Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens (3 page)

The younger man looked as if he were all wound up with coils of springy wire and was about to explode into a dozen pieces.

“Wasn't that Swain and his daughter you rode up with a few minutes ago?” The tall man's eyes were like twin gun barrels, dark, ominous, unflinching.

“Might have been,” Slocum said. “So what?”

“So, you're steppin' into something that ain't none of your business.”

“Let's blow this jasper plumb to hell,” the young man said, his blue eyes full of sunlight that shot spears at Slocum.

“Steady, Roger,” the tall man said.

“Come on, Morg. We can take him.”

Slocum braced himself. The towheaded young man was arching his hand just above the pistol hanging at his hip.

“Let's give the man a chance,” Morg said. “He ain't got no business here, and he probably just wants a drink of cool water afore he is off, back to where he come from.”

“Seems to me, you two are the trespassers here,” Slocum said. “I was invited.”

The man called Morg scowled, and the expression on his face changed in an instant.

But Slocum had his eye on the towhead named Roger, whose springs were ready to uncoil.

“Shit,” Roger said, and his hand dove for the butt of his pistol.

Slocum went into a crouch and drew his pistol so fast, it was a blur in his hand.

Roger pulled his pistol free of its holster. Almost. The pistol had not quite cleared leather when Slocum hammered back, aimed, and fired. His pistol bucked in his hand and he swung it on Morg as his bullet plowed into Roger's gut with a sound like a heavy slap.

Roger let out a grunt and his hand went limp. His pistol slid from numb fingers and spanged on the rocky ground.

Morg stiffened, but kept both hands in sight as Slocum's pistol barrel settled on a line of sight straight to his chest.

“You want to eat some lead, too, mister?” Slocum said.

Roger groaned. He teetered in his saddle, but held on. He clutched his stomach, and his fingers ran with red blood.

“God, Morg,” Roger gasped, “it hurts real bad.”

“You won this one, stranger,” Morg said, “but if you come to Socorro, we'll meet again.”

Morg grabbed the reins of Roger's horse and turned around.

The two rode off as Penny emerged from the house, her face flushed, bathed in sweat, her eyes wide as an owl's.

“John,” she said as she rushed up to him, “what have you done?”

“Those two,” he said. “I shot one of them.”

“Do you know who they were?” she asked.

“I haven't the least idea of who they were. The young one was a hothead and he drew down on me. I shot him in the belly.”

“That was Roger Degnan,” she said. “His brother, Patrick, is the sheriff of Socorro.”

“Know who the other man is? The kid called him Morg.”

Penny shivered against him.

“That's Morgan Sombra. The people in town call him Shadow. He's a mestizo who works at the saloon. John, he's a gunman. A killer.”

“A killer, eh? Well, he must be off duty today.”

“Come on inside,” she said. “John, you're in grave danger now.”

“From those two?”

“From the same bunch who kidnapped and tortured my father. Oh, what have I done? I fear you'll be killed. All on my account.”

They entered the house. It was cool and smelled of mint and wisteria blossoms. Slocum slid his pistol back in its holster. He would reload it after he had a sip of the tea in the glass Penny handed him.

She led him to a chair in the front room. He sat down.

“Penny,” he said. “Those two men were no different from many others I've run into out West. Don't you worry yourself none about me. How's your pa?”

To his surprise, she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Then she flitted away and disappeared down the hall. He thought he could smell alcohol and some kind of medicine. He drank the cool tea as that fleeting kiss burned on his forehead.

Slocum ejected the empty hull from his pistol and pulled a bullet from his gun belt. He slid the cartridge into the empty chamber, then fished out a cheroot from his pocket. There was a clay
cenicero
on the little table next to the divan. He lit the cheroot and put the dead match into the ashtray.

He looked at his pistol before he slid it back in his holster. That's when the thought occurred to him. He got up and walked outside, strode to where Roger had dropped his pistol. He picked it up and dusted it off with his hand, carried it back into the house.

He sat down and examined the pistol. A wry smile curved on his lips. The pistol was a converted Remington New Model Army .36 caliber. It had a wooden grip and the straps were brass. He had carried such a pistol in the war, when it was cap and ball. This one now had become a percussion model and the cylinder was filled with brass cartridges. He laid it on the table and puffed on his cheroot as he looked around the room.

The furnishings were Spartan, but colorful. The chairs were made from nail kegs with stuffed deer hides for cushioning. There was a rainbow-weave serape draping another chair, which was fashioned from sturdy oak and the wood polished to a high sheen. Flowers jutted from earthen vases lacquered with vivid colors. The walls were bare but painted a soft lavender with green trim at the ceiling and floorboards. The sofa on which he sat was sturdy and comfortable, well cushioned with stuffed woolen cloth. He tapped ashes into the
cenicero
and listened to the noises coming from another room, the tinkle of bottles and the clink of metal, footsteps, and guttural sounds he assumed were made by Penny's father, Jethro Swain.

A few minutes later, Penny appeared in the doorway.

“John,” she said, “come with me. I want you to see what they did to my father.”

He got up and mashed his cheroot in the ashtray. He followed her down a hall and into a bedroom. The room was windowless and the bed, just large enough for one person, stood waist high. There were open cabinets with apothecary bottles, salves, unguents, and flasks filled with various colored liquids. It smelled like a hospital or a field infirmary, with the pungent aroma of alcohol and other medicants burning his nostrils. She had lit lamps in front of a large mirror on the dresser that was slanted so that the reflected light shone on the bed.

Jethro lay on his back, naked except for his shorts. His eyes were closed, but he looked at peace, with no sign of the pain that must have been coursing through his body.

“See what they did to Pa,” she whispered.

“Is he asleep?”

