Slocum and the Schuylkill Butchers

by Jake Logan

  “Are we just going to hide out until they come?” Etta asked. Before Slocum could answer, she added, “I’d like to hide out with you until I come.”

  “What is it you’re wanting me to hide?” Slocum asked, grinning.

  “I can think of something. So can you. Besides, I’m so tired I am almost falling out of the saddle.”

  “It’s been an ordeal for you,” he said.

  “All the more reason to make the bad memories go away for a while,” Etta said.

  Slocum rode along a game trail in the woods and saw a likely-looking spot where he and Etta might linger awhile. He knew they were still close to town, but he had not seen much in the way of tracking skills among the Schuylkill Butchers. His first glimpse of them had been a poor attempt at driving rustled cattle. All they seemed to do well was mine coal and murder.

  “We’re a few miles away now,” Slocum said. “How’s—” He never finished his sentence. Etta slipped backward off the horse and landed hard. She smoothed her skirts and went exploring, finding a sunny spot with a lush growth of grass that would be a perfect mattress.

  She sat and leaned back on her elbows. Looking up at him on his horse, she smiled and slowly moved her feet back until they were flat on the ground and her knees were bent. She opened them gradually and then pulled at her skirts until she revealed the spot she wanted tended to most.

  “Are you coming down to join me?” she asked.

  “I’m getting up to do just that,” Slocum said, swinging his leg up and over the saddle. He was already uncomfortable. His jeans were too tight in the crotch, and his erection was straining to explode. After making certain the horse was securely tethered, Slocum turned his attention to Etta.

  “I can’t wait,” she said, her bright blue eyes partly closed. She licked her lips slowly, and Slocum thought he would explode then and there.

  “You can always start without me,” he said, dropping his gun belt and working on his jeans.

  “What fun is there in that?” Etta reached down between her legs and stroked slowly through the tangled mat there, then opened her legs a bit more in obvious invitation. By now, Slocum was ready for her.

  He dropped to his knees on the soft earth and felt the moist grass crush under his knees. As he moved forward, she grabbed him and tugged insistently. He positioned his hips just right and moved forward another few inches. This time the wetness he felt was warm and inviting and entirely feminine.

  “Oh, John,” she sobbed. Etta lay back full length on the grass, arms high over her head. He saw how her breasts flattened when she did this. He reached out and brushed open her blouse to expose her fully to his lusting gaze. He dipped low, his tongue flicking like a snake’s.

  She arched her back and tried to cram as much of her tit into his mouth as she could when he caught the hard little pink nub on the top between his lips. He tongued and suckled and licked. Every time his tongue ran wetly over her turgid nipple, she gasped. She reached down and laced her fingers through his hair, holding him close.

  Slocum began to twitch down lower. He remained hidden away in her sheath of female flesh. Whenever he touched her breasts with his tongue, she tensed up all around him, crushing him, trying to milk him. The pressure and heat and wetness worked on him, but he resisted the tide rising in his loins.

  He wanted this to last all day. All night!

  Working from one succulent mound to the other, he left a wet trail. The gentle breeze blowing through the meadow evaporated the spit and made her moan in even more pleasure.

  “I ache, John. My titties ache. You make my whole body feel like a raw nerve.”

  She lifted her legs high on either side of his body and caught her knees with her hands. This collapsed her inner tissues around him even more until he thought it would be impossible to move.

  Etta began rocking back and forth, and Slocum knew he could no longer remain still. He matched her movements, in and out, until he found himself in the age-old rhythm of a man loving a woman.

  Faster he moved, his hips surging now. He pounded deeper into her, and she took it. She wanted more. She demanded more with her body.

  He gave it to her. But the cost was his slowly disappearing control. He felt like he was a young buck with his first woman. She made his body rush, no matter how his mind told him to make it last. The pleasure mounted within until Slocum’s hips flew like a shuttlecock. Every inch of his manhood vanished within her, paused, and then slowly retreated. Fast in, slow out.

