Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens by Jake Logan Page A

“Story is he killed a man in the ring.”
    â€œI wouldn’t want him to give me a bear hug,” Slocum said.
    â€œLet’s saunter over and have a word with Willie Scroggs.”
    â€œYou looking for trouble, Obie?”
    â€œIf there’s goin’ to be a ball, might as well open it.”
    Slocum followed Swain across the sawdust-strewn floor, past empty tables. One or two Mexican drinkers looked at them, and a glitter gal or two flounced past in front of them, their eyes outlined with kohl, their lips plump and red as ripe cherries, their cheeks smeared with rouge.
    Scroggs looked up when Swain approached.
    Littlepage turned his head, looked at Slocum.
    â€œI hear you been lookin’ for me, Willie,” Swain said. He stood so that he could see both Thorson and Loomis with a slight turn of his head. Slocum stood with his back to the wall, so that he could see if either man left the bar and made a move toward them. He looked at Scroggs, then at Littlepage. The latter’s face was a blank. Scroggs looked slightly apoplectic.
    â€œWhy no, Mr. Swain,” Scroggs said. “I ain’t paid you no mind whatsoever. What brings you to town?”
    â€œDynamite,” Swain said, much to Slocum’s surprise. Obie hadn’t mentioned it to him.
    â€œWell, you won’t find none of it here,” Scroggs said. He looked at Slocum.
    â€œI don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meetin’ your friend here.”
    â€œHis name is Slocum and it would not be a pleasure for him to meet you, Willie.”
    Scroggs drew back in his chair, stung by the frank insult.
    â€œName’s familiar,” Scroggs said. “Face, too. I think I’ve seen it on a wanted poster.”
    Slocum said nothing. He watched the two men at either end of the bar, Thorson and Loomis. They still stood there, like cigar store Indians, stolid, blank-faced, but somehow threatening.
    â€œJohn Slocum?” Littlepage asked.
    Slocum did not reply or acknowledge Littlepage’s presence at the table. He continued to watch the two gunmen, as if he were outside the hostile sphere of the table where Scroggs and Littlepage sat.
    â€œI heard tell of a John Slocum when I was in Silverado,” Littlepage said. “You were pretty handy with a gun, as I recall.”
    Slocum stood impassive, as if unwilling to acknowledge Littlepage’s pointed remarks.
    Scroggs looked up at Swain.
    â€œYou might be keepin’ bad company, Obadiah,” Scroggs said. “People are known by the company they keep.”
    â€œScroggs, I’m just giving you fair warning. Leave my brother and his daughter alone. And as far as finding out where I live, I’ll kill any of your men who come within range of my gun sights.”
    â€œAre you threatening me, Swain?”
    Slocum turned and fixed Scroggs with a stabbing stare.
    â€œIf he isn’t, Scroggs, I am,” Slocum said. “I saw what you did to Jethro Swain. To me, you’re nothing but scum, something I’d scrape off my boot in a cow pasture.”
    â€œSlocum,” Scroggs said, “I want you and Swain to leave my establishment. If you don’t, I’ll have you thrown out.”
    â€œFuck you, Scroggs,” Swain said, and started walking back toward the bar.
    Slocum waited another second before he followed Swain.
    â€œI look forward to seeing you again, Scroggs,” Slocum said. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s a man who tortures another the way you tortured Jethro Swain.”
    Scroggs glared at Slocum.
    But Slocum turned his back on the two men and followed Swain to the bar.
    A tall, voluptuous woman entered the saloon through the back door and made her way toward Scroggs’s table. She had raven black hair with a red carnation affixed to one side. She wore a slinky silk dress that clung to her curves like a second skin of bright blue. She carried a small beaded purse and wore a pearl