by Jake Logan
Slocum advanced on the strange scene, debating inside how far to play along, make it through to tomorrow, or try to pull the bung on this barrel and drain it right here and now. He glanced down at the man in the chair. Sure, there was that spark of anger, but the man had by all visible means been badly used. His clothing hung in filthy tatters, and his footwear consisted of leather husks that might have once been boots but were now puckered, curled, and held on to the man’s feet by strips of ragged cloth.
Even from five feet away, Slocum could smell the unwashed stench of the man. From what he’d heard, he guessed this was one of the colonel’s gold mine slaves, and a former slave to boot. It sounded to Slocum as if this man had fallen from the frying pan into the fire. Slocum lingered on the colonel’s proposal a little too long, and then he saw the little fat man’s eyes skirt to a spot just over Slocum’s shoulder.
“Harley? What is it, boy? Don’t you see we’re busy here?”
“Yes sir, Colonel. Only I thought you might want to know that I seen Mr. Slocum here.”
The colonel sighed. “Yes, Harley. I think we all can agree that we can see him here, don’t you?”
“No, that ain’t what I mean—”
“By the way, what happened to you, boy? You look as if someone has abused you with an assortment of sticks and rocks.”
“Aw, I’m okay, Colonel Mulletson. Nothing time won’t solve. I just come to tell you I seen Slocum here out back behind your house, talking with your lady cook.”
Slocum gritted his teeth. If ever there was a young man who needed another good kick to the backside, it was Harley. The Appaloosa’s lesson was a hard one, to be sure, but not a lasting one.
“Go on, Harley.” The colonel swung the leather strap playfully by his side.
“Yes sir. Well, they was talking like they knew each other, then he went on in there, into the room off the kitchen there where she stays, and he was in there a right long time, Colonel, sir.”
The colonel rested one hand on the tabletop beside the little oil lamp. He looked at Slocum. “As if they knew each other . . . a right long time. . . . Hmm, that certainly sounds as if the wool has been pulled over my eyes, and for a very long time. Now what would you suggest we do about that?”
Slocum groaned inside. Here’s where it begins and ends, he told himself. He forced a smile, a head shake, and said, “Are you really going to believe this little dolt over me, Colonel?”
Mulletson stroked his mustache and spade beard, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Odd as it sounds, Mr. Slocum . . . yes. Yes, I believe I shall.”
Behind him, Harley snorted.
“Yes,” said Slocum. “I half expected you would, Colonel.”
But the white-suited man wasn’t listening. “Harley, go fetch the young lady in question, will you?”
“Yes sir.”
Slocum watched Harley close the door snugly behind himself. When he turned back, the colonel had a two-shot derringer jammed to the bound man’s head.
“Now look here, Colonel, I was just out taking a stroll after dinner and I happened to bump into her . . .”
“The same ‘her’ you happened to be making eyes at during supper, hmm?” Mulletson crossed his arms. “Now really, Mr. Slocum, do you think I just came down off the mountain? No, no, no, sir, such shenanigans just won’t do. That’s why I had all but decided after our meal that Miss Meecher would be let go from my employ.”
Surprise must have been written on Slocum’s face, for the colonel continued, “Oh yes, I should have realized that a tasty little number like that would have had plenty of suitors before her time here. I had hoped she would eventually come around to recognize me as more than an employer. I had dared hope she might eventually become . . . ah, but it is far too late for that now.”
He smiled, jammed the pistol harder against the man’s head. “Damn good cook, though. Still, I wouldn’t feel too bad about it, I was you. It was her own fault. Too uppity. Don’t worry about me or my kitchen none. Plenty of other girls where that one came from, am I right, Slocum?” He winked and thrust the gun harder into the black man’s head.
The prisoner gritted his teeth and grunted.
“What is it you want, Colonel?” Slocum didn’t ease off on the hammer, knowing that he could easily shoot Mulletson’s wrist. The thing he couldn’t know is if that would accidentally cause the man to trigger a round into the prisoner’s head.
“Fortunately, I have other plans for that wanton hussy.”
“She had nothing to do with anything, Colonel. Leave her alone.”
“I don’t think so, Slocum . . .”
And then he did it again, locked eyes with someone behind Slocum.
Slocum ducked as he spun, bringing the Colt up to chest height. But as fast as he was, something solid and faster drove into the right side of his head. Maybe a freight train, or an avalanche of boulders. But he didn’t have much more time to ponder it, because pinpricks of light blossomed like lightning inside his skull.
As Slocum succumbed to unconsciousness, he saw the grinning, headshaking visage of the rotund ranch owner staring down at him. The man’s voice, as if heard through water, was saying, “A good job of it, my girl.”
Beside him, Slocum saw a dark-skinned young woman—her face looked familiar. Tita? But why was she helping the colonel? Unless he’d read her all wrong . . .
Mulletson’s face drifted back into view beside the girl’s. “And I had such high hopes for you, too, boy, being as you are a Southerner and all. But I guess what they say is true—every barrel has a bad apple somewhere in it. Pity, though, as you looked like such a sensible fellow. One who wanted to make a whole lot of money. I guess I’ll settle for you helping me make a whole lot of money.”