  Etta gasped, lifted her rump off the earth, and ground her hips down into his. This was more than Slocum could endure. He lost all control and began moving hard, fast, wild. His seed exploded from his body like a Fourth of July skyrocket.

  As he sagged forward, drenched in sweat and feeling an utter peace descend on him, he took her in his arms. Her legs relaxed, and he lay between them for a moment before rolling onto his side.

  “Oh, John,” she whispered. “It gets better and better every time we’re together like this.”

  She snuggled close, his arms around her. Slocum stared past, content for the moment, but wondering how long they could linger there. O’Malley and his gang did not have to be good at following a trail. All they needed to do was put a few dozen more riders out to hunt. Even a blind squirrel found an acorn now and then.

  But Slocum savored the moment now with Etta. He knew things could change fast. And they wouldn’t change for the good if the outlaws found them.

  18

  “I don’t want to stay here by myself,” Etta Kehoe said angrily. “You’re not running out on me, are you? I thought better of you, John Slocum!”

  Slocum held down his irritation. He had heard echoes coming from down the canyon where they rode. The hills were not so steep on either side that they could not clamber to the rim and find their way out of the area, but he preferred to stay in the deep cut through the rocks. The stream running swiftly down the middle provided water for them and his horse, as well as fish for a decent meal. It was easier and quicker tickling a fish or two than it was hunting. Even a single gunshot would alert the Butchers of their quarries’ location.

  “I need to travel fast. The horse can’t gallop more than a few yards with both of us on it.”

  “I don’t want to stay here. This place gives me the jimjams. ”

  “Better to be a little jittery than to have a slug shot through your pretty head,” he told her. Slocum turned his head slightly. Was that the wind? Or a rider approaching?

  “Oh, go on. Just don’t expect me to be here when you get back. I’m beginning to think you value your own hide more than you do mine.”

  “Don’t go far,” he said, distracted. The sound alerted him now. A rider. He had heard the distinctive click of a shod horse against stone.

  She said something more, but Slocum already rode to one side of the canyon, thinking to outflank the rider. He had barely gotten under cover of a stand of trees with low-hanging branches when he spotted the man.

  Although he did not recognize him specifically, the man had to belong to O’Malley’s gang. There was a look about him, a look more than his red hair or the durable canvas miner’s clothing he wore. Slocum slid his six-shooter from its holster and waited for a good shot. If he could get the drop on the man and force him to surrender, he might get important information from him.

  Riding farther up the canyon, even with such clear water and abundant fish, might be too dangerous if more of the outlaw gang were there. But if this were the only one of O’Malley’s cutthroats in the area, Slocum could ride on fast and hard.

  A slow grin came to his lips. As much as he liked the feel of Etta’s arms around his waist as they rode, two of them weighed down his gelding to the point of constant exhaustion. With a second horse—the one the Schuylkill Butcher rode—they could make far better time and get the hell out of the area before O’Malley found them.

  Just as Slocum was about to call out for the outlaw to throw up his hands and grab a cloud, movement
out of the corner of his eye made him freeze. Another rider. Two. Three. The four stopped not ten yards from where Slocum sat astride his horse, worrying that they would turn in his direction and open fire if they spotted him. He had no doubt O’Malley wanted Etta back. Anyone else was destined to be hacked apart.

  “No sign of ’em,” said the one Slocum had hoped to capture. “Gotta be here somewhere.”

  “Why?” demanded another. "’Cuz O’Malley says so? He let them escape from under his nose. He ought to be out here ’stead of back in town livin’ the life of Riley.”

  “What there is of the town,” a third said with a laugh. “That cowboy sure blowed the hell out of the hotel. Made O’Malley fumin’ mad, it did. He had to go and find hisself a new place to sleep.”

  “That old lady’s boardinghouse is nicer than the hotel,” complained the first. “And O’Malley don’t have room fer the like of us no more. We kin sleep on the damn ground fer all he cares.”

