Slocum 382

Slocum rode into the tumult, aware that he was a sitting duck in the middle of the street. More than one bullet tore past him, but none came as close as the buckshot pellet that Zeke had fired his way. Smoke from burning buildings toward the plaza made his nose wrinkle and eyes water. He pulled up his bandanna, then worried this might make him more of a target from the townspeople as they rushed out. He didn’t want to look like an outlaw, even if Jesse James thought he was riding with his gang.

More shots echoed from ahead as Slocum caught sight of Charlie Dennison riding at a full gallop, firing left and right until his six-shooter came up empty. Like Quantrill’s Raiders had done years before during the war, he shoved the empty pistol into his belt, drew a second six-gun, emptied it, and repeated with yet a third pistol. In only a few seconds, Dennison had unleashed eighteen shots. Then he turned down a crossing street and disappeared from sight. Slocum followed the reports from a fourth six-shooter and then any more shooting from the outlaw was drowned out from three others charging toward him.

He lifted his six-shooter but held his fire. He could shoot Jesse James from the saddle, but the men with him would cut him down before he could get off a second shot. The wild expressions and way they sweat told of their excitement—their fanaticism. They were in a killing frenzy and wouldn’t slow down until they ran out of ammunition.

“Somebody killed Zeke,” Slocum said, thinking this might explain his absence since he didn’t want to tell Jesse he had been looking to steal his gold.

Work. That word burned through Slocum’s brain. That was all Jesse James thought of shooting up Las Vegas. The deaths, the destruction, none of that mattered because it was only a way toward prying loose the territory. If he wasn’t stopped, he would cause even more misery.

Putting this to the lie, one outlaw with Jesse turned and fired several times into the chest of a man coming from an adobe house with his hands above his head. Jesse paid no heed.

The words were hardly out of the man’s mouth when the familiar roar of cannonade rumbled down the street and almost knocked Slocum from the saddle. He clung to the saddle horn as his horse staggered. He was partially deafened but heard the cries of fear and shrieks from small children and women as they fled.

Frank James’s words were drowned out by a second shot. This time Slocum had turned his back to the blast, and it only sent his horse scuttling along a few paces.

“Come on, Slocum. I remember you were good at frontal assault.” Jesse wheeled about, waited to see if Slocum was joining him, then tore back down the street toward the plaza. Riding full tilt into the mouth of a cannon was crazy, but so was Jesse James. Slocum followed, aware that Jesse’s flanking gunmen were right behind him, with a half-dozen pistols crammed into their belts and bandoliers. Their firepower exceeded his own. Even if he managed to shoot one out of the saddle, the other would take him. As they rode, Slocum waited for a stray shot to kill one or the other of the outlaws behind him. That would make his own response easy—just one to shoot.

“There they are,” Jesse said, pointing with one of his pistols at a small knot of men struggling to load and turn the cannon against the outlaws. “You think we’re up for it? Remember how we hit them bluecoats along the Centralia road? We swarmed ’em before they knew we were there.”

“This gun crew knows where we are,” Slocum said. He put his heels to his horse to duck down a side street as he saw the man with the lanyard put a hand over the ear closest to the cannon and yank hard with the other.

The blast knocked Slocum’s mare to its knees. He urged the horse to get back up and looked behind him, hoping the shot had removed some of his woe. The angle had been wrong and the shot had gone high, above the gang’s heads and into a two-story building that once had been a hotel. Now it was nothing more than blown-apart wood frame that fitfully burned here and there where the cannonball had ripped through.

Jesse and the others charged, firing as they went. Slocum followed more slowly but still saw how the outlaws gunned down the three-man crew on the cannon.

Slocum took a shot at Charlie Dennison but the man ducked. Slocum saw that the missed shot struck a man trying to lift a long-barreled goose gun. Dennison looked from the man writhing in the street to Slocum and back. Dennison made quick work of the fallen man. Slocum lifted his Colt again to take out Dennison but the hammer fell on an empty chamber. He fired twice more. Both empty. Unlike the gang, he had only the one six-shooter. He cursed the soldier who had stolen his other six-gun. That would have doubled his firepower and allowed him to take Charlie Dennison out of the saddle.

Slocum’s mare reared and turned about, letting him look back down the street at stolidly marching soldiers, four abreast and at least a dozen in rank behind the leading men. They had their rifles lowered and bayonets fixed. He waved to them. Then his heart sank when he saw Sergeant Berglund on a horse trailing them, barking orders and forcing them to press on to the center of town.

