Slocum and the Warm Reception (14 page)

Slocum sipped his tea and enjoyed the refreshing flavor as it washed down his throat. He didn't let any of that satisfaction show when he said, “I still don't see how this relates to that notice.”

“I offered these people a solid foundation and good leadership,” Dawson said as he pounded the tip of his finger against his desk with enough force to make a solid
thump
. “They repaid me by threatening to run me out of town. Since the show you put on was still fresh in their minds, many of them talked about finding you or taking your example by picking up a gun and ending their troubles with hot lead instead of civilized talk and good ideas.”

“Sometimes hot lead is what's needed.”

“You're right about that,” Dawson replied in a tone that was as smooth and unwavering as a dagger's blade. “Some of them took a run at me when I proposed we change things around here. They tried to kill me just like the mad dog that was put into the ground back in the bloody days.”

“I heard you did some damage of your own,” Slocum pointed out.

“I did what was necessary to protect myself and my interests.”

“And what interests would a man like yourself have in a sleepy little town like this? Would they have anything to do with a railroad line meant to be split off from Davis Junction?”

Dawson was obviously not accustomed to being blindsided. He flinched and narrowed his eyes as if he was looking at Slocum in a whole new way. “What the hell do you know about that?”

“I didn't know anything for certain . . . not until this moment.”

Without taking his eyes away from Slocum, Dawson pointed at the armed man who'd followed them inside to stand by the door and barked, “Get out. Now.”

The gunman nodded and backed out as quickly as he could. The door was shut quietly in his wake.

“Tell me what you know about the railroad,” Dawson demanded.

“I know plenty, Abel. That is, if you don't mind us being on a first-name basis.”

Dawson didn't give his consent, but was too wound up at the moment to protest.

Moving along now that he had the reins firmly in hand, Slocum said, “I have a lot of friends in a lot of places. Many of them owe me a lot, but there are some things a man can just piece together for himself. Assets like those are what have kept me alive for so long in this hard, changing world.” Subtly tossing Dawson's words back at him was a minor indulgence, but Slocum simply couldn't help himself.

“Those notices,” Dawson said as he pointed to the one on his desk, “were just to make a point. To send a message that I wasn't about to be intimidated by anyone. Not even the great John Slocum. What you did where Jeremiah Hartley was concerned was a hell of a deed. But folks here were threatening to have me gunned down like a dog in the street if I didn't step aside and let them have their way.”

“And your only concern was the well-being of this town,” Slocum said. “Or was it to use the town and everyone in it to put a whole lot of railroad money into your pockets? Let me guess. You just need to keep folks quiet and controlled until the railroad companies come knocking?”

“I want to be prosperous,” Dawson said. “Isn't that what every man wants? I also want to forge a legacy for myself and my family. That's what caused this town to grow, my friend, and that's what keeps people coming out West when there are plenty of warm beds back East. We all want to make something of ourselves. When certain folks around here started trying to force me out, I could either have given in or fought back. When I decided to fight, I could either have done it with words or with guns. I chose words. Once they saw I wasn't afraid of you, things quieted down considerably.” He put on a humorless grin and settled back into his chair. “Truth be told, I never thought you'd see any of those notices. Now that you have, I'll gladly offer my apologies.”

“What about the reward?” Slocum asked.

Dawson looked at him silently for a few moments before striking a match against his desk and lighting the cigarette he'd been chomping on. “What do you mean?”

“You posted this notice,” Slocum said as he picked up the paper and studied it as if he were admiring a work of art. “It's in writing. Legally, you're bound to pay up if someone brings John Slocum to you. Now some of your men may have escorted me up those stairs, but I'd say it's fairly certain I'm the one that brought myself all the way back to Mescaline and into this office without the fuss you were obviously expecting.”

“Those men outside? They're just there for protection.”

“From who?” Slocum asked. “A town full of shopkeepers and old folks? Remember, I spent a good amount of time here not too long ago. Unless a bunch of dangerous killers have taken residence here since the last time I visited, I don't exactly see what a man like you would need with all this firepower.”

“I told you. Folks around here want to be rid of me. They don't know what's good for them.”

“And you do, huh?”

Dawson sat up a little straighter and replied, “I'd like to think so.”

“But what am I saying? We both know there are people apart from the ones that live here who have a bone to pick with you.” Slocum let that settle in for a moment, but knew better than to think Dawson would snap at the bait he was dangling without a bit more coaxing. “You must know about the assassin in Davis Junction.”

“No,” Dawson said. “I don't know of any assassin.”

