Slocum Along Corpse River

by Jake Logan

  “Slocum?” Cooley turned and his eyes opened. It took him a few seconds to focus.

  “Yeah, here. I brought you to Doc Radley’s office.”

  “That butcher?” Cooley laughed, then coughed. “Glad to see I’m in good hands, Doc.”

  “You shut yer tater trap and rest, Deputy,” the doctor said. “I can’t work miracles, and if you tire yourself out, you’re gonna croak.”

  “Slocum,” the deputy said, in a stronger voice. “You got to get a posse together. I can’t let Galligan keep Marshal Menniger a prisoner.”

  Truth was, Galligan might have already killed the marshal and his two deputies. Slocum said nothing. Interrupting while Cooley had his say would only tire the man more.

  “None of them know me,” Slocum pointed out. He wanted no part of leading a posse against the wall protecting Top of the World. Patrolling the catwalk the few times that he had showed him how strong the defenses were. But one thing did gnaw at his conscience. Beatrice had let herself be captured so he could get away. What Galligan might do to her sent cold chills up and down his spine.

  Sneaking back into Galligan’s little empire wasn’t likely to be possible, not after he learned that Slocum had left. Security would be beefed up. Where one or two guards had paced the wall, a dozen might be there now. Galligan might even expect an attack from Thompson.

  “What about Silas and his gang?” Slocum asked. “You said it. Thompson is defenseless without the marshal. It’d be better for the citizens to defend their own property.”

  “If him and his gang ain’t here now . . .” Cooley’s voice trailed off.

  Before Slocum could ask anything more, Doc Radley pushed him away with surprising strength.

  “You git,” the doctor ordered. “He needs to sleep. Maybe time fer him to suck up some of my special medicine.” Radley reached over to a table and hefted a pint bottle. He pulled the cork, and tipped the bottle up against the deputy’s lips, wetting them. A tongue worked across the whiskey. Cooley sighed and seemed to go into an easy sleep.

  Then Radley hiked the bottle to his own lips. The pull he took lowered the level in the bottle by a good half inch.

  “Damned good medicine. Now you git on outta here.”

  Slocum left and stepped into a cold night breeze. He pulled his coat a little tighter around himself and considered riding out. His paint was still in a stable back up in the pass, but leaving it and his gear would be small payment to save his own hide. Galligan held the entire area in a vise grip and wasn’t likely to let it go.

  But Beatrice was still up there. Slocum began walking, head down and worrying that Galligan might not have killed her outright. What would he think if he heard that Galligan had used her as the main attraction in one of his bonfires? Setting people on fire and letting them run through the streets for the crowd’s amusement turned his stomach. Slocum could imagine Beatrice’s red hair turning to real flame as she ran screaming through Top of the World.

  Slocum realized his hand rested on the ebony butt of his six-shooter. He relaxed and went to get himself a drink. The saloon was almost empty, but a small group of well-dressed men sat in the rear, by the pool table. A half-drained bottle sat in the middle of their circle as they spoke in low voices.

  “You need a shot? Or some beer?”

  “Whiskey,” Slocum said. The bartender twirled his long, thin, greased mustache tip, then dropped a shot glass on the bar with a loud click and expertly filled it with amber fluid that might actually have been something other than trade whiskey.

  “Who’re they?” Slocum asked, indicating the men at the back of the saloon.

  “You might say they’re the town fathers. Leastways, they think of themselves that way. Lou Underwood’s the town banker and mayor, the one next to him’s owner of the mercantile, the small weaselly guy is the pharmacist, and then there’s a representative from the railroad.”

  “Bannock?” His question startled the barkeep.

  “I never saw you in town before, but you know the vicepresident of the railroad? You one of them railroad dicks?”

  Slocum said nothing as he sipped the whiskey. Let the barkeep think what he wanted. The clatter as somebody slammed the door open caused Slocum to turn. The doctor stomped into the room and ignored Slocum. From the singleminded way he marched over to the men seated at the back of the room, he wasn’t likely to see anything.

