Slocum 306: Slocum and the Rebel Yell

Slocum wondered if he ought to see Tremaine to Fort Gibson before leaving. The man sat on the veranda, staring into the distance at nothing, muttering to himself. In such a condition, Tremaine was likely to do anything. As far as Slocum was concerned, the very worst thing Tremaine could do was follow the instructions on the note that had been crammed into his pocket.

Someone wanted all the Fort Gibson artillery held ready to move into the field at a moment’s notice—toward Honey Springs. For the life of him, Slocum couldn’t figure out what purpose would be served. Train robbers hardly wanted soldiers moving heavy artillery while they were plying their illegal trade. The note had said nothing about the cavalry companies or infantry at Fort Gibson. That left both the post and civilians nearby well defended, should the leader of Grew’s gang have some grandiose idea in mind, such as sweeping down like Quantrill had during the war and then robbing every business in town. But from what Slocum had heard, the robbers were doing a land-office business and were getting away with it. Why tempt fate?

None of it made any sense, but Slocum didn’t have to solve these problems. He hurried up the broad mahogany steps and went to his bedroom—then stopped and stared at his bed. He had gone through the war and seen men blown apart, men with missing limbs, men begging to be put out of their incredible misery, and none of that had affected him as much as the sight he saw now of the partially clothed, murdered bridesmaid sprawled on his bed.

Grabbing the clean clothing Elijah had hung out for him on a wooden clotheshorse, Slocum got out of his tattered, bloodstained attire and tossed them aside. The butler wouldn’t be around to pick up after him. The quiet, efficient, attentive Elijah wouldn’t ever do anything again. The thought fueled Slocum’s already intense anger.

As he strapped on his gun belt and settled it on his left hip, he forced himself to calm down. The cold anger filling him now was more potent than the fury he had felt before. His mind worked like a machine and could guide his gun hand accurately. That would be enough to get Catherine Calderon back alive—and leave her kidnappers dead out on the Oklahoma Territory prairie.

As he scowled, Slocum felt sharp pain in his face. He went into the bathroom and turned the looking glass around to peer into it. Though taking the time to worry out the splinters in his face galled him, he felt better after removing the wood fragments. It left his face with a terrible visage, but it matched what he felt in his heart.

Slocum hurried down and saw that Tremaine had left the veranda, probably riding to Fort Gibson. This might be for the best; the town marshal and the post commander had to be alerted to the slaughter that had filled the Calderon mansion. Slocum hoped that Tremaine wouldn’t muster his two companies and get them ready to move out when he was given further instructions.

“Trust me, old friend,” Slocum said softly. Then he saddled a horse from the barn and rode out, making a circular sweep around the house. He wasn’t surprised when he found the outlaws’ tracks leading southeast.

Slocum rode steadily, only occasionally checking the trail. Somewhere along Elk Creek or Honey Springs, he would find Catherine and her kidnappers. He pushed from his mind any hint that her kidnappers would have harmed her more than they had already. Stealing her away from her wedding rehearsal was bad enough, but killing her father in front of her was worse. Worst of all had to be what the outlaws had done to Catherine’s bridesmaids, but she might not know of that.

Daybreak bunched up around a wooded area ahead. Slocum slowed his advance as the hair on the back of his neck rose. He had survived the war relying on his sixth sense. Danger lay ahead, and he could not see where or how.

A solitary rider came from the woods. Slocum blinked, then rubbed his eyes to be sure they were clear of trail dust. He stared in disbelief at the horseman. The fading light glinted on gold braid and medals dangling on the rider’s chest.

Slocum squinted and thought he identified the man as Zoe Hawthorne’s escort at the engagement party. As quickly as the memory of that happier time came, it vanished along with the rider. Whether it was because the horseman had seen Slocum that he’d veered back into the woods or if that had been his intended route, Slocum couldn’t tell.

A man wearing a Confederate uniform riding through Oklahoma so many years after the war alerted him. Honey Springs had been the turning point in the war in Indian Territory, but this was no ghost.

Slocum put his heels to his horse’s flanks and trotted in the direction of the woods where the Confederate-uniformed man had ridden. More questions billowed up, and the man who had escorted Zoe might be the one to furnish the answers.

Again his sense of uneasiness returned, and this time it was more intense than before. Slocum pulled the Winchester from its sheath and levered a round into the chamber just as he saw the orange tongue of flame leaping from the edge of the woods. The sniper’s bullet missed him by a foot or more, but it spooked his horse.