“There was a killing there. Someone who spoke up on your behalf wound up dead for mentioning your name. The next day after he made his loyalties clear, he was found cut up in a stable. Someone tried blaming me, but I don't know what that was about. All I know is that when he was going on about you and that railroad, it was the last time anyone saw him alive. My guess is someone doesn't like you or anything any of your supporters might have to say.”

“What was this man's name?”

Slocum shrugged. “Derrick . . . something or other. He worked in a stable. Wasn't my concern. I was headed back here to conduct some business of my own, so I left before I was dragged into that mess. Didn't really try to figure it out. Now that I've met you and seen what's going on here, a lot of it is making much more sense.”

Although Dawson's face wasn't easy to read, Slocum didn't have to look very hard to find the telltale signs of confusion and anger. No man who was as full of himself as Dawson liked to be in the dark about anything. “This is the first I've heard of any of this,” he said.

“Doesn't surprise me,” Slocum replied. “It was all coming to a boil when I left. I came straight here, so I didn't bother looking into it. I wouldn't mind doing just that, however.”

“You wouldn't?” Dawson asked through a suspicious scowl.

Slocum shook his head. “Of course not. There'd be one condition, though.”

“What's that?”

Slocum took one last sip of tea before gently placing the cup down. “I'd have to be cut in on some of the profits.”

“You mean be on my payroll?” Dawson asked with a shark-like smile.

“No,” Slocum replied. “I won't be just another hired gun. You've already got more than enough of those. I'm talking about getting a cut of the profits with this railroad deal.”

Dawson still looked like a hungry predator when he said, “So you want to be a partner.”

“I wouldn't stretch it that far,” Slocum said. “I doubt a man like yourself wants too many partners. I'll provide a valuable service and my payment will be a percentage of the profit from the deal. A deal,” he added while getting to his feet, “that you wouldn't have at all unless you either got my help or if you somehow found enough gunmen to take me out. From what I've seen so far, none of these men look half as mean as Jeremiah Hartley and we both know what happened to him.”

“I'd be more than happy to have you aboard, John.” With that, Dawson extended a hand, which Slocum shook. “You can start with—”

“I'll start later,” Slocum said sharply.

Abel Dawson was obviously not a man who was accustomed to being brushed off like that. John Slocum, on the other hand, was a man who enjoyed turning the tables on blowhards who thought they were above such treatment. His only regret was that he couldn't see the look on Dawson's face when he turned his back to him and walked out of that office.

When Slocum left Dawson's office, he walked in a crisp stride, but not as if he was in a rush. Despite the calm expression he wore, every one of his senses was working to its limit to pick up any hint that things were about to go from bad to worse.

The gunmen in the hallway seemed to be doing the same thing. They watched him carefully, but didn't make any sudden moves. Every hand that had been poised above a holstered pistol was still in the same spot, although some of the tension had somehow vanished. Slocum attributed that to the heavy footsteps that had sounded behind him when he first left Dawson's office. Undoubtedly, the big man himself was watching him go and told his men what to do through silent gestures or nods.

Slocum went down to the second floor, straight to his room, and opened the door. As he turned to step inside, he caught sight of a few men standing farther down the hall. He'd only spotted them from the corner of his eye, but knew they were sent to watch him and would be there when he came back. Just to be certain nobody intended on getting any closer, Slocum closed his door and locked it. As an added precaution, he wedged a chair beneath the knob before rummaging through his saddlebags.

In the back of his mind, he cursed himself for leaving such valuable goods behind. Of course, if he had known that he would be separated from the bags for so long, he would have taken the little pouch with him. As it stood, he gave himself terrible odds that the gold would still be there at all. Surely, Dawson had sent someone to this room to sift through his belongings. Slocum was surprised that the furnishings weren't overturned and all of his things scattered on the floor. He was even more surprised when his probing hand found the pouch right where he'd left it at the bottom of the bag.

Slocum removed the bag and felt its weight in his hand. Seemed about right.

He opened it and took a look inside. “Will wonders never cease?” he muttered as he got a look at the gold nuggets inside. He had no way of knowing if some of the ore had been taken, but the fact that it was still there at all meant the saddlebags had most likely not been disturbed. Even if Dawson hadn't given the order to rob Slocum, the men who'd been eyeing him in that hotel were definitely the sorts who would help themselves if such an opportunity presented itself.

With his gold tucked away in his pocket, Slocum set about leaving his room. He wasn't about to go the way he'd come in, however. Instead, he went to his window, peeled back the curtain, and took a look outside. There was a balcony that was just wide enough to be seen without leaning outside. It sloped downward toward the street and wouldn't be much of a drop for him to get to ground level. He knew as much because the last time he'd been in town, he'd made a similar escape from a different room on the same floor of that very hotel. His window opened quietly enough, allowing Slocum to climb outside and place a foot gingerly upon the balcony.

