15

  He woke up in a strange bed, in a strange room. He felt barely alive. His eyes opened slowly and tried to take in the unknown surroundings. Gradually things came back to him. He remembered stepping into the saloon. He recalled the image of Dancer there before him, gun cocked, in hand and already up and pointed at him. He remembered the blast and the thud, and then he knew nothing. He had no idea how he had been brought to this room or whose room it was. Who had doctored him? He did not know. He raised his head just a bit to look down at his chest, and he saw the bandages, but then he let his head drop back down on the pillow. The effort had been almost too much for him. He drifted back into unconsciousness with a head full of unanswered questions.

  The next time he woke up, he was conscious of only a terrible hunger, a gnawing in his guts. He tried to sit up, but it was no use. He had not the strength. He lay there staring at the strange room around him. His chest hurt but not unbearably. He wondered how long he had been there like that. He thought about trying once again to rise, but before he had committed himself fully to the notion, the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. She was matronly but pleasant enough. As soon as she saw that he was awake, she smiled.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked him.

  “Where am I?” he said.

  “You’re in Doc Connors’s office,” she said. “I’m his nurse, sort of. My name’s Joyce.”

  “How long have I—”

  “You’ve been out for several days. Now answer my questions. First, how are you feeling?”

  “I’m . . . weak,” Slocum said. “And hungry. Awful hungry.”

  “I’ll tell the doctor that you’re awake and ask him if I can fix something for you to eat. Just lie still. I’ll be back real soon.”

  Joyce left the room, and in another couple of minutes, the doctor came in. He went straight to Slocum’s bedside and pulled up a chair. “I told Joyce to fix you up some nice broth and some coffee. We don’t want you eating too much too fast. I was worried for the first few days about you ever coming out of that. You were almost killed, you know.”

  “Yeah. It started coming back to me.”

  “Can you sit up?”

  “I tried once. Didn’t get very far.”

  “You want to try again?”

  Slocum strained, but as he tried to sit up, the pain shot through his chest. Doc Connors put an arm behind him to help, and soon he had Slocum sitting upright. He put pillows behind his back.

  “How’s that?” the doc said.

  Slocum sucked in a few deep breaths. “It’s okay,” he said.

  “I think you’re going to come out of this all right,” said Connors. “It’ll take a while yet for you to really mend, but you’re already way past the worst of it. Yeah, you’ll be just fine, if we don’t starve you to death first.”

  “That’s what I feel like is happening,” said Slocum.

  Joyce came in with a bowl and a cup on a tray, and she put the tray on Slocum’s lap. Doc stood up and moved out of the way.

  “Do you need help?” Joyce asked.

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” said Slocum. “I can manage.”

  Had the broth not been so hot, Slocum would have slurped it all down at once, but he had to eat it with the spoon. The bowl was soon empty though, and he drank the coffee. Joyce had stayed in the room to watch him.

  “Want more?” she asked.

  What Slocum really wanted was a beefsteak, but he said, “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

  Joyce fetched more broth and more coffee, and Slocum took it all in. This time she did not offer more, even though he was still hungry. Doc had said not too much or too fast. Something like that. It was a little later when Joyce came back into the room.

  “The sheriff’s here,” she said. “Do you feel up to talking with him?”

  “Sure,” said Slocum.

  Joyce ducked out of the room and in another moment a tall, middle-aged man with a potbelly stepped into the room. He sported a handlebar mustache, and he was wearing two pieces of a three-piece suit. A star was pinned on the vest. A six-gun was holstered at his right side.

  “I’m Vance Goddard,” he said. “Sheriff. Doc says you’re doing better. Says it won’t hurt if we talk a little. That all right with you?”

  “Yeah,” Slocum said. “It’s all right.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “John Slocum.”

  Goddard sat down in the chair that Doc had vacated earlier. “Seems like I might have heard that name before somewhere,” he said.

  “You might have,” said Slocum.

  “You’re a gunfighter.”

  “I’ve been in some fights.”

  “That probably explains what happened to you.”

  “I reckon it might.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Goddard.

  “There ain’t much to tell,” said Slocum. “I stepped in the door, and Dancer shot me. I didn’t even know he was in there.”

  “Dancer? That his name?”

  “It’s the only one I know for him. Charlie. Charlie Dancer.”

  “Charlie Dancer. Is he wanted?”

  “I couldn’t answer that.”

  “Are you wanted?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How come this Charlie Dancer to shoot you like that?” asked Goddard. “I’d say he was trying to kill you. How come?”

  “I don’t know, unless he’s figured out that I mean to kill him.”

  “What for?”

  “I just think he needs killing. That’s all.”

  “You ain’t being much help to me here, Slocum.”

  “What kind of help do you want, Sheriff? You got Dancer in jail?”

  “No. We chased him, but he got out of town.”

  “Are you going after him?”

  “He’s out of my jurisdiction.”

  “I don’t know what I could be doing to help you then. I’m John Slocum. He’s Charlie Dancer. He shot me and ran off. If I can ever get up out of this bed again, I’m riding after him. That’s about it.”

