by Jake Logan
He shook his head. That made no sense. The selfappointed emperor needed to do nothing more than shoot a miner or two in the back to steal a claim. Gathering a small army of gunmen made no sense since he’d have to split his take with them.
Beatrice shrugged her lovely shoulders, looked pensive, and finally said, “Might be something to do with mining. He brought in an engineer or two along with the shootists.”
“What else is in Thompson?”
“Escape,” she said without hesitation. “There’s no way to get back down the pass to the east, the way you came to town.”
“There’s nothing for a goodly distance,” Slocum admitted, but with a couple horses and adequate supplies, it wouldn’t matter. “We could go south a week or so and find another pass to the west.”
“Thompson,” she said firmly, “is our best hope. You don’t know Galligan like I do.”
“You can say that again,” Slocum said dryly. Beatrice shot him an angry look. For a moment he thought the volatile redhead would storm off, but she settled back down, letting her ire cool a mite.
“He’d send men after us. A dozen. More. There’s no way you could fight them all off.”
“He values you that much?”
“I told you. He doesn’t give a hoot and a holler about anyone, and that includes me. But I’m his possession. He thinks he owns me, and nobody takes what belongs to the emperor of Top of the World.”
“You’ve thought this out, I see.”
“I’ve had time, and now I get the feeling that there’s not much left for me. Whatever he’s planning is building steam. Once he devotes himself to it, I’m a distraction—”
“And expendable,” Slocum finished for her. He saw the answer in her eyes. When Galligan succeeded in whatever scheme he was brewing, he wouldn’t need a dance hall girl anymore. He could afford expensive painted ladies from San Francisco and Denver.
“We’ve got to work together, John. If we don’t, we’re both going to die here.”
“Galligan wants me alive for some reason. He wouldn’t have ventilated the Kid if he didn’t have plans.”
“He wants to see you.”
“He sent you to fetch me?” Slocum looked sharply at her.
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t know about us. I mean, about . . . us. I made it sound like it was the last thing in the world I wanted to do, finding you and giving you the message.”
Slocum knew Galligan was cunning. He stood and looked around for any hint that Beatrice had been followed. Galligan might have sent spies after her to report on what she did once she found him—and if she knew where to find him quickly. Slocum thanked his lucky stars that finding a place to sleep had been so difficult. Beatrice had hunted him down rather than making a beeline to his lair.
“I could use some food, but I reckon getting to hear Galligan’s orders is more important.”
“We . . . we’re partners?” she asked. “In getting out of here?”
“Partners,” Slocum said and then he sealed the deal with a long kiss. To hell with anyone Galligan might have sent to report back. Slocum knew he could explain this kiss, if he had to. And if he didn’t, he would have learned something important—Galligan had no real interest in Beatrice and was likely to have her thrown to the wolves at any instant.
“Well,” she said, stepping back. Her tongue lightly circled her lips and a feral smile lit her face. “You know all the legal terms and how to make things stand up.”
“But not in court,” he said, laughing. Slocum shoved his Colt Navy into his cross-draw holster and shook off the leaves and pine needles that clung to his clothing. The fragrant pine made him feel a little better about not bathing. Most cowboys didn’t bother much, but he found it easier to get rid of the bugs intent on chewing at his hide if he took a bath every week or two.
The pine needles made him smell more respectable in the meantime.
He set out for town after cautioning Beatrice to wait a spell before following. If there was gunplay, she wouldn’t get caught up in the middle. He walked down the middle of the main street, alert for any sign of snipers intent on filling him full of lead. The town stirred but hadn’t yet come to full life.
He walked to the hotel, where Galligan made his headquarters, and stopped out front of the fancy carved wood doors with the etched glass windows set in them. He considered just storming on in and demanding to see Galligan, but Slocum had a bad feeling about doing that. If Galligan had summoned him, he’d be waiting.
