Slocum and the Warm Reception (13 page)

“Does he force everyone to stay inside?”

Lucy frowned and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Because the only person I saw on the street on my way over here was one fella driving a cart and he didn't seem interested in giving so much as a how-do-you-do.”

“Oh yes,” she said with a weary nod. “After spending every day in this place, it's easy to regard these conditions as normal. Our great and illustrious benefactor,” she declared while sweeping an arm toward the upper floors, “has imposed a curfew meant to keep the streets clear.”

“What's the reason for that?”

“He says it's to keep the amount of noise and rowdiness down to acceptable levels. Since Mescaline never was much for rowdiness, apart from those nights when you were last here, I'd say it's more likely that he just wants to keep this town under control any way he can. If he can tell us when to go about our affairs, then he has an easier time controlling everything else.”

“And what happens if someone breaks the curfew?” Slocum asked.

“That person gets locked into a cell.”

“They just get locked away? How can that stand?”

“It's just for a night or maybe a few hours,” she explained. “Any outsider might see it as well within reason. But you see, he keeps a certain number of animals locked away in the town's jail, and if anyone breaks even the smallest ordinance, they get thrown in with them. You don't want to know who is in there, John. I don't even know their names. They're rapists, killers, the worst kind of men there are, and they make one night in that jail worse than a night in hell. Dawson uses it as a way to keep folks in line while he's still able to shrug his shoulders and claim he's simply upholding the letter of the law. Anyone speaks out against the law and . . . well . . . bad things happen.”

“I've heard about that. Have any of your people spread the word about me being here?”

“Not on your life,” she said quickly. “You saved the lives of just about everyone in this town. The last thing we'd want to do is set you up to be gunned down by the likes of him.”

“From what I hear, that's not his style,” Slocum pointed out.

“In general, you'd be right.” In a low whisper, she added, “He's afraid of you, I think. Perhaps you already know about the reward he's offered?”

“When did he post that?”

“As soon as he took certain steps against upstanding members of this community.”

“I heard what he did to Old Man Garrett,” Slocum said. “That's a damn shame.”

“More than a shame,” she said in a stern, grave tone. “It's a sin. A sin, I'm hoping, that won't go unanswered.”

“I'm not in the business of sins or paying them back,” Slocum said. “For that kind of work, I believe you're looking for a man wearing a starched white collar and carrying a Good Book in his hands.”

She nodded slowly. “After what happened to Mr. Garrett and his family, Dawson set up shop in my hotel. That's also when he posted that reward for you. I doubt he was actually thinking he'd have to pay out. Like so much of what he does, it's simply to send a message. He's telling everyone here in town that they shouldn't expect anyone else to save them this time around. And if a savior does come, he'll be made an example of just like so many others have recently.”

“How many others have there been?”

“Too many,” she said. “Now let me get your breakfast.”

“One last thing before you go. It's important.” Then Slocum told her a few things in a hurry. Although he covered a lot of the same ground he had when talking to Anna, he had a few different things to say to Lucy before she got up, patted his shoulder, and walked to the kitchen.

When she returned, it was with a heaping plate of biscuits topped by thick gravy and a napkin wrapped around some silverware. She placed both down on his table before turning her attention to someone who needed her nearby. She left him to his meal without another word.

Slocum enjoyed his breakfast in peace. For the most part, folks in the dining room let him be. They seemed to have plenty of their own business to conduct and didn't take notice of the man who sat alone in one corner. Along with the biscuits, he was given a few strips of bacon cut in thick slices and fried until they were just shy of burned. There were also some potatoes chopped into a hash with some onions and tomatoes mixed in. He devoured the feast and washed it down with coffee that primed him for the rest of the day.

Although he could see several people drifting in and out of the dining room, the crowd never really grew any smaller. Whenever someone walked out, someone else walked in. Many of them checked the clock on the wall every couple of seconds, waiting for the hands to tell them that whatever curfew had been imposed on them had expired.

