Slocum and the Rebel Cannon

by Jake Logan

  He should have been afraid of John Slocum.

  Slocum judged where the campfire was in relation to the sheer drop-off. He circled, found a sturdy rock, and secured the end. He played out the rest of the rope, got a loop formed, and then began swinging it over his head. Slocum had worked enough herds to be expert in roping. For a moment, he felt a pang that he had left the Double Cross Ranch and Mr. Benton, but there was no way the ranch owner could have kept his herd going after so many disasters had befallen him.

  Slocum started walking toward the campfire, whirling the rope above his head. Another disaster was about to befall one of Rebel Jack’s henchmen.

  He got all the way up to the circle of light cast by the fire before the men noticed. Slocum knew they might be half-drunk, or maybe they were just too confident the Rangers and other lawmen would never find them perched on the top of this mesa.

  “Wha—” Josh jumped to his feet and stared. When he recognized Slocum, he blanched. Then he went for his gun. He was far too late. Slocum let fly with the lariat. The loop dropped neatly around the man’s upper arms. A hard yank cinched the rope down so tight, Josh could not move his arms, much less draw his pistol.

  “You shouldn’t have used this rope to pull out the support in the mine,” Slocum said. “I reckon I’ll have to show you how the rope ought to be used.”

  “Slocum, wait, you son of a bitch!” Josh struggled to get free, but Slocum was already dragging him from the fire. When the outlaw went to his knees, Slocum pulled harder and pulled him through the dirt. “You can’t get away with this, Slocum!”

  “Like you thought you could get away with burying me alive in that mine?” Slocum dug his heels in and yanked with all his strength. Josh went sliding, hit a slope, and then tumbled over the side of the mesa.

  His agonized shrieks cut through the night like the howl of a banshee.

  “Good Lord, man, you done throwed him over the cliff.” Josh’s partner, Sam, ran to the edge and looked over. “He’s just danglin’ down there. That rope’s cuttin’ into his arms.”

  “If he struggles too much, he’ll fall. How far do you think it is to the bottom of the cliff?”

  “More’n a hundred feet, I’d say.” Sam turned to his friend and turned back, not sure what he ought to do.

  By this time, the rest of the Holtz gang had come running, including Rebel Jack himself.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on, Slocum?”

  “I was just getting rid of some garbage,” Slocum said. The rope bounced all over the edge of the cliff as Josh continued to swing about and fight to get free.

  “Jack, he throwed Josh over the side. That’s him screamin’ bloody murder down there.” Sam chanced another look over the side of the cliff.

  “Bloody murder,” Slocum said coldly. “That’s what he tried to do to me. He had his chance.”

  “What are you going to do, Slocum?” Holtz demanded. “I need all the men . . .” His voice trailed off as Slocum drew his six-shooter.

  Slocum aimed and fired. The first slug tore through half the rope holding Josh.

  “Damn,” Slocum said. “Missed. Must be I’m still shook up from being buried in that mine most of the afternoon.” He fired again. This round cut through the remaining strands of the rope.

  Josh’s frightened cries could be heard all the way down to the bottom of the cliff. The wet smashing noise sounded like a pumpkin had been dropped from the top of the mesa.

  “Must have hit his head. I hope the rest of that snake’s dead. I’d hate to have to go down there to finish the job,” Slocum said. He held his six-gun easily, looking around the circle of men staring at him aghast. Sam kept his hands far from his six-shooter, to be certain Slocum did not decide to plug him and add to what might become a pile of corpses at the bottom of the cliff.

  “You let him fall,” one said.

  “He shouldn’t have left his rope behind. It must have frayed when he pulled that support out.”

  “Josh was Toombs’s cousin, Jack,” said Sam. “I never knowed that. Did you?”

  “His cousin? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Rebel Jack said. “Josh was from New Jersey. Toombs was a Texican born and bred. They weren’t related.”