“Jesse, we got company. Hell, we got a whole company!” Charlie Dennison had appeared from a side street. He laughed uproariously and Slocum knew these soldiers were ones bought and paid for using the hidden gold. If Berglund had given up trying to steal the gold from the outlaws, he might have decided he could profit by throwing in with them.

Whatever Berglund’s reasons, he kept his men marching at a quick step until they spilled into the plaza. Half went in one direction and rest marched counter until they had the few fighters surviving in the plaza surrounded.

“Fire!” Berglund’s command was instantly obeyed. Forty rifles fired and the half-dozen trapped citizens died. “Advance and use bayonet.”

The soldiers exchanged looks now, as if they hadn’t expected this. Then they began closing the ring and moving to the plaza center. One or two made stabbing motions but most of the soldiers passed by the bodies. Either they spared the lives of the wounded—or there weren’t any wounded to spare.

Slocum fell back rather than let Berglund see him. For all he knew, the sergeant thought he was dead and buried out on the high desert. He tried to pick out any of the four soldiers he had saved what seemed an eternity ago but couldn’t find any of them. They were the ones most likely to recognize and betray him.

“It’s different occupying it rather than just shooting it up,” Slocum called to the outlaw. Jesse only laughed and started firing through windows as he rode. There wasn’t going to be a pane of glass intact within a mile of Las Vegas after the James Gang finished this day.

Slocum fell farther back and was glad because someone had organized a few men with rifles. They lined both sides of the street and caught Jesse and his bodyguards in a blistering cross fire. Two of the gunmen at Jesse’s side collapsed and fell to the ground, but Jesse was leading a blessed life today. In spite of the hail of bullets, he rode past unscathed.

Slocum saw the marshal step out and knew where the organizing had bubbled up from. The lawman began shooting methodically at Jesse. Again the outlaw’s luck held. Not a bullet even made him flinch.

“So you’re the one responsible for this?” Jesse motioned. A half-dozen men appeared from down the street to back his play. “Burn the buildings to the ground.”

“You son of a bitch. You won’t get by with this!” The marshal fired until his six-shooter came up empty. He began reloading, then turned, and looked over his shoulder. “You’ll pay now, you no-account snake! That’s the Army come from Fort Union to rescue us.”

Slocum didn’t see who shot the marshal. It might have been Jesse or any of his men. More likely it was a soldier in the front rank marching down the street.

“Burn ’em out. You bluecoats know how to do that. You did it enough times during the war,” Jesse called. He laughed, then continued down the street, firing as he went.

“Don’t,” Slocum said, riding to the corporal dispatching a half-dozen men to carry out Jesse’s orders. “He was just shooting off his mouth. He wants you to secure the plaza. There’s another attack planned there.”

“I’m Jesse’s right-hand man,” Slocum said. When the corporal wasn’t buying that, he added, “Right after Frank, of course. He’s family.” This caused a small seed of doubt to grow. Slocum might have sent the soldiers on their way back to the plaza but some brave soul in the building in front of them thrust a rifle through a broken window pane and started firing. One soldier went to his knees, clutching his leg. The rest swung around like the well-drilled military unit they were and fired until the clapboard wall turned to dust and the roof sagged down far enough to eventually collapse on anyone inside.

Slocum raised his pistol and shot the corporal. That produced a moment where the world froze around them. The soldiers didn’t know what to do, and those still willing to fight hiding inside the buildings were similarly confused. They had an ally that rode with Jesse James and called him by name, yet was trying to save them.

The muzzle blast of the cannon in the town square broke the spell. Two soldiers swung their Spencer rifles around and opened fire on him. Slocum had no choice but to beat a hasty retreat, trying not to get his hide filled with Union lead. Somehow, this time was no better than when he had fought in the war. He ducked low, kept his mare running, and finally turned a corner into a quiet street where heavy black smoke hung like a choking fog. The only salvation here was the lack of bullets flying toward him.

“Help me, please.” The woman’s plaintive cry was too much for Slocum to ignore. He dismounted and made his way past a mountain of dead horses and saw a woman kneeling down, a man’s head in her lap. She looked up at him, eyes filled with tears. “He’s hurt. I don’t know how to help him.”

Pink froth boiled from the man’s mouth, warning Slocum that a bullet had pierced a lung and caused air to rush in through the wound. He ripped open the man’s shirt and saw he was right. Not much blood marked the entry wound and after rolling the man onto his side, he didn’t see any exit wound. That would be bad, having the slug stay inside, but there’d be no time for a doctor to operate if the sucking chest wound wasn’t fixed in a hurry.

