by Jake Logan
“Money to burn,” he said to himself. He had always wanted enough to use a bill to light a fancy cigar. There hadn’t been a cigar, but the burning money had saved his life. Being content with that was all he could do.
He stopped in the doorway of the small records room and frowned. Something gnawed at the corners of his mind.
“Burned,” he said, letting the word roll off his tongue. He turned back into the records and began looking for something more this time. The record books for 1862 were sparse. He did find what he sought. The city tax records showed how much of the town had been destroyed as the Confederate troops withdrew. It took little for Slocum to read between the lines that the fighting had been fierce, and the small detachment of CSA soldiers had been routed at great expense to property in Bitter Springs.
A small scribbled notation at the bottom of one record brought a smile to Slocum’s face. Jensen’s pharmacy had been left untouched, not only because he was a Southern sympathizer but also because he supplied medicines to the Federals. The old man had successfully played both sides of the conflict. Slocum leafed through more volumes, and was interrupted when the clerk returned.
“What are you doin’?” the young man asked. He adjusted his celluloid collar and looked uneasy. Slocum guessed the man’s lunch had been something more than a quick sandwich or bowl of stew. The way the man hitched up his pants suggested a tryst with some female companion had been on the menu.
“You were out with . . . her,” Slocum said, “so I decided to start my search.”
“Her?” the man said uneasily. “What do you mean?”
“You know who I mean,” Slocum said, “and it doesn’t bother me one jot. Can you tell me if Jensen’s store has been moved since it was built?”
“She, I, uh, no,” the young man stammered. “Jensen’s pharmacy? It’s been there since I got to town.”
“How long’s that been?” Slocum guessed the man was in his early twenties. The cannon would have been hidden back in ’62.
“I was five. Just after Sibley’s men blowed up the whole dang place. I still have nightmares.”
“You’re saying you got here seventeen years ago?”
“Maybe a tad more,” the clerk said, still not happy with Slocum or his knowledge of what had been happening during the long lunch.
“Thanks,” Slocum said. “I feel the need to get some headache powders.”
“Don’t expect much from Jensen. He’s a crotchety old bastard.”
“Yeah, but he’s got medicine for the clap,” Slocum said, winking to the clerk, who turned white with shock at the notion.
Slocum saw Tessa talking with the newspaper editor across the street, so he ducked down an alley and took a roundabout route to get to Jensen’s store. He stared at the dilapidated building, then took a dozen steps back to get an even better look at it from the rear. Like most of the buildings in Bitter Springs, it had been built up off the ground to afford crawl space underneath. Slocum considered crawling around to see what was beneath the store, then shivered at the memory of being trapped in the mine.
He slowly walked around the building, and stopped when he came upon a large rock near the front door. Slocum went to it and saw a small brass plate had been mounted on the side with the date of Sibley’s invasion. The words “NEVER FORGET” were scratched into the plate just above the date.
“Never forget,” Slocum mused. He pressed his hand against the plate. After all the years, it was still fastened securely to the rock.
Looking around and not seeing anyone paying a bit of attention to him, Slocum took out his knife and drove the tip under one edge of the plate. He pried off the brass plate and then let out a sigh of resignation. Getting to this point had been easy, and he thought he would find a small cavity behind the plate with a map stuffed into it.
Bare rock met his gaze. He tapped the rock with his knife. Solid rock.
“I must be on the wrong track,” Slocum said, putting the brass plate back. As he started to tap it into place with the butt end of his knife, he stopped and stared. Flipping the brass plate around and wiping off accumulated dirt made him whoop with glee.
Etched into the back of the plate was a crude map of Bitter Springs. A prominent X drew his attention. Slocum oriented the metal map, and saw that the X indicated a spot on the western mesa overlooking town. If the Rebels had shelled the town, they would have created the most havoc firing from the heights.
“What you doin’? You lookin’ to steal from me?” Jensen wobbled out of his pharmacy and peered nearsightedly at Slocum.
“Just taking a break,” Slocum said. He moved so he could push the plate back into the rock where it had been. He had popped the screws used to hold it firmly into the rock, but doubted Jensen would notice.
“You’re nothin’ but a lazy layabout, takin’ a break in the middle of the afternoon. I ought to tell that preacher fella about you. He’d fire your ass!”
“I’m sure he would,” Slocum said.
“Git along and quit scarin’ my customers off.”
“If I scared any away, I’d be saving their lives,” Slocum said.
“What’s that? You insolent young pup! I tried to show you some charity. I let you drink with me, but you’re like the rest of ’em. No loyalty!”
Slocum walked off, leaving Jensen to rant drunkenly about ingrates and customers who wouldn’t pay. He slowed as he went by the church. The carpenters had left for the day, although there were still a couple hours of sunlight left. It might be the hottest part of the day, but Slocum could not believe they had taken a siesta and then would return at twilight to finish their work. He walked over as Preacher Dan came out from the husk of a church.
“Found the information,” Slocum said. “Looks like you’ve got title free and clear.”
“That’s good to hear,” the man said, distracted. He looked around and then behind him into the church.
“Is anything wrong?”
