Slocum and the Misty Creek Massacre

by Jake Logan

  The dun carried Slocum toward the dim glow of a little campfire that was mostly hidden by a tall ring of rocks and branches. Smoke rose from that spot like a wraith being drawn up toward the stars. Slocum fired once in the general direction of the sniper, which was answered by the crack of a round speeding about ten yards off its mark. Considering how dead-on the first shot had been, the seemingly random pattern didn’t make any sense. Unless…

  “Down!” Slocum shouted as he followed his own advice by swinging from his saddle to hit the ground in a heap. His dun was still shaken, but wasn’t about to bolt or rear up just from losing her rider.

  Daniel was already down as far as he could go without losing his line of sight to the distant shooter’s assumed position. He crouched in a one-knee stance with his rifle held so his left hand was drawn in close to the trigger guard. That gave him a steadier aim for long-range shots, but was a notoriously bad decision if the target was moving. He fired, levered in another round, and glared over the top of his barrel. “Almost got him,” he said in a voice that Slocum could barely hear.

  “Get down, damn it!” Slocum said.

  Another shot hissed toward them after a pause that was longer than the ones between the last few shots that had come at them from the distant shadows.

  “You hear me?” Slocum asked as he scampered toward Daniel while keeping the lowest profile possible. “He’s trying to sight in on us. He must have picked up Cullen near the campfire and zeroed in when he stepped out to shake my hand. Whoever that sniper is, he’s doing the same thing we were trying to do. Getting us to move and shoot so he could pick another target.”

  Slocum spoke in a torrent that flowed out of him until he reached Daniel’s side. Once there, he didn’t see any hint that his words had had any effect. The scout still held his rifle while kneeling over Cullen’s body and glaring toward the north. Then, he simply fell over.

  “Shit!” Slocum grunted when he saw the small dark hole in Daniel’s face created by a round that had punched through his skull between his left eye and the bridge of his nose.

  Daniel’s expression remained focused even though his eyes were glazed over. If they saw anything any longer, it was the face of his Maker.

  Now that both scouts were dead, Slocum forced himself to think only of survival. Whether or not the marksman was Arthur Vesper didn’t matter. Slocum’s only concern was that the other man’s eye was sharp enough to pick off two men in the dark from possibly a hundred yards away.

  The shots had stopped for now, but that didn’t make Slocum feel any better since the horses were the only ones presenting any sort of target at the moment. Slocum’s eyes were picking up a bit more now. He fixed them upon his horse and made his way toward her.

  “Ride away!” a distant voice said as if it had somehow intercepted Slocum’s subtle movements. “Ride away and don’t come back! They’re dead! You’re next!”

  The words rolled in from the distance like an approaching storm. Slocum didn’t process them for meaning so much as to try and pinpoint the location of their source. As far as he could tell, the marksman was still north of his position and maybe a little closer than he’d previously guessed. Slocum mulled through those bits of information while crawling toward his horse. Once Slocum got close enough to reach out and pat the dun’s side, he calmed the horse down while coiling his body like a spring. It was time to start doing some pinpointing of his own. “What’s the matter?” he shouted. “Too yellow to fight unless you can do it from a distance?”

  For a moment, Slocum thought the man in the shadows wasn’t going to take the bait. He waited patiently, crouching beside his dun, steadying the animal and praying his taunt was eating away at the marksman’s soul. Feeling that the fuse was burning close to the powder keg, Slocum added, “Guess you’d prefer me to present a bigger target. Maybe one as big as a window covering a room full of unarmed people?”

  The explosion came in the form of a voice that sounded more like the angry howl of a wolf. “You’re too stupid to know how lucky you are! The only reason you weren’t killed already is because you ain’t directly involved in this matter. If you want that to change, you’ll be stretched out like those two men at your feet right now!”

  If the marksman thought Slocum was still by Daniel’s and Cullen’s bodies, perhaps Slocum’s crawl had been worth the indignity. Also, the angry words rolling in from the north were loud enough to take a better guess at where the marksman might be hiding. It was time to take another gamble because Slocum knew staying put for much longer would only buy him a wound to match the ones that were given to both dead scouts.

  In one smooth motion, Slocum pulled himself up using his grip on the saddle, stuck a foot into a stirrup, and climbed onto the dun’s back. He didn’t waste any time in getting settled before snapping the reins and tapping his heels against her sides. The horse was all too ready to get moving and charged toward the north. He hadn’t ridden for more than four steps before Slocum pulled on the reins to steer the horse sharply to the left. He lowered his head, went a bit farther, and then veered to the right. Although the first turn hadn’t done much more than frustrate his horse, the second put him out of the path of a shot that was fired from the shadows ahead. Slocum grinned at the prospect of finally taking the fight to the sniper and charged onward.

  The shots that came at him now were very different than the ones that had hissed randomly through the air before Daniel had gone down. Some blazed a path through the air that was a foot or two away from Slocum while others got close enough to send a chill beneath his skin as if that part of his body fully expected to be perforated.

