by Jake Logan
“All right,” she said. “But how do I find you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s something in your tone that says you’re not coming with me.”
“I’ve got unfinished business,” Slocum said, remembering how Sergeant Berglund had ordered him killed. This was the only chance he’d have to set things right.
“The gold, John, there’s a mountain of gold out there and Jesse is going to squander it on buying merchants and soldiers and guns!”
“You’d prefer to take it before he spends it on someone else?”
“Exactly!”
“Get back to the boardinghouse and hightail it,” he said. He slapped her on the ass. “And you have a very pretty tail, too.”
She started to argue, then kissed him quickly and headed off. Slocum wondered what was on the paper she had taken from Dennison’s pocket. It might have been the location of another gold hoard. Or it might be nothing at all. He didn’t care if she found the gold and got away with it. That would put an end to Jesse’s cockeyed rebellion plan faster than anything short of killing the outlaw.
He walked to the front of the hotel and glanced into the lobby. The clerk fearfully watched as several of Jesse’s gang stood on the first landing, six-shooters ready for action. He didn’t have to see them to know several others had pushed on up to the top floor and the presidential suite. By now they’d’ve found Dennison and the other two dead.
This was the perfect time to add to the number of those waiting to be buried. He had a beef to settle with Simon Berglund.
As Slocum stepped out into the street, he heard a bugle sound from south of town. He turned and saw the sergeant with his men in the plaza. Berglund reformed them and then they turned on any of Jesse’s gang around them. Slocum lifted his pistol to fire but felt a sharp pain in his back.
“Got a bayonet ready to run you through. You just put that six-gun of yours away and march to the plaza.”
Slocum looked over his shoulder. A soldier had him dead to rights. Worse, a second bluecoat stood a pace to the side. Even if Slocum batted away the bayonet and stayed clear of any shot, the second soldier would have him.
He thought it was strange that they didn’t order him to throw away his gun, but he walked to the plaza, hands up. Berglund was busy with a half-dozen other outlaws, including Jesse James. It surprised Slocum that Berglund had been able to capture the notorious outlaw so easily. Even stranger, the sergeant hadn’t killed him outright.
Berglund must want the hidden gold with a passion that knew no bounds and only Jesse could deliver its location.
Two companies of cavalry came trotting up. The horse soldiers had their carbines ready to fire, but there wasn’t any opposition. Berglund had herded the gang into a tight knot in the plaza and had them surrounded by his company, all with bayonets fixed.
“Sergeant Berglund, report!” The captain at the head of the column stared at the dozen outlaws.
“These men were shooting up the town but my unit subdued them, sir.”
“They did more than shoot up the place,” the captain said, looking around. “They damned near burned Las Vegas to the ground!”
“We stopped ’em, sir, before they could do much more.”
“Is this the lot of them?” The captain glared at Slocum and the others.
“You might have us cooped up, but we’ll get away!” Jesse shouted.
“Yes, sir, the lot of them. That there’s Jesse James himself.” Berglund pointed at the outlaw with his pistol.
“Well done, Sergeant. Very well done. There will be a commendation for you. Move them out. Get them into the fort’s stockade.”
Slocum looked around and knew Frank James and the others that had rushed into the Eagle Hotel weren’t captured. Berglund had to know that. And as the soldiers with the fixed bayonets moved them out onto the road leading toward the distant Fort Union, Slocum realized he still had his six-shooter at his hip. Jesse had a solitary six-shooter tucked into his belt and hidden by his vest and coat. The others were similarly armed with their guns hidden. Slocum took his from the holster and shoved it into his belt so he could keep it out of sight, too.
A soldier at his side watched and said nothing.
“We got their horses ready, Sergeant Berglund,” a corporal called.
Slocum wanted to talk to Jesse, but the outlaw was busy whispering to the others in his gang—and to Berglund.
“Very good, Corporal. Get them mounted and back to the fort as quick as they can ride.”
