by Jake Logan
Slocum turned to Eli and Marybeth. “When he gets up there, he has to make sure that snake is unwrapped from his arm, then hopefully he’ll be able to whip it into the face of that near guard. He’ll be close to the edge, like he always is, where the three unarmed men will be working the winch. And with any extra luck that we haven’t already used up, the guard will fall down here and we’ll have a gun or two. And one less guard to deal with.”
Behind them, the boy nodded solemnly.
The boy’s mother, the Lakota woman, said, “Make sure you pretend you are a spider and get low to the ground. Be that spider and crawl out of there—very fast!”
More nodding and confidence from the boy’s eyes. Slocum wished it would be that easy. The mother and son embraced briefly, the boy holding the writhing snake at arm’s length, then they parted.
He heard a sniffling behind him and saw Marybeth near tears.
“He’ll be fine, Marybeth,” said Slocum, raising his eyebrows to let her know that crying wouldn’t really give the boy confidence. And besides, Slocum felt bad enough about sending the boy to do something he ought to do himself—but he was too big to do it. Making such a treacherous journey with a writhing, angry rattlesnake clutched in one hand while hanging on for dear life with the other—oh boy.
“Oh, I know,” she said. “It’s just that . . . I hate to see him holding a snake. I hate snakes,” she whispered.
The boy held up the writhing creature and she stepped back, hugging herself and smiling as if she’d stepped in something foul.
Slocum knew how she felt. He wasn’t particularly fond of snakes himself, but damn if the things couldn’t be useful at times such as this. He just hoped it didn’t attack the boy before he got up there. For some reason, the kid had a way with them.
“Go for the man nearest you,” Slocum said to the boy. “Deliver the snake surprise, then get out of there while they’re confused. It should be near enough dark by then that you can head that way.” He pointed toward the east.
The boy nodded.
“Sounds like a bad plan, but it’s the best we got.” Eli eyed the rim.
Near the end of the day, when there was still enough light to work the hoist, two gunshots from on high echoed across the ravine, signaling, as Eli had told Slocum, that the basket would begin its long journey down for the last load of ore.
Slocum had made sure that the load would be a light one, but in the day’s waning light, the guards from the rim would not be able to tell just how light. The boy’s slight weight as he clung to the basket shouldn’t tip them off that anything was odd.
He’d been prepping for it and had secreted the boy in the midst of the group of slaves pushing the creaking little ore wagon over to the spot where the basket touched down. Eli’s broad back would help shield the lad while he scooted toward the ravine wall and positioned himself in the shadows, snake gripped firmly in hand.
But there would be a tense few moments while Little Dog was exposed to all the rifles lining the perimeter of the rim before the basket completely lowered.
Slocum was thankful that the colonel forbade the guards from descending into the ravine themselves—mostly out of fear, if he had to guess. They’d pushed their last load of ore to the limit timewise, to buy the lad more shadows in which to secret himself. And now all was in place.
Per prior arrangement, Eli and Slocum remained by the cart while waiting for the basket. The rest of the group dragged their slow chained legs back to the mine opening, where some of them stayed. Others trudged to the little rock grottos chipped into the sides off the canyon a step or two above the floor. There they rested the few hours before the sun heralded a new day in which they’d have to continue their labors.
As the rest of the slaves shuffled off, Eli and Slocum hunched over the wagon, rough-handling hunks of ore and making a racket, clunking them against the sides of the old dented wagon. The boy stood in partial concealment beneath the big, sweating black man’s shoulder, hunched low.
Slocum hoped the boy was doing his best to keep the snake’s jaws from sinking into either him or Eli. The big man mumbled something to the effect that should the snake bite him, Eli’s last efforts on earth would be to pound the living hell out of Slocum.
Slocum assured him that he had complete faith in the boy. Eli grunted in agreement, but Slocum could see he wasn’t wholly convinced.
As the basket descended, Eli reached up to steady it, and Slocum pretended to continue shuffling ore chunks, all the while shielding the boy’s shadowy location to eyes from above. A few seconds more and he would be completely hidden.
They had agreed before when hatching this plan that they would drag out the loading process as long as possible, but even if Eli feigned more exhaustion than usual, the guards weren’t averse to delivering a rifle shot or two down at him. And the last thing he wanted, he’d told Slocum, was to be shot at by a bunch of white fools who might have been nipping at their whiskey allotment a little early before shift change, and whose aim might be a little off, given the effects of the popskull and the dying daylight.
Eli began whispering to the boy as he loaded the ore into the bottom of the basket. “Just be sure you get a good grip with that one free hand of yours, stick to that backside of the basket, and get your toes dug into a spot on the bottom of the basket, too. Elsewise, you’ll be hanging there and will be seen sure as shootin’ as they hoist this thing up.”
From the shadows, the boy’s small but strong voice said, “I understand, Eli.”
“Good. But whatever you do, don’t move around, ’cause this thing will swing without much prompting. I’ve seen it go all willy-nilly in a breeze. Don’t know what it’ll do with a snake-handling kid hangin’ from it.” They were silent another moment, then Eli said, “We gained as much darkness as we could, but we’re near loaded now . . .”