  Goddard stood up. “Well, Slocum,” he said, “I hope you do get up out of that bed real soon, ’cause when you do, I want you to ride out of my town. Gunfighters are always trouble.”

  “I reckon so, Sheriff,” Slocum said, as Goddard was walking out of the room.

  So Dancer had run out of town as soon as he shot Slocum. But which direction? Which way would Slocum ride, when he could ride again? How many days would Dancer have on him? He’d already had plenty of time to get well away. But he might not go too far. He likely thought that he had killed Slocum. Even if he knew that he had not, he would know that Slocum had been hit hard enough to put him out of commission for a spell. He could be anywhere.

  As the days passed by, one by one, Slocum grew steadily stronger. He sat up by himself. He began walking around. He was eating beefsteak and potatoes and biscuits. Doc even brought him a glass of whiskey now and then. He asked for a cigar finally, and Doc told Joyce to give him one. It won’t be much longer, Slocum thought, and I’ll be out of here.

  More and more, he thought about Dancer. He tried to use logic to figure out where Dancer had gone, but that did not work. Still he tried. He recalled the things that Dancer had done to make him feel the way he was feeling. He considered the way the son of a bitch had dry-gulched him in the saloon. Some would think that was reason enough to kill the man, but Slocum had already wanted to kill him. He didn’t hold the drygulching against him. That was a mere impulse of self-preservation. He knew that Slocum was after him.

  Sooner or later, one place or another, Slocum told himself, he would find Dancer. After that, it was simple. He would kill him. In the future though, he would be more careful. But who would have thought Dancer fool enough to try to kill him in cold blood in front of witnesses like that? Well, now Slocum knew. Dancer was running scared, and a frightened man will do most anything. From here on, he told himself, he would have to act as if he were trailing a crazy man, a man that might throw dynamite at him or shoot a cannon. Anything.

  The day came at last when Slocum was up and fully dressed. He walked downtown to a store, where he bought himself some cigars and four boxes of .45 shells. He stopped in the saloon for a drink. He was walking back toward Doc Connors, when he saw Sheriff Goddard coming toward him. He stopped to wait. He was getting a little tired anyway.

  “I see you’re up and around, Slocum,” said Goddard as he approached.

  “First time,” said Slocum.

  “You going to be ready to ride out of town real soon?”

  “Well, it can’t be any too soon, Sheriff. It ain’t exactly a friendly town, outside of Doc’s office.”

  “Now, just what the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Think about it, Goddard. I ride into town and walk into a saloon and get shot. When I come to, the sheriff’s telling me to get out of town. That sound friendly to you?”

  He walked around Goddard, headed back toward Doc’s place. Goddard turned and watched him go for a while. Then he went on about his business. Back at Doc’s place, Slocum approached Connors.

  “Doc,” he said, “how much do I owe you?”

  “The bill’s not totaled up yet,” Doc said. “Why not wait till we’re all through here? Then we’ll see—”

  “I’m moving on now, Doc,” said Slocum.

  “Now?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You’re not ready for riding, Slocum. And those bandages still need to be changed regular. Hang around a few more days, at least.”

  “Sorry, Doc. I think it’s time for me to ride on.”

  He questioned a few people in town before he left, but all he could find out was that Dancer had ridden west. With no more than that to go on, Slocum did the same. He rode out of town going west. He knew that Dancer had plenty of time to be far away. Even so, he rode slowly. Doc had been right. He wasn’t really ready. But he had been wasting time, and he wanted to be out on the trail again. Occasionally he passed a traveler, and when he did he stopped to make small talk and ask about Dancer. He had no luck.

  For three nights, he slept on the ground and ate beans out of cans, or hardtack, or jerky. Early in the morning of the fourth day, he realized that he was traveling a little faster than before. He was feeling stronger again. Noticeably stronger. That night, he stopped to camp a little early to take advantage of the daylight. After he had taken care of his horse and prepared his camp, he set up some rocks and sticks, and he shot at them with his Colt. He practiced drawing and firing. He was a little slow. He needed the practice.

  It was a couple of nights later when he rode into the small town of Chekov. There was only one combination saloon, eatery and store. A penciled sign on the wall advertised rooms out back. There was a small stable next to the place. Slocum wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay there for the night or not, but he tied his horse in front of the place, which was called Chekov’s, and went inside. There were half a dozen people in there, some eating, some drinking and others just sitting and visiting. It seemed that Chekov’s was the place to be in Chekov. Slocum stood looking around, and a short, round-faced man with a mustache and no hair on top of his head came almost rushing at him with a big smile across his face.

  “Come in,” he said. “Come in. Welcome to Chekov’s. There’s a nice clean table just over here. You want to sit down?”

  Slocum moved toward the table the man had indicated. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll sit a spell and have a glass of good bourbon.”

  “Coming right up,” said the little man, and he ran behind a counter to pour the drink. When he brought it back, Slocum noted with pleasure that the squat fellow was generous with his whiskey.

  “You serving meals?” he asked.

