Slocum and the Rebel Cannon

by Jake Logan

  He tucked the receipt back in the pages of the book and tossed it aside. It almost disintegrated from this mistreatment after so many years of sun and wind and cold. Slocum walked back and forth in front of the mine opening, studying the ground. He finally reached down, picked up a rusty piece of iron, and held it up to get a better look at it in the sunlight. He frowned as he turned it over and over in his hand.

  It might have been the sighting adjustment bracket off a cannon. Or it might have been a bracket used for something else by a miner scrounging for any hunk of metal he could find. Slocum tossed it back on the ground and stared into the dark shaft. To go inside would be dangerous. The timbers supporting the roof were rotted, and such holes in the ground were natural dens to animals both small and large. Slocum did not remember any stories of bears in these mountains, but there were cougars and coyotes who would find such a mine a natural home.

  Slocum checked his six-shooter in case he ran afoul of rattlers, then looked at the ledges just inside the mouth for miners’ candles. Not finding any, he spent the next twenty minutes finding dried brush and rags to tie onto a long pole to use as a torch. He lit the torch and held it at arm’s length as it flared. Some of the heavy smoke might pose a problem inside the mine, but Slocum doubted there would be any need to go more than a dozen yards inside. If the artillerists had no reason to drag their cannon higher up, they would not bother putting the cannon more than a few yards deep in the mine.

  He thrust the torch into the mine and looked for telltale signs the cannon had been pushed inside. Scratches on the rocky walls, deeper cuts on the floor, anything. What he saw might have been the result of clumsy mining rather than a cannon being dragged inside.

  Still, Slocum wanted to check deeper inside just to be sure he did not miss anything. After all, it had been seventeen years since the Rebs would have hidden the cannon. He bent down as he went farther into the dark mine. When he had gone ten yards, he knew there were no cannons here. With a sense of disappointment that a good idea had not panned out, Slocum turned to leave. He saw the bright rectangle of the mouth of the mine ahead as the torch sputtered fitfully and finally burned out. As he started to retrace his steps, his boot heel caught between two rocks on the floor, causing him to stumble and fall.

  He let out a loud cry of surprise and then hit the mine floor hard. Coughing at the dust, he pushed to his hands and knees, then heard the ominous creaking noise over his head. Slocum looked up and could see nothing in the shadowy roof, but he knew the sound. He had worked in mines and feared only two things: gas and breaking timbers.

  The decayed wood in this old mine was giving way.

  Slocum dug in his toes and tried to sprint out, but whatever had caught his boot before still hung on. He flopped back onto his face as the roof caved in. Hands going over his head to protect himself, he felt the weight of rocks crashing down on top of him. For what seemed an eternity, the cave-in continued. Then there was nothing. No sound, no light, nothing but the heavy throbbing of his heart trying to explode from his chest.

  Heaving with all his might, he got the stones off that had fallen on top of him. He gagged on the thick dust. Using his bandanna over his nose and mouth helped. He would have been better able to filter the thick dust if he had soaked the cloth in water, but he had no water. No light. No air.

  At this thought, Slocum’s lungs began to strain.

  “Stop it,” he said loudly. The echo in the mine was muted, telling him the crash of timber and rock had momentarily deafened him, but his hearing was returning slowly. More than this, the words helped him regain his senses. Panic now would kill him.

  The lack of light confused him. He knew which direction he had been walking when he had stumbled, but the best he could guess was that the solid wall of rock had fallen between him and safety. Never had he wanted the hot Texas sun burning his face more. After tying his bandanna into place, he fumbled in his vest pocket until he found his tin of lucifers. A quick strike got a match lit to reveal the horror of his situation.

  Buried alive.

  This was probably his worst nightmare. He turned slowly, keeping the lucifer burning as long as he could. When it singed his fingers, he dropped it. The wood sputtered a second or two longer on the floor and then winked out. Slocum had his bearings now, though. He pressed his hands against the rock wall and shoved, hoping to dislodge a few rocks and dig a small tunnel to the outside. Air and light would go a long way toward restoring his composure.