Less than five minutes later, Galligan came out, flanked by four gunmen. Their steely eyes fixed on Slocum. A single gesture from Galligan would have all four slapping leather and firing at Slocum.
“You wanted to see me?”
“You got a mouth on you, Slocum,” Galligan said. “You speak when I tell you.”
Slocum said nothing. He could provoke Galligan or he could let him get around to telling why an audience had been requested. The emperor had taken the time to learn his name. Slocum worried about such interest.
Slocum snorted at that. Beatrice might have passed along the message but it was hardly a request. Nothing Galligan did was a request. It was always an order. That was what an emperor did—command his subjects.
“We got company on the way.”
“Then I’d better get to the gate.”
“Hold your damn horses, Slocum. The invasion’s comin’ from the other direction. From Thompson.”
“Invasion?”
“What else do you call it when an army tries to take over your empire?” Galligan laughed at this. “You got a good head on your shoulders, and you look like you can use that hogleg.”
“Rifle, too,” Slocum allowed. He wasn’t telling Galligan anything the man didn’t already know.
“You’ll need it. Stop the invasion and there’s a reward in it. All the booze you can drink and your choice of a whore for the night. That goes for everybody,” Galligan added, looking to either side. The four gunmen showed emotion for the first time. Slocum wasn’t sure if it was the promise of whiskey, women, or killing that excited them the most.
“Silas here’s in charge. You do like he says.” Galligan motioned the dourest of the outlaws forward. Slocum tried to place him. He had seen Silas somewhere before, but with the horde of cutthroats the emperor had assembled, it might have been off a wanted poster rather than from a personal run-in.
“I’ll mount up and get on over there,” Slocum said.
“No need to hunt for your horse.” Galligan pointed, using his chin in Indian style. A youngster led five horses down the street. One of them was Slocum’s paint. “You men do your job and there’ll be liquor flowing like that damned river yonder.” Galligan pointed in the general direction of the lake and the raging river draining from it. He waited until Slocum and the other four had mounted before returning to the hotel.
Slocum watched him disappear inside before saying anything.
“What’s his hold on this town?” Slocum wondered aloud.
“This.” Silas had his six-shooter out of the holster so fast Slocum didn’t even see a blur. Slocum wasn’t the fastest hand around; there were plenty enough quicker on the draw. But he had never seen a man handle a pistol the way Silas had demonstrated.
“Good enough for me,” Slocum said. He didn’t add that being fast meant shit unless you were also a good shot, but he had the gut feeling that Silas was as accurate as he was quick.
They rode in silence, Slocum taking in every detail of the road to the western gate. It had been constructed to endure a siege. The wall was close to six feet thick and built of piled stones. Mud had been poured over the rocks to fill in the chinks and give it even more substance. The walkways along the top of the wall allowed two riflemen to pass without doing the dance of the prairie chicken to get past each other. And the gate itself was solid oak, barred with a thick beam secured with iron loops.
“Nobody’s getting through that,” Slocum said. “Not unless they use a cannon.”
“We’ll sure give ’em the gate,” joked another of the gunmen. Silas frowned and shut him up.
“Get your asses up onto the wall,” Silas said. “And don’t fall asleep. I see anybody nodding off and I’ll cut his throat.” He made a wickedly sharp knife appear as if by magic in his left hand. His right loosely held the reins, but Slocum got the feeling Silas was ready to throw down if any of them—especially him—objected to the orders.
Slocum kicked his leg over the horse and dropped lightly to the ground. He tethered the paint, then climbed the crude ladder to the walkway. The two men already pacing back and forth paid him no heed. They remained focused on the broad, well-kept road winding away from the gate.
The road to Thompson was better kept than the one rising to the far gate in the east. Slocum wondered how much the town supplied Top of the World’s food. From the condition of the road, he suspected all food and a goodly amount of the guns and ammunition came from Thompson.
That made it all the stranger that Galligan had gathered an army. If the town wanted to cut off his supplies, the emperor would have to fight his way down the side of the mountain. And once in town, other than a one-time looting, what did Galligan gain? Trade was more profitable for everyone concerned.