  “I got good beef, pork, even got some quail today. Sometimes I got fish from the river nearby, but today I got no fish. I have Mexican dishes, too: tamales, enchiladas, chilis rellenos. What would you like?”

  “How about a good steak?”

  “I got it coming right up. You want some potatoes with it? Gravy?”

  “Yeah. That’d be good.”

  Slocum sipped his whiskey while the little man ran back to get the meal. Casually, he glanced around the room. There was an aging saloon girl, still trying to look young. There were two cowboys. One man had the look of an old gambler. And there was a Mexican vaquero. The vaquero had his own bottle on his table. As Slocum was glancing around the room, the vaquero caught his eye and nodded. Slocum touched the brim of his hat. The vaquero stood up and, bringing his bottle with him, walked over to the table where Slocum sat.

  “Pardon me, señor,” he said. “May I sit down?”

  Slocum looked at the man a moment. “I guess so,” he said. “You just looking for conversation?”

  “You are new in this town,” the man said.

  “I won’t be here long enough to need any new friends.”

  The Mexican laughed. “My name is Miguel Vicenti,” he said. He extended his hand. Slocum eyed his suspiciously, but shook anyway.

  “Slocum,” he said.

  “Just Slocum?”

  “That ought to be enough.”

  The short man came back with Slocum’s meal and put it on the table in front of him. The vaquero looked at the food, then looked up at the short man. “Chekov,” he said, “bring me the same thing, will you?”

  “Of course, Señor Vicenti.” He rushed off again. Slocum cut into his steak.

  “Chekov does not get many visitors, Señor Slocum,” said Vicenti.

  “I can imagine,” said Slocum.

  Vicenti laughed. “Ah, yes. You mean there’s not much here to visit. Right?” Slocum did not bother answering that question. He just kept eating. “Well,” continued Vicenti, “it’s a nice little town. If little towns are to your taste.”

  “It don’t matter to me one way or the other,” said Slocum. “The man’s got good food and good whiskey. Does he sell cigars?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Then it’s all right with me.”

  Chekov came back with the second meal and put it on the table, and Vicenti busied himself eating. Slocum was wondering to what he owed this uninvited visit. The Mexican could just be gregarious, but he doubted it. He couldn’t help but think that the man had some purpose in mind, some reason for imposing his presence. He was the first to finish his meal. He leaned back and sipped his whiskey and studied Vicenti.

  “What’s your game, señor?” he said.

  Vicenti looked up. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Why did you come over here to meet me?”

  “Just being friendly, señor. That’s all.”

  Maybe I’m getting too suspicious, Slocum thought. After all, the last time I walked into a saloon, I got shot. Well, nearly the last time. Maybe this guy is just tired of the local company.

  “You live here?” he asked.

  “I live not far,” Vicenti said. “I come here a lot.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m just drifting through. I might stay the night though. How are those rooms out back?”

  “They’re nothing special, but they’re decent. You can even lock the door from the inside.”

  “I guess I couldn’t ask for more. You reckon he’s got one to spare?”

  16

  The room was nothing special, just that: a room with a cot in it and not much else, but Slocum slept well there. In the morning, he was up and back inside Chekov’s place. Chekov was already at work preparing breakfasts for a few customers. One of them was the old vaquero, Vicenti. Slocum headed for an unoccupied table, but Vicenti interrupted him.

  “Señor Slocum, please,” he said, “there is room here at my table.”

  Slocum fought back an impulse to either ignore the man or to refuse his invitation. Never one to gladly rub elbows with a stranger, he was especially in no mood to socialize. For some reason though, perhaps because he was still weak from his recent ordeal, he walked over to Vicenti’s table and sat down.

  “I trust you slept well, señor,” said Vicenti.

  “Well enough,” said Slocum.

  “Señor Chekov is a Russian,” said Vicenti, “but his best meals are Mexican. I recommend his tamales and beans for breakfast. They are very good.”

  When Chekov came over to the table, Slocum ordered the tamales and beans but with three eggs fried. Vicenti ordered tamales and beans. Both men ordered coffee, and Chekov soon brought that. Slocum took a sip right away, almost burning his lips and tongue. He poured some out into the saucer and slurped it. Vicenti did the same.

  “Will you be riding on this morning, señor?” Vicenti asked.

  “That’s my plan,” said Slocum.

  “I figured as much. There’s not much here at Chekov to keep a man. Not much besides Chekov’s good Mexican food.”

  “And good whiskey,” said Slocum.

  “Yes. His good whiskey.”

  Both men were silent for a while sipping their coffee, and Chekov brought out their breakfasts. After that, they busied themselves with eating. When they were done, Chekov brought out more coffee and refilled their cups. Slocum took a cigar out of his pocket and lit it.

  “Señor,” Vicenti said cautiously, “generally it’s not polite to ask a man his business. I know that. And generally I am a polite man. But I sense something about you. May I ask where you are riding?”

  Slocum looked at Vicenti through a cloud of blue smoke. He thought for a moment. Hell, it couldn’t hurt. He hadn’t yet asked any questions about the passing through of his prey. Why not ask this Mexican?