Slocum and the Rebel Cannon Read online

  “Buzzards,” Slocum said. “Spotted some circling my back trail. Nothing more than that.” He finished his beer, then asked, “Has there been a stage robbery lately?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Saw what might have been a strongbox from a stage alongside the road. It had been rifled.”

  “You checked on it real careful, did you?”

  “Didn’t need to dismount to see that it was broken open and empty,” Slocum said. “I poked around over at the stage office, but the clerk was asleep. Hated to wake a man in this heat.”

  Slim laughed and slapped Slocum on the shoulder. “You’re all right, mister. What’s your name?”

  Slocum considered what to do. He had more than one wanted poster following him across the West. When he had returned to Slocum’s Stand after the war, he had been shot up and badly needed time to recuperate. His parents had died and his brother Robert had been killed during Pickett’s Charge. All Slocum had left in the world was one fine farm—until a carpetbagger judge had taken a fancy to it. No taxes had been paid, the judge lied. He and a hired gun had ridden out to seize the property.

  They had gotten a patch of dirt, all right. Six feet deep each, down by the springhouse. Slocum had ridden away, never looking back. Killing a federal judge, even a no-account Reconstruction judge, was not a crime easily forgotten. Wanted posters for the killing had dogged his steps ever since. And truth to tell, he had added a few more for other crimes that he was not particularly proud of but that had kept him alive.

  Had these Rangers seen one of those wanted posters? Slocum had rewards ranging from a few dollars up to a thousand on his head. From their reputation, Texas Rangers didn’t care much about the money. They brought in their quarry for the sheer enjoyment of a job well done.

  Before Slocum could respond to the question about his name, he looked up and saw trouble come through the saloon doors.

  “I’ll tell you what his name is,” growled another Ranger. “It’s dog meat!” The Ranger went for his pistol at the same instant Slocum kicked out and upset the table, sending beer flying through the air and momentarily taking out Slim and his three companions from the fracas.

  Slocum drew with lightning speed and got off a shot that sent splinters from the table flying through the air. The Ranger in the doorway never flinched. Slocum cursed himself for not checking closer to be sure the lawman had been dead back at the watering hole. The sight of a Ranger badge all buckled up and smeared with lead told the story.

  Slocum had drilled the Ranger directly over the heart— but his badge had stopped the .36-caliber bullet from killing. Now Slocum was faced with a Ranger madder than a wet cat and willing to stand his ground and shoot it out.

  Another shot finally forced the Ranger to give ground, but Slocum knew time was running out for him. The other four were getting their wits about them.

  “What ’n hell’s going on, Jeffers?” Slim pulled the table over and crouched behind it as he called to the Ranger in the doorway.

  “That son of a bitch ambushed me. Shot me and left me for dead out at the watering hole,” Jeffers said. “Nobody’s gettin’ away with that!”

  The Ranger emptied his six-shooter at Slocum, firing with unwanted accuracy. Two of the bullets scored shallow grooves on Slocum’s back and hip. Another missed his head by a hair and drilled a hole through both the brim and crown of his Stetson.

  Slocum got off a couple more shots as he scuttled like a crab toward the rear of the saloon. Only when he reached the door to a storeroom did he stand, aim, and fire. Jeffers folded like a bad poker hand, clutching his belly. The other four turned their attention to the wounded Ranger, giving Slocum the time he needed to duck out of the barroom and into the storeroom.

  He never slowed as he made a beeline for the barred rear door. He flung off the locking bar and burst out into the chilly evening. His clothing clung tenaciously to his body, glued to his skin by sweat from the incredible heat inside the saloon—or was it fear that made him sweat so much? Making enemies of Texas Rangers was never a good idea. One of them would track to the ends of the earth to make an arrest. Five of them—or possibly only four— would be a hundred times worse.

  Slocum ran to the livery and looked around. The stable man was nowhere to be seen. Not even checking to see if the loose shoe had been renailed, Slocum saddled and mounted, getting the hell out of Sidewinder. There were only two ways he could go in the narrow canyon. Deeper into the Guadalupe Mountains, or back the way he had ridden earlier in the day. Knowing what lay out on the desert made the decision easy.

