Slocum and the British Bully

by Jake Logan

  But where would be the sport in that? Slocum had begun to understand how the Brit thought. This was not murder, but grand adventure for him, and a chance to show how superior he was. It didn’t matter that Partridge couldn’t shoot back. A deer or buffalo couldn’t either. The thrill came in the stalking and the accurate shot that brought down the prey.

  A fleeting thought crossed Slocum’s mind. Why had Cheswick shot Quinton the way he had? The burned spot on the servant’s coat gave mute evidence that the pistol muzzle had been a foot or less away. There was no sport in killing a man that way. Or so it ought to seem from Cheswick’s view. Slocum pushed that from his mind. Quinton might have insulted him or done something to anger his employer. The elephant gun trained alternately on Partridge and Slocum was the only thing that counted right now.

  “Get ready,” Slocum shouted.

  He returned to the forest, patted his mare’s neck, and said softly, “We’ll flush him. Wait and see.” He drew the Winchester from its saddle sheath, mounted, and then took a deep breath. “Giddyap!” His heels raked the mare’s flanks and sent the valiant horse rocketing toward the mouth of the canyon.

  Slocum remembered more than one frontal assault he had taken part in during the war. Those were different. The cavalry and soldiers were ordered to attack directly ahead of where they started. To veer to either side would bunch up troops, and probably invite a bullet in the back from the wave of his own soldiers attacking immediately behind. Slocum had no such orders now. He zigzagged as he rode, sometimes riding a long way only to cut back, and other times allowing his horse to go only a few strides before changing direction.

  Cheswick might have been a good shot, but the rapid advance and even swifter changes in direction prevented him from drawing a bead with the large caliber rifle. When Slocum got closer, he swung up his own rifle and began firing in Cheswick’s direction. Such shots hitting the sniper would be more luck than skill. Slocum bounced as his mare took the rocky ground the best she could, but his skills during the war had included attacks on towns while on horseback. He might not be able to shoot this way as good as an Indian, but he was good enough.

  He saw Cheswick stand to take a shot. Slocum’s bullet whanged off the rock directly in front of the Britisher and ricocheted past him, ruining his aim. This brought Slocum another dozen yards closer before Cheswick recovered.

  “You’re going to die, Slocum. Stop and let me make a clean shot!”

  Slocum fired the best he could—and it was good enough to drive Cheswick behind the rock. If the elephant gun wasn’t trained on him, it couldn’t kill him. Slocum kept riding when he got to the mouth of the canyon, and raced past where Cheswick waited.

  This was all he could hope for. Cheswick had no choice now but to come after Slocum and let Partridge go. If he tried to shoot the detective, he had to turn his back on Slocum. The murderer knew that mercy had long since died in Slocum’s breast.

  Putting his head down, Slocum rode on. By now, Partridge had escaped. It was time to remove William Cheswick permanently.

  Slocum slowed, turned around, and started to gallop back to the canyon mouth. Two quick rounds aimed at him convinced him he had to go deeper into the canyon. This was dangerous because Cheswick had only to make one good shot and Slocum would be as dead as Percival Cheswick. He went back into the canyon, looking for a way out. He could always go after Cheswick later, after he rode out the other end of the canyon.

  He drew rein and stared after he had ridden less than a quarter mile. He had ridden into a box canyon.

  Trapped!

  19

  The canyon walls were almost vertical, rising more than fifty feet. Search as he might, Slocum couldn’t find a trail to either rim. He realized it would be a trail to his death if he even tried, since Cheswick could see him moving and take his time with a single shot to bring him down. For all he knew, Cheswick had a tripod to rest his powerful rifle on, making his aim even steadier.

  He rode all the way into the canyon, hoping to find a crevice that penetrated through the rock to another canyon and safety. If it existed, Slocum missed it. As desperate as he was becoming, he would have spotted any break in the shrubs growing out of solid rock or felt wind whistling through from a distance. The impossible closeness of the rock walls turned this canyon into a sweat lodge—or was it his increasing fear that Cheswick had him dead to rights?