“Sarge, the captain’s riding with us.” The quaver of panic in the private’s voice as he reported told Slocum something wasn’t going according to plan.
“We’ll escort you, Sergeant,” the captain called. He arrayed his company ahead of Berglund’s men and the prisoners.
Slocum heard Jesse James curse under his breath. Then they were on their horses and being herded toward Fort Union and the stockade, staring at the score of bluecoat soldiers ahead of them on the road.
17
“Post double guards on the prisoners, Sergeant.” The captain sat on his horse, acting as if he posed for a statue. Slocum thought that might be running through the officer’s mind since he would go down in history as the man who had finally captured Jesse James and the rest of his gang. The captain was so wrapped up in what he thought was a decisive victory that he never even looked at his prisoners to see if they were armed. He assumed they had been disarmed by his dutiful Sergeant Berglund.
Jesse and the gang now being crowded into the small stockade cells carried more firepower than the captain’s entire company. None of the soldiers moving them into those cells paid the least attention to the butts of six-shooters poking out of belts or the knives and other weapons hidden on their prisoners. The payoff gold jingling in their pockets was almost palpable.
Prisoners, Slocum reflected, was hardly the right way to name those placed into the Fort Union stockade. And for all that, the soldiers weren’t hardly bluecoats anymore. Whatever Berglund had promised them for getting Jesse and the others into the fort walls turned them into traitors, not soldiers.
Even so, no matter the handful of turncoats in his command, the captain ought to have asked each prisoner his name. He would have realized many—most—of the gang had not been rounded up. Frank James was missing as were others that had ridden into New Mexico Territory with Jesse. Most of those now incarcerated were new recruits, not the battle-hardened veterans from Missouri.
“You and you, stand guard outside,” Berglund said, ordering two of his men to keep away anyone curious about the notorious prisoners. When he was sure no one was likely to eavesdrop, Berglund opened the cell doors himself. Slocum remained at the rear of one cell, letting three other outlaws block the sergeant’s direct view of him. He might be armed, but if the trooper spotted him, no amount of firepower was likely to stop Berglund from killing him.
“You can wait in here until the company’s at mess,” Berglund said.
“You have the keys to the armory?” Jesse strutted forward, the cock of the walk. And why not? He was getting ready to take control of an entire U.S. Army post, and this after he had seized control of Las Vegas. For him, it was a day of victories that were only just beginning.
“I’ll have them. I’m negotiating with the armorer. He’s willing but wants more gold.” Berglund paused. “Just like me and the boys here. We want to be sure we’re getting paid.”
“I told you that Charlie Dennison has the map to your gold. It’s quite a mountain, too,” Jesse said.
“I trust him, as much as I do any of you sons of bitches,” Berglund said.
“Why shouldn’t you? He’s your cousin.”
Slocum bit down on his lip to keep from saying anything that would draw attention to him. He shifted his six-gun from his belt to his holster, where it rested more comfortably. Drawing a pistol thrust into his belt was far slower than clearing the leather of a holster. There wasn’t as much chance of the hamm
er tangling in cloth either. Slocum had seen some men who preferred to carry their six-gun in their coat pocket, but the smartest, fastest, and likeliest of them to survive also lined the pocket with leather like a marshal he had seen in El Paso.
Jesse didn’t know Dennison was dead, and neither did Berglund. And when Frank got around to letting them know, he’d also pass along that Dennison didn’t have the map to the gold. How long would it be until someone figured out Audrey Underwood had it? Or was that even possible? Dennison might have taken a fancy to Audrey and decided to have at her surrounded by the luxury of the fancy hotel suite. The two gunmen with him were dead. It was possible nobody else in the gang had an inkling what Dennison had been up to or that he had been with Audrey when he died.
That meant Audrey might find the gold and clear out before Slocum could find her. At the moment, as appealing as the notion of more gold than his horse could carry was, getting away from the post without Berglund spotting him was more important. Shrouds didn’t have pockets.
