Slocum and the Schuylkill Butchers

by Jake Logan

  Wheeling around, Slocum headed in a direction that would put as much distance between him and the riders as possible. Changing direction often, he thought he lost them. When he found a road, Slocum looked both left and right, unsure which direction to take. Shrugging off the chance he might be wrong, he turned left and rode steadily. Just before dawn, the rain lightened to hardly more than blowing mist and he saw a sign telling him he was only five miles outside Sharpesville.

  He considered his plight. The Schuylkill Butchers cut off any chance of reaching Fort Walker, but if he returned to Sharpesville, whatever deputy had taken up the marshal’s job was likely to clap him into jail. They had intended to hang him without a trial. Being put in the same position again didn’t set well with Slocum.

  But Sharpesville was not far from Fort Walker. Someone in town could get word to the soldiers about their commanding officer and the two companies that had been slaughtered. Duty to Slocum meant more than his life. He urged his tired horse toward Sharpesville.

  Barely had he gone a mile when he saw riders ahead, waiting on either side of the road. The rain prevented easy identification.

  Lawmen? Whoever they were, they were not heading anywhere. They had staked out this section of road because it was long, straight, and presented no chance for anyone to sneak past without a large detour.

  Slocum considered his options. Only four miles outside Sharpesville, they were likely to be lawmen. He took a deep breath, started to put his spurs to his horse, and then stopped when he heard the telltale metallic click of a six-shooter being cocked.

  “You don’t want to go anywhere,” came a muffled voice.

  Slocum glanced to his left. All he could see through the undergrowth was the six-gun pointed directly at him.

  6

  “If you’re going to rob me, get on with it,” Slocum said, looking around. He felt the Schuylkill Butchers coming closer by the minute. He might have evaded pursuit, but there were so many of them, he could not be sure. “Or you could just shoot me. That’d be more merciful.”

  “What?” A rustling sounded as bushes were pushed away. Slocum bent low, ready to make a run for it. When he saw whose hand held the six-shooter, he relaxed and sat a little straighter in the saddle. “Why do you want me to shoot you? That’s crazy.”

  “Not as crazy as getting caught by a gang of outlaws going by the moniker of—”

  “The Schuylkill Butchers,” the woman finished. She lowered her pistol and got free of the brush. She came to stand beside his horse, looking up imploringly at him. “You’re riding into a dozen or more of them. They’re all along the road going into Sharpesville.”

  “They just massacred two companies of soldiers from Fort Walker,” Slocum said, feeling as if he had just upped the ante in a poker game neither of them could possibly win.

  “Oh, no. I’d hoped—” She bit off the rest of her sentence. Slocum saw tears welling in her bright blue eyes. Her auburn hair was in wild disarray, matted and dirty as if she had been crawling around in the forest. Slocum guessed that was exactly what she had been doing. Her clothing was ripped and filthy, and she had lost the top two buttons on her blouse. In spite of her disheveled condition, Slocum could not help noticing, from his position so far above her, that she had a mighty fine pair of breasts struggling to remain tucked into her blouse.

  “You thought the soldiers would run the Butchers off?”

  “I had hoped they would kill them. Kill them all!” She blurted out the words. “They’re awful men, awful. Killers, each and every one. They—”

  “Someone’s coming,” Slocum said. “From the direction of Sharpesville. You sure the outlaws are between us and town?”

  “Yes!”

  He reached down, hand extended. She stared at it as if she did not understand. Slocum bent lower, grabbed her forearm, and yanked hard. She let out a squeal of surprise as she flew through the air only to land hard behind Slocum. The gelding staggered under the double weight. Slocum wasted no time getting the horse headed into the trees near the road. He avoided the thicket where the woman had tried to ambush him, and slipped into less overgrown forest. After only a few yards, Slocum felt his horse’s strength disappearing rapidly. He stopped, reached around, and swung the woman to the ground. He quickly followed.

  She still held her six-shooter, though she no longer pointed it at him.

  “Can you use that or is it only for show?” he asked.

  “I didn’t much frighten you, did I?”

  Slocum laughed without humor.

