Slocum and the Diamond City Affair (9781101612118) (12 page)

“You want a shave?” the man asked, looking to make another fifty cents. “You look like you need one.”

Slocum shook his head. The damn facial hair would not grow out as fast as he wanted it anyway. He paid the man thirty-five cents for the haircut, but when he stepped outside, he retreated quickly right back inside. Four Cowboys he recognized had ridden up the street. Back in the shadows of the barbershop he wondered if either of the men he wanted, Gorman or Valdez, was with them.

When they were past, he trailed them, staying out of sight. They left their horses and guns at the O.K. Corral. Then the four went to the staircase of a brothel, whooping and hollering about how horny they were. He doubted they could screw a goat as drunk as they were. His next move was to separate them somehow, then work on them one at a time until he had answers to where they'd buried the guards and driver, plus the remains of the missing buckboard.

A smile crossed Slocum's face as one of their lot sat on the bottom step and waved them on. He was either too broke or too drunk to go for a whore—sitting there, he looked like he suffered from both states. There was no patrol on the boardwalk, and Slocum crossed the street and hustled the Cowboy off into the dark alley. Then he shoved him into an unused stable. The room smelled of old hay and old, soured horseshit. Barely enough light came in through the cobwebby window for Slocum to see the man's face.

“You work for Old Man Clanton?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“You ever have an ear cut off?”

“Hell, no. What are you going to do to me?” The man tried to lean away and put his hands up to protect his face.

“Where's that buckboard buried?”

“I—I don't know.”

“What's your name?”

“Yancy, Yancy Dobbins.”

“If I cut off half your ear, will you tell me where they planted it?”

“I don't know where.” The kid's voice moved an octave higher.

“You know.” Slocum shook him by the handful of shirt gathered in his fist. “Tell me.”

“No—no, I wasn't even there.”

“Tell me!” His voice raged in his throat. “Tell me!”

“All right. All right. I'll tell you who did it.”

“Start, but you better be telling me the truth.”

“Gorman was the head guy. He said the damn guards started shooting at them, so they had to kill them. They figured the law would really get after them for it. So they burned the buckboard and buried it and the men on the Fort Huachuca lands in a sandy dry wash. They thought no one would figure it out.”

“You better go get on your horse and get the hell out of this country. Old Man Clanton finds out you told me this, he will cut off your balls.” The man visibly trembled as Slocum continued, “Dobbins, you need to get out of Arizona as fast as your horse will carry you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He swallowed hard and as soon as Slocum released him, he scurried like a half-crazed rabbit out of the shed, down the alley, and all the way to the O.K. Corral. In minutes, Slocum stood on the street corner and watched him race toward the dark outline of the Whetstones in the west. He damn sure was not going back to the Clanton fortress.

In the morning, Slocum rode over to Fort Huachuca and spoke to the commander, Colonel Butler, about the situation. The officer called in the Apache scouts and their commander.

“The guards and the burned-up buckboard from the Wells Fargo robbery are buried in a dry wash somewhere on the fort. Find it. Mr. Slocum, make yourself comfortable. Lieutenant Lions will show you around. They'll find it in a few hours if it's here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

An hour later in the mess hall, a private reported to Lions.

“Sir, the site has been located. They've found some bodies varmints had dug up.”

“There, Mr. Slocum. They found it. What shall I tell the colonel?”

“Thank him. I will tell the Wells Fargo agent where the site is, and no doubt the U.S. marshal will investigate the matter since it's on federal land.”

“Yes, it will be looked at by them.”

“Thank the colonel for all of his efforts,” Slocum said and went to get his horse.

Slocum rode back to Tombstone, put up his horse, and took a bath while Carla settled an internal labor problem among her whores, an argument between two whores about who did what to whom. Out of the tub and drying himself, Slocum chuckled. She was damn good at her job. Never swore and always acted very calm about things—until he turned the gas burner on inside of her and she made a helluva lover. He'd never ever seen anyone quite like her in bed.

She rapped on the door, then came in and smiled at seeing his nakedness. “You had a good day?”

“Yes. The buckboard's been found on the fort land. I got an envelope from the company too at Cox's today. They sent me two hundred fifty dollars for the information I gave Holt. I wonder what they will pay for finding the buckboard.”

She hugged him tenderly and snuggled her cheek to his beard. “Shall we eat first?”

“Oh, before we fire up?”

