Slocum 306: Slocum and the Rebel Yell

When they had ridden almost a mile, putting the strange site along Honey Springs behind, Slocum slowed and then pulled his horse to a complete halt. He looked over at Tremaine and saw the same worry gnawing at his friend.

“Dammit, Slocum, you’re right,” the artillery officer said. “We never ran from a fight in our lives. It’s not going to happen now.”

Slocum sucked in his breath and held it for a moment. He wasn’t thinking too clearly; he had actually considered removing Tremaine from the line of fire because he was getting married and it wouldn’t do to leave Catherine standing alone at the altar.

But Slocum knew Tremaine, and it would never do to deal him out of what might be the biggest hand in the biggest game they’d ever come across. Tremaine could no more turn tail and run than he could.

“Some fun, having cannonballs dropped on your head,” Slocum said. He grinned wryly. “In your case, it wouldn’t hurt you none, but I might get winged from the ricochet.”

“Besides,” Tremaine said, “who am I reporting to? Major Bucks wouldn’t believe a word I said, even if I hauled the howitzer into his office and yanked its lanyard. The colonel’s not likely to be back anytime soon. We both know how Sherman likes to ramble on and on until all the brandy’s drunk and the last cigar’s smoked.”

“No gang of train robbers hauls around a battery of field artillery,” Slocum said. He frowned when he considered how the workmen had terraced the land along Honey Springs and turned the hills into low ridges like—what? He’d almost had it again, and again the memory had slipped away from him.

“If it’s an army we’re pitting ourselves against, then all the more reason not to trouble Major Bucks. He wouldn’t know what to do against an organized force.”

“Mighty fast, if they have the caissons loaded and ready to roll behind them. There wouldn’t be a trace left.” Tremaine slapped his hand against his thigh. “I declare, John. They were as good as my boys, and I’ve trained my company to be the equal of anything fielded during the war. Do you reckon they’re going to attack Fort Gibson?”

The concern in Tremaine’s voice carried more than worry over the soldiers. No matter how well or poorly trained the bluecoats might be, Slocum knew Tremaine worried more about stray artillery shells landing in the town itself—or on Calderon’s fancy mansion. Catherine would be put at a risk unparalleled since the war had raged.

“Why would they attack a fort filled with soldiers ready and willing to shoot back?” Slocum said, trying to allay Tremaine’s fears. “They’re up to something else. Grew’s not having those workmen plow and terrace for nothing. If he wanted to attack the fort, he’d hitch up the carriages, haul the artillery there and fire at the stockade.”

“You’re right, John. I wasn’t thinking. There’s something more going on, and it’s right here.” Tremaine looked back at the end of the split-rail fence running parallel to the river.

“My horse is stronger. I’ll circle wide and come up on the howitzer on this end of the line while you approach from the flank.”

“Not so much firing,” Slocum countered. “We’re outnumbered. I want to find out more about their missions, who they are, what they intend to do. The crew on the field piece is more likely to know who’s in command and what he intends than the cannon fodder carrying rifles and running up hills under their barrages.”

Slocum shrugged. From what he’d seen and overheard at the saloon, Grew was a hired hand. It was hard to believe the man had the brains to do more than order another drink, but Slocum knew he might be wrong. Grew had a vicious streak that might hide some true cunning.

They would have to find out. It wouldn’t do to put a slug in Grew’s heart and think they’d ended the gang’s reign, only to discover that someone else called the shots.

“Use your knife,” Slocum said. Then both men laughed. This was like the old days when they’d spit in the eye of a grizzly, take on the world and then spend the night drinking as they bragged about all they had done.

Slocum tugged on the halter and got his horse turned around and headed north for a couple miles, then he cut east and began circling in toward the artillery position. The closer Slocum got, the warier he became. He and Tremaine were outnumbered twenty to one, but that bothered him less than the empty pistol riding in his cross-draw holster. He’d have to rely on skill when he sneaked up on the howitzer.

Slocum pulled his watch from his pocket, snapped open the case and checked the time. He had left Tremaine a half hour ago. The captain would be getting antsy by now, and Slocum didn’t want the man tackling the artillerists by himself. With a kick, Slocum got his leg over the horse and dropped to the ground. A quick turn tethered the horse to a tree limb, and Slocum began his advance.

Heart racing, Slocum crept forward. He heard sounds from the direction of the artillery piece, but could not identify the number of men there. With a soft snick! he drew his knife and slithered forward on his belly. Movement. He heard boots crunching against gravel. Rising to peer through weeds, Slocum saw a shadowy figure crouched on the far side of the cannon.

