by Jake Logan
Before he stepped out onto the parade ground to head for the stockade where he hoped she was being held, he stopped. Quickly returning to the stables, he rolled over the man he had just killed and stripped off the leather apron. As camouflage, the apron didn’t amount to a hill of beans, but if he could just pass for one of the Butchers from across the parade ground, he had a better chance of success.
It was a faint hope, but all he had. Slocum donned the bloody apron, settled his tools, and then walked out bold as brass and looking like he owned the whole damn fort. Any hint that he did not belong would mean his death.
Slocum got to the stockade and looked inside. The body of the outlaw he had killed had not been moved. All the cells were empty. Wherever they kept Etta, it wasn’t here.
The coal wagon had been pulled up at the end of the row of offices where the officers had once run Fort Walker. A shed with a door partially open drew Slocum’s attention. He strutted over to it and peered inside. He caught his breath at the sight of Etta dangling from chains. A chain had been wrapped around both wrists and then the ends had been fastened to the shed walls so she hung spread-eagled. Facing away from him, she could not see. Her head lolled to one side.
Slocum stepped forward and then stopped. He couldn’t hammer off the manacles without drawing attention. Looking back outside, he saw small groups of the outlaws sitting, gambling, smoking, even fighting. The first sound of freeing the woman would make them all stop and come over to see what was happening.
Etta stirred.
“No, no, don’t. Please. Let me go.”
He wanted to reassure her, but a guard paced by just then.
“Git on outta there. You know the boss tole us to let her be. She’s special.”
“Yeah, special. Not for the like of us,” Slocum said, keeping his face turned.
“It pisses me off, too,” the guard said. “Such a fine lass bein’ given to him.”
“Murphy doesn’t deserve her.”
“Murphy? Whatcha sayin’? It ain’t Murphy’s that’s gettin’ her. You know that.”
Slocum turned, grabbed the front of the guard’s shirt, and brought his knee up hard into the exposed groin. The outlaw gasped and doubled over, unable to do more than emit tiny mewling sounds. Slocum brought his knee up again and caught the man on the chin. This knocked him out.
Faced with the chore of getting rid of the guard only added to the urgency Slocum felt. It was as if every tick of the pocket watch in his vest placed both him and Etta that much closer to a violent death.
He considered slitting the guard’s throat, then saw a chance to try something else.
Murphy and two of his bodyguards came walking toward the shed, causing Slocum to wonder if the unconscious guard had been wrong. Giving Etta to Murphy as a peace offering might weld the two factions together. Men at the lowest levels hardly ever knew what their superiors schemed.
Slocum rolled the guard out of sight. Etta moaned softly, but did not lift her head or try to look behind her. For once, Slocum thanked his luck. Having her call out his name would have been disastrous. As it was, he had only seconds to make everything work just right.
“Outta the way, boyo,” Murphy said. “I want to take a gander at our lovely little bargainin’ chip.”
“Right in here,” Slocum said, stepping to one side. He punched the first guard in the throat. He went down choking on his own blood. The second guard was slow to respond. Slocum used the hammer on his elbow, shattering it. The man’s six-shooter fell to the ground as he grabbed his arm and cried out in agony.
Murphy started to turn before Slocum swung the hammer and clipped him on the side of the head. Stunned, Murphy dropped to his knees. His eyes rolled up in his head, but he didn’t black out. Slocum quickly moved behind him, drew his knife, and laid it across Murphy’s throat.
“Talk fast,” Slocum ordered. “Who’s coming for the woman?”
“What is this? One of O’Malley’s harebrained schemes gone wrong again?”
Slocum moved the knife a fraction of an inch and let the blood run down the man’s neck.
“You ain’t one of us, are ya?”
“Who?”
“There’s no way you git away alive. You might as well kill me.”
"I might have a way for you to get rid of O’Malley,” Slocum said, taking a wild shot. He felt the way Murphy tensed.
“Now what might that be?”
“So you’re interested?”
“He’s a soulless killer. I got principles.”