He saw one man enter who was different from the rest. While the others were wrapped up in their own business, this one was more concerned with studying each and every table in turn. When he found Slocum's, he walked straight through the crowd until he was close enough to stand in front of him with his hand resting upon the gun at his hip and say, “Mr. Dawson would like to have a word with you.”

“Damn,” Slocum replied as he folded his napkin and stood up. “Sure took him long enough.”

Apart from what he'd said when he first approached Slocum's table, the man who'd singled him out didn't let another word slip as he led Slocum out of the dining room. Slocum followed him with an amicable look on his face, but did not let his hand drift too far from the .44 at his side.

“So,” Slocum said as he walked through the hotel's lobby. “What should I call you?”

The other man didn't break his silence as he continued across the room toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Mind telling me what this is about?” Slocum asked.

“You'll find out soon enough,” the other man said.

“If this is some sort of courtesy from the hotel, I'm not impressed.”

“Go on upstairs.”

“After you.”

Rather than argue, the other man grabbed the banister and started climbing the stairs. The second floor was familiar enough and Slocum stopped there. The other man got to the second step in the next flight before turning around and glaring at him.

“Come on,” he grunted. “We're going to the third floor.”

“Not until you let me know what this is about.”

What had caused him to pause was the number of men clustered at the top of the staircase. Slocum counted at least three waiting for him on the third-floor landing. He didn't have to wait long before one of those men came down the stairs in a rush and hunkered down so he could get a look at the second floor as quickly as possible. The face that dipped into Slocum's line of sight was lumpy, bruised, and somewhat familiar.

“That's him!” the bruised man said as he jabbed a finger at Slocum. “That's the one that jumped me!”

“You sure about that, Mikey?” the man who'd brought Slocum this far asked.

“Sure it was!”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Slocum said as he held his hands in front of him in a placating gesture. “I was just downstairs eating my breakfast when this gentleman here—”

“Don't give me that bullshit!” Mikey said as he stomped down some more of the stairs. “You bushwhacked me like a damn coward last night!”

“If I was in a brawl,” Slocum said innocently, “don't you think I'd have a cut or blemish to show for it? That is, unless you're saying all of that damage was done to you without the other man getting so much as a scratch in return?”

There was a tension in the air, crackling like the warning rumbles of an approaching storm. Some of it lessened as the man on the staircase behind Slocum's guide stared daggers down at the second floor.

“It was dark,” the bruised man said. “And I know I got my share of licks in.”

“That's what I thought,” Slocum said.

Baring his teeth while pointing furiously down at him, Mike said, “Don't get cocky, asshole! I got my eyes on you.”

“Best keep your eyes on the man who got the better of you,” Slocum replied. “Seems like it wouldn't be wise to let him get the drop on you again.”

“No. It sure wouldn't. That ain't gonna happen, I can guarantee that much.”

Another man stepped onto the third-floor landing to stand behind Mike. Although Slocum couldn't see more than another shadow being cast from the floor above him, he could tell the man was more than just another body taking up space. All the others who had been crowding the top of the stairs moved aside like minnows clearing a path for a shark.

“You done, Mikey?” Slocum's guide asked.

Mike did his best to keep up his appearance as a man who was to be feared, but his battered face made that somewhat difficult. “I'm through,” he said, “but I ain't going nowhere.”

“That's where you're wrong, Mike,” declared a booming voice that seemed to fill the entire third floor.

When he heard it, Mike winced and wheeled around as if something was about to be dropped from on high.

Rather than any sort of bloodcurdling threat, the voice said, “You're stepping aside to clear a path and you're doing it right now.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Dawson,” Mike said. And then, like a cat scampering away after its tail was smashed beneath a rocking chair, he got as far over to one side as the staircase would allow so he could go back to wherever he'd come from.

The man who'd parted the waters upstairs stomped halfway down the stairs and stopped. A large fellow in every sense of the word, he stood well over six feet and filled the staircase with a frame that was wide and bulky without being fat. He wore dark trousers and a simple white shirt beneath a gray vest decorated with a watch chain stretching across his midsection. There was no gun belt around his waist, but considering how all of the armed men around him waited with bated breath, he didn't exactly need one.

