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

  Chapter 23

  Teaser chapter

  A KILLER IN BLACK ROBES

  “Mr. Slocum, this is my courtroom and these are my chambers. You will do as you are told in either room or I will find you in contempt and put you behind bars. Is that clear?”

  Slocum shifted his weight.

  His movement did not sit well with the judge, who reached into a desk drawer and pulled a pistol out. He set it on the table in front of him, the barrel pointed at Slocum, the judge’s hand still on the butt of the little Smith & Wesson .38.

  “I’m not going to shoot you, Judge,” Slocum said.

  “No, but if you don’t sit down right this minute, I might shoot you where you stand and rule it self-defense.”

  Slocum hesitated.

  The judge picked up the pistol again, aimed it at Slocum and cocked the hammer back.

  The clicking sounded loud in the silence of the room.

  The judge’s finger curled around the trigger and his mouth stopped worrying the stub of cigar poking from between his grotesque little lips . . .

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SLOCUM AND THE HANGMAN’S LADY

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / October 2004

  Copyright © 2004 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  1

  John Slocum had never been so glad to get to a place as he was when he rode into Del Rio. It was hot and he was covered with dust, his rugged face scoured by wind and grit, his mouth as dry as the terrain he had just crossed.

  He drew in the lead rope to keep the Arabian close to him and the black horse he rode, Ferro. He tightened his grip on the rope because people were staring at the beautiful Arabian he was leading, as well as at him and Ferro, an equally beautiful horse with a star blaze on its forehead. Ferro was a tough Morgan out of Tennessee, a distance horse with good bottom, strong legs, deep chest.

  Just outside the village, Slocum saw a cemetery sitting atop a ridge. Some of the graves were adorned with bright, colorful flowers that fluttered like earthbound kites in the slight breeze. A few people walked among the crosses and headstones, or knelt before a mound of earth and stone, their hands pressed together in prayer.

  The ridge rose to the top of a hill rocky and black, as barren as if a fire had swept over it, killing every living thing.

  Just inside the town, Slocum saw a cart bearing a coffin being pulled by a burro. A small cortege of mourners followed the carreta. The burnished bronze of their faces, their high cheekbones, told him that they were Mexicans. The women wore black and the men wore the white garb of peons, the breeze flapping the brims of their straw som breros. Slocum touched a hand to the brim of his hat in a silent salute and one of the men, somber-faced, nodded in acknowledgment.

  The cart creaked as he passed it and none of the women looked up at him. Their heads were bowed and some of them held rosary beads in their gnarled hands. One or two were weeping. He could almost feel the sadness in the air as Ferro picked up the pace.

  Some of the people, Mexicans mostly, waved at Slocum as if he were some gringo messiah come to rescue them from poverty and the blazing heat of afternoon. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of an odd wooden structure near the plaza at the center of the city, but he paid no attention to it at the time. It stood in shadow, between a pair of adobe brick buildings and Ferro was into a trot by then at the smell of water. The town sat on the border between the United States and Mexico, separated only by the Rio Bravo, with its umber waters, its wavetops glinting silver in the sunlight as if sharp knives were rising and falling from its flowing surface.

  He knew where to go. Hardesty had given him good directions. The livery stable was at the far end of town, overlooking the river, surrounded by little adobe dwellings with clay pots sprouting flowers in front of every door. A Mexican wearing a white shirt and trousers opened the gate to a small corral, one of many surrounding the livery, and Slocum rode in as if he had been expected, which he knew he was.

  “You can cut him loose,” a man said. Slocum looked to the voice and saw a man emerge from the shadows of an overhanging roof that jutted from the livery barn.

  Slocum reined up, pulled the dusky Arabian close, leaned over the saddle and slipped the halter from his face and neck. The horse bolted in a tight turn and began running around the fence, bobbing its head and flashing its dark brown tail in exultation at his sudden, but limited, freedom from the rope and halter.