The balcony may have been more of an awning with a flat overhang, but it was strong enough to support Slocum's weight for the second or two he needed to shimmy out to the edge and swing down. As quiet as his landing was, it would have been noticed immediately if there had been any folks on the street. Slocum turned toward the front window, which was only a few paces away from where his boots had slapped down against the dirt. The people inside were still going about their business, talking loudly and having their breakfasts without making a fuss about the man who had just dropped from overhead.

Slocum dusted himself off, straightened his hat, and walked down the street. Even after rounding the corner, he was uneasy. If Dawson had anyone posted to keep watch on the street, they couldn't miss him. Slocum was the only man walking out there, and when he spotted movement across the street, he snapped his head in that direction while dropping a hand to his holstered .44.

“Howdy,” said a fellow in a butcher's apron.

Slocum nodded to him. Farther along the street, more folks emerged from various doorways, alleys, or any number of routes that brought them to Mescaline's merchant district. Most of the locals knew each other and exchanged pleasant greetings as they unlocked their doors, propped signs in their windows, and otherwise made preparations for the day to begin. For the first time since he'd been back in town, Slocum felt like he was in familiar surroundings. That taste of normalcy made it much easier to keep his head up and sort through the tangled web that he'd just created where Abel Dawson was concerned.

Navigating the streets became easier as memories rushed to fill in the gaps that had formed over time. It helped that Mescaline wasn't a large town in the first place. With all those factors coming into play, Slocum was able to make his way to the Leigensheim Brokerage Company without a single bad turn.

As far as businesses went, the brokerage company wasn't a large one. In fact, the sign with that name on it was almost wider than the office's front wall. Slocum stepped inside and found a stick of a man with straw-like hair fidgeting with one of several sets of scales.

“Making sure they're all balanced in your favor, Ed?” Slocum said good-naturedly.

The skinny fellow swiped a hand over his scalp to press down a clump of hair that promptly popped back up again. Small, dark eyes squinted toward the door, where sunlight poured through to nearly blind him. “I do
not
fix my scales, sir! You can examine any of them yourself if you do not believe me!”

Slocum walked up to the counter, which was far enough inside to shade it as well as him from the brilliant rays of light coming in through the window. “Take a breath, Ed, I was only joshing.”

Now that his customer was more clearly visible, Ed took a closer look. “John Slocum? Is that you?”

“Sure enough. How's business?”

“It would be better if folks didn't spread vicious rumors about my business ethics or the quality of my scales.”

“Comes with the territory,” Slocum said as he hefted the weight of the pouch he'd brought from his room. “No way around it. You still get customers?”

“Enough to keep me afloat.”

“Then that means people don't really take those vicious rumors very seriously.”

Having spotted the pouch the instant Slocum took it out, Ed moved behind the little counter at the front of his office. He did so with a pronounced limp, wincing slightly every time his left foot touched the floor. One side of the narrow room was crowded with scales, and various charts were tacked to the walls. The counter as well as a few display cases were on the other side. Inside the cases were bits of equipment for sale, most of which were measuring tools, telescopes, or other items someone might need if they were exploring or mining. More common tools such as shovels and tin pans would have to be found elsewhere.

“I see you have brought some business of your own,” Ed mused as though he could see straight through the bag to inspect its contents.

“Figured you'd give me a fair price . . . especially since I kept this office from being burnt to the ground.”

“No need to remind me of that,” Ed replied with a sigh. “I am reminded of Jeremiah Hartley with every step I take.” He leaned forward to get closer to the bag. When his left leg accepted more of his weight, the broker let out a short, strained grunt.

If Slocum hadn't been there the day Jeremiah Hartley decided to teach Ed a lesson, he might have thought the skinny man was playing up his impediment. But Ed wasn't fooling about and neither was Hartley. The outlaw, having been upset with not getting whatever ridiculous price he'd demanded for a pair of gold teeth he'd knocked out of someone's mouth, smashed Ed's kneecap with a pickax that had been on sale at the time in Ed's inventory. He then forced the broker to walk outside on the smashed leg and do a jig in the street.

A few neighbors had tried to help Ed, but were promptly shot. That was the day that Slocum had gotten his first glimpse of Hartley at his worst. It was the day Slocum took it upon himself to put Hartley down like the mad dog he was. It was also the day Ed Leigensheim stopped selling pickaxes.

“Can I take a look?” Ed asked.

Slocum nodded and handed over the gold. “Go right ahead. That's why I'm here.”

