Jebediah Slocum was born in Illinois of decent stock, but somewhere along the way, something in him soured. At twenty-six, he shot a man over a dispute best forgotten and fled westward, where men of his temperament often found their calling. By the time he reached the Sierra Nevada range, he had a reputation trailing behind him like the dust off his boots.
One day in the desert, serving as train-master for a California-bound outfit, Slocum found himself nose to nose with a surly wagon driver over some minor slight. Both men reached for their pistols, but the driver was quicker, cocking his weapon first.
With a grin as easy as a summer breeze, Slocum lifted his hands. “Now, friend, ain’t it a damn shame to spill blood over such a little matter? Let’s toss these irons aside and settle it like men—with our fists.”
The driver, perhaps mistaking charm for sincerity, dropped his pistol. Slocum did no such thing.
He laughed, leveled his gun, and shot the fool dead where he stood. Then, with an easy step, he mounted his horse and rode on as if he’d merely swatted a fly.
Slocum lived wild for a time, splitting his days between dodging an Illinois sheriff who had set out to bring him back for his first killing and fighting off Paiutes, who had a score to settle. In one skirmish, he took three scalps, later sending their ears back to the chief as a token of his respects.
His ruthless efficiency earned him a position as the overland division agent at Truckee Station, replacing Bart Hollis, a man of similar disposition but lesser cunning. For some time, outlaws had made off with the company’s horses and delayed the stages with impunity.
Hollis had let them. Slocum did not.
The first time a bandit made trouble, Slocum shot him where he stood and nailed the body to the barn door as a warning. Soon, horses stayed put, the stages ran on time, and no man dared test Slocum’s rule.
Of course, bringing about such peace required the elimination of several undesirables—some say three, others six, and one wild account claims twelve—but the final count mattered little to Slocum. He figured the world was none the worse for losing them.
His first real trouble came from Hollis himself. Displaced and bitter, Hollis took his grievances public, swearing he’d see Slocum dead. Matters came to a head when Slocum accused Hollis of stealing stage horses. The two men prowled the streets, guns ready, waiting for the other to make a move.
“You calling me a thief, Slocum?” Hollis spat, hand hovering near his belt.
Slocum smirked, shaking his head. “I’m calling you a dead man if I catch you near those horses again.”
The wait ended when Hollis, lurking behind a store door, emptied both barrels of a shotgun into Slocum’s back. Slocum returned fire even as he fell, putting three bullets into Hollis before the street swallowed them both in dust and silence.
Both men got carried home, swearing that next time would be the last. But Hollis healed first.
Gathering his possessions, he slipped into the mountains and vanished, though not from Slocum’s mind. The outlaw-turned-agent was not the kind to let bygones be bygones. He kept a standing reward for Hollis’ capture—dead or alive.
After a time, and seeing Slocum’s effectiveness in taming Truckee, the Overland Stage Company sent him deeper into the Sierras to the lawless pass at Devil’s Ridge.
It was a paradise for thieves and killers, where disputes got settled with lead, and nobody asked questions. Here, Slocum set about his work with relish. The first troublemaker who crossed him took two bullets to the chest before finishing his drink.
In short order, Slocum had cleaned out the riffraff, recovered stolen stock, and made such an impression that even the worst men in the territory spoke his name in hushed tones.
Slocum ruled as judge, jury, and executioner. When a party of emigrants lost their stock, he rode to a nearby ranch with a single companion, pushed open the door, and opened fire, killing three and maiming the fourth.
“Guess they had it comin’,” he muttered, stepping over the bodies.
“You sure about this, Slocum?” his companion asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
Slocum eyed him coolly. “Ain’t a doubt in my mind.”
He retrieved the stolen horses and rode back as if he’d merely fetched the mail.
Slocum was not a man to rush a grudge. Once, a French trader had crossed him, and to everyone’s surprise, Slocum let him be.
Weeks passed. The Frenchman breathed easier.
Then, one night, Slocum knocked on his door. When the trader opened it, Slocum shot him dead, kicked the body inside, and set the house ablaze.
“Some folks,” he sighed, watching the fire, “just don’t take a hint.”
For all his cunning, Slocum was not untouchable. Once, a posse caught him unawares and locked him in a sturdy cabin, posting guards at the door.
He asked that they send for his wife, a woman of rare devotion and even rarer nerve. She rode in hard, and the fools let her through without a search. When the door opened, she drew two revolvers, tossed one to her husband, and together they walked out under a hail of gunfire, mounting double and vanishing into the night.
In time, they dragged Hollis from hiding and bound to a post at Devil’s Ridge. When Slocum heard the news, he only smiled.
Come morning, he made a sport of it, firing at Hollis bit by bit, chipping flesh and bone as the man begged for mercy.
“Slocum, you ain’t gotta do this!” Hollis gasped, bleeding into the dirt.
Slocum tipped his hat back, took aim, and smirked. “I know. But I want to.”
Only when his amusement wore thin did he put Hollis down for good. Then, for his satisfaction, he cut off the dead man’s ears and carried them in his vest pocket as a keepsake.
Whether Slocum’s end came by law or revenge is unknown. Some say he died in a shootout, his luck finally spent. Others whisper of a night when men in dark coats dragged him from his bed, a rope waiting outside.
The Old Blog in the Desert 