Struggling to keep his seat, Slocum had to delay his return fire until the horse was calmed. A second hunk of lead whistled through the air, closer to Slocum’s head. As he jerked about reflexively, knowing that the middle of the meadow provided no cover for him, he realized what he had to do.

Venting a Rebel yell, Slocum brought up the Winchester and fired. At the same time, he got his frightened horse galloping straight into the muzzle of the sniper’s rifle.

He got off three rounds before the sniper responded. This time the ambusher took time to aim. In spite of the uneasy dawn and the moving target, the sniper’s shot hit Slocum’s horse in the chest. Slocum felt the animal stumble, but it valiantly continued running.

The next shot killed the horse outright. It slowed, stumbled weakly and let out a horrendous sound before it collapsed. Slocum got his feet free of the stirrups and kicked away, hitting the ground. He lost his balance and fell heavily.

Although shaken, he brought the rifle up and fired twice more at the spot where he thought the sniper hid. To his surprise, he was off by more than ten yards. New lances of flame belched from the muzzle of the other man’s rifle, but the slugs passed harmlessly above Slocum’s head.

With great deliberation, Slocum took aim and squeezed off a shot. He wasn’t sure if he hit his unseen attacker, but no return fire resulted. Slocum got to his feet and approached the wooded area, expecting a new assault at any instant. He reached the trees and poked about. He couldn’t even find the spent brass where the sniper had fired.

Slocum cocked his head to one side and listened hard. From deeper in the woods came the normal sounds of dawn. Animals fed. Predators stalked prey. But no noise caused by a human reached him.

Tossed on the horns of a dilemma, Slocum stood and considered what he ought to do. Honey Springs was a considerable ways down the pike, but that was where he would find answers—and Catherine Calderon. On foot, he might not reach the area for a couple days. Worse, his Winchester was almost out of ammunition, and as dependable as his Colt Navy might be, he had only the six rounds in its cylinder. This was hardly enough for a real fight against kidnappers and men who thought nothing of killing from ambush.

With a disgusted grunt, he turned and went back to his dead horse, slung the canteen and saddlebags over his shoulder, and began the hike back to Fort Gibson in defeat.

Footsore and tired in both body and soul, Slocum tramped through the open gates of Fort Gibson by mid-afternoon. The day’s heat had worked to slow him, and he felt as if he had drained his canteen a dozen times over, although he had found only a single small stream and been able to refill it only once.

Slocum wasn’t too surprised that the sentry had orders to stop casual visitors: Word of the massacre at the Calderon mansion had to have rattled everyone in Fort Gibson, the post and the town.

“Send for the captain, Private,” Slocum said, letting the old edge of command enter his voice. He was hot, tired and angry at himself for not having tracked Catherine’s kidnappers better. Parrying words with a guard was low on his list of priorities.

“Yes, sir, right away.” The private barked to someone inside the compound out on the parade ground. In a few seconds a sergeant came to the gate and gave Slocum a once-over.

“It’s with Captain Tremaine, not a sergeant,” Slocum said. He had been a captain in the CSA Army and knew how to issue a command that would be obeyed. The sergeant half-turned to obey before he caught himself.

“What I have to report is between the captain and me,” Slocum said. If he said any more, the gossip would echo from one side of Fort Gibson to the other before he reached Tremaine’s office. Moreover, it was not the sergeant’s concern.

“Sergeant Bowers, this is important.” The use of the noncom’s name opened the door. Slocum saw the sergeant’s expression change from implacability to assent.

“Captain Ike Benedict used to be my commander, sir, before he went to the artillery companies. Nasty what happened. I seen ’bout everything in my day but it made me sick to my stomach when me and my company had to clean up the mess.” The sergeant looked sideways at Slocum. “You were there?”

A quick nod was all Slocum trusted himself with. His mouth was cottony from thirst, he hadn’t eaten since the day before and he had seen enough death and torture to last him a lifetime.

The sergeant muttered something about bad luck and left. Slocum wasn’t sure if the noncom meant the captain or himself. He shrugged it off and went into Tremaine’s office. Andrew Tremaine huddled at his desk, pale as a ghost. He clutched a sheet of paper in his hand and stared intently at a map stretched out in front of him.

“I couldn’t catch up with them,” Slocum said, seeing no reason to sugarcoat his report. “A sniper killed my horse, and I’ve spent the last eight hours hiking back here.”

“They sent another letter.” Tremaine held out the page. His sweat had stained it and caused the ink to run in places, but Slocum made out the words easily enough.

“I didn’t show it to him. Bucks wouldn’t understand. I . . . I’ve assembled my men and have them ready to move out. I’m trying to discourage Grayson from sending out patrols.”

