm?”

“Not bad, but the ride in didn't do it any favors.”

“Is that blood?”

He looked down as if to dismiss the wound, but spotted the crimson stain soaking through the sleeve of his jacket. “Or maybe I should go to have a word with him.”

“Good,” Caroline said, “because I don't think those two will get him more than a few more paces before he gets away.”

Slocum watched the pair of unofficial deputies try to herd the wounded man toward a narrow set of stairs leading up to the second floor of a skinny building. Even though the gunman's hands were tied behind his back by a rope that was held like a leash by Oscar and his gun belt was draped over Stan's shoulder, the outlaw was still giving his captors a fair amount of grief.

“I suppose you're right,” Slocum said. “You ladies didn't get hurt yourselves, did you?”

“No, John,” Gwen told him. “Get taken care of and then come tell me about what happened. You know where to find me.”

“I sure do.”

With that, the women walked back to the saloon while Slocum hurried to catch up to the would-be deputies. Stan barely seemed to notice when the gun belt was taken from him until after Slocum was easing it over his own shoulder. The skinny store owner wheeled around and sputtered, “Oh, it's you, Mr. Slocum. You should announce yourself before sneaking up on an armed man like that.”

“You're armed?”

Stan's hand dropped to his hip where a rusted .38 hung in a holster that was obviously meant for a much bigger weapon. “Hardly seems warranted to point a gun at a wounded man.”

“That wounded man would kill you in a second with his bare hands the moment he wriggled out of that rope.”

When Stan saw the gunman's wrists were actually finding some room, he jumped back. “I suppose it's better to be safe than sorry.”

“That's the spirit. Why don't you two go see the sheriff? I'm sure he could use some help wrangling these men's horses or getting the others settled in jail.”

That was all the prompting either of the other two needed to get them to hand over the rope and rush across the street. Slocum let the leash dangle and instead gripped the section of rope that had been wrapped around the gunman's wrists. Tightening his grip until the rope dug into the other man's flesh, he shoved the outlaw into the wall directly beside the foot of the stairs. “Sorry about that, Ed. Guess my balance is off after all that riding.”

“Then how about you take a load off, Slocum? I can find my own way.”

“Wouldn't think of it. Up you go.”

Slocum shoved the outlaw hard enough to make sure it was a genuine struggle for him to get to the second floor without breaking his neck. By the time they got to the door at the top of the stairs, the outlaw was winded and fighting even harder to free himself.

“I'll see to it that you die for killing my friends,” Ed snarled.

“You mean the friends that killed all those innocent folks who were riding in stagecoaches to visit family and such when they were robbed? Or the friends that killed those people in them banks?” When Ed tried to respond to that, Slocum shoved him hard enough to knock the outlaw's head against the door. “Sorry. What was that?”

Ed was stupid enough to try speaking again, so Slocum knocked his head against the door one more time.

Suddenly, the door was pulled open by a man wearing a long nightshirt and a tattered quilt wrapped around him like a shawl. He had a beak-like nose, sunken features, and a scalp that was bald apart from a thin band of hair running from the back of one ear and around to the back of the other. Although he was annoyed at first, his expression shifted quickly when he saw what had been used to rattle his door on its hinges.

“Sorry to wake you, Doc,” Slocum said. “But I've got a customer for you.”

Collecting himself, the man wrapped in the blanket said, “I presume this is in relation to all the noise from a few minutes ago?”

“You'd presume correctly. He's been shot.”

The doctor's eyes were drawn immediately to Ed's shirt, which was a disheveled mess. After pulling it open to get a look at the outlaw's wound, he said, “Better bring him in.”

Slocum shoved Ed into the modest dwelling, kicked the door shut behind him, and then pushed him until the outlaw was tripped up by a cot set up against one wall. Ed dropped down amid a string of obscenities that didn't let up until Slocum was through tying the other end of the rope to the cot's frame. Ed tested the rope with a few tugs, which only cinched the knot around his wrists even tighter.

“Is that necessary?” the doctor asked while pointing at the rope.

“You heard the shooting, right?” Slocum asked. “You think he's got it all out of his system?”

When the doctor saw the feral glint in the outlaw's eye, his concern for the gunman's comfort was no longer such a pressing matter. “I see some blood on your jacket as well. Are you hurt?”

“It's just a nick.”

“Let me have a look.”

Slocum peeled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve to show the doctor a blood-soaked bandanna tied around his arm. Beneath the bandanna was a patch of rough skin held together by a jagged line of thick black thread. “Did the stitches myself,” Slocum said.

“Seeing that you would have only been able to use one hand, I suppose that explains why it looks like you were pieced together like a bad pair of shoes.”

“And since we rousted you from your bed at such a late hour, I suppose that explains why you're being such a snippy little prick.”

The doctor sighed and shrugged out of his quilt in favor of a proper robe. “Will there be any more wounds for me to tend this evening? If need be, I can find my way to Sheriff Reyes's office.”

“No need for that. Just us two and one with a scratch at the sheriff's office. How about you tend to me first?”

“This man looks like he has a more serious injury,” the doctor said as he looked over at Ed. The outlaw smiled back at Slocum as if he'd just won a prize.

Slocum pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable. “Sounds fair enough. I'll just sit here and make sure he doesn't step out of line. And just so I know in case he does decide to be difficult, where might I find the undertaker?”