  Slocum refused to simply ride out and let the Brit shoot him. This was his country, and he could find a way of turning terrain to his benefit. If only he had time.

  A shot boomed down the canyon and almost deafened him. Where the slug went, he didn’t know. Cheswick was trying to flush him, make him think he had a bead on him. Slocum gentled his horse, then dismounted. He reloaded his rifle and began the slow sneak toward the mouth of the canyon where Cheswick waited for him. Staying close to one wall lowered the risk of being seen, but it also limited where he could run. All he needed to do was be sure Cheswick wasn’t on the far side.

  Another shot echoed. Slocum knew Cheswick did this to confuse him. He tried to locate the source of the report, but after it bounced off the rock walls a couple times, it sounded as if it came from everywhere all at once. Again, the slug went somewhere far from him.

  Emboldened by the idea that Cheswick was shooting at movement elsewhere, perhaps an unfortunate coyote or timber wolf, Slocum moved quickly to get into range so he could take out his foe. Slocum had taken only a couple strides when he realized that Cheswick had laid a cunning trap for him. The man had shot down the canyon to lull him into thinking he had no idea where Slocum was.

  Slocum bent his knees and kicked as hard as he could, and still barely missed getting the heavy-caliber slug in his body. A fiery track ran across his side and his inner left arm, showing how deadly accurate Cheswick was with his elephant gun. If Slocum hadn’t dodged when he did, that bullet would have ripped out his heart. Slocum hit the ground hard, rolled, and winced as he picked up nettles from a patch of foxtail. The sharp spines were better than an ounce of lead in his chest, though, and he didn’t stop moving until he was certain he was protected by heavy rock from Cheswick’s accurate fire.

  He winced as he tried to lift his left arm. The bullet had gouged out a shallow trough along his forearm, and then had taken some skin from his side with it before disappearing into the canyon. He tore strips from his shirt and patched himself up the best he could. Moving became painful, and lifting his left arm to hold the front guard on his rifle was a chore that would become increasingly onerous. He had to kill Cheswick fast or he would be the victim.

  Once he had tied the cloth strips around his chest in a crude bandage and taken care of his arm to stanch the oozing blood, he waited for Cheswick to taunt him. The man’s immense arrogance would make him call out his threats, his cries of superiority, and that would let Slocum find him. But Cheswick proved too smart a hunter to reveal his position with such juvenile goading. All Slocum heard was the stillness all around.

  He wondered if this was what a grave was like once one was inside it.

  The heat became oppressive, and the silence rubbed his nerves raw. His wounds began to itch and then hurt, as if his arm and ribs had been dipped in fire. He stayed still, every sense alert for Cheswick to betray himself.

  After ten minutes, Slocum began to despair. Cheswick knew he hadn’t made a killing shot, but was not anxious to track down his prey. If the Britisher remained hidden, he held the upper hand. Slocum could never sneak past him out of this narrow-mouthed canyon, and even if he did, then what? Slocum had left his horse at the far end of the box canyon. It was a long walk anywhere in this part of Nevada. Worse, the nearest town wasn’t likely to welcome him with open arms. More likely, the marshal and citizens of Virginia City would string him up without ever listening to his story.

  Still, the only plan he had was getting past Cheswick and turning the tables. Trap the killer in the canyon. Then he could play with him like Cheswick was toying with him now. Slocum chance
d a quick look around the edge of the rock giving him dubious sanctuary, hoping to spot the sniper. He saw small movement fifteen feet up the side of the far canyon wall, but it might have been fitful wind rustling the leaves of a bush.

  Or it might be Cheswick.

  Slocum decided that the time was ripe for him to attack. He positioned his rifle carefully, steadying it on the rock. He didn’t have to worry about windage in the still air of the canyon. Then he drew back on the trigger. Long years of practice with this rifle gave him the drop and distance corrections without even thinking about them. His bullet ripped through the bush he had seen fluttering about.

  Nothing.