“This is the man you asked for,” Slocum's guide announced.

Dawson regarded Slocum with eyes set in a rounded face. His mouth was set in something of a smile that could very easily be mistaken as friendly. “Where was he?”

“Eating breakfast downstairs.”

“Did you let him finish?”

Looking back and forth between Slocum and Dawson, the guide replied, “No, sir.”

“Well, that ain't no way to treat a guest!” When he talked, Dawson sounded like a man who was accustomed to speaking in proper grammar but thought it helped his cause to try and sound like the commoners around him. Since he seemed to already have a firm grip on just about everyone in his vicinity, it didn't really matter who bought into his act or who didn't.

Slocum smiled just enough to make it seem like he was one of the believers when he asked, “Would you mind if I went back and finished up?”

Standing sideways to clear a path, Dawson replied, “It's probably already cold by now. Since you're here, you might as well have a chat with me and I'll see to it your belly is filled when we're through.”

“Sounds fair enough.”

The man who'd brought Slocum this far stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture as if he were escorting him into a gilded carriage. Mike stayed back as well, but made sure he sneered at Slocum enough to convey his true feelings. Slocum met the bruised man's glare with a friendly nod that was almost enough to get Mike to strain once more against his leash.

When he got to the top of the stairs, Slocum was greeted by Dawson and the men accompanying him. There were less than half a dozen in all, but the third-floor hallway was narrow and the gunmen filled almost every available space. While none had their guns drawn, their hands practically itched above their weapons and their eyes betrayed a shared hope that one wrong move would be made so they could cut this meeting short in the bloodiest possible way.

“You'll have to excuse my men,” Dawson said in what he must have thought was a sheepish manner. “They tend to get a little protective of their own.”

“I can't imagine why,” Slocum said.

Dawson dropped a hand upon Slocum's shoulder like a hammer. Not only did the gesture stop him in his tracks, but it made Slocum feel like a child looking up to a broad-shouldered giant. It wasn't often that Slocum felt that way. Even though he quickly shook it off, Slocum felt a pang of anger that it had been there at all.

“Don't take me for an idiot, John,” Dawson said. “That is, if you don't mind me calling you that.”

“Only my friends call me that.”

“We're not friends?”

Slocum shook his head and slowly pulled his shoulder out from beneath Dawson's paw of a hand. “Not yet.”

“Well then,” the bigger man declared as he slapped Slocum on the shoulder, “we'll just have to see about rectifying that! Come along with me and I'll fix you a drink.”

Although Slocum could have pulled away so he wasn't swept down the hallway by Dawson, it would have only created a scene and the end result probably would have been the same anyway. There were more important things than being difficult just for the sake of defying someone like him.

“Bit early for a drink, wouldn't you say?” Slocum asked.

“Depends on what the drink is.” Dawson didn't walk very far. He passed only one doorway before standing beside another door and motioning for Slocum to precede him inside. The door they'd passed was propped open by a man wearing dark trousers held up by silk suspenders over a pearl gray shirt. He carried a shotgun in a loose grip so the barrels were pointed at the floor. His thumb rested upon the hammers, making it clear he was ready to unleash a whole lot of sound and fury at a moment's notice.

Meeting the shotgunner's gaze, Slocum continued toward the door where Dawson was standing and walked inside. If any of these men truly meant him harm, they would have cut loose already. Inside, the room was much larger than he'd anticipated. That was probably due to the fact that it used to be a pair of smaller rooms that had been combined after the wall between them was knocked down. The floor was covered in a thick, dark red rug decorated with golden threads. A billiard table took up a good portion of one half of the room and the other half was dominated by a desk that seemed too big to have been brought all the way up to the hotel's third floor. When Dawson stepped over to it, however, the desk seemed properly suited to him.

“Most folks enjoy coffee in the morning,” he said. “I prefer tea myself. Picked it up from an old English business partner of mine. We shipped crates of the stuff from all over the world. I decided to try a cup to see what all the fuss was about and I just couldn't stomach coffee again. Care to join me?”

