Slocum and the Snake-Pit Slavers

by Jake Logan

  “My men, a group of white but useless cowboys who were better with guns, gambling, and drinking than with ranch work, found and collected our new labor force. And wonder of wonders, we began to see a slight profit from the promising ore sent up out of that lovely hole in the ground!

  “We also had to procure slave labor because if we attracted experienced miners, the ranch would be overrun with savage prospectors. As it is, my men had to dispatch a few of them who found out about the mine, probably from the damnable assayer in Keyville, north of here.

  “Why, if we hadn’t, can you imagine what this place would be like? History is rife with examples of private lands being overrun once gold is discovered. And the landowner receives nothing but an early death in Northern courts of so-called justice. You recall a man named Sutter, I take it? He owned vast lands and ended up landless and penniless. A damned shame. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a good old Southern man.”

  “Actually, he was Swiss.”

  “Good Lord. Still, I bet he supported the South in the great conflict.”

  “And as I recall, he bilked ownership of that land from local Indians.”

  “Pshaw! They, like the blacks and Mexicans, are inferiors who yearn to be managed, to be led by their noses. They are life’s pawns. The drones in the hive of life.”

  “And that would make you?”

  The colonel smiled and narrowed his eyes. “Through with this conversation.”

  He stood up, but Slocum grabbed his wrist and made him sit back down. “So you made enough from that early ore to keep your investor partners off your back, eh?” Slocum watched the man smoke, wished he had a cigar, then shook the thought off as a wet dog does water. Time for cigars—and whiskey, too—later.

  “Yes, you bet, my boy. As long as we were able to maintain the bills, the investors were content to see a slow return on their investment. It took fancy footwork, I can tell you, and a couple of trips to that repugnant Northern hell known as New York City. But I managed to keep them away from us. Until now.”

  “So, Mulletson. Now what?” Slocum stood, dragging the man with him.

  The colonel lunged for the hunk of ore, scooped it off the table, leaving a long, jagged gouge in the polished wood. He didn’t seem to care. “Be losing this soon enough . . .” He winked at Slocum.

  “What’s that mean?”

  The colonel shrugged off Slocum’s grip, and said, “Follow me, Mr. Slocum.” And they headed to the front door. Just outside, Everett stood at the base of the steps between two horses.

  “Hey,” said Slocum, despite himself. “That horse looks mighty familiar.” There stood Slocum’s Appaloosa, who looked to be in good shape, maybe a little lean, but then again, so was Slocum.

  “Yeah,” said Everett. “And I took care of him, too. Not Harley.”

  Slocum saw that the man took pride in this, and he nodded accordingly. “I appreciate it. He’s a good horse, carried me many miles.”

  “And he’ll carry you a few more today, too,” said the colonel.

  “What’s that mean?” said Slocum.

  “That means, Mr. Slocum, that you and Everett will be transporting, with mighty goddamn care, I might add, this very lovely chunk of golden ore. You understand me, Everett? You are to take this to that rascally assayer in Keyville. And if he don’t make it a spiffy turnaround, he is to expect some trouble from you. With my permission. In fact, on my orders. I will, of course, send a letter with the rock that will explain it all to him.”

  Slocum folded his arms and looked at the little man next to him. “Why do you think I need to go and what makes you think I’m about to do so?”

  “Because, Mr. Slocum, if you don’t, bad things will happen to those heathens in the canyon. Or as the rim guards call it, the Snake Pit.”

  Slocum saw mild surprise on Everett’s face.

  The colonel smiled. “Oh yes, Everett, I know all about what you folks say and do. More, much more than you think.”

  “I’m not going,” said Slocum.

  “Yes, you are. Because if you don’t, your friends will die. And I am the one who will order it.”

  “Something tells me you aren’t about to let go of that ore sample, Mulletson.” Slocum suspected how all this was going to play out and he thought to buy himself time before mounting up. He knew it was inevitable, of course. Now that the cat was out of the bag and the colonel had been informed that the mine was capable of much more than the acceptable profits of just days before, the colonel would have no reason to keep a rabble-rouser such as Slocum alive. He would want to kill him or, more to the point, have him killed, and soon. Then the colonel would give the slaves a raw ultimatum.

