Slocum and the Town Killers

by Jake Logan

  “The enemy,” murmured Langmuir. It couldn’t be Magee, but who else might be ahead? The amount of smoke told him that this was no mere campfire. A conflagration chewed away at a considerable pile of wood—maybe the size of Fort Supply.

  “All ready, sir,” reported the sergeant.

  Langmuir silently motioned for his troopers to ride on. They reached the top of the low rise overlooking the broad, flat prairie land holding Fort Supply. He had steeled himself for what he might find. He caught his breath. The walls were intact but the fires raged within them. The buildings could be replaced. The men and materiel were irreplaceable.

  “Sir, don’t see nobody actively fightin’ down there. We mighta got lucky.”

  “How can the destruction of our fort ever be lucky?”

  “Just sayin’, sir, that we couldn’t whip a three-day-old kitten in a fair fight.”

  Langmuir walked his horse down the road toward the fort. He saw two guards slumped at the gate. Both were obviously dead. Flies swarmed about them and a buzzard or two had pecked choicer hunks of flesh away.

  “You want a burial detail for ’em?” asked Benedict.

  “Later. There will be a considerable number of graves to dig,” Langmuir said. Wary, Langmuir went through the open gate and looked around at the devastation. His horse shied as they neared the parade ground. He drew rein and slowly surveyed the ruins. The armory door gaped open. The barracks and offices were destroyed. From the look of what remained, they had been leveled by cannon fire. All of the outbuildings were ablaze, but many of the larger structures had escaped destruction. But something chewed at him. He struggled to figure out what could be worse. Then it hit him. Two of the three cannons were gone.

  “Sir, Boydston and Larson say the Gatling gun’s missing from the armory.”

  Langmuir looked at his sergeant with a bleakness in his eyes that knew no bounds. Two cannons, a Gatling gun, and whatever else the outlaws could steal.

  “Get what supplies you can. Is any ammunition left?”

  “A considerable amount, sir. Don’t rightly know why they didn’t take it all.”

  “They couldn’t carry it. The real question’s why they didn’t blow it up so we couldn’t use it against them.” Then Langmuir realized the answer lay in Magee’s view of the world—he had escaped Langmuir once. That made the captain and his men inferior soldiers and not a threat. Langmuir began to seethe at such impudence; then he calmed a little and thought hard.

  “What’s been taken from stores?”

  “Wasn’t much there to steal,” Benedict said. “Supply train’s late, as usual, and we was runnin’ low.”

  “Take anything that can be useful in the field,” Langmuir said, coming to a quick decision. “We’re going into town—and a fight.”

  “No question ’bout it, Captain,” Sergeant Benedict reported. “Caissons and a couple cannons rolled this way not too long ago. Last rain was yesterday maybe, so the tracks weren’t washed away.”

  Langmuir looked at his disheartened soldiers and knew they had a hard row to hoe. Magee’s men numbered about twenty, and Langmuir commanded only half that. Worse, Magee’s gang would be heartened by their successful raid on Fort Supply. They had ammunition and weapons—oh, how they had weapons! Cannons and the damned Gatling gun. Langmuir had never faced such a weapon in battle. He had been instructed in its use, but not in fighting against such a potent killing machine.

  “We have to recover the Gatling. When we see it, all attack,” Langmuir said. “If an inexperienced artillerist is firing it, chances are good a round will jam.”

  “If a round don’t jam, we’re all buzzard bait, sir,” the sergeant pointed out.

  “We might be even if we recapture the Gatling,” Langmuir said. He worried about the cannons. Whoever had fired them back at the fort had destroyed two targets with two shots. That might have been luck, but he doubted it. He could picture Clayton Magee standing behind the field piece, sighting it in and giving the order to fire.

  It might be better if they spotted Magee and charged him rather than the Gatling gun.

  “Listen, sir,” Sergeant Benedict said. “Gunfire.”

