Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) Read Online Free PDF Page A

asked.
    â€œYes, I am. I’m the town undertaker, sir.” He made no move to hide the loot he had taken from the corpse. Slocum figured the undertaker was used to such robbery and probably considered it his due. If the marshal was right, this might be the undertaker’s only pay for the funeral.
    â€œNeed help getting him into your wheelbarrow?”
    â€œThat would be appreciated, especially since you seem to be the one who caused this man’s sad condition.”
    Slocum grunted as he got his arms around the gunman’s body and heaved him upright. O’Dell moved the wheelbarrow forward as Slocum released his grip. The body fell neatly into the barrow. Without a word, O’Dell lifted the handles and pushed his way through the rain.
    Slocum watched him vanish in the storm with his burden. As he started back into the saloon, movement caught his eye. He turned as the sheets of rain parted. He saw a woman standing in the downpour, arms around herself and shivering. The way she looked at him made a lump form in his throat. Before Slocum could say a word, she stepped away and disappeared into the storm as if she had never existed.

3
    â€œClosing time, Slocum. Git on outta here,” Beefsteak Malone said, throwing his grimy rag onto the bar and beginning to pull his apron off from his bulging gut. “Been a hell of a night.” He laughed but without his usual boisterousness.
    â€œIs the marshal giving you any trouble over the shooting?” Slocum watched his boss closely. A flicker of resentment crossed Malone’s face, but he hid it quickly. By the time he came around the bar, there wasn’t a trace of umbrage remaining.
    â€œDon’t worry yourself none over Will,” he said. “He gets a bee in his bonnet now and then, but who cares about . . . a drifter?”
    Slocum wondered why Malone checked what he was going to say. It didn’t matter that much. Every town had its secrets, and this isolated, has-been town was no exception. He was the drifter, coming in with his saddle slung over his shoulder and down to his last dollar. He owed the saloon owner for giving him a job, especially one out of the foul weather.
    He turned up his collar as he stepped into the storm. If anything, it had grown worse. The wind drove the sleet at an angle, sneaking up under his hat brim. Slocum tugged it down and slogged through the muddy street, heading for the hotel a few doors down.
    â€œSee you tomorrow, Slocum. Don’t be late!”
    â€œWon’t,” Slocum called back. “I wouldn’t miss that spread you put out at noon for anything.”
    Malone laughed as he made his way into the storm. He knew Slocum’s sarcasm meant nothing. Free food was one small benefit of working in the saloon.
    Slocum crossed the street and used the boot scraper outside the hotel’s front door to get as much mud off as he could. He opened and closed the door as fast as he could to keep the heat in the hotel lobby from escaping into the freezing night.
    â€œEvening, Mr. Slocum,” the sleepy clerk said, throwing him a sloppy salute. For some reason the man thought of himself as a soldier, and Slocum was his superior. Slocum had been a captain in the CSA but wanted nothing more than to forget his service and the war.
    He had been gut-shot by Bloody Bill Anderson for protesting Quantrill’s raid on Lawrence, Kansas, and cutting down every male over the age of eight. Quantrill had been on a mission of revenge for slaughtered prisoners, including his own brother, but that hadn’t been an excuse for killing children. Slocum had complained and been left for dead with a bullet where it caused the most pain and promised a slow death.
    Slocum was tougher than even the hardened men in Quantrill’s Raiders and had survived. By the time he recuperated, Quantrill was dead and he had no way of tracking down Bill Anderson. He had returned to Slocum’s Stand in