by Jake Logan
“If you say so.”
Slocum swung into the saddle and galloped for the sundered gate. He ducked as one of Galligan’s sharpshooters tried to home in on him. He burst through the gate, then twisted around, six-shooter in hand. He fired three times and one slug hit the rifleman. It wasn’t a serious wound but caused the man to stumble. By the time he regained his balance, Slocum was long past.
Slocum slowed his pace to remain behind the dozen posse members who had made it this far. He had counted three lying in the dust along the road leading into the town. Slocum couldn’t tell as he rode past if they were dead or just wounded. The wounded would find their way back somehow, and the dead didn’t concern him. There was nothing he could do for them when two women were held hostage and needing his rescue.
“Take cover!” Slocum shouted, seeing the trap in the road ahead. Galligan was no one’s fool. He had positioned a couple snipers in redoubts along the right side of the road. Emptying his pistol of its remaining rounds bought a few precious seconds for Underwood and the rest of his men.
They scrambled into a ditch and fired into the fortified positions.
Slocum reloaded, sizing up the problem. He wasn’t getting past if the posse didn’t also.
“There’s only the two gunmen,” he called to Underwood. “Send four of your men against each position.”
Some argument ensued but finally four men advanced on one position while only two went after the second defender. This was all Slocum needed. He slid the rifle from its scabbard at his right foot, cocked it, and waited. The instant the man being stalked by the pair from the posse poked up his head, Slocum fired. A hat went flying and the man sank down.
“He’s dead,” Slocum called. He didn’t care if he had made a killing shot or not. He bellowed out the claim to spook the other defender. And it worked. If two men could kill his partner, four would surely do him in. The man threw down his rifle and fled. Slocum took a couple shots, missing with both. The only effect was to send the man running just a bit faster.
That could work against them if he didn’t stop until he reached someone who reported directly to Galligan.
“Get back on your horses. Time’s a’wasting!” Slocum shouted. He galloped past, head low. Another bend in the road brought him to a low barricade hastily thrown up by more of Galligan’s men. Urging his horse onward, he soared through the air and then landed hard on the far side. The trio of men behind the barricade had not expected this. They spun in confusion to stop Slocum. The posse made quick work of them. Slocum was glad none of the Thompson townspeople had qualms about shooting a man in the back.
He slowed and waited for the posse to catch up to give them another warning.
“There might be more of those varmints ahead, but you’ve got ’em on the run. Always attack. Keep firing.”
Slocum fired up the posse enough that they lit out like somebody’d set fire to their tails. He followed, then found a trail circling around the town. From his memory of the pass and everything in it, this led to the lake that fed the river. Before the day was out, Galligan would have plenty more corpses floating down it. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that the posse would get very far into town. Galligan had too many men, all armed, all used to killing.
Even as the thought entered his mind, Slocum heard a roar unlike anything he had heard since the most pitched battles of the War. A hundred rifles firing couldn’t have caused louder reports. A cloud of gunsmoke rose as if the entire town had been set ablaze. Then came the cries of pain and the panic he had expected from the men commanded by an indecisive banker more inclined to wage his wars with words and money than bullets.
Slocum caught sight of Underwood and several others—perhaps half of the dozen that had penetrated this far into Galligan’s empire—galloping back toward the wall. He hoped his gun captain wouldn’t fire the instant he saw them burst forth. Getting killed by enemy fire was one thing but being cut down by your own men was disgraceful.
The echoes from the rapidly firing rifles died down. The stiff breeze blowing through the pass carried away the last of the white smoke over Top of the World.
Slocum dismounted, found a tethering spot for his horse, then went into town on foot to find Flora Cooley and free her.
And Beatrice, too. If Galligan hadn’t already murdered her.
