Slocum and the Schuylkill Butchers

by Jake Logan

  Not wasting an instant, Slocum got around the jailhouse and found his gelding tethered out back. The marshal had not bothered to remove the saddle. While Slocum would usually be angry at such lack of concern for a decent horse, now he was glad. He vaulted into the saddle and rode like the demons of hell were on his heels.

  It turned out that they were. Fast. The marshal wasted no time browbeating half a dozen men into forming a posse.

  Slocum rode in the dark, not knowing what direction he rode and fearing that a full, all-out gallop would put his horse in danger. The night was so inky black there was hardly light enough to see the road, much less any prairie-dog hole. For all he knew, he was retracing the route he had just covered and was riding back into the waiting arms of the Driggs boys.

  Somehow, as smelly and ornery as they were, they were preferable company when his only other choice was a hangman.

  The road twisted and turned and soon went into the mountains. He either rode north or south, since he had not encountered terrain like this riding from the west. He hoped he was headed south toward Wyoming. More than one summer had been passed there pleasantly enough, and Slocum knew the land just to the east of the Tetons like the back of his hand. The marshal of a jerkwater town like Sharpesville would not pursue him that far—his posse wouldn’t let him. But if bounty hunters came after him, put on his trail by the marshal, he could lose them easily in familiar territory.

  First, he had to reach it.

  He kept looking at the night sky hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar constellation. Heavy clouds masked the sky too much of the time for him to get a decent idea what direction he rode in. In his gut, Slocum felt that he was heading north and away from the possible haven of Wyoming.

  Slowing when his horse began to tire, Slocum guided the gelding off the road and down into a rocky draw. Trees grew in profusion on both sides of the dried-up streambed, giving him added cover. He gave the horse its head to see where it might take him. Like an arrow, the horse found a shallow pool of water and began drinking noisily. Slocum dropped to the ground and washed his face. Only then did he pull the horse back.

  A faint sound came to him that chilled his soul.

  The steady clop-clop of horses’ hooves told him the marshal had wasted no time tracking him. Someone in the posse must be a damned fine scout to see any spoor on such a dark night. Then the answer came when Slocum spotted a sudden flash of light. The marshal had brought lanterns.

  He swore under his breath, grabbed his horse’s reins, and led it up the far side of the ravine. He wanted to lose himself in the lightly wooded area, circle around when he could, and ride as hard as he could for someplace that wasn’t Montana.

  Knowing how easy it was to get turned around in dark woods, Slocum proceeded cautiously, judging each step so it took him slightly uphill. It would be his death if he inadvertently veered to his right, as men in forests and in desert country were likely to do, and circled back into the posse’s guns.

  A broad meadow beckoned. If Slocum could ride across to the far side, he was sure he could evade the hunters on his trail. The only problem he saw with that was a small campfire not twenty yards off. He would be noticed if he crossed the open space. The marshal would ask, and whoever camped in the meadow would put the posse onto Slocum in a flash.

  Carefully making his way, he stayed just inside the forested area, out of sight, moving slowly. Too slowly. He heard thrashing and crashing in the woods he had just traversed. The marshal had caught up with him too fast. Slocum drew the rifle out and cocked it. The metallic click as it levered a round into the firing chamber sounded like a clap of thunder to him.

  Just then the marshal and six mounted men burst from the woods. Slocum caught his first bit of luck. They spotted the campfire and made for it like a vulture for dead meat.

  What happened next caused Slocum to stand a little straighter and lift his rifle to his shoulder. The posse circled the campfire and whoever lay asleep pushed back a blanket and stood. Bright steel flashed in the dim light. Then all hell broke loose and fell on the marshal and his deputies.

  From nowhere came a dozen men, all swinging wickedly long knives and what looked like meat cleavers. The marshal and two of his men got off a shot before they died. They were hacked and slashed and pulled from horseback. Once they were on the ground, their attackers savagely chopped at them repeatedly. Slocum found himself frozen to the spot, unable to move.

