Slocum 306: Slocum and the Rebel Yell

Slocum heard hooves pounding behind him, but he kept low and rode on, before deciding that he was running from phantoms. Not having his Colt in its wonted place was wearing on his nerves as he rode through the thicket and hunted for a way back to Fort Gibson without tangling with the General’s men. But when he came out of the woods onto a road he recognized, he knew he was in the clear. Even better, a squad of cavalry troopers trotted along a quarter mile off. He urged his tired horse to more speed and quickly joined them.

“Afternoon, Mr. Slocum,” said the corporal at the head of the column. “Didn’t expect to see you around these parts no more.”

“Why’s that?” Slocum asked. He recognized the noncom as one of Lieutenant Grayson’s but didn’t know his name.

“After the murders and all, we reckoned you’d hightail it on out of the territory and let the law track down the killers.”

“Not the way I do things, Corporal,” Slocum said. “Where have you been patrolling? You look the worse for wear and tear.” Slocum eyed the disheveled soldiers and wondered if they had tangled with the General’s army.

“We ran into a band of Arapahos not a dozen miles from the fort and gave chase. Those red devils are getting bolder; used to be, they’d only raid along the western frontier. They burned two Cherokee farmhouses outside Tahlequah and run off a hundred head of cattle ’fore we found ’em.” The corporal turned grim. “Wish we hadn’t. This was a company when we left the fort.”

“Was,” the corporal allowed. “He’s dead, Mr. Slocum. He took an arrow right through the throat.”

“Mr. Slocum,” the corporal said sharply, “we’re returnin’ to the fort with our tail ’tween our legs. We got whupped good by the Arapahos. Wouldn’t have happened if Tremaine had done as he was ordered. I understand a man grieving and all. What happened was a terrible thing, but he can’t refuse orders the way he did. Not when me and my men get chopped up because we don’t have any artillery support. All he had to do was move one damn cannon a couple miles out of the fort to give us support.”

“The son of a bitch can burn in hell for all I care,” the corporal said. “Begging your pardon, sir. I know he’s a friend of yours. But I lost eight men in the last twenty-four hours ’cuz of him not sending along his field piece. I’m not real concerned with his whereabouts.”

The corporal signaled his ragged troopers on toward the fort. Slocum hung back. The men who ought to have been readying themselves for a major battle against the General’s army were tangled up with Indians and deadly raids deep into the heart of the Cherokee nation.

Slocum couldn’t blame them too much. They were doing their duty. Norquist was only a minor distraction to them, if that. It was hard to worry about a crazy man plowing up fields along Honey Springs when Arapahos were shooting arrows through your commanding officer.

Entering the fort after the corporal and the remnants of Grayson’s company, Slocum went directly to Tremaine’s office. The captain might not have stirred an inch from the last time Slocum had last seen him. The same map was stretched in front of him, and Tremaine’s gaze was focused on the rough-hewn wall to the right of the door.

“Andy?” Slocum moved around and shook his friend a little. Only then did Tremaine even notice anyone else was in the room.

“They’re going to kill her, John. No matter what I do, they’re going to kill her.” His eyes widened as he grabbed Slocum’s arm with both hands. “Did you find her? Is she still alive?”

“I didn’t find her,” Slocum had to admit. “What’s happening here? One of Grayson’s corporals said you refused to send an artillery piece into the field.”

“My orders,” Tremaine said in a dull voice. He pulled out another letter and shoved it across the desk to Slocum, who quickly scanned it. “No troop movement, no artillery deployment—not until they tell me. But how am I supposed to order out my men when I’ve been relieved of command? They’re going to kill Catherine when I don’t get my howitzers to wherever they order.”

“It’s Eustace Norquist who’s responsible,” Slocum said. “I was in his camp, but they’re holding Catherine somewhere else.”

“But he’s not the rich one. It’s his father who’s rolling in the clover. Though from all I hear, the old coot’s got one foot in the grave.”

“Eustace has himself an army at Honey Springs and intends to refight Gettysburg there,” Slocum said. He saw Tremaine looking at him in disbelief. “I don’t understand it either, but he thinks the South will be intact if he reverses the outcome of the battle.”

“Too much is crazy,” Slocum said. “That’s why we have to act. Sitting on your butt waiting for them to shout ‘Frog!’ so you’ll know how high to jump isn’t helping Catherine.”

“We have to take the fight to them. We know who kidnapped Catherine. We get her back, then worry about directing the marshal to the rest of the gang that killed her father and the others.”

“You’ve been relieved of command,” said Slocum. Tremaine nodded glumly. “That doesn’t mean you have to sit here, does it? Get us some fresh horses and gear. We’re going to Honey Springs to catch us a bogus general.”

“Hold on,” Slocum said, reaching over to grab his friend’s arm. “You can’t ride in there and brace them like you would your own recruits. Those men probably don’t know what’s going on—only Grew and his gang do.” Slocum didn’t bother adding Zoe’s contribution to the mix. If Grew controlled the gang of train robbers, Zoe controlled her brother. And both of them did whatever their loon of a father ordered. That alone made for a dangerous situation, even discounting most of the men in the mock army.