“Sure. It's been a while since I've had any tea.”

“And you've never had tea like this here,” Dawson said while pouring some into a cup. The kettle was fine white porcelain and the saucer almost disappeared within his beefy hand. Even so, he handled them expertly and even lifted his little finger a bit while placing a spoon onto the saucer. “Here you go, Mr. Slocum. I'm hoping soon I'll be able to call you John.”

Slocum took the cup and brought it up to his nose. The steam rising up from the tea smelled vaguely sweet even though he hadn't seen any sugar get stirred into the brew. The tea itself was light in color. “Are you sure this has steeped enough?”

“It's white tea. Give it a taste. Not your ordinary leaves are found around here.”

Slocum took a sip and was pleasantly surprised by the minty aftertaste that was left in his throat after the rest went down. “It's good.”

“Only the best. Hopefully it's good enough to give us a fresh start after one hell of a rough night.”

After another sip, Slocum took a slow walk around the office, taking particular notice of the windows and the view of the street below.

“Aw hell!” Dawson said in a way that shattered his previous pretenses. “I just realized! I never properly introduced myself. You must think I've got rocks in my head. I'm Abel Dawson, the mayor of this good town. It was awfully vain of me to assume my reputation would precede me, but I must say yours has laid quite a lot of groundwork here. It's good to finally meet you.”

“Yeah. Must be nice to enjoy a cup of tea with a man you want to see dead.”

Dawson actually had the gall to look surprised when he heard that. He even glanced about the room as if someone would be there to explain the situation to him. Finally, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Oh! The reward notice! Of course. That must be what you're referring to.”

“It sure as hell is.”

Waving that off with a swatting gesture, he circled around to sit behind his desk. After another sip of tea, he set it down so he could open a drawer and remove a single piece of paper. Holding it in front of him like an actor with a script, he mused, “I reckon this was just my way of nipping any trouble in the bud.”

“You mean nipping
me
in the bud,” Slocum pointed out.

“Mere theatrics. For dramatic effect,” he said as he tossed the paper onto the desk and turned it around so Slocum could read it properly.

It looked like most other reward notices Slocum had seen in his day. At the top was a bold-faced declaration to catch the eye stating there was a reward being offered. The rest was several lines of colorful description describing how dangerous the subject was, followed by the amount being offered for his capture. Although Slocum couldn't easily count how many such notices he'd seen before, it never sat well when he was the subject being described in such a manner.

“Don't know if I like this kind of dramatic effect,” Slocum said as he shoved the paper back toward Dawson.

“But I assure you that's all it was.” Leaning back caused Dawson's chair to creak beneath his weight. He reached out to flip open a wooden box and remove a cigarette, which he placed between his teeth. When he spoke from then on, it sounded more like a snarl. “After you left, things were in chaos. I'm not blaming it on you, though. While I wasn't here for the whole Jeremiah Hartley situation, I heard it was pretty damn bad and you did a hell of a job in cleaning it up. You didn't want to stay behind and look after these folks . . . again,” he added quickly, “I ain't casting any blame. But someone did need to look after them. If Jeremiah Hartley proved anything, it's that these people can't exactly look after themselves.”

“They did just fine before Hartley,” Slocum pointed out.

“That's when this place was just a bump in the road. A road, mind you, that nobody in their right mind was interested in traveling. Now there's a railroad station not too far from here in Davis Junction and there's thieves preying on them who are on their way to catch a train to places a whole lot better than this. My point is that this country is growing and even towns like Mescaline are gonna feel the pains from all that expansion. You see what I'm saying here, John?”

“I understand about expansion,” Slocum replied. “But I still don't see what that has to do with offering money for my corpse.”

“These folks needed someone to look out for them, but certain members of the community weren't seeing it that way. They still had their heads stuck back in the days when the occasional meeting and a few helpful souls could keep a town running. Those days are over, better or worse, like it or not.”