  “Don’t let him hear you sayin’ shit like that,” said the one who had remained silent until now. “He’s so mad he’ll put you under the ground.”

  “That’s where we all belong, underground, mining, not traipsin’ about lookin’ fer a filly and her stud.”

  “We kin take a break. It’s close to midday.”

  This suggestion won quick approval. The four dismounted and worked to build a fire for their noon meal. Slocum slowly edged his horse away without them hearing. He retraced his path and found Etta sitting on a rock, her chin in cupped hands, looking madder by the minute.

  “It’s about time you got back,” she said.

  “Four of them, not a quarter mile ahead,” Slocum said. “We’ve got maybe a half hour before they’re on us.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to get boxed into the canyon. I’d worried about men on our trail. If there are any behind us, they have us sandwiched. The only hope we have is that they haven’t figured that out.”

  “If there are any behind us?” Etta looked shocked. “You never said a word about that!”

  “Why bother? There’s nothing either of us can do about it. And there’s no way we can sneak by the four ahead either. They are camped on the stream. It’s wide and rocky there. Wide-open.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Climb,” Slocum said without hesitation. He looked past Etta to the gentle slope that quickly became steeper as it led to the canyon rim.

  “It’s a long way, and you said the horse was tired. You’re not making sense anymore, John.”

  “Both of those statements are right,” Slocum said, jumping to the ground. “I’ll lead the horse to let it rest. We’ll start walking. The sooner we do, the sooner we reach the rim.”

  Slocum did not hear what Etta said under her breath, but it was not fit for polite company. She lifted her dirty, tattered skirts and began hiking. He followed, leading his horse. He had no idea where they would come out, but he hoped it was far away from town. During the past day, they had curved this way and that in the tangle of canyons and valleys until he was confused as to distance if not direction. The sun provided enough guidance for him to know they were moving southward, but he had been wrong about where the outlaws would hunt for them. It was possible he was wrong about more than that.

  “Finally,” Etta gasped out, pulling herself up to the summit. “We are away from them.”

  Slocum stopped beside her. From this elevation, he got a good view of the valley where Sharpesville had been built. The smeared black of the burned buildings spread out like some evil patchwork quilt. He took his field glasses and slowly scanned the entire town. When he found a spot where smoke still curled upward, caught on lazy air currents, he knew he had found the hotel he had set ablaze.

  Moving on from the burned-out hotel, he stopped when he saw the frantic activity at the nearby saloon. The whorehouse where he had considered sniping at O’Malley bustled with more men than he could shake a stick at.

  “What is it?” Etta asked. “You tensed up.”

  "O’Malley is fortifying what’s left of the town. It’s not good enough that he has Fort Walker. The railroad is coming through Sharpesville, and he has to keep control.” Slocum saw how the saloon and whorehouse bristled with rifles. It would take a small army to pry the outlaws from those buildings. O’Malley was doing all he could to expand the territory he controlled, and to Slocum’s practiced eye, he was doing a damned good job of it. If Fort Walker was secure, Sharpesville would soon be also. The hills where the coal was mined lay completely under the Schuylkill Butchers’ command. From there, they could expand along the railroad line, either toward the Pacific or eastward into the Dakotas.

  O’Malley might not be as crazy as he’d first seemed. Norris had said the former Molly Maguire wanted to rule his own country. He had a good start.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Slocum lowered the field glasses and shook his head.

  “There’s nothing I can do. Going against those buildings now that he has beefed up the walls and turned them into small forts isn’t something one man can do. We ride on.”

  “We could wait for the cavalry,” Etta suggested.

  “There’s nothing to show that Parmenter’s telegram was read by anyone along the line,” Slocum pointed out.

  “It got through. It has to have reached the right people. Otherwise, poor Mr. Parmenter died for nothing.”

  Slocum didn’t bother to tell her that was the way it often happened. Most of the people of Sharpesville had died for no reason, other than O’Malley’s lust for power and revenge against wealthy men back in Pennsylvania. No matter what the mine owners had done to O’Malley and his union, there was no call for them to slaughter innocent people the way they had.