Moving faster now, Slocum used the bulk of the howitzer to shield his advance. He reached the bowl where the crew had placed their cannon and saw his chance. With a surge, he got his feet under him, jumped to the left wheel of the howitzer and brought his knife up for a killing stroke.

“You sure took your sweet time gettin’ here, John,” said Andrew Tremaine. The man grinned from ear to ear, then turned to perch on the right wheel of the cannon carriage. “They must have hightailed it after they cut loose.”

“What about the other battery? It was a dozen yards that way,” Slocum said. He tried to see where the second howitzer had been, but trees blocked his view.

“Gone. I rode up that way, just to scout the area. But we’ve captured this one.” Tremaine walked around the howitzer, kicking at it and looking pleased as punch. “This will prove to Bucks that he needs to send more than a scout or two. Hell, he ought to call out the entire post!”

Slocum let his friend go on about what Fort Gibson’s temporary commander ought to do as he studied the dirt around the field piece. He knew the intimate details of firing a howitzer, and saw that this crew was inexperienced. The water bucket needed to supply cooling fluid to the hot brass barrel was empty—it had not seen a drop of water this day. That meant the crew could fire only a round or two before the barrel expansion would prevent decent loading. The cannonball and the wadding would go in but gases would escape and rob the shell of its range.

A second circuit of the area showed where the firing commander had stood off to one side, as if he were afraid of his weapon. Slocum snorted in disgust. These weren’t soldiers trained to use howitzers. Those had hardly been infantrymen who had charged at them up the slope.

“They ran,” Slocum said. “They didn’t swab down the cannon to keep the barrel cool. After a round or two they couldn’t even touch their artillery piece.”

“You’re too analytical, John. We knew they weren’t any good before they cut and run. Why pile on more facts to something that is obvious?”

“Who are they?” Slocum said coldly. “We don’t know anything about them except they have heavy firepower.”

This threw cold water on Tremaine’s buoyant spirits. The captain heaved a sigh and stripped off his hat, mopped his forehead and then carefully settled his hat back squarely before speaking.

Slocum saw that the hitch on the howitzer was broken. Hauling the cannon off would be hard without a new carriage. This might be why the crew had abandoned it, though why they had left when their huge force was facing only Slocum and Tremaine was a mystery.

“Ride back to Fort Gibson and report. Take something with you to prove to the major that this is for real,” Slocum said.

“I don’t think putting a cannonball in my pocket’s too useful, John,” Tremaine said, some of his good humor returning. “All I need to do is bring back enough men to report on the battlefield and take a gander at this field piece. You’re going to stay to keep them from dragging it off?”

“I’ve got some ammunition for my Colt,” Slocum said, poking around in the matériel left by the artillery crew. “Here’s a pair of Army Spencers, too.”

“And the ammunition for them,” Tremaine said, seeing what lay under the tarpaulin. “Maybe I ought to take one.”

Tremaine laughed, hefted the rifle and grabbed a handful of ammo, stuffing the cartridges into his coat pockets. Slocum was willing to let his friend take the second rifle, although it would prove handy should the outlaws return for the howitzer. Guaranteeing Tremaine’s return to Fort Gibson was as important as retaining possession of the howitzer.

Catherine would probably want her future husband to carry both rifles to double his chances of a safe return, should he run afoul of the men forging their own army.

Slocum considered the division equitable, since he intended to be present at the wedding as best man. Carefully loading the long tube of cartridges that slid into the stock, Slocum cocked the rifle and then laid it across the crook of his left arm.

Tremaine laughed, vaulted onto his horse, turned the horse’s face toward Fort Gibson, and lit out like a Fourth of July skyrocket. Slocum watched him until he disappeared into a thicket, then began prowling about. He wasn’t sure what he sought, but he would know it when he found it.

In a widening circle, he spiraled outward from the howitzer until he had covered most of the terrain. Slocum leaned the .52-caliber Spencer against a tree trunk and picked a few overripe berries from a vine. His stomach was beginning to think his throat was slit, it had been so long since he’d eaten. He knew better than to eat many of the berries or he’d get the runs, but he needed something. A little water from Honey Springs might go a ways toward keeping down the hunger pangs.

As he bent over, he heard the clop-clop of horses’ hooves approaching. Slocum looked, then dropped to his knees to take advantage of what cover he could find. A solitary rider cautiously approached the artillery piece and looked around. Seen from the back, the man could not be identified.