“He’s my cousin but he’s a double-dealing snake who rode with you damned rebels during the war,” Berglund said. “How do I know he hasn’t fetched the gold for himself?”
“Because,” Jesse said with such confidence that Slocum almost believed him, “Charlie is not a stupid man. I’ve promised him a hundred times as much gold if he sticks with me. He speaks Spanish, so I reckon he was the obvious one to put in charge of Mexico after the Knights of the Golden Circle take over there.”
“Him running an entire country?” Berglund laughed harshly. “It’d be something he would try, but he couldn’t steal from the treasury fast enough before he had a line of men ready to shoot him.”
Or women, Slocum silently added. For all Charlie Dennison’s enemies, it had been a woman who had put a bullet through him, ending his foul life.
“You’d better report to the captain,” Jesse said. “Or is the colonel back from patrol yet?”
“That worries me a mite,” Berglund said. “Colonel Loebe has enough men to retake the fort if we can’t get at least half the ones not already in my pocket to go along. He’s been out tracking down a band of Comanches who bought themselves some rifles and are making a nuisance of themselves.”
“Cannon,” Jesse said, his assurance contagious. “And there’s a Gatling or two in the armory. We let the colonel ride on in to the parade ground and turn him into mincemeat.”
“Can’t let him get away. Can’t let any of them get to a telegraph. One wire back East and the whole damn Trans-Mississippi Army will be here in a week.”
“I’m taking care of that,” Jesse said.
Since the railroad went into Lamy, Slocum guessed the merchant he had seen Jesse paying off had something to do with either crippling the telegraph or passing along intelligence about troops being moved in by train. On horseback would be reasonable, but not if Sheridan thought a quick strike was preferable to a gradual escalation. From what Slocum knew of Sheridan, he would end up losing a couple companies of men rather than listen to Sherman, who would insist on sending enough men and supplies for a year-long siege.
That was the difference in the commanders, and it would work against Sheridan. By the time W. T. Sherman got his way with Grant, the Knights of the Golden Circle would be fortified and ready for war in their fledgling country.
“Just so you remember that you’ll need me after you set your ass on that throne.”
“Throne? Never,” Jesse said, laughing. “I’m going to be the president of my own country. I don’t hold with kings or caudillos.”
“Just so you remember that,” Simon Berglund said. He looked around the stockade, most of the men crowded into the small office and away from the cells, then took a deep breath, brushed trail dust off his uniform, and marched out to meet with the officers commanding the post.
If Jesse was smart, he’d have Berglund draw his pistol and shoot the officers. And Jesse James was nothing but clever when it came to such treachery. Slocum felt the pressure on him to get the hell out of Fort Union as fast as he could.
“The company’s filing into the mess hall,” Jesse said, peering out the partially opened door across the parade grounds. “Get ready, men. We’re about to make history.”
The outlaws around him murmured and moved toward the door, carrying Slocum along with them. He let them since he had to get out of the stockade anyway. Once outside he could find his horse and shoot his way out, if necessary. He guessed that when the bullets started flying, the guards on the walls would leave their posts to support their comrades inside the fort. Escaping then would be as simple as opening the gate.
Slocum hung back but ran into bad luck when Jesse spotted him.
“Slocum. Slocum! Come on up here. I got a special task for you. You’re the best damned shot I ever saw. I want you to take out the sentry on the wall behind the armory.”
“I can’t do it with a pistol,” Slocum complained. “I’ll get my Winchester and—”
“Can’t go to the stables. There’s a dozen men bivouacked there. The barracks are overflowing, so they’re putting troops up there. Don’t worry your head about having a rifle. We’ll find one along the way. A Spencer good enough for you?”
“Don’t want a carbine. The barrel’s too short for accurate shooting.”
“I’ll see what I can scare up.”
The sun was dipping behind the mountains to the far west and the mosquitoes from along the river were beginning to buzz. Slocum swatted a couple, then gave up. They’d have to drill through his tough hide if they wanted to suck out any of his blood, and he was more inclined to worry about bigger quantities of his precious blood being spilled by the likes of Jesse James—or Simon Berglund.
