by Jake Logan
“Let’s ride,” Slocum said. He swung into the saddle and made sure the leather thong was slipped off his six-gun’s hammer. When he needed the pistol, he would need it in a hurry. Until then, the best they could do was gallop downhill, always a risky proposition. The slightest misstep, a rock that turned a hoof, a gopher hole, anything that broke their downward momentum, would mean their deaths.
Slocum kicked the sides of his horse and bolted ahead, tearing down the road. It wasn’t far but was long enough to give Gadsden and his cronies the chance to mount and head for the base of the road.
The four outlaws were already on the trail. Slocum’s headlong rush did nothing to betray their presence that another minute of tracking wouldn’t have revealed. By galloping ahead, he and Flora had gained a hundred yards. That might be enough to keep from getting trapped on the road.
But it wasn’t.
Gadsden let out a whoop and opened fire. The three men with him were slower to respond but soon enough the air filled with lead all around Slocum’s head.
“Ride,” he urged Flora. “Get back to town and let them know what happened. And the cannons. Don’t forget them.” He turned and began coolly firing at the approaching outlaws. From horseback, aiming at men riding hard toward him—the shots were impossible. Slocum emptied his six-gun and went for the rifle riding at his knee.
When he opened up with the rifle, his attackers thought better of pressing their advance. Gadsden dived from his horse and found cover behind a large boulder. Slocum turned the other three with his steady fire, forcing them to retreat.
“Ride, get on out of here,” he called to Flora. The woman hung back, as if watching the fight.
“Together, John, we go together.”
He cursed under his breath. He was running short of ammunition and couldn’t hold back this deadly tide much longer. As if to underline his problems, Gadsden blasted a hole the size of his thumb through his hat brim. It was a lucky shot at this range, but it buoyed the courage of the other three. They wheeled about and reloaded, readying for another charge.
“Come on!” Slocum brought his horse to a gallop over the uneven road when a canter would have been breakneck. The horse strained and occasionally slipped as rocks turned under its flying hooves. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him that Flora was keeping up.
For a few minutes. His horse maintained a powerful, smooth stride but hers began to falter.
“I can’t keep up this pace,” Flora called out. “Go on, get back to town. Tell them what you must.”
Slocum cursed some more, brought his horse to a dead halt, and turned its face. His rifle came easily to his shoulder, and he got off one shot that narrowly missed Flora but hit the approaching outlaw. The man threw his arms up in the air and tumbled backward from the saddle. He had brought down one of the outlaws but the other three came on, heedless now of his marksmanship.
Flora raked her heels along her horse’s flanks and then there was no more chance of escape. Both of the horse’s front legs collapsed. Its head went between its legs and Flora sailed through the air. She landed hard and didn’t stir. For all Slocum knew, the fall had killed her. He fired twice more and then the magazine refused to feed any more cartridges. With both rifle and six-gun empty, he had no choice but to hightail it.
For a moment, Slocum thought the three outlaws would come after him. Gadsden’s sharp command brought back his two pursuing henchmen. Keeping his head down and horse flying, Slocum put as much distance between him and the outlaws as he could.
Only when the horse’s flanks lathered and its breath came in huge ragged gusts did he slow and finally walk the horse off the road toward a stand of cottonwood trees. A small pool of water bubbled up from the ground. Slocum let his horse drink while he shoved his head underwater and tried to collect his thoughts.
He couldn’t let Flora remain Gadsden’s prisoner.
Jumpy as a long-tailed cat beside a rocking chair, Slocum started at every noise. A rabbit poking a nose through a low bush caused him to spin, six-shooter out and cocked. As if knowing his pistol was empty, the rabbit looked at him curiously, then backed away to drink from the pool when it was safer. Slocum began working over what had to be done. Rescuing Flora before Gadsden and the others had their way with her was necessary, but he ran low on ammo.
Checking, he had only twelve rounds left for his gun. He rummaged through the saddlebags on the horse he had taken and found nothing more. His rifle would be better used as a club.