“Is it?” Now that he had the pouch in hand, had opened it, and was pouring the contents onto his countertop, Ed was only marginally invested in any conversation concerning something other than rare or valuable minerals. “You came to Mescaline only to partake of my services?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ed glanced up, snorted once, and then got back to his inspection.

“What?” Slocum asked. “You think I'm lying?”

“Not as such.”

“Then what's so hard to believe? I came into a handful of gold and eventually got some silver to go along with it. I was in Nevada and didn't want to get fleeced by some blowhard with shallow pockets, so I thought of my good friend Ed Leigensheim.”

The squint Ed used when inspecting the gold was markedly different than the one he'd worn earlier when he simply couldn't see. “Where's the silver?”

“I ran into some trouble at Davis Junction and thought I'd try cutting my losses and heading west.”

“What happened?”

“I met up with a slimy crook who probably weighted his scales with lead.”

“Ahh,” Ed mused. “You must be talking about Reid Flanders.”

“You got that right,” Slocum replied. “I figured if I wanted a proper price, I should visit an old friend.”

“That is very good of you to say, Mr. Slocum, but I daresay there are better reasons for you to return to this town.” Straightening his face to remove the squint that had twisted nearly all of his features, he added, “And better brokers out West.”

“Better reasons, huh? You mean like Abel Dawson?”

“No. I mean like Anna Redlinger. You two had a dalliance, did you not?”

Slocum couldn't help but chuckle. “A dalliance? I suppose we did, at that.”

“Then again, if you came back to have a word with Mr. Dawson, that would not be such a bad thing.”

Now it was Slocum's turn to squint as he examined the man in front of him. “You say that as if you're not convinced.”

“Don't get me wrong,” Ed quickly replied. “I would love to see that pompous ass be taken down a notch. Then again, it is not an outsider's job to handle town business. No offense to any outsider in particular.”

“None taken.”

“We should never have allowed that man to declare himself mayor and enforce his edicts with threats and despicable acts against innocent souls. Whatever befalls someone after they stand by and allow that to happen . . . they deserve.”

“Now that is what I call harsh,” Slocum said. Since he knew all too well that Ed had a personal stake in the subject, he decided not to press it any further in that direction. “Since I'm in town, though . . .”

Ed's eyes snapped up to meet Slocum's. “You truly did not come because of Dawson?”

Slocum shook his head. “Never even heard of the man until he decided to fire the first shot against me.”

“The bounty?” Ed asked with half a smirk. “He meant that to frighten anyone from trying to find you. I knew those notices would do well enough to bring you here. Many of us did. That's why we let him circulate the damndable things. Oftentimes, a man's arrogance is enough to be his downfall.”

“I've learned that very same thing over the years. What can you tell me about Dawson's men?”

“Why would I have any special information in that regard?”

“Not special information, as such. Just a few specific numbers would help. A man in your profession is good at counting. A man who prospers in this field as someone who's more than a cashier is also good at noticing the fine little details. Something like that isn't just put away at the end of the day.”

Ed raised an eyebrow, showing almost as much interest as he'd had for the nuggets spread out in front of him. “Perhaps.”

“You might have an accurate count of how many gunmen Dawson has on his payroll.”

“He does not consider them gunmen,” Ed said with no small amount of disdain. “He calls them advisors and bodyguards to protect him against retaliations from . . .” Scowling, he grunted. “It is a bunch of nonsense. They are gunmen, no matter what they are called.”

“I hear they're not exactly cut from the same cloth as Jeremiah Hartley or the scum that rode with him.”

“That is true. Some are simple gunfighters, but most are professional.”

“How professional?”

“Professional enough to know it is better to fight in the dark and show a smile to a man so he can sink a knife into his back once it is turned toward him.”

“Yeah,” Slocum said. “That's pretty much what I've heard. No straight fights, but families are threatened and . . . worse.”

Ed did not move. Suddenly, he blinked a few times and shifted his attention back to the rocks on his counter. “We have found that if we just follow a few of Dawson's rules, we can go about our lives. More or less. I suppose that is why we have grown complacent.”

“More or less? You say you folks allowed this to happen, but that's not what I heard. I was told Old Man Garrett's family was attacked as well as plenty of other families of men who didn't step into line when Dawson snapped his fingers. What were you supposed to do about that?”

“Something, Mr. Slocum. I don't know, but we should have done more. I'll buy this gold from you, by the way. Come over to the scales.”

Slocum followed Ed across the room, noticing how well the broker moved around once he'd gotten some steam built up. He allowed Ed to go through the process of weighing the gold while each of three separate measurements was meticulously checked three times over.

Finally, Slocum said, “I'm willing to help where Dawson is concerned.”

“I know you are. You're a good man.”