by Jake Logan
“That much, eh?”
“Every last mother’s son of Ireland,” the foreman said.
“I’ll be back to speak with Norris,” Slocum said. He had little interest in the portly railroad owner unless Etta was with him. Then, all he cared about was robbing these hard-working men of their bonuses by ventilating their boss with a few well-placed slugs.
Slocum had spoken to the man’s broad back. The foreman had already gotten his crew back to work. The bonus was dangling before them like a carrot in front of a mule.
The twin lines of steel gleamed in the sunlight and ran directly east. It would not be long before trains ran on a regular schedule and connected the Midwest with the West Coast. Slocum pulled away from that, and saw the twin ruts leading back into the hills west of Sharpesville where the coal mines spat out their black load.
If he could not find Etta, he could slow down the progress until she turned up. Somehow, although it was probable, he doubted she was dead. If O’Malley boasted of giving her to Norris so she would kill her sex master, he must have some inkling where she was.
But she was not with Norris, and she certainly was not in the railroad camp.
Slocum’s horse kicked up gravel placed down for a solid bed where wooden ties would be laid soon for heavy rails to rest atop them. He followed the twin ruts of the road back into the hills. Soon enough, the railroad builders were out of sight and he was alone in the wilderness. As he rode, he kept an eye out for any of O’Malley’s men, but he thought hard on what to do about Etta. He had no expectation of finding her back in the hills.
He heard the mining long before he saw the mine or miners. Slocum drew rein and looked around. A cursory examination showed only the single road leading out of the hills toward the railroad crew. He followed it deeper into the maze of canyons and valleys until he saw the coal mine where he and Etta had spotted the Butchers before.
Counting carefully, he made out eight men toiling at the backbreaking labor of chipping the black rock from the mine, loading it into carts, then moving it to the heavy wagon. Slocum was glad he was patient because two more men came around the mountainside to check the wagon. The others mined. These were the drivers who took the coal down the hill.
Not sure what to do yet, Slocum wended his way up the hillside opposite the mine and put his gelding into the open mouth of the mine there. He settled down behind a big rock, balanced the field glasses on it, and watched. He wanted to know their routine, how the Schuylkill Butchers worked the mine, and if only two men took the coal away.
He also looked for any trace of Etta.
After several hours, he was certain the woman was not in this mine. His hopes for ever seeing her alive again sank, but his desire for vengeance against the brutal outlaws did not fade. A plan formed as he watched the miners break for dinner. It mattered little to them whether it was daylight or not down in the mine, but even burly Pennsylvania miners had to sleep sometime.
By his watch, everyone had turned in sometime after ten o’clock that night. Slocum hitched up his six-shooter and hiked down the hill toward the rude trail cut by the passage of the coal wagon. When he reached it, he paused and remembered the last time he had seen the wagon.
Etta had been chained in the rear of this wagon or one like it when they had rolled into Fort Walker. She had been half-naked and filthy from the coal they had dumped in the wagon. Slocum pushed the memory away, and hunted for what he knew had to be lying around somewhere. In the dark, it took more than twenty minutes for him to find the wood saw used to cut timbers for the mine.
He slipped under the wagon and ran his hand along the rear axle. A rough spot on the otherwise smooth shaft showed where a rock had bounced up from the wheel and nicked the seasoned wood. Slocum began sawing carefully, cutting a notch in the axle. He worked slowly and steadily for almost ten minutes, then stopped and ran his fingers over the notch. How long the axle would last under the load already in the wagon along a rough road was anyone’s guess. Slocum hoped it would be several miles before the wood snapped, leaving the driver and his assistant stranded between the mine and railroad camp.
With a full load spilled, they would have to not only replace the axle, but also reload the coal. It was petty, but it would slow down both Norris’s and O’Malley’s plans. All Slocum could do at the moment was play for time. If he stalled them, he had time to ride to Fort Nealon or some other post and alert the army about what had happened at Fort Walker.