Slocum doubted that there was a nickel’s difference between the two Irish thugs, but he was in no position to question morals.
“You want what he’s angling for,” said Slocum.
“You don’t have a notion about that, do ya?”
“I’ll help you with what I know.”
“In exchange for the woman? Now, if I go tradin’ her away, what would I use to seal the deal?”
Slocum felt increasingly frustrated. He knew that Murphy was only toying with him now. The man need only spill the details of O’Malley’s plan, and they could move ahead. That he didn’t utter a word told Slocum that Murphy had recovered his arrogance and feeling of invincibility. He ought to kill Murphy straight out and do something else to free Etta. Every second he held the knife to Murphy’s throat was a second closer to being discovered.
“Why did you come here?” Slocum asked. “To Montana? ”
“We all got death sentences hangin’ o’er our heads in Pennsylvania. Damned mine owners put out bounties on all us Molly Maguires. We could fight, but they got the law on their side. Better to come here and make our own country.”
“By killing everyone already here?” Slocum felt Murphy shrug slightly. Death meant nothing to this miner. He had probably seen as many of his friends and family die in the Pennsylvania coal mines as he had from the army soldiers sent to put down his violent strikes against the mine owners.
“They don’t mean shit to me,” Murphy said loudly. “To none of us. We—”
“Shut up,” Slocum said, pulling the knife in to reinforce his order.
Coming onto the parade grounds were O’Malley and three of his men. Those who had ridden in with Murphy all perked up, hands going toward their weapons. Slocum wondered if the big blow-off might be happening.
As if he heard Slocum’s thoughts, O’Malley spun and stared straight at the shed. Slocum held Murphy immobile in the doorway, knife across his throat.
“Now what do we have here?”
“Here’s your chance,” Slocum said softly to Murphy. “I can help.”
“Go to hell.”
Louder, Slocum called, “I want the woman released and given a horse.”
“Do you now?” O’Malley sauntered over, as if nothing in the world bothered him. He stopped directly in front of the shed and tried to get a good look at Slocum. “I don’t know you. You ain’t one of Murphy’s boys. You ain’t in uniform so you’re not a soldier. What’s that make you?”
“Your worst nightmare. I’ll cut Murphy’s throat if you don’t do as I say.”
“I can’t have that,” O’Malley said. “Nobody cuts Murphy’s throat because I need him.”
Slocum felt a small trickle of relief. He might just pull this off yet, though getting away would be a problem.
“You see, nobody kills Murphy because that’s what I want to do myself.” O’Malley lifted his six-shooter, aimed, and fired. Slocum took a step back when he felt something crash into his chest. For a moment, he could not understand what happened. Then he saw the hole in the leather apron and knew. O’Malley had shot clean through Murphy, and the bullet had lodged in Slocum’s chest. He reached down and brushed at it. He heard the bullet fall to the shed floor. The leather apron had robbed the bullet of whatever killing power it had left after driving all the way through Murphy’s body.
“He thought he could run this gang. He’s wrong.”
Slocum now supported deadweight in front of him, a shi
eld as much as anything else.
“Now, I need to think what to do with you. Are you some Knight of the Round Table, eh? You come ridin’ up on yer white horse to save the fair damsel like some damned English knight?” O’Malley fired again into Murphy. Slocum turned slightly, but this bullet did not go entirely through Murphy’s body. From the sound, the bullet had hit a rib and been deflected.
“No, no,” moaned Etta Kehoe. Slocum started to tell her to get ready. If he could prop up Murphy long enough to get to the hammer and chisel, he thought he could free her from the shackles. Then O’Malley bellowed to his men.
“Git ’em, boys. Now!”
There was no more time.
O’Malley and his gang advanced on the shed, firing as they came.
11
Slocum held on to Murphy until O’Malley was almost at the shed door. With a tremendous heave, Slocum picked up the dead man and threw him into O’Malley’s arms. The outlaw staggered back, giving Slocum a fraction of a second to act. He threw his hammer at one of O’Malley’s guards and the chisel at the other, forcing them both to dodge. Without hesitation, Slocum whirled about, put his head down, and ran full tilt into the rear of the shed. For an awful instant, he feared it would hold, but the rotted wood yielded and he bulled his way through.