He thrust his head underwater again and let the cold drive away the pessimism. When he came up sputtering, he shook like a dog and sent water droplets flying in all directions. He pulled his horse away from the pool, mounted, and rode back toward the last place he had seen the outlaws. Approaching from an angle, he listened hard for their voices, their horses, any sound Flora might make.
All he heard was the soft wind working its way through rocks and vegetation.
Exploring on foot brought him flat on his belly atop a large rock. He carefully listened, then sniffed the air and finally stood to cautiously look around. In the distance rose a cloud of dust. He tried to figure how Gadsden had cut across country the way he had, but there was no denying that the outlaws were heading back toward the toll road leading through the pass.
Slocum skidded down the rock, mounted, and set off at as fast a pace as the horse could maintain. He trotted, then walked, and occasionally galloped the horse in an effort to overtake Gadsden. The closest he came was several hundred yards. He pulled his hat low over his eyes and shielded them from the setting sun the best he could.
If he rode like the wind, he could interpose himself between the outlaws and the road leading into the mountains. Try as he might, he could not identify all the riders. He knew the red-and-black-checked flannel shirt that Gadsden wore but could not make out any of the others. If one was Flora Cooley, the outlaws were riding close enough to block his direct view.
A quick estimate of his chances made Slocum despair. Then he bent low on his horse and sent it racing toward a point where he was sure he could intercept the other riders.
By the time he reached the point, going down ravines and up steep inclines, his horse wobbled and was close to dying under him. But Slocum thought he had beaten Gadsden to the road and blocked his way.
After waiting a few minutes and not seeing riders approaching, Slocum began to study the road. A cold knot formed in his belly when he saw evidence that Gadsden had beaten him here and was already climbing the road toward Top of the World.
He tried to get his horse to respond, but he had asked too much of it. Leaving it to rest, he began hiking. The road was good enough that he made decent time, but he reached a bend in the road and looked several switchbacks above him. Flora rode with her head down. In spite of himself, he called out to her. The woman’s head snapped up as she looked around, then she was crowded away from the brink.
Gadsden peered down at him. The outlaw vanished, and Slocum saw two riders making the bend just above him. A pair of gunmen rode back to kill him. A dozen schemes flashed through his mind but none gave him more of a chance to survive than simply continuing to walk ahead. Pistol out and held in his hand dangling at his side, he waved with his left hand when the riders were on a stretch of road straight ahead of him.
“I got to talk to Gadsden. It’s about Galligan.”
The two exchanged looks, and when they did, Slocum raised his pistol and got off four quick shots. Of the three aimed at the rider on his left, one hit, knocking him from the saddle. The other shot went wild but both outlaws’ horses reared at the gunfire. This gave him a chance to run a few more yards. By the time he was within range for an accurate shot, the still mounted outlaw was firing at him.
A shot from horseback, even at the best of times, was chancy. Slocum had both feet firmly on the ground and was a crack shot. His first round hit the rider in the leg. As the man grunted and bent toward it, his final bullet caught the outlaw in the chest. Slumping
, he tried to wheel about and rejoin Gadsden.
Slocum ran for all he was worth, then launched himself in a dive. His fingers clawed at the rider’s legs and came away bloody. The outlaw swung around to shoot Slocum but lost his balance and fell heavily.
Avoiding the dancing horse, Slocum reached the fallen man and kicked him hard. This ended the fight. Panting, Slocum took the pistols from both of his victims and grabbed the last rider’s horse. Putting his heels to the horse’s flanks, he flew up the road. He had two six-shooters now, but Gadsden was far ahead.
As Slocum came within sight of the wall and gate protecting the toll road, he saw Gadsden herd Flora to the other side. The gate screeched closed. Galligan hadn’t repaired the splintery mess from where Menniger and his Gatling gun had tried to blast through it. But damaged though it was, Slocum had no chance to launch a successful assault against Galligan’s first line of defense.
Guards with rifles popped up on the wall and sighted in on him. He backed away, then turned and rode, fuming at how close he had come to mixing it up with Gadsden.