  “But he said—”

  Slocum lowered the hammer on his six-shooter with a metallic click that silenced the man. Josh had lied to give himself a reason to kill Slocum and then brag on it. There might have been other reasons, but Slocum had never seen Josh before. That meant the dead man was only out to kill to enhance his standing in the Holtz gang.

  “He fell the whole danged way,” said another of the gang, tentatively looking over the edge of the cliff. He turned and stared at Slocum with a mixture of fear and admiration in his eyes. “Josh was a lyin’ sidewinder who never did anything honest in his life.”

  “He woulda double-crossed us all,” said another. “I say that Slocum here just kept us all from gettin’ killed in our sleep!”

  “Looks like you done us all a favor, Slocum,” said Holtz. He slapped Slocum on the shoulder, then grinned insincerely. “Yes, sir, you did us a good deed gettin’ rid of a mudererin’ son of a bitch in our midst.”

  Slocum said nothing. They were all mudering sons of bitches.

  Holtz looked around, then steered Slocum away from the edge of the cliff and to the spot near the fire where Josh and his partner had been only a few minutes earlier.

  “Set yourself down. I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I didn’t find the cannon,” Slocum said flat out. “If there’s a map, I’m not sure where to find it either.”

  “Where’d you look?”

  Slocum was slow in replying. Rebel Jack was more interested in the cannon than he was in the death of one of his henchmen. From all Slocum could tell, Josh had been Holtz’s right-hand man. The outlaw leader’s easy acceptance of Slocum killing him revealed more about Holtz than anyone needed to know. He would turn his loyalty on its ear if it suited him. Nobody in his gang was indispensable— except Rebel Jack Holtz himself.

  “If the army retreated, they would have gone down the canyon leading eventually to Sidewinder. From there, they could escape into the desert since Fort Suddereth hadn’t been built yet. No Federal force would have followed. But the mines in that canyon are all played out.”

  “Perfect place to hide a cannon,” Holtz interrupted.

  “I thought so, but I had plenty of time to reconsider,” Slocum said. “Somebody would have found the cannon in the past seventeen years. I didn’t find a whole lot of evidence, but I know prospectors. More than a few of them have rummaged around in those mines, hunting for usable equipment or even color missed by earlier miners. They would have come on the cannon.”

  “What would a prospector want with a cannon? They’da left it.”

  “People in Bitter Springs would have heard about it. I followed the best lead I could from a crotchety old man at the pharmacy.” Slocum fell silent.

  “The map. I know there’s a map,” insisted Holtz. “Find it and we got ourselves a cannon!”

  “Where do I look for the map?” Slocum asked. The only answer he got was a shake of Holtz’s head. The outlaw leader had no idea.

  Slocum was plumb out of ideas, too.

  But that bank with its tempting gold was a lure he wasn’t going to deny.

  11

  Slocum was reluctant to ride back into Bitter Springs, but he felt he had reached a point where he had nothing to lose. The sight of the bank made his mouth water. Before, it had been a fantasy robbing the bank. Now, it was something more. The money he had found in the strongbox out on the desert was all gone up in smoke. He looked down at his right thumb and index finger. The skin was still blistered where he had held the money as he burned it to light his way through the collapsed mine. It might have been money well spent— burned up—since it had kept him alive. The only regret he had was the waste.

  He could have bought more than that señorita and bottle of pulque do
wn in Mexico. A string of horses, a few cattle, he could have become a landowner. The idea of constantly drifting wore down on him at times, as it did now. He had lawmen of all kinds after him, as well as the cavalry. He had thrown in with Rebel Jack Holtz, and didn’t trust the man enough to even turn his back on him. His life was one giant balancing act, as if he stood on a rope stretched between two high peaks. The slightest mistake and he would tumble to his death.

  The money could have given him time to settle down and rest a mite. It would have given him choices.

  Slocum snorted as he swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. It would never happen. If he had a small spread with a few head of cattle, he would be bored in a month and gone in two. Danger was a part of his life— any life. For him, it gave definition, and he appreciated the things it brought to him.