“That probably won’t be too hard,” Slocum said grimly. The note ordered Tremaine to ignore all train and bank robberies, no matter where they occurred, and to keep other officers from interfering. How he was supposed to influence his commanding officer and others at Fort Gibson wasn’t mentioned.

“Any news about unusual shipments coming to Fort Gibson?” Slocum thought something extraordinary might be at risk, but Tremaine shook his head. If anything requiring a special guard was moving through the territory, Tremaine would know about it.

“I can’t even say there’s more money in the town bank than usual. The middle of summer’s hardly a boom time. Fall harvest, yes, or even when the herds are moving through the territory, but now most folks are content to let their crops grow, knock back a shot or two of whiskey and just try to keep from getting sunstroke.”

“Oh, that must be Eustace Norquist, though I don’t know any Zoe Hawthorne. She must have been a friend of Catherine’s. Is a friend of Catherine’s,” he hastily amended. Tremaine turned a little paler at the slip of the tongue hinting at his real thoughts. He knew that Catherine might already be as dead as her father—and all her bridesmaids.

“Tom was friendly with everyone, even those he didn’t much like.” Tremaine frowned. “Why’s this so all-fired important right now, John?”

Slocum didn’t go into the details. Although Norquist might not have been the sniper who had almost ended his life, he was mixed up in Catherine’s kidnapping somehow. Slocum knew in his gut that he’d get more answers from Eustace Norquist than anywhere else.

Save, perhaps, for Zoe Hawthorne. As fondly as he remembered his night with her, the sudden change between the way she had first appraised him so dismissively and then chased him brought up even more questions Slocum wanted answered.

“Don’t send your troopers into the field, Andy,” Slocum said. “You’ll only get yourself into big trouble, and it won’t help Catherine.”

“This demand. That ought to be easy enough for you to follow,” Slocum said. “You’re not supposed to chase after outlaws. Let Grayson and Bucks worry over that.”

“They’d only put Catherine into more danger if they went out and blundered around,” he said. “Bucks was happy to let Marshal Adair take over investigating the murders, and the marshal’s jurisdiction doesn’t extend beyond the city limits.”

Tremaine crumpled the demand note and banged his fist in frustration on the desk. Tears ran down his cheeks, but the captain said nothing. Slocum left, heading for Fort Gibson’s main street. The strange demands told him that something might be happening right now in town. Keeping Tremaine and his men bottled up in the post was simple enough, but the rest of the kidnap demand was impossible for the captain to obey.

Whoever held Catherine had to know that. Did they want Bucks to send out patrols and get both cavalry and infantry out of Fort Gibson? Or were they sure Tremaine could keep the other units inside the stockade walls too? Either way, the soldiers were not likely to be patrolling the streets of Fort Gibson.

As he walked down the boards lining the east side of the street, Slocum noted little difference in commerce in the town. The stifling, sultry afternoon heat kept most folks inside, but not so Slocum saw any difference compared with the way the town had been before the Calderon massacre.

“Hi, Mr. Slocum. Figured you’d be on the prowl,” came a familiar voice. Slocum saw Joshua sitting in the shade of a water barrel. The small trickle from the barrel into a tin cup kept the boy’s whistle wet. Seeing Slocum’s interest, Joshua held up the cup. “Want some?”

“Best offer I’ve had all day,” Slocum said, dropping beside the boy in the alley. The shade didn’t cover him as it did Joshua, but Slocum didn’t care. Though the water was tepid, it tasted even better than Calderon’s Tennessee sipping whiskey.

“It’s all going to the fort sutler,” Joshua said. “Reckon he’s gonna sell it to the soldiers. Is this something I ought to follow up on? Think the quartermaster and the sutler are in cahoots and cheatin’ the Army?”

“He makes it sound as if he’s got an army already and wants more soldiers, but he never quite comes out and says so. Grew makes it out to be a play, but not on any stage.”

Joshua pursed his lips, then said, “I don’t either. He wants to hire the loafers to act like they’re soldiers fighting a battle, but they don’t have to do anything but walk around and go where they’re told.”

Joshua shrugged. “Everyone knows the man’s a stone liar, but the greenbacks he’s flashing around are convincing some of the drunks that it’s easier money than riding herd on cattle.”

“Didn’t have to. I can tell when you say his name. And I saw him give a guy a dollar to take a letter to the fort. No reason Grew’d do that, unless he didn’t want anyone to know he’d sent it. Was it sent to Captain Tremaine?”

He missed Grew and his recruiting for his mock army, but spent a few dollars finding out that the men who took the outlaw’s money were being mustered at Honey Springs.