  “Yes, I can use it,” she said.

  “Why’d you rescue me from the town jailhouse?”

  “I heard the marshal say they were going to string you up without a trial because they thought you were one of them.”

  “The Schuylkill Butchers?”

  Her head bobbed rapidly. “Yes, the Butchers. They have been killing and killing and no one can stop them. The marshal thought hanging a few of them—if he could only catch them—would scare off the rest.”

  “They don’t scare,” Slocum said.

  “I know.”

  Slocum pulled his rifle from the saddle sheath and back-tracked his path into the forest. The horse was not going to carry the pair of them away. Slocum had to let it graze, get some water for it, and then rest. Maybe a day or longer. As he walked, the woman hurried along, struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride.

  “I’m John Slocum,” he said, forcing himself not to look in her direction. The way she swung her arms, pumping hard, almost running, caused her blouse to gape open so he could see more than was seemly.

  “I never introduced myself, did I? But then there was not time when I was hitting Luther over the head. I’m Etta Kehoe.”

  “Thanks for getting me out of jail, Miss Kehoe. I hope Luther wasn’t hurt too bad.” Slocum dropped prone to the ground, balancing the rifle on his hands while his elbows dug down into the soft earth. From there, he commanded a long stretch of the road into Sharpesville. Given a tad of luck, he could shoot three or four Butchers from the saddle before they even realized they were under attack. During the war Slocum had been a sniper—one of the best. More than once, he had waited all day long for a single shot at a Yankee officer. Chop off the head, kill the body. While he could never claim his sharpshooting had won a battle, it had certainly done a great deal to turn the tide in the Confederacy’s favor.

  “Luther will be fine,” Etta said, chuckling. “He’s got such a thick skull.”

  “You’re Irish,” Slocum said, still not looking toward her. Etta had dropped beside him, her almost naked breasts pressing down into the forest detritus. Slocum held back the urge to reach over and brush off the leaves and twigs.

  “You said that before, back in town.”

  “It’s true. I hear the lilt in your voice.”

  “County Kerry,” she said. “I’m not like those awful . . . those Butchers. They’re from Limerick.”

  None of that made a lick of sense to Slocum. Before he could get an explanation, he saw movement down the road. He held out his hand to quiet her. Etta saw the riders approaching, too, and caught her breath. She lifted her six-shooter.

  “Don’t put your finger on the trigger until I tell you,” Slocum said. The last thing he wanted was for her to panic and fire a round that would draw the Schuylkill Butchers like flies to shit.

  “I won’t accidentally fire,” she said, peeved. “I know how to use a pistol.”

  He shushed her again. Two riders halted out on the road, not a hundred feet away. Slocum worried that they had spotted the tracks leading into the woods. The rain continued to fall fitfully. He hoped this washed away any hoof-prints, but he dared not rely on that alone for their safety. He got a good sight picture of the man he thought was the leader.

  “Shoot!” she urged.

  “Not yet. They’re waiting for something—someone.” Barely had the words slipped from his lips when three more riders trotted up. They came along the road from the dire
ction Slocum had traveled earlier.

  “Are you afraid of them?” Etta asked.

  Slocum never hesitated when he said, “I’m scared shit-less. I’ve seen men tortured to death by Apaches, men blown apart by artillery, men dying in the damnedest ways you can imagine, and not a bit of it made me sick to my belly like seeing them hack up the Sharpesville marshal and his posse.”

  “Th-they killed the marshal?”

  Slocum settled back down when six of the outlaws gathered in the road, side by side, talking earnestly. Slocum wished he could hear what they were saying.

  “Stay here,” he said, laying aside his rifle. His quick eyes found low spots and rain-filled gullies he might follow to get closer. Risking his life like this was foolhardy, but Slocum needed to know more about what he faced.

  “No, John, wait!”

  She clutched at his arm, but he was already slithering on his belly like a snake, finding a muddy notch in the ground filled with weeds and tall grass. He counted on the gentle rain to hide any movement of the vegetation as he worked his way closer. He moved as quietly as any predator stalking its prey, but Slocum knew this would change instantly if any of the men caught sight of him. When he came within twenty feet of the riders, he settled down, letting the grass hide him.