  He galloped northwest, hoping he could find somewhere to hole up until the Rangers tired of hunting for him. Slocum worried that might be when hell froze over—or the Lone Star Emporium’s stove was put out.

  3

  Slocum knew he could not ride the trail much longer and hope to evade the Rangers. He ran his horse until the mare began to tire, then slowed and led the horse off the trail into a rocky field. Circling, moving around to confuse the trail, Slocum made certain he left no trace behind by the time he tethered his horse in a stand of stunted oak trees on a rise and sat, rifle across his lap, to watch his back trail. He was more than fifty yards off the road and had done all he could to disappear. If the Texas Rangers found him, he would have no choice but to shoot it out with them.

  Slocum wasn’t too inclined to think the result would be to his benefit if it came to that.

  He stood when he heard the steady clop-clop of hoofbeats on the road below him. He moved behind a tree trunk, balanced the rifle on a low limb, and waited. Sucking in his breath when the first Ranger appeared, he forced himself to be calm. If he shot too early, he could kill this Ranger, but how many rode with him?

  Slocum blinked twice when he saw the second Ranger. It was Jeffers. The man rode bent over as if his belly hurt like hell—and it ought to. Slocum had shot him in the stomach. But then he had shot him in the heart before and the Ranger had lived.

  “Son of a bitch,” Slocum muttered under his breath. “That man’s got more lives than a cat.”

  Two more Rangers trailed Jeffers. He would be up against four of them. Where the fifth one had gotten off to was something of a mystery. He didn’t see the one named Slim anywhere. He might have remained in Sidewinder, or he might be riding parallel to the road hoping to flush Slocum.

  Even if he had been inclined to shoot the other four in cold blood, Slocum knew better than to take them on without knowing where the fifth Ranger was. He hunkered down and waited for twilight to fade entirely and night to cloak him from sight. It got mighty cold mighty fast in the mountains, but Slocum could not build a fire without giving himself away.

  He prowled about, hunting for a spot where he could see farther along the road. When he finally found such a spot atop a large boulder, he flopped down on his belly and saw the tiny orange dot of a campfire blazing in the distance. The Rangers had made camp. He knew they would be eating about now. His mouth watered at the thought of food— any kind of food.

  Slipping back down the rock, he carefully retraced his way to where his horse cropped at tough grass growing around the base of the oak trees. He worked through the contents of his saddlebags until he found some jerky. That, along with water from his canteen, was all he dared eat. Taking his saddle blanket, he propped himself up against a rock and finally fell asleep some time later, only to come awake with a start.

  It took him a few seconds to realize he had slept all night long, and the sun was poking up over a distant peak to shine in his face.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked his mare. “Stay here a spell longer or get back on the trail?” The horse looked at him with big brown eyes that told him nothing.

  Slocum found one last hunk of jerky and ate it for breakfast, then set out to climb higher on the mountainside. An hour of effort brought him to a point where he could see a goodly stretch of the trail winding around toward town. No trace of the Rangers in either direction made him uneasy.


  “Where’d you get off to? Did you go back to Sidewinder? Or farther along the trail, wherever it leads?” Slocum got no answers to his questions. A mistake now would land him in the hoosegow—or worse. Ranger Jeffers might decide that being shot twice was enough for immediate execution.

  Sitting in the fissure of a large rock protected him from sight and gave a limited view of the trail leading out of Sidewinder. Slocum sat most of the day, fuming at the lack of travel along the road. He might have missed the Rangers returning to their company headquarters. If he hadn’t, he would ride into the four lawmen’s arms—and guns—trying to escape. Only when the sun began dipping down low behind him did Slocum stir, stretch his aching limbs, and return to where his horse looked at him curiously. It had been a long time since there had not been a full day on the trail.

