Slocum and the Schuylkill Butchers

by Jake Logan

  “It’s you? Yer one of ’em. You oughta know.”

  “The marshal was wrong. You’re wrong. The only thing I want with the Butchers is to settle a score.” He rested his hand on the ebony butt of his six-shooter. Luther stared at his gun hand as if he had no idea what Slocum intended. “Where?” Slocum asked again.

  “Saloon,” Luther said dully.

  “All right, Luther. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to cut down the new marshal, and I want you to organize a posse. We’re going to ride to Fort Walker and take on the whole lot of them.”

  “Ain’t ’nuff left in town fer that. Most ever’one’s left. I shoulda, but I didn’t have nowhere to go.”

  “How many men are left who can handle a gun? Rifle? Shotgun?”

  “Couple dozen maybe.”

  “You tell them you’re the new marshal, and you are deputizing them to defend their town. If they didn’t leave Sharpesville, that means they think enough of it and their neighbors to fight.”

  “Reckon they do,” Luther said. Then he locked eyes with Slocum. “It’d be a lie sayin’ I was marshal.”

  “You were a deputy before, weren’t you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Then this is like the army. You’re next in command.” Slocum wanted the young man motivated to organize whoever remained behind. “Get rifles from the marshal’s office, and don’t forget ammo.”

  “What are we defendin’?”

  Slocum started to snap at the youngster, then realized it was a reasonable question. He smiled and said, “That’s up to you. Which part of town’s best to defend? They’re likely to try burning us out. We can’t save everything, but you know best where to fight.”

  “I reckon I do,” Luther said, animated once more with duty as he jumped to his feet. “The far end of town, away from the saloon. If they torch that, the liquor’d go up like a bomb. Better to make a stand at the bank. It’s got good walls and—”

  “You’re going to make a fine marshal, Luther. Get on with your job, and I’ll see to mine.”

  “The saloon. That one across the street. There’s only the one of ’em there. That’s all they needed after they murdered the mayor and his wife.” Luther turned pale. Slocum guessed what the gang had done to the mayor and his family and anyone else who opposed them when O’Malley decided to take over the town.

  For a moment, he wondered if it had been O’Malley’s doing. Murphy had challenged him for control of the Butchers. The new marshal might be one of his henchmen. Slocum made sure his six-shooter slipped easily from its holster. He didn’t give two hoots and a holler which faction of the Schuylkill Butchers had cowed this town. Whether it was one of O’Malley’s or Murphy’s men mattered less than how many slugs he could pump through his black heart.

  His stride confident, Slocum went to the saloon and took one quick look up and down the street before entering. Luther had said one Butcher. Slocum had to be sure the youngster wasn’t wrong. And he wasn’t. A burly man leaned against the bar, a half-full bottle of whiskey on the bar beside his left hand. On the bar to his right lay a scattergun.

  “Who might you be?” The outlaw looked up into the dirty mirror behind the bar but did not turn.

  “I’m your guide,” Slocum said.

  “Guide? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I get to show you to the undertaker’s parlor to be fitted with a pine box—if anyone wants to go that far. Otherwise, we’ll just use your saddle blanket to bury you.”

  Slocum watched the play of muscles across the man’s wide shoulders, and knew he was not going for his shotgun.

  “You talk too big to be a local, and you ain’t one of us.” “Not a Molly Maguire? Not a bloody-handed killer who butchers women and children?”

  Slocum was already going for his six-shooter as the man swung about. He wore a pair of six-shooters thrust into his belt. Meaty hands clutched both butts, but having twice the firepower did him no good. Slocum’s first slug caught him smack in the middle of the chest. The second ripped off a piece of ear. Then Slocum began fanning his hammer and sent three of the four remaining bullets into the man’s gut.

  He was dead as he slid to the floor.

  Slocum took the time to reload before going over and kicking the pistols from the dead man’s hands. Then he went through the outlaw’s pockets and found a wad of greenbacks, close to a thousand dollars. Slocum stuffed it into his own pocket. It was blood money from the citizens of Sharpesville. He could figure out how to give it back to the ones who survived.

  If any of them did.

