by Jake Logan
“Find out what he has to report. Please.”
The guard looked hard at Slocum and finally shook his head sadly.
“Now, don’t go tryin’ to make me leave my post, even by beggin’ like that. They might put me in the stocks for a week if I did that. Or if Dobbs took it into that thick skull of his, they might just court-martial me. I don’t want to get drummed outta the army. This is ’bout all I know how to do. Why, I was—”
Slocum forced himself to concentrate on sounds from outside the thick-walled stockade. It might have been an approaching thunderstorm, but he knew better.
“They’re coming. Do you hear that? Horses. Dozens of horses.”
“Must be the major and his men gettin’ back. ’Bout right, too.”
“Take a look,” Slocum said sharply. He had been a captain in the CSA and had learned how to give orders that were obeyed. The guard jumped to his feet, and had his head halfway outside when he stopped.
“You don’t tell me what to . . . Oh, sweet Mother Mary!” The guard grabbed his rifle and rushed outside. And died.
Slocum kicked and hammered at his cell door, trying to get free. He was securely locked up. Outside, he saw a dozen or more Schuylkill Butchers riding past, firing as they went and cutting down soldiers who had not taken up their arms. After the first deadly assault, the outlaws jumped to the ground. Slocum closed his eyes and tried not to imagine the sight of knives and meat cleavers being swung. The soldiers they fought now were unarmed.
He shook himself free of the dread and looked around. Getting free of the cell might be possible, given a day or two working on the bars. Slocum had only minutes. Less.
One instant, he had a view of the carnage out on the parade ground. The next, the doorway was filled with a behemoth of a man. The outlaw looked around, then came to the cell and shook the door until it rattled.
Slocum clung to the top of the bars, trying to stay out of sight. For a moment, he thought he had succeeded. The outlaw turned to leave, then spun around and came back, bent slightly and looked up.
“Well, lookit that. I got me a fly on the wall. Or are you hangin’ from the ceiling like some kinda spider?”
“Glad to see you,” Slocum said, dropping to the floor. “Aieee. My leg. I busted my damn leg jumping down like that.”
“I got jist the thin’ to fix it.” The outlaw found the keys and opened the door. As he moved into the cell, he pulled a long butcher knife from his belt.
Slocum had only an instant to react. He spun around on the floor, kicking hard. Thinking his victim was already injured and not able to put up much of a fight, the outlaw was less wary than he should have been. Slocum’s toe looped behind the Butcher’s heel. The other foot smashed down on his kneecap. The man grunted in pain, lost his balance, and toppled backward, landing hard. Slocum was on him in an instant. Using both hands, he grasped the man’s wrist and twisted viciously.
Slocum drove the man’s own knife into his throat.
Panting harshly, Slocum rolled away. The sounds of slaughter across the fort were dying down. The Butchers had killed everyone they could find. Slocum yanked open a cabinet and found his six-shooter, knife, and Winchester. Not much against an army of killers, but he wasn’t going to let them take him easily.
He positioned himself in the doorway and studied the carnage. All the sounds of fighting that reached his ears were distant, sporadic—and dying. What bothered him the most was the way a dozen or so of O’Malley’s gang went from body to body, slitting throats to make sure the soldiers were all dead.
Slocum raised his rifle and sighted carefully when he saw Sean O’Malley ride to the middle of the parade ground. The outlaw leader held up his hand and silence descended.
“Boys, you done good this day. All the soldiers are gone to meet their Maker, and this is our headquarters now. No more livin’ in the middle of a field. We’re closer to the mines here and soon enough, we’re all gonna be filthy rich!” He twisted in the saddle just as Slocum squeezed back on the trigger. The bullet missed O’Malley’s head. For a moment, he seemed not to notice and went on. “We put the coal piles over there.”
He settled back in the saddle and looked around. His bodyguards rode closer and blocked Slocum from making a second shot. Ducking back inside the stockade kept Slocum from being spotted. If they had seen him, he would have been a goner. As it was, they only thought some dying soldier had fired a round.
