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

fast.
    â€œI only have my horse,” he said. “We’d draw attention if we rode up together on it,” he said. It sounded lame but gave her an excuse. She nodded.
    As he pulled on his boots, she came to him and reached out timidly. Her hand shook as she touched his shoulder.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œBeing paid for it,” he said, touching his vest pocket. He stood, strapped on his gun belt, and finally shrugged into his coat. It surprised him when Mirabelle helped settle it down so it wasn’t wrinkled.
    He looked at her. The fear was receding but her doe eyes made her appear especially vulnerable.
    He left the room without another word. It took fifteen minutes to get to the livery stables, get directions, and saddle up. He rode slowly along the road. Keeping to the shoulder proved easiest since the mud and ice mix in the deep ruts would slow his horse. He didn’t want the icy shards to cut his horse’s legs. Keeping away from the worst potholes let him crunch through unsullied ice.
    Slocum reached the cemetery by following the signs. They were freshly painted and each carried a small advertisement for O’Dell’s Funeral Parlour. Slocum wondered if the cadaverous undertaker had any competition or if this was simply his way of feeling important, seeing his name on every signpost on the way to the town cemetery.
    The burial ground had a low stone wall running parallel to the road. A cast iron arch had begun to rust, but once under it, the rows of graves were well kept. Some had headstones and even the ones marked with wooden crosses were maintained. Whether this was something O’Dell did, too, Slocum couldn’t tell.
    At the back of the cemetery, O’Dell stood supervising two men hauling a pine coffin from the back of a wagon. Slocum dismounted, tethered his horse on a wooden cross, then walked slowly toward where an open grave yawned. He looked around. Other than the undertaker and his two assistants, no one else had shown up for the burial.
    â€œCome to pay your respects, Slocum?” O’Dell spoke slowly and his voice had lowered to a rumbling bass appropriate for mourning.
    â€œSeemed like the decent thing to do since I was the one who put him in the ground.”
    â€œWell, yes,” O’Dell said, his professional sorrow momentarily disturbed.
    â€œThat his marker?” Slocum pointed to a flat stone in the wagon.
    â€œIt is. I need to get the stonemason to chip in the name and date but thought it fitting to lay him to rest and take care of such details later.”
    â€œCost a pretty penny,” Slocum said.
    â€œIt isn’t that expensive.”
    â€œWho paid for it?”
    â€œI . . . I don’t know. I found an envelope with adequate money thrust under my door with instructions.”
    â€œYou ever get his name?”
    â€œI have, sir,” O’Dell said stiffly. “That was information included with the money. Mr. Rupert Eckerly.”
    The name meant nothing to Slocum. From the way the undertaker spoke, it meant nothing to him either.
    â€œYou have anything to say over the grave, Mr. Slocum?”
    â€œGet on with it,” Slocum said. He watched the two assistants lower the coffin into the grave.
    O’Dell reached into his pocket and took out a Bible, thumbed it to a page, and began reading sonorously. Slocum considered taking off his hat, then decided not to since that would be hypocritical. When he had cut down Eckerly, he had only been defending himself. It wasn’t until later that Mirabelle Comstock had indicted the man in brutal killing and rape.
    As O’Dell read on, Slocum turned slowly and looked across the cemetery to the rusty arch. A man sat astride a horse there, a bandanna pulled up over his face. Chilly wind blew off the mountains and across the cemetery, but the cloth wouldn’t do much to protect the man’s face. Slocum decided he wasn’t interested in being