by Jake Logan
“There’s an entire company of Rangers down in Sidewinder,” Slocum pointed out. “This is going to make it really hot around here.”
“They got other troubles,” Holtz said after thinking on it. “All they know is that one of their boys got gunned down. You did a good job, Slocum, but it might mean a whale of a lot of trouble for us.”
“The company’s in Sidewinder to fight Indians,” Slocum said. “Any word on the Warm Springs Apaches who left their reservation over in Arizona?”
“We don’t hear much gossip out in the tules,” Holtz said. “I don’t like the men goin’ into Bitter Springs, not after you cut down Rufus Toombs.”
“Smart,” Slocum said. “If the Rangers spot any of the gang there, all hell would break loose, and I’d never be able to show you where the cannon is hidden.” Slocum waited for Holtz to understand what had just been said. It took only an instant.
“You found it? You got the cannon? Whoopee!”
“Hold your horses,” Slocum cautioned. “I found the map, but the Rangers came after me before I could dig up the cannon.”
“But you know where it is? Tell me about it!”
“Let’s get on back to camp, and I’ll lay out what I know,” Slocum said. He looked over his shoulder in the direction taken by the young Ranger, Heyward. Nothing moved out there. Good.
“You yahoos keep huntin’ for the Ranger,” Holtz shouted.
“What good’s that going to do?” Slocum asked. “He’s long gone. If they rile up the dust on the road, it’ll make finding our camp all the easier.”
Holtz grumbled, then countered his own order and got the line of four outlaws moving up the trail ahead of him and Slocum. As they rode, Slocum listened to Holtz complaining about damn near everything, including how so many of his gang had lit out like scalded dogs. The four on the trail were the only ones remaining loyal to Holtz.
“Makes for more money when we divvy it up,” Slocum said.
“Right,” Holtz said. The tone Holtz used told Slocum a double cross was in the works. If he helped Holtz and his men get the gold from the bank, he was likely to find himself holding an empty bag—and maybe end up the scapegoat for the entire robbery. Holtz was not likely to shed many tears if Slocum was nabbed by the Texas Rangers while the Rebel got away with the stolen gold.
They settled into the camp, Holtz sending the other four out to stand watch. All protested, making Slocum think they would be less than observant once they reached their posts. The chance that the Rangers would come riding into camp was slim, though, and Slocum listened to both the complaints and Rebel Jack’s arguments for vigilance with half an ear.
He poked at the campfire and watched the embers dance about. As hot as it was during the day in the desert, it got mighty cold at night. He warmed his hands, and then added a few twigs to build the heat.
“Where is it, Slocum? The sooner we get it set up, the quicker we’ll be rich men.” Holtz rubbed his hands together more from the thoughts of riches than any need to warm them.
“I found the map on the back of a brass plaque,” Slocum explained. “The cannon has to be buried on the mesa overlooking the town.”
“That’d give us a clear shot at the bank. Can you do it?”
“We’ll need cannonballs and shot. And wadding. And unless they buried the fuses and rams alongside, we’ll need all that, too,” Slocum said.
“We can come by that. All except maybe the cannonballs. ”
“It wasn’t hard to get the cannon to the top of the mesa. It wouldn’t have been much harder to get a caisson up there, too. I suspect they buried everything we’ll need, except the gunpowder. If they buried a couple kegs alongside the cannon, it might be worthless by now.” Slocum knew the sun beating down, even on buried black powder, would do more to ruin it than storing it in a cool, dark place like the bottom of a mine shaft. He had been lucky once. He doubted it would happen again that he found all the powder he wanted exactly where he needed it most.
“I’ve got that taken care of,” Holtz said.
“Then all we need to do is figure out where on that mesa Sibley’s raiders buried their artillery.”
“Do you think there might be another map? Something showing the exact location instead of just a general one?”
Slocum looked at Holtz, wondering if the man actually believed him. In the brief time during the war that their paths had crossed, Holtz had always been suspicious of everyone around him. It might have kept him alive then, but made for an undesirable trait in a partner now.
