Slocum and the Schuylkill Butchers

by Jake Logan

  At that notion, Slocum laughed harshly. He kept his distance from the law whenever possible. After the war, he had returned to the family farm in Georgia. His brother Robert had been killed during Pickett’s Charge, and their ma and pa were long dead. He had begun farming, doing a little hunting on property that had been in the Slocum family since the days of George I, only to have a carpetbagger judge take a fancy to the land. The judge wanted it for a stud farm and had conjured up nonexistent taxes that had never been paid. When he and a hired gunman had ridden out to seize the property, they had gotten more than they expected.

  Slocum had buried both of them by the springhouse, gotten on his horse, and ridden west, never looking back. All the way across the Mississippi, wanted posters for killing a federal judge had dogged his heels. Even when he reached the Rockies, the reward on his head lured bounty hunters and got marshals excited about the prospect of arresting him.

  The men in the forest were dead wrong about him being a lawman. Slocum smiled wryly. Some of them were more than dead wrong—they were dead. That the men with them had not run worried him. They had something more in mind than robbery or catching themselves a sheriff by surprise.

  More reason to get through the badlands and deeper into South Dakota. He kept riding south until sunrise, then stopped when he saw a small stream promising water and a cooling bath.

  He let his horse drink its fill as he sat on the streambed and washed out his bandanna, then wrapped the soaked cloth around his neck.

  Slocum had reached out to cup water in his palm and take a drink when he saw a man reflected in the turbulent water. He jerked to one side as he reached for his six-shooter. A rifle butt slammed into the side of his head, and the rising sun suddenly disappeared and darkness closed in all around him.

  When he came to, every bone in his body ached. He tried to turn, and found himself slung over the back of his horse. His feet and hands had been tied together under the gelding’s belly, and he had been lashed into place with a few quick turns of rope around his waist and the saddle horn. Every step was pure agony, but Slocum did not cry out. If he could overhear what was being said around him, he might have a better chance at escape.

  A quiet murmur rose.

  “That one of ’em, Marshal?” someone nearby called out. He heard others shouting the same question.

  “Why else would I be bringin’ the varmint to town?”

  Slocum let the motion of the horse flop his head about so he could get a better look at the man riding beside him. All he saw was a curly mop of sandy hair poking out from under the brim of a battered black hat—and the glint of sunlight off a badge.

  Twisting his wrists about only chafed his skin. Slocum tried to slip free of the ropes binding his hands so securely. His ankles would still be tied together, but he would stand a better chance of getting away if he could grab for a six-shooter.

  “Don’t go hurtin’ yerse’f none, mister,” said the marshal. “I know you’re awake. I saw the instant you came to. Thought your head might be so hard I couldn’t conk you unconscious fer more’n an hour or two, and I was right.”

  Slocum did not reply. His belly was on fire, and breathing was such a chore he might as well have been under water. When they stopped, Slocum got a glimpse of a jailhouse. “Sharpesville Town Jail” was lettered above the door.

  “Where’s Sharpesville?” he grated out. Then he was pulled off the horse and thrown to the ground. All Slocum could do was lie on his back and stare into the brilliant blue sky dotted with a few puffy white clouds. It would have been a beautiful day except he was in the custody of a town marshal.

  “Right under yer feet, that’s where.” The marshal laughed harshly. “Let me change that. It’s the dirt under yer worthless ass.” He reached down and grabbed the ropes binding Slocum’s wrists and dragged his prisoner into the jail.

  “Luther, git yer carcass out here. We got ourse’ves a visitor. ”

  “He one of ’em, Marshal?” came the squeaky voice from the back of the calaboose.

  “Who else’d I bring in, you fool?”

  Luther came from the back. He was hardly sixteen, from the look of it. When he spoke again, there was no break in his voice. He rumbled with a deeper bass, but before he got to the end of his sentence, his voice cracked again.

  “What do you want me to do with him, Marshal?”

  “Throw the son of a bitch into a cell and then lock the door, that’s what. You taitched in the head, Luther? He’s a prisoner. What else would we do with ’im?”

