Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  A LITTLE SHUT-EYE ...

  One cowboy stared at Slocum, his fists still doubled for action. “An’ just what the hell is that, city slicker?” he asked heatedly, swaying slightly on his feet after too many rounds of beer ...

  Slocum took one quick step closer to the cowboy and launched a looping right hook into his jaw, hearing his knuckles crack against jawbone just as the cowboy went reeling backward, slamming into the wall before he slid down to the floor on the seat of his pants, glassy-eyed.

  Slocum turned quickly to the other man. “The next one’s yours unless you hightail it out those bat-wings,” he snarled, drawing back for another blow with his hand stinging in the aftermath of his first powerful punch.

  The cowboy dropped his hands to his side. “Don’t want no trouble with you, mister. It was ’twixt me an’ Claude.”

  “Claude’s gone to sleep for a while,” Slocum said. “Now get out like the lady asked you to or you’ll be taking a little nap on the floor there beside Claude . . .”

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies.

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  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a

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  BLOOD IN KANSAS

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / June 1998

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Jove Publications, Inc.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole

  or in part, by mimeograph or any other means,

  without permission. For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-17934-5

  A JOVE BOOK®

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  200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks

  belonging to Jove Publications, Inc.

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  1

  It was a town crawling with profit-seekers and gamesmen, by all appearances, and when John Slocum rode into Fort Smith on a breezy fall day, he also noted a goodly number of dangerous types, if that sort of thing could be judged by the way a man carried a gun ... or by the way he kept his eyes on his surroundings, always cautious, watching everyone else as if he expected a bullet in the back. It was that same breed of caution that kept Slocum alive, and he recognized it among other men, the wariness, ever watchful of strangers, seemingly ready for anything including gunplay. It was not the use of guns that brought him to Fort Smith this fall. He had an appointment with a pretty lady, which was Slocum’s preference when he had a choice. Beautiful women were his passion, the cause of many of his mishaps and some close brushes with death, while at the same time bringing him the greatest moments of happiness he’d known since before the war.

  On this particular occasion he came calling with a gift, a present from a friend up in Springfield. He’d never cared for the state of Missouri all that much, and he was glad to be headed west again, although by a circuitous route, a detour southwest in order to make the acquaintance of a raven-haired beauty by the name of Myra Belle Shirley, owner of a Fort Smith saloon. And the gift he brought was worthy of her attention, a magnificent dagger almost a foot in length, imported from the Orient long ago with an ivory handle inlaid with gold. Intricate carvings made the ivory a piece of artwork, and the knife was said to be worth a small fortune, an antique with a long history, belonging to a Mongol warlord hundreds of years in the past. The gift was being given by a generous benefactor, Bradford Thomas of Springfield, for favors granted by the lovely Myra Shirley while Bradford was in Fort Smith.

  Bradford was a cousin to Heck Thomas, a U.S. Deputy marshal serving under the authority of Isaac Parker, known throughout Indian Territory and the Western Judicial District of Arkansas as “The Hanging Judge.” According to a story Slocum had read in the Springfield Gazette, Parker had thus far hanged ninety-one men for assorted crimes, and in one instance he’d ordered a hanging for six men simultaneously, drawing crowds and newspaper reporters from as far away as Kansas City to watch the grisly event. Slocum knew a little about Judge Parker and his ghoulish executioner, George Maledon, from personal experience. He’d helped a longtime friend and lawman bring three wanted men to the Fort Smith stockade. Before Slocum could ride out of town a trial date had been set, and by the time he got to Denver on the train, all three men had been hanged. Judge Parker wasted no time meting out his brand of justice.

  Brisk winds whipped through the thick forests blanketing the hills on both sides of the road into Fort Smith as Slocum rode within sight of the stone fort. Bright fall colors turned every leaf into a fluttering display of nature’s changes as gusts rippled through swaying branches, releasing more leaves with each breath of swirling air. Maples a flaming red or gold, and oak leaves from deep orange to every imaginable shade of brown, drifted across the road in front of him. He’d always enjoyed fall more than any season. Its changes were more dramatic than spring’s, even though spring was almost equally spectacular—blooming wildflowers, new leaves in the forest and spring grasses turning the landscape various hues of green.

  He had a romantic side that had nothing to do with a need for a woman, and he oftimes thought he might be in love with nature itself more than any bounty awaiting him underneath a woman’s skirt. He’d noticed it more as he got older: an appreciation for open country, or the High Lonesome as some mountain men called it, just about any place where civilization had not left its mark. With so much westward expansion he knew the day would come when there were no more open spaces where a man could ride for days without encountering another human being. He hoped that day was beyond his lifetime since he experienced so much peace in empty land.

