Read Slocum and the Grizzly Flats Killers (9781101619216) for Free Online

can’t forget. You didn’t see what them animals did. No, they was worse than animals. A beast would only kill. They tortured and then mutilated and killed.”
    He tucked the two coins into his vest pocket next to his brother’s watch. That seemed appropriate. The coins were Mirabelle’s inheritance from her husband. The watch was all Robert had left him after being killed at Gettysburg.
    â€œI don’t know where to start. How will you find them?” Mirabelle asked.
    Slocum tapped the watch pocket as a thought came to him.
    â€œPickett’s Charge,” he said softly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œPicket’s Charge . . . Gettysburg . . . the attack on Cemetery Ridge . . . the cemetery.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” she said.
    â€œThe undertaker took the man I killed tonight. He’ll bury him tomorrow. Might be interesting to see who shows up for the funeral.”
    â€œHis partners,” Mirabelle said, her eyes glowing with excitement. “I knew I’d done the right thing coming to you, Mr. Slocum.”
    Slocum hesitated then, not knowing what to do. He finally moved around the bed to the opposite side, sat, and kicked off his boots. By the time he had his gun belt off and hanging on the brass post, Mirabelle had shifted around and sat with her hands in her lap, staring at him with her wide brown eyes.
    â€œYou can go or stay. Doesn’t matter.”
    â€œI don’t have anywhere to go.”
    â€œI snore,” Slocum said, stretching out. He rolled onto his side, his back to her. It took a few minutes but the bed finally sagged as Mirabelle stretched out.
    Before Slocum fell asleep, her arm draped over him, he heard her sob quietly and then finally begin to snore louder than he ever could. Wondering what he was getting himself into, he finally drifted off to sleep.
    *   *  *
    Slocum came awake with a start when he felt cold, wet air on his face. He had his Colt Navy half out of its holster before he realized Mirabelle had opened the tiny window and stood staring out. From the pale light silhouetting her, it was just barely sunrise.
    He yawned, stretched, and sat up. She turned to him.
    â€œWhen is the funeral?” she asked.
    â€œCan’t imagine the undertaker—O’Dell’s his name—will be in any hurry to plant the body.”
    â€œI . . . I want to come with you. I didn’t see the others all that good. It was dark, but I think I’d know them.”
    Slocum understood. Sometimes going with a feeling in the gut proved better than waiting for hard evidence. Mirabelle might be able to identify the men just by their attitude, the way they walked, or the set of their bodies, even if she hadn’t seen their faces.
    Then a worry came to him.
    â€œThey see your face?”
    â€œNo, no, I was hid. Ike rushed in and got himself killed, but he protected me. They don’t even know anyone escaped.”
    Slocum wondered if that was right but didn’t press the matter. Any of the killers who showed up at their partner’s funeral and recognized Mirabelle would give themselves away. That was risky, but Slocum felt sure he could handle any no-accounts who would slaughter men and rape women as those did.
    â€œLet’s make our way out to the cemetery. You know where it is?” Slocum asked.
    â€œWe never came to town. Leastwise, not me. Lucas Sennick came in and got drunk, but he’s dead and—”
    â€œAll right,” Slocum interrupted, seeing that Mirabelle was starting off on a wild tangent. From the set to her shoulders, she was ready to break. “Might be better if you stayed here and let me go.”
    â€œI want to,” she said, but Slocum saw how she hunted for a plausible way out. She wanted to bring the outlaws to justice—at the end of a rope or maybe in front of a six-shooter she held—but her courage was fading