Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) Read Free Page B

the rough-hewn bar, both elbows supporting him as he stared across the room at the only pool table with green felt left on it. The other two had been so badly cut and scarred, any potential pool player would be better off using a barrel stave on rocks out in the muddy main street.
    â€œProspectors,” Malone said scornfully. “Used to be a whale of a lot of gold around here, but that was nigh on twenty years back. Some folks never give up, though.”
    â€œPartners?”
    â€œWhat else? An old married couple couldn’t argue that hard and not kill each other.” Beefsteak drifted to the other end of the bar to tend a customer.
    Slocum glanced at the saloon owner and decided the Damned Shame must be misnamed. Malone wore a headlight diamond just above his canvas apron, spent a tad too much time chowing down, and wore clothes more fitting for a bank president than a barkeep. He wore his hair slicked back and held down with a dollop of grease, making his head look like a round pumpkin. Slocum laughed ruefully. Even that description wasn’t too far off. He had a sickly orange pallor that bespoke the long hours behind the bar and too little time out in the fresh air and bright sunlight.
    â€œI’ll rip yer guts out and strangle you with ’em!”
    Slocum’s attention snapped back to the two prospectors at the pool table. One waved around a crooked pool cue while the other gripped a seven ball as if he intended to cram it down his partner’s throat. Slocum glanced over at Malone, who pointedly ignored the ruckus. Heaving a sigh, Slocum shoved away from the bar and walked slowly to the pool table.
    â€œYou gents playing or you intend to let somebody else in here?”
    â€œYou? You want to play some billiards?”
    â€œCan’t say that it’s me wanting to play. We got a house full of boys interested, though.”
    The two forgot their argument and united against Slocum. He kept from laughing as they stepped shoulder to shoulder to confront their new common enemy. Both were close to knee-walking drunk and presented no real danger, except to each other.
    â€œWe . . . we got a game to play.”
    â€œThen I say, I’ll put up a dollar to the winner.” Slocum fished a greenback from his pocket and laid it on the corner of the table near a pocket.
    â€œWinner take all!”
    Slocum wasn’t even sure which of the men spoke, but both argued a mite over who would break, then started a game that didn’t have much in the way of rules. He didn’t care. They were playing peaceably enough and not causing any more trouble. He went back to the bar.
    â€œSure you don’t want a snort, Slocum?” Beefsteak held up a bottle of Billy Taylor’s Finest. “That was real purty the way you gentled those broncos.”
    â€œMore buck and spin than bite. Keep your liquor and give me a dollar.”
    â€œNope, that was yer doin’. Not part of the job description.”
    â€œKeeping the peace within these four walls is what you wanted me for.”
    Slocum couldn’t complain too much. Despite his modest wages, he’d been able to buy a new horse and still had a few dollars in his pocket. Malone let him feed off whatever was left after the lunch trade disappeared. Unlike his name, the saloon owner didn’t think much of real beef, preferring to serve his customers pickled eggs and occasional bits of fried chicken. Slocum thought the chickens were those that had stopped furnishing the rest of the luncheon menu, but he didn’t ask. A piece of fried chicken now and again went down good, and he wasn’t above drinking a beer with it.
    But not when he worked. He wanted to keep a clear head.
    He gritted his teeth when the doors slammed back and a bantam rooster of a man with a five-pointed star badge pinned on his vest stormed in. Marshal Willingham’s attitude was twice the size of his body and a dozen times his brain