  At times he thought of himself as two people: one a man who needed the attractions of city life, good whiskey and the best cigars, a soft bed and an even softer woman, other a man who needed to be away from all of the comforts afforded by larger towns. In truth, it was most often a woman that brought him to a town. His natural urges did more to lure him away from a wilderness or a mountaintop than any need for comforts of another kind.

  The place he sought was aptly called, according to Bradford Thomas, the Powderkeg, known for its habitation by men of often intemperate disposition who frequently settled their differences by employing exploding gunpowder. It hadn’t sounded like a place for a beautiful proprietress; however, Bradford had given Slocum assurance that Myra could handle herself with desperate men. He’d said she was a crack shot with a pistol, and the gift Slocum was bringing her would only assist Myra in keeping order at close quarters.

  While this had sounded a mite on the doubtful side when Slocum first heard it, he’d known Bradford long enough to rely on his opinions in these matters. Over the years Slocum had sold a number of blooded racehorses to Thomas, and they knew each other well. Bradford’s first cousin, Heck Thomas, was one of the most feared U.S. marshals in Indian Territory, and Slocum sensed the same determination and fearlessness in Bradford. It was enough to know Myra Shirley had Bradford’s respect when it came to tough situations. Bradford’s respect was not to be taken lightly.

  Rows of low wood buildings sat along the edges of dusty streets east of the fort, some with signs advertising their wares or services. A strip of saloons lay to the south, perhaps with a certain amount of forethought, as far away from the fort and the offices of lawmen as practical. At the far end of this same road he saw a crudely painted sign proclaiming that the building beneath it was indeed the Powderkeg. As it was late afternoon, men with guns were about on boardwalks along the saloon district, eyeing Slocum warily as he swung his bay Remount Thoroughbred stud toward the establishments peddling whiskey, a more or less natural direction for John Slocum most of his life. Where whiskey was sold there were usually plenty of women.

  He noticed several men paying particular attention to the swell of the Colt .44 underneath his coat, the sto
ck of the rifle booted below his left leg under a stirrup leather, and his shotgun poorly concealed in the middle of his bedroll—butt plate and sawed-off barrels showing on either end. His guns were a form of advertisement not unlike the signs nailed to the roofs of these saloons, telling those who noticed that he came to town heavily armed. His cross-pull holster was the most meaningful to men who understood guns and gunplay. A man who wore a cross-draw rig was either crazy or very fast, depending upon how long he’d had it buckled around his waist. Quick draws were tricky with a gun on the far side of a man’s belly, requiring dexterity as well as lightning-fast reactions. Slocum knew all about the advantages too, leaving a trail of grave markers when he was given no choice but to prove he knew how to make a fast cross-belly pull.

  One gent in particular was giving Slocum the eye as he drew rein in front of the Powderkeg. The man wore a gun tied low on his left leg, a sweat-stained gray flat brim hat, and stovepipe boots in need of blacking, and was leaning against a porch rail.

  “Howdy, stranger,” the cowboy said, giving Slocum a single nod, a mix of suspicion and curiosity written across his face, a frown knitting his forehead slightly.

  Slocum came stiffly from his saddle seat, touching ground with trail-weary legs without taking his eyes from the man who spoke to him. “Howdy,” he replied, tying off his reins at the rail before he began loosening the bay’s cinch just enough so the horse could blow.

  “Whereabouts you from?” the cowboy asked. It was a question with no trace of friendliness.

  “This here saddle, of late,” he said, annoyed by the man’s inquisitive nature.

  The cowboy’s face hardened somewhat. “You sure as hell do carry a bunch of guns, mister. Couldn’t help but notice.”

  Slocum’s annoyance was becoming outright anger. He turned to the cowboy. “There’s times when I use ’em to kill folks who ask too many goddamn questions,” he said evenly, so there could be no mistaking his warning.

  The cowboy hardly batted an eye. “That’s mighty tough talk, stranger. An’ this is one hell of a bad place to test your luck unless you’re real fast.”

  Tired of the banter, he stepped up on the boardwalk in front of the Powderkeg, taking a glance above a pair of swinging doors leading into the place before he spoke to the man again. “I may not be all that quick with a gun,” he said, staring hard into the cowboy’s eyes, “but I don’t hardly ever miss what I’m aimin’ at, and I reckon that’s why I’m still alive. Now, if you’re done with all the questions, I’ve worked up a powerful thirst. That saloon yonder has got just what I need, only I’m standing here answering a bunch of goddamn questions when the answers ain’t none of your business.”

  The cowboy grinned mirthlessly. “You step inside that place an’ you’ll find plenty of boys who’ll oblige you with a test of who’s the best with a gun. It’s early yet, but I’ll wager there will be one or two who’ll see if you’re as good as you claim to be.”