“What? Oh, no, nothing’s wrong,” Preacher Dan said. “Work is going well.”
“So well that you sent the workmen home for the day?”
“They had done so much, and I need to get more supplies. ”
“Let me have the list, and I’ll go get them now,” Slocum offered.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Preacher Dan said hastily. “Tomorrow morning will be fine.”
Slocum wondered what was wrong. If he fetched the building materials now, the workmen would have them when they showed up at dawn. If he took the time the next day to get the wood and whatever else Preacher Dan needed, the carpenters would sit around with nothing to do.
“Are you running out of money?”
“Of course not,” the preacher said tartly. “There’s more than enough in the bank to cover our expenses.” Preacher Dan took a few steps, stopped, took a step to the side, and looked around.
“If you don’t need me anymore, I have an errand to run,” Slocum said. The preacher dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Whatever Dan Whitmore was doing looked like the dance of a prairie chicken. He stepped a few paces one way, then retreated and paced in another direction. Slocum thought the preacher might have a touch of sunstroke, but it wasn’t his place to ask. If Tessa saw her pa acting strangely, she would be in a better position to do something about it.
Slocum considered finding her, then saw her coming down the street. He wanted to explore the mesa overlooking the town for sign of the cannon, so he took off at a brisk pace, acting as if he had not seen her. Having to deal with her pa’s loco behavior and with the need to keep her occupied was solved by Slocum ducking around the back of the church.
Tessa came up and spoke several seconds with her father. Then the two of them started hopping about, moving hither and yon, pointing and exchanging hot words. Slocum couldn’t hear from where he stood, and decided he did not want to know what went on. He went to the livery stables, got his mare, and was on his way out of town within a few minutes, heading along the road to Fort Suddere
th.
The trail leading to the top of the mesa was soon apparent to him, and he turned up it. The mare balked at the sight of the steep route, but Slocum kept her moving and in no time they reached the tabletop of land.
Slocum pushed his hat back on his forehead and looked around. This was nothing like he expected. He had thought the Confederate artillerists would have wrestled their howitzer up the same trail he had taken. The back side of the mesa sloped down evenly toward the desert to the west. A heavily loaded caisson could follow the gun carriage up with little effort to a spot looking down on Bitter Springs. Slocum rode to the edge of the mesa and saw gas lamps lighted in windows of houses below.
He judged distances and range of war-era cannons, and decided this position would have been perfect for stopping Federal troops from rushing down from Fort Union, going down into Texas, and then circling around to attack Mesilla after General Sibley had left. If Mesilla surrendered quickly, the Union force could have followed Sibley north along the Rio Grande and cut off any possible retreat if he had faltered in his attack at Fort Craig or Albuquerque.
Satisfied that this was a tactical position even a green artillery officer would have selected, Slocum wheeled his horse around and studied the flat land. If the Confederates had abandoned their cannon and buried it here, as the etched brass map suggested, they would have chosen a spot easily found again. There would not have been time to do much elaborate camouflage. But even if the Federals were hot on their heels, they could have had time to dig a hole and cover up their howitzer.
Seventeen years of wind and rain would have erased obvious signs of where the soldiers had buried the artillery piece. But Slocum thought there had to be something still there that would mark the spot. He had started riding back and forth, looking for landmarks, when he heard the jingle of spurs and the loud neighing of a horse protesting the steep climb up from Bitter Springs.
He rode toward the head of the trail, then drew rein when the voices echoed up to him.
“You sure it’s him, Heyward?”
“All I know is the description that cranky old bastard gave me,” came a young voice that almost cracked. “Said the owlhoot was trying to steal a rock or something. I couldn’t make head nor tail of his complaint, but the description’s the one Jeffers posted.”
Rangers.
Slocum wasted no time in turning his mare’s head and starting down the back side of the mesa, its slope seeming more extreme now that he was on it. His horse slipped and skidded and kicked up a considerable cloud of dust. That it was almost dark made the descent more dangerous, but Slocum had no choice. When he got to the bottom of the incline, he put his heels to his horse and rocketed off.
“Stop, stop or we’ll shoot!” came the faint command from behind. The Texas Rangers had spotted him right away and were in hot pursuit.
Slocum bent low and got his mare into a full-out gallop. He could not keep up this pace for more than a couple minutes, but he needed to put distance between himself and the lawmen so he could think.
Bullets tearing along after him kept him from doing too much more than ducking low and praying he could keep sufficient distance from the Rangers so they had no chance of hitting him. In the saddle, with their six-shooters blazing, only an accidental shot could get him. No man galloped and fired a handgun accurately.
The heavier, throatier report of a rifle caused him to bend even lower. A man astride a horse using a rifle was another kettle of fish. He had seen a Wild West show where a rider galloped full speed and shot clay pipes out of the mouths of his assistants. At the time, Slocum had wondered how many assistants the marksman had to hire in a year, but after that show there had been no need to wonder. He had shot eight clay pipes out of eight mouths with a single ride past.
Slocum considered getting off the road heading north and circling back to Bitter Springs. He discarded the idea quickly, though, when he knew how easy it would be to find him in the small town. Whose horse would be lathered? Only his. And Jensen had sent the Texas Rangers after him because he had been fiddling around with the brass plate. If the lawmen got too curious and examined the plate, they might figure out its importance.