She laughed and gave him a small shove, then took him back to kiss him. “Let's do that first. I fear that when you leave me I will be so depressed without your forces that I may be lost.”

“Lord, lord.” He squeezed her tight to him.

“Have you been in the bedroom?” she asked.

“No. Why?”

“Your Mexican wardrobe came today.”

He pushed open the door and saw the clothing on the bed. “Well, señora, my disguise is here.” Their laughter was pleasure filled.

They moved the clothes, exposing the sheets, and immediately climbed into bed naked to join together. She closed her eyes once she was lying underneath him.

“Oh, my lands, Slocum. You are so smooth and you can turn me on like a coal oil lamp on fire. Already my heart is pounding—I've been hours behind trying to catch up with a lover so many times . . . maybe it is your presence. Oh my God—”

They were pressing hard to be one. The muscles in her vagina closed in on his shaft. His mouth, earlier powder-dry from his long ride in the heat over to the fort and back, was all at once flooded with moisture. His brain swirled like a dozen dust devils he'd seen dance across the greasewood and grass valleys he'd traveled over. With everything centered on their attachment, he worked harder and harder to send her over the mountaintop.

And then his shot went off. He felt her gather up at that second and fall into a chasm. A deep one—good.

16

In the morning Slocum left for Mexico. He stopped at the Peralta Springs Ranch, and the
segundo
, Juan Calero, put him up for the night. After the evening meal, they laughed around the campfire about the firefight with the Cowboys on the west slopes of the Mule Mountains with the Gatling gun.

“We heard five men were killed, and four injured,” one of the vaqueros said.

Another spoke up. “And eight good horses dead.”

“They probably stole that many more from some poor ranchero in Sonora.”

“Hey, Slocum, you have a prettier horse this time, but where is that good-looking woman?”

“I think she's with a rancher I know. He had prettier horses and a finer casa than I did.”

They laughed about that. Slocum turned in early—and a woman's finger on his lips silenced and woke him in the middle of the night. She lifted the blanket and climbed in the hammock with him.

“She was crazy for leaving you?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No.”

Slocum thought he recognized her. The night was dark. She kissed him hard and felt for his dick. In minutes, she was under him and obviously enjoying his attentions to her. Her vagina felt tight and she was hot. He could tell she was suppressing her moans as much as she could. When he felt her breathing hard in his right ear, he turned up his speed and she gasped—then he came and she collapsed.

“Oh,
madre de Dios
, she was a stupid bitch,” she whispered in his ear. “I knew when you said she left you, it was a big mistake for her.” Her roll out of the hammock almost tossed him on the ground. She came back and, with her pear-shaped boobs bouncing over the side of the swing, kissed him hard on the mouth, then said, “You are a real lover,
mi amigo
. Come back again, and if you have no woman with you, I'll find you. And take good care of that
grande
horse dick.”

Then she was gone in the night, wrapped under her blanket. Covering her head in the dark made her hard for anyone to distinguish who she was. He knew who she was—the
segundo
's fine wife. What next? He shook his head over the deal and went back to sleep.

The women served breakfast before daybreak. Strong coffee, eggs, and pork and chili peppers wrapped in fresh-made flour tortillas, and a cinnamon-apple mix wrapped in another tortilla. The women made sure he got two of those.

The big man's wife brought Slocum some bean burritos wrapped in brown paper. He thanked her and asked her name.

“Carmellia.
Vaya con Dios
, hombre.”

As he rode away, he knew Carmellia, who lived at Peralta Springs Ranch, would be on his mind for many hot miles of travel that day. He would ride away on his light-footed horse and never mind a thing, save the fact that he would not have her sweet ass again in his bedroll that night.

The next evening he reached Agua Fría after sundown. He drank a warm beer in a smoky cantina where a teenage girl danced to a fast-strumming guitar with many flashes of her shapely brown legs under the red skirt. She could draw all the enthusiasm of the many drinkers, who were all near drunk.

Slocum shook his head and pushed away an ugly fat
puta
who came by and reached for his crotch. She curled her lip as she snarled at him and moved on. Outside, away from the circus of people drunk and horny, he found a vendor and ordered some food. Squatted at her small stove, she made him a wrapped-up burrito. He paid her a dime and went on. Alone and far enough away from the guitar's piercing sounds, he stepped into the shadows to consume his meal.