It might have been his imagination but he didn’t think so. In the distance, the far distance on the other side of the gate, he thought he heard Flora calling, “John! John!”
13
Doc Radley scratched himself, then reached across his desk and opened the far drawer. A half-full bottle of whiskey gurgled as he took it out, withdrew the cork, took a pull, then handed it to Slocum.
“Medicine. I’m perscribin’ it to cure what ails you.”
“Flora Cooley is Galligan’s prisoner. Getting her and the marshal and the deputies free will cure what’s eating at me most.” In spite of what he said, Slocum took the bottle and knocked back a shot of the potent liquor. It burned all the way down his gullet and pooled in his belly, burning almost as bright as his need to take out Emperor Galligan.
“You got a burr under yer saddle fer somebody who’s only passin’ through.”
Slocum said nothing. He considered another swig of the whiskey but passed it back to the doctor.
“Might be yer one of them poor souls who keeps his promise. Now what’d you promise? And who was on the receivin’ end of yer sacred word? You haven’t been in town long enough for it to be Flora.” The doctor snorted. “She’s a character, I tell you. A real opportunist.”
“She said Gus didn’t have any designs on being marshal,” Slocum pointed out.
“She wanted Gus to run for mayor. Lou Underwood’s got interests that run a lot beyond the town. His own nest is always in serious need o’ bein’ feathered. The railroad comin’ through is his ticket to a mansion up on the hill—and I don’t mean around here. He’s thinkin’ how nice it would be to have a fancy ass house next to the railroad president’s on Russian Hill.”
“San Francisco?”
“Nowhere else. That’s where the real money is, and it draws Lou like a pound o’ raw meat would draw a wolf.”
“The howitzer in the mineshaft would take out the gate. Marshal Menniger chopped up the wood with the Gatling gun and—”
“You’ll have one chance and that’s it, Slocum,” the doctor said. “I kin stir up enough passion to get a posse together, but you don’t breach that gate on the first try, you’ve lost them.”
Slocum nodded. He understood how mobs worked. A posse was only slightly more organized. He had seen the way they strung up Silas and his men for the sheer bloodlust of it. The crowd hadn’t been in jeopardy. Those same men would surge through a gate blown down by the howitzer, but if Galligan’s men put up any kind of defense—and Slocum bet they would—that posse would evaporate faster than spit on a hot rock.
“Good that you see what yer up against.” Radley sighed, started to take a drink, but stuck the cork back in before dropping the bottle into his desk drawer. “Don’t you go get ensnared by Flora. You might say she got Gus killed.”
“He was a deputy. I talked to him enough to know he was dedicated to his job.” Slocum felt a twinge since Cooley had saved his life. How far that obligation ran after the deputy had died was something of a question for him. He didn’t owe Flora anything, but her cries as Galligan’s men dragged her away to Top of the World still rang in his ears. Death had cleared the slate with Gus Cooley. What he owed Flora was another matter.
Then there was Beatrice. She had sacrificed herself so he could escape.
“You read him pretty good, Slocum. Hope that cotton wool’s not bein’ pulled over yer eyes when it comes to his missus.”
“I have my reasons for getting Galligan.”
“That don’t have anything to do with Flora?” Dr. Radley eyed him.
“She’s only a part of it.”
“Good enough. You want the boys by the gate at dawn tomorrow? I kin get ’em riled up enough by then.”
“I need help moving one of those howitzers into place. Three men would be enough, if they know anything about wagons, caissons, or even artillery pieces.”
Radley pursed his lips, glanced toward the drawer with the bottle, then fixed his gaze on Slocum.
“I know three men who were in the War. Think they used a cannon. You have any problem with them being Yanks?”
Slocum was past fighting the War and said so.
“I’ll git ’em over here. Then it’s up to you.”
Slocum had known that from the start.
“We got to get the cannon up close,” one of the howitzer crew said uneasily. He wiped his lips with the back of a grimy hand. “To get into range, we have to position it where the guards can shoot at us.”
