Slocum and the Warm Reception (19 page)

Slocum rode through the entire night. He'd paid close attention to the trail Sanchez had used to get to Davis Junction, which made retracing his path a hell of a lot easier. A bright, mostly full moon cast enough light for him to see the ground in front of him. Having ridden the trail so recently, Slocum knew most of the terrain looked worse than it truly was. More often than not, the path was surrounded by rocky slopes or partly covered by scrub. When it came to actual maneuvering, the vast majority of it was done on flat rock or level dirt. There was a reason that trail was favored by killers who moved at night. Now that he knew his way, Slocum had no trouble in getting back to Mescaline before dawn.

He could feel the air beginning to warm, but the sun's rays were only just making themselves known when he was close enough to town to slow his horse. The minute his gelding's hooves stopped beating against the desert floor, Slocum heard more horses galloping toward him. He squinted toward town and quickly spotted a cloud of dust being kicked up on the western side. He counted two riders approaching. They were coming in such a hurry that he wouldn't have to wait long for them to arrive. Slocum reined his horse to a stop, hung his head low, and waited for them to reach him.

When they did, they each had a gun in hand. One man had a pistol and the other had a rifle propped against one hip so the barrel was pointed skyward. The one with the pistol approached Slocum while the other one hung back.

“That you, Sanchez?” the pistol man asked.

Slocum rocked in his saddle, keeping his head down so his hat kept his face from being seen. He muttered something in a voice that was scratchy enough to sound distressed and too low for any words to be clearly heard.

“What did you say?” the gunman asked. “You hurt?” After coming a bit closer, he asked, “That ain't Sanchez. Where's the others? That you, kid?”

Now that the man was close enough, Slocum lifted his head and gave him a good look at the face that had previously been hidden. He didn't recognize the gunman, but the man with the pistol seemed to know Slocum well enough. He spat out half a curse and brought his pistol up. Slocum already had a gun in each hand, both of which had been hidden beneath the coat that was wrapped around him. Like a bird of prey spreading its wings, Slocum extended both arms to take aim. He fired one shot point-blank into the closest man's chest, sparking a small fire on the gunman's shirt as the .44 sent a bullet through his heart. The gun in Slocum's left hand was Mike's, and he was close enough to his target to hit the man with the rifle.

The rifleman grunted and pitched backward to fall from his saddle. Slocum tucked Mike's gun away before riding over to check on him. Although he'd hit the rifleman, Slocum had been firing with his left hand, which meant he'd been lucky to hit him at all. The bullet had caught the rifleman in the shoulder, so Slocum finished him off with a shot from the .44 before snapping his reins and riding into town.

* * *

The top floor of the Three Star was already awake and, judging by the lights flickering in the windows and shadows moving about, had been for some time. Although the streets were nearly as deserted as the first time he'd walked down them, Slocum saw a pair of men standing outside the back entrance to the hotel. They were heeled, but hadn't skinned their guns just yet. Slocum watched them for a few seconds from the shadow of an alley, circled around to the other side of the building, and then knocked lightly on the wall.

When the first man rounded the corner, Slocum greeted him by stepping out from where he'd been hiding to place the blade of his boot knife against the gunman's throat.

“Dawson has you go out in twos now, does he?” Slocum whispered. “Call to your partner.”

The gunman glared defiantly at him without making a sound.

Pressing the blade up into the man's neck while giving it just enough of a twist to draw blood, Slocum said, “Call out or you'll never make another sound again.”

“Hector!” the gunman said. “Get over here.”

Slocum listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. When they got close to rounding the corner, he pulled the knife away from the gunman's throat and followed up with a swift elbow delivered to his jaw. By the time that man fell over, Slocum was already pouncing on the one responding to the call. Hector barely had a chance to blink before he was grabbed and thrown face first against the wall.

Hector reached for his gun, but that hand was slapped aside and he was given another taste of the hotel's exterior.

