Slocum and the Rebel Cannon

by Jake Logan

  “Think of the gold in that bank,” Holtz said urgently, seeing his would-be artillerist growing cold to the notion. “Thousands of dollars.”

  “Split how many ways?” Slocum tried to count the number of men in Holtz’s gang. Six? More?

  “We’ll see at least a thousand apiece. All we got to do is be ready. There’s a huge shipment being brought in by the army within two weeks. Not only are they bringin’ the payroll for Fort Suddereth, they’re moving down a whale of a lot for Fort Concho, too. The Apaches are givin’ ’em fits, and they think shipping the gold straight down from the quartermaster at Fort Union is the way to pay for supplies and payroll.”

  “Then let’s rob the train between here and Fort Union. You got enough men.”

  “No, Slocum, I don’t. There’s likely to be a company— two!—accompanyin’ the gold shipment. Even Quantrill would be hard-pressed to rob a shipment guarded that well.”

  Again, Slocum heard the echoes of old times he wished to forget. Holtz talked of William Quantrill as if he were the greatest commander ever to serve the South. He had been nothing but a brutal butcher who enjoyed the slaughter and didn’t care spit about military victories or goals. Rebel Jack Holtz was no fit leader for a robbery, even in a small town like Bitter Springs, if he held up men like Quantrill as his ideal.

  “Then shoot your way in and—”

  “The safe, Slocum, the safe! Getting it open’s the problem. See how easy everything is if we use the cannon to blow up the bank? The safe will be easy pickin’s then.”

  “No, no way, count me out,” Slocum said. Slocum was ready to throw down on Holtz if he tried to lift the scattergun he carried dangling from a strap over his right shoulder. The shotgun rested under his arm where he could swing it up easily, but there was no way in hell he could be as quick getting it into action as Slocum drawing his Colt Navy.

  “What’d he say, Jack?”

  Slocum looked over his shoulder. The rest of Holtz’s gang had finally made their way to the campsite. If he tried to ride out now, he had an army of rifles and pistols to fight through.

  “He said he was thinking over going into Bitter Springs to hunt for the map.”

  The gang fanned out around him and stood, hands on their weapons. If Slocum said anything but that he was in for the robbery, he likely would be tossed over the edge of the cliff and left for the coyotes to pick his bones.

  “I wanted to know where to find the map,” Slocum said.

  “Then you’re in?” Holtz slapped Slocum on the back. “That’s the John ‘Devil Take the Hindmost’ Slocum I knew back in the Quantrill days!”

  Slocum made his way back into Bitter Springs as cautiously as he could ten days after meeting up with Rebel Jack. With damned near every lawman in the state hunting for him, he had to be careful. He saw that Preacher Dan’s wagon had been moved to the back of the lot where it had been parked before, to give easier access from the street for anyone wanting to come listen to his sermons. Slocum saw how the dirt had been kicked up on the lot, and knew there had been a revival meeting here not too long back. Since it was just after sundown, he suspected Preacher Dan had only finished. Mostly, the wagon had been moved because construction on a church had begun while Slocum was out of town.

  “I wondered if you’d be back.”

  Slocum looked behind him. Standing on the front steps of the now-closed bank stood Tessa Whitmore, arms crossed over her ample breasts and looking daggers at him.

  “Had business to attend to,” he said.

  “What do you think Papa’s paying you for?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” Slocum said, grinning. “Truth is, I don’t remember him offering to pay me anything at all.”

  “Then there must be some reason you came back.”

  “There just might be,” Slocum said. “Not all pay’s in the form of gold.”

  “Do tell. Whatever else might you be talking about?” Tessa walked over to where he sat astride his mare. He could hardly call it walking, though. She put such emphasis on swaying her backside all around—just for his benefit— that he thought there should be some new word to describe her. Not even “sashaying” fit what she was doing, and all without the aid of a bustle.

  “This is a scenic town,” Slocum said, dismounting. “How can I pass up the view?”

  “You didn’t even get the best view,” Tessa said.

  “Nope, but the banker man did.”