  Again, luck rode with him. From behind him in the forest came a dozen more men. One passed within feet of him, grunting and huffing and puffing as he waddled along. The mountain of a man swung a huge meat cleaver as he passed, but what caught Slocum’s attention most was the leather apron he wore. The man would have been more at home in a butcher shop with that bloodstained apron wrapped around him.

  “Git ’em, boys!”

  The cry caused a new flurry of viciousness. Slocum knew that nothing could have remained of the marshal and his posse by the time the butchers were finished. The sight of one man holding an arm aloft caused Slocum’s belly to knot. These weren’t ordinary killers.

  Moving as quietly as possible, aware that the second wave of killers had come from the direction he turned, Slocum melted into the woods. It had been a hell of a night ranging from a lovely, mysterious woman freeing him from jail to a slaughter of monumental proportions in the Montana hills.

  It was definitely time for him to hightail it.

  3

  Slocum got only as far as the road meandering through the forest before he heard even more outlaws coming in his direction. Tugging on his horse’s reins, he guided the gelding to a spot where the horse found patches of tasty grass and began gently cropping at it. The bridle and bit got in the horse’s way and frustrated it, but the promise of food was enough to keep the horse busy while Slocum clutched his rifle and waited.

  A dozen more of the leather-apron-clad men wielding cleavers and long knives trooped along the road. Their leader stopped them and spoke rapidly. Slocum tried to make out the words, but couldn’t. Whatever the man said split the group into three parts. Some continued along the road, another group stayed, and the rest followed their boss into the woods past where Slocum waited with his breath held so long that he thought his lungs would explode. Only when the last of the men trooped on to join the rest of their brutal band did Slocum let out the pent-up air. His lungs felt as if he had sucked in fire, and his heart hammered fast enough to make a vein pulse on his forehead.

  He tried to make an estimate of how many leatherapron-clad men there were. He stopped counting at thirty. A small army had invaded this part of Montana and made life even harder for him. Not only did he have to get away from men likely to kill him on sight, there would be a great suspicion back in Sharpesville that he had done in the marshal and his posse if he tried to report their deaths. Not dealing with the Driggs brothers looked more foolish to him by the instant.

  Settling down on his haunches, Slocum waited. He couldn’t run, and he couldn’t fight. The only consolation was the heavy cloud layer cutting off all starlight. Holding his hand in front of his face, Slocum could hardly see it. The butchers roaming the woods were not likely to spot him either as long as his horse remained quiet.

  Even as the thought ran through his head, the gelding reared. Slocum was quick to grab the reins and hold it down, patting it and whispering softly to soothe the frightened animal. Although anything might have spooked the horse, Slocum knew the real cause. The ground vibrated from marching feet as the horde returned from the camp-site in the meadow. Slocum gritted his teeth as they came nearer. If they found him, he would go down fighting. Better to die that way than to be captured and then hacked up like a steer.

  The men passed him again, not ten feet away, laughing and singing bawdy songs. Slocum tensed as he recognized what they sang. During the war, Federals from Pennsylvania had delighted in the same song. He had spied on their encampment just before the battle of Spotsylvania. Those soldiers had been Irish min
ers before joining the army. The song of dying in the mines and letting the ghosts roam free came easily to the lips of these men. As hard as it had been for Slocum to believe, fighting pitched battles had been safer for them than toiling in the coal mines.

  They were a long way from home if they were Pennsylvania coal miners.

  “Back home, boys,” called a man brandishing what might have been a Yankee bayonet like it was a baton and he was the drum major leading a Fourth of July parade. The men fell in behind, forming two columns. As they began hiking away into the night, they broke into boisterous song again. If there had been any doubt in Slocum’s mind where they were from, this erased it. Miners. Pennsylvania miners.

  He puzzled over what they were doing in Montana—and why they wielded their deadly weapons with such ferocity. The marshal and his deputies had had no chance at all against the overwhelming force. Shrugging off this knob of curiosity poking into his brain, Slocum sidled back and started to mount. If he rode quietly enough, he could find the main road without being heard by the miners.