When Hector tried to turn around, he was held in place by an arm that encircled his neck from behind. He tried to speak, but Slocum squelched those words by applying more pressure. After a few more seconds, Hector's body went limp.

Hunkering down beside the unconscious men, Slocum dug through their pockets until he found a ring of keys in one of them. There were only three keys on the ring, and he only needed to try two of them before the back door of the hotel opened. Slocum stepped inside to find himself in a kitchen, where two women worked to prepare breakfast while a burly man in a sweat-soaked shirt watched over them.

“Who . . .” the man asked. He must have put the pieces together quickly enough because he went for his gun as Slocum shut the door.

Fortunately, there were plenty of heavy objects about. Slocum grabbed one of them, a small iron skillet, and threw it. The big man had his pistol most of the way from its holster when the skillet knocked into the side of his head with a dull clang. He staggered sideways, blood streaming from his head, and slid to the floor.

Slocum calmly approached him, took the man's pistol, and then told the women, “Keep an eye on him. If he starts to wake up, give him another taste of that skillet.” After adding the pistol to the growing collection under his belt, Slocum asked, “He's one of Dawson's men, right?”

One of the women nodded.

“Good. Are there any more nearby?”

“T-Two just outside. Where you came from.”

“Thanks,” Slocum said. “What's behind that door?”

The woman who hadn't found her voice yet looked at the narrow door and replied, “Stairs to the second and third floor.”

“Are all of Dawson's men on the third floor?”

Both women nodded. “Hotel guests on the second.”

“Good. Stay here and keep your heads down.”

Slocum pulled the door open and worked his way up the narrow stairs as quickly and quietly as he could. His .44 was in hand, and the other guns he'd collected were tucked under his gun belt, where he could easily get to them. Once he reached the top of the dark staircase, he opened the door a crack to take a look at who was in the hallway. All but one of the doors were closed. One man stood at the top of the stairs at the far end of the hall. Another walked slowly back to one of the rooms.

Slocum watched the man closest to him approach one of the closed doors and start digging into his pocket for something. The man wore a gun belt, but was less concerned with the hog leg strapped to his side than he was in trying to find whatever was eluding his probing hand. Slocum's first thought had been to let that man get into his room, but the longer he fidgeted at that door, the likelier it became that more gunmen would show themselves. Once the man at the door seemed flustered enough, Slocum exploded from the cramped little staircase and walked straight at him.

The man barely seemed to notice at first. Having someone emerge from that stairwell couldn't have been too uncommon. He took a second glance, however, recognized Slocum's face, and reached for his pistol. By that time, Slocum had driven a solid punch into his stomach and followed up by grabbing a handful of hair and slamming the man's face into the door he'd been unable to open.

The man near the staircase saw what happened and went for his gun. Rather than do anything as sensible as run for cover, Slocum stormed straight down the hall while drawing his .44. Both of them fired quick shots and both bullets wound up buried in a wall without harming anyone. Slocum's, however, was close enough to its mark to whip past the other man's head and send him reflexively backward.

Slocum quickened his pace down the hall, swinging the 
.44 like a club and connecting with the other man's wrist. The man dropped his pistol and let out a nervous wail as his foot slipped on the edge of the top stair. Slocum grabbed the front of the man's shirt, shoved him onto the banister, and angled him toward the stairs.

The man's wail turned into a frightened cry as he started to fall down the stairs. Slocum kept him from toppling, maintaining a hold on him while moving down the stairs and dragging the man along for the ride. After holstering the .44, Slocum used both hands to shove the man all the way down to the second floor.

Somewhere along the way, the man got his balance, but was unable to regain control of his descent. His boots slipped and skidded over every other stair as Slocum continued to shove him downward. When they finally reached the first-floor landing, Slocum pivoted on both feet and tossed the man through the hotel's front window.