“Rafe,” Slocum said. He thought he spoke too low for anyone to hear, but Rafe swung about, eyes wide with surprise. The outlaw went for his six-shooter at the same time and whipped it around, spraying lead in a wide circle.

Slocum grabbed for the Spencer and brought it up. The rear sights were off, but Slocum simply aimed the short-barreled rifle in Rafe’s general direction and then fired. The heavy kick knocked him off-balance into the thorny berry bush. Slocum didn’t have to see Rafe duck to know the slug had gone wide and given the outlaw a chance to hightail it.

Scrambling to get a better shot, Slocum levered in a new round and brought the rifle to his shoulder for careful aiming. Nothing. He carefully swung the muzzle to and fro, hunting for the rider. Rafe was nowhere to be seen, but Slocum knew what direction the man must have gone to disappear so quickly.

He lowered the rifle and bit his lower lip. He could catch Rafe. He couldn’t allow the outlaw to reach the rest of the gang and tell them Slocum was prowling about. Worse, Rafe might fetch enough men to seize the cannon and haul it off before Tremaine could return. What proof they had that something was amiss at Honey Springs would evaporate.

Hardly realizing he had reached such a perilous decision, Slocum swung onto his horse’s back and set off after Rafe. He galloped past the howitzer and plunged into the woods. Keeping low to avoid limbs and branches swinging for his face, Slocum rode like he never had before. The horse gamely forged ahead in spite of the scratches it accumulated from the thick undergrowth, and then they burst into a clearing.

Slocum jerked sideways and fell from horseback to avoid a half dozen rifle rounds coming in his direction. He hit the ground facedown and crawled to a fallen tree trunk. Splinters blasted from the dead wood as the outlaws continued to shoot.

Pulling his Spencer around, Slocum rested it atop the trunk, then aimed the best he could with the damaged sights. He squeezed off a round and was rewarded with a grunt, followed by a curse. The outlaw wasn’t badly wounded, but Slocum knew that spreading fear among his foes was more important than killing them right now. They outnumbered him, so he had to make them fear for their own lives rather than become intent on robbing him of his.

The rifle magazine emptied, and Slocum worked to reload. The outlaws grew bold, thinking he was out of ammo, and two of them advanced. With a quick, easy draw, Slocum had his Colt out and firing. This drove both men back to cover and gave him time to fish out the cartridges for the Spencer weighing down his pocket.

Rather than firing as soon as the rifle was reloaded, Slocum looked around and realized how exposed he was. The trees were almost ten yards away. The rotting trunk he hid behind was the only cover to be seen. He might as well have been on a desert island surrounded by vicious sharks, for all the chance he had to reach the safety of the woods.

Slocum settled the rifle down and began the careful, accurate shooting that had distinguished him during the war. He hit two more of the outlaws before having to reload. This time he was aware of how few rounds he had remaining. The outlaws could outwait him, then pick him off at their leisure.

He considered a mad dash for the woods again, then knew he didn’t stand a chance; any of the outlaws could pick him off before he got halfway there. They didn’t all have to reload at the same time, so a few would be ready for any trick he tried to pull.

Peeking back over the top edge of the tree trunk, he tried to find a decent target. The outlaws had gone to ground, playing a waiting game. That suited Slocum. The longer he held out, the more likely Tremaine was to return with a company of cavalry from the post.

After twenty minutes, Slocum began to get a bit edgy. He saw how the birds had returned to the trees, and when a timid rabbit hopped out to gnaw at a particularly succulent tidbit not ten feet in front of him, Slocum realized that the outlaws had once more retreated.

Or had they? He poked his hat up and waited to see if this drew fire. When it didn’t, he stuck his head up and looked around, ready to shoot at the slightest movement. Other than leaves rustling gently in the wind and the hungry bunny in front of him, there was no movement anywhere to be seen.

Slocum stood warily, half-expecting a single round to end his life. When it didn’t come, he knew what had happened.

Running back through the woods, cursing as he went, he burst back out to the spot where the artillery piece had been.

Had been. The circle of dirt where the wheeled carriage had held its field piece was empty. The outlaws had distracted him long enough to come for their abandoned howitzer.

All Tremaine could do now was bring back a company of cavalry to show them the peculiar terracing along Honey Springs and the split-rail fence, more common back in Virginia than here. Tremaine would be a laughingstock without proof.

Slocum tracked down his horse and found it grazing peacefully a quarter mile off. He mounted and set off for Fort Gibson, hoping to overtake Tremaine before he reported to Major Bucks.