He rolled out from under the wagon and replaced the wood saw where he had found it. Let them think bad luck had struck or, if they saw how the axle had been cut, blame each other for sabotage.
Slocum prowled through the mine and found discarded shirts and other items left by the miners. He tucked these into a bag, along with a few sticks of dynamite from an open case just outside the mine. When he found the blasting caps and fuse, he was ready to ride.
The hike to his horse went quickly. There was a spring in his step because he was fighting back against O’Malley and his cutthroats. They wouldn’t run into trouble until the morning when they started rolling for the railroad camp.
The railroad camp would have problems of its own by then.
He reached the camp just before dawn. As with the miners, no guards had been posted. They thought they were working among friends—or at least men who shared the same goals.
Slocum intended to change that in a hurry. He prowled through the camp in search of the supply tent. A solitary coal-oil lamp burned inside it. Putting down his bag, he took out one of the miners’ shirts and rolled it up into a thick, smelly rope. He walked to the front of the tent, lit the fuse on a bundle of dynamite, and tossed it into the supply tent.
The man guarding the supplies inside came boiling out. Slocum snared him around the neck with the rolled-up shirt and forced him to the ground until he had choked the consciousness from him. He made certain he did not kill the man. Leaving the shirt, he grabbed his bag and ran. Less than a minute later, the dynamite exploded. For a heartbeat, nothing more happened. Then the coal oil and other flammables in the tent erupted in a secondary explosion that sent sparks flying high into the night sky.
All around him, the railroad crew sprang to their feet. Slocum dropped the items he had taken from the mine in strategic spots, making it appear half a dozen miners had sneaked into camp for the fiery mischief. Satisfied with his salting of clues pointing to the Schuylkill Butchers, he left the camp in turmoil.
The coal delivery would either not arrive or would arrive late in the day. By that time, the railroad foreman would have had plenty of time to fume and fuss and blame the outlaws.
Slocum wished he could see what happened when the two sides came together. The railroad crew might string up the coal wagon drivers. This would set off the miners and be relayed to O’Malley, who might bring his entire gang down.
It would be war. A bloody, dangerous war that would bring the building to a halt.
At least, Slocum hoped it would. He rode straightaway for Sharpesville to search it one last time, just to be sure Etta was not being held prisoner there.
16
Slocum’s nose dripped from the smoke still rising from the charred remains of Sharpesville. Only about a quarter of the town remained, and in those buildings the Schuylkill Butchers had taken up residence. Slocum made his way through the burned-out bank, poking through the ashes one last time for any trace of Etta Kehoe. He found one more body, but it was a man. More careful examination made him think it was the dry-goods store owner, Rostropovich.
As he knelt by the body, he heard horses out in the street. Slocum grabbed his rifle and went to the side of the bank where he had blown the hole. He peered out into the dawn and saw a dozen Butchers riding along, muttering among themselves. The best he could tell, they were not pleased with the way their lives were going. O’Malley had promised more than he had delivered so far, and the outlaws wondered when the money from the railroad would begin jingling in their pockets.
/> Slocum guessed that, after Murphy had been killed, no opposition had remained and O’Malley could do as he pleased. Most of the money the gang stole might have gone into his personal treasure chest. Slocum wondered if he could stir some dissent by stealing O’Malley’s loot, but finding it would be almost impossible. O’Malley would protect it—and himself—from the rest of his gang.
The rifle in Slocum’s hands provided the best way for him to even the score. Etta was dead, and all Slocum had to keep him in the area was a need for revenge. Using skills he had honed during the war would deliver that. Over the years since Appomattox, his skill as a marksman had not diminished. The only difference now was that O’Malley would be in his sights rather than some Yankee officer.
The knot of riders stopped a dozen yards down the street. Slocum froze and hoped the shadows were deep enough to hide him. Two of the men turned and looked back in his direction.
“Didn’t hear nuthin’. Yer jumpin’ at shadows.”