  “You!” bellowed Dr. Radley. “We got problems, and Cooley needs you to help out.”

  The men at the table exchanged uneasy looks. The one Slocum took to be the banker from the cut of his coat and the expensive gold watch chain bobbing across his belly half stood.

  “We’re holding a town council meeting.”

  “There won’t be a town left if you do nuthin’ more than talk. Cooley needs you to rouse some of yer worthless employees and defend Thompson.”

  “Doc, we—”

  “Now. We got trouble brewin’ and you can’t jist sit and talk about it.”

  Slocum finished his whiskey and watched the spectacle of the old doctor berating the city fathers, going around the circle itemizing their failings. Not a one of them liked it but they all sat silent and took it. Radley didn’t mince words when he got to the railroad official either. This told Slocum more about the politicians than it did the doctor.

  “Git on over to my office. Deputy Cooley’ll tell you what’s what. He’s weak from bein’ tortured by that son of a bitch up in the mountains so you got to go to him. If you kin bestir your bones long enough.”

  Radley shooed the men from the saloon. Slocum started to order a second whiskey when the doctor called out, “You, too, Slocum. He wants you there, too.”

  Slocum considered getting on his stolen horse and riding away. He had expected to sneak the deputy into town because Silas and his gang might have taken up residence here. Where they had gotten off to, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to find out either.

  “You go on, Doc,” he said. “I’ll—”

  “Now.” Doc Radley stamped his foot and crossed his arms, glaring at Slocum.

  “You comin’, Radley, or do we have to talk to Cooley on our own?”

  “He won’t bite yer nose off, Mr. Mayor,” the doctor growled. He turned to Slocum and said, “Cooley won’t chew yer nose off either, Slocum, but I might ’less you come along.”

  Slocum relinquished. The doctor was going to kick up a fuss until he went along. He trailed the tight knot of politicians who were being herded along by the doctor. This wasn’t his fight, but something good might come out of it. If they managed to bring Silas to justice, there might be a way he could trade the outlaw for Beatrice. The notion was hazy and spun about in his head. It didn’t sound too likely to work, but he had to think of some plan to rescue her. She had earned his admiration for what she had done decoying the outlaws away from him so he could escape.

  He owed the fiery redhead his life.

  The town fathers crowded into the doctor’s office. Radley waited until he was sure Slocum had pushed his way in, too, standing beside the open door. Cool night air kept the heat of so many bodies standing shoulder to shoulder a bit more tolerable.

  “You go on and tell ’em what you done tole me, Cooley,” the doctor said.

  The deputy was propped up and looking like he had one foot in the grave, but he laid out what had happened and didn’t stint on praise for Slocum. Slocum reckoned it was the lawman’s way of keeping him in town. Compliments did that for some men, but Slocum thought more of Silas and his lightning draw than he did of being well thought of by Cooley or any of the others gathered in the office.

  “. . . got to stop ’em,” Cooley said. “Raise a posse. Get fifty men. More. It’s the only way.”

  Argument started about the cost of the armored wagon and how it had failed. The banker complained about the cost of a marshal and a half-dozen deputies for a town the size of Thompson and how they only had one deputy left. Slocum almost spoke up to point out that seven men hadn’t b
een successful, even with a fancy Gatling gun and a rolling fortress.

  The railroad executive began telling how he was disappointed at the lack of civility and law in Thompson, hinting he might order a different route for the railroad. This provoked a new round of accusations and denials.

  Slocum edged out the door, turned, and ran smack dab into a woman dressed in a plain brown gingham dress. She was tall, maybe four inches less than his six feet, and handsome rather than pretty. Her brunette hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she looked intent. Slocum had seen that look before and it bothered him.

  The doctor had rounded up the politicians with a look as steely and severe.

  “I heard what Gus said.” She took a small step to block Slocum’s attempt to get around her. He bumped up against her chest and felt her full breasts compressing and then pushing him backward as they rebounded.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The deputy. Gus Cooley.”

  “Never heard his given name,” Slocum lied, wanting nothing more than to clear out of town. He wanted nothing more than to be on his way, and getting involved in a conversation would only delay him. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am.”