  "Y-you git him, mister?”

  Slocum whirled about, his Colt Navy leveled at Luther. The young man stood in the door with a rifle held in shaky hands. His eyes darted from the pistol in Slocum’s hands to the dead Butcher and back to Slocum’s six-shooter.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Figgered you might need help. He’s one mean hombre. ” Luther peered past Slocum, swallowed hard, and then amended, “He was one mean son of a bitch.”

  While it hardly improved their odds against the Schuylkill Butchers, Luther’s show of support meant he had some backbone. Slocum knew all of the men left in town would have to show the same determination.

  “Any others in the gang here in town?” Slocum asked.

  “Nope, just him. He was ’posed to keep us in line. Done kilt four men jist fer lookin’ sideways at him.”

  “Have you gotten everyone down to the bank?”

  “Some won’t budge. Say they’ll defend their places theyselves.”

  “Which ones?”

  Luther backed out of the saloon, as if unsure whether the dead outlaw would jump back to life. In the street, he pointed his rifle toward the dry-goods store. “Mr. Rosty there, he won’t move. Says he fought the sar.”

  “The sar?”

  “The czar!” came a bellow that echoed from one end of town to the other. “He sent his Cossacks and I spit on them. I spit on these brigands, too!”

  “His name ain’t Rosty, but that’s what we calls ’im. Rostropovich,” Luther said carefully, then smiled. “Yep, that’s Mr. Rosty’s real name.”

  “Go on to the bank and start barricading the place. Get all the food and water into it you can. Don’t forget ammunition. ”

  “Won’t, no, sir.” Luther took a step, then frowned. “I got one question.”

  “What is it?”

  “What’s yer name? Don’t know I ever heard it.”

  Slocum laughed and told him, then went to deal with the Russian dry-goods dealer. It took a bit of argument, but Slocum finally convinced the man to move down to the bank with his wife and three sons.

  As Slocum watched the Russian and his family go, he called after them, “Where’s Etta? The woman I rode into town with?”

  Rostropovich laughed and pointed toward the hotel.

  Puzzled by the man’s reaction, Slocum went to the hotel and poked his head into the lobby. The curious emptiness of a deserted building greeted him. He went to the stairs and looked up at the second floor.

  “Etta? You here?”

  “Come on up, John. At the top of the stairs. The door’s open.”

  He went up the creaky steps cautiously, not sure what he would find. He looked into the room to his left. Empty. He turned right and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Do you like it?” Etta asked. She was dressed in frilly undergarments without a crotch so her auburn thatch poked through a lacy slit in the fabric. Her legs were sheathed in what might have been silk that clung to every contour. As she turned, he saw that the fabric was stretched tautly over her posterior. Etta kept turning and held up her arms. Slocum was again surprised at how he had missed so much with his first look. She wore a blouse that was so thin it almost vanished. It was a white that matched her skin color perfectly, making her appear naked.

  She turned this way and that so he could see her profile and her impudent breasts so neatly encased in the diaphanous cl
oth.

  “Mr. Rosty told me to take whatever I wanted. He saw how I was dressed when we got to his shop. He knows there’s not likely to be much left when the Butchers find out you’ve killed the man they left.”

  “News travels fast,” Slocum said.

  “I heard the gunfire. I recognized your six-shooter and didn’t hear another gun.” She continued to pose for him, moving to stand in front of the window. The late daylight came through and set fire to her thin clothing. The gossamer white top turned a brilliant orange. The silk bloomers reflected the sunlight and highlighted the tuft of fur between her legs.

  “Oh, you like this? It seems so practical. I don’t have to completely undress when I want you to . . .” Etta dropped onto the bed and propped herself up on her elbows. With lascivious slowness, she hiked her feet in the air, knees together. Then she slowly opened them to give Slocum a new and delightfully erotic view.

  “We don’t have the time,” he said.

  “Why not? Be quick, John. I want it. Do it fast. Burn me up. I put this on just for you, to excite you.”

  “Looks like I’m not the only one getting excited,” Slocum said. He took a step forward. Her saw her hard nipples and the way her breath came faster now. Tiny dewdrops dotted her bush.