14
Sunlight hot on his back, Slocum ducked his head and pulled at his hat brim as he mingled with the crowd. The men all cheered and made bawdy comments about the invasion of their little kingdom. Slocum wondered if Underwood and any of the others had escaped. Then he heard a distant rumble like thunder and knew the howitzer had been fired. He cursed himself for not giving orders to spike the cannon if Galligan’s men tried to capture it. The last thing he wanted was for the self-styled emperor to have that kind of firepower.
Whatever deal Galligan made with the railroad, the howitzer would only give him the upper hand. Worse, it ensured that nobody else would ever try to launch an assault against his fortified gate. The cavalry commander was paid off and the people of Thompson would be so demoralized after their defeat that it would be impossible to get two of them willing to try to free their marshal again.
He looked around, saw the jailhouse, and took a few steps toward it, then veered away when Galligan came strutting through the crowd. He had four bodyguards parting the way for him. Galligan tossed silver dollars to the crowd, which roared in approval.
“This is your reward,” Galligan bellowed. “You defended Top of the World, you share in the spoils.”
Considering the plight of the posse, Slocum knew there weren’t any spoils. Galligan was making a big show of throwing a few dollars to the men so he would seem to be the victor.
Another distant roar from the cannon was followed by long silence. Slocum pictured the escape through the blownapart gate. Underwood and the survivors might not have even slowed to warn the gun crew. Slocum had faith in the gun captain, though, to see what was happening and know there wasn’t a point in making a stand.
Slocum turned from Galligan and headed toward the hotel, wondering if Flora and Beatrice might be held prisoner there. He stepped into the deserted lobby and looked around. The room clerk sat in a chair, feet hiked up to the counter. His chin dipped lower until it finally rested on his chest. The sound of his snoring was almost as loud as the howitzer firing.
There wasn’t time to search dozens of rooms. Slocum considered looking to see if there was a cellar where prisoners might be kept, but the clerk snorted, swatted at a fly, and almost fell from his chair.
In his best command voice, Slocum barked, “Where’re the women? The deputy’s wife and Beatrice?”
The clerk’s feet slid off the counter with a loud thud, and he fought to catch himself before he tumbled to the floor.
“Wha?”
“The women. Galligan wants them now. The emperor wants them for the celebration.”
“He move ’em?”
“They’re not here?”
The clerk rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on Slocum.
“Never have been, not that I know at any rate. Still upstairs, over at the saloon.”
Slocum whirled around and left before the clerk could get a better look at him. He had hoped Galligan would draw most of the men in town to his throne so he could brag on how he had run off another determined force of lawmen, but Galligan had vanished. The men had returned to the saloon, ready to do some serious celebrating.
By the time Slocum crowded inside, the drinks were flowing and there was barely room for him to elbow his way to the bar. He was in dire need of a shot or two of whiskey, but he ignored the longing and made his way through the throng of revelers to a door leading into a back room. He started to open it when the barkeep stopped him.
“Can’t go back there. You stay here with the rest. I’m pissed off at how you think you can steal my stock when I’m not looking.”
The barkeep was dressed in a fancy ruffled shirt of the k
ind worn by tinhorn gamblers with his front protected by a white apron. He held a bung starter in his hand. When he saw Slocum didn’t obey immediately, he swung it in a hissing arc, back, forth, promising to do to Slocum’s head what it did to beer kegs.
“Not looking to steal anything. I was told to fetch the women.”
“Upstairs. You outta know that.” The barkeep smashed the mallet down hard on the bar and caused several glasses to bounce. Two of the men caught their shot glasses as they sailed into the air. Others weren’t as lucky and complained about spilled booze.
“Thought Galligan said they were in the cellar.”
Slocum knew the instant the words left his mouth that he’d made a mistake. The bartender’s lips thinned to a line, and his eyes narrowed.
“Now why would the emperor say a thing like that to you?”
Slocum shrugged.
“Might be he wanted to get you into trouble,” the barkeep went on. “Why’d he want that, I wonder?”
