Slocum #304: Slocum and the Lady Reporter

Slocum gagged and spat but couldn’t turn his head. He was pressed flat by the marshal sprawled on top of him. Heaving, Slocum rolled Williams to the side and sat up, pawing at the dirt in his eyes. He coughed again and knew the air was too foul to breathe, so he ripped off his bandanna and held it over his nose and mouth. The air came to him stale and warm but without the dust, which would set off new bouts of coughing.

Eyes watering, he scooted around until he had the mine wall to his back. For several minutes he sat and got his wits back. It took him this long to realize he was stone deaf. Only a distant buzz that grew like a train coming through a tunnel convinced Slocum he wasn’t entirely deaf. In the distance he heard shouts.

Slocum knew the marshal was in as bad a shape as he was. He sucked in more air through the cloth, then began feeling gingerly for the other man. He found a boot and tugged. The boot jerked away.

“It’s me. Who else? Tommyknockers?” The ringing was dying in his ears and he heard better now. But the intense darkness made him think he’d been dunked into an ink-well. He wished he did hear tommyknockers, those lost spirits of miners who tried to warn others of danger. He and the marshal had been caught unawares and it was his own fault for blundering into the drift without watching his back.

“I’ve got a candle but don’t have any lucifers. You have any? Light one. This darkness is making me uneasy.”

Slocum knew the lawman felt more than uneasy. He was on the point of stark-raving terror. He tied his bandanna in place, then fumbled in his vest pocket for the tin box holding his matches. Carefully, so he wouldn’t drop any, Slocum drew one out and dragged it along the rough rock wall behind him. The sudden blaze made him squint.

In the flare he saw Williams cower away. The marshal hadn’t expected the light to come from the direction it had, but he did hold up the miner’s candle for Slocum to light. The wick sizzled, hissed and popped, sending off sparks. Then it caught and cast a pale yellow light brighter than the sun to the two men.

“I’ll be fine, don’t go worryin’ about me,” Williams said testily. But he did as he was told. “What happened?” he asked.

Slocum ignored the obvious answer. The mine roof had caved in on them, but he remembered hearing a rumble an instant before the rock had almost crushed them. Someone had set off a powder charge that took out the sagging wood supports. The roof had collapsed but hadn’t killed them outright. For the bushwhacker’s purpose, this was as good.

Slocum didn’t doubt for an instant Zeke was responsible for their predicament. They hadn’t taken precautions, letting the footprints lure them into this drift. As quick as the charge had been set, Slocum reckoned Zeke must be a powder monkey or at least a good enough miner to know his way around explosives.

“Nothin’ I can feel,” Williams said, running his fingers up and down his arms before checking his ribs and legs. “Breathin’s a chore.” He saw how Slocum had draped his bandanna over his face, turning him into a bandido. He quickly copied Slocum and breathed a little easier.

“The dust’ll settle in a spell,” Slocum said. He got to his feet and looked at the rock fall. The stone sealed the tunnel as firmly as if a cork had been driven into a bottle neck. “We’ll have to check for another way out.”

“Then we’re out of luck,” came the marshal’s echoing voice. “The tunnel stops five yards farther on.”

Slocum cursed under his breath. That complicated matters a lot. The rock cut off fresh air flowing to them, forcing them to work fast to free the tons of mountain that had crashed down. From what he could tell, all the tools they had were at the ends of their arms. He flexed his fingers and began dragging down medium-sized rocks, hoping to see light.

“Let me help,” Williams said. He had come to the same conclusion as Slocum, but a bit of fear touched his words. Scrabbling like a dog digging for a bone, he sent a steady cascade of rock down to the floor. The marshal was soon panting harshly.

“Slow and easy,” Slocum repeated. He considered how hard it would be if he had to shoot the marshal. His own air would last longer, but that wasn’t his consideration. Slocum knew he was likely to die here. It wasn’t what he had thought would be his grave, but he’d die with his boots on, as he had always imagined he would. But shooting the marshal meant Zeke had won. Slocum refused to give in to the same instincts that drove the backshooting, bushwhacking son of a bitch that had buried them alive.

Slocum followed his own advice and pulled down the rocks with great deliberation, choosing ones that would produce the greatest result. He wasn’t sure how long he toiled but his hands were bloody and raw, his back ached and his anger had mounted to the point where he would have ripped Zeke apart with his bare hands if the outlaw had shown himself.