  He saddled the horse and swung up, determined to get the hell out of here. Once more on the road, he glanced back in the direction of Sidewinder, then turned away and began the slow trek uphill into the heart of the Guadalupe Mountains. Every sense alert, Slocum passed the spot where the Rangers had camped the night before. He kept riding. Slocum tried not to jump at each small sound in the night, but he was keyed up. Only when he came to a fork in the trail did he relax. A signpost pointed to the west.

  Slocum thought on the matter for a few minutes, then took the road leading west rather than the narrow rut going deeper into the mountains. The road here was wide and well traveled, telling him of considerable traffic occurring between Bitter Springs and Sidewinder. The Rangers would go to Bitter Springs because they’d think he would head for a town, but it also gave him a chance to get much-needed supplies. His belly grumbled, and a taste of whiskey would set good at the moment. As much as Slocum valued his scalp more than he did his belly, he would die if he did not get supplies before setting out across the desert he knew lay on the far side of the valley stretching all the way to El Paso.

  Getting out of the maze of mountain canyons would go a long way toward giving him more freedom of travel. If the Rangers found a canyon mouth and simply put a sentry out, they could bottle him up for easy capture. At least out on the desert to the south, he had more choices about which direction to run, even if it was hotter than hell and twice as dry.

  The road straightened out, and the mountains seemed to melt away as he entered a broad, grassy valley. He still had no idea where he was headed, but the road here was even better traveled than up around the signpost pointing to Bitter Springs. A large town would let him get the supplies he needed without the risk of being noticed.

  The sun poked up over the hills about the time he realized his horse was starting to hobble along.

  He jumped down and examined the loose shoe. Only two nails held it on.

  “Looks like we’ll both we walking for a while,” Slocum said. “At least there’s got to be a farrier where we’re going, wherever that is.”

  He led the horse off the road to a thick stand of trees. Nestled in the center was a small pool of muddy water.

  “Better than nothing,” he told the horse, letting the mare drink her fill. Slocum used his bandanna to filter most of the dirt out as he drank. Then he went hunting, bagged a rabbit, and skinned and gutted it. His fire had finally settled down to decent cooking coals when he heard the pounding of hooves out on the road.

  Slocum reached for his six-shooter, then relaxed. The sound was too loud for only four riders. This sounded like a dozen or more riders. If the Rangers had brought in the rest of their company to hunt for him, Slocum would have to do some fancy escaping. He balanced the stick holding the rabbit over the coals, then went to investigate.

  Staying behind a tree, he peered out at the road. He had been right about the number of riders. A squad of cavalry troopers raced past, their banner fluttering. So many soldiers looking this fresh meant that Slocum was heading toward an army post. He slipped back to his breakfast, eating the half-cooked rabbit slowly. No matter what he did, he worked his way into troubles worse than those he fled.

  He touched the wad of greenbacks in his shirt pocket. His trouble had begun when he took the money from the strongbox. Two soldiers and a Texas Ranger had ignited a prairie fire around him. Slocum finished the rabbit, then kicked dirt over the coals. If he rode into the fort, he might not be in any trouble. Two dead soldiers told no tales. It was quite likely the officers did not even know their men were dead, and if they did, nothing linked Slocum to their killing.

  “Rebel Jack Holtz is prowling around,” Slocum said aloud. “Might be he and his gang killed a pair of soldiers. Yeah.” Slocum washed his hands off in the muddy pond, spent a few more minutes straining dirt from the water and filling his canteen, then mounted and rode in the direction of the fort.

  Less than twenty minutes’ ride took him to a rise looking down into the valley where the fort stretched out like a crazy quilt. A farm to one side grew corn, irrigated by an acequia coming down from the higher elevations. Like most forts in the region, the wall around the fort was hardly knee-high. Slocum guessed it was designed to keep in poultry rather than protect against Indians. A small cluster of buildings outside the low wall housed the fort’s officers and their families. Slocum knew there would be a whorehouse there, too, but he was less interested in feminine companionship than he was in getting back on the road leading into the West Texas desert.

