Slocum and the Hellfire Harem (9781101613382) Read Free

men before and I can make better time on my own. And I will not give up.”
    â€œYou saying we’d give up and go home?” A bald man tending toward fat stepped forward. “The Monktons were our friends, too, you know. Longer than you knew them!”
    Slocum shook his head. “I’m not arguing that. But you all have families and a service to hold for three good people.”
    Slocum stepped down off the porch. “I’m not saying don’t go. I’m saying don’t feel bad when you feel you have to come back home.” He snatched up the Appaloosa’s reins. “Me, I have no home. But I do have a killer to catch, and I will catch him—if it takes a month of Sundays. You have my word on it. Now I have to go. Mueller’s trail is getting colder by the second.”
    It took him five minutes to gather his traps, scare up leftover biscuits, a loaf of bread, a slab of canvas-wrapped bacon, a sack of Arbuckles, and a handful of dried apples, all from the cook shack. He filled his canteen, let the Appaloosa drink, then rode over to the men still gathered in front of the house. They didn’t seem to know what to do while they waited for the folks from town.
    Finally, the sheriff adjusted his hat and squinted up at him. “I daresay there will be a reward, Slocum.”
    Slocum shook his head and looked toward the house. “I don’t want it. Use it for something they would have wanted done with it.” He fixed the sheriff with a steely glare. “But you make damn sure that the poster says ‘Dead or Alive,’ because I’m not making any promises about Tunk Mueller’s condition when I drag that murdering bastard back here.”
    He nodded to them once, then booted the Appaloosa into a trot. The group of sullen men stood silent, watching the tall, rawboned cowboy, nearly a stranger to them, ride northward, the direction they’d heard Hap say the killer had gone.
    Yes, he was as much a stranger to them as Mueller had been, but somehow they knew they could trust him to find Mueller, this man named John Slocum.

3
    He knew he’d been on the man’s trail, but for the life of him, he couldn’t get Mueller in sight. He always seemed to be a day behind, no matter how hard he pushed. But by the sixth day out, judging from the sign, tracks, and the steaming remains of both horse and campfire, Slocum felt sure he was closing the gap. It was possible that Tunk had begun to relax his vigilance, thinking that perhaps no one had followed after his misdeed. By the time Slocum made it to the little Nevada town of Slaterville, he was feeling more optimistic than he had in days. He dismounted in front of the sheriff’s office and roused a napping young man wearing a badge.
    â€œSorry to disturb you, Deputy.” He stepped inside, extended his hand. “I’m John Slocum. Do you mind if I look through your dodgers?”
    â€œNo, help yourself,” said the young man, stretching and yawning. “Fact is, I was about to fix myself a cup of coffee. You want one?”
    â€œThanks,” said Slocum, dragging the stack of wanted sheets toward him. “Don’t mind if I do.”
    The deputy set a tin cup of steaming coffee in front of him. “You a bounty man?”
    â€œNot really, but I’m on the trail of a man who killed three friends of mine little more than a week ago, down Arizona way.”
    The young man gulped, his eyes widened. “A killer?” He looked over his shoulder out the window, as if the man might be peeking in at him. “You think he’s here, in Slaterville?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know where he is.” Slocum sipped his coffee. “But I believe he at least made it this far in the last day or so. Goes by the name of Tunk Mueller. Could be an alias, but at the least I’d guess his first name is a nickname and not his given name.”
    â€œWhat’s he look