“There,” shouted a lookout perched higher in the rocks to Slocum’s left.
Standing on tiptoe Slocum caught sight of a dust cloud moving toward the wall. Rattling chains and struggling mules added to the picture before the heavily armored wagon rounded the last bend and came fully into sight.
Slocum lifted his rifle to his shoulder but did not fire. The range was still great. He had been a sniper during the War and had made longer shots, but he wanted to see what was going on. He had seen a few armored wagons like this in his day, but the driver had never hauled it up a mountainside to use against a fortified gate.
Sporadic gunfire came from around. In the distance those bullets ricocheted off the iron plates hanging on the sides of the wagon.
“Take cover!” He took his own advice and crouched behind a low rock wall as barrels thrust through slits cut in the sides of the iron plating and the men inside opened fire. The slugs tore past him in volley after volley. He chanced a quick look up and caught a bullet through the brim of his hat. Slocum ducked back down as the riflemen inside the armored wagon reloaded and commenced firing again.
“Don’t hide, you lily-livered coward!” Silas walked along the wall, oblivious to the bullets tearing past him. He had singled out Slocum for his ire. “Emperor Galligan says to stop ’em. You do that by firin’ that rifle in your worthless hands!”
Silas started to kick Slocum to get him into action, but Slocum would have none of that. He drove the butt plate on his rifle smack into Silas’s kneecap, sending the gunman reeling. As a new volley from the wagon filled the air, Slocum thought he might have saved Silas’s life. He cursed that notion. Better to let him die than to save him, but he wasn’t about to let Silas kick like a balky mule.
A quick twist let Slocum see the wagon again. It looked more like a steel porcupine now, sides bristling with rifles protruding. The men inside fired constantly, but the shock of their initial attack faded second by second. Galligan’s men got their senses back and started firing from their positions above. The slugs pinged away but now and then Slocum heard a yelp of pain. In spite of the slits in the iron being only slightly larger than the rifle barrels sticking out, some of the intense fire from the wall found its way inside.
Slocum wondered if the slugs would bounce around inside or if the attackers had had the sense to line their iron cage with wood to prevent that.
He turned and pointed his rifle at Silas, who struggled to sit up. He had swung his rifle around to cover Slocum but saw, even with his lightning reflexes, that he was a dead man if he tried to shoot.
“Get into the battle, damn you. Galligan’s not payin’ you to malinger.”
“Galligan’s not paying me,” growled Slocum, but he chanced another look up to see a hatch opening on the roof of the armored wagon. His reflexes got the better of him. He winged the man poking his head out. The wounded man dropped back into the bed of the wagon.
“More like it,” Silas said.
“Let Galligan know,” Slocum shot back. Then a new menace drove them both under cover. A Gatling gun opened up from below, sending rock splinters and bits of wood from the gate flying in all directions.
If such blistering fire continued much longer, they would reduce the gate to flinders and be able to drive right on through to Top of the World.
Slocum fired a few times, but the gunners working the Gatling were protected by sloping iron plates. He might wound one or the other but that wouldn’t stop the fire directed against the gate.
“Give ’em everything you can,” Slocum yelled. He worried that Silas would take the chance to shoot him in the back. Then he was over the wall, dangling for a split second and dropping to the hard-packed road in front of the gate.
Not a foot above his head ripped the flood of bullets from the Gatling gun. Slocum considered shooting at the two men operating it again, his angle better on the ground than it had been on the roof. Whoever had planned the attack counted on all enemy fire coming from above, not the ground. Only a couple of the gun ports on the rolling fort had been cut low enough for the riflemen inside to shoot at anyone on foot. Slocum dropped to his belly and scooted forward in the dust.
His approach caused the mules to kick up their hooves. Already frightened from the pitched gun battle, the team began backing up. Whoever drove the wagon had not set a brake and had relied on the mules in harness to hold the wagon in place. As the animals shied, the wagon began rolling backward.