“We need to get the railroad owner to come here so we can . . . convince him.”
At this, a cheer went up, followed by hearty laughter. Slocum reckoned the owner would never leave Fort Walker alive unless he gave in to O’Malley’s demands. Coal for his engines, possibly a spur to the fort, even a part ownership turned over to the outlaws. O’Malley was carving himself out a small country in the midst of Montana.
Slocum waited to make a second shot, but the opportunity never came. O’Malley rode on, flanked by his cheering men. He vanished into Major Zinsser’s office, and the Schuylkill Butchers milled around outside congratulating themselves on murder well done.
There might not be another chance to escape. Slocum slid from the stockade, and dived under a boardwalk when several outlaws came out from the mess hall. He lay facedown in the mud, their boots only inches over his head.
“Hey, we got all the food we kin eat!”
“Better ’n the beeves we been gnawin’ on?” someone shot back.
“More ’n just meat. We got flour. We got cabbage! No more boilin’ down that skunk cabbage!”
The wood planks sagged above Slocum, pressing him deeper into the mud as more men tromped onto the boardwalk and went into the mess hall. He began crawling along until he was completely coated in filth when he came to the far end of the walk. Slocum poked his head out and chanced a quick look around. He was still in the clear and not far from the stables.
Slocum got his feet under him, and had started for the horses when a cannon discharged. He fell forward, grasping his rifle and wondering if they had opened fire on him. A quick look toward the parade ground showed that several outlaws had fired an artillery piece and were working to fire it again.
Cursing his bad luck, Slocum saw O’Malley and his tight cadre storm from the commanding officer’s quarters. O’Malley went to the men at the cannon and shouted at them. The words came through confused. Slocum realized O’Malley was cursing in Gaelic. Not sure what to do, but knowing something was better than nothing, Slocum walked on, trying not to hurry. That would draw unwanted attention.
He got into the stable and saw a couple dozen skittish horses. Scraping the filth off himself as he walked down the center of the barn, he finally came to the stall holding his gelding. The horse whinnied at him accusingly.
“You’ve gotten fed,” Slocum said. “And watered. I need both.” He splashed water from the bucket onto his face and knelt to get mud off his clothing as the stable doors squeaked open.
Slocum placed his rifle in the gelding’s stall and slid his knife from his boot top, waiting. The man, tall and reedy and red-haired, staggered in clutching something in his hand.
“Whatcha doin’?” The man came in Slocum’s direction.
“Countin’ horses. Sean wanted to know what we got.”
“Wanna see what I got?” The man held up a severed head. Slocum instantly recognized Lieutenant Holbine and his shocked expression.
The next shocked expression came to the redhead’s face. Slocum spun and drove his blade up under the lowest rib on the left side. He didn’t feel the tip go through the man’s vile heart, but he was still dead in seconds. Slocum rocked back and looked from the bloody knife in his hand to the lieutenant’s head on the floor of a nearby stall.
“You fool,” Slocum said. Holbine had been a garrison officer. Maybe he had been a good one. Slocum couldn’t tell. But he ought to have counted sacks of flour and worried over invoices rather than believe he was fit to command a post. He had paid for his lack of attention to Slocum’s warning. Unfo
rtunately, he had sealed the deaths of his entire command, too.
Slocum hurriedly foraged through the stables, stuffing everything useful he could find into his saddlebags. If he got to riding hard, he wouldn’t have to stop and hunt for food. He had enough trail rations to put a considerable distance between him and the Schuylkill Butchers.
He thought for a moment, then picked a strong-looking mare to use as a second horse. He could ride until the gelding tired, switch to the mare, and ride until the gelding had rested. By switching this way, he could ride fifty miles in a day. That ought to be more than far enough away.