  Slocum swung up into the saddle—his old saddle, a comfortable seat and one he was well accustomed to. He’d missed it. “One thing more, Mulletson.”

  “Really, Mr. Slocum, I am a busy man.”

  “Indulge me.”

  The fat man sighed. “Very well.”

  “Why go to the bother of having the ore assayed right now? It’s obvious to anyone who’s seen it that it’s far and away one of the best samples seen in these parts in a long time, I’ll wager.”

  “That’s true, that’s true.”

  “Unless . . .”

  The colonel inclined his head and smiled. “Do tell me your supposition, Slocum.”

  “I’m guessing that you need that piece of paper to help stave off your creditors, maybe even your restless investors.”

  The men regarded each other for a silent moment. Beside Slocum, Everett’s horse twitched a fly, blew.

  The colonel smiled. “I’ll go you one better, Slocum. Between you and me and Everett here . . . the investors have sent emissaries out this way to, shall we say, poke and prod my books, find out why their investments haven’t yet produced fruit.”

  “Occurs to me, Mulletson, that if you’re telling me this, you aren’t concerned if I know such intimate details about your affairs. Or maybe you figure I won’t be in your employ all that much longer.”

  “Call it what you like, Mr. Slocum. Believe what you need to, but I have gold to dig.”

  “And you’re not waiting for the assayer’s report, eh?” Slocum backed the Appaloosa from the hitching rail.

  “I hardly think so, Slocum.”

  “Just remember, Mulletson, should anything happen to those people in the Pit, I am a man of my word. And I give you that word now: I will hunt down anybody who is responsible.”

  “And what then, Mr. Slocum?” The colonel seemed amused.

  “That all depends on who draws first.”

  “Have a safe journey to Keyville, gentlemen.” The colonel waved and turned back to the house.

  “And the return trip?” said Slocum, urging the Appaloosa into a walk. He didn’t look back toward the house, but he heard the colonel laughing.

  “Oh, but you are a funny man, Mr. Slocum. A very funny man.”

  21

  As they rode out of the yard, pointed due northwest toward Keyville, Everett was mounted on the same horse he’d ridden a few days before when Slocum arrived at the Triple T. He held back, nodded that Slocum should ride ahead of him. Slocum couldn’t blame him—he’d do the same in Everett’s position.

  After a few quiet minutes, Slocum said over his shoulder, “So where are my buddies, Clew and Harley?”

  “Oh, I ain’t seen them boys in a few days. On a mission for the colonel, I expect.”

  “A mission, eh? Now that all sounds very secretive to me, don’t you think? As if there’s something going on that somebody shouldn’t know?”

  “I wouldn’t know nothing about that sort of thing.”

  “Oh come on now, Everett. Something like a secret gold mine and secret slaves? And a secret fortune that a fancy Southern colonel says he’s going to share with his number one, trusted confidante
head wrangler, who incidentally doesn’t look to me as if he’s ever wrangled anything more than a silver dollar out of an old lady’s handbag . . .”

  “You keep talking, Slocum. That silver tongue of yours is bound to get you in a heap of trouble. Mark my words.”

  Slocum let it go for a few minutes, and they rode in silence. He would have liked to enjoy the morning, and on such a morning he normally would have. It was a fine one—high, clear blue sky, dry air, the sun hot but not yet brutal. Mountains in the distance to the west, looming large and mighty, snow on the highest peaks. He loved the mountains, missed being up in them among the pines and aspen at the tree line, especially in early autumn. Nothing like a cup of strong campfire coffee, a quirly, and bacon snapping and popping in the pan while a stream cold and clear bubbled a few feet away and your horse grazed in the dappled sun of a small mountain meadow.

