Slocum 421 by Jake Logan Page A

bring on a good one; that, plus he had the muscle aches in his body that occurred when a bad storm system came rolling in.
    Murty had sent him cinnamon rolls, the jailhouse guard said. He was sure the jail staff had eaten half of them to be certain that there were no files hidden in them. If there were any left, it would be a good thing, because he had missed lunch being in the courtroom hearing and no one had offered to replace it.
    For supper they served some navy bean soup and stale bread from the army bakery.
    Â * * * 
    In the middle of the night, he was woken up and handcuffed, then taken to the desk officer of the jail. “This order you have is highly unusual. Judge Morgan’s order is to hold him until after the next hearing,” the noncom in charge said to one of the deputies escorting Slocum.
    â€œThis telegram is from a higher authority than Judge Morgan,” the deputy said, holding the telegram before the noncom. “He is an appellate federal judge, and he says we are—the marshals service is—to at once deliver this prisoner to Fort Leavenworth and incarcerate him there in the federal prison. He is a threat to the entire U.S. government and must be held in more secure confinement.”
    â€œHell, he was not going anywhere here, and the judge was not through with him according to my understanding.”
    â€œThis judge overruled Morgan.” The man turned to one of the other lawmen. “Get him dressed in his coat and things. We are taking him out of here at once.”
    â€œI need the officer of the day to approve letting you do that, sir.”
    â€œI don’t need any more shit from you. Get him dressed,” he said to his men. “By the power and authority of the federal government vested in me, I am taking this man into my custody. If you want ten years in Leavenworth yourself, then refuse to allow me this man. He is a military prisoner.”
    They left the jail in a blinding snowstorm and loaded Slocum into a buckboard, wrapped in the blankets he had made them take from his cell. Three men accompanied them on horseback in the worst swirling mass of snow he’d seen in years.
    The team was fresh, but this sort of snowy mess would soon wear out even the toughest animals, and the road wasn’t easy to follow. He was rocked around in the spring-less bed in back. There was a good chance, in his mind, that he’d not survive the trip and might be murdered to settle their need to eradicate him for some damn high-ranking congressman seeking revenge over his prodigal son’s death.
    They drove far into the night. With no obvious provisions or firewood, they would have to keep going till they found cover, and in the storm they might drive right by it. Only a handful of venturous souls had tried to homestead out here, in dugouts, and they’d go unseen in this bitter weather unless the team drove over one and fell into it.
    They finally stopped to rest their exhausted team and stomped around in the wind and wet snow cussing Slocum.
    â€œWhy blame me, boys,” he finally said. “Your idiot bosses sent you out in this storm, and I figure we will all be wolf bait within twenty-four hours.”
    â€œShut up,” the lead man said. “You will be the first to die, I guarantee you that.”
    â€œAny of you knew this Hampton?” he asked them.
    He couldn’t see them in the dark, snowy night, but more than one grunted no.
    â€œWell, boys, if he was a federal agent, I’m a preacher.”
    â€œThey say he was spying on that Washington bunch.”
    â€œWhy shoot a man who was only looking for Spanish gold if he was an agent? The man he shot was a fortune hunter who damn sure had no use for that colonel and his cause. His name was John Trent. He had a wife and family back in Iowa. He told me all that,” Slocum lied, “but never said why Hampton shot him.”
    â€œHe tell you where the gold