  “You can put your horse in here,” the man said, his face shadowed by the brim of his Stetson. “He probably wants some grain and water.”

  The Mexican opened the gate for Slocum and he rode through. The gate closed behind him. He saw the Arabian stop at a trough and bow his head to drink. The man walked over to the fence nearest the horse and gazed at him in admiration. The Mexican at the gate grabbed Slocum’s bridle and started walking toward the livery.

  “Hold up,” Slocum said. “I’ll climb down.”

  The Mexican stopped and Slocum dismounted. As he did, he noticed men emerging from the shadows of the overhang. They carried rifles and shotguns and took up positions near the corral where the Arabian was quartered. Another Mexican em
ptied a tin of grain into a feed trough inside the corral, next to the fence. The stallion turned from the watering trough to the feed bin.

  Slocum walked over to the man at the fence.

  “Hardesty?” Slocum said.

  “I’m Bill Hardesty. You must be Slocum.” The man extended his hand. Slocum shook it and nodded.

  “Why all the guards?” Slocum asked. “I mean that Arab stud is valuable, but . . .”

  Hardesty laughed.

  “The cost of the horse and your fee, Mr. Slocum, make him a very valuable animal, for sure. There are some here in Del Rio who would love to get their hands on such a fine stallion. I’m taking him to my ranch in the morning. But in the meantime, my caballeros will see that he stays put.”

  “Speaking of the cost . . .” Slocum said.

  Hardesty smiled.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to invite you to supper tonight and I’ll pay you then.”

  Slocum looked at the man. His handshake had been firm and his palm had not been sweaty. Hardesty had sky blue eyes and an open, honest face. If he owned a ranch, he looked to be a hands-on manager. His clothes were clean, but not new or showy. He didn’t wear rings with diamonds or precious stones in them.

  “I guess I can trust you, Mr. Hardesty.”

  “Call me Bill. And I’ll call you John, if that’s all right.”

  Slocum nodded.

  “We’ll eat at your hotel tonight, the best food in Del Rio. There are some people I want you to meet. I’ll say this. You know your horses. You brought me exactly what I wanted.”

  “Well, you made it very clear what kind of horseflesh you were interested in. This is a young strong stud, a breeder. You can make money off of him.”

  “I know. He looks very sound. Does he have a name?”

  “The man I bought him from called him Aladdin.”

  “Does a magic lamp come with him?”

  “I asked the same question,” Slocum said.

  “And what did the man say?”

  “He said that riding him was the magic lamp. The horse grants all wishes.”

  “Nicely said.”

  “Get your gear, John, and I’ll take you to the Del Rio Hotel. I think Aladdin will be safe with my men guarding him.”

  Slocum sensed that there was more that Hardesty wanted to say. Perhaps there was more to Del Rio than met the eye, an undercurrent of lawlessness that made Hardesty uncomfortable. “Well,” Slocum thought, “I won’t be here long. He’ll pay me tonight and I can ride Ferro back to Missouri and buy more horses.”

  Slocum knew there’d be more business waiting for him in Kansas City. Good, well-bred horses sold for a premium out West.

  He got his bedroll, saddlebags, rifle and the sawed-off shotgun wrapped in his blanket and followed Hardesty up the main street.

  “One thing about Del Rio,” Hardesty said. “You can walk to anyplace you want to go.”

  “Do you live in town?”

  “Not me. My ranch lies about ten miles from here. I don’t come into town much. Maybe once a month.”

  Again, Slocum sensed that there was a lot about Del Rio that Hardesty wasn’t telling him. Maybe he’d loosen up that evening, over supper. Slocum was curious, but he wasn’t going to press it. In the morning, he would be gone.

  As Slocum and Hardesty came to the town square, which Slocum had passed without noticing, he saw an ominous sight off to the side. There was a platform on skids stuck between two buildings. There were, in fact, skid marks visible in the street where the wooden platform had been moved back fairly recently. In fact, people avoided that place. He saw footprints in the dust giving it a wide berth.