  He sighed. That fine scene beat the hell out of being prodded by that greedy little colonel’s henchman on a horse, unarmed, while Everett had three weapons that Slocum saw—a double-gun rig and a Winchester rifle in his saddle boot. Plus the Bowie knife.

  Time to rile Everett some more—maybe he’d make a mistake, do something that Slocum could use against him. He didn’t think he had too much longer before the man did whatever it was the colonel told him to—kill Slocum. He didn’t know Everett well at all, but something told him that the man seemed the type to shoot another man in the back.

  “Everett, you don’t honestly think that the colonel is going to cut you in on a slice of his golden pie, do you?” Slocum slowed the Appaloosa’s pace and half turned in the saddle. He used his words to rile the thin gunhand, and also to buy himself some time to sort out the situation, see if there was something he might use against him. “Think about it. You’re just his errand boy. Aren’t you a little old to be anybody’s boy?”

  That got to him—Everett’s jaw stuck out and his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Ah, nothing. Don’t mind me.” Slocum turned around, faced front, eyeing the narrowed rocky defile they were headed toward.

  The trail they were following twisted downward through a low stretch flanked by sage-crowded boulders, some of them thirty feet high. A small chasm, and the perfect place to set up an ambush. He’d do it—that was how he knew it would be ideal for just such purposes. At the same time he heard the other horse’s footsteps recede.

  Slocum slowed the Appaloosa imperceptibly. “Hey, Everett.”

  A few seconds later, the man replied, but his voice sounded forced, as if shouted from far back. Slocum half smiled, didn’t turn around.

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  He scanned left, right. Saw a cleft in between two massive boulders, big enough to just barely glide on through, both him and his horse. But what lay back there was anyone’s guess. Could open up to the other side and maybe give him a shot at outrunning whoever Everett had waiting up here. Or it could be a dead end, which was exactly where he’d find himself should it work out to be that.

  Just ahead on the left, something scraped—a boot on rock? The country was too low for mountain sheep, but perfect for a two-legged varmint. Or a couple of them.

  “Slocum,” he said to himself in a low voice. “It’s now or never.”

  The cleft he’d seen wasn’t but a few paces ahead to his right. Within seconds he’d come abreast of it and without warning he jerked the reins hard and touched his spurs to the horse’s belly.

  He bent low and tucked his head down, pulled his legs and elbows in. Still the rock scraped his denims and boots on either side as he shot into the opening. He held his breath, and kept his horse moving. The rocks had formed a jumbled ceiling that kept getting lower. It was cool in there and the floor was sandy, the rock sides of the passage still tight but not yet narrowing to a dead end.

  Within seconds, as he had guessed, he heard harsh, clipped snags, the words of men from behind. There was a sudden edge in their voices, as if they had been surprised. And he was the one who had done the surprising, rather than the surprise they had expected to unleash on him—a deadly rain of lead from above.

  He knew who those voices belonged to: Everett, Harley, and Clew. The other two must have cut a path parallel to the road, and arrived not long before Everett and Slocum. It could mean that the trip to the assayer’s office was a ruse, but probably not, since all they would have had to do was tie him up and dispose of him at their leisure. Everett must have known beforehand that they’d be making the trip.

  The rock passage narrowed even more. The Appaloosa nickered in frustration, unable to proceed, though Slocum could see sunlight through the man-width gap just beyond. This presented a sticky problem, but Slocum decided he might well turn it into something of use to him. He slid from the saddle, hitched up his pant leg, and slipped out his boot knife. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was what he had, and he was grateful for it.

  “Shh, boy, shh . . .” Slocum whispered, patting the nervous horse’s neck. “You need to stay here. I’ll be back—I hope.” With that, he slipped forward, beyond the horse, crouching low and peering ahead, then upward, as the rocks that formed the ceiling angled back and away, letting in the daylight. He paused, heard boots scuffing off to his right, up above him. He lowered down, waited, just within the shadows.

  For long minutes, he heard no sounds. Another shadow from above gradually inclined longer and longer on the rock beside him. He guessed just seconds before he saw the man’s buckskin shirt that it was Everett. But the thin cowboy hadn’t seen him . . . yet. He leaned forward more, peering down into the gap. Of course, they all three would know that Slocum hadn’t emerged from the gap.