“I’m just trying to do what I’m told,” Slocum said. Shooting it out with the bartender was out of the question when the room was jammed with so many of Galligan’s loyal followers. “Why don’t you show me where they are?” Slocum glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the stairs leading to the second floor. A Cyprian was making her way down but didn’t get too far before getting accosted by a pair of men, both halfway drunk in spite of the early hour.
Their condition didn’t bother her. She took both of them back up the stairs with her. As she sashayed up, Slocum saw she wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt. That made for quicker turnaround with the customers, Slocum reckoned.
“That’s Lil,” the barkeep said, the mallet still clutched in his ham-sized fist. “She the one you want?”
“Could be,” Slocum said. “Why don’t you give me a shot of whiskey?”
The barkeep reached down and started to pour from a bottle at hand but Slocum shook his head and said, “Not that. The good stuff. This is supposed to be a celebration, isn’t it?”
The instant the bartender turned to find a bottle of better whiskey, Slocum stepped back into the crowd and let himself be carried out of sight. If Flora was in the back room or upstairs, it would take more for him to find her than it was worth. He had to be in condition to rescue her, and the barkeep pretty much guarded the entrance to her prison.
If she was in the back room at all. Slocum had no proof that she was. Worse, he had no idea where Beatrice might be kept. All he had gotten was a vague snippet of information from the desk clerk at the hotel. For all Slocum knew, the man was more asleep than awake when he’d revealed Flora’s location. Still, that convinced Slocum he hadn’t been sent on a wild-goose chase. The man had been too drowsy to think straight and had blurted out the truth.
The crowd surged, and Slocum floated along on the tide of humanity like a leaf in a running stream. The unpleasant memory of the bodies floating down the river haunted him. He let the men work him toward the doorway so he could get outside and see if there might be a window in the back room he could enter. If nothing else, he might peer through and actually find where Flora Cooley was being held. When he knew that, he could make better plans—ones that might even succeed in the face of so many of Galligan’s followers.
Barely had he let himself be carried outside when everyone around him froze. The men started slipping away, following the front wall of the saloon in both directions as if going into the street meant death.
“Grab them sons of bitches. They ain’t gettin’ outta doin’ their share of work ’round here.”
Slocum couldn’t see who spoke, but from the tension growing in everyone around him, he knew it had to be one bad hombre.
“Them. Those ten.” The command was punctuated by men using riding crops to swat and herd everyone around him. Slocum found himself moving as if he had been trapped in the middle of a flock of sheep.
He winced as the leathery old galoot whacked him with a quirt. He spun and faced the man before he realized he was drawing attention to himself. As he tried to dissolve back into the crowd, the man lashed him across the chest with the quirt. The welt it raised on his skin smarted, as if the leather whip had been dipped in acid.
“Don’t,” Slocum said.
“You all big and tough. You get on over there with the work detail.”
“Having problems, Whitey?”
“Not that I can’t handle.” The old white-haired man reared back to lash Slocum again.
Four men approached, all carrying short whips. Behind them were more of Galligan’s gang, all carrying sawed-off shotguns. Whatever trouble Slocum started would quickly end with him dead in the street. If any of the men with scatterguns opened up at this range, more than he would be cut down. Slocum reflected on how this wouldn’t matter much if he was turned into ground meat by the shotgun pellets.
“Didn’t mean anything,” Slocum said, putting down his head. Trying to look contrite was impossible. He backed off, seething.
“Work detail. You get to help rebuilt the west wall and gate. Those stinkin’ bastards blew it to hell and gone with a cannon.”
Slocum wanted to ask if the howitzer had been captured but refrained. He would find out quickly enough. He turned and let the old man shove him along, now and then using the short whip to keep him moving.
“Hold up,” came a voice that sent chills up Slocum’s spine. He reached for his six-shooter but sudden pain shot up his forearm when the white-haired man whacked him good on the wrist. “Is this the one?”
“Yes, Emperor, it is,” Whitey said.