  “Never claimed to be good,” Slocum answered, realizing now that this cowboy posed no immediate threat of reaching for his pistol. Slocum could see it in his face. He started for the bat-wings and spoke over his shoulder. “I said I hit what I aimed at, is all. Can’t remember the last time I missed.”

  He went inside carefully, pausing near the door frame so as not to be outlined by daylight coming from the street until he knew what waited for him there.

  Three men stood at the bar, watching him in a mirror on the rear wall above stacks of clean glasses and bottles with an assortment of labels. Over to his right a lone cowboy slumped in a chair, hunkered over a shot glass full of amber liquid. Behind the bar a bald man with gartered sleeves nodded to Slocum politely.

  “Come in, mister,” the barkeep said. “This is a friendly place an’ we serve the best whiskey an’ beer in Fort Smith.”

  Slocum glanced through a smudged front window to check on his horse before he replied. “I’ll have a glass of your best bourbon, Kentucky sour mash if you have it, and then I’d like to send word to Miss Myra Belle Shirley that I’d care to see her as soon as it’s convenient.”

  The barkeep reached for a branded bottle behind him and a shot glass. “Miss Shirley won’t be in for a spell. You’ll have to come back after sundown. Maybe eight or nine this evenin’.”

  “Suits me,” Slocum replied, easing over to a vacant table in a room smelling of old cigar smoke, unwashed spittoons, and unwashed men. As was his habit, he took a chair against the wall so he could see the room and the doors.

  The barman came around his bar to bring Slocum a glass full of foul-smelling fluid, clearly not the sour mash he’d ordered.

  “This is the best we got,” he said, carefully placing the glass before Slocum. “That’ll be two bits.”

  Slocum took silver from his pocket. “Sounds high for three fingers of moonshine colored with tobacco juice, but I’ll pay for it. Just to cut the dust from my throat.”

  “That’s real Kentuck’ sour mash,” the barkeep protested as he swept Slocum’s quarter off the tabletop with a fleshy hand.

  “Save your speech. I know the difference.”

  The bartender scowled. “If you’re callin’ me a liar I’ll have you thrown out of this place, stranger. I done told you its Kentuck’ sour mash whiskey.”

  Heads turned at the bar when drinkers heard the exchange.

  “I didn’t call you a liar,” Slocum replied quietly, but with an edge creeping into his voice. “Maybe you simply don’t know the difference. As to throwing me out of here, it’ll be mighty hard to do without plenty of help. But I’ll save you all the trouble by leaving on my own until Myra gets here. A friend of hers sent me and I aim to talk to her. I have something for her from Springfield, and I doubt she’d be happy if she found out you suggested I leave her place without making the delivery I’d promised to make.”

  An uneasy silence lingered in the Powderkeg for a time, until the barman shook his head. “I ain’t givin’ you no damn apology till I find out who you are, mister. That fancy suit coat an’ silk vest don’t impress me none. We get more’n our share of high rollers in this place. You can stay, so long as you shut your mouth about this not bein’ Kentuck’ sour mash.”

  “I won’t say another word about it,” Slocum replied, picking up his glass while everyone was watching. Then he leaned over a nearby spittoon and poured his drink out with an added dash of ceremony.

  He got up slowly, meeting the defiant look in the barman’s eyes with a stare of his own. “I’ll be back around nine. Tell Miss Shirley that John Slocum asked for her and that I’ve come with a gift from Bradford Thomas.”

  Slocum left the Powderkeg, pausing near his horse to see if the nosy cowboy was still there. He found the porch empty and without further delay, he mounted his bay and headed for a livery stable to arrange for keeping the horse overnight. Fort Smith had never been known as a friendly town. However, today’s events had left a really bad taste in Slocum’s mouth that had nothing to do with the rotgut whiskey he’d paid for.

  2

  Myra Belle Shirley wasn’t what Slocum expected in a frontier town like Fort Smith. He’d been told by Bradford Thomas she was a beauty, but nothing could have prepared him for the vision of loveliness Slocum saw the moment he entered the Powderkeg a few minutes past nine that night.

  The place was crowded, shoulder-to-shoulder drinkers lining the bar and every chair at half-a-dozen tables occupied. It was a small saloon by Slocum’s standards. He was accustomed to some of the biggest and best in places like Abilene, Dodge City, Fort Worth, and San Antonio, or Denver’s largest gambling parlors, which in turn could not compare to the elegance of places in New Orleans or Saint Louis. Here the air was thick with cigar smoke and the stink of men too long without bathwater, making it that much harder to believe a woman in an expensive black evening gown, cut low in front to reveal a generous bosom, stood behind the bar serving drinks to cowboys, better-dressed drummers, and a few farmers clad in overalls, about as odd a mixture of patrons as any Slocum had ever seen. Slocum knew without being told that the black-haired woman was Myra. She fit the description Bradford had given perfectly.