“Okay, Little Dog,” said Slocum. “Be careful and stay away from the edge. Most of all, if you get a safe chance, run for freedom. It will be dark enough to cover you. Run like a rabbit—not in a straight line.”
“I know, Mr. Slocum. I will do my best.”
“I know you will. Thank you for this.”
The boy sucked in a last breath and readjusted his handgrip. Slocum saw that the boy had gripped the snake so tight around the neck he was sure it was about to expire. The thing seemed to stare through the coming dark at Slocum, even as the basket began its ascent.
He shook off the fanciful vision and worked to make sure the boy still had his back to the cliff face, and for any sign from above that the guards might have detected something suspicious.
He saw the faint outline of the basket receding the farther up it was pulled, heard far-off shouts of the rim guards. None of them sounded alarmed about anything—yet. And he had a momentary picture in his mind of the snake ready to strike. Hold that thought, he told the boy’s snake with his mind. And Little Dog will be sure to deliver you to someone who deserves your attention.
But that was when something happened that Slocum could have lived without: The boy’s weight began to make the basket spin on the four wrist-thick ropes, which weren’t enough to keep the awkwardly laden vessel stable.
Little Dog had done his best to keep his back to the cliff face, knowing that he would have one opportunity when the basket neared the top of the rim’s lip to swing himself around and into the basket. Then he would fling the serpent even as he bolted up, onto the rim, and made a mad dash for the cover of the lengthening shadows.
At least that was Slocum’s fondest wish for the boy. But from where he stood, far below and half-hidden in shadow himself, it looked as if the boy might be having trouble. It was hard to tell just what was going on. Even if he boy failed to hurl the snake at the man, Slocum hoped the boy didn’t get off balance and fall, get bitten, or get shot.
He did his best to keep such morbid thoughts out of his mind, bu
t they were there nonetheless. And he found himself holding his breath as he watched the slowly rotating shadow of the basket, with the outlined bump on the back side of it—the shadowed bump that should not be there. If one of the guards should happen to notice it, there could be trouble before the sort of trouble they were looking for.
In the next instant, they heard a voice from across the ravine shout: “Hey! Hold up there! Somethin’s going on with that basket!”
Not a sound could be heard from below in the Pit. All eyes were fixed on the shadowy mass of the slowly rotating basket. It stopped and swung in midair. The ropes creaked like the rigging on a ship.
Presently, a big, gruff voice from straight above bellowed out: “You got to be kidding me! I’m about wore out and ready for my shift change and you’re over there whining? You don’t like what’s going on with this basket, you get your ass over here and yarn on it for a while, see how you like it.”
Another pause, during which the ropes continued to creak and sing.
“Okay then. It’s on your heads, is all.”
“Ha!” shouted the big voice from above. “Not likely. It’ll be on theirs down in the Pit should we decide to let go of this here hoist!”
This must have struck the guards as humorous. The volley of laughter reaffirmed that these men had to have been hand-picked by the colonel from the lowest of the low, sleazy characters looking for a quick buck and unbothered by a conscience. And this gave Slocum an idea: There must be a way to play these low-wage gun bums against the colonel. What if he could persuade them that their employer, Colonel Mulletson, had no money to pay them—and no intention of paying them. That would not sit well with this group of cutthroats—of that he was sure.
A few more hauls and the basket was almost to the top, nearly in position. And that was when Slocum saw the boy make his move. How he did it with one arm free and the other clutching a live and writhing rattlesnake was impressive indeed. Slocum was sure that one day the boy—should he live through this mess—would be a formidable foe or ally. He hoped that if they ever did meet on the trail, Little Dog would be his ally.
The creaking stopped as the basket settled into its usual place at the top of the rim, in the wooden cradle that held it adjacent to the land.
For a brief flash, Slocum saw the boy’s bony leg arc up and onto the rim of the basket, the leg outlined against the purpling sky. Then all was lost to his sight. It was up to the boy, then. And Slocum didn’t have long to wait for the ruckus to begin.
He saw, for a sliver of a second, the armed guard who stood beside the men operating the hoist. The man had leaned forward, rifle still held crosswise across his chest in a position not of someone expecting trouble. “Hey! What in the—”
But in the next instant, trouble was exactly what he got. His ragged screams rang out first, and in another instant Slocum saw two things moving. The boy, Little Dog, jackrabbited fast to the left, eastward along the rim, then out of sight. Slocum’s breath drizzled out in a whispered volley of thanks. It looked like the kid might just make it out of there and to safety somewhere.
Then just to the right of the basket and the great bulk of the hoist, Slocum saw the gunman, skylined against the lighter purpling sky at the top of the rim, whip and spin as if he were engaged in a drunken dance atop a bar. But his screams became long and high-pitched, higher than anything a man should own up to. Still, the man held on, dancing near the edge of the rim.
The whole point of this was to reduce the guns by one, and if luck was with them, to get him to drop a weapon down to them in the Pit—anything they might use, as bargaining power or firepower.