“I gave him laudanum. I sewed up a wound in his back. Luckily, it didn't puncture his lung, but he lost a great deal of blood.”

Slocum walked close to the edge of the bed and looked at the marks on Jethro's body. There were dark smudges that looked like burn marks on his legs and arms, his chest and neck.

“Cigarettes,” he said.

“The larger ones were made from cigars. They tortured him, John. Look at the soles of his feet.”

Slocum bent down and looked. There were striped scars on his heels and pads.

“A hot poker, I think,” she said. “Red hot.” She winced as she said it.

Slocum stood up straight.

“Why were they torturing him?” he asked.

“It's a long story.”

“I've got time. Is your pa going to be all right?”

“They fed him opium and I gave him laudanum, so I don't know about his mind or his addiction. But his body will heal.”

“They wanted something from him,” Slocum said. “Information?”

“Yes. Oddly enough, I think the opium helped Pa withstand the torture.”

“What did they want from him?”

He looked up at her when she didn't answer right away.

She worried her lower lip as if deciding how much she should tell the man in black who was, after all, a stranger. Perhaps a Good Samaritan, but not someone she knew well, or could trust.

“You don't have to tell me, Penny,” he said. “None of my business. But from the looks of your pa, they worked him over pretty damned good. I'd hate to think they tortured him just because they didn't like him.”

“They wanted something from him,” she said, her voice soft and barely audible. “And knowing my father, I don't believe he told them what they wanted to know. I know he wouldn't. He had too much respect.”

“Respect?”

“Yes. For—for his brother, my uncle.”

He started to walk out of the room.

“Wait,” she said. “You helped us. You deserve to know. I think you do. It—It's just that I don't know who you are, or even if I can trust you. I hope you understand.”

“Best keep those reasons to yourself, Penny,” he said. “You don't owe me anything. And you're right. You don't know me.”

“Who are you?” she said, and then put her hand over her mouth as if to stifle anything else she might say.

“Nobody. I'm just a drifter. I am like the wayward wind, the tumbleweed, the little dust devil that blows across the prairie and then disappears.”

“Do you have a home, or a ranch? Where did you come from?”

“The land is my home. The sky my roof, the streams my well, the woods my larder, the campfire my kitchen. I need nothing else. The West is my home and I roam it at will, beholden to no man, with only my own mouth to feed.”

“You don't look like a drifter. Are you wanted by the law?”

“Wanted?”

“I saw you shoot Roger. You were very fast on the draw. Are you a gunman?”

“I feel like I'm being questioned by someone with a badge right now. I don't think of myself as a gunman, although it is a tool I use when the situation calls for it. I don't like killing a man, but sometimes, in this life, it's a matter of survival. I aim to survive for as long as I can.”

She looked him up and down, at the flat-crowned black hat, the black shirt, the gun belt bristling with cartridges, the revolver, the black pants, and the stovepipe boots. She looked at him and sighed in resignation.

“Very well. It's my Uncle Obie, Obadiah. There's something funny about that Socorro Saloon. They know Uncle Obie has been mining silver, but they don't know where his mines are. What's more, they know he's not just taking out ore and taking it to the refinery in Albuquerque, he's smelting it himself. They tried to get Pa to tell them where Uncle Obie lives and where his mines are.”

“So they can steal his silver.”

“Exactly. Pa would never tell them where Obie lives.”

“But those jaspers at the saloon must be searching far and wide for those mines.”

“They are. But Obie's house is well hidden, and fortified. He has men working for him who are armed and would shoot any intruder. Uncle Obie's a very private person, almost like a hermit.”

“But he can't hide from those thieves forever,” Slocum said. “Eventually, they'll find out where he lives.”

“Maybe. But I doubt they would find any of his mines. Uncle Obie keeps them well hidden.”

“Anything can be found,” Slocum said. “It's just a question of time. Meanwhile, I think your uncle is in danger. Does he know about the men who are looking for him? Does he know what they did to his brother?”

Penny shook her head.

“No, he doesn't,” she said. “He doesn't come here often and I'm afraid to ride out to tell him. I'm afraid someone might follow me.”

“That's a possibility,” Slocum said. “Would you trust me to talk to your uncle and tell him about Jethro?”

“Let's go into the front room,” she said. “Pa can probably hear us, although he seems to be unconscious.”

“Sure,” Slocum said. He followed her into the front room. She sat in a chair and waved him to the sofa. He sat down.

“It's not that I don't trust you,” she said, “but Uncle Obie is due to stop by at any time. In fact, I expected him yesterday. I'd rather wait until he shows up. He's very careful. He never rides the same trail to our house, and he always comes at night.”

“I see,” Slocum said. “Sure, whatever you think is best. Maybe I'd best be on my way. I was headed for Albuquerque to look at some horses that I might resell to the Army at Fort Craig.”

“Is it urgent?” she asked. She sat there so prim and reserved, literally on the edge of her seat, that he thought she might sprout wings and fly away like a bird at any moment. He realized that she was scared and still worried about her father.

“No, I don't have a timetable,” he said. “But you probably don't want a stranger hanging around.”

“You have a bedroll,” she said. “And I've loads of soft pillows. If you don't mind sleeping on the floor, I'd like you to stay until Uncle Obie shows up. It could be tonight or tomorrow night.”

“Or next week,” he said, so quickly he regretted it. He saw her stiffen and slide back in her chair as if he had punched her.

“No. If it's more than three days, you're free to go. I—I just feel safer with you here, and my father does need tending.”

“You don't have to go to work in town?”

“No. I told the doctor I'd be away for a few days. There's another nurse. They can manage without me.”

“I'll stay, then,” he said. “But . . .”

“But what?” she said.

“It might not look good.”

“To whom? The town doesn't care. I have no close friends. It's been just Pa and me and his brother. I don't care what people say.”