  After pulling down rocks for what seemed an eternity, Slocum was no closer to digging through the rockfall than before he’d started. He lit a second lucifer to convince himself he had not gotten turned around and tried to claw his way through a side wall. If anything, he would have had better luck trying that. The plug of rock blocking his way out might extend for yards. He was lucky that he had stumbled when he did. If he had gone another few feet, the worst of the rockfall would have crushed him like a bug.

  “Lucky, yeah, that’s me,” he muttered. He sat and rested, gathering his strength and trying to come up with a way out of the mine.

  Thoughts flashing to the cannon he sought, a crazy plan formed. Find the cannon, load it, and blow his way through the rock. Even as the idea blossomed, it wilted. It was crazy. The explosion in such a cramped space would kill him, even if he found gunpowder, shot, and a cannon that would not blow up.

  “Tools,” he decided. They were the only way he was going to escape. Would a miner more than seventeen years ago have left a pick behind? A length of rod Slocum could use as a lever to pry stones loose? Anything?

  “It’s only money,” he said, finding the greenbacks wadded up in his shirt pocket. He folded several together, spit on them, and then lit the money. By wetting the bills, he kept them from burning too fast. Slocum used the light cast by the burning scrip to hurry deeper into the mine in his hunt for tools. As the money burned down, he took out more bills and let the first ignite the next.

  Deeper and deeper he went into the mine. The flickering light of burning ten-dollar bills showed where a miner had chipped away at the walls, hunting for precious metal. Not even fool’s gold reflected back as Slocum plunged deeper into the side of the mountain. An unexpected bend in the mine forced him to angle away and downward. Still no tools. The greenbacks had begun to turn to ash in his fingers when he saw it.

  He let out a yelp of triumph and lunged forward as the last of the bills he held flickered out. His fingers closed around a crowbar left behind by the last miner. More than this, he had spotted a few kegs of blasting powder. Eager now, he took out his tin of lucifers and felt inside for the matches.

  Slocum cried out again, this time in anger. He had one match left. One.

  Unable to see in the dark, Slocum felt around like a blind man, fingers seeking to make sense of what they touched. He found three small kegs of black powder. Using his crowbar to pry the end off one, Slocum dipped his finger into the powder inside and sniffed. It was blasting powder, but was it still good after so many years? If it had been left here more recently, Slocum knew he had a better chance of it igniting properly.

  But there was no way to test it first, not with only one match.

  Again, he sat in the dark and stewed. His mind turned over one scheme after another until only one came to him. He heaved a deep breath, stood, and picked up a keg of powder. Retracing his steps, he found the rockfall again by walking into it. He left the keg, counted steps back, and retrieved the other two.

  Then he spent what had to run into hours using the crowbar to pull down rock from the barrier between him and daylight to make a cavity suitable for holding two kegs of powder. He had done some blasting in his day, and knew the more rock he placed on the kegs, the more powerful the explosion would be in the direction he wanted.

  When he finished placing the two kegs, he used the contents of the one he had opened to make a fuse running back down the mine. He had gone ten paces when he ran out. The trail of gunpowder leading to the kegs buried in roc
k would act as a crude fuse. The resulting explosion would blast through the rock and open the mine again.

  If the gunpowder was still good. If the blast didn’t bring down more rock on his head. If he could even ignite the powder fuse.

  “To hell with it,” he said. “I can ‘if’ myself to death faster than I can blow myself up.”

  He fumbled about and found the end of the powder fuse, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his last lucifer. Slocum took a deep breath, then struck the match.

  It did not light.

  10

  Slocum held down his initial panic and tried the lucifer again. Still no familiar flame at the end of the wood stick. He tried a third time and broke the matchstick. He heard the pieces go skittering away in the darkness, but finding them would be impossible. The mine floor was covered with gravel and inch-deep dust in places.

  He sat down and collected his thoughts. He had been in worse spots before.