At the stable door, he looked around to be sure he could ride away without arousing any hue and cry. Slocum froze when he saw a wagon rattling into the parade ground. Lumps of coal bounced out as it came across the uneven terrain— and, still naked to the waist, Etta Kehoe stood in the bed. Her hands were tied behind her back so her breasts were visible to any of the gawking, jeering outlaws. Slocum marveled at the way her breasts seemed lily-white when the rest of her was almost entirely coal-black. Etta tried to look defiant, but did a poor job. She was obviously scared to death at what would happen to her now.
In a way, he had hoped she was already dead. Seeing her alive jolted him into action. He swung into the saddle and judged distances. She could ride the second horse if he raced over, freed her from her ropes, and—
Slocum’s plan for a wild-ass rescue died when he realized she was chained into the wagon, not tied with rope. A stick of dynamite would work better than his knife freeing the woman. Looking around, he considered setting fire to the stables. The confusion would draw attention away from Etta. He ought to be able to pull the chains free from where they were fastened into the wood of the wagon bed.
That and a dozen other plans were born and died in a flash.
“We got ourselves some entertainment fer tonight,” Sean O’Malley called out. He jumped into the wagon and stood next to Etta. She tried to flinch away when he reached out and touched her sooty cheek, but she was too securely chained for that. “Git on with yer chores. The prize won’t be given till midnight!”
Slocum had no idea if he ought to be relieved or furious. O’Malley was torturing Etta with the promise of rape hours later, letting her dread the passing of each second. As much as that was torment for the woman, Slocum saw it as a chance to rescue her. He could never fight so many men. He had thought Fort Walker would provide the soldiers to bring O’Malley and his cutthroats to justice. Instead, the Schuylkill Butchers had bowled over the entire post and now controlled it.
Only one other spot offered enough men and guns to free Etta.
Slocum led his horses out of the stables and around back. He mounted, looked down the road in the direction of Sharpesville, and knew it would be a hard ride. It would be even harder convincing the townspeople this might be their only chance to fight the Schuylkill Butchers and win.
He set off at a gallop, aware of time crushing down on him and the virtually impossible task ahead.
10
Slocum could not do it. He slowed his horse, and finally came to a halt in the middle of the road. Miles ahead lay Sharpesville, but behind was Fort Walker and Etta Kehoe. If he had any trouble at all rousing the men of the town, Etta’s doom was sealed. Slocum sat on the unmoving horse and thought hard. What difference did it make now if he got a posse back to fight the Schuylkill Butchers in a day or a week? They had wiped out an entire army post. If they moved directly to Sharpesville, the townspeople would respond.
However, Etta would be dead if he had any trouble at all getting Sharpesville armed and ready. Slocum had no real chance of convincing the new town marshal or anyone else of the danger if they recognized him as the man they were going to hang but who had escaped days earlier.
Reluctantly, he turned his horse and tugged on the reins of the mare he had brought along as a spare ride, and headed back toward Fort Walker. Something would let him free her. If not, he could always kill her before she suffered the fate he knew awaited her. The sight of the woman dressed more in coal soot than clothes, naked to the waist, and heavily chained in the back of the wagon returned to haunt him. Rather than taking out O’Malley, he should have shot her then and there. It would have been more merciful.
But as he rode slowly back toward the army post, he knew he never would have done that then. Now, though, he had steeled himself to drawing back on the trigger to keep Etta from her torture. Better he kill her than let the gang rape her to death.
He cut away from the road and circled the fort at some distance, looking for any sentries the outlaws might have posted. They were still feeling their oats. Slocum had to admit he saw no reason for them to post lookouts. No one knew they had taken over the fort. No one except him, and he had just made the decision not to alert everyone in Sharpesville.
Dismounting, Slocum led his horses down into a gully, and staked them where they could graze on some grassy patches while he went back into the fort. He felt nothing but desolation at the sight of the Butchers strutting around and looting the quartermaster’s supply warehouse. From somewhere, they had found liquor, and were well on their way to getting roaring drunk.