The girl and the colonel both laughed.
And then the voices faded out and Slocum knew no more.
11
The sounds of a thousand cannon in heavy fusillade brought Slocum awake. Opening his eyes, he found, was another task entirely. He finally managed the task and saw a large black man staring down at him. Slocum tried to ask who the man was. It took him two attempts. “Who are you?” he finally managed to warble.
The big black man looked down at him and shook his head. “Not like it matters now.”
Slocum tried to raise a hand. He gave up when he couldn’t seem to make his brain tell his arm what to do. “I’m John Slocum.”
“Why’d you come here?”
“To help.”
This time, the man actually laughed at him. “Now how are you going to do that all stoved in as you are and trussed up like a ham in a butcher’s window?”
So that was why he couldn’t raise his arms or move his legs. Slocum closed his eyes and wondered how he got himself into this kettle of fish. It was difficult to recount the previous day’s events through the thudding of cannonfire volleying just behind his eyeballs. His thoughts turned to the last things he’d seen and heard before something hit him on the head. It had been Tita, that little Mexican minx. He’d seen her staring down at him, smiling, while Mulletson praised her.
He was relieved that at least the colonel hadn’t told him much more about his enterprise here. He’d find that out on his own. Usually, when someone talked enough about their business, it meant they weren’t planning on keeping the person they were telling it to around for long.
“So who are you?” he finally managed.
“Man, you don’t give up easy, do you?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Well, being as how we’re both tied up, I don’t see how it matters one way or t’other just who I am.”
“Humor me.”
The big man sighed, looked at Slocum, and shook his head again. “Elias Jones.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Folks call me Eli.”
“No won
der you were so reluctant to share your name.”
“Hey, I’m proud of my name. Just because your plans fouled don’t mean you got to be talking down about a man’s given name.”
“My apologies. Can we talk about something important? Like what actually is going on here? I know it’s not a ranch, and I know you were being beaten for acting out of line, and I believe there’s gold involved somewhere in the mix—and not a whole lot of cattle—but beyond that, I’d like some answers.”
Eli sighed again. “Okay, okay. But we ain’t got much time and there’s a whole lot I could tell you.”
“How about you start with the high points and we’ll take it from there.”
“Fair enough.” The big man laughed, a low sound like thunder, which tapered to a cough.
“You hurt bad?” Slocum asked.
“Nah, nothing I ain’t felt before. And doled out by tougher men than these.”
“Anything else you can tell me about them?”
Eli’s voice lowered. “I think you’re about to find out.”
Slocum heard the distinctive sound of a heavy, slow-moving something being pulled in their direction.
“Wait a minute—you said we don’t have much time. Why? What’s going to happen?”
“One of two things—we’re either going to live or die.”
“Good guesses,” said Slocum.
Eli ignored him. “If we die, it’s because they don’t want the hassle of dealing with what the colonel calls ‘insurgents.’”
“And if we live?”
“Then it’s because they need the manpower in the mine. And we will live because they are hard up for workers.”
“Do I dare ask why?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Slocum gave the man a hard stare.
“Okay, you do want to know, but I warn you, you ain’t going to like it, being as how you are headed there yourself anyway.”
Now it was Slocum’s turn to sigh.
“Okay, okay,” said Eli. “So by first light, which by my thinking will be in about an hour, the ranch goons—I believe you met Everett, Clew, and Harley—well, a couple of the three of them will be here to load us into the wagon. That contraption will take us to the Pit.”
“What’s the Pit?” The entire time Eli talked, Slocum had been squirming in his fetters, trying to gain enough circulation in his limbs to worm his way free. But whoever tied him had done it up right.
“The Pit is the spot where we work. Long time ago some old fool prospector discovered gold down there and now it’s a full-bore mine.”
“Filled with, let me guess, slaves doing the digging.”
“Yeah, you’re a sharp knife, all right.”
Knife, thought Slocum. They must have hit me hard, or I would have remembered my boot knife before now. He tried to work his bound hands down closer to his boots, with no such luck in sight. “So they tell me. Why is it called the Pit?”
“’Cause that’s what it is—a big pit with tunnels shooting off of it. But there’s two problems with it: One, it’s a ravine, a canyon with no way out.”
“If there’s a way in,” said Slocum, who finally managed to heave himself upright and leaned against the wall of the darkened room, “then there’s a way out.”
“It ain’t that easy,” said Eli. “But you’ll see soon enough.”
Slocum breathed deeply, trying to gather his fuzzy wits. “You mentioned two problems. What’s the second?”
“Oh yeah, the Pit? It’s filled with rattlesnakes.”
12
For several long minutes, the two captive men heard horses stepping slow, then a steady jangling and slapping of loose chains and squeaking of wheels, as if something large and heavy was being pulled. The sound drew closer until it stopped right outside the building they were held in. They heard two mumbles, then someone jumped down—boots landed on the ground, crunched against gravel as they drew closer. The steps of a second person joined the first.
“Rise and shine, you lazy idle loafers!” A boot slammed the bottom of the door.