A small woman must have seen him. She joined him to stand close by. She spoke no words while he chewed his food slowly. She simply stood there and watched the passing traffic.

“Señor,” she finally said in Spanish, not looking at him, “will you sleep alone tonight?”

“I am looking for an hombre with only two fingers and a thumb on his right hand.”

“His name is Valdez. Hernando Valdez.”

“Where can I find him?” He had to shake her arm to get her to pocket the silver coin he tried to hand her.

“At the rancho of Carlos Mendosa.”

“Where is this place?”

“It is a desert rancho. They have lots of irrigation. It is south of here.”

He paid her another dollar. “Is he down there now?”

She shrugged. “He rides north sometimes. He is a mean man to women. I try to avoid him.”

“I understand that he is mean to women.”

She nodded. “He is a
malo
hombre. You did not have to pay me for that.”

“You would have expected me to pay for your services, so why not that?”

She shrugged.

“Now you can go home and sleep soundly by yourself.”

“No. I always need more money. Good night, my lover.”

He watched her put a shawl over her head, then move off into the shadows.

He rode the horse out into the desert and under a million stars. Hobbling him, he put his canvas ground cloth down on the spot he had cleared of rocks and stones with the sides of his new boots. A coyote's yap called out in the night. Its pack answered in lonely yelps. Under a single, thick cotton blanket shielding him from the cold, Slocum slept until just before dawn.

He rode back into town and found a vendor to cook him some eggs, meat, and a hot pepper burrito. Then he bought some grain for his horse from a sleepy teenage clerk who had just unlocked the store. There in the golden rosy glow of sunup he waited for the horse to eat his nose bag of grain while he drank the vendor's strong coffee from his own tin cup. Then he saddled up and rode off.

Later in the day he found a smaller village. There were several people in the square, and he'd seen more on the road heading there. Apparently, this was a holiday for saints. Many women had a covered bird under their arms with its multicolored long tail feathers exposed. There would be some chicken fights. These people loved such bloody feather fests.

Slocum knew there would be lots of music that night, some off-key, but most would be fine to dance to in the dust with someone of the opposite sex. They prayed here in the small mission and then drank there in the square. Most would inhale pulga, a thick, homemade beer made from fermented corn and sugar. Not his favorite drink. After a few glasses of the sweet-sour drink, many handsome women would forget they were married and adventure astray. After sundown, Slocum would have no problem finding a willing woman to dance with or to fuck. Most people expected to do both before the sun rose again.

The cantina served warm dark beer for ten cents. He bought a mug, then went outside on the shady porch with his back to the wall to watch the crowd. Still early in the day, before noon, a small, dirty-faced boy came up to him.

“Señor, may I stable your fine horse?”

“Where will he be?” he asked.

The boy pointed behind him without looking back. “At my
mamacita
's casa and stables.”

“I will go put this mug back inside and you can show me.”

“
Gracias
. We will brush him down and he will be safe there.”

Slocum held his hand up; he did not need the boy's entire sales speech. “Wait. I will be back pronto.”

The boy bowed his head, “
Gracias
, señor.”

Leading the horse, Slocum and the boy walked side by side through the crowd. Slocum did not miss the comments made by both men and women about this stranger in Mexican garb and his fine horse.

The mother's casa was a jacal behind the buildings on the square, and it had several corrals under the lip of the broad, dry wash beside it.

A short, good-looking woman in her early twenties with curly dark hair and nice, modest cleavage came out and nodded to him. “You wish for us to care for your horse, señor?”

“This hombre told me this was the best place in this town to stable him for the night.”

“Ah,
sí
. My son's name is Ronaldo. This village is St. Thomas, and we have pens with hay and water for your animal.”

“What is your name?” He studied the straight-backed young woman who was maybe five feet tall.

“Teresa Toya.”

She looked like a toy to him. “And what is the holiday charge for those services?”

“We can stable your horse for twenty-five centavos, señor.”

“Fine. And to feed him grain?”

“Ten cents more.” Her dark eyes studied him.

“Will your husband allow you to dance with me tonight?”

She shook her head, which disappointed him, and then she said with a soft smile, “I am free to dance with you tonight, señor. I am a widow. My husband has been dead for several years.”

Then he tipped his hat to her. “We shall dance tonight then.”

Her smile sealed the deal and she led away his horse. Ronaldo ran off to find more business.