  “Steel, flint, spark,” he said, reaching down to pick up the crowbar. He swung it against the wall and sent the metal bar skittering along the face. No sparks. He tried other places, and got no satisfactory results. The iron was too corroded. Even if he used his knife, he doubted he could get a spark out of the rock. Everywhere he tried, the rock of the walls and floor was too soft to produce a spark good enough to ignite the powder. If the gunpowder would even catch fire.

  Slocum sat and thought some more, and finally he moaned as he realized he had the perfect way of setting fire to the fuse. He drew his six-shooter and cocked it. The Colt Navy felt familiar in his hand, and was a trusted companion that had gotten him out of worse predicaments than this.

  Once more, he felt around until he found the last of the gunpowder.

  “Let’s see if my luck’s changed,” he said, placing the muzzle at the end of the gunpowder trail. He pointed the barrel along the fuse, knowing the muzzle flash would be at least a foot long. This gave him a better chance of setting off his fuse. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

  The report was deafening in the closed space. He hoped it would not end up being his tomb. Slocum opened his eyes and saw the hissing, sizzling trail moving away from him toward the kegs of powder buried under his carefully placed rocks. Getting to his feet, he ran for all he was worth, banging his head repeatedly on the low ceiling. He slipped and skidded on his butt down the slope to where the gunpowder had been cached. He came to a halt as the explosion sent a crushing fist down the tunnel and again robbed him of hearing.

  In shock and unable to stand for several seconds, Slocum lay in the rubble caused by the new blast. When he struggled to his feet, he knew this was the moment of decision. He still had bullets left. He might have to use one on himself rather than die of suffocation or thirst in the utter darkness of the mine.

  He scrambled up the slope to the main shaft and cried out with relief. A tiny shaft of light angled toward him, causing him to squint. The sunlight came through a tiny hole at the top of the rockfall and was filtered by the choking cloud of dust kicked up by the explosion, but he had fresh air coming in—and a way out.

  Slocum picked up the rusty crowbar and ran to the pile of rocks. Where there had been big rocks, now there were fist-sized hunks and smaller. The blasting powder had done its work well. Applying the crowbar to the top of the pile, he levered out one rock after another, until there was room enough for him to get his head and shoulders into the small shaft he had first blasted and then cleared out by dint of hard work.

  Taking off his six-shooter, he shoved himself into the tiny passage and began wiggling like a snake. Sharp-edged rocks cut into him, but he did not mind. Every second brought him closer to the canyon and escape from a premature burial. When he finally flopped out, he simply lay in the light, letting the heat soak into his aching bones. Then he knew what had to be done. He got back up to his small crawl space and wormed his way halfway through until he could grab his gun belt. Backing up proved harder than he thought, and he got caught a couple times. He had mostly ripped away his vest and part of his shirt by the time he tumbled back out. But he had his six-gun, and wasted no time strapping it back on.

  He had defied death and was ready to whip his weight in wildcats.

  He stepped into the bright light, and was amazed to find the sun only a little past zenith. He thought he had been trapped in the mine for hours. He took out his pocket watch and stared at it. Then he shook it, turned the stem a couple times to be sure it was wound and ticking, and replaced it in his watch pocket.

  “I’ll be damned,” Slocum said. “Less than two hours. That’s all I was in there. I know what hell is going to be like now.”

  He dusted himself off, and had started to fetch his mare when he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. A lariat stretched out on the ground. It had been looped around a support for the mine roof and then tugged on hard enough to pull the beam free. Slocum picked the rope up and ran his fingers along it. This was a brand-new rope, and it had not been here when he had gone into the mine.

  His six-shooter came out of its holster and into his hand as he surveyed the terrain, hunting for whoever had tried to kill him. He saw nothing but the greasewood and mesquite bending gracefully in a rising afternoon wind. He closed his eyes and listened. Wind. Soft wind moving through vegetation and nothing more. Then, he realized whoever had pulled the support from the mine to kill him had a couple hours’ head start.

  Slocum slowly looped the rope and carried it downhill to where his mare strained and jerked on her bridle. He soothed the frightened horse. The succession of loud noises had spooked her, but Slocum felt the need to get on the trail right away.