  The waiting game lengthened into minutes when neither of the snipers took the initiative. Slocum began to think Cheswick might have left, but there was no reason to abandon his quarry like that when he held the winning hand by commanding the canyon mouth. The notion that Cheswick was an even better hunter than Slocum began to worry at him like the nettles still in his legs and arms. If Slocum hadn’t fired that last round, Cheswick might wonder if his enemy was dead or so seriously wounded he could never fight back. With the shot, Slocum knew now that he had lost what slim advantage he’d had.

  This fight would be determined by whoever got the first, best target. Cheswick knew Slocum was still alive and fighting. Slocum had to guess that Cheswick was still in the battle.

  Slocum looked at the sky, wishing the storm would build and come in with a vengeance again so he could escape under its watery cover. Only blue sky arched above the canyon walls. Nightfall could give him the same advantage. Slocum could move like an Apache, but he knew twilight might be too far off to do him any good. His wounds seeped blood and pus and did not clot over. Simply standing sapped energy from him.

  The only thing he could do was launch a frontal attack and hope Cheswick showed himself. As he ran, Slocum tried to dodge, but found his movements slow and jerky. This saved his life when he moved left and tried to dodge in the other direction, only to find that his legs refused to respond. If he had gone the direction he tried, a bullet would have ended his life. As it was, Cheswick’s round whined past and tore off a splinter of rock that nicked Slocum’s good arm. He fell forward and wiggled like a snake behind a bush. This afforded little cover and no protection, so he kept moving.

  Another of the heavy rounds from the elephant gun ripped apart the bush where he had lain for only a few seconds.

  Slocum had less cover here, but enough for him to swing his rifle around, get an idea where Cheswick had to be hiding, and fire a few rounds in that direction. A smile came to his lips.

  “Got you, you son of a bitch.”

  Slocum triggered off another round into the spot where Cheswick had to be hiding. From the sudden movement behind the brush, he knew he had winged the Brit. But how seriously had he wounded him? The only way to find out was to stand and make his way across an open stretch.

  “Three aces,” Slocum said softly. His luck had been terrible so far. In his gut, he knew that he wouldn’t make it, so he remained still, playing a waiting game.

  Cheswick let out a loud cry and thrashed through the brush, coming fully into Slocum’s view. Not caring why Cheswick revealed himself so carelessly, Slocum fired and fired again. His rifle came up empty, or he would have fired one more killing shot.

  Cheswick thrashed about on the ground and tried to stand. He couldn’t. One of Slocum’s bullets had caught him in the leg. He tumbled down a rocky slope and screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Without hesitation now, Slocum drew his six-shooter and ran as hard as he could to get within range. By the time he had a clear shot, he saw that it wouldn’t be needed. Lionel Partridge came through the brush where Cheswick had hidden and aimed his rifle directly at the fallen murderer.

  Caught between Slocum and Partridge, Cheswick threw up his hands and surrendered. It took all of Slocum’s willpower not to simply gun the man down. He looked up at the Scotland Yard detective, and saw the same decision being made.

  “You got him, Partridge. Take him back to stand trial,” Slocum shouted.

  “I rather don’t like people telling me such things, Mr. Slocum—especially when they are right.”

  Both advanced on their prisoner.

  “You’re nothing but a back-shooting snake,” Slocum said, “and it’ll be good knowing you’ll go to the gallows for at least one murder.”

  “One?” Cheswick laughed maniacally. “One! The very one I’ll be tried for I didn’t commit!”

  “What’s he mean?” Slocum asked Partridge, who had slipped and slid down the slope to join them.

  “It is as I suspected. His wife’s the culprit who poisoned Ralph Cheswick.”

  “His wife?” Slocum looked hard at Cheswick, then at Partridge for an explanation.

  “You know her. His wife, Abigail Cheswick.”

  20

  “The bitch tried to kill me,” William Cheswick said with venom. “If it hadn’t been for Quinton, I’d be dead.”

  “What do you mean?” Slocum circled and stood beside Partridge to face Cheswick. The look of pure hatred on Cheswick’s aristocratic face turned him into a vicious animal.

  “I didn’t kill Quinton. He was my servant. He gave his life to save me when she tried to kill me.”

  “But you shot your brother,” Slocum said.

