Slocum Along Corpse River

by Jake Logan

  He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the gate. Slocum snorted at the idea anyone would pay ten dollars to get through. Who the hell was Lasker that he was passed through without paying? The guard had expected him but obviously hadn’t known him, except by name.

  He went back over everything he had seen and what had been said.

  “Emperor? Top of the World?” He shook his head. Not a bit of it made sense to him, but getting through wasn’t going to be all that hard. The guards thought they had to defend against a frontal assault. During the War, Slocum had been a captain in the CSA and had learned a thing or two about tactics. The commanders who squandered their men’s lives might win battles, but the cost was always horrendous. Others were craftier and sought new ways to win the battle without decimating their troops.

  Slocum had ridden with William Quantrill and had seen the worst that war could offer. Bloodshed for the sake of killing. He rubbed his belly. Quantrill had ordered him gut shot and left for dead after he protested brutality even he could not tolerate. It had taken long months of recovery, and by the time he could walk, much less ride, the War was over and done. That had suited Slocum just fine. Wound or not, he’d had his fill of death.

  Slocum found a place to settle down as the sun vanished quickly. He ate some boiled oatmeal and a piece of jerky that didn’t have too many worms in it, washed it all down with water from the river, then settled down, hat tipped over his eyes to grab a short nap. He came awake an hour later, alert. He heard drunken singing drifting down from the pass. The gate guards had found themselves a bottle of whiskey and were now serenading the coyotes.

  He got up, shook the kinks from his arms and back, then grabbed the reins of his horse and led it back up the path. It took an hour to once again get the gate in sight. Smoke curled up from the far side of the wall, and the aroma of fresh meat roasting reached him. His belly grumbled as his nostrils flared from the savory odor. Rather than go directly to the spot he had identified earlier, he did some scouting.

  The sentry who had been posted in the rocks along the trail was nowhere to be seen. From the lack of campfire, cold or hot, Slocum knew the man was stationed only during the daylight hours. During the night, he probably returned to the far side of the gate to chow down with his amigos. Not having to look over his shoulder as he worked on the heavy logs making up the palisade wall suited Slocum just fine.

  It was somewhere past midnight when he walked slowly forward, keeping to shadows and staying out of the faint moonlight the best he could. There hadn’t been any sign the guards had remained at their posts in the towers, but Slocum took no chances. Even in the dark, the gunmen could kill him easily enough. There was scant cover, and simply filling the air with lead would either kill him or force him to retreat.

  Slocum spun and pressed his back against the log wall. He used his knife to pry loose the mud chinks between the sawed tree trunks. Forcing his face into the rough barksurfaced wall, he looked around the other side. Flickering light gave him an idea where the cooking fire was. He didn’t see anyone moving around, but there had to be a few men warming their bones. And although the drunken singing had died down, this was the likeliest spot for it to have originated.

  Edging along the wall, Slocum used the knife to test the integrity of each tree trunk. A slow smile crept onto his lips as his knife sank into soft, decaying wood. The rotted part of the wall he had identified earlier was about perfect for him. Inspection revealed four adjoining tree trunks eaten away at the base where some burrowing mountain critter had dined in high style. Rot had worked its way through other parts of the wall.

  Slocum applied himself to digging away with his knife. One section crumbled under his assault. Then another and another. Slocum measured the width with his arms and then eyed his paint. The horse was smallish but sturdy. It had a broad chest, but the three missing logs ought to provide a gap wide enough to lead the horse through.

  He immediately found that his horse might scrape through but his saddle and saddlebags stuck out too far. Grunting, Slocum took off the saddle, urged the horse through the wall, then followed with his gear.

  He stood stock-still for almost a minute, listening to the night sounds for any hint that the guards had discovered him. Satisfied he was undetected, he saddled his horse and started to lead it away from the wall, in the direction of Top of the World, whatever that might be.

  Slocum had taken only a half-dozen strides when he heard the metallic click of a shell being jacked into a rifle receiver. This was quickly followed with three six-shooters being cocked.

  He stopped, hoping he was wrong about the sounds. He wasn’t.