  The trail of the son of a bitch who had tried to kill him.

  He rode straight to the canyon floor and cast an expert eye on the road he had followed in. His tracks were still visible in the hard ground. Another set, coming in and departing, had been added after his. That the hoofprints did not go past where Slocum had turned to go into the mine told him he had been followed. Whoever had ridden behind him had had only one thing in mind.

  Kill John Slocum.

  He touched the ebony butt of his Colt Navy and vowed the next shot would be through a cowardly heart. Slocum didn’t hold much with gunfighting, but it was more honest than bushwhacking a man or burying him alive in an old mine. He put his heels to the mare’s flanks and trotted along the road. There wouldn’t be any need to find new prints until he reached the mouth of the canyon. From this road, there was nowhere to go but out.

  When he reached the main road running into Bitter Springs, Slocum had to do some fancy tracking. The would-be killer had ridden away from town. As Slocum followed, an idea formed as to the identity of the man. Slocum couldn’t put a name to him, but he knew where to find him.

  When the tracks crossed solid rock, not even an Apache could follow. Slocum did not have to. He rode directly for Rebel Jack’s camp on the mesa. By an hour past sundown, he was a quarter mile away. Leaving his mare tethered, Slocum took the rope used to pull down the support beam and went the rest of the way up the narrow trail on foot. Somehow, in spite of it being a moonless night, his vision was acute and the starlight almost too brilliant for him. That was the difference between being trapped to die in a mine and being free under the wide-open sky.

  Rebel Jack either had not posted a sentry, or the man had decided to catch a few winks instead of standing guard. It hardly mattered to Slocum which it was. He was going into camp one way or the other—but he preferred to do it without anyone seeing him.

  He came to the rope corral where the outlaws’ horses were tied. They made small annoyed sounds as he drifted through the remuda. He found one with thorns in its legs and more than a few cuts showing it had been ridden earlier and the owner had not bothered tending his animal. Finding the saddle and gear belonging to the horse’s owner was equally simple. The only one without a lariat had to be the right one.

  Moving like a shadow, Slocum slipped closer to camp. Two fire
s blazed, one for cooking and the other to keep the men warm. He settled down a few yards away unnoticed. At first, he heard only the usual night sounds. Then, he began catching snippets of conversation. One seemed to boom loudly in his head.

  “Yup, I got even with him fer killin’ my cousin.”

  “You never said Toombs and you was related. How come?”

  “Would you admit bein’ cousin to a crazy man like Rufus? I didn’t say nuthin’, so neither did he. But he was blood.”

  “Blood,” agreed the second man. “You got to stand up for blood kin, no matter what.” There was a long pause, then: “You say you faced down Slocum? You killed him fair and square, Josh?”

  “I certainly did.” The sound of a pistol sliding across leather came to Slocum’s ears. He was going for his own six-shooter when he checked the motion. He caught a glint in the firelight of a man holding up a gun. Slocum hadn’t been spotted. Josh was only showing his partner how he had gotten the drop on Slocum and then gunned him down.

  “He’s fast. That’s what all of ’em in town said. And Rebel Jack said so, too. How’d you ever outdraw him?”

  “I’m fast,” Josh boasted. “I’m faster—I’m faster than Slocum ever was.” He laughed.

  “You gonna tell Jack? I think he was takin’ a shine to Slocum. And we got to find ourselves somebody else to fire that cannon if we’re gonna open up the bank like a tin of sardines.”

  “I kin fire the cannon, once we find it.”

  “Jack thought Slocum was our best chance of findin’ it. Ain’t none of us got any notion a’tall where the map is.”

  “He didn’t know either,” Josh said. “He was wanderin’ all over that canyon, lost as a little lamb. Then I butchered him like a goat!”

  “Still, Josh, you’re takin’ a big risk of offendin’ Jack.”

  “I ain’t afraid of him,” Josh declared. Slocum heard the slight quaver in the man’s boast. He was afraid of Rebel Jack Holtz. That meant he didn’t have the sense God gave a goose.