  “Not much. The battle’s about over. Or they might be celebrating.” The small town only a mile from Fort Supply survived strictly on business with the army. Two saloons were always filled to overflowing with soldiers wanting a taste of whiskey and a whore. Langmuir had come to a meeting of the minds with the saloon owners about getting his men too drunk for duty. Threatening to shut the gin mills down had worked. He sometimes had a soldier unable to appear for morning muster, but the town had come to realize how much more profit everyone stood to gain by taking care of the soldiers, as long as they had a few coins in their pockets.

  “Sounds more like celebrating,” Benedict agreed. “There wasn’t nobody in town who could put up much of a fight.”

  “They depended on us for that.”

  Captain Langmuir warily approached the town, set in a hollow by a stream. Before he got a good look at the town, he saw how the stream ran red with blood. When he and his men rode down into the town, he realized that the gunfire had not been in either anger or celebration. The few survivors were shooting horses and other animals that had been severely wounded during Magee’s assault.

  “Where’d they go?” Langmuir asked the first man he came to. The man held a still-smoking rifle. Five horses were laid out along the street, each with a bullet in its head from the man’s rifle.

  “You’re a bit late, ain’t ya?”

  Langmuir saw the standing buildings were riddled with holes.

  “Did they use the Gatling gun for anything more than hurrahing you?”

  “Wiped out a dozen folks who came to see what the noise was all about. Then they used their pistols. I swear, ain’t seen so many pistols on a rider since I spotted a Jayhawker tryin’ to sneak back north during the war.”

  Langmuir pushed aside the desolation he felt and asked, “Where are they now? They didn’t finish with the town.”

  “Didn’t finish? Nope, reckon not. A rider came up whilst they was reducin’ everything to splinters. The one wearin’ a major’s uniform ordered them to break off and retreat. Good thing, too.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was bringin’ up a cannon. If he’d fired that, you wouldn’t have found a solitary soul alive.”

  Langmuir looked around and saw that Magee had come close to exterminating all the townspeople without firing his cannon. He looked over at Benedict when the sergeant cleared his throat.

  “Sir, we got the tracks leadin’ away. Looks like they’re makin’ a beeline toward Foreman.”

  “Why not?” Langmuir found himself too tired to figure out what caused Magee to bounce around like a child’s ball from destroying one town to the next. The pretty blonde, Sarah Beth, and her mother had claimed Magee was doing it to get the pair of them back under his roof. Langmuir found it hard to believe any man could kill scores of people and burn entire towns to the ground for such a simple reason. Sarah Beth had claimed her pa was crazier than a bedbug, so there might be something to it. Langmuir discounted both women’s claim in favor of something more.

  Clayton Magee sought something other than his wife and daughter and was on a rampage until he found it. As pretty as Sarah Beth was, and she had inherited that beauty honestly from her mother, Langmuir could not believe Magee didn’t seek vengeance for some terrible crime committed against him.

  “There’s no reason to go to the fort for help,” Langmuir told the man with the rifle. “That’s where they got the Gatling gun and the cannons. Killed all the soldiers at the fort.” Langmuir looked around. “Best stay here. Unless you want to do a powerful lot of burying at the fort.”

  “Got plenty to keep me busy here,” the man said. “You payin’ for the soldiers at the fort to be buried?”

  “Yes,” Langmuir said. “The usual rate is five dollars per body.”

  “Beats plantin’ the bodies he
re for nothing,” the man said. Then he looked up suspiciously. “You got the authority to order this? You got the funds?”

  “Send messengers to all other nearby forts,” Langmuir said. “I’ll give you letters of authorization to present.”

  “Cost you a dollar a day fer each messenger to deliver your reports,” the man said.

  “Here.” Langmuir emptied his pockets of all the money he had with him—hardly ten dollars, but it satisfied the man. The captain took another fifteen minutes to scribble out a brief report and passed three copies to the man. “Make sure at least one copy reaches Fort Gibson. Take the others wherever you think best.”

  “Fort Reno, Fort Cobb, maybe the one out west.”

  “See that you get the reports on the road immediately,” Langmuir said, his mind already following Magee. What remained of the army contingent numbered half of Magee’s gang—and lacked the firepower to match a Gatling and cannons, much less raiders festooned with pistols. A direct fight was not possible.