  Slocum didn’t fire at the hidden marksman. Since he figured the killer wasn’t about to be rattled by gunshots pointed in his direction, wasting ammunition that way could very well prove to be a fatal error. When it came to dealing with men like this one, a single mistake was often enough to cross the line between being alive or dead. All of this rushed through Slocum’s mind as he drew closer to where he’d guessed the marksman might be hiding. He paused long enough to take a look at the rustling grass and swaying bushes, but wasn’t about to present an easy target. When he got moving again, Slocum tapped the dun’s sides in a way that made the horse lunge forward. His best chance at avoiding the marksman’s next bullet was to keep moving as quickly and unpredictably as possible. From what he knew about sharpshooters, their style usually didn’t lend itself to up-close battles, but Slocum wasn’t about to bet his life on that.

  When Slocum veered to the right and then right again, a shot blasted from a spot about ten to twelve yards behind him. The bullet went wide, probably because the marksman had banked on Slocum following a similar zigzag course that had brought him this far. Instead, Slocum brought the horse around while raising his .44 to sight along the top of its barrel. Whenever a shot presented itself, he would have to make it count.

  A mist hung in the air nearby, curling lazily without much of a breeze to stir it. He climbed down from the saddle while searching the darkness any way he could. The .44 twitched toward every sound without finding anything more than a restless animal or branch that had been loosed by the wind.

  A few more cautious steps brought Slocum close enough to the mist to identify it as burnt gunpowder. The marksman was close. That realization made Slocum anxious and nervous at the same time. Both he and the marksman were prepared to seize even the smallest opportunity to send the other to hell.

  Slocum wanted to say something to try and draw the marksman out, but that would only give away his own position. He also wanted to keep still so he could better take in his surroundings and pick out anything that might be out of place. Unfortunately, that would also make it that much easier for the marksman to pick him out from the rest of the shadows. So Slocum stayed low, remained silent, and kept moving.

  While creeping in an arcing back-and-forth pattern, he kept his boots less than an inch above the ground at the highest point of any step. He barely noticed the constant dron
e of insects behind him until it suddenly stopped.

  At that same moment, his boot tapped against something solid that was lying in the grass to his left. His finger tensed upon his trigger and his muscles strained to turn him toward the thing he’d discovered without disturbing enough of his surroundings to make a noise. Whatever his boot had found was thicker and heavier than a branch and much smaller than a log. It seemed too narrow and smooth to be a rock, but that was about all Slocum could gather from sliding his foot along the object’s side. He stood there for another couple of seconds, poised to fight for his life at the drop of a hat.

  The stink of gunpowder caked the inside of his nose.

  His ears still rang from the shots that had been fired, and his eyes strained to see whatever could be waiting for him in any one of a thousand shifting shadows.

  Something rustled through branches at least fifty to sixty yards away. Slocum crouched and extended his gun hand in front of him. The moonlight cast its dim, milky glow upon the polished iron until every nick in its surface was visible to him. He held his breath to better hear anything around him. Although the rustling was getting louder, he knew he couldn’t move toward it quickly enough to catch whatever was making the sound before it had a chance to get away. And since he knew the marksman needed only one good chance to put a round through his head, Slocum couldn’t afford to blindly charge through unfamiliar terrain like a fool.

  Like a reflection on rippling water that finally coalesced into a picture, the rustling sounds became recognizable as footsteps. Although he couldn’t rule out the prospect of the marksman having an accomplice, he doubted another shooter would have been kept a secret for so long. That, as well as simple gut-level instinct, told Slocum that the marksman had gotten away. A moment after reaching for the object he’d tapped with his boot, he knew what it was. Suppressing the urge to swear out loud, Slocum picked up the rifle and moved his fingers along its barrel. The weapon was still warm from being fired, which meant the marksman had most likely ditched it in favor of another rifle so he didn’t waste time to reload before moving along. It was a damn waste of a weapon, so Slocum picked it up and propped it over his shoulder.

  The sound of distant footsteps shifted into the thump of hooves against the packed soil. Knowing he couldn’t make it back to his horse fast enough to overcome the other man’s head start, Slocum stood his ground to see if the marksman might circle back around. Unfortunately, he didn’t. While making the walk back to his rented dun, Slocum vowed to put that discarded rifle to good use.

  15

  The first part of the next day was spent with an undertaker who was one of the jolliest men Slocum had met in a long time. He wore the standard black suit and starched white shirt that might have been a uniform for men in his line of work, but his pudgy, rose-colored cheeks never once lost their gleeful expression. When Slocum approached the undertaker in his parlor, he was greeted with a warm smile and a firm handshake. “Mark Krispin,” the gravedigger said. “Pleased to meet ya!”

  When the undertaker was told about the job he was to do, his eyes reflected heartfelt warmth and genuine compassion. “Oh my lord,” Krispin said. “Two men were killed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I didn’t hear about it.”

  “That’s because it happened outside of town,” Slocum replied. “I’ve already told the sheriff about it, so I’d like it if it wasn’t made into today’s gossip.” That last part was something of a bent truth since Slocum hadn’t seen the sheriff just yet, but Teaghan was going to hear all about it.