Stumbling, staggering, he got his feet under him as he drew his Colt. Not daring to waste a single shot, Slocum dodged back and forth, then ran straight for the low wall as a few bullets sought his back. When more came, he turned, planted his feet squarely, and fired three deadly rounds. Each caught an outlaw and momentarily threw their ranks into confusion.
He dashed to the wall, vaulted over it, and then crawled fast, using it to conceal himself. There were plenty of the Schuylkill Butchers after him, though. They could split and go in either direction and still outnumber him ten to one.
Then his luck changed.
“What’s goin’ on?” A sentry sat up and looked around. He rubbed his eyes and reached for his rifle.
“Where’s your horse?” Slocum shouted. The man’s eyes darted away from the fort. That was the last thing he said. Slocum shot him in the middle of the forehead. Running past, Slocum grabbed the fallen rifle and went in the direction the guard had glanced when asked about his horse. He found it tied to a post oak not far off.
The horse hardly noticed Slocum’s weight when he jumped into the saddle. The dead guard weighed a considerable amount more than Slocum. Putting his head down, Slocum turned the horse and got it galloping away. Bullets whined after him, but O’Malley’s men were not good shots. That might be another reason they resorted to such savagery. Wielding a knife or meat cleaver was not only more personal, they could be sure their victims died.
Slocum angled away from the fort, got to a rise, and saw a dozen men galloping after him. He lifted the rifle and methodically emptied the magazine at them. He winged one. At this distance and on horseback, he counted it a good shot. Then Slocum rode over the rise, jumped to the ground, and swatted the horse’s rump, getting it running like hell-fire.
Running along the ridge, he found himself a spot to hide just as the Butchers came swarming over the top.
“There he goes. I see the horse!”
“No rider,” said another.
The first outlaw squinted. “He’s just hunkerin’ down. We kin git him. Let’s go!”
Slocum silently cheered on the nearsighted man. The one with better eyesight grumbled but followed, as did the rest. Slocum waited a few seconds to be sure they wouldn’t double back, then got to his feet and headed for where he had tethered his horses earlier. They looked up when he hurried to them. Fumbling in his saddlebags for more ammo, Slocum reloaded and then stuffed cartridges into his pocket. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had rechambered the Colt Navy. This let him reload faster without sacrificing the speed and accuracy of the pistol.
Only when he felt he was ready to fight a war did he sit and think hard. What the outlaws did when they finally caught the spooked horse was worrisome, but not as much as how to get Etta Kehoe free. The thought of the woman chained like an animal infuriated him, but when his thoughts turned to her dangling from her shackles in the shed, he also remembered how he had gotten away from O’Malley.
Slocum moaned as pain from a dozen splinters embedded in his face and arms finally caught up with him. Using his knife, he worried out the biggest of the splinters until he bled sluggishly from ten holes in his hide. The rest stung, but no worse than a bee sting. Water from his canteen wiped away the worst of the blood and grime from his face.
He was all patched up, but still faced the same problem as he had before. How did he free Etta? Worse now, O’Malley knew he had someone running free willing to kill to rescue her. Slocum had to admit this might not matter a whole lot to the Pennsylvania miner. Life and death were matters of no concern to him. With Murphy dead, O’Malley might have solidified his leadership to the point where all the Irishmen would follow him.
“I stick my nose in and unite them,” Slocum muttered, knowing he might have made matters worse. He had been bold, and it had not worked. He had worked his way through their ranks like an Apache, and that had not worked either. Slocum feared that getting the people of Sharpesville alarmed and into a posse might be Etta’s only hope. One man against a small army of killers appeared more and more to be a fool’s bet.
He kept returning to how the marshal had tossed him into jail without so much as a fare-thee-well. That spoke to him about the way the citizens of Sharpesville thought. Shooting first and asking questions later was smart, considering the Schuylkill Butchers all around them, but it didn’t bode well for listening to a stranger tell them they had to rush out and rescue a woman they might not know that well.