  As pleasant as this place looked, he felt the hot breath of Texas Rangers on his neck.

  Starting down the slope for the fort, he was startled by the shouted command for him to throw up his hands.

  He glanced to the left side of the road and saw a soldier lying prone and peering down the long barrel of his rifle. To the right stood a pair of soldiers. Both of them had their rifles trained on him, too. Caught in a cross fire, he could never escape.

  “What’s the problem?” Slocum called, doing as he was ordered.

  “You got the look of an outlaw about you,” claimed one soldier. “We’re takin’ you in to the fort.”

  Slocum’s jaw tensed when he remembered the greenbacks in his pocket. What cowboy rode with that kind of money? He would have to make them believe he won it in a card game. But then he would have to explain why the men in the poker game had so much money. If he lied about where he had won the money, they would know. Never having been to Bitter Springs, he would have to claim Sidewinder—or somewhere else. Fort Worth? All this flashed through his head in a second. It wasn’t a good lie, but it would have to do.

  “Was heading that way,” Slocum said, starting to lower his hands.

  “Git ’em up. You’re under arrest.”

  “For what? Riding along a road and—”

  “Shut up. Two soldiers out of Fort Suddereth have gone missin’. We think they was shot down by outlaws.”

  “Do you stop every rider and accuse him of killing your men?” Slocum snorted in disgust.

  “Ain’t many travelers who aren’t outlaws,” said another soldier.

  “Toss over your hogleg,” ordered another.

  “How do I do that if I’ve got my hands in the air?” Slocum looked around as an idea formed. If they took him to the cavalry post, they would likely decide he was responsible for killing the two troopers. There wouldn’t be any evidence, but Slocum saw how touchy the men were. Evidence meant little when they were out for revenge. That he had actually shot and killed the two soldiers was purely incidental.

  “Don’t go mouthin’ off,” shouted the one who had been flat on the ground. He got up. The instant his rifle lowered, Slocum used his knees to turn his horse. He applied his spurs and the mare bolted, jumping over the soldier’s head and hitting the ground at a dead gallop directly behind him.

  Keeping low, Slocum gave them no target. That did not stop the soldiers from firing at him. From his quick look around before lighting out, he had not seen where the soldiers had tethered their horses. This close to the fort, they might have been dropped from a wagon to stand guard. If so, Slocum was in luck. Finally. They could nev
er follow him on foot.

  Rather than swing around and head for the fort, he turned north toward Bitter Springs. He might be riding into the guns of the Texas Rangers, but he had no other choice. Off the road and riding into the countryside, he quickly found that his mare was not able to keep up the pace he wanted. Slowing, then stopping, he dismounted and saw the worst had happened. The horse had finally thrown the loose shoe. If he tried riding now, the horse would pull up lame and strand him for the soldiers—or the Rangers.

  He looked around and cursed. The mountains to his east promised some sanctuary. Not much maybe, but more than he had out in the broad valley holding the fort. To the north lay Bitter Springs deeper in the Guadalupe Mountains, but he had no idea how many miles that was. If he returned to the road, he could make better time on foot, but he also ran the risk of being caught by the cavalry troopers galloping up and down the road.

  Patting the mare, he saw no way out but to abandon the horse and set out on foot. But he could not do it. The horse would find enough to graze on in this valley and if he kept the horse with him, he was a sitting duck. It would be harder to cover his tracks. Any cavalry post out in Indian country had to have expert trackers. If the sentries along the road reported and the officer in charge decided, Slocum might find a half-dozen Apache scouts sniffing out his trail. A horse that had lost a shoe would leave a distinctive track.

  “Come on,” Slocum said, tugging on the reins. Something would occur to him. Until it did, he was not setting his horse free.

  He did the best he could to walk over rocky patches and find terrain where his tracks would be quickly erased by the feeble hot wind blowing through the valley. Dragging a clump of greasewood added an extra measure of protection from his tracks being found. But Slocum knew it wouldn’t matter if a patrol spotted him.