“Could be,” Slocum said slowly. “You know something I don’t?”
“Just heard rumors, nothing more,” Holtz assured him.
“If I was an officer in charge of a battery, I’d hide my cannon where anyone could find it—if he was hunting for it.”
“So you think the cannon is on the mesa in some place where it would be obvious to dig?”
“Something like that,” Slocum said. “I didn’t get a good look around, but there must be some markers that wouldn’t weather away. A pile of rocks, a place where shadows cross, something.”
“Shadows,” muttered Holtz. “If I was hightailin’ it and had to leave behind my guns, I’d use something at sundown to mark it. The shadows of distant mountains maybe.”
“What time of year was it? The sun moves all around from summer to winter.”
“Dang,” cried Holtz. “I don’t rightly know. If it wasn’t right now, finding it will be impossible unless we wait for the right time of year.”
“I want to look around some more before we go cutting our own throats out of despair,” Slocum said. “You got any food? My belly’s rubbing up against my backbone it’s been so long since I ate.”
“Look around real good, men,” Holtz ordered his henchmen. “Slocum says the cannon is buried somewhere on this mesa.”
“What if it ain’t? Then we’d be wastin’ our time,” griped one gunman. He rested his hand on the butt of his six-shooter in a way that made Slocum wonder if he intended to draw and fire. Whether his target would be Holtz or him, Slocum did not want to predict. If there was so much as a twitch in the man’s gun hand, Slocum intended to draw and shoot to kill.
The four in Holtz’s gang had done nothing but complain from the time they broke camp. Holtz had tried to explain to them the Rangers would come swooping down on their camp as soon as they got a few men together from the Sidewinder company. The outlaws had not sounded convinced as they rode out, grumbling all the way.
“What do you want them to do, Slocum?” Rebel Jack eyed Slocum closely.
Slocum turned in a full circle, taking in the expanse of the mesa above Bitter Springs. He saw nothing that suggested a good spot to dig, much less markers the soldiers would have used to show where they hid the cannon.
“Have them spread out and look around. There might be some kind of spike driven into the ground.”
“That wouldn’t be around so long after they left. The dust would have covered it up,” Holtz said.
“Might be we have to ask the pharmacist down in the town a few questions. He was around when the fighting went on, and he put the plaque with the map onto the rock.”
“Sounds like we can beat an answer or two out of him,” Holtz said, warming to the notion of some violence against civilians. He had not changed much since the war.
“Hey, Jack, come take a look,” called one of his men. He pointed at the ground. “This look like anything important?”
Holtz ran over. Slocum followed more slowly, getting his bearings. Where Holtz was digging around in the dirt was not a spot Slocum would have chosen to bury a cannon. There was nothing significant about it. He had the feeling the gun crew had found a spot that ought to be obvious to any other Rebel gunner who returned hunting for the cannon.
“Lookee here,” Holtz said, holding up a silver dollar. “Some cowhand dropped a cartwheel.” He scowled as he flipped it to the man who had found it. “That look like a damned cannon?”
“It was s
hiny, Jack. I thought—”
“You thought? You never had a thought in all your born days,” raged Holtz.
“Keep looking,” Slocum said. He didn’t much care if Holtz and his henchman shot it out. He did care about finding the cannon. The more he walked around, the more he felt this was the right place. There was no question that the mesa commanded the town, and the roads coming from both south and north afforded easy access. This was a perfect spot.
Slocum turned and looked back down the slope to the west leading from the mesa top. He might have been wrong about what the map meant. It could have been nothing more than instructions copied from orders on where to put a gun emplacement. The artillerists might have retreated with their cannon and hidden—or abandoned—the field piece somewhere west of here. They might have, but it didn’t seem right to Slocum.
He suspected the gun was here, if it was anywhere. Jensen would not have bothered with the map on the brass plate otherwise.