  “Nothing, I suppose, Marshal,” the youngster said, looking embarrassed and not a little angry at being ragged on like that for no good reason.

  Slocum tried to stand, but his legs refused to hold him. Luther put a supporting arm around Slocum’s shoulders and guided him in to the rear of the jail. Slocum fell facedown when the marshal planted a foot smack on his behind and shoved.

  “Don’t go coddlin’ the son of a bitch none, Luther. He’s a killer through and through.”

  “Yes, sir, I can see that,” Luther said uncertainly.

  He opened a cell door and shoved Slocum inside. Luther’s heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t have the gusto the marshal showed with his butt-kicking.

  Slocum flopped around and looked up as Luther closed the door and hastily locked it. The cell was going to be hard to escape, Slocum saw right away. It was made from two-inch-wide iron straps riveted together. He guessed it went under the floor and up into the ceiling, as well as into the stone wall behind him. The only sure way out was through the door Luther had just secured.

  The young man looked at him uneasily, refusing to meet his gaze, then ran from the cell. He did not bother pulling shut the door leading into the marshal’s office.

  “What we gonna do with him, Marshal?”

  The answer brought back chills to Slocum’s spine that had nothing to do with a fever.

  “Why, Luther, old son, we’re gonna hang ’im as soon as we kin throw together some gallows.”

  2

  The thick-barred door rattled when he shook it hard. Some jail cells looked ferociously hard to escape, but the locks gave easily. The marshal had put the best lock he could find on the iron under Slocum’s fingers. Slocum kicked at the door, hoping to jolt it open.

  “You make any more noise in there, I’ll come back and whup you good,” the marshal of Sharpesville bellowed from the office. He got up from his desk, peered through the doorway at Slocum, then slammed the wood door hard, leaving Slocum alone in the tiny cell block.

  Slocum was more circumspect with his attempts to free himself after that. While his noise had forced the marshal to close the outer door, he did not doubt the lawman would beat him within an inch of his life if he made more noise. Then the hangman’s noose would drop over his throat. Just thinking about that made Slocum reach up and run his calloused fingers over his throat. Sweat stained his collar and turned his fingers damp.

  He spun about and began to survey the cell more carefully. The two-inch-wide straps vanished into the floor. He dropped to his knees and began digging until he got down far enough to realize he was entirely enclosed in the cage. To make certain, he drew the edge of his belt buckle along the wall, worrying at the crumbling mortar. He got several inches free only to find what he had feared. The iron straps had been mortared over, the middle of a sandwich formed by the outer wall and the inner concrete.

  Snorting in disgust, he wiped his hands on his jeans and then dropped onto the cot. The thin pallet was almost worse than no mattress at all, but Slocum stretched out and stared at the ceiling. The crisscross of the iron straps taunted him. Restless, he got to his feet and began pacing.

  He couldn’t get out, and he couldn’t make head or tail of why he had been brought in the way he had. In spite of the wanted posters scattered throughout the West, he doubted the marshal had recognized him as a judge killer and had brought him in. It seemed like something else had put the bug up the lawman’s ass. Slocum gave the door on
e last rattle to convince himself he was not going to get out this easily.

  Craning his neck around, he saw a sliver of light under the door leading into the office. When a shadow passed across the light, he caught his breath. The marshal might have left. He looked up, then climbed like a circus monkey until he dangled from the overhead straps.

  “Luther, Luther, come quick!” Slocum waited for the youth to come rushing in.

  Luther did, but not with wide-eyed astonishment at the fact that the cell seemed to be empty. The young man took a step in to the cell block, looked around, and then slowly lifted his eyes until they were fixed on Slocum.

  “You kin hurt yerself hangin’ like a spider,” he said.

  Slocum dropped to the floor, brushed off his hands, and stared at the reluctant deputy.

  “I seen men do that before,” Luther said. “’Sides, the marshal tole me to be on the lookout fer tricks.”

  “Why’d he throw me in here? I just rode into the territory on my way east. I haven’t had time to do anything illegal.”