  The sight and smell of the Schuylkill Butchers hacking up the town marshal still burned like acid in Slocum’s brain.

  “What would you do if an entire company of soldiers attacked them?” Etta asked.

  “Watch,” was all Slocum said. He wanted to wash his hands of this fight. He had plenty of scrip folded and stuffed into his pocket that he had taken from dead outlaws over past few days. It didn’t make him rich, but it would keep him in whiskey once he reached a place with a saloon not overrun by killers from Pennsylvania and before that from Ireland.

  Etta did not move. She simply stared down into Sharpesville. Finally, she said, “That’s my home. I hate to see it in their hands.”

  “All your people are dead. Your friends, neighbors, everyone is dead.”

  “Still,” she said wistfully, as if there could be some remaining connection. Etta heaved a deep sigh, and her shoulders sagged.

  Slocum had turned to mount when he saw movement farther down the hillside in the direction of Sharpesville. He got his foot out of the stirrup and reached for the field glasses he had returned to his saddlebags. He studied the terrain. It might have been wind blowing through branches, but he did not think so.

  Then he saw movement again. Coming up the hill. A man’s arm showed for a brief instant, then faded into shadow. The skill in moving so silently and with such little exposure worried Slocum. None of the outlaws had shown any such ability, but there could be a few among them who had learned. If this was one, Slocum faced a man who equaled his own skills.

  “Here,” Slocum said, handing the reins to Etta. “Ride along the ridge for a couple miles, then wait for me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s coming this direction. I want you to lure them away.”

  “What! You’re using me as bait?” She was furious that Slocum would consider such a ploy.

  “I’ll make sure you’re all right,” he told her. “Hurry. They’re moving like the wind.” That much was true. If he had not seen the arm with the sleeve flapping on it, he would have believed the bushes’ movement was due only to a breeze. However, there was no breeze.

  “If I don’t show up in a few minutes after you stop, keep riding.”


  “You mean you’ll be dead?”

  “Hurry,” he told her. He swung her about and got her onto the gelding.

  “Don’t, John. We can do this together. I can decoy whoever it is here without leaving you.”

  “No arguments,” he said, slapping the horse’s rump. The gelding reared, flicked its tail angrily, then trotted off. Slocum wasted no time watching the woman ride away. He ducked down, made for a fallen tree trunk, and flopped behind it. From there he could see the head of the game trail he reckoned the outlaw must be following. There was no other reason the man could move so fast through undergrowth. He had to be following the game trail.

  But he wasn’t.

  The man burst out of thorny undergrowth behind Slocum and swooped down on him before he could swing his Colt Navy around. Strong hands pinned his wrist to the ground, then began to squeeze. Slocum felt the circulation dying in his hand as the six-shooter slipped from his grip.

  Rather than fight such superior strength, he suddenly relaxed. The move unbalanced his attacker, allowing Slocum to twist to the side and get his feet up. Lying on his side, he kicked like a mule and forced the man away.

  Slocum got to his feet and whipped out his knife. He crouched low, knife extended and ready to face the outlaw.

  Only it was not an outlaw he faced. It was an Indian.

  The brief hesitation as recognition of his enemy set in was all the opening needed. Slocum was again bowled over and driven to the ground. His knife hand was pinned under one bony knee. The other knee drove mercilessly into his left shoulder. He stared up into sure death. The Indian drew a knife and lifted it to drive down into Slocum’s throat.

  19

  The Indian hesitated, scowled, and looked hard at Slocum.

  “You going to stare me to death or use the knife?” Slocum asked.

  “Which would you want, Slocum?”

  “First, you can get off me. Then you can decide.” Slocum grunted when the Indian slipped to one side and lithely rolled to his feet. The knife slid easily into a leather sheath at his belt held by a dull brass U.S. Army buckle. Slocum shook himself to get some of the dust off, then stood. “Been a while.” He stuck out his hand. The Indian shook hard.