"O’Malley told us to be sure no one else is alive.”
“Hell, that’s not what he wanted. He wants that woman. The one he promised Norris.”
“Wants her fer hisself,” opined another.
Slocum began to worry now. Two had looked back. Now all of them did. He had not made a sound, but something had alerted them. He remained stock-still to keep from drawing further attention to himself.
“I heard somethin’ movin’. Over there,” one outlaw said, pointing. Slocum was not certain what direction the man indicated since he was hidden by another of the outlaws. “Noisy.”
“Might be a dog. Shot one the other day eatin’ somebody’s arm.”
“If you hadn’t hacked off all the hands, the animals wouldn’t be carryin’ ’round the parts.”
Slocum seethed. The Butchers had gone through Sharpesville dismembering the dead. This reminded him all over again of the first time he had run afoul of them. The marshal and his posse had been slaughtered, and all he had done was watch. All Slocum had done since was watch. It was time to act.
Slowly lifting his rifle, he estimated his chances of dropping all six outlaws before they figured out where he was. Chances were not good since the predawn would make his muzzle flash all the more obvious. On his side, none of the men had his six-shooter out. And since they were mounted, it would be even more difficult for them to draw since none wore his gun in a cross-draw holster.
Slocum’s finger drew back slowly, but he did not fire when three of the men broke off from the group and rode to the still-intact front of the telegraph office.
“In here. I heard the sounds in here.”
“Go take a gander, ya bloody fool,” ordered one of the men. Slocum tried to pick out who spoke. This was likely to be the leader. Two of the outlaws dismounted and disappeared into the wrecked telegraph office, only to return a minute later. He saw one shaking his head.
“Rats maybe.”
“Damn big rats. Bigger ’n the ones in the mines back in Pennsylvania,” protested his partner. “But that wasn’t what made the sound. Bricks were knocked over. Something bigger ’n any rat just hightailed it.”
“We don’t care about anything that’s not human,” the leader said. “Come on. We got the rest of town to search ’fore reportin’ to O’Malley.”
"Bugger O’Malley all the way to Dublin. What’s he think he is anyway? One of them mine owners back home? I’m tired and don’t want to do what he’s orderin’ us around to do. Let’s turn in.”
The six men rode away arguing about how diligent they ought to be in their duty. Two of them were hidden by the burned-out ruin of the dry-goods store before Slocum could begin his ambush. He lowered his rifle and took a deep breath that almost caused him to cough.
It was good to know men in the gang weren’t happy with O’Malley, but how far that dissatisfaction ran was something he could not tell. With O’Malley dead, would they split up and head in different directions? If so, Slocum could get rid of the entire murdering gang with a single bullet.
Killing Sean O’Malley took on even more importance. Slocum could rid this part of Montana of dangerous, brutal road agents by eliminating their leader.
He bent forward, pressed the brick in the wall into his belly, then tumbled forward and landed in the alley beside the bank. In a crouch, he walked to the street and looked around. The patrol had already disappeared in the direction of the far end of town.
Drifting like a ghost, Slocum started after the men, and reached the junction where burned-out buildings met those still intact. Slocum guessed that O’Malley was either in the bar, though it was almost dawn, or more likely in the hotel asleep. That meant he would be coming out of that building in a few minutes. Craning his neck, Slocum saw a decent spot in a two-story brothel immediately across the street from the hotel.
Going around back, he found a door knocked off its hinges. He went inside, found a flight of stairs, and gingerly tested each step before placing his weight on it. While he wanted to avoid a betraying creak, he was more worried that the rickety stairs would collapse under him.
Reaching the second floor, he went from door to door and peered into each crib. All the tiny rooms, hardly larger than the shakedowns inside, were empty. Some showed signs that the occupants had left in a powerful hurry. Slocum smiled when he saw frilly undergarments still in one room. The soiled dove had probably just pulled on her dress and then run for her life when the fire started.