  “Now, you know why you’re in there, mister.”

  “Tell me. Pretend I’m a bit daft.” Slocum waited for Luther to take a couple steps closer. Men did that when they talked. Luther kept his distance.

  “Men tried that, too. Some real desperadoes.”

  “I don’t look desperate?” Slocum almost laughed at this.

  “You got the look of a hired gun, that’s what you look like,” Luther said.

  This caused Slocum to sober. “I’m no gunfighter. All I am is a cowboy riding to South Dakota.”

  “There’s no reason fer me to keep talkin’ to you,” Luther said, stepping away. Not once had he come close enough for Slocum to make a grab. Even if he had pulled the young man into the bars, what then? Luther had left the keys in the outer office. He might kill the boy out of spite, but that wouldn’t get him out of this iron cage.

  More than that, he had no call to hurt the young man. It wasn’t Luther’s fault the marshal had taken to throwing anyone riding through his territory into a cell, then promising to hang them.

  “Why’s he want to stretch my neck?”

  “You sound almost as if you don’t know,” Luther said. “He tole you to keep silent. You do that. I’ll fetch some food in a couple hours. Don’t go thinkin’ on jumpin’ me then neither. All I have to do is set the food on the floor, then push it to you with a stick.” To illustrate his point, Luther reached behind him and brandished a long wooden rod that had been leaning against the wall. He used it like a schoolmarm might stab at a blackboard with a pointer.

  Slocum saw the slot cut at ankle level in the cell door. All Luther said was true. A tray with food could be shoved into the cell. The best Slocum could hope for was stealing a knife or fork to use as a weapon or a tool to pry open the lock.

  “You don’t,” Luther said out of the clear blue.

  “I don’t what?” Slocum looked up, startled. He had been making his plans once he got fed.

  “You don’t git no silverware. You eat with yer fingers or you don’t eat at all. I tole you, mister, they’s tried ’bout ever’ trick in the book.” With that, Luther closed the door with a solid thunk.

  Slocum held back a surge of burning fury. Getting angry would not free him from this hick town jail. Two more circuits of the cell convinced him that the only way he was likely to get out was to go to his death on a gallows.

  Standing on tiptoe, Slocum peered out the tiny window set high in the outside wall. As if it weren’t enough that the iron straps kept him fully imprisoned, the bars were firmly set in the window giving double barriers to his escape. He finally stepped back. The old jail must have been renovated by adding the iron cages. The marshal had not bothered changing any of the original cells, just added more reinforcement.

  The next ten minutes were spent cursing the marshal for being such a belt-and-suspenders kind of lawman. Then Slocum began working on the lower door hinge using his belt buckle. The hinge pins were protected well, but were the weakest part of a secure cell.

  They just weren’t weak enough. Slocum was not the kind of man who gave up, but he had to take a break when his hands began cramping from holding the belt buckle so tightly for so long. He rocked back on his heels and looked at his handiwork.

  He laughed ruefully. “At this rate,” he said to himself, “I’ll be out in fifty years.”

  The matter was not quite that bad, but he had to make more progress if he wanted to escape before the end of the week. Only a portion of the hinge had been cut through. The entire pin had to be lifted from the hinges to swing the cell door outward enough to squeeze through. Then the real escape would start. He had to reach the outer office and deal with the marshal.

  Slocum jumped when he heard the door into the office creaking open. He turned and flopped onto the cot so hard it almost gave way under him.

  “You jist stay right where you are, mister,” Luther said, inching forward cautiously. He pushed a tray with food ahead of him, using the toe of his boot to move it. When he lined up the tray and the slot in the bottom of the cell door, he used his long stick to poke it into the cell, as he had promised.

  “How long do I have to finish?” Slocum asked. His mind still worked on ways to escape.

  “As long as it takes. I kin wait you out.”

  “What should I do with the tray and plate when I’m done?” Slocum eyed the plate of beans with no real hunger gnawing at his belly. A hunk of dry bread was all he got in the way of an eating utensil.

  “Leave it or shove it back outside. Don’t make no nevermind to me.”