Carefully pacing from one side to the other did not reveal anything that struck him as important. Holtz and his four men were less diligent about their hunt. The four often clustered together, whispering among themselves. Slocum watched them closely, ready to shoot it out if they took it into their heads to reduce the number of shares again by killing him. After a half hour of searching, Slocum thought Rebel Jack might be a more likely target. The four gunmen watched him far more closely than they did Slocum.
After another half hour, the sun had risen high enough in the sky to make existence unbearable. The four went to Holtz and spoke for some time. Slocum guessed what they were talking over and it did not please him.
“Slocum,” Rebel Jack said, coming up and putting an arm around his shoulders. Slocum shrugged off the arm and stepped away. “The boys got a problem hunting without actually seeing the map. It’d go a ways toward keepin’ them happy if we could all take a gander at it.”
“Down there,” Slocum said pointing over the edge of the mesa. “Behind the brass plaque on the rock.”
“We’re not doubting you none. Might be you got it wrong.”
“The only way I might have got it wrong is . . .” Slocum’s voice trailed off.
“Yeah? What just occurred to you?”
“Might be the X marked a different spot than up here on the mesa,” Slocum said. “Might be a way of indicating a point on the front of the plaque.”
“Let’s mosey on down and see.” Holtz motioned for his men to mount up. They rode down to Bitter Springs in silence. Slocum thought hard all the way down. He did not think he was wrong that the howitzer was hidden on the mesa, but the idea that the X marked something on the front of the plaque seemed more and more likely after their futile hunt. They dismounted in front of Jensen’s pharmacy. Slocum was happy to see that the old codger stayed inside. Or maybe, at this time of the afternoon, he made the rounds of the saloons and was getting himself knee-walking drunk.
“There it is,” Slocum said, pointing to the large rock.
“Who’da thought to put a map in plain sight?” Holtz reached behind him and pulled out his knife from a sheath stuck in his belt. The plate popped off easily. He held it up as he stared at the back in the bright sunlight. “Damn me if you weren’t right, Slocum. This is a map and it shows the cannon must be up on the mesa.”
“We didn’t find nuthin’ there, Jack. We ain’t diggin’ up there without knowin’ exactly where we’re diggin’.”
“Let me see it,” Slocum said, taking the brass plate from Holtz. Slocum turned it over and looked at the inscription on the front, then matched the X on the back with letters.
“What do you think?” asked Holtz.
“The tops of the X would touch the first letters of ‘NEVER’ and ‘FORGET’ if it had been drawn on the front instead of the back.” The bottoms of the X marked nothing but blank plate.
“NF? What does that mean?”
“It can mean anything, anything at all,” said another of Holtz’s gang.
“Could be someone’s initials,” Holtz said, ignoring the protests.
“There’s no way to tell without asking somebody who’s been here a long time.” He thought of Jensen, then realized asking anything of the alcoholic pharmacist would be like poking a hornet’s nest with a stick. There’d be a lot of buzzing, then they’d all get stung. A slow smile came to his lips. “There’s somebody else I know who’s been here long enough to know.”
Slocum set off for the courthouse, and never slowed as he went into the file room. The clerk looked up, annoyed. Then he looked scared when he saw Holtz and his men crowding behind Slocum.
“Wh-what do you want? I thought you was headin’ out of town.”
“Came back. I need more information,” Slocum said. The man motioned toward the record books. Slocum shook his head. “Not the kind of information I need. You were here when Sibley’s troops retreated.”
"Y-yes.” The man turned paler when Rebel Jack Holtz came around, swung up his sawed-off shotgun, and laid it on the counter so the muzzle pointed in the clerk’s general direction.
“What do you remember from back then of anything with the initials NF?”
“NF? That somebody’s name? Or a business? A ranch?”
“Any of those. You tell me,” Slocum said. He put his hand over Holtz’s shotgun to keep the hotheaded rebel from lifting it and firing into the clerk.
“Y-your friend’s a bit edgy, ain’t he?”
“You might say that. NF. Who lived in Bitter Springs then with those initials?”