“Back,” he said to his horses. The gelding looked at him skeptically, snorted, and then let him mount. Tackling O’Malley’s gang again was crazy, but he saw no other way unless he could somehow scrub his conscience clean about leaving a half-naked Etta Kehoe in the outlaws’ hands to do with as they pleased.
As Slocum rode in the twilight, he heard the rattle of chains and the creaking of leather from the direction of the road leading to Fort Walker. In need of some advantage, he turned his horse’s face in that direction and trotted onto a knoll in time to see a fancy carriage pulled by two horses rolling along in the direction of the army post.
“Hey, wait! Hold up!” Slocum yelled. The driver turned and saw him, then applied the whip to his team, getting even more speed out of them. Slocum knew that the driver thought he was being attacked by road agents.
Cutting across the terrain, Slocum gained a hundred yards on the carriage that stayed on the curving road, but he fell back when a guard with a shotgun opened up on him. Slocum’s mind raced, trying to figure how to use the carriage’s arrival at the fort to his advantage. The guard would take out a few of the Butchers when they tried to seize the carriage and whoever rode inside, but the fight wouldn’t last long.
Slocum veered away and kept his eyes open for more sentries patrolling the fort perimeter. His only hope was that things had remained stirred up among the gang, now that O’Malley had killed his primary rival, and that their lack of discipline would leave gaps in their security.
He slowed and waited as the carriage raced up to the low fence around Fort Walker and then passed through the open gate. Slocum sucked in his breath and held it when he saw that the outlaws did not attack. Instead, they gathered about. From the distance, Slocum could not tell, but thought O’Malley came out to greet the passenger.
He had no idea what was going on. Slocum fumbled in his saddlebags and pulled out his field glasses, but could not get a good enough view of either the man who had just arrived or how O’Malley had greeted him. The way the bulk of the outlaws stood about silently told Slocum more than seeing O’Malley shake hands with his visitor. There was a respect here, or if not that, then tolerance for the newcomer.
When O’Malley and a short, portly man went int
o the former post commander’s office, Slocum slumped. O’Malley had an ally and a rich one. He straightened and used his field glasses to slowly scan the fort. Most of the gang had gone back to the revelry, save for three of them who stood guard at the shed. Without riding around to get a view of the shed where Etta was being held, Slocum knew more of the owlhoots would be at the rear. To get to her now meant killing three—and probably six—before starting to free her from her shackles.
Slocum had come to the end of his rope. He had no idea how to get Etta out alive. Then he perked up when O’Malley and the rotund man exited the commandant’s office and walked to the shed. Slocum was especially interested when the guards fell back and even held open the door for O’Malley and his guest. Within minutes, O’Malley came out, leading Etta. From what he could tell, the outlaw had put a chain around Etta’s neck and led her like a dog.
O’Malley handed the leash to the man, who tugged and got the half-naked woman staggering toward the carriage. The man got in and pulled Etta in after him. Slocum could not tell if the shackles were still fastened to her wrists, but there was no doubt that she wore one around her neck.
Slocum put his field glasses back in his saddlebags when he saw the carriage wheel around on the parade ground and head out. He waited to see if the outlaws would provide a guard. The carriage had no more protection than it had when it drove into the post.
Slocum’s checkered past included more than one stagecoach robbery. Shotgun guards and armed passengers meant little to him if he had a good place to set up an ambush. He galloped back across the countryside, heading for a spot along the road that would be perfect for an ambush. As he raced along through the night, he worried that O’Malley might be using Etta as bait to lure him out of hiding. Such thoughts were irrelevant. Slocum had to try to rescue her.
The gelding’s flanks heaved and were lathered by the time he reached the spot where the road dipped down and crossed a wide, sandy arroyo. If the driver tried to rush through this stretch of the road, he would cause a horse to break a leg. The wheels would sink into the gravel and force a slower pace.