“I'll unsaddle him,” he said as we moved after her. She shook her head that she did not need help.

“My name is Slocum.”

She stopped and turned, using her hand to shade her eyes from the sun to look at him. “I won't forget you, Señor Slocum.”

“Good.” He went back to the square. A pleasant, attractive woman like her might have many suitors in such a large gathering. He felt pleased to know he had someone to dance with. More and more people were arriving. Maybe this event was close enough to attract Three Fingers Valdez.

By that time, people had begun to form a large circle on the flat of dry grass in back of the mission building, and word was out: The chicken fights were about to begin. People drove up in wagons and carts to stand in to see the fight over the inner circle's heads. Many vaqueros and even some ranch women sat on their horses to watch the feather fest.

A big-chested man in a gold-braided vest with a booming voice and wearing a great sombrero announced the first pairing, Gootsomething versus Antry. The birds were being held up overhead by the owner-trainers and the betting began. Sharp silver spurs were already strapped on the legs of both birds, and they gleamed in the bright sunlight.

The first fight was about to begin. The birds were placed on the ground and, when each had caught sight of its opponent, the man said, “Go!”

The two birds rushed at each other. Then, in a cloud of dust, they flew in the air and slashed at each other. The crowd roared. One had more red tail feathers than the other one. That one, which Slocum mentally dubbed “Red,” scored the first strike, drawing blood with the first encounter. They stalked in a circle and flew at each other again. This time Red one took a beakful of his opponent's neck feathers and then pulled away with a lot of them. The other bird's neck looked strange with a featherless collar. Time and again they flew at each other and more plumage was lost. Then Red put out his opponent's eye. Half the crowd cheered, and the other half moaned, “oh,” over the loss.

“Slocum,” someone called out from beside him. He glanced down. It was Teresa standing beside him.

“Let me ride on your shoulders. I can't see.” He removed his large sombrero, put it between his knees, and hoisted her up in the air. In a flash of her brown, shapely legs, she got her skirt wadded behind his head, hugged his forehead, and settled on top of him.

“Give me your hat,” she said.

He gave it to her and they watched Red finish off his adversary.

“Am I too heavy?” she asked, sounding concerned.

He shook his head and squeezed her ankles. “I have you right where I want you.”

She leaned over. “Yeah, how is that?”

“I will never tell.”

Teresa riding on his shoulders entertained him. She whooped and hollered along with beating him with the big sombrero when she really became worked up about a bird winning.

“I'm not hurting you?” she asked during a small recess in the chicken-fighting action.

“No, I kinda like having a pretty lady riding on my shoulders.”

“That doesn't sound so good.” Then she laughed. “I like being tall for once in my life.”

“Who's going to win the next fight?” he asked.

“Gregorio. He is always one of the best.”

“Hey, gambler,” Slocum shouted to the bet taker. “She wants to put two dollars on Gregorio's bird.” When he reached in his pocket for the money, he released one of her ankles.

“You're on,” the man said.

She held his forehead in both hands. “You scared me. I don't have two dollars to bet.”

“Maybe we will have more.”

After four more rounds, the rooster fighting ended and he had to let her down. Their gambling earned them ten pesos by compounding their bets. He told the man who took the wagers to pay Teresa. On the ground at last, straightening her skirt, she frowned at his words.

“I had no money in those bets,” she protested.

“But you were the director sitting up there. It's only right you get the winnings.”

They both laughed and the little man paid her the money. She rolled her eyes at Slocum, but he bent over, pulled her in close, and kissed her. She held her fingertips to her lips and her dark eyes opened wide. “This is going to be some evening,” she whispered.

He adjusted his sombrero on his head. “What's next?”

“Food.” She sounded taken aback. “I must go help them.”

“No, Mama,” her son said, coming up beside them. “I already took them the dishes of food you fixed. They can handle it. They saw you were busy with your guest.”

In the late spears of sunshine coming over the mountain peaks above the village, she looked for celestial help, then quickly crossed herself.

“It'll be all right,” Slocum assured her and moved her toward the open doors of the hall of the church across the square while her son ran ahead of them.

“You have made me forget my business here.”

“I bet they make it fine. You needed some relaxation from all you do anyway.”

“Oh, I don't work that hard. Except on special fiesta and church holidays. Where do you live, big man? I never saw you before in this country. You dress like a vaquero. You even walk like one. Why don't I know you?”