  “You can count on me being absolutely discreet,” the undertaker said. “Although I must admit it is unusual the sheriff didn’t approach me first.”

  “He usually comes to you regarding all the deaths in or out of town?”

  “The shooting deaths, yes. Although,” the jolly man added with a shrug, “there really haven’t been that many. Considering all the commotion around Judge Whetuski being here, I suppose it isn’t so strange that I wouldn’t hear from the sheriff.”

  “The judge usually kicks up some dust, huh?”

  “You could say that. No matter how petty they are, all the legal matters that have been stewing for however long it’s been since his last visit are always about to boil over by the time he arrives. This time is something special, like a big pot of steamy…”

  Guessing the undertaker was looking for another food to reference, Slocum offered, “Soup?”

  “Yes!” he said while clapping his hands over his belly. “A big kettle of boiling soup that’s been cooking ever since those killers were brought into the jailhouse. Although I should wait to hear what the decision is before I call them something like that.”

  “Right,” Slocum said while suppressing the urge to pass a few judgments of his own. “So what can you do for these two men outside of town? If possible, I’d like to bury them somewhere close to where they fell.”

  “Do they have any family?”

  “I’ll look into it. Just keep in mind,” Slocum said, “they were military men.”

  The undertaker squinted and asked, “Are you requesting a color guard or some sort of honors?”

  “Just make sure they’re buried with respect and a proper marker befitting men who served their country.”

  “Oh, rest assured, they will be treated well. If you can tell me their approximate measurements and show me where they are, I can bring them back here and make sure they’re—”

  “No,” Slocum snapped. Considering the things that might be said about them at the upcoming trial, Slocum didn’t want to take a chance of Daniel’s and Cullen’s deaths being treated like a circus or an excuse to drag their names through the mud for a murderous Army officer to divert some unkind attention toward men who could no longer defend themselves. The scouts had done their part and should be granted a peaceful end. “They’re going to be laid to rest outside of town and it’s going to be right now. If it’s extra, just tack it on to the bill.” He then proceeded to give a short description of the two dead men.

  “All right. I already have some coffins made as well as a cart. I’m assuming there’s not to be a service.”

  “That’s right.”

  The undertaker shrugged and went about his preparations as if he were fixing up the lunch he was so obviously craving. Slocum lent a hand where it was needed, and soon they were both on their way back out to the spot where Daniel and Cullen had been killed. Every step of the way, Slocum kept his eyes open for anyone that might be following or watching too closely. Apart from the typical glances an undertaker with a load of coffins might get, there was nothing alarming in the reactions of any of the locals.

  Slocum showed the undertaker to the field, which looked vastly different in the light of day. Instead of shadows concealing any number of hiding spots, there were only weeds, scattered trees, and bushes collected in clusters here and there. Upon seeing the bodies, Krispin took some measurements and nodded in approval.

  “Just like you described,” the other man said. “Or close enough anyway. The coffins I brought should do just fine. Given some more time, I could craft something much more special for your departed friends.”

  “No, this will be fine.”

  Surveying the quiet field, the undertaker mused, “Yes, this will be fine. Very restful. A tranquil place to rest after what must have been tumultuous lives.”

  With seemingly nothing else to catch his eye at the moment, Slocum decided to put the undertaker to work in another capacity. “Need any help with that?” he asked.

  “If you don’t mind,” the undertaker replied. He stood at Daniel’s head and Slocum grabbed his feet so the two men could lift the body up and lower it into the first coffin. After that, Cullen was similarly contained and the undertaker committed himself to the task of digging. He swung the shovel with the same amount of gusto as a man who received top pay for driving railroad spikes. This time, when Slocum offered to help, the undertaker politely refused. “My previ
ous employment was digging drainage and irrigation ditches with my father,” he explained. “So quite honestly I could probably do this job faster without you.”

  Slocum nodded and looked around as if he were doing nothing more than taking in the scenery. From his vantage point atop his horse, he could see where the marksman had probably been hiding as well as the route he must have taken to make his escape. It didn’t take a master planner to pull off what the sniper had done. A little forethought and some rudimentary knowledge of the land would have sufficed. “You seem to know a lot about what goes on in town.”

  “I sure do.”

  “I’d guess you know pretty much everyone who lives here.”

  “Part of my job, as you might guess. Everyone who lives here could very well die here.” Suddenly, Krispin stopped what he was doing so he could look directly up at Slocum. For the first time, his expression soured. “That must seem awfully callous to say. Please don’t think I make light of what I do.”

  “Sometimes we all have to make light of what we do,” Slocum replied. “Otherwise a lot of us would go bat shit loco.”

  The undertaker chuckled, but not too loudly. Even with his jovial manner, he never once lost the respectful air that ran beneath everything he’d done from the moment he’d gotten to within sight of the bodies. He may not have been dour, but he wasn’t about to dishonor the souls he’d come to lay to rest.

  “Ever heard of someone named Vesper?” Slocum asked. While the question felt like a rock being dropped onto an otherwise quiet pond, he couldn’t think of a better way to get it out there. Fortunately, the undertaker didn’t seem to mind.