  “I’m his wife. Flora Cooley. I found out what you did for him, and he thinks the world of you. You can’t forsake him now.”

  “I’ve done all I can,” Slocum said. “It’s up to the doctor to heal him.”

  “The outlaws. He said there were a dozen of them that left that horrid place in the pass. Where are they? What are they up to?”

  “Be glad they’re not here,” Slocum said.

  The explosion knocked Flora into his arms and sent both of them reeling.

  10

  Flora Cooley stirred in his arms. It took Slocum a few seconds to realize he ought to release her. She pushed up off him. Their eyes met for a moment and she started to speak, then came a second explosion that knocked her flat atop him again. This time Slocum rolled, carrying her with him so that the rain of debris cascaded down on his back.

  He saw her lips moving again but heard only distant whispers.

  “Deaf!” He knew he shouted but could hardly hear his own voice. Slocum got up and drew his six-shooter. The blasts had come from a few doors down the street. “The bank!”

  “I can hear. Stop shouting,” Flora Cooley said, sitting up. She didn’t bother brushing herself off.

  Slocum helped her stand. By now the men in the doctor’s office had come out. Behind them came the deputy and a cursing Dr. Radley.

  “You can’t git up like that, Cooley! I’m not finished with you yet.” The doctor grabbed for the deputy, but Cooley was too quick. For a man who had skirted the brink of death, he looked more alive than the others milling about, looking confused.

  “The bank,” Slocum said, trying to keep his voice down. He wasn’t sure he succeeded because the men all jumped and looked frightened—at him, not the commotion going on a couple dozen yards away.

  “Must be Silas and his gang,” Cooley said. “They bided their time and finally went after the money in the bank.”

  “I’m being robbed?” This got the banker’s attention. Underwood fidgeted with his gold watch chain and shuffled his feet, looking apprehensively down the street where the dust cloud hung in front of the brick building.

  “Get a posse together. Roust ’em and be sure they bring guns—loaded,” Cooley said. He took a quick look at Slocum, who nodded. Then the deputy went to his wife and gave her a quick hug.

  Slocum saw how she recoiled a bit, but that might have been from the way the doctor had bandaged him up. Cooley looked like a walking corpse, but the six-gun he held never swayed.

  “You up to it?” Slocum asked.

  “I’m all the law there is in Thompson right now. Got to be up for it. You don’t have to come along. You know it’s Silas and his men.”

  Slocum cocked his six-gun and started for the bank without waiting to see if Cooley followed. The deputy caught up with him.

  “You got more stones than the lot of them,” Cooley said.

  Slocum lifted his pistol and fired at a masked outlaw coming from the front of the bank. The door had been blown in with the first explosion. The second must have been directed at the vault. All the windows were shattered. From the dust in the air, Slocum guessed the robber was more interested in not breathing that debris than hiding his identity. Robbing a bank at night hardly called for masks otherwise.

  The outlaw looked around, startled. Slocum fired again, winging him. The robber yelped but found the range. He opened fire and forced Slocum and Cooley to dive for cover. Slocum dropped flat on his belly and got off another round that missed but went into the bank. From the inside came a roar of anger.

  Cooley stumbled to a doorway and used this dubious shelter to brace his six-shooter for a few quick shots. Slocum couldn’t see what the deputy fired at, but none of the shots produced a reaction. Filling the air with lead had advantages, but not too many if he and the lawman ran out of ammunition.

  “Get more dynamite. The damned safe’s not open yet!”

  Slocum recognized Silas’s voice immediately. He also saw a box of dynamite in the street. The top of the crate had been ripped open, but he couldn’t see how many sticks remained. Silas didn’t know a damned thing about blasting. He had used too much to get into the bank and obviously hadn’t used enough once he had found the vault.

  As the man who had emerged from the bank, only to be driven back inside by Slocum and Cooley, came back out like a prairie dog poking its head out of its burrow, Slocum drew a bead on him. But he didn’t fire. Cooley followed his lead, recognizing the need for them to conserve their ammunition.