The gunman's back hit the glass first and the rest of his body followed. After staggering down two floors and being tossed with all the strength Slocum could muster, he broke through the window to land on the boardwalk outside. Ignoring the astonished expressions on the faces of people in the lobby and dining room, Slocum strutted through the front door and stood over the man. Apart from plenty of cuts and gashes from the glass, the man would live. He wouldn't get up anytime soon, but he would live.

“All right, Dawson!” Slocum shouted up toward the third floor. “This is what you were so afraid of! Let's get it over with!”

The streets were empty, and the only sound to come from the hotel was the tinkling crash of smaller shards of glass falling to their death from the front window frame.

“Since all of your men seemed so surprised to see me,” Slocum added, “I'd say none of you expected me to leave the desert alive.”

One of the third-floor windows slid up and Dawson stuck his head out. “Where are my men? What did you do to them?”

“I defended myself,” Slocum replied. “They meant to kill me. Wasn't that what you told them to do?”

Baring his teeth in a sneer, Dawson pulled his head back inside and shut the window.

Slocum stood his ground, hoping that Ed's figures had been right where Dawson's men were concerned. If they were, that meant there weren't more than two or three more gunmen left apart from Dawson himself. Slocum did hear some movement on all sides, but it did not come from killers or assassins looking to do him in. There were windows and doors opening in all the surrounding buildings. Folks up and down the street watched from their vantage points to see what would happen next.

Eventually, heavy steps thumped from within the hotel. Abel Dawson came down the stairs, peered out through the broken front window at the man who still lay on the boardwalk, and then walked over to step through the door. Pointing down at the man with the little pieces of glass stuck throughout his body, Dawson said, “You dare call me out and make accusations when you kill my men right out in the open for all to see?”

“They're hired guns and murderers,” Slocum said. “And they're not all dead. Some of them will live to see another day. That's more than what can be said about the friends and family of good people like Old Man Garrett.”

“That old man overstepped his bounds,” Dawson replied. “Just like you did! You never should have come back to this town, Slocum. You got lucky once. It won't happen again.”

“Brave talk from a man who doesn't have anyone to back him up.”

Dawson smiled broadly and stood with his hands propped upon his hips. “Don't need anyone to back me up. I'm the mayor. Duly appointed and elected. That makes me untouchable. You're just a killer, John. A quick gun hand and no conscience. You're the animal around here. Not me. What do you hope to accomplish anyway? You gonna gun me down in the street?”

Shaking his head, Slocum said, “The only reason you have any power around here is because you have a hold on these people. And the only thing that gives you that hold is your bunch of killers who will harm innocent women and children just to keep the town in line. I brought you out here to prove that you don't have any of those killers around you anymore.”

“Is that so?” Dawson snapped his fingers and pointed at the door. “Tate, come on out here and escort this man to a jail cell.”

Tate filled the doorway with a frame that was at least six and a half feet tall. Layer upon layer of muscle hung on him like several thick coats piled onto his shoulders, making him look more like a bear than a man. His hands were so thick that the shotgun he carried could very well have been a broomstick.

“And if Tate's not good enough for you, I've got plenty more,” Dawson announced.

Slocum looked up and grinned. “The only other men I can see are the two who met me when I came to town.” Waving to Matt and Luke, who watched from a third-floor window, he added, “And I sent them crying back to you.”

Dawson's upper lip curled away from his teeth and he stuck out a thick finger to point at Slocum as he stomped forward. “Listen here, you! I'm the mayor of this town and there ain't a damn thing you or anyone else can do abou—”

A single rifle shot cracked through the air.

That was followed by another . . . and then a third. As more shots cracked through the air, they became impossible to count.

Several of them hit Dawson, sending him reeling backward to bounce against the Three Star's front door. When the shots finally became nothing more than an echo, Slocum turned around with gun drawn. What he found was a street that was quickly filling up with people. They were shopkeepers, bartenders, restaurant owners, all manner of folks who kept Mescaline up and running.