“I can’t remember. I was only a small kid. How can I remember something that long back?” The clerk paled when Slocum took his hand off Holtz’s shotgun. “Wait,” the clerk blurted. “There might be—yeah, I know! NF. The New Frontier!”
“What’s that?”
“The saloon at the end of town.”
“Still run by the same gents?” Slocum asked.
“Don’t think so, but the current owner’s been serving his swill for more than ten years. Can’t rightly say more.”
“Gentlemen,” Slocum said, “let’s have a drink at the New Frontier.” Slocum looked at the clerk, who shook visibly at the sight of Holtz and his gang. “You want to join us?”
Slocum laughed when the clerk shook his head.
Slocum led the way from the clerk’s office. It was about time to wet his whistle—and find the cannon.
14
“Don’t cause any trouble,” Rebel Jack Holtz warned his men as they crowded into the New Frontier Drinking Emporium. They shoved and pushed and made a rush to the bar. The barkeep gave them the once-over, then served the beers they ordered, watching closely to be sure they all put their nickels on the bar before he was satisfied.
Slocum and Holtz took a table at the rear of the saloon. The bartender ignored them. This was fine with Slocum, but Holtz started to protest. Slocum grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“We can drink later,” Slocum said. “While we’ve still got clear heads, let’s figure out where the cannon might be.”
“Here!” Holtz waved his arms like a windmill, but settled down. He thought a moment, then added, “The barkeep knows. That chickenshit clerk said he was the owner, so he’d know.”
“I doubt he keeps a Rebel cannon under his bar,” Slocum said. “Chances are good he doesn’t even know he has it.”
“How can that be, Slocum? You’re not pullin’ anything funny, are you?” Holtz glared at him. Slocum saw the hair-trigger temper and the possibility of instant death in the outlaw’s eyes.
“I want what’s in the safe,” Slocum said softly. “Working with you is the only way to get it.” As much as the words burned Slocum’s tongue as he spoke, it was the truth. Even if he found the cannon on his own, firing it accurately took several men in a crew working together. If they didn’t find the cannon, Slocum was willing to think on other ways to blow open the safe. Having Holtz and his men help was a quicker way to ill-gotten wealth.
“What do you m
ean he maybe doesn’t know he has it?”
“It might be buried under the saloon,” Slocum said. “The man’s only owned the place ten years. Seventeen years ago was when the Rebs buried the cannon.”
“So if he doesn’t know, what are we going to do?”
“Well,” Slocum said, staring at the barkeep and the way he kept an eagle eye on the four outlaws at the bar, “your men look capable of keeping him occupied. Let’s you and me do some poking around.”
Slocum did not wait to see if Holtz was with him. He slipped out the back door and looked hard at the saloon and the way it had been built. Like most other buildings he had seen in Bitter Springs, this one was built on skids, providing a small crawl space underneath.
“Under the damned saloon?” Holtz grumbled.
“Maybe not,” Slocum said, looking behind the building. “See how the entire saloon slid down from higher on the slope? At one time, the saloon had been fetched up against the tall cliff on the east side of town. Rain, too many men in the saloon, who knows? It slid downhill.”
“Might be the road got moved, too,” Holtz said, walking around. “See here? There’s still a trace of an old road going here.” He pointed to the ancient tracks.
Slocum walked to the edge of the cliff, and then turned in the direction of the saloon and saw evidence of the skid marks. He dropped to all fours and began looking more carefully at the ground. When he found a spot where the saloon had once rested, he looked up.
“You find something, Slocum?” Holtz ran over. “I didn’t find squat.”
“What do you make of this?” Slocum pointed to a discolored section of the ground. “It’s not rock. It’s dirt, but it’s been packed down hard over the years.”
“We found it,” Holtz chortled. “We damned well found it!”
“We found something,” Slocum said. He looked back toward Bitter Springs and the mesa rising up in the distance. That was the spot where he felt in his gut that the cannon had been buried, but this was a more promising place to dig.
“I’ll get the fools out of the saloon and—”
“Let them finish their beers,” Slocum said. “We should dig here when it gets dark so nobody will see us and ask questions.”