“That means their forces are divided that much more. Grew and his gang of thieves won’t be helping the General with his artillery practice.” In the back of his mind, Slocum hoped that Zoe would be with her father while they mindlessly fired their stolen artillery. In a way, taking them down together would be cutting the heart and brain out of this slavering beast of an army camped in the forest.

“What if a message arrives at the fort for me and I’m not there?” Tremaine sounded suddenly apprehensive. Slocum had never seen his friend this way before. Catherine meant the world to him, and he had seen the kind of brutality Grew and his gang were capable of meting out.

Before Tremaine could protest, Slocum put his finger to his lips to silence him. A small detachment was leaving the camp. At the head of the gang rode Grew and his father, resplendent in his gold braid and glittering medals.

“I hadn’t believed it, John. I apologize. Will you look at that uniform?” Tremaine almost laughed. “Old Eustace is sporting more medals than the entire battalion under Braxton Bragg won.”

Slocum watched as the tight knot of riders rode due north. He had been wrong about Norquist wanting to inspect his artillery as they went through the motions of attack. Or maybe that’s where the bogus general and his son were headed now. Slocum kept a close count on the number of outlaws with them.

“Not good odds,” Tremaine said. “Maybe you’d better hang back and let me go in so it’ll be more even.”

Slocum had to laugh. This was more like his old friend. Side by side, they rode after the outlaws. Slocum’s mind raced to find a way of capturing Eustace Norquist. Without the General as a bargaining chip, they might never get Catherine back.

“This is close to a quarter of them, the ones that robbed the trains and took on the supply wagons,” Slocum said. “For whatever reason, the bulk of the army camped back there was never used for thieving.”

“You’re right. They’re a paper tiger. If they go up against real soldiers, they’ll either die fast or blow away like smoke in a high wind. Only a cadre does the real thieving,” Slocum said.

They cut through the forest, made their way toward Elk Creek, then angled back in time to see the men with Eustace Norquist dismounting. A large meadow stretched all the way to the water. A few cattle grazed nearby and, save for the men, everything appeared serene.

Slocum felt the tension in the air. He wasn’t sure why the General had come here, but it had to do with the cannonade they had heard earlier.

“What’s he up to?” asked Tremaine. “He’s riding in circles and waving his sword around like he was ordering a full-scale assault.”

“He’s sending orders to the artillery crews,” Slocum said. “We might not get a better chance. Four gunmen, including Grew.” His quick gaze found the right place for the attack. Reaching it would be hard, but not if he and Tremaine showed daring.

Slocum heaved a deep breath. He had come to the same conclusion. They need only walk thirty yards to a pair of fallen trees, crouch down and take out the outlaws with Norquist. Capturing the General might be more difficult if he tried to gallop off, but Slocum wasn’t above shooting the man’s horse out from under him. Catherine Calderon’s life hung in the balance, and the only item they could exchange for her wore a fake uniform and thought he was going to win the war for the South in Oklahoma Territory.

Both men carried rifles and had pockets heavy with ammo as they strode at a deliberate pace across the open meadow. If they had run or tried to sneak, they would have been spotted right away. As it was, they almost reached the sanctuary of the fallen, rotting logs before the General spotted them. And then they had a few more seconds to take cover, since he mistook them for his own troops.

Only when Norquist issued a command to his son for the two stragglers in the meadow to join the party did anyone spot Slocum and Tremaine and know the troops were under attack. Grew swung around, his hand going for the six-shooter at his hip.

By then, Slocum and Tremaine were in position. Slocum balanced his rifle on his left hand and braced it against the tree. An easy shot dropped the outlaw farthest right. Simultaneously, Tremaine had fired and killed a robber to the left. Working together well, the men turned their sights on the remaining gang.

Both Slocum and Tremaine shot the third outlaw. By now Grew was screaming at the top of his lungs, and Eustace Norquist fought to keep his stallion from bucking him off.

“Might,” said Slocum. “Norquist might not know where Catherine is being held; Grew certainly does. And it might help to use Grew as a go-between.”

Slocum felt the same way. He had a score to settle with Pettigrew Norquist that would have to be postponed until Catherine was safe.

Grew blazed away while his father fought to stay seated. Slocum didn’t have a good shot at Grew but definitely did not want Eustace Norquist riding off. He let Tremaine keep Grew pinned down as he turned his rifle to the General’s horse.

The stallion reared, giving Slocum a good shot at the horse’s belly. But he couldn’t put down a horse like that, and aimed lower, his rounds ricocheting off rocks in the ground. One hit the stallion’s left back hoof and caused it to stagger. Eustace Norquist was already fighting to keep his balance, and the new lurch sent him flying to the ground.

“Now run,” Slocum shouted, firing twice more at the horse to get it galloping off. He smiled to see that it didn’t favor its rear leg as it ran. The evils of the rider, Slocum believed, shouldn’t taint the horse.