Slocum knew he had to make a break now. He lowered his shoulder, drove forward hard, and caught the old man in the belly. He collapsed like a house of cards in a whirlwind. Slocum spun around and clumsily grabbed for his six-gun using his left hand, only to find himself grabbed and securely held.
He was spun around to face Galligan.
“Wondered who had the stones to wheel a damned cannon right up to my front door, then use it to blow his way in. How the hell have you been, Slocum?”
“Too bad the range wasn’t right. One of those shells ought to have blown you to smithereens.”
Galligan chuckled.
“You have quite a sense of humor. Normally, I’d send you along with the gate repair crew, but I’m not sure I trust you. That attack was mighty effective, yes sir. Putting you that close to freedom might—”
“Might let me get the hell away like Silas and his gang?”
Slocum saw the storm clouds of anger forming around Galligan at the taunt. He had been right that Silas had doublecrossed his boss, thinking to steal the railroad money and then hightail it.
“I’ll find that son of a bitch,” Galligan snarled.
“Too late. He got his neck stretched for trying to rob the bank down in Thompson,” Slocum said. His shot in the dark had struck a new target. Galligan turned livid and began to sputter.
“I wanted to shoot him myself. How dare they execute him? I wanted to invite him to a bonfire.”
Slocum tensed. If Galligan couldn’t send a kerosenesoaked Silas down a line of men with torches, Slocum might be an acceptable substitute.
“You’d have liked to see that, Slocum. Trust me. I know you want me to think you like me. All goody-goody when you’re talkin’, but when nobody’s lookin’, you’re as big a thief and—” Galligan began sputtering again.
“What you want done with him, Emperor?” Whitey tapped his quirt on Slocum’s chest, looking for the welt so he could add to the agony. Slocum put on his best poker face. Any show of pain would only encourage Whitey—and Galligan.
“Shackles. Get him in shackles, then take him out to the lake. There’s plenty of work for a gentleman like Slocum.” Galligan openly sneered at him as a quick hand plucked the six-shooter from his holster and others gripped him too tightly to fight. He was shaken from side to side as they steered him away from their boss.
“Davidson, get another pair of shackles on these
ankles,” Whitey said.
The blacksmith lumbered out of his forge, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He gave Slocum the once-over, then silently pointed to a bench. Slocum’s captors roughly shoved him down onto it, and within fifteen minutes he had iron cuffs locked around his ankles, held together by an eighteeninch length of chain.
“Don’t know why Galligan is bein’ so easy on you,” Whitey said. “Most men who cross him the way you did get their comeuppance real quick.”
“He’s the one that got out of the rat pit,” another of the outlaws said. “I seen him use a rattlesnake like it was a whip. He—”
“I heard,” Whitey said. Slocum saw the old man walked with a slight limp. Under ordinary circumstances, he could run faster than the arthritis-wracked old geezer, but with his ankles chained together, he didn’t have a chance.
He was loaded into a wagon bed, two men watching him like hawks. Even if he overpowered one of them, the other would gun him down. Whitey drove and made no effort to avoid the rocks in the roadbed. Slocum found himself being tossed around and finally gave up even trying to brace himself. He rolled about and bided his time. The guards would flag or Whitey would hit a chuckhole and give him his chance.
Only that chance never presented itself. The wagon rattled to a halt not twenty yards from the lake.
“You get the plum job,” Whitey said. “Get to it.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Slocum turned to see another wagon heaped with bodies. It came to a halt close to the lakeshore.
“Figure it out, smart guy. Throw the bodies into the lake. Make sure the current catches them so the river washes them down east of here.”
Slocum was shoved and prodded to the other wagon. He grunted as he hefted a dead body over his shoulder and carried it like a sack of flour to the lake. Grunting, he heaved it into the water, where the strong current swept the corpse away. Within a minute, it had vanished from sight. By then Slocum was struggling with a second body.