  “Why?” Slocum looked up sharply.

  “This here’s yer last meal, that’s why. They’s hangin’ you at sunrise. Didn’t see no reason to waste a good breakfast on you.”

  Slocum looked over his shoulder, out the window into the chilly Montana night. He probably didn’t have eight hours left before the necktie party began, with him as the honored guest.

  Before he could say another word, Luther ducked back into the outer office. Slocum got a quick glimpse of the room. Luther was alone. If Slocum was going to get free, it had to be done right now.

  Slocum grabbed the plate of beans and dumped the contents onto the tray. He grabbed the plate, moved so he got it through the iron straps, and judged distances. He might throw it at Luther when the youth came back in. Anger him, get him to rush forward, grab him. After that Slocum would have to play it by ear. Maybe the marshal would return and find Slocum with a stranglehold on his young deputy.

  What if he didn’t return until sunrise? Slocum would have to hold Luther for a powerful long time.

  He gripped the plate, licked his lips, and was starting to call out when the door opened a fraction of an inch. His luck was changing. He didn’t even have to lure Luther back in to the cell block. Drawing back, Slocum waited to fling the plate.

  “Don’t,” came a soft voice.

  Slocum squinted to see a shapely shadow push the door open. For a brief instant, the woman was silhouetted by the coal-oil lamp burning on the marshal’s desk. Then she was plunged into darkness as she pulled the squeaky door closed behind her.

  It took him a few seconds to decide not to fling the plate at her, although she would make a better hostage than Luther. Whoever she was.

  Slocum dropped the plate when he heard the rattle of keys. She stepped closer and held up the ring so she could better see the keys on it. She rapidly studied and discarded one after another until she selected one.

  As she worked to wiggle the key into the door lock and free him, Slocum got a better look at her.

  “You’re about the prettiest deputy I ever did see,” he said.

  “I’m not a deputy.” Her tone told him she was not in the mood for joshing. “There.”

  She yanked the door open and stepped away. He got a better look at her now and appreciated what he saw. Auburn hair fell to her shoulders and framed an oval face that might have been chiseled out of fine w
hite china. Never had he seen a complexion so lovely. Or was it only the poor light in the jail? He stepped closer and got a better look at his savior. She was even prettier up close than from across the jail cell.

  “Who are you?” he asked. The question took her aback.

  “I expected you to ask why I was letting you out,” she said.

  “The reasons don’t matter much. I want to know who to thank,” Slocum said.

  “Now aren’t you the charmer?”

  “Don’t you mean full of blarney?” he said, again catching her off guard. “That’s an Irish accent you’ve got, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t waste time,” she said pointedly. “I don’t know when the marshal will get back.”

  “What happened to Luther?”

  “You’re worried I did something terrible to him?”

  “He’s mighty young to die,” Slocum said.

  She snorted contemptuously and shook her head. “In this sorry world, you can die at any instant.”

  “That’d be a real pity in your case,” Slocum said. “Such a beautiful—”

  “Enough of that guff, hear? I was not kidding when I said the marshal would be back soon. That doesn’t give you much of a head start.”

  She spun to go. He grabbed her arm, but she pulled free and dashed from the cell. Slocum followed, stopping when he got to the door leading into the office. His benefactor had already left the jail. He looked around and saw his cross-draw holster with the Colt Navy in it hanging from a peg on the wall. Knowing he needed firepower as much as anything else, he strapped on his six-shooter and then grabbed a rifle from the rack.

  As he did, a low moan sounded behind him. Slocum swung about, rifle cocked and leveled. Luther lay on the floor, curled up into a ball. From the bloody spot on the back of his skull, it was clear he had been slugged.

  Slocum wasted no time. The boy was alive, and he was free. Or as free as he could be while still in Sharpesville. As he stepped into the cold night air, he saw light from a distant saloon glint off a badge.

  Slocum lifted his rifle and fired at the marshal. He missed a clean shot, but heard the bullet rip through cloth and flesh. The distinctive sound was followed an instant later by a string of curses.