Feeling his horse begin to tire under him, Slocum slowed the pace, and finally saw a small trail leading off the road. He trotted down it before realizing where it headed. If he kept on this trail, he would lead the Rangers directly into Rebel Jack’s camp.
A wicked grin came to his lips. That might not be so bad. If the Rangers took out Jack Holtz, Slocum would have free rein to do as he pleased back in Bitter Springs. He might need some help, but there might be a way he could fire the cannon and still get the money from the bank safe.
“He’s not far ahead, I tell you,” came the adolescent voice of the Ranger named Heyward. Slocum wondered if the Ranger had owl eyes, able to see in the dark. He had thought the trail was well enough hidden that a casual rider would miss it out on the road. He had been wrong. Obviously. The Rangers pushed their horses harder than he could his mare.
Slocum looked up and saw how far he was from the outlaw camp. He could never get up the trail before the Rangers caught him. Whipping out his six-shooter, Slocum turned in the saddle and fired into the darkness behind him.
“Rangers!” he shouted. His warning echoed all the way down the narrow canyon, and had to reach the top of the mesa where Rebel Jack camped.
He fired until his six-gun came up empty, then sought a spot to make his stand. A rifle could either ventilate the Rangers or hold them at bay until Holtz sent his gang to investigate.
Slocum ruefully admitted he might be wrong. Hearing the warning, Holtz might simply climb on his horse and ride in the opposite direction. His gang would be at his heels.
Hitting the ground at a run, he stumbled and regained his balance in time to flop behind a large rock. He hefted his rifle and waited. A shadowy rider appeared on the trail. Slocum sighted and fired. And missed. The rider ducked low and wheeled his horse around.
“He’s gone to ground, Heyward. Let’s get him from both sides.”
Slocum wondered at the older Ranger, who ought to be more experienced, shouting an order like that. Then he went cold inside. The Ranger was trying to flush him like a mourning dove. Slocum swung to his left and looked hard at the desert. Nothing moved. He spun around just as the crunch of boots on gravel alerted him. His rifle leveled on the young Ranger.
The man’s eyes went wide.
“I didn’t think you were here,” the Ranger said. His voice broke.
“We’re a-comin’ to yer rescue!” The loud cry from higher on the mountainside told Slocum that Holtz’s gang was willing to mix it up with Texas Rangers. Whether Rebel Jack had spurred them on with the promise that rescuing Slocum would get them the cannon needed to rob the bank, or whether they were only looking for a fight, he did not know. Four mounted men came down the trail from above.
“On your belly. Now!” Slocum snapped at the Ranger. The youngster dropped like a sack of suet.
The four outlaws rode past Slocum, intent on firing at the other Ranger, who had taken flight.
When Rebel Jack’s henchmen were gone, chasing the other Ranger, Slocum went to the one he had caught.
He looked down at the Ranger in wonder. He was hardly eighteen, if that.
“You’re mighty young to be a Ranger, aren’t you?”
“Go on, get it over with.”
Slocum stepped up and kicked hard, sending the six-shooter in the boy’s hand flying.
“You can kill me now. I’m unarmed.”
“Maybe I would have killed you if you hadn’t tried to shoot me,” Slocum said. “I like a man with spunk. Get up.”
“I’d rather die facing the man who cut me down.”
“You’ve got too many romantic notions in that thick head of yours. Get rid of them,” Slocum said. “Get rid of them and maybe you’ll live a long life.”
“You’re not going to kill me?” The Ranger sounded incredulous.
“I don’t shoot unarmed men,” Slocum said. “Take off before the others return. They wouldn’t hesitate to put a few slugs into you.”
“Why are you letting me go?”
“Why are you trying to talk me out of it?” Slocum shot back. He lifted his rifle and pointed out into the desert in the general direction of Bitter Springs. “If you hurry, you can get back to town before dawn.”
The young man turned and started off, obviously expecting to get shot in the back. When he realized this wasn’t going to happen, he walked faster, head held high.
Slocum lifted his rifle and fired.
13
“Did you get him, Slocum?”
Slocum looked over his shoulder at Rebel Jack Holtz, sitting astride his horse. Lowering his rifle, he turned and nodded.
“Let’s go see how good your shot was.”
“I got him,” Slocum said.
“Nevertheless, I want to see,” Holtz insisted. “You were a top-notch sniper. It always pleases me to see an expert at work.”
“I got him,” Slocum repeated. He moved as Holtz started to ride past to go find the Ranger’s body. “Are you saying I didn’t?”
“What’s got you so hot under the collar?”
“Hey, Jack,” called an outlaw from the distant road. “The son of a bitch got away.”
“What? How’d that happen?” Rebel Jack sawed at his reins and trotted a skittish horse to the road. Slocum lifted his rifle and considered what a single shot might do for his future. He lowered the Winchester and found his mare. He swung into the saddle about the time Rebel Jack returned, looking like a storm had settled over his head.
“Those idiots,” the outlaw leader raged. “They let him get away. We got a Ranger runnin’ around loose.”