  “What?” Tessa spun about, staring at the locked bank door. She swung back, her lips thinned to a line. “There wasn’t anybody there.”

  “No,” Slocum said, “but I got a much better view of you swinging back and forth.” His eyes dipped to her well-filled blouse.

  Anger blazed in her eyes for a moment; then she melted and finally laughed.

  “I knew there was a reason I liked you, John.”

  “Only one?” He grinned even more broadly when her eyes dipped to his crotch and then returned.

  “There are chores to do,” she said. “Papa needs the horse tended to and then . . .”

  “Do you need tending to also?”

  “After we’ve done some work,” Tessa said. “I need to get some work to the printer.”

  “Broadsides?”

  “And other things,” she said mysteriously. For once, she did not want to play word games with him.

  “What’s the name of the town paper?” Again, he saw how she became furtive, as if she was hiding something. What it might be, Slocum was at a loss to say.

  “The Bitter Springs Gazette,” she said in a tone that ended all discussion of the matter. This suited Slocum just fine. He had some poking around town of his own to do. Let Tessa sweet-talk the editor of the paper for good reviews of her pa’s sermons.

  “If the horse is over at the livery stables, it’s being taken care of,” Slocum said. “I need to get my own in for some grain and currying.” He patted the grateful mare on her neck. He had ridden quite a few horses in his day, but seldom had he found any with the mare’s heart and determination to keep going in the face of thirst and hunger.

  “See to it, John,” she said. The smile had returned to her ruby lips. “Then perhaps you can see to feeding other hungers.”

  With that, Tessa swirled her skirts and left him, again treating him to the sight of her rear end waggling about enticingly. He heaved a sigh, then led his horse to the stables. Slocum made certain to peer inside and count the horses already in stalls. If Texas Rangers stayed for the night, he did not want to accidentally run into any of them. The only other horse besides Dan Whitmore’s was a broken-down old nag no self-respecting Ranger would ever ride. He felt safe going in and putting his horse into a stall near the front.

  “You back? Figgered you might be gone for a day or two, the way you was talkin’,” the stable owner said, coming from the tack room. He smelled of saddle soap and carried a worn bridle that no amount of work would ever return to pristine condition. “Didn’t know it’d be more’n a week.”

  “Needed to find out the lay of the land,” Slocum said. “Might be you can answer a question for me.”

  “I’m not so good on some things. Others I know ’bout all there is worth knowing.”

  “I heard tell that General Sibley sent a small detachment of soldiers up this way when he invaded New Mexico back in ’62,” Slocum said, watching the man carefully. The way he averted his eyes and partially turned away told Slocum he had hit a nerve.

  “Wasn’t here then,” the stable owner said. “Truth is, I was up in Colorado and my sentiments leaned toward the Federals. But Old Man Jensen over at the pharmacy, he was a tried-and-true Johnny Reb and has spent purty near his whole life in Bitter Springs.”

  Slocum nodded as if it meant nothing special to him, but he almost ran to the pharmacy when he left the stable. A hoary old man was just turning the sign around in the door showing the business was closed for the day. He peered out nearsightedly at Slocum, then heaved a sigh and opened the door.


  “What kin I do you for, mister? I was jist closin’ fer the day.”

  “Let me buy you a drink,” Slocum said. “I heard a rumor and a sizable bet is riding on it.”

  “Do tell,” Jensen said, slipping from the pharmacy and closing the door behind him. He patted his pockets for the key, didn’t find it, and shrugged. He smiled at Slocum and said, “Ain’t got nuthin’ in there worth stealin’. The secret to my medicine’s in the mixin’s, not the fixin’s. Now what’s this bet all about?”

  They walked slowly toward the nearest saloon. Slocum wanted to rush, but the old man’s step was short and hesitant and not to be hurried.

  “It’s all about how General Sibley came through Bitter Springs back in ’62 on his way to Fort Craig.”

  “Ain’t so. If you took that side o’ the bet, you jist lost. Sibley never came here,” Jensen said with some satisfaction at thinking he was giving Slocum information he lacked. Slocum only wanted to check that the old man’s memory was accurate. So far, it appeared to be.

