Slocum and the Socorro Saloon Sirens Read Online Free

outside, strode to where Roger had dropped his pistol. He picked it up and dusted it off with his hand, carried it back into the house.
    He sat down and examined the pistol. A wry smile curved on his lips. The pistol was a converted Remington New Model Army .36 caliber. It had a wooden grip and the straps were brass. He had carried such a pistol in the war, when it was cap and ball. This one now had become a percussion model and the cylinder was filled with brass cartridges. He laid it on the table and puffed on his cheroot as he looked around the room.
    The furnishings were Spartan, but colorful. The chairs were made from nail kegs with stuffed deer hides for cushioning. There was a rainbow-weave serape draping another chair, which was fashioned from sturdy oak and the wood polished to a high sheen. Flowers jutted from earthen vases lacquered with vivid colors. The walls were bare but painted a soft lavender with green trim at the ceiling and floorboards. The sofa on which he sat was sturdy and comfortable, well cushioned with stuffed woolen cloth. He tapped ashes into the cenicero and listened to the noises coming from another room, the tinkle of bottles and the clink of metal, footsteps, and guttural sounds he assumed were made by Penny’s father, Jethro Swain.
    A few minutes later, Penny appeared in the doorway.
    â€œJohn,” she said, “come with me. I want you to see what they did to my father.”
    He got up and mashed his cheroot in the ashtray. He followed her down a hall and into a bedroom. The room was windowless and the bed, just large enough for one person, stood waist high. There were open cabinets with apothecary bottles, salves, unguents, and flasks filled with various colored liquids. It smelled like a hospital or a field infirmary, with the pungent aroma of alcohol and other medicants burning his nostrils. She had lit lamps in front of a large mirror on the dresser that was slanted so that the reflected light shone on the bed.
    Jethro lay on his back, naked except for his shorts. His eyes were closed, but he looked at peace, with no sign of the pain that must have been coursing through his body.
    â€œSee what they did to Pa,” she whispered.
    â€œIs he asleep?”
    â€œI gave him laudanum. I sewed up a wound in his back. Luckily, it didn’t puncture his lung, but he lost a great deal of blood.”
    Slocum walked close to the edge of the bed and looked at the marks on Jethro’s body. There were dark smudges that looked like burn marks on his legs and arms, his chest and neck.
    â€œCigarettes,” he said.
    â€œThe larger ones were made from cigars. They tortured him, John. Look at the soles of his feet.”
    Slocum bent down and looked. There were striped scars on his heels and pads.
    â€œA hot poker, I think,” she said. “Red hot.” She winced as she said it.
    Slocum stood up straight.
    â€œWhy were they torturing him?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s a long story.”
    â€œI’ve got time. Is your pa going to be all right?”
    â€œThey fed him opium and I gave him laudanum, so I don’t know about his mind or his addiction. But his body will heal.”
    â€œThey wanted something from him,” Slocum said. “Information?”
    â€œYes. Oddly enough, I think the opium helped Pa withstand the torture.”
    â€œWhat did they want from him?”
    He looked up at her when she didn’t answer right away.
    She worried her lower lip as if deciding how much she should tell the man in black who was, after all, a stranger. Perhaps a Good Samaritan, but not someone she knew well, or could trust.
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me, Penny,” he said. “None of my business. But from the looks of your pa, they worked him over pretty damned good. I’d hate to think they tortured him just because they didn’t like him.”
    â€œThey wanted something from him,” she said, her voice soft and barely audible.