That question, spoken without the first hint of humor or leverage, drained all of the color from Ed's face as well as a good portion of what was in the doctor's. Not knowing how else to respond, the doctor said, “That'd . . . umm . . . that'd be just down the street.”

“Much obliged, Doc. You may commence.”

After that, Ed was no longer in the mood to struggle or even speak as the doctor set about the task of cleaning and tending to the outlaw's wound. It was a messy gash in his arm that was still blackened from the passage of the bullet.

“So,” the doctor said after he'd fallen into a rhythm of well-practiced motions, “may I ask what caused this trouble?”

“You hear of a man named Oklahoma Bill Dressel?” Slocum asked.

“The stagecoach robber from Texas?”

“That's the one. He and his boys robbed a few little banks in some towns that nobody's ever heard of. Might have gotten away with it, too, if they just would've slunk away quietly like the snakes they are. Instead,” Slocum added while banging his foot against Ed's cot, “they decided to try and ransom a hostage taken from one of the stagecoaches. Some pretty girl with a rich daddy who put up a reward for her capture.”

“So you were after the reward?”

“Not as such. Your sheriff got some information about where the gang might be hiding. He didn't have a lot to pay for a posse, but I signed on for a percentage of the reward that'll be coming for the gang's capture. Funny thing is that nobody seems to know about the price on Ed's scalp.”

Even though the doctor's hand hadn't wavered as he expertly tended to the wound, the outlaw flinched.

“Seems ol' Ed raped a few other girls back East,” Slocum said. “He's got a taste for the ones with yellow hair and prosperous families. Well, prosperous enough to scrape together a reward for his worthless hide. After spending this bit of time with him, I think I may just hand him over for free.” Before the outlaw could put on any kind of smug expression, Slocum added, “Just as long as I get to be there when all six of that poor girl's brothers ride all the way out from Boston just to beat you to a pulp.”

“Rapist, huh?”

“That's right, Doc.”

“Well then,” the doctor said as he applied a bandage with just a bit too much enthusiasm, “perhaps I can tend to you now after all. You've probably got things to do and this one won't be very busy for a while.”

“Much obliged.”

 

As much as Slocum wanted to head straight to the Dusty Hill Saloon, there was still some business to tend to. The first task was to tie Ed's wrists in a more secure knot as well as bind his ankles so he couldn't do much more than grunt through the bandanna that had been stuffed into his mouth. After that, he made certain the remaining outlaws had been tossed into the jail at the back of the sheriff's office. The two men in the cell still had some steam in their engines, but that didn't last long after Slocum arrived.

“Where's Ed?” the leader of the outlaws asked. Although he no longer wore his Army coat, he still carried himself as if he had an official rank and was entitled to all the privileges thereof.

“Doc's stitching him up,” Slocum replied.

The sheriff had a round face and coal black hair. Several days' worth of whiskers sprouted from his chin, which made him look even more tired as he said, “Guess I should go over there to keep an eye on him.”

“I wrapped him up pretty good, but sitting with him may not a bad idea.” When he saw the tired look on the lawman's face, Slocum said, “On second thought, why don't I head back over there?”

“Naw, I can go. You've done plenty already, John.”

“It wasn't for free. I'm still getting a cut of that reward money, right?”

“Sure,” the lawman said. “It's the least I can do.”

“The least you can do is buy me a steak dinner.”

“A bucket of slop's all you deserve,” the gang leader said from within the cell.

The sheriff silenced him with a swift kick to one of the bars. “I'm part owner of the Dusty Hill. Dale cooks a fine slab of beef. You can eat there free of charge. How'd that be?”

“Now that's right neighborly of you, Mark,” Slocum said. “How about a bottle of whiskey to go along with that steak?”

“Don't push it.”

Slocum conceded the point and strode out of the office. By the time he got back to the doctor's room on the second floor of the building across the street, Ed was patched up and lying still upon the cot.

“Passed out,” the doctor said by way of an explanation.

“He ready to be moved?”

“It'd be good for him to rest for a day or two. Although I'm a little leery about leaving him here.”

“Figured you might be,” Slocum said before showing the doctor the handcuffs and leg irons he'd brought over from the sheriff's office. Once those were in place, the doctor was finally able to let go of the breath he'd been holding. Ed, on the other hand, was barely able to draw a gulp of air as he was shaken awake and forced outside, down the street, and into the sheriff's jail.

From there, Slocum walked over to the Dusty Hill Saloon farther down on Main Street. The barkeep tossed him a quick wave and shouted, “Appreciate the show, Mr. Slocum!”

“And I'd appreciate a drink.”

A small glass of whiskey was poured in front of him, which Slocum downed in one swallow. The firewater did a nice job of cutting through the grit that had collected in his throat after several days of hard riding. Normally, he would have taken another drink to ensure a good night's sleep, but he doubted he would need any help in that regard.

“Got any scalps to hang on the wall?” Dale asked from where he sat beside the barkeep.

“Better ask the sheriff. I'm about to fall over.”

Tossing a key to him, Dale said, “Your room's right where you left it.”

Slocum trudged up the stairs, walked down the hall to the second door on the left, and fit his key into the lock. The room was dark and quiet. The shades were drawn, but as soon as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he picked out something other than the pile of blankets on his bed.

“What took you so long?” Gwen asked in a soft, purring voice.