Slocum and the Three Fugitives by Jake Logan Page A

Timothy Deutsch’s skull, stunning him. He knocked away the ten-gallon hat, grabbed the man’s greasy hair, and pulled straight back so his throat was taut.
    â€œKill him,” Lucas Deutsch snapped to his henchmen.
    â€œDo that and your brother’s blood will make a mighty big puddle on the floor.”
    Slocum shifted his weight but kept his knee in the center of Deutsch’s broad back to show that he had a knife blade pressed against his windpipe.
    Lucas Deutsch waved off his gunmen. He stepped around, hand resting on the six-shooter he carried slung low on his hip. Some men merely pretended to be shootists. Slocum saw nothing in this Deutsch’s behavior to make him think any part of it was a bluff. The butt of his six-gun was well worn. From what Slocum could see, the pistol was well tended so it wouldn’t fail when Deutsch needed it most.
    â€œDon’t cut his throat. If you do, she’ll be the first to catch a pound of lead.” Lucas Deutsch pointed to Annabelle.
    â€œGo to hell,” she flared. “I’ll—”
    â€œQuiet, Annabelle,” Slocum said. “Lower the guns and I won’t spray his blood on my nice clean floor.”
    For some reason Deutsch found this funny. He laughed until tears came to his eyes. He wiped them away with his bandanna, then ordered his men outside.
    Only when they had left the saloon did Slocum let the giant off the floor. Timothy Deutsch growled like an animal and started to grab Slocum with his bare hands.
    â€œHeel, boy. We got business. Go outside with the others.”
    â€œLuke, I—”
    â€œDo it.”
    There wasn’t any question as to which of the Deutsch brothers called the shots. Timothy lumbered out, ducking to keep from banging his head on the low doorway.
    â€œYou just made yourself a terrible enemy,” Lucas Deutsch warned.
    â€œDon’t care. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
    â€œTimothy? I didn’t mean him. I meant
me
. You made me look dumb in front of my boys. I need to do something to get back my good name.” Deutsch hooked a toe around a chair leg and pulled it around, where he could sit facing Slocum and Annabelle. “I was going to offer you all the whiskey you wanted at ten dollars a bottle, but now I can’t do that. I do that and the boys think I’m going soft.”
    â€œTen dollars?” Annabelle cried. “Even shipping it from Denver, we wouldn’t pay five!” She half stood, then saw Slocum shaking his head, and subsided with ill grace.
    He sat beside her as much to keep her in check as to watch Deutsch’s reactions. He dropped his knife on the table. It clattered and then silence filled the saloon. Outside Deutsch’s men laughed and joked. A team in the street clattered by. From the sound it made, a wheel was close to falling off. Children played a game but soon quieted, probably because of the small gang outside the saloon door.
    Inside the Black Hole, the silence became oppressive. Slocum waited. Deutsch had to fill it with words. When he did, they would be more honest than anything he’d said so far.
    â€œNobody in Taos buys whiskey that’s not distilled by the Deutsch family,” he said.
    â€œYou stopped the whiskey peddlers from coming!” Annabelle sounded outraged.
    â€œA month back. The last one met an unfortunate accident trying to sneak into New Mexico Territory over La Veta Pass.” Deutsch shook his head in mock sadness. “Wagon, team, and driver toppled over a cliff. Must have fallen five hundred feet. Never heard such pitiful cries in all my life. All the way down.”
    â€œFrom the team?” Annabelle asked in a low voice.
    â€œFrom the damned fool whiskey peddler who thought he could cut into my market. You buy at twenty dollars a bottle or you don’t buy at all.” Deutsch stood so quickly the chair crashed to the floor. “How much you want? We call it Taos