The fire O’Malley and his murdering thieves had started.
The girls in this whorehouse were probably all dead because of O’Malley. Slocum hoped a few had escaped, although not many others from Sharpesville had reached the dubious sanctuary of the hills. With the Schuylkill Butchers mining up there, anyone fleeing town would have run straight into their guns—their knives.
Slocum completed his reconnaissance of the upper floor, and found a small sitting room at the front where the whores must have sat and dangled themselves out the front window to entice patrons of the saloon to spend their money in a different fashion. He kicked a chair out of the way, moved a table, and laid his rifle on it, then pulled up an ottoman and settled down on it. The lumps in it were uncomfortable, but Slocum doubted he would be here long. He cocked the rifle, moved the table a mite, then sighted in on the front door of the hotel.
O’Malley would exit eventually. When he did, he would get a hunk of lead in his gut.
Slocum dozed for a moment, then snapped alert when he heard something moving in the whorehouse. He laid his rifle down gently, then drew his six-gun and spun about, ready to shoot.
“Don’t!” The plea came from the shadows, but Slocum lowered his pistol.
“I thought you were dead,” he told Etta. The woman stepped forward. She was filthy. Her once-lustrous hair hung in thick greasy ropes. Her clothing, the clothes that had been so fresh and new from the dry-goods store, were once more in tatters, betraying delicious segments of her bare skin. Her face was so dark from soot that Slocum might have mistaken her for a Negro.
“I thought you were, too,” she said. “You never came back!”
“I’m here. It took me a little longer than I expected.” Slocum wondered how well his plan to disrupt the coal delivery had gone. He shook that off and stood, cramming his six-shooter back into his holster.
Etta came into his arms and clung to him fiercely. He felt his shirt turning damp from her tears.
“I thought you were dead. I did, John, I truly did!”
“Where were you?”
“Hiding out,” she said. “I was with Mr. Parmenter.”
“Who the hell’s that?”
“The telegrapher,” she said, looking up at him. Her eyes still brimmed with tears.
“I saw his body. He was slumped over his telegraph key.”
“That must have been someone else,” she said. “The two of us found a root cellar and hid in it. Something fell over the door, so they never found us when they went through town killing anyone left.” She
swallowed hard. “I heard the screams, John. It was awful. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but I imagined it from the agony I heard.”
“I’ve got a job to do,” Slocum said. “I’ve got to get back to watching for O’Malley.”
“But the telegraph. Did you fix the line?”
“I did. Did your Mr. Parmenter send a warning?”
“There wasn’t time. He was certain the line was still dead, then the fires started. They burned us out. We tried to get back to the bank but—”
“Never mind all that,” Slocum said, looking over his shoulder at the hotel entrance. He had to kill O’Malley, but something else took precedence. If a message got out, half the soldiers in Montana could swoop down on O’Malley and his cutthroats. Better to have them all killed than just the boss.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get Mr. Parmenter and send the message. If you’re sure the telegraph line is repaired, we can do it right now.”
Slocum was torn. He could end O’Malley’s vile life, if the outlaw leader was even in the hotel, or he could see that a clarion warning was sent along the telegraph route all the way to Miles City. He considered telling Etta to get the telegrapher back to his office, then knew with daylight approaching fast that the Butchers would be moving around the town. Parmenter’s specialized knowledge had to be used.
“Please, John. He’s across town. It’s getting light, and we have to hurry.”
“How’d you find me?” He fought against his need to stay and take out O’Malley, but a few more seconds lingering here with Etta could not hurt. The information she had might help him later.
“I chanced to see you skulking about the bank when I went out to find some food. There’s nothing in the cellar. Rats had eaten it all before we got there.”
“You took quite a chance trailing me,” he said. Slocum grabbed his rifle and abandoned the perfect spot to shoot O’Malley. Although he might be able to return and once more get the outlaw in his sights, Slocum doubted it would happen. Such moments were fleeting.