Slocum and the Deadly Damsel by Jake Logan

Author:Jake Logan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

12

As soon as Slocum rode away from the stables, which he noted had no sign out front, he felt he was being followed. The streets were crowded with men and women strolling in and out of small shops, with carts carrying crates full of chickens and fresh vegetables, with boys herding goats and pigs, a lot of men on horseback, and a few carriages. The street was lined with trees that were in full foliage, so he could not see very far in either direction.

Taos was, he knew, a city of commerce, with a diverse population. While he had put the whiskey bottle in his saddlebags before he left the stables, he knew there were only a few swallows left. And he had developed a powerful thirst after all the days he’d spent on the road going without even a taste of the good Kentucky bourbon that he so dearly cherished. He knew there had to be a cantina somewhere nearby, and he started looking for one while trying to shake off the feeling that someone was following him, someone he did not know on sight.

Slocum turned on another street, which was even more crowded than the other one, and then, hoping to shake off whoever was following him, he turned on still another street, stepping the horse up to a trot while trying to avoid all the foot traffic on the avenue. Finally, he saw a cantina ahead and rode toward it, glancing over his shoulder all the time.

He dismounted and tied up at a hitching post cemented into the adobe bricks outside. He looked up at the sign. COPA DE ORO, the sign read. Slocum went inside, squinting to adjust to the darkness. The place was small, but busy. There were a few tables where men were sitting, talking, drinks in front of them.

Slocum found a place at the far end of the bar where he could keep an eye on the door. A couple of Mexican women glanced at him, smiled. The men gave him one look and turned their heads the other way.

The bartender, a short, stocky man with a huge handlebar moustache strode over with a bar towel and wiped a spot in front of Slocum.

In Spanish, the man said, “What do you wish? A cup?”

“Do you have whiskey?” Slocum asked, in Spanish. “From Kentucky?”

The man shook his head. “I have whiskey. It is American. That is all I know.”

“What is it called?”

The man turned around, reached down, and pulled out a bottle that had a little dust on it. He wiped it clear and showed it to Slocum.

“Old Taylor,” Slocum said, smiling. And, in English, said, “That is good Kentucky bourbon. I will have a glass.”

“At your service,” the bartender said, reaching for a glass. He poured it half full and left the bottle beside it. “You are American.”

“Yes.”

“The Americans, they do not come in here much. I bought this whiskey from an American who came from the States.”

“You speak good English,” Slocum said.

“In Taos and in Santa Fe, we speak the English and the Spanish.

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