  “Percival? He was a fool,” Cheswick said. “Abigail poisoned Ralph and we came to this horrid place to remove Percival before he found out he was the new duke.” He took a deep breath and then sneered. “It wasn’t enough for her to share my wealth. She wanted it all.”

  “I don’t understand. Women can’t inherit.”

  “You refer to the law of primogeniture, old chap,” Partridge said. “While it is true his wife was not in the line of ascension for a royal title, the laws of England allow a wife a large share of an estate should her husband die.”

  “She wouldn’t be a duchess but she’d own the estate?”

  “And a considerable portfolio of stocks in very valuable companies in London and Paris, not to mention the jewelry,” said Cheswick. “Oh, yes, dear Abigail wanted it all, and I was becoming a nuisance.”

  “You mean you were going to trade her in for a younger woman,” Partridge said. “I heard the rumors. Speaking with Miss Simpson-Jones put me on your trail to the Colonies,” Partridge said. “No one knew where Percival had gone, but you must have learned his whereabouts.”

  “He got a letter,” Slocum said.

  “A former Pinkerton agent,” Cheswick said, “willing to collect a few extra pennies for his work proved quite the detective.”

  “So you’re only guilty of shooting your brother Percival?” Slocum scratched his chin when he saw Cheswick’s reaction. There was something the man was not telling. Slocum looked at Partridge for confirmation.

  “Only Percival,” the detective said, “and his wife did in both Ralph and Quinton. Oh, she will answer for that. We do not hang women in England, but she will be in prison for a jolly long time. This one, though,” he said, pointing his rifle at Cheswick, “this one will be hanged.”

  Partridge motioned for his prisoner to move. Cheswick hobbled along, injured far worse by Slocum’s bullet than his slug had wounded Slocum. As they walked from the narrow canyon, Slocum thought hard on everything Cheswick had said. There was more, but he didn’t know what it might be.

  “Thanks for diverting him,” Slocum said. “If you hadn’t flushed him when you did, he would have killed me for certain.” He bent, picked up the fallen elephant rifle, and opened the breech. Both rounds were expended. Slocum reached into his pocket and drew out the shell casing that had saved him from the Paiutes. He popped both the spent cartridges out and tucked them into his vest pocket with the first one.

  “A bit of superstition, eh?” Partridge asked.

  “Something like that.” Slocum made no move to help their prisoner when Cheswick began slowing and finally stumbled and fell to the ground. His leg ha
d given way under him. Partridge was more charitable and helped Cheswick bandage the wound.

  “Must keep him alive until we return to the Old Bailey for trial.”

  Slocum only nodded, not sure what Partridge meant. The details of the confession still bothered him. Cheswick was a murderer, but Abigail—his wife!—was doubly so.

  “Why’d she get me out of jail in Virginia City?” Slocum asked. “And she got me out of the shed when the Climax foreman locked me up. Why not let me take the fall for your murders?”

  Even as the words slipped from his lips, Slocum knew what had happened.

  “She got me out of the Virginia City jail to throw off the posse,” Slocum said suddenly. “You killed Renfro, and she didn’t want anyone on your trail interfering until you had killed Percival.”

  “You have a remarkably clever mind, Slocum,” Cheswick said. “I had never killed anyone and wanted to know that I could do it. Renfro was convenient, that’s all.”

  “You killed and robbed him!”

  “I certainly didn’t need the money. That smeary scrip you call greenbacks is hardly money to me. Real money is a pound note with Queen Victoria’s likeness on it.”

  “But he took it,” Partridge said. He fished in a coat pocket and pulled out a wad of greenbacks. “I searched his luggage and found this.”

  “Proving it came from Renfro’s dead body’s not possible,” Slocum said.

  “It came from his pocket,” Cheswick said. “I killed him—and it felt good. I knew then that I could kill my own brother.” Cheswick made a gun out of his index finger and thumb and sighted down it, then laughed. “I only wish I had been armed when dear Abigail tried to kill me.”

  “This is one hell of a family,” Slocum said.

  “You enjoy her, Slocum? Did she beguile you with her charms?”