  They went into the saloon and settled down. The barkeep set a half-full bottle of whiskey in front of Jensen without being asked. Slocum paid for it, to the barkeep’s surprise.

  “I usually drink alone,” Jensen said. “These young bucks don’t want to hear no tall tales about my life.” He knocked back a quick shot, made a face, then said, “This here whiskey’s better medicine than anything I brew up. Takes the ache away, at least till it chews through my stomach.”

  “So General Sibley only sent a small detachment?” Slocum prodded.

  “The Sibley Brigade went right up the Rio Grande. The Jornado del Muerto. Most folks don’t know it, but Sibley was General Canby’s brother-in-law. The thought of her husband facin’ her brother mighta put Miz Sibley into a fit, but from what I hear, she was a good military wife and kept her thoughts to herself. Might have been, she wanted her husband to do somethin’ right for once in his life. And invadin’ New Mexico and takin’ it for the South would have been it. He thought to have some artillery sneak up behind the damn bluebellies at Fort Craig right outside Socorro. Didn’t work out right fer him, but then not much did.”

  “What happened? Here in Bitter Springs?”

  Jensen smiled broadly.

  “Me and a couple others tried to warn the fools away, but they came right on into town. Troopers from Fort Union way up close to Las Vegas were scoutin’. Weren’t many of ’em. Not more than a dozen, but they was more’n a match for the Rebs. Bad training, overconfident, not a decent officer with ’em—all them was true. Mostly, I think it was outright cowardice. None of them soldiers had ever been fired at in battle, and the bluebellies was all veterans of fightin’ Indians. Face a Comanche and live, ain’t no human bein’ ever gonna scare you again.” Jensen worked some more on the whiskey. Another shot steadied his hand and loosened his tongue even more.

  “The Rebs tried to run. The only decent thing they done was try to save their two cannons.”

  “They had two?”

  “They buried ’em.”

  “Where?” Slocum tried not to sound too excited. It hardly seemed possible, but Rebel Jack’s scheme might have a chance of working if he could find those cannons.

  “Now that is a matter of some conjecture. I heard some tales of them draggin’ the guns with them as they hightailed it back down to San Angelo. Ain’t true. I saw them retreatin’, and they didn’t have a caisson or cannon with ’em.”

  “You have any idea where they buried the guns?”

  “One story I heard was that a sergeant made a map and hid it, thinking Sibley would come through eventually and retrieve the guns. Reckon that might be so, but where’d a sergeant hide a map that a general could find?”

  “Where do you think?”

  “Can’t say I think much of it at all,” Jensen said. “Drink up, son. You paid for the bottle. You oughta git some enjoyment out of the whiskey.”

  Slocum obliged, but found his thirst had changed from whiskey to information.

  “Nobody ever found the map?”

  “Don’t reckon they’d have to. Who’d want a cannon anyway?”

  “If it had been buried, it wouldn’t be much use,” Slocum opined.

  “You ain’t from around here, are you? Bury somethin’ in this desert sand and it don’t rust, it don’t corrode, it stays jist like you put it down, fer a long, long time.”

  Slocum’s hopes soared again.

  “Nope, don’t need a map since I know what happened to the cannon,” said Jensen. “It’s the only explanation.”

  “What is?”

  “They buried the cannons, all right, but not with shovels. They prob’ly didn’t have time fer that. No, sir, I think they hid them guns in a mine shaft. There’s a passel of ’em in the hills just outside town. A piece of cake for even green soldiers to wheel their guns in, then ride off.”

  “I saw some petered-out mines,” Slocum said. “They looked recent, though. Any mine they put their cannon into would have to be at least fifteen years abandoned.”

  “Yup, some tin miners came through not five years back and dug like prairie dogs in the hills. Didn’t find a damn thing, though they did go west and found some tin in the Franklin Mountains. Earlier miners was huntin’ fer silver.”

  “Which claims?”

  “You lookin’ to jump a claim or winnin’ a bet?” Jensen looked at Slocum suspiciously. The whiskey was taking the edge off his garrulousness rather than encouraging it. Slocum guessed Jensen turned into a mean drunk, which might be one reason nobody in town liked to drink with him.