Slocum slid out his knife from the top of his boot and hacked away at the harnesses. The nearest mules kicked and tried to flee from him, causing even more consternation in the team. He severed one trace and then another before working up to the thickest leather straps in the harness. He found that his plan worked with only half the yoke cut.
“We’re rollin’ back downhill! We’re gonna die if this damned thing goes over a ledge!”
From inside came frantic sounds, then two hatches popped open as the men tried to abandon their now dubious safety inside. Silas and the rest of Galligan’s sharpshooters picked them off as they struggled to get away from the wagon, now rolling faster and dragging a few of the mules still held in harness.
The noise deafened Slocum. The mules, the gunfire, the men’s anguished cries as they were wounded or killed created such confusion that he feared for his own life. Silas would surely gun him down if he came into his sights. But more immediate danger forced Slocum to hang on to the wagon tongue as the ponderous bulk gathered speed and rolled back downhill.
If he let loose, if he stopped being dragged underneath the wagon, he would be killed instantly.
Slocum let out a shriek as the armored wagon bounced at the verge of the road and then plunged down into a ravine—with him still clinging to the undercarriage.
7
Slocum tried to let loose of the wagon tongue when the war wagon began to topple, but his coat sleeve caught on a nail. Dragged down the hillside, Slocum gritted his teeth and jerked as hard as he could to get free. His coat finally yielded and a large piece of cloth continued tumbling down the hill, still attached to the wagon. Slocum rolled a few yards and finally grabbed a rock to stop his fall.
He twisted about and looked at the bottom of the ravine, where the armored wagon had come to a halt amid a cloud of dust. Slocum started to climb back up the hillside to the road, where sporadic gunfire continued, signaling that Galligan’s men were taking potshots at the survivors of the wagon who had bailed out. But he saw an arm flailing about through the top of the armor. Somebody had survived the fall.
Slocum released his grip, dug in his boot heels, and controlled his slide down the rest of the way to the bottom. He slid his six-shooter from its holster as he approached.
“You try poking a
gun out and I’ll shoot you dead,” Slocum called.
“I surrender. Don’t kill me.” A head followed the words. The man held his hands above his head as he wiggled from the destroyed wagon. The iron plates had buckled, turning the once invincible rolling fortress into a coffin.
As the man came out, Slocum caught the glint of sunlight off a deputy’s badge.
“Anybody left inside?” Slocum asked.
“Dead. Two are dead. What about the marshal and the rest?”
Slocum glanced up to the road and saw Silas herding three men toward the gate.
“Captured’s my guess.”
“You gonna kill me?”
“Why were you trying to get through the gate?”
“What are you, touched in the head?” The deputy spat blood and a tooth.
“Tell me.”
“Galligan’s got to be stopped, that’s why we was attackin’.” He spat again, this time only blood. “Got me something busted up inside. A rib, maybe.” He winced as he moved. From the way his face had gone as white as bleached muslin, Slocum knew the deputy wasn’t faking his injuries.
“Sit down in the shade.”
“Why? That make it easier to kill me?”
“I’m not going to shoot you,” Slocum said. “Tell me why you attacked with this . . . thing.” Words ran from him as he tried to corral them to describe the ironclad wagon.
“Marshal had the idea. Tried to dig Galligan out a couple times, but that damned defensive wall of his was too strong. A handful of men with rifles held us off, so he decided that we oughta build this.” The deputy gasped as new pain wracked him. “We couldn’t get a cannon so the marshal rustled up a Gatling gun.”
“You’d have made it through the gate if it hadn’t been for the mules.”
The deputy looked at him with dull eyes. Slocum wondered if the lawman realized why the mules had balked and sent the wagon tumbling over the brink. Slocum made sure his knife was securely back in the sheath at his boot top. He had stopped the attack almost singlehandedly and was feeling that he had made a big mistake.