“Doesn’t look as if the old man’s going to run too far,” Tremaine said, mistaking the reason for Slocum’s smile. “Let’s rush Grew when he starts to reload.”

Slocum reloaded his rifle and let Tremaine get his magazine filled and then both took turns firing until Grew’s six-gun came up empty. As one, Slocum and Tremaine surged over their barricades and started running. Halfway to the spot where Grew was fumbling to reload, the ground shook. Slocum stumbled, then resumed running.

Slocum ignored his friend. He knew the field piece had not discharged at them; there had been no telltale whistling sound warning of a shell coming down on their heads. As he passed Eustace Norquist struggling to regain his breath, Slocum swung his rifle butt and caught the man on the chin. Then he leveled the rifle at Grew Norquist.

“Drop it, Grew, or I’ll drop you.” Slocum’s deadly words and unwavering aim convinced the outlaw: Grew tossed his six-gun down and stepped from behind the tree where he had taken cover.

“If I don’t see Catherine again, your old man’s going to end up getting skinned alive. I learned how to do it just right to keep the victim alive for a week or longer. About all the Comanches had to teach me,” Tremaine said, dragging a groggy Eustace Norquist along.

“Pa!” Grew started forward, but Slocum stopped him with a quick thrust of the rifle muzzle to his belly. “You leave him be. You cain’t hurt an old man.”

“But you can rape and murder young women, is that it?” Slocum said in a voice that could freeze an Oklahoma heat wave.

“Where’s Catherine?” demanded Tremaine. “It’ll be an even-steven swap. You get your pa and I get my wife.”

“She ain’t your wife yet,” Grew said in a nasty tone. Slocum poked him in the belly with his rifle again and got a black stare in response. “All right. I know when I’m beat.”

Slocum reached out and grabbed the front of Grew’s shirt and flung him to one side as sunlight glinted off a gun barrel. Then he lifted his rifle and fired into the woods, although he didn’t have a target.

A single shot rang out. Grew Norquist had been on his hands and knees where Slocum had thrown him. Now he simply fell facedown on the ground without making a sound. The sight of the small bullet hole in the back of the man’s head showed he had died instantly.

Swinging his rifle around, Slocum tried to find who had backshot Grew and put an end to his miserable life. Slocum had been saving him for his own satisfaction of a job well done—after Catherine Calderon was rescued.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Slocum said. He didn’t see any of the gang, but felt a presence closing in on him as if he were a bug about to be smashed between a thumb and a forefinger.

“No, I can’t leave. There’s a battle to be fought. The South must win this time! Gettysburg! That damned fool Pickett mustn’t break like he did. The Angle! I can hold it. Longstreet didn’t—”

Tremaine lost his grip on the struggling, complaining madman. As he bent to get a better hold on the back of Norquist’s jacket, a veritable storm of bullets ripped past. The shot that had ended Grew’s vile life had been from a six-shooter, but these were from rifles. Their sharp, powerful reports told him that.

Slocum opened fire, although he didn’t see where the shots had come from. He quickly found himself on the receiving end of the gunfire. Twice he winced as hot lead creased an arm and a thigh.

“Run for it,” Slocum said. The fire from deeper in the forest magnified until Slocum began worrying how he and Tremaine were going to remain alive more than a few seconds.

“But Norquist!” protested Tremaine. “He won’t cooperate.” Tremaine grunted and grabbed for his side as a bullet raked a bloody trail along his ribs.

“Come on!” As much as Slocum wanted to swap Norquist for Catherine, it wasn’t in the cards. He considered putting a bullet in the crazy son of a bitch, but he knew that would seal the kidnapped woman’s fate for certain. He grabbed Tremaine and pushed him away, back to the dubious shelter of the fallen trees where they had launched their ambush.

“Who’s giving up? We’re retrenching, that’s all,” said Slocum. He rolled over, got his rifle sighted and began firing at any movement in the woods. He might have winged one or two of the outlaws, but couldn’t be certain.

He almost went back on what was common sense and shot Eustace Norquist as the uniformed man staggered into the woods. Instead Slocum kept firing at his attackers, and eventually there was only silence.

“Cover me,” said Slocum. Like a snake, he slithered over the logs and worked his way forward on his belly until he reached Grew Norquist’s body. The soft dirt under the outlaw’s face had sucked up most of the blood, but ants were already working on the dead man’s flesh.

A few more minutes poking around convinced Slocum they had lost their chance to capture the General and use him as trade goods for Catherine. He made certain he wasn’t going to get shot in the back, dropped flat once when at least two cannons began a sustained barrage that lasted close to a minute, then scrambled back to flop beside Andrew Tremaine.

Slocum sucked in his breath. Grew was dead. Strangely so, the way Slocum considered it. Whoever had been hidden in the forest could have shot him as easily as Grew. The outlaw might have been a poor shot, but Slocum had to wonder.

“There might be a way, but I’m not sure I’ll like it,” Slocum said. “Leastways, not as much as I have before.”