  Isaiah Langmuir had to find a way to stop the renegade major, a way that was not entirely suicidal. Somehow, this was not a lesson that had ever been taught at West Point.

  16

  Slocum circled wide and from the opposite direction came on the man spying on the Magee women and Vannover. Or he thought he had, until he reached the spot where the man tethered his horse. The horse neighed, uncomfortable at the approach of someone it did not know. Slocum slowed his advance and waited until the horse settled down. The cat might have been let out of the bag; Slocum didn’t know, but had to believe the spy, was too intent on the camp to notice as long as his horse finally calmed itself. After all, a wolf or even a fox might cause a similar reaction.

  Stewing at the delay but knowing it was necessary, Slocum lay in the undergrowth and waited as twilight turned to utter darkness. The stars poked through thick layers of clouds but cast no real light. He wasn’t sure when the moon would rise, or if it would give him much illumination when it did.

  Working his way forward gradually, Slocum tried to catch sight of the other man. He frowned when he realized he had not heard the horse in several minutes. Slocum got to his feet and slipped through the grove, using one tree after another as cover.

  “Damnation,” he said when he got close enough to see where the man had been. A pair of field glasses dangled from a limb, but the scout using them was nowhere to be seen.

  Slocum started to step forward, then froze. The man’s horse ought to be somewhere near. He bent and found a small stone. He sent it sailing through the night to land with a thud some distance away. Slocum spun, hand going to his six-shooter when he heard the horse neigh behind him. Somehow, Magee’s spy had led his horse away and had gotten behind Slocum.

  Colt Navy coming out of his holster in a smooth movement, Slocum retraced the path he had just taken. This time the curse that slipped from his lips was more venomous than before. The man was riding away and had somehow eluded Slocum’s keen ears and night vision.

  A million things raced through Slocum’s head. If he went back to camp and got his horse, he would probably lose the trail in the dark. Since the man was riding slowly, there was a small chance Slocum might overtake him on foot. If he tried and failed, the man would definitely report to Magee. And that report would give the renegade major exactly what he sought.

  Without realizing he had come to a decision, Slocum walked fast through the forest going after the man. The rider could probably go faster in the open, but Slocum was more nimble, dodging low limbs and the thick brush to keep him parallel with his quarry.

  When he realized he was falling behind in spite of his small advantages, Slocum scooped up a handful of stones and tossed them ahead of the horse as hard as he could. The rattle of rock against leaf achieved what he needed most. The rider slowed and then stopped. He drew one of the several six-guns he carried and peered into the dark forest ahead.

  This gave Slocum all the opening he was ever likely to get. He shoved his pistol back into his holster and ran as hard as he could. He made enough noise to alert the man, but by then it was too late. Slocum dug in his toes and launched himself forward. His fingers groped and closed on the outlaw’s gun hand, pulling it down. Slocum grabbed with his left hand and caught a fistful of cloth. Jacket, vest, shirt, it didn’t matter. He pulled downward as hard as he could and unseated the rider.

  They tumbled to the ground together, both flinching when the horse began crow-hopping around them. The hooves added an element of danger—but not that much more for Slocum. He knew what he faced and still had surprise as his ally.

  He swung a clumsy fist at the outlaw, and then fell flat when it missed. Slocum’s luck was at a peak, though. The man reared up, six-shooter in his hand, and was about to shoot just as his horse kicked out. A shod hoof caught the man on the back and drove him to the ground. Swarming over him fast, Slocum got on top and wrestled the gun from his hand. The man was pinned to the ground, facedown, and unable to breathe. When his struggles turned feeble, Slocum lifted his head and let him gasp for breath.

  Dirt and mulch spewed from the man’s mouth and nose as he struggled to breathe.

  As Slocum turned the man’s gun against him, he got a good look at the outlaw. He could well believe this man was capable of about any kind of murder. His face was criss-crossed with a history of old knife fights, and a round scar on each cheek showed where someone had shot him through the mouth. The look of pure hatred he gave Slocum would have melted a brass statue.