“Keep his head in your lap so he doesn’t drown in his own blood.” This set the woman to sobbing hysterically. “You listen up or he’ll die in your arms.” Slocum fished through his pockets and found a silver dollar. He hated to part with it, but a man’s life hung in the balance. Slocum wasn’t sure it was worth a dollar but quieting the woman would be. He pressed the coin down hard over the bullet wound.

“He’s hurt bad but if you keep the coin pressed into his side as hard as you can, he won’t die right away. He needs a doctor pronto.”

“He’s not going to come out here to operate,” Slocum said, looking around. He saw an overturned cart, righted it, and heaved the man into it. “Keep the coin pressed in tight. Don’t worry about bruising him. He’s got more to worry about than sore ribs.” The woman sniffled but was getting herself under control. “He your husband?”

She nodded. That was as good as Slocum wanted from her. He grabbed his horse’s reins and lashed them to the cart, then lifted the handles and began pushing. The man in the cart groaned and his eyelids fluttered open. Slocum doubted he saw much, but the woman took it as a sign that he was going to survive.

About when Slocum’s back was starting to hurt from bending over to shove the cart along, he saw the doctor’s sign. He dropped the cart outside the door and told the woman, “I’ve got to go. Get the doctor. I’ll keep your husband breathing until you get the sawbones.”

Then the doctor came out and began barking orders. He went back into his office and returned with tape and a heavy bandage, which he shoved down on the wound. Slocum took his bloody silver dollar back.

He stepped away, then he mounted and rode while the doctor and woman wrestled to get the wounded man inside. Slocum didn’t hold out much hope. He had seen too many wounds like that during the war. The lucky ones were shot so that the bullet went clean through them. The doctor was likely to kill his patient trying to get the slug out, but Slocum had other fish to fry. Staying alive was high on his list of things to do.

Seeing the woman had sparked his memory of telling Audrey to return to town and wait for him. The only place he knew where she might be was at the boardinghouse. The edge of town was likely to be safer than anywhere else, but Slocum wanted to get her out of danger. He made his way through the burning town. Gunshots were more sporadic now, telling him that Jesse had won the battle and now cleaned up small pockets of resistance. With the company of soldiers at his back, he could hold control, regroup his gang, and then move on to their next conquest.

With the merchant from Santa Fe likely working to subvert authority in that town, Slocum knew the next town to fall. If Fort Union was under his control, Jesse had only a few small towns to subdue. Raton might be next since he could control access through the mountain pass. Slocum shook his head as he rode, marveling that an outlaw like Jesse James was succeeding so quickly and easily.

Dozens were dead and half of Las Vegas was in flames, but adobe didn’t burn and roofs could be replaced easily enough. The wood and frame buildings would be destroyed but along the main street were enough businesses constructed using brick that most would remain after the shooting died down.

The Knights of the Golden Circle might actually succeed. Slocum was glad there hadn’t been anyone to take his bet against that happening. Eventually Washington would bring enough might against the breakaway territory to draw it back into the fold, but by then Jesse’s dream of Mexico, Central America, and some of the Caribbean islands joining his new slave-holding country might make that retaking extremely expensive.

The president might not want to risk a second war and let Jesse and those in cahoots with him keep their own country. For all he knew, there might be senators who would argue this in exchange for a governorship or other juicy political plum position offered by the Knights of the Golden Circle.

Slocum finally got past the worst of the smoke and coughed a few times to clear his lungs. He rode straight for the boardinghouse but caught his breath when he saw several horses outside. The front door stood open and a commotion came from inside.

A single shot sent Slocum galloping forward but good sense finally prevailed. He couldn’t take on four of Jesse’s gang. One horse he recognized as belonging to Charlie Dennison. He would fight Dennison anywhere and anytime using any weapon, but right now wasn’t likely to give him any chance of winning. Dennison would have his henchmen join in the fight. Slocum could take him. He knew that. But not Dennison and three others.

Riding around to the rear of the house, Slocum hit the ground and ran to a window. He peered into the kitchen and saw Señora Gonzales sprawled on the floor. He knew where the single shot had been directed. A huge red splotch on her breast showed someone’s accuracy. She had been shot straight through the heart.

He spun around, six-shooter leveled and ready to fire. The narrow corridor was empty. Tables had been overturned and a picture on the wall had been knocked to the floor. He raced forward, glanced into Audrey’s room, and saw it was empty.

By the time he got to the front door, all that remained was a billowing dust cloud kicked up by galloping horses. Dennison had taken her. Slocum started for the back of the house where he’d left his mare, then stopped. There was something he had to take care of first. Something important.