Slocum estimated distances and the way the toll road curled around. They had to round the bend, set up the howitzer, and fire before the riflemen found the range and snipers picked off the cannon crew one by one.
“I have some experience,” Slocum said. “We get the howitzer loaded and ready to fire, move it up the road, and then fire it.”
“Real dangerous doin’ that,” said another, a short, stocky man with a thick chest and the look of a man used to working at a forge. “I seen cannons go off when the wheels hit a rock. A shock, a spark, sometimes it don’t matter. Anything’ll set off the charge.” He frowned as he looked at the howitzer. “This is a real old barrel. Might explode.”
“Might,” Slocum said. “And it just might hold. The first shell will send them scurrying like rats. You know how to crew. The next round ought to take out the gate.”
“Could work that way,” the first man allowed. He looked around. “When’s the rest of the posse due?”
Slocum had seen a distant dust cloud on the road below, coming up from town. It wouldn’t be long. He went over the procedure for firing, reloading, and firing again. The small man with spectacles and a huge bushy mustache would be the crew chief and aim the cannon, aided by the one who had to be a smithy from the smell of coal and iron lingering about him. Slocum thought he actually had experience while the other two only knew artillery procedures from watching others.
He drilled them over and over, and in less than twenty minutes the posse rode up. Lou Underwood looked uneasy leading the men. Slocum doubted he could be counted on when the hot lead began to fly—and it would, no matter how accurate the howitzer.
“We’re ready to attack,” the banker called out. “You ready to kick this off, Slocum?”
Slocum didn’t answer directly. He went to the mule they’d hitched to the carriage and swatted it on the rump. The mule brayed, then began pulling. In less than a minute, they rounded the bend in the road and the wall with its damaged gate came into view. Slocum had hoped the guards would be asleep on duty and let them set up for their first shot before opening up.
He might as well have wished for the gate to be standing wide open.
Bullets spanged all around as he wheeled the carriage around and unfastened the mule. The animal brayed again and trotted off, leaving Slocum and his gun crew in the middle of the road. The range to the gate was about eighty yards. He stepped back and readied the powder and twelve-
pound ball for the second shot, the one that he intended to actually blast down the gate. The first would be for range; the second would open the way for the posse to charge.
He glanced back where Underwood sat astride his horse, looking like he had swallowed a mouthful of bile. Slocum waved. Several of the men signaled back. That was good enough. It had to be.
“Fire when you got things lined up,” Slocum told his bespectacled gun captain.
The immediate roar knocked him back a foot. The man had yanked the lanyard even as he received the order. Slocum waved his arm to clear the air of gunsmoke and saw that the first round had smashed into the wall just above the gate. A couple guards had tumbled over the edge and scrambled to get to the gate, screaming to be let back in.
The second shell blasted from the howitzer sooner than Slocum had anticipated—and the accuracy was everything he could have hoped for from an experienced gunnery crew. The shell smashed into the gate above the heads of the men trying to get inside.
They were hurled away like rag dolls. Best of all, the gate had been ripped off its hinges.
“Charge!”
Whoever screamed the order had seen the damage done and knew they had only a minute at the most to reach the wall. Slocum saw Underwood hanging back, looking frightened. When he saw Slocum glaring at him, he swallowed hard, then tentatively urged his horse forward. As he passed the howitzer, the banker joined the shouts of the rest of the posse now at the wall and exchanging gunfire with the guards still able to fight.
“Need a third shot?” The gun captain took off his spectacles and wiped the soot off the lenses.
“Load up but wait to see if it’ll be needed to cover our retreat.”
“You thinkin’ on runnin’, Slocum?” The man put the spectacles back on and swiped at his mustache, trying to get it back into a semblance of order.
“Never hurts to be prepared.” Slocum considered the chaos scattering Galligan’s guards now. The posse had forced its way through the gate and were whooping it up on the other side of the wall. With luck, he could get into Top of the World and find Flora—and Beatrice—before Galligan rallied his men and drove the posse back. When that happened, the third shot would cover the rout he expected.