  He smiled when he saw Tessa Whitmore coming across the street in his direction.

  “Where have you been?” she asked without so much as a “Hello, how are you?”

  “Been out roaming around the countryside. This is good country. Might settle down here.” He almost laughed as her blue eyes went wide in horror. Tessa covered her shock well and waved her hand about as if shooing away flies— or bad ideas.

  “Nonsense, John. You’re helping Papa. There is a huge project under way, and he needs all the trustworthy help he can get.”

  “I see he’s moved the wagon and done some digging. What’s that about?” Across from the bank, where Preacher Dan had had his wagon before, was now a thriving construction site. Half a dozen men swung hammers and worked on building the church. There had been a fair amount of digging and dirt had been piled up head-high all around, more than Slocum remembered from his examination a couple days earlier.

  “A new church takes a considerable amount of hard work to construct,” Tessa said. “Papa likes Bitter Springs so much he decided to build a ministry here.”

  “Do tell,” Slocum said. “That going to be your church? Behind all the piles of dirt?”

  “Oh, yes,” Tessa said with glee, ignoring his implied question about the dirt. “It is going to be about perfect. The foundation is in and helpers are working on the walls. In only a day or two the roof will be set into place, though the actual time to completing the project might amount to weeks.”

  "Why’s that?”

  She looked at him sharply, then relaxed as if she understood things he had no idea about.

  “There’s another church,” she said.

  “Saw it at the other end of town as I rode around,” Slocum said. “So?”

  “The pastor is adamant about keeping Papa from building this church. He has preached against us and is trying to turn his flock into vigilantes.”

  “Vigilantes?”

  “He hasn’t quite come out and advocated stoning—or burning down our church—but he is perilously close.”

  “That’s not a Christian thing to do,” Slocum observed. Tessa was less outraged at this than she was amused. He wondered why. “Something must have put a burr under his saddle.”

  “It’s because of the way Papa raises money, I suspect. Pastor Gantt does not mix commerce with Gospel.”

  Slocum had to laugh. He suspected Preacher Dan sold as much snake oil as he did salvation. Both could line his pockets well, but the combination added a few extra dollars to the donation bucket not available to Gantt.

  “The pastor is quite serious, John. I fear there might be real trouble.”

  “You want me to guard the church at night?” Slocum’s eyes narrowed at the horrified expression on Tessa’s face. She shook her head vehemently.

  “That won’t be necessary, not at all. I’m sure Pastor Gantt is, at heart, a gracious and peaceable man.” She nervously smoothed her skirts and flashed him an insincere smile. “If you will excuse me, I need to go to City Hall and look through some records.”

  “What are you hunting for?” Slocum asked. He wondered if he could ask Tessa to look for the map showing the location of the hidden cannon, if there even was a map—or a cannon. From her businesslike manner, he doubted she would be willing to take the time for his pursuit. He would have to do the searching himself, and he preferred to ask around. People provided easier access to information than a pile of dusty old record books.

  Besides, it gave him the chance to drink a whiskey or two.

  “You should find Papa and let him know you’ve finally returned. I am sure there is plenty he can have you do.”

  Slocum started to tell her he wasn’t inclined to work for Preacher Dan, and then remembered how he had burned through his entire poke in the mine. He had a few coins left from his Double Cross pay jingling in his pocket, but not enough to get by on for very long. A job with the preacher would not pay much, but it would be better than no job at all. More than this, it gave him a reason to be around Tessa. For all her brusqueness right now, he had seen her fiery side and liked it. As soon as she found what she looked for in the town records and was no longer focused on that chore, he suspected he would not have to worry about where he was going to sleep at night.

  “Where can I find him?” Slocum asked.

  Tessa looked around, as if she expected to see her father behind her; then she pointed.

  “Down the street at the general mercantile. He was buying tools for use on the church. It is going to be so hard to build, you know.”

  Slocum wondered why. All Preacher Dan needed were four walls and a roof, and he had done fine without them before. He had not lacked for a crowd when he stood on the back of his wagon to preach his sermons and sell his elixirs. From the industry of the men at work on the church, it was mostly done, except for the roof and finishing off the interior.