  He swung into the saddle and walked his horse out, heading in the direction opposite that taken by the miners, only to find himself facing eight more. These men were mounted and herding a couple dozen head of cattle. He had come upon them so fast he didn’t have time to go to ground again.

  Brazening it out was his only hope. Slocum pulled his hat low to hide his face, stood in the stirrups, and bellowed, “Whatcha doin’, takin’ yer time like that? Git them cows movin’.”

  “Aw, you try keepin’ ’em all together,” complained the man riding in front of the beeves.

  “You’re on the wrong side. You drive ’em. They ain’t sheep that’ll follow you,” Slocum said, trying to imitate an Irish accent. He did not think he did a very good job, but the drovers paid no heed and accepted him as one of their own.

  “You show us, damn your eyes.”

  Slocum only grunted in response. The longer he talked and tried to match the miners’ speech and inflection, the more likely he was to get caught. The memory of those bloody knives and cleavers sent a chill through him. He pulled to the left, away from the knot of riders, and circled the nervous herd. While stampeding them might give him a few seconds’ head start, he had no idea if he would gallop into still more of the Pennsylvanians. The entire countryside was crawling with them, and he had no idea how many more he might find without wanting to.

  Keeping his head down, he slid his lariat from the leather thong holding it to his saddle. Slocum swatted the rumps of a couple cows and got them moving, pushing the others ahead. He left it to the other riders to keep the sides of the herd from getting off the road. As he rode, Slocum waited for the chance to slip back and then vanish into the night. But the others were too intent on watching how he worked to allow that.

  Slocum had never been accused of being too good for a job before. Whatever he did he did well and left it at that, but now he was the teacher and any of his willing students might realize he was not one of their gang. Worse than being stuck at the rear of the herd, the sun was rising. Dawn would eventually reveal him as an interloper.

  Although the riders didn’t wear the leather aprons or carry the sharp knives of their partners, all were armed and looked as if they were able to handle their six-shooters.

  “We’re almost there,” called a rider to Slocum’s left. “Keep them dogs movin’.”

  “Dogies,” Slocum said reflexively.

  “Whatever you want to call ’em, they’re gonna be breakfast! Can’t wait to bite into a good, fresh steak. ’Specially if it’s been rustled!”

  This set off a round of argument over what the best part of a cow was. Slocum let them argue and dropped back a ways. They noticed immediately. Two of the rustlers slowed to hang back with him.

  As the cattle turned this way and that, Slocum caught sight of the brands. At least three different brands showed that the boast about dining on freshly stolen beef was true. Slocum wasn’t above stealing a cow or two himself, and in his day had driven large herds of rustled cattle, but being caught with these few paltry head of rustled cattle would put him squarely in the camp with the leather-aproned killers.

  Rustling was one thing. Ranchers didn’t like losing their precious cattle and were inclined to shoot first. That risk came with the crime. But being implicated in the murder of seven men, the marshal and six deputies, made the rustling even riskier. Slocum quickly dismounted and waved at the two men heading his way.

  “Horse got a rock under its shoe. Go on. I’ll catch up.”

  “Don’t know we kin herd like you. How’d a hard-rock miner like you ever learn? We kin wait. Might be better with the sun up so we kin see what we’re doin’.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Slocum assured them. “Lookee there! One’s gettin’ away!” Slocum pointed to draw attention away from himself. The cattle had obeyed once they learned they couldn’t fool him. It would take the herd a while before they realized the rustlers driving them were complete greenhorns.

  “Don’t see nuthin’.”

  “Aw, Sean, ’course it’s tryin’ to get away. You as blind as you are stupid?” complained his partner.

  “Shit,” grumbled Sean. The pair of them wheeled about to tend their herd.

  Slocum let them get out of sight before mounting. Back-tracking along the road would go quicker than getting this far since he didn’t have to keep a small herd of contrary beeves moving. Barely had he ridden a quarter mile when he saw a large knot of riders trotting in. Cursing, he veered off the road and made for a rise. All he needed to do was get over it and let the riders pass.