  “Betting’s more fun, and you’re not as likely to get shot at,” Slocum answered.

  “Ain’t never been that way that I kin see.”

  “The mountains east of Bitter Springs?”

  “Played out early on. Right after the silver rush in ’60.”

  “Thanks,” Slocum said. He left with Jensen beginning to rant about young whippersnappers not having any courtesy left in their bones these days.

  Stepping out into the cold desert night invigorated him, but Slocum knew he had to wait for morning and light to hunt for the mine where Sibley’s soldiers had hidden not one but two cannons.

  9

  Slocum spent a restless night, coming awake more than once at the slightest of sounds. When he did drift off, his dreams were haunted by Rebel Jack Holtz and his gang, the pharmacist Jensen, and facing artillery fired at him by CSA soldiers. The more he tried to run or cry out that he was a friend, the more they came after him.

  When he finally stirred just before sunrise, he was less rested than if he had stayed awake all night. He sat up and brushed himself off. His mare slept in the next stall. Slocum knew he should have hunted for Tessa Whitmore the night before. Spending the night with her would have been far more pleasant, not to mention that he could have done so lying beside her in a hotel bed. But he had left the saloon, and Jensen muttering at him, too tired to go on. More than that, Slocum wanted an early start. If he hung around Bitter Springs long enough for Tessa and her pa to find him, they would keep him busy with make-work.

  He had a Rebel cannon to find.

  He saddled and rode the mare from town just as the sun peeked above the mountain peak to the east of town. The sheer face of rock was still hidden in shadow by the time he found a road leading into the hills and took it. Slocum studied the ground, and saw no evidence that any heavy wagons had come this way within the past few weeks. For all he knew, nothing might have rolled this way in years. The ruts in the road were sunbaked and harder than rock. While the desert vegetation would overgrow any patch of ground sooner or later, he thought this road was more likely too alkaline for plants to grow rather than being well traveled.

  Turning his face upward, he studied the sides of the mountains reaching as far ahead as he could see. The canyon bottom where the road took him had once acted as the main thoroughfare for miners. From the ancient look of the gaping mouths of the mines dotting the mountainsides, no one h
ad worked here for maybe seventeen years. That was about when a Rebel force would have hidden their artillery before running back to Texas.

  Slocum pursed his lips as he considered why a Confederate detachment would have used this canyon and these mines for their hiding place. He kept riding until almost noon before he convinced himself of the reason. The road led to a branching canyon that opened southward. Slocum guessed it was somewhere to the east of Sidewinder. From there, it was a quick trip into the West Texas desert.

  He turned back, and this time studied the lowest mines to find the most likely ones where cannons would be stashed. Too high up on the mountain meant effort—and time—for fleeing soldiers. They’d had only a short time to evade the Federals from Fort Union.

  “There,” Slocum said, eyeing a mine low on the mountain and easily reached from the canyon floor. There were others closer to the canyon floor, but crossing arroyos or deep ravines made them less accessible. Slocum knew it was a long shot that he had found the proper mine after only a few hours of hunting, but everything Jensen had told him fit well with what he knew of Confederate tactics and the lay of the land. The other mines might not have been as isolated back in the day, but Slocum’s gut told him this mine was the place to start his search.

  He urged his mare up the rocky path to the mine opening, and looked around for any trace that the mine had operated recently. He dismounted and poked through a pile of discarded equipment just outside the mouth of the mine. He found a small book and sat down, his back against a wood mine support, and flipped through the pages.

  As he let the pages flip freely, a slip of paper fell out. He peered at it. The ink had faded with time, but he finally caught the sunlight against the page and saw he held a receipt for Giant blasting powder dated in 1861. Slocum closed the book and let it fall open to the front page. The printing date was 1858. If Sibley had sent his detachment in ’62, this mine had been scrabbled out of the rocky mountainside the year before.

  It would not have taken a year to play out. From all Slocum had heard, silver had never been found in any abundance in the Guadalupe Mountains, and tin, which prospectors had found just north of El Paso eighty-five miles to the west, was nonexistent here.