It punched inward, and a different voice said, “Lemme get the damn key turned in the lock first!”
A metallic scratching sounded, then the door swung inward and two hatted figures stood just outside the doorway, silhouetted against a purpling morning sky. “Look at that, two for the price of one. Now that’s a special deal, that is.”
The speaker, Slocum recognized was Everett, the so-called head wrangler. The other one was Clew, aka Handsome (or used to be, thought Slocum with a wry smile).
“Thumthin’ funny to you, Thlocum?” said Clew, though his voice still sounded clogged in his throat, coming as it did through his still-puffed lips.
“Boys,” said Slocum, nodding. “Fancy meeting you here. Pull up some chains and a rope. Better yet, try this one on for size—right around your necks.”
Clew launched himself at Slocum, delivering a quick series of snapping kicks to Slocum’s leg and side. Slocum winced but took it without a sound.
“That what you came here to do, Clew?”
“Naw, that’s just a bonus to me,” said the puff-faced man, glaring down at Slocum.
“We’re here to drag you and the big ol’ slave here down to the Pit.” Everett jammed a boot of his own at the floor, scuffing it and stopping just short of a kick. “I reckon he’s told you all about the Pit.”
“Not really,” said Slocum. “Why don’t you enlighten us?”
The man snorted and, with Clew’s help, dragged Slocum to his feet and outside. There, Slocum saw the wagon he’d seen from a distance the day before. Up close he recognized it as an old prisoner transport wagon, the type U.S. marshals employed to ferry several prisoners at once across vast stretches, especially when they ventured into the Nations or similar areas to retrieve their quarry.
It was essentially a steel-barred prison cell on wheels, strap steel reinforced on all corners with bar stock, forged, riveted, and pinned six ways from Sunday. This one looked as if it had been fitted out with extra steel. The door at the back had been opened and its three deadbolted locks swung loose. Slocum tried to take in everything about it as they dragged him closer. Even though his head throbbed and pounded with each step they took, he knew that each detail he soaked up, no matter how small, might help him later. That habit had helped him out of more than one scrape.
“Look it over all you want, Slocum,” said Everett as they lifted him off the ground and jammed him into the opening. “But you ain’t bustin’ out of it. Better men than you have tried.”
They slammed the door and rammed home one deadbolt as they went back inside the lean-to torture shed to retrieve Elias Jones. It was then that Slocum saw what looked to be a pile of burlap sacking and rags in the far front corner of the cage. He squinted at it—was that an elbow sticking out from underneath?
It hurt like hell to drag himself forward over the unforgiving strap steel floor, but he inched closer to the rag pile. Yes, it was an elbow, and not a man’s. He heard voices from inside the shed, punches and slaps and moans.
Too bad for Eli, he thought, but it buys me time to see who this is—or was.
Slocum rolled onto his shoulder and managed to make one complete roll over to get right up to the pile. He poked at it with his chin and a soft moan came from within. And a cold feeling flowered in his gut.
“Marybeth. . . . Marybeth, is that you?”
“John. . . .” a voice whispered low, trembling.
“Hold tight, Marybeth, I’ll get us out of this. They’re coming back.”
“Doesn’t matter,” came a fainter whisper from beneath the rags. “They know . . .”
He’d have time later to worry about what that meant. Slocum jerked his torso upward so that he was sitting positioned such that they’d have to get by him before they got to her
. It was scant protection, and too little too late, but it was all he had to offer her at the moment.
They tossed Eli into the cage. He looked like hell, but Slocum noticed that the big man also rolled with his landing to absorb the fall without too much more damage to his already battered body. The big man winked at Slocum with his one good eye and scooched himself over to the side wall.
Everett and Clew made a big production out of slamming the door twice, as if it hadn’t seated well with the first slam. Then came the deadbolts, then the big padlocks with grating squawks coming from the slowly turned keys.
Everett spoke. “You know the drill, Eli. You get out of hand, we are going to stop and take a few rounds out of all of you. Just for fun. You all just ride peaceable and quiet and we won’t be forced to hoist you from them chains swingin’ above your heads. You got me?”
The prisoners were quiet.
“I said . . . you got me?”
Eli’s voice, strong and unwavering, said, “Yes, suh.”
It probably was intended to mock and taunt his captors, but it had the opposite effect.
“Now that’s more like it.”
Slocum saw the edges of Eli’s mouth curl up in a half-smile, saw the big man’s head shake slowly, side to side.
“Now let’s move on out.” Everett climbed up into the passenger seat beside Clew. The man cracked the lines on the backs of the two wide-backed draft beasts and the entire contraption lurched forward, the squeaking and clanking from earlier now too shrill and harsh to Slocum.
For long minutes, the ranch receded into the flat distance, then soon was lost to sight altogether.
“Eli,” Slocum whispered. “How long until we get there?”
The black man eyed him for a few seconds, then shook his head, and turned to watch the monotonous landscape pass by. Something about his demeanor told Slocum that this time he should mind the man, not make a scene. He had to get to Marybeth, had to know if she was going to make it. She hadn’t sounded good, and then for her to say, “They know . . .” That could mean any number of things, none of which would be good.