  As he topped the ridge, Slocum’s heart sank.

  He was riding directly into a large camp of men. A dozen campfires were being stoked to cooking heat for breakfast. The stolen cattle wouldn’t be butchered for this meal, but dinner might prove especially tasty for the dozens of men slowly coming awake as the first light of dawn lit the horizon.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw the riders coming up the slope after him. Without any other choice, Slocum kept riding, heading straight for the encampment. During the war he had seen companies with fewer men than this. Guessing at the numbers was a fool’s errand. He stopped when he got to a hundred. Any of them raising an alarm would guarantee him a speedy death.

  As he rode downhill, he saw his chance and took it. A deep gully afforded him momentary cover from both the camp and the riders higher above him on the hill. He dug his heels into the gelding’s flanks and flew like the wind, slowing only when the horse began to falter. The rocky gully was still cloaked in darkness. Risking a broken leg would spell the end for both horse and rider.

  “Whoa, slow, there, good,” Slocum said, pulling back until the horse walked along at a sedate pace. Ahead, he saw pines rising up and promising shelter. He guided his horse out of the ravine straight to the wooded area. Once among the sheltering trees, he dismounted and tethered his horse.

  A quick scout showed him he was some distance west of the main camp. To ride out now that the sun poked a fiery eye above the horizon was suicidal. Slocum resigned himself to hiding out until night fell before returning to the road out of the meadowland. There might be any number of other ways to leave this grassy expanse, but riding blindly looking for them would only get him caught. Already, outriders had mounted and begun a patrol around the outskirts of the camp. Such vigilance promised Slocum only sudden death if he showed himself.

  He fished out some old jerky from his saddlebags and gnawed on it, sampling a few sips of water from his canteen. It was a poor breakfast, but better than getting a few slugs pumped into his belly. Slocum turned up the canteen and drained the last of the water. Making a sour face, he got to his feet and went exploring for a stream. When he got free of the rustlers, he wanted to ride without having to slow down for matters such as food and water.

  Slocum began a careful examination of the ground, checking the slope and following it downward until he came to a small brook. As he
filled the canteen, gruff voices came from farther downstream. Slocum threw himself facedown and wiggled like a snake to get out of sight. Three rustlers tromped toward where he lay barely shielded by a jacaranda bush.

  “We got ’nuff fer the rest o’ our lives,” one said.

  “Never got that,” argued the second man. He wiped grimy hands on his shirt rather than washing them in the stream. Slocum rolled onto his side and drew his six-gun, ready to take out all three if they spotted him.

  “He’s right, Cory. Never be ’nuff. That’s why we came out here. This is where the opportunity is, not with them sons of bitches mine owners.”

  “I miss Pennsylvania,” said the first man.

  “Hell, boyo, the whole lot of us come out here. Yer with friends good and true.”

  “To do what? Steal cows? Who wants to do that? I’m a damned miner.”

  “Damned right you are. We all are. Even the ones of us what spent that year or two in Chicago hackin’ up livestock. ”

  “I miss bustin’ heads. When them mine owners shut us out . . .”

  The trio walked farther along the stream, their backs now to Slocum. This muffled their voices, but he had learned enough. He’d bet every last nickel in his pocket these were members of the Molly Maguires, a roughneck miners’ union responsible for killing scores of mine owners, their guards, and innocent people caught in the cross fire. But now that he knew who they were, he still had no idea why they had come to Montana. If they had been run out of Pennsylvania, they’d had to go somewhere, but why here?

  Slocum frowned as he remembered what one had said about their thieving. They were stealing anything not nailed down. And, Slocum suspected, even if it was nailed down, the Molly Maguires would steal the nails.

  He didn’t think the three miners would find his horse. As reckless as it was, Slocum headed down the stream to see where the men had come from. Hiding behind one thinboled pine not a dozen feet from the camp allowed him to see what they had stacked in untidy piles. His mouth watered when he saw how much food they had piled up. If they weren’t more careful, they would attract every hungry bear in Montana to this veritable feast.