  “I’ll see what needs to be done. I was a fair carpenter once upon a time.”

  “Were you now?” Tessa said, the sparkle coming to her eyes. She smiled her wicked smile and added in a whisper, “I’d love to see what we could build together, you hammering and me getting nailed.”

  With that she was off, swaying seductively just for his benefit. Slocum shook his head. He could not quite figure her out. Rather than spending more time trying, he set out for the general store, keeping a sharp watch out for any Texas Rangers. He had not seen a town marshal. Bitter Springs probably did not need one with Fort Suddereth so close by and the Texas Rangers company over in Sidewinder. That suited him just fine. If he could not find the cannon and use Holtz’s plan to blow open the safe in the bank, he would come up with some other scheme to get the money himself.

  “It’s the challenge,” he told himself. That, and he had taken an instant dislike to the bank president. Butter wouldn’t melt in Mort Thompson’s mouth; then he would turn around and foreclose on a man’s property if there was even one payment late.

  “There you are, Jethro,” called Dan Whitmore. The preacher waved him over. “I got a load of goods I need taken to the church. You’re just the man to do it.”

  “I need to talk a moment,” Slocum said, taking Preacher Dan aside. He explained his lack of funds and finished, “I’ll do what I can to help with the building, but other than this, I don’t want a whole lot to do with the sermons.”

  “If you work on the church, you should attend services,” Preacher Dan said solemnly. “It’s for the good of your immortal soul.” When he saw Slocum was going to balk, he quickly added, “However, your effort in the name of the Lord will be appreciated greatly. A dollar a day and food. I suspect you can make your own arrangements where you sleep.”

  Slocum looked at Preacher Dan sharply, wondering if this was a broad hint that the man guessed Slocum was sleeping with his daughter. If Whitmore knew, he didn’t give any sign of it bothering him much. Slocum had never seen a preacher and his daughter more ambivalent about the nature of sin. That suited him just fine.

  “All of this?” Slocum looked at the pile of equipment, and wondered why Preacher Dan had bought so much wood already sawed to short lengths. The four-by-fours were hardly three
feet long and not good for much of anything.

  “All of it. There ought to be twenty of those,” Preacher Dan said, pointing to the four-by-fours, “and all that planking. ”

  “I hope you got it for a song and a dance,” Slocum said, eyeing the planks. They had been cut into three-foot-wide pieces and none was longer than six feet. “That’s going to take a whale of a lot of nailing to get put up. You should have bought bigger pieces.”

  “Donations,” Preacher Dan said confidentially. “As the Good Book says, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Slocum wondered at this. For all the wood, there were few enough boxes of nails. Two kinds of shovels completed the order.

  “I can carry it piecemeal or take most of it in one trip in the wagon.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Preacher Dan said. “The owner offered the use of a barrow. Use that. No need to hurry. Just get it done before sundown. I’m holding a prayer meeting for all the volunteers—you need not come, Jethro, unless you want—and they can use the wood as crude pews.”

  Slocum didn’t see it, but he was not going to argue. A dollar a day and food was coming his way for the easy work of moving sawed wood. He wheeled the barrow around, loaded the first of the short four-by-fours, and began wheeling them down to the church. As he returned for the second load, he saw Preacher Dan pressed up against a wall, a man stabbing his finger in Whitmore’s chest.

  “You are nothing but a charlatan, a poser, a pretender! You are the pawn of Satan!” The man shoved Whitmore back when he tried to escape and continued his tirade.

  “Jethro. Jethro!” Preacher Dan waved to Slocum.

  “What can I do for you?” Slocum asked. The man holding Preacher Dan against the wall did not budge. Slocum stepped up onto the boardwalk and moved in such a way that he crowded the man out. For a moment, Slocum thought he was going to have to fight. The man cocked his fist back as if he was ready to unload a haymaker, then stepped away.