  “. . . begin the attack.”

  “Sean says we oughta,” another piped up.

  “How do we know we won’t get all blowed up by that artillery?”

  “There’s not enough of ’em left fer that,” said another. “We kilt half the entire troopers back yonder in the meadow. Another company’s out prowling around way down south. There’s not fifty men left to protect their fort.”

  “Our fort,” yet another said, correcting him. They all laughed at this.

  Slocum realized they intended to attack Fort Walker and kill everyone there. Were the Schuylkill Butchers after the cannon sitting out on the parade ground, or did they simply want to make certain the cavalry wouldn’t intrude on their plans?

  Slocum waited for one of the men to give some hint of what that plan might be, but was disappointed when they began joshing one another, each claiming to be a better miner than the next.

  “There he is,” one said suddenly.

  Slocum almost bolted, thinking they had spotted him. His instincts took over and kept him frozen in place, not moving a muscle. He let out a pent-up breath when he heard the man say, "There’s O’Malley now. Hey, Sean. Sean! Over here!”

  Slocum reared up enough to see a red-haired man riding up, flanked by four more men. There seemed an endless number of the Irish killers, as if the ocean had spat out one drop after another and each had formed a ready-made killer on the land.

  “What are ya doin’ sittin’ about makin’ small talk, eh?” The one they had waited for had to be their leader. Slocum etched Sean O’Malley’s features in his mind. This was the man who approved of inhuman butchery. O’Malley’s face revealed none of the cruelty shown by the others, but what murderer’s face ever did? Slocum had seen cold-eyed men who bluffed their way in and out of trouble without ever drawing their six-guns. He had also seen men with cherubic faces who would as soon shoot you in the back as talk to you.

  “Waitin’ fer you, Sean,” said the one who had been the most talkative. “We ready to take on the fort?”

  “Not yet. We got things to do. You’re jist tryin’ to worm outta some real work.”

  “Minin’s what I do best.”

  “And you don’t do that none so good,” Sean O’Malley said, laughing. “See anybody on this road?”

  “We got men posted every half mile or so. Nobody’s gettin’ in or outta Sharpesville.”

  “I sent a dozen or two men to keep an eye on Fort Walker, too,” O’Malley said. “We ’bout got this part of the countryside all sewed up tighter ’n a shroud.”

  “Then let’s put the lot of ’em into the ground,” snarled a dark-haired man who had been silent to this point. Slocum couldn’t get a good look at him, but the venom in his words told of anger ready to boil over.

  “Patience, Colm, patience is what’ll make us all rich men. Those sons of bitches mine owners back in Pennsylvania will lick our boots when we buy the mines out from under ’em with our money.”

  “Rather see ’em all dead.” The dark-haired man whipped out a meat cleaver and lashed it about in the air. The whistling noise made Slocum uneasy.

  “Humiliate them like they done the lot of us Molly Maguires,” O’Malley said. “That’s the way to get back at ’em fer what they done. Now get on to your posts. We’re still huntin’ for that Indian scout with the horse soldiers. George and Peter claimed they seen a white man ridin’ with the Indian. Might be another scout.”

  “What harm can they do us?”

  “I like to keep things all proper,” O’Malley said. His voice carried an edge now. The other Butchers fell silent. “Git on yer way now.”

  The Schuylkill Butchers turned their ponies and trotted off without another word. For several seconds, Sean O’Malley sat, looking hard at the woods where Etta Kehoe hid. Slocum wondered if the woman had given herself away. O’Malley finally motioned for the bodyguards with him to follow. He rode away, looking back occasionally. Slocum remained where he hid in the weeds until he was sure all the outlaws had ridden out of sight.

  Slithering and sliding back the way he had come, Slocum finally reached the woods.

  “You’re all wet, John!”

  “Not easy work getting close to them. Even harder getting away,” he said. After spying on O’Malley and his henchmen, Slocum was even more worried about staying alive. O’Malley did not seem the sort of man to do things by half measures. If he thought of sending two men out to hunt for Little Foot and Slocum, he likely had sent twenty.