  Even now, one of them was probably cautiously cat-footing on into the tunnel, but Slocum couldn’t worry about him just yet. Besides, he suspected the Appaloosa, as keyed up as he was, would probably nicker at the slightest provocation, such as a stranger coming up behind him in the dark.

  The shadow lengthened impossibly long above him, and just when it seemed to Slocum it couldn’t stretch any more, the snout of the man’s rifle poked to within a foot of Slocum, just to his left.

  So the man still hadn’t seen him. One twitch and Slocum knew he’d be seen. Everett would have the upper hand, too, since he had unlimited room to pivot and swing, and he had firearms. Slocum ducked low beneath it, hoping like hell that he could act fast enough to prevent Everett from squeezing the trigger—accidentally or otherwise. A ricochet in such a tight spot would probably find a home in his body, and that he could do without.

  No time like the present—Slocum’s right hand flashed outward, quick as a striking snake, and grabbed the rifle barrel just behind the tip. He yanked hard and fast and the man let out a quick, low oath of surprise, but didn’t relinquish his hold on the rifle, so quickly had Slocum acted.

  He pulled downward hard and Everett dropped into the chasm above him—wedging there upside down, his arms pinned but flailing. In the gloom, as Slocum wrested the rifle from him, Everett’s face was an inch from Slocum’s, but he looked confused, didn’t appear to know just what had happened. Soon enough he saw Slocum, who had laid the rifle down and reared back with a hard right fist, then planted it and followed with two quick jabs to Everett’s jaw and cheek.

  Slocum heard something crack, but the man stayed conscious. The blows had loosened the wedged man enough that he began sliding down. With this newfound mobility, he shucked one of his six-guns and was working to bring it to bear on Slocum.

  Slocum reached for the rifle, thought better of it, and grabbed the upside-down man’s shirtfront, twisted him, and dragged him downward the rest of the way into the narrow defile with him. While Everett struggled to get to his feet, Slocum popped him with another blow to the temple. Still the man stayed upright, shaking off the blow.

  Must have a head of pure bone, thought Slocum, shaking his hand. The man clawed at his second pistol, the firs
t having dropped to the ground when he was pulled downward. He cleared leather with it, but stiffened, finally, as Slocum’s boot knife found purchase in the man’s quivering heart.

  Everett sagged forward, dead or nearly there, and in a low voice Slocum said, “Sorry it had to come to that, damn you.”

  He slid the knife free, wiped its slicked length on the man’s sleeve, and snatched up Everett’s hat. Next he relieved him of the holster, retrieved the two sidearms and the rifle, and continued onward, toward the far end of the narrow, stony corridor.

  He made it to the end without seeing another shadowy figure loom down at him from above. He reached the end and then there he was, Clew, standing right out in the open, rifle brought to bear and armed with a six-shooter on one hip.

  “I guess that means you got Everett.”

  Slocum said nothing, just spent the time gauging the distance between them—about twenty yards—and calculating the least number of moves he needed to make to kill this man who intended to kill him.

  “I theen him up there on the rock, poking hith rifle down in, but there wath no way I could tell him not to do that, no way to warn him.”

  “It was unwise of him,” said Slocum.

  “But you . . . you ain’t gonna get by me tho easy.”

  “What do you have against me, Clew? Tell me that. You’d risk your neck for the colonel? He already bilked Everett out of the most valuable thing he had—his life—in exchange for hollow promises of wealth. Is that what you’re after?”

  “I’m after one thing and one thing only—putting a few holeth in your foul hide, Thlocum. Ever thince you come to the ranch, there’th been nothing the thame, you got uth all beat up, near ruint my face, and now you thtand there thinking you’re gonna pull one on me? Not hardly . . .” Clew raised his arms as if he’d been gotten the drop on, then smiling, he dropped the rifle. It hit the dirt by his feet with a dull thunk.