  “Good,” she said, eyes half-closed now. She licked her lips. “We can kill two birds with one stone.”

  Slocum took another step and then hesitated. He looked out the window, swore, and went for his six-gun.

  “John! What is it?” Etta sat bolt upright on the bed, her long legs dropping over the side.

  “We’ve got company,” he said, pushing the curtain back with the barrel of his pistol. Down in the street rode two of O’Malley’s gang. "Get dressed. We’ve got to get to the bank. Luther’s barricaded it.”

  “Oh, damn them! I’ll see them all in hell!”

  Etta dressed while Slocum acted. He shoved his six-shooter out the window, sighted, and fired twice. The lead rider fell backward over his horse’s rump. The other outlaw went for his rifle and looked around frantically, trying to figure out where the killing shots had come from.

  Slocum never gave him the chance to home in. He fired three more times and shot him out of the saddle.

  “Why’d you have to kill them right now, John?” Etta settled her blouse and skirt and worked to get into her shoes. “Couldn’t it have waited? For a few minutes?”

  He wondered at the woman. If they had gotten started, he would have been caught with his pants around his ankles. She had to know he had shot O’Malley’s men for a reason. They were going into the saloon and would have found their dead partner in a few seconds.

  “Come on. I don’t see any more, but they travel in packs like most carrion eaters.”

  “I’ve got everything,” Etta said, picking up a valise. They hurried down the stairs and into the street.

  “I was wrong,” Slocum said. “There’re more. Lots more.” He pushed her toward the far end of town. Etta took off running as fast she as she could carrying the valise.

  Slocum worked to reload as he followed more slowly. He looked up when she suddenly stopped. The carpetbag latch had come open and spilled her fancy new clothes onto the ground. She worked to stuff them all back in.

  “Forget them. You can get them later.”

  “Like hell! These are mine! Mr. Rosty gave them to me . . . for you as a reward for rescuing me.”

  Slocum bent and grabbed handfuls of fabric and helped her stuff it all into the carpetbag. In a crouch, he pivoted and fired down the street. The range was too great to be effective, but he halted the advance of the Schuylkill Butchers. From this angle, it looked as if a thousand of them had invaded the town.

  Etta clutched the bag to her chest and dashed to the bank. The door was locked.

  “Let us in!” she called. “They’ll kill us if you don’t let us in!”

  Slocum joined her in pounding hard on the locked door. Then he stopped and faced the advancing tide of death. If he was going to die, he wanted to take a few more of those murdering Irish bastards with him.

  13

  Slocum aimed and fired until his six-gun came up empty. He grabbed Etta around the waist and swung her out of the line of fire when the lead outlaws opened fire. A hot line cut across his upper arm, and he had to let her go.

  “John, you’re hit!”

  “Run,” he grated out. He tried to raise his right arm, and it wouldn’t obey. He bent over and grabbed for the knife sheathed in the top of his boot. He could fight left-handed— for a few seconds, until they found the range and even the lousy marksmen killed him.

  “No, I—”

  Slocum heard a grating behind him as wood slid across wood. Like a mule, he kicked backward and knocked open the bank door. He straightened and fell into Etta. Both of them crashed to the lobby floor. Before he could get to his feet, hands grabbed him and pulled him away.

  “Git that there door closed agin,” Luther said.

  The hands pulling Slocum along the floor dropped him so he could sit up. Etta struggled to roll over a few feet from him. Luther walked forward, rifle in hand, and found a slit cut in the door. He shoved his rifle barrel through it and began firing. From outside came angry sounds and utter confusion. The outlaws had not expected any show of resistance. That they had already lost several of the gang had to throw them into a killing rage.

  Luther flinched away when bullets slammed into the door, but he leaned back and peered along the sights and kept firing. By the time Slocum got to the youngster’s side, the outlaws had stopped shooting.

  “Save your ammo,” Slocum advised. Luther turned and stared at him. The boy was in shock. His eyes were glassy, and his hands shook. “It’s all right.” Slocum gently took the gun from Luther’s hand.

  “They ain’t goin’ away,” Luther said.