  “We have to get to town and—” Etta stopped when she saw his grim expression. “What, John? What did you overhear? ”

  “The road between here and town is too well guarded for us to get there. Their leader, O’Malley, said he had almost as many men watching Fort Walker.”

  “And? What else?”

  Etta was too sharp for her own good. She knew that Slocum was keeping the worst from her.

  “He’s got a passel of men searching for me and the Sioux scout from the fort. Little Foot hightailed it and won’t stop riding until he’s in South Dakota. They’re never going to find him, but they know I rode with the soldiers, too.”

  “They’re looking for you?”

  “As long as you’re with me, they’re looking for us,” he told her harshly.

  “I wouldn’t stand a chance out there on my own. If you’ll have me, I want to stick with you.” Her bright eyes welled with tears, but her jaw was firm and set. He had seen determined women before, but never one so adamant.

  “What did they do to you? The Butchers?” he asked.

  Etta ground her teeth together before speaking. “They killed my family. We had a farm on the far side of Sharpesville. Raised hay and alfalfa, some wheat. We weren’t getting rich but we got by.”

  Her eyes locked with his. If he thought she was determined before, now she was as solid as the Bitterroot Mountains. Nothing was going to shake Etta Kehoe.

  “I thought they wouldn’t do much more than steal our hay for their horses since we were Irish, too. Pa even spoke Gaelic with them—with O’Malley.”

  "O’Malley killed your pa?”

  “My ma, two brothers, and my baby sister, too. It didn’t matter. I . . . I saw what they did to Clara. She was only six, but—” Etta turned white and wobbled. Slocum took her in his arms to keep her from fainting dead away at the memory. He did not ask what the Butchers had done to her sister. After witnessing the way the outlaws had dealt with the town marshal, he could guess that age and sex meant nothing to them when it came to unvarnished brutality.

  “I didn’t mean to be so weak, John. Really.” She tried to push away, but he held her close until she sagged, her face buried in his wet shirt. Her tears hardly added moist
ure to it, but he knew she felt better for the emotional release.

  “Where can we hide out?” he asked. “They’ve got plans for both Sharpesville and Fort Walker. If we can wait a few days, they’ll be busy with other things and I might sneak into the fort to warn them.”

  “The woods,” Etta said, “are not a fit place for man nor beast whilst they are about. They prowl around like wild animals all the time. But we might hide out in the mines in the hills outside of town.”

  “What of alerting any of the miners?”

  “The mines played out a long time back. There’s no gold or silver there worth the mentioning.”

  Slocum considered this and liked the idea. While the mouth of a mine was exposed, entering and leaving were the only times they might be seen. His horse could be left inside, and they could move about freely enough without worrying about somebody spying on them.

  “West of town?”

  Etta nodded.

  Slocum took her arm and steered her back in the direction of his horse. He had started to ask if she had one of her own when he paused.

  “What is it, John?” She looked at him with eyes bright and wide.

  Slocum shoved her hard to the ground and took off running, dodging and darting through the forest. Behind, he heard Etta cry out. And then the scream was muffled and eaten by distance. Slocum plunged on, angling in the direction of his horse and escape.

  7

  Slocum heard a final muffled scream from Etta Kehoe, and then only silence. All the animals in the forest had gone quiet, waiting and watching for their own safety. Slocum slowed his breakneck pace and began treading lightly to make as little noise as possible himself. He came to the spot where he had tethered his horse, and saw an outlaw standing with arms crossed, staring in the direction of Etta and whoever had grabbed her.

  In a headlong rush, Slocum bent, pulled his knife, and ran straight for the Butcher. The man must have heard a sound that alerted him. He dropped his arms and turned— and died. Slocum lunged with his knife and spitted the man’s throat. A bloody gurgle died down quickly as the outlaw breathed his last. Only then did Slocum drop to one knee and gasp to regain his breath. When he was ready, he moved toward the spot where he had abandoned Etta. Another of the burly miners stood over her, working to unbutton his fly.