Slocum 382

“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 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.”

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 hammer 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.

“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.”

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.

“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. 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.”

“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?”

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.”

“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.”

“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.

“Should have killed him,” Jesse complained. “You can do it later, when we get the rifles and all the rest inside.” He pounded his fist against the armory.

“Where’re the keys to these locks? You’d think you had gold stored inside.” Jesse rattled one lock. “Well? Open them.”

Slocum pressed himself against the back wall and faded into the shadows. He heard in Berglund’s voice what Jesse James didn’t.

“We got to hurry, dammit. The sooner we replace the guards with our men and have the cannon ready, your colonel can come back anytime he wants.”

A ragged volley sounded and half of Jesse’s gang died. Slocum dropped the rifle and started for the far side of the armory. His retreat was cut off by a soldier holding his rifle at port arms. Slocum froze. Movement would draw unwanted attention.

“You don’t understand, do you? You whipped up a fine plan to set up your own country. I’ve been thinking on it and can’t figure out one thing.”

“Why do I need you? Why can’t I be the one raking in the gold and ruling over an entire country? Fort Union controls the Santa Fe Trail, and as of right now, I’m in command of the fort!”

There was a meaty thud, and Jesse’s outraged reply was cut off. Slocum pressed harder against the wall, hoping the shadow would cloak him from the soldier.