Slocum expected Jesse to go find a soldier who was going along with his scheme but he only motioned to one standing guard beside the stockade.
“Your rifle. Hand it over.” The soldier hesitated. “Now, dammit. You want to hang for treason?” This produced a quick transfer of the rifle. Jesse tossed it to Slocum. “That ought to do you just fine.”
“There?” Slocum pointed to a guard pacing along the low wall on the east side of the fort. The hulking, dark building a few yards from the wall had to be the armory.
“We’ll get ready to go in, but you need to take him out before we break out the rifles.”
Slocum walked toward the armory, not wanting to gun down the sentry but not seeing any way around it. If he failed, Jesse would kill him. Worse, if he didn’t fail, he might bring down the rest of the soldiers busy chowing down in the mess hall. He’d wish then that Jesse had put a bullet in the back of his skull.
There was a scuffle ahead, then silence. Jesse pushed him forward.
“This is a good spot to get him,” Jesse said.
“Looks like it,” Slocum said. He made sure the cartridge was seated properly in the receiver, took off the bayonet so he could swing the barrel around more easily, then braced himself against the side of the armory and sighted in the sentry outlined against the twilight sky. From outside the man was protected by the waist-high wall but no one thought to guard the sentry from a shot fired at this angle.
Before Slocum could squeeze back on the trigger, a shout startled him.
“What’s going on? Hey. Prisoners! Escape! The prisoners done escaped the stockade!”
Slocum turned, leveled his rifle, and fired at the soldier shouting the warning. The bullet must have sailed close to his head, because he ducked and ran back toward the mess hall, screeching like a stuck pig the whole way.
“Damnation, this is going to get difficult. Where’s Berglund? We need some heavy firepower right now.”
Slocum looked at the locks on the door. Shooting them off was out of the question. The heavy iron hasps and locking mechanism were designed to withstand anything short of a stick of dynamite. He used the butt end of the rifle and found that a sledgehammer was more likely to break the locks.
“Where’s Berglund? Get his sorry ass over here
right now!”
As Jesse issued his command, three shots came from the direction of the commander’s office on the south side of the parade grounds. Then a fourth shot lit up the window. Sergeant Berglund stepped out, pistol in his hand.
He took in the commotion at the mess hall and rushed over there, bellowing orders as he went. Since no one else appeared to know what was happening, the soldiers listened to him. Slocum cursed his bad luck. If he had his wits about him after Berglund finished off the officers, he could have drilled him as he stepped out. That would have thrown the entire post into confusion.
“Good, good,” Jesse said. “Berglund’s taking control and we won’t have to worry so much about killing the lot of them. This is working out better than I thought.”
“His neck is in a noose now,” Slocum said. “He gunned down the officers. You tell him to do that?”
“No, but it was a nice touch. I was planning on a firing squad for them to let the rest of the soldiers see what’d happen if they didn’t throw in with us. That’d save having to buy the lot of them.”
“There’s only so much gold to go around,” Slocum said dryly.
“All the more for me . . . and you, Slocum. For you, too. We’re going to be rich and powerful.”
“Santa Fe,” he muttered.
“Yeah, you get Santa Fe.”
“But Dennison is getting Mexico.”
“Don’t get greedy on me, Slocum. We’re making good progress today toward having our own country. One step at a time. Now get that sentry taken out.”
Slocum saw Berglund and a dozen soldiers coming toward them. He fingered the rifle and considered his chances of making a killing shot on the sergeant. Turning, he looked up at the sentry in time to see a foot-long orange flash from the soldier’s muzzle. The bullet tore past Slocum and embedded in the armory wall. The man had figured out what was going on and had identified the source of danger to Fort Union.
Lifting his rifle, Slocum sighted in and fired in one smooth motion. The sentry yelped, dropped his rifle, and tumbled backward, falling over the low wall. A thud followed by a low moan told that the soldier was still alive but not likely to get in their hair.