  “You take one more step, mister, and we won’t even bother to bury your stinkin’, cold, dead body.”

  2

  “I want to kill him,” one hidden man whined.

  “You know what the emperor said. He wants to pass judgment hisse’f on anybody tryin’ to sneak in.”

  “He just wants to hog the fun of killin’ him. Let’s do it and not tell him.”

  A scuffle broke out, giving Slocum a chance to half turn and look around. Two dark figures wrestled around on the ground so he ducked low behind his horse, his hand going for his six-shooter. The response was instant. The air filled with lead.

  This spooked his horse, but Slocum hung on for dear life. He was dragged a few yards, got his feet under him, then kicked hard and got onto his horse, bending low in the saddle. He pointed his six-gun at a spot where he had seen a foot-long tongue of orange flame. Three quick shots produced another rifle shot from that guard. Slocum winced as the hot lead hissed past his ear. He sat up in the saddle and was immediately unseated when he crashed into an unseen tree limb hanging low over the road. Tumbling backward, he hit the ground hard and lay there stunned. He stared up and saw the dark limb blocking a patch of stars. Then he had something more blocking his view of the sky.

  Four men shoved their six-shooters down at him.

  “Go on, mister. The emperor might want to kill you by his own hand, but we could lie. Give us a reason.”

  “I wanna kill him. Lemme kill him!”

  Slocum shook his head and cleared it. The man begging to kill him was a short drink of water, hardly coming to the shoulders of his partners. He might have been a youngster, but Slocum thought he was simply short. He lashed out with his boot and caught the man square on the kneecap. The loud yell of pain was suddenly stifled when Slocum flipped over and swung his leg around like a whip, catching the man behind his injured knee. Slocum’s victim toppled backward like a felled tree and lay on the ground making sucking sounds. He’d had the air knocked out of his lungs.

  “As much as he deserved that,” one gunman said, “I ain’t lettin’ you do anythin’ more.”

  Slocum brought up his gun and then the night closed in on him as the guard swung his rifle stock and connected hard with an exposed temple.

  Pain seemed his constant companion, especially when the loud voices were like driving needles into his brain. Slocum blinked and got a better view after he rubbed his eyes clear. He saw a tall man, thin to the point of emaciation, sitting on a pile of wood in a chair. The man wore a ragged coat that had once been red-and-white-striped but was faded almost to the point of being a uniform gray. Atop the man’s head rested a gold circlet canted to one side, almost touching one bushy eyebrow.

  “What’s he? The village idiot?” Slocum got out, then laughed. It hurt his ribs and caused him to cough loudly. The coughing hid his words.

  The man wearing the crown pointed at Slocum and bellowed, “Bow, peasant! Bow before your emperor!”

  Strong hands grabbed Slocum and jerked him around so he fell to his knees. A grimy hand on the back of his neck forced his face down into the dirt. Slocum struggled for a moment, then gave up against such overwhelming force. His chance to escape would come later.

  “You are an intruder into my empire! You did not pay my tribute but chose to sneak in like a thief in the night.”


  Slocum grumbled at the self-styled emperor. This earned him a kick to the ribs, and the hand on his neck bowed him over again in forced obeisance.

  “Emperor Galligan can be merciful.”

  The murmur rising from the crowd gathered to see what would happen to Slocum hinted at disapproval.

  “But!” Galligan shouted. “But not in this case. Your transgression is too extreme! Lock him up until dawn. Then he goes to the pits!”

  Whatever this meant caused a huge cheer from the crowd that soon turned into the repeated chant, “Emperor! Emperor!”

  Two guards dragged Slocum to his feet, then kicked them out from under him so they could drag him, toes down, in the dirt. He looked from side to side and then relaxed. Better to let the two owlhoots move him along like this than to be left to the ugly crowd. Not a one of them looked as if he’d be willing to do anything less than shoot Slocum in the gut just to watch him die slowly.

  “In there,” the man on his right said, dropping him unexpectedly. Slocum barely had time to catch himself before hitting the ground with his face. He levered himself up and saw both men had their six-guns aimed at him. One motioned toward a rusty iron door. Getting to his feet, Slocum went to the door and tried to open it.