  The outlaw ducked back inside, then burst into the street with his six-shooter blazing. He fired wildly, not coming close to either of the men who ought to have been his targets. All the owlhoot wanted was to retrieve a few sticks of dynamite. Slocum aimed low, waited for the right shot, squeezed the trigger, and hit the outlaw in the thigh as he tried to return to the bank with a half-dozen sticks. The man fell facedown. The dynamite went skittering all over the boardwalk in front of the bank.

  Cooley tried to hit one of the sticks, thinking to detonate it. All he did was waste the shots.

  “He done shot me, Silas. He hit me!” The outlaw wiggled like a worm on the ground after a heavy spring shower, trying to get back inside.

  Slocum didn’t need to kill him. He wanted to shoot another of the outlaws. His chance came fast. A masked bandit looked out to see if he could rescue his partner. Slocum shot him in the face. The only sound was the man collapsing to the floor and then writhing about in the broken glass. Then there was only silence.

  Slocum took the opportunity to reload. He still had enough ammo to make the fight interesting if Silas made a break for his horses tethered down the street. The animals pawed and jerked at their bridles, frightened by the blasting and the gunfire. Slocum rolled to the side and pointed to the horses, hoping Cooley would make his way to them and untie them. This would leave Silas and his gang on foot.

  The deputy wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the bank entrance. Slocum cursed and rolled back to his belly, sighting in on the door, too. He had killed one of the men, but the other he had wounded finally wiggled to safety.

  The more he wounded, the better. Silas would have to leave his wounded behind. That might give Slocum a chance to interrogate the prisoners, and he could figure out a way to save Beatrice. Silas wasn’t the sort of outlaw not to learn all he could about Galligan, even if he was just riding through.

  This got Slocum thinking in a different direction. There wasn’t any reason for Galligan to order his men to rob this bank. If anything, that ran counter to what Slocum thought the self-proclaimed emperor’s plans were. That meant Silas intended to keep on riding and wanted some spending money for his trouble dealing with Galligan.

  “He’s making a break from Galligan,” Slocum called to Cooley. “He won’t be heading back up the pass
.”

  “I figured that, too. You don’t shit in your own nest,” the deputy said. “Is Silas double-crossing Galligan?”

  Slocum fired several times to drive an outlaw back inside.

  “They’re not going to stay bottled up. Where’s the posse?”

  “Don’t rely on them. The town never supported Menniger, and there’s no good reason for ’em to start supportin’ me.”

  Slocum felt suddenly very vulnerable flopped on his belly in the middle of the street. He couldn’t wiggle back to safety and standing was out of the question with random shots tearing through the air above him. Lying low, he blended in with the mud and ruts in the street. Give them the chance to outline him against a building or anything bright, like the gaslight pouring from the nearby saloon, and he was a goner.

  “No hope?” Slocum called.

  “Just us, partner.”

  “Cover me.” Slocum made sure his six-shooter was reloaded, gathered his feet under him, and then launched straight ahead for the bank door.

  He got several yards closer before a bullet cut through his side, tearing along his lowest rib and leaving a ribbon of pain and slowly oozing blood behind. Staggering another few steps, he dropped to the ground again and fired straight into the belly of the outlaw who had shot him. The man grunted, then clasped his hands over his stomach, and bent forward as if puking out his guts. When he dropped to his knees, moaning and still clutching his gut, Slocum shot him again. This slug ripped through the crown of the man’s hat and probably blew his brains out. When the man crashed to the bank floor, he didn’t stir.

  “You get another one?”

  “Yeah,” Slocum called. “How many do you think—” He never got the question out. Two more outlaws blew out from the building, guns spitting foot-long tongues of fire in the darkness. Slocum squeezed off one shot that might have hit one. Neither man so much as flinched. They were too excited about escaping for a single bullet to stop either of them. Slocum had heard of men with twenty or more holes ventilating their hide who still fought and even rode. Not far, but that didn’t matter. Slocum didn’t have twenty rounds to expend.