  “Thanks for keeping them from killing us,” Slocum said. He handed the rifle back.

  “Jist doin’ my job,” Luther said proudly, thrusting out his thin chest. A shiny star glinted on his coat. Slocum slapped him on the back and went to see how Etta was faring. She stood at the rear of the bank lobby talking in a low voice with several women.

  She quickly left the women and threw her arms around Slocum’s neck, and hugged him so hard that he wondered if she was trying to break his neck. Etta finally released her fierce hold on him but pressed close, her cheek against his chest.

  “I thought you were dead out there,” she whispered.

  “You should have run when I told you,” he said.

  “If I had, I’d be dead.” She pushed away and looked at him critically. “Your arm’s still bleeding. Get somebody to help stitch him up. Now!” she barked, as if she were in charge.

  “I can help. I used to work with the doc before he skedaddled out of town,” said a mousy, brown-haired woman whose eyes never stopped darting around.

  “Get to it,” Etta said.

  “How many are in here?” Slocum asked.

  “Four women, eight men, not counting us.”

  “Fourteen against an army,” Slocum said. He had been reacting to danger, fighting to stay alive, but now he could not summon up enough energy to even rail against the Butchers.

  “We can wait them out,” Etta said. “Luther did a real good job stocking this place. If we have to, we can hide in the vault.” She pointed to the vault door standing open.

  “If we go inside and close it, how do we get out?”

  “I never thought of that,” Etta said. “But if they try burning the bank down around our ears, this is the only way we’re going to survive.”

  Slocum doubted that. He had heard of people trapped in bank vaults suffocating to death. If fourteen of them crowded into that small a space, they wouldn’t last an hour. Slocum knew he might start shooting them one by one if they irritated him enough. The wide-open spaces were where he belonged, not penned up like an animal in a cage.

  Luther and several men started firing. Slocum glanced over his sho
ulder to see them at their posts, then winced.

  “Sorry,” the nurse said. “You moved while I was stitchin’ up your arm.”

  She bit off the thread and sloshed some whiskey onto the wound. It burned like fire and then felt better.

  “Thanks,” Slocum said, flexing his arm. His fingers worked, and he felt the power returning to his grip. “Let me see what’s in the supplies Luther stored for us.”

  He had not expected much, but when he came to the crate of dynamite, complete with blasting caps and a spool of black miner’s fuse, he was impressed. There was more going on in Luther’s head than was obvious from his somewhat dim-witted speech.

  Slocum completed the inventory and knew they could live off the food for several days, more if the Butchers killed any of those in the bank.

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, Slocum heard a gasp and saw a man simply sit down. A stray bullet had come through the loophole in the wall and hit the man in the head, killing him instantly.

  “Get him over there,” Slocum said, pointing to a spot behind the tellers’ cages. “He’ll be out of sight there.”

  Luther and Mr. Rosty carried out Slocum’s orders while he returned to preparing the dynamite. He wrapped up two sticks with each crimped detonator and put a one-foot length of fuse on the package. More than once he had worked in mines as a blasting engineer, and he knew the fuse burned at a set rate—one foot per minute.

  “What are you going to do, John?” Etta put her hand on his arm. He winced. “Sorry, I forgot,” she said, drawing back from his injured arm.

  “I need to get to the roof,” Slocum said. “Is there any way there from inside the building?”

  Etta silently pointed. Slocum saw a metal ring set into the ceiling behind the desk where the president had once been seated, approving and rejecting loans to the citizens of Sharpesville. He shoved a chair over, climbed on it, and tugged hard on the ring. A panel opened and a ladder unfolded. He scrambled up the ladder into a dark attic. On hands and knees, Slocum made his way through the dusty recess to a cantilevered opening at the side of the bank.

  He kicked out the grating and chanced a quick look outside. Two outlaws sneaked around the bank, almost directly beneath him. Slocum ducked back, lit the fuse, and waited until it had burned down almost to the blasting cap before dropping the bundle. The two sticks of dynamite exploded above the outlaws’ heads. Slocum jerked back as blood spattered upward. He quickly lit another pack of dynamite, knowing other Butchers would come running to see what happened.