That made it easier for Slocum to work his way back to the stables. The killer he had dispatched still lay where he had died. The lieutenant’s head stared up sightlessly at him. Slocum wanted to kick it away, but decided against it. The man he had killed would be counted among those who died in the soldiers’ feeble attempt to repel the invaders. Unless he showed his hand too early, no one would know he was on the post.
Drifting like a ghost, Slocum checked the armory. It had been the first place the Schuylkill Butchers had looted. He found a carbine, checked it, then loaded it with cartridges scattered across the floor.
A rifle, a six-shooter, a knife—these were all he had to fight upward of a hundred brutal killers.
Slocum thought the odds were lopsided, but he was willing to take the chance to free Etta.
He froze when he heard a stir outside. He dropped to his knees and peered out the armory door to see another tight knot of riders come into the fort. O’Malley left the commander’s office and came out to shake hands with the newcomer. The way they stood squared off, eye to eye, looking as if they would go at each other at the slightest provocation, told Slocum there was dissension in the Butchers’ ranks. Whoever the man was, he challenged O’Malley— and did so openly.
A scheme came to Slocum as he watched the two. Neither budged an inch. The guards behind each man fingered knives and guns and looked ready for a brawl. If Slocum could take one of the men captive, he might ransom him for Etta. Even better, he might play O’Malley off against his rival.
Slocum sank to the floor and watched as the men finally broke off their staring match. O’Malley and the newcomer went together to Major Zinsser’s office and vanished inside. Slocum carefully watched the men still outside. The animosity between the groups was obvious. Freeing Etta might be easier if he could make it look like O’Malley’s rival was responsible. How he would do this, Slocum did not know. But at last he had the kernel of a plan. Simply freeing the woman did nothing. They had to get away after he got the chains off her.
Thinking on that, he slipped from the armory and returned to the stables. In the back, a cold forge told where the post farrier had worked. Slocum found a small, heavy hammer and a chisel. These would go a long way toward freeing Etta from her chains.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Horse needed shoeing,” Slocum said, not turning. He held the hammer in one hand and the chisel in the other. He started to put them down so he could go for his six-shooter, but the voice behind him turned mighty cold.
“You move a muscle and yer a dead man. Who are you?”
“I just rode in,” Slocum said.
“With Murphy?”
“Yeah, with Murphy.” Slocum knew the man’s name now. What good that would do him remained to be seen.
“We don’t want you and yer boss poki
n’ around. We took this here fort all by ourselves.”
Slocum heard footsteps behind him. He waited for the man to get closer, but something betrayed him.
“Son of a—”
Slocum didn’t let him finish. Spinning, he flung the chisel straight at the man’s chest. It hit and bounced harmlessly off his thick leather apron. The Butcher hesitated, getting his six-gun trained on Slocum again. This was all the time necessary for Slocum to take a step, lift the hammer, and bring it down smack on top of the man’s head.
Slocum recoiled from the blood splattering everywhere. He lifted the hammer, ready for a second blow. It wasn’t necessary. The man was dead.
“Damn,” Slocum said, stepping away. “I’m no better than they are.” He stared at the bloody hammer in his hand and started to throw it away. He stopped. This was the only hammer small enough for him to carry, and he needed it to free Etta. He wiped off the blood the best he could, then tossed it aside for a moment to drag the dead man into a stall out of sight of anyone passing by the open door to the stables. He was getting quite a collection of dead bodies. While they might believe the other had been killed during the fight for the fort, seeing a fresh-killed man would definitely alert them.
If he could have figured how to do it, he would have seen that Murphy and his men got blamed. For all he could tell, one of the Irish hoodlums would look like any of the others. To them, though, there had to be something distinguishing one from another. It might be as simple as a lapel pin or as unfathomable as an accent. For all Slocum knew, they were from different counties in Ireland and instantly recognized the differences.
He tucked the hammer into his gun belt and stuffed the chisel behind him. He walked as if he had gained fifty pounds, but knew he needed the tools. The sun was dipping down, but wouldn’t set for another couple hours. Slocum had to act fast. When the bonfires started and real drinking became widespread, Etta would be the prize.