  “Locked,” he said.

  “Smart aleck!” The one behind Slocum hit him with the barrel of his pistol. Slocum sensed it coming, ducked, and got only a grazing blow. He tried to grapple with his assailant, but the other gunman crammed his pistol into Slocum’s ribs.

  Only when Slocum subsided did he pull back with his six-gun and then rap on the door with his pistol butt.

  “Open up. We got another one.”

  “Fer the gangs?” came a drunken voice inside.

  “For the pit!”

  Slocum had no idea what that meant but both his captors laughed harshly, and when he wrestled the balky door open, so did the corpulent jailer.

  The man rubbed his dirty hands together and made obscene sucking noises.

  “Ain’t had a good ’un fer the pit in a while. The emperor knows how to pick ’em.”

  “Keep him on ice until dawn.”

  “What’s the betting like?”

  “Ain’t seen yet. You want to bet?” asked the more attentive of Slocum’s guards.

  “Ten minutes. He looks like a strong ’un.”

  “That’s gonna be a popular bet.”

  “Won’t matter if I make a dollar or two.” The fat man grabbed Slocum by the front of his vest and pulled him into the dim jail. A single coal oil lamp sputtered on a table nearby.

  As the two men outside dragged the door shut, leaving Slocum with the jailer, Slocum had to say, “The wick needs trimming.”

  “Wha—”

  The brief instant the jailer’s eyes flickered toward the lamp, Slocum swung with all his might. His fist struck square in the middle of the rolls of fat at the man’s midriff—and then he thought he’d hit a wood plank. The jailer whoofed and stepped back, slung shot whistling through the air to connect with the side of Slocum’s head. The heavy lead-filled bag robbed Slocum of his senses. He felt his legs turn to jelly, and then he simply sat down.

  The jailer came over. Slocum watched but could not move as the jailer reared back to kick him in the face. Then he stopped. He dragged Slocum to a cell and threw him inside.

  “Don’t want to rough you up too much. You wouldn’t even last for ten.”

  “Ten rounds?” Slocum croaked out.

  “Ten minutes.” The jailer’s laugh was as frightening as anything Slocum had encountered since a couple years back when he’d heard the deep rumble of a cattle stampede starting its run toward him.

  The jailer returned to his chair and sat heavily. The wood creaked under his bulk but did not yield. Slocum pushed himself up against a cold set of bars. A quick look around told him the outer door may have been rusted but these bars were secure.

  “Ain’t no way out, mister, ’cept feet first,” a bedraggled man in the next cell said. “You’re goin’ to the pit. I heard’m say that. Me, I’m bein’ sent to the work gangs.” He rocked back on the floor of the cell and held up his legs so Slocum could see the shackles already fastened on.

  “What’s the pit?” Slocum asked.

  “You’ll find out. You don’t look like most of ’em who end up on the gangs—or in the pit.”

  “How am I supposed to look?”

  “Like me. Like them poor bastards in the next cell over. Peddlers. Sodbusters. Men who work for a livin’.”

  “I work,” Slocum said.

  “You got the look of a shootist. More like them on the other side of these bars than us.”

  From the far cell Slocum heard frenzied whispering. The man with the shackles rolled over and exchanged words, then rolled back.

  “He’s got a point. You might be put here to make us say somethin’ we want to keep secret.”

  “What secret would a peddler like you have?”

  “How’d you know I was a peddler? You are one of ’em!”

  “You talked of peddlers before anyone else locked up here. I figured that was because you sell something.”

  “Patent medicine. I paid my toll to get through the pass, but they robbed me. They stole all my medicine and took my money. Hell, they even stole my mule. That lop-eared ole mule was my constant companion for close to three years.” The man choked up. “They shot him. They shot him for the hell of it, then ate him.”

  “Reckon my horse is fair game, too,” Slocum said. “They’ll pay for it.” All he heard was a distant guffaw. “Who is that buffoon with the fake crown?”

  “Ain’t fake. Real gold. Beaten gold. Had precious stones at one time but they kept fallin’ out so Galligan gave up tryin’ to keep ’em in the crown. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “How’d he come to declare himself emperor? Emperor of what?”