As a result of the rage, Slocum didn’t hear Williams calling to him. Not at first. He almost snapped at the marshal, then saw what excited the lawman. A thin shaft of light stabbed downward through the dust. Slocum flopped around and lay flat on his back to stare up the rocky chimney and the bright Nevada sky above.

“We can dig out now that we got air,” Williams said. He balanced on all fours and sniffed at the fresh air like a dog on a scent.

Slocum didn’t argue with the man. Hope was necessary but Slocum was lacking in it right now. The air gusting down against his face only prolonged their agony. They might dig for a month and not clear the plug of rock blocking them from freedom.

“Let me rest for a minute, Marshal,” Slocum said. He leaned back and thought hard about their predicament. Without water and food, they couldn’t last more than a day or two. He held out no hope for tunneling out, but he didn’t see any reason to give up, either. The chimney out the side of the hill had been lagniappe but not enough to save them.

“Quiet!” Slocum snapped. He scrambled up the slope and pressed his ear to the chimney, listening hard.

“A horse! I heard a horse!” Williams started to say something more but Slocum motioned him to silence. There had been more than a horse. After all, they had ridden here and might be hearing Zeke steal their mounts. This was something else.

“It might be whoever brought down the roof on our heads,” Slocum said, but he knew that didn’t matter. They wouldn’t be any worse off letting Zeke know they were still alive, if it was the bushwhacker in the buggy they heard.

Slocum slid his Colt Navy from its holster and poked it straight up the chimney. He fired once, then twice, then twice again, saving one round in case it was Zeke up there and the outlaw showed his face over the mouth of the chimney. Slocum had never gotten a good look at the man, so he had to be careful not to shoot somebody who had come by on other business.

“I hear somebody comin’!” cried Williams. “We’re down here. Look for a hole in the ground. We’re at the bottom!”

“That you, Gerald?” Slocum wiggled about so he could peer up to the small space five yards away. “Gerald Benteen?”

“We’re trapped, Marshal Williams and me,” Slocum said. “We need help getting out, but you have to be careful. The man who trapped us might be around. Don’t let him catch you, no matter what, even if you have to leave us.”

“Th-there’s nobody here, Mr. Slocum. I was delivering papers for Mr. Arnot and the cabin’s empty. All I saw were two horses. One of ’em’s got a game leg.”

“He must have stolen one of our horses and left his,” Williams said. “The man’s not only a backshooter, he’s a horse thief!”

Slocum knew this was a hanging offense, but he had more pressing concerns than who tied the noose to put around Zeke’s neck.

“The roof caved in on us,” Slocum called to Gerald. “Can you find blasting powder and a fuse to drop down the hole to me?”

“No!” Slocum didn’t want the boy working on such a dangerous project. Unwary miners died by the score at every strike through misuse of giant powder and dynamite. They might not be expert but at least they had some experience. Gerald had none.

“Do you think he’ll help us?” asked Williams, looking more frantic by the minute. “Who is that kid?”

“It was his father who died trying to get Arnot’s new printing press into town,” Slocum said, not wanting to go into the details. “I helped out, so he knows me a little and I know him.”

Slocum made a quick estimate. The blast had to clear the way the first time. He doubted repeated blasting would work, not after the roof had caved in like it had.

“Five sticks,” he decided. That he and Williams were trapped at the end of a sealed tunnel also came into his estimate. Too much of a blast would crush them to strawberry jam. Too little might cause the chimney to close, sealing their fate once and for all time.

“Go on,” Slocum said, knowing the dynamite might do just that if it were old. He had to take the chance that the mine hadn’t been abandoned too long and the explosive wasn’t too old that it had become unstable.

“Here comes the first stick, Mr. Slocum.” Gerald held the red paper-wrapped cylinder, then released it.

Slocum winced as it bounced off the sides of the rock chimney, then almost dropped it when the dynamite stick came free, wobbling about wildly. He handed the dynamite to Williams and waited for the next to come tumbling down the shaft.

“What are you going to do about a fuse and blasting cap?” Williams asked. “There’s no way the boy can drop a fuse down that chimney.”

“Get back into the tunnel and build us a low rock wall to crouch behind. I’ll tend to the blasting.”