  “You’re gonna die fer this, mister,” the outlaw snarled.

  “I’ve got your gun and I’ve got the upper hand. If anyone’s going to do any dying, it’s you.”

  “You ain’t got the balls to kill me in cold blood.” The man changed his mind when he saw the look on Slocum’s face. There wasn’t anyone riding with Clayton Magee who looked more capable of such a deed than John Slocum.

  “I want to know a few things,” Slocum said. “Tell me and you might live.”

  “If I tell you, chances are real good I won’t.”

  “If Magee finds out?” Slocum watched the outlaw’s face for reaction. One of the man’s scars turned pinkish to show his reaction. Then a muscle twitched. Slocum had guessed right. He had caught one of Magee’s scouts.

  “Screw Magee. It’s Kimbrell who’s gonna kill me if I spill my guts to you.”

  “Albert Kimbrell,” Slocum said, remembering that the marshal had a wanted poster on the desperado.

  “You know him then. Nothing you can do to me would match what he’d do if he finds out I told you anything.”

  “All you have to do is ride off. Magee and Kimbrell can’t go on destroying towns and murdering everyone in them forever.” He watched closely, then asked, “What’s in it for you? Looting the banks and businesses?”

  “What else? I don’t care for the killin’, not like Kimbrell. He takes real pleasure in it. But we all get hundreds of dollars after every raid.”

  “Hundreds or thousands? Or maybe Kimbrell keeps more than his fair share? You take the risks, he keeps the money you steal.”

  “I’m doin’ all right,” the man said sullenly.

  “Magee,” Slocum said, getting back to what he thought was more important. “What’s he want?”

  “The women. The ones I saw in camp yonder. Both blond, one old enough to be the other’s mother, matches the description Magee gave.”

  “What are they to him?”

  “He never said. We made a lot of guesses. Seein’ ’em, the gossip about them being his wife and daughter’s probably right. They run off, or so goes the story, and he wants ’em back. Bad.”

  “Bad enough to kill hundreds of people?”

  “Don’t matter to Major Magee. He’s seen Antietam and who knows what other battles. People gettin’ kilt ain’t nothing to him.”

  Slocum asked, “What else is there about the women?” He saw the hesitation and knew there was something more.

  “Don’t know. He’s neve
r even called ’em his family. Just that he wants them and will pay a big reward for whoever finds ’em.”

  “Where’s Magee now?”

  “Don’t rightly know. That’s the truth!” The man shouted when he saw Slocum lifting the six-gun to put a slug between his eyes. “I was supposed to scout around and join up at Charity.”

  “Charity? He already hit that town.”

  “Sometimes I think he can see the future. He said all us scouts was supposed to report back to him at Charity. He’s heard something to get him back there. That’s all I know.”

  Slocum fumed at the information. They were riding squarely into the teeth of the lion. Magee had left part of the town standing because he thought his wife and daughter were at Cimarron Junction. He had razed that town and given Marshal Vannover a small chance to go after him and his gang. But if Magee returned to Charity, there’d be nothing to keep him from finishing what he had started.

  “On your feet. We’re going to Charity.”

  “Kill me, mister. Shoot me and leave my carcass right here for the bugs to eat. If Kimbrell sees me ridin’ back as your prisoner . . .” The outlaw shivered with real dread.

  “You keep thinking on what I asked. You might come up with something that’d convince me I ought to let you go free.”

  “You’re a deputy. You’d never do that.”

  “I’m not a deputy,” Slocum said with such force that the man’s eyes went wide. The outlaw started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut.

  Slocum shoved him in the direction of the camp. If Vannover ever came out of his stupor, he could give some advice on what to do with the prisoner. One thing Slocum knew that could never happen was letting the man go. If the outlaw had the chance, he would hightail it straight back to Magee, if not to collect the reward, then to keep from getting himself tortured and killed for spilling his guts.

  Slocum doubted it mattered much to Kimbrell if the scout had uttered a word. Torture and killing mattered more than truth to Albert Kimbrell.