Slocum 420 by Jake Logan Page B

heard a hissing sound coming from the smallest room in the mill.
    â€œPssst! John.”
    Even though he was looking directly at the source of the voice, all Slocum could see was the wall of Womack’s office and a door that was cracked open barely enough for light to pass through.
    â€œJohn,” Womack whispered again. “Get in here. Please!”
    Most of the workers were satisfied with what they heard and anxious to leave for the day. Although a few of them noticed Slocum stepping into the boss’s office, nobody felt compelled to force their way in behind him. Judging by the harried expression on Womack’s face, one might have thought he was single-handedly holding back a siege.
    It wasn’t the first time that Slocum had been inside Womack’s office and yet, somehow, he was still taken aback by how small it was. Compared to the wide-open space of the mill’s main floor, the office wasn’t much more than a closet with a few chairs and a desk crammed into it. At the moment, there was a pair of whiskey bottles in there as well.
    â€œNeeded some liquid courage to make your big speech?” Slocum asked while pointing at the bottles.
    â€œOh, those,” Womack said. “I did take a sip or two from one of them, but the other was for Rob. He was so rattled that he drank damn near half that bottle on his own before I took it from him.”
    â€œI suppose you shouldn’t let him drive another cart for a while.”
    â€œNo worries there. He could barely stand when I left him. Still shaking, though. Even after he passed out. Strange.”
    â€œConsidering what he saw,” Slocum said, “not so strange.”
    â€œYeah. I suppose you’re right.”
    â€œSo what did you want to talk about? As you mentioned a couple of times, we do have other places to be apart from this mill.”
    â€œI was hoping you might sign on to be on the party going out to get a look at whoever it was that attacked those men. I’ve, uh, heard a thing or two about you. Nothing terrible, mind you! Just that you were . . . are . . . handy with a gun.”
    â€œDid you hear I was a bear hunter?” Slocum asked.
    â€œWell . . . no.”
    â€œThen I suggest you leave that sort of work to men who are.”
    â€œI still don’t think it was any sort of bear that attacked those men,” Womack insisted. “If it was, there wouldn’t be much left of them. At the very least, they’d be missing an arm, a leg, even an eye.”
    â€œSo you don’t think those men were mauled
enough
.
I wouldn’t let that one slip at your next town hall meeting,” Slocum said with a wry grin.
    Womack started to say something, but cut himself short in favor of grabbing one of the bottles and pouring a finger of whiskey into a glass that was also sitting on his desk. After downing the whiskey in one swallow, he put the glass down and looked at Slocum. “You wouldn’t be the first gunman to come to Bennsonn in search of some peace and quiet. We’ve had some infamous sorts come through here, looking to lay low and more than one of them have worked here at this very mill.”
    â€œSo I’m infamous now?”
    â€œWhy are you making this so difficult for me, John?”
    Slocum walked over to the desk, found a glass, and poured some whiskey for himself. “Maybe it’s because of that speech you gave.”
    â€œYou didn’t approve?”
    â€œI thought it was fine . . . right until the part where you promised a crowd of angry men that you’d be willing to take the law into your own hands. I can tell you from experience, that never works out very well.”
    â€œI might have spoken out of turn there,” Womack admitted. “But I meant every word. Something needs to be done.”
    â€œSo go see the sheriff. Hell, if you don’t like what the sheriff says, there’s also a marshal