“All right,” Williams said skeptically. He slid down the small slope formed as they had dug through the rock and began hauling larger rocks to start the barricade.

“If it doesn’t work, get on back to Nirvana and tell Mr. Arnot to bring us help.” He wondered if this wasn’t the best advice, no matter what. Why risk killing themselves if Gerald could bring help in a matter of hours? Something inside Slocum hardened. Call it pride or bullheadness. It didn’t matter. He wanted to get out by his own efforts to show Zeke it wasn’t that easy to kill John Slocum.

Slocum planted the dynamite where the rocks were more like gravel than boulders. He tamped in the sticks, leaving the butt end of one protruding from under the rock he put on top to contain the blast and direct it through the plug imprisoning them.

Slocum put the guttering candle beside the dynamite so the pale yellow light illuminated his target. He stepped off four paces, climbed the low wall Williams had built and crouched down. Slocum rested his six-shooter on a rock and took careful aim.

Slocum squeezed off the last shot in his Colt Navy. The report from the pistol was thunderous but the explosion as the dynamite ignited was overwhelming. Slocum was thrown back as the shock slammed into him. He lay stunned for a moment, dust again choking him. He pulled the bandanna back over his mouth and nose but his vision was obscured by the dust.

He felt Williams shaking him. Slocum cleared his head and saw the reason for the lawman’s excitement. A new source of light shone through, along the top of the rock fall.

“We did it. We did it!” whooped Williams. The marshal stumbled across the debris on the tunnel floor and began wiggling like a snake through the small hole. Slocum watched the man’s worn boots vanish. He got to shaky feet and followed.

The hole he had blown was tight, and sharp rock ripped at his back and arms but Slocum ignored the pain and kept moving, following the marshal to the other side of what had almost been their tomb. He tumbled down to the mine floor and sat, laughing.

“Gerald, it’s better than all right. It’s great,” Slocum said as he got to his feet. He was cut up, bleeding from a dozen scratches, dirty and tired but he couldn’t remember having ever felt better. “Let’s get out into the sunlight.”

“Where I thought I was going is even hotter. This is like paradise to me,” Slocum said, stepping into the bright Nevada summer sun.

He stretched, brushed off the dust the best he could and savored the sweet, dry air like it was a smooth Kentucky whiskey. Then he looked around for any sign of Zeke. As far as he could see, only birds wheeled in the cloudless sky and faint breeze rippled through the leaves of the scrubby trees within view. No other humans stirred.

“I didn’t see anyone on my way up here. I was supposed to deliver a paper to Mr. Inman.” Gerald pointed to the buggy laden with papers in the rear. “Mr. Arnot’s paying me a penny for every paper I deliver to the miners on his subscription list.”

“That can be mighty dangerous business, son,” Williams said. “Some of these miners get a bit touched in the head and shoot anyone comin’ to their claims. You might ask Arnot for twice what he’s paying’.”

“I want to get back to town. Gerald,” said Slocum, thrusting out his bloody hand, “thank you.” Gerald shook without hesitation, puffed with pride that Slocum considered him worthy of such acknowledgement.

“If the same man who trapped us also stole your horse, we might find him in town celebrating,” Slocum said. “We might never prove he tried to bushwhack me or trap us, but if he has your horse, that’s proof enough to toss him into jail.”

“You want to ride back with Gerald?” asked Slocum. “The horse with the bad leg’s not going to make it.” He reloaded his pistol, knowing what had to be done.

“I’m hereby deputizin’ you, son,” said Williams. “That means you got to do what I say, ’til we get back to town.”

“Here, wear this star ’til we reach Nirvana,” said Williams, pinning his badge on Gerald’s shirt. This made things right with the boy until they reached the outskirts of town when he reluctantly returned the star to Williams.

“You might want to tell Arnot what happened, and don’t stint on your own part in rescuing the marshal,” Slocum said. “Then you can get back to delivering papers, if that’s what he wants.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gerald. He hesitated, then asked, “Mind if I tag along? I might write a story. Then I’d be a reporter just like my ma.”

“Aw . . .” Gerald drove the buggy in the direction of the Bugle. Only when he was out of sight did Slocum check to be sure the six-gun rode easy in his holster. He was ready to fight a wildcat—but Zeke would do.