Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) by Jake Logan Page B

the table when Slocum grabbed his shirt and yanked hard.
    The man recoiled and flopped back in his chair. Before the other man could react, Slocum had his six-shooter out under the table and aimed at his gut.
    â€œKeep it peaceable, gents,” he said. “Beefsteak back there makes me clean up the blood on the floor.” Slocum glanced toward a dark stain on the boards. “Leastways, the blood I spill. The rest doesn’t concern him a whole lot.”
    â€œWhat do you want?” The one on the receiving end of Slocum’s Colt growled like a dog, deep in his throat.
    â€œYou’re sitting at a table where two customers sat last night.”
    â€œSo?”
    Slocum had the pair of them to contend with again. The one whose face he had slammed into the table had recovered and was working up a decent head of mad.
    â€œYou’ve seen them in here before, I’d wager. You were both in here last night.”
    â€œGo—” The one with Slocum’s six-gun pointed at his gut chopped off his advice when that pistol cocked. To him it must have sounded like the peal of doom.
    â€œWhat’re their names?”
    â€œDon’t know their monikers.”
    â€œShut up, Gus. Tell him and we can go about our business.”
    â€œSound advice, Gus. And I really don’t care if that business is killing each other, since you’re going to take that fight out back.” Slocum saw the man waver and then his resolve melted like snow in the spring.
    â€œOne’s Kel. The other’s Malcolm. Herb Malcolm. They’re a pair of drifters what blowed into town a month back and stuck like horseflies on flypaper. They spend most of their time down the street in the Lazy Ass Saloon.” Gus snorted. “Fits the two of them. Lazy sons of bitches, always cadging drinks and then sneaking out.”
    â€œHeard tell they was Peepin’ Toms.”
    â€œDon’t doubt that,” Slocum said. He pushed back from the table and holstered his pistol. “You want those drinks or you want to kill each other?” He saw their expressions and yelled over his shoulder, “Beefsteak, these two fine gents deserve a drink on me. Just one, though, since I suspect their thirsts are mighty big.”
    Slocum backed from the table, spun, picked up the two shot glasses, and dropped the whiskey in front of the men. He went to the door and waved to Malone.
    â€œBack in a few minutes.”
    â€œSlocum!”
    He let Malone’s angry call slide right on by him. There wouldn’t be any trouble. The men’s rancor would be forgotten until the warmth of the whiskey faded in their bellies. He intended to be back before then.
    Walking fast, he went down the street, turned the corner, and made a beeline for the Lazy Ass. He had been in there once, right after he hiked into town and was hunting for a job. The owner had thrown him out, and Slocum had landed the job with Malone less than an hour afterward. That had suited him.
    He kicked open the door and looked around the interior. The Damned Shame was usually smoky inside, with everyone puffing away on a stogie or a hand-rolled cigarette. The two went together with serious drinking. Inside the Lazy Ass, men smoked but the air was clear because of the huge cracks in the walls letting through the wind whipping down off the mountains west of town. There wasn’t anything a decent carpenter or even a handyman with some caulking couldn’t fix, but Randall Cassarian wasn’t inclined to spend one thin dime to improve the lot for his customers.
    The short bar owner wore a heavy coat and gloves with the fingers cut out against the chill.
    The man walked behind the bar on old crates so he would be about level with his customers. Slocum guessed Cassarian might not top out at five feet but he had never seen him outside this saloon and didn’t much care one way or the other. Short or tall, the man was bitter and never had a good word for