  “That looks like a gallows,” Slocum said.

  “It is,” Hardesty said. “There was a hanging here this morning.”

  “I’ve never seen a portable gallows.”

  “Well, that’s the way the judge wanted it. It usually stays in an enclosure, but they haven’t gotten around to moving it back inside yet. Maybe there’ll be another hanging today. Or tomorrow.”

  Slocum’s eyebrows arched.

  “Most towns never have a hanging, and those that do maybe have only one a year or one every two or three years. Big cities, I mean.”

  Hardesty cleared his throat, as if he were embarrassed.

  “They take crime seriously here in Del Rio,” Hardesty said. “And the consequences are harsh.”

  “What do they do with horse thieves, Bill?”

  “Oh, they hang them. Or shoot them first. Rustling, horse stealing are very serious crimes.”

  “Yes, I agree. I’m just surprised Del Rio has a permanent, portable gallows, that’s all.”

  “It helps to remind people that crime doesn’t pay.”

  It paid all right, Slocum thought. At least in Del Rio.

  It paid in death at the end of a rope.

  2

  Before he walked down the hotel stairs to the dining room, Slocum lit a cheroot, the first he’d smoked all day. But now he was in the evening cool, had bathed and brushed his clothes and black frock coat to rid them of the trail dust, cleaned his hat and shined his boots. He strapped on his gun belt, the holster with his double-action Colt .45, made sure his bellygun was tucked back behind his belt buckle, not showing, but within easy reach. He didn’t expect trouble, but he was a stranger in a strange town, and it didn’t hurt to be prepared for any eventuality.

  He drew on the cheroot, released the smoke into the air. Now, he thought, the room was his own. It had his smell, his smoky stamp on it. He smiled at the humor of that thought and walked to the door. He stepped outside into the hall and closed the door. He was looking forward to a good meal, and some of the smells had wafted up the stairs, stirring the digestive juices in his stomach.

  The dining room was crowded, humming with talk. Slocum stood at the entrance, gazing around, looking for Bill Hardesty. A thin pall of blue smoke hung suspended several feet above the tables as diners who had completed their meals puffed on cigars and cigarettes. Slocum saw a receptacle filled with sand and he drove his cheroot into its center, snuffing it out.

  A pretty woman approached him, coming from one of the back tables. He had seen her weave her way through the dining room out of the corner of his eye and now he got a good look at her. He thought she was leaving, but she strode straight up to him, stopped and looked him over with bright blue eyes that sparkled with the shine of the lamplight. He looked her over, too, dropping his gaze to her small feet encased in expensive black patent leather shoes with golden brass buckles, the long dress that clung to her slender legs, the full breasts pressing invitingly against her blue blouse. She had a symmetrical face with prominent cheekbones, fair skin that was almost translucent and a patrician nose with slightly flaring nostrils. Luxuriant black hair that had the sheen of a crow’s wing in sunlight cascaded over her shoulders.

  “Mr. Slocum,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He took off his hat.

  She laughed, and her mirth was a chromatic ripple up and down the musical scale, like creek water burbling over smooth shiny stones.

  “I’m Lorelei,” she said. “Lorelei Hardesty.”

  Slocum swallowed as a trace of her delicate perfume washed over him like the scent of desert flowers in spring.

  “Bill Hardesty’s daughter.”

  “Oh, yes. He asked me to meet him here.” Slocum shifted his weight from one foot to the other and his fingers worried the brim of his hat. He felt as nervous as a schoolboy.

  “I’ll take you to our table,” she said, clasping his hand. Her touch was warm and gentle as she guided him through the maze of tables, to where Hardesty was sitting, near the center of the large room. There was a bandstand and the musicians were just stepping onto it. The elevated platform stood at the edge of a dance floor. As the musicians tuned up their instruments, Lorelei released his hand and ushered him to a chair next to her father’s. Slocum pulled her chair out, the one flanking him, and she sat down. He moved the chair back and she gave him a glance of gratitude.