  “This here town’s called Top of the World. It’s some kind of private joke. He set hisself up as absolute ruler. Lets through whoever he wants on the road. About chokin’ off the town at the other side of the pass.”

  “Thompson,” called a man Slocum couldn’t see in the cell beyond the peddler’s. “That’s its name. Don’t know who it’s named after, but it’s got to be better than this hellhole. I’m slated to be sent out on a work gang, too.”

  “Leastways, we earn enough on the gang and Galligan will let us go,” the peddler said.

  Slocum shook his head. He couldn’t believe anyone could lie to himself so efficiently. If the self-styled emperor of Top of the World was willing to put them out on chain gangs, there’d be no reason to ever let them go. He had slaves.

  “I saw bodies floating down the river on my way up to the toll road gate,” Slocum said. “Were they on Galligan’s work gang?”

  “Don’t know nuthin’ ’bout that,” the peddler said firmly. “I work hard and earn money and he’ll let me be on my way. Hate losin’ my mule, but Galligan will let me go. If I work hard enough, long enough.”

  Slocum had heard similar sentiments in poker games. A little loss turned into a big one, but the gambler always thought that the next hand would make things right. Or the one after that. Victory was always just a bit out of reach, but it could be grasped and all would be right. Before the player knew it, he had dug a hole too deep to ever climb from.

  “You ever know anybody working his way off the chain gang?” Slocum asked.

  “Hell, no. You get off, you don’t stay around Top of the World. You hightail it to Thompson or go east, though there ain’t a whole lot in that direction.”

  “I came that way,” Slocum said. He almost mentioned the bodies in the river but held his tongue. The jailer seemed engrossed in doing something on the desk, but Slocum saw the way he had turned enough to overhear everything being said by his prisoners. He was big, but he wasn’t stupid. If any of them hatched a plan to escape, he would know all about it.

  “What’s beyond Thompson?” Slocum asked.

  “You kin ride on over
to Boise in less ’n a week and be on the coast in two. That’s the Pacific coast,” the man explained.

  “I thought as much,” Slocum said dryly. He settled back, winced at the pain in his head, then listened to the chatter between the man in the next cell over and the rest. Telling them they were buying a lie about ever going free was a waste of time, and Slocum wanted to sleep. He had been through too much and needed to save his strength for whatever was in the pit.

  He doubted it was going to be as pleasant as working on a chain gang doing whatever Emperor Galligan ordered.

  3

  Slocum came instantly awake when the jailer shouted and ran his slung shot along the cell bars. He couldn’t help himself from reaching to his left hip for the Colt Navy that wasn’t there. Slocum sat up.

  “Dawn. Time for you to get into the pit.” The jailer laughed so hard his belly shook. “On yer feet!”

  Slocum stood slowly, waiting to see if the jailer would make the mistake of opening the cell door and afford a chance to dive forward, bowl him over, and get the hell out of the jailhouse. He didn’t. He waited for Slocum to stand, pointed to the corner of the small cell, and only then opened the door.

  Looking past him, Slocum saw any escape attempt would have been futile. He saw no fewer than three men with six-shooters drawn. From the low murmur, quite a crowd had gathered. Even if he bolted past the jailer, he could never run the gauntlet outside the jail.

  “That’s a good boy. Don’t go gettin’ yerself all tuckered out. You want to last at least ten.”

  “That what you bet?” Slocum asked, leaving the cell when the jailer motioned impatiently.

  “I got a hunnerd ridin’ on you. Don’t go disappointin’ me.”

  “Or what?” Slocum pushed past as the man grumbled.

  “You might not last as long as I thought. Could put down a bet for . . . two!”

  The jailer laughed, but Slocum saw no humor in it. He had a good idea what to expect. As he went outside, the gathered men shoved him from side to side. Slocum was alert for any chance to grab a six-gun and start firing. He knew he was going to die in the pit. He might as well take some men with him. Maybe the crowd would even cut him down. Better to die in a hail of bullets than whatever Galligan had in store.