As if in cosmic response to Slocum’s request for a gift from above, the man spun in place, flailing his arms. His rifle was clutched in his hand as if it were something he might use to club the writhing, striking beast still attached to him. And in the next instant, he stiffened, pitched backward, screaming, staggering to the rim. None of his fellows dared get close enough to help him, for fear that the snake would do the same to them.
The rest of the guards froze in horror. Some of them, the ones whose mothers had raised them right, thought Slocum, put hands to their mouths and seemed to recoil.
Time slowed as the man took one, two steps, his boots hit the edge, the heels caught on the craggy precipice. His arms whipped in circles, his voice ululating like the grieving widow of a war chief howling over her slain partner. But this man was howling in sheer horror as the face of hell and agony stared him down.
And then he fell, end over end, backward and screaming, hundreds of feet. His body grew larger and larger to the Pit slaves as it dropped, pinwheeling and kicking and flailing. His arms clawed at the air, this man who mere minutes before had been annoying his fellow guards. Just that morning he’d drunk the thick-brewed sludge from the tin coffeepot at the rim guards’ camp but a short distance to the south.
Despite the estimable height, the man hit the bottom fast, his body slamming against the rock like a massive hand smacking hard against stone. The sickening splatter sound was exceeded in its intensity by the sight of his head, a fragile melon, an enormous hairy egg, dropped from on high, the yolk of which blew apart in a crimson spray showering outward.
Luckily, he’d still clutched his rifle tightly as he fell. When he landed, it hit his chest, flew out of his already lifeless hand, bounced a few feet in the air, and landed with a clatter nearby. The gathered slaves didn’t wince, didn’t recoil. If they had been in better health, Slocum was sure they would have shouted in triumph.
Slocum took their reaction as a victory, though he knew it would be short-lived and toothless if he didn’t think of a follow-up act. First things first, though, and with that he darted toward the rifle, grabbed it, then approached the body. It was now a lifeless fleshy lump without structure, all rigidity gone when every bone had all but powdered with the fall.
He flopped the body over and grabbed it by the arms. “Help me, Eli!” he said as he dragged the dead man with all haste toward the mine’s entrance.
“Everybody inside, get inside!” shouted Eli as he ran to help Slocum.
“What do you want with a dead man, Slocum?”
“This is no ordinary dead man, Eli. He’s a dead rim guard. And he’s bound to have something useful in his pockets. Strip off everything of use, mostly these bandoliers of bullets. I hope this gun will still work. Even if it doesn’t, it’s still more than we have now.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“I know it, but it’s all we have going for us right now.”
They dragged the dead man as far inside as possible, and Eli lit the candle in a reflector lantern.
Slocum inspected the rifle and found that it had remained in one piece. The stock had split and the barrel was scratched—nothing that would affect the gun’s usefulness. The weapon might not be accurate, but Slocum could gauge such things by one or two initial shots, then adjust accordingly. Hopefully enough to persuade other guards to drop on down and join their Pit party.
“I thought you said they wouldn’t allow you any fires?”
“I said no cooking fires. Don’t want us to get too comfortable, just want us to be able to see well enough to get the ore out.”
“What do you think is going to happen up there?” Slocum asked as he rummaged in the man’s pockets. He turned up very little, save for a worn deck of cards, a smashed pocket watch that had begun life as a two-dollar timepiece anyway, and a sack of Bull Durham. He held it up to Eli. “You smoke?”
“Not a dead man’s baccy, I don’t.”
“Well, fortunately I’m not that discriminating.” He stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
“I think that we are in for a world of hurt, that’s what I think is going to happen down here,” said Eli. “Last time something like this happened, the colonel himself come out, stood up there, fat as ever, and told us all he was willing
to let us die down here and just replace us with a new batch of slaves. ’Course, half the folks down here didn’t understand a lick of what he was saying, but I did.”
“That why you started negotiating with him?”
“What’s that you say?” Eli straightened and looked at him across the dead man’s body.
Slocum held up a hand. “Hey, I’m not judging you. I’m just saying that there had to be a reason you were up there at the ranch when I was there.”
“Yeah, well, you may be right. I seen enough of you in action to know you ain’t planted by them. Nor her neither.” He gestured toward Marybeth.
“So what’s that mean? Is there something you know that we can use as leverage to get out of here?”
Eli licked his split lip and ran a hand over his still-puffy eye.
“Come on, Eli. I have to know. If you know something that I should, then share it.” He looked out the mouth of the mine entrance. “I suspect we’ll be welcoming visitors before too long.”
Eli sighed. “Okay then. But it’s something I got to show you, not tell you. Won’t make sense otherwise.”
Slocum shouted to Marybeth. “I have to go with Eli into the mine—we’ll be back in a few minutes. Send Paco to get us if—make that when—they start coming down. And keep everybody in here.”
Marybeth nodded and went back to cutting up snake meat.
“You know, with that rifle we’ll be able to pick off anyone who gets close to the edge of the rim.” Eli adjusted the reflector shield on the candleholder.
“I know. But you can bet your boots that if we know it, they do, too. Still, if we keep vigilant, we’ll be able to see them. We have plenty of eyes, if not guns.”
“Yeah,” said Eli, cupping the flame of his candle as they wound through dark, low passages, “but the more of them we shoot, the more guns we get down here.”