by Paul Lederer
‘I guess I have no choice. It might be a cleaner death than what they have in store for me here.’
‘You’re right,’ Voorman said, straightening up. ‘There’s no choice. This is all rigged, Cam. You guessed it; I know it. I’ve seen it before.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I can offer you some insurance.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cam asked, his eyes intent on his sewing, the waxed thread spinning on the revolving spindle, as a slow-walking guard patrolled the perimeter of the boot shop.
‘Take me with you,’ Voorman pleaded. His grip was tight on Cam’s arm. ‘I can watch your back; I can be of help.’
‘Hogan won’t let you go with us.’
‘Damn Hogan! He’ll have no choice. Don’t you see! You’ll just tell him that so long as you were making a break for it, you asked me along, too.’ Voorman’s eyes were frantic now. ‘He won’t dare complain. Would a real convict turn his back on one of his brothers?’
‘It won’t work.’
‘It will,’ Voorman insisted. His voice grew uglier. ‘I got to get out, Cam, don’t you see? If you don’t take me I’ll scream loud and long so that the warden won’t dare let you break out. And then,’ he promised darkly, ‘when I have you back inside, in my shop, I’ll make your life sheer living hell for as long as you are locked up. Which, I don’t have to remind you, will be for life.’
Cameron couldn’t tell if it was viciousness or desperation that caused the man he thought to be his only friend in the prison to talk this way, but Voorman’s motive didn’t matter. Only the plan mattered. And Hogan’s plan was bound to succeed because, as both men knew full well by now, the breakout was a set-up. Cameron nodded very slowly.
‘I’ll talk to Hogan—’
‘Don’t! Just find out how he’s planned it out. I don’t want the warden learning anything – we both know Hogan is an informer. Just give me a crack at an open door, Cameron.’ Voorman looked briefly ashamed. ‘If I bullied you, I’m sorry. I do not wish to die here, no more than you do. A man gets to be like a caged animal the longer he’s caged. I’ll go with you and I’ll be your right hand as long as you need me.’
It was hard not to believe Voorman; it was difficult not to trust his word. Cameron knew the man’s background. He was formerly a butcher in Phoenix. His wife and her lover had had the misfortune of being caught in an unfortunate situation when Voorman had arrived home early from work after a shipment of hogs had been delayed. Younger then, hot-blooded, Voorman had addressed the two with a cleaver.
Voorman was awaiting execution, but he had never worn leg irons and was given cornbread and slivers of salt pork, even an occasional piece of fruit among other things beyond the usual prison fare because he was classified as a ‘special circumstance’ prisoner – the circumstance being that his brother was a member of the Territorial Assembly. The brother’s term was nearly up; the next election was much in doubt. The Dutchman’s fate hung on the scales of politics. The prison commission was not corrupt enough to grant a murderer outright release, but it had been willing to bide its time regarding the execution of an assemblyman’s brother. After all Voorman was not going anywhere anyway.
But Voorman was one more of the walking dead inhabiting the prison. A stroke of the warden’s pen could send any one of them to the scaffold at sunrise. ‘Stony Harte’ included.
Any possibility of escape was preferable to living beneath the shadow of the hangman’s noose.
FIVE
It was not on that night nor the one after that the escape was attempted, but on the third night.
Without Elliot Hogan’s knowledge, Cameron had laid it open to Voorman. The Dutchman listened thoughtfully and then commented, ‘Well, it is a set-up then. That’s certain.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ Cam asked.
‘Tell me again the short of it,’ Voorman prompted.
‘According to Hogan there’s only a single window in the entire prison that has no bars on the window: the window in the warden’s office. I’ve never seen it myself.’
‘I have,’ Voorman said. ‘That’s true enough. But that office is beyond a steel door.’
‘Hogan is the janitor in that wing, as you know. He says he has found a way to wedge the door. A lock will seem to secure the door, but it will be just slightly ajar.’
‘He says that, does he?’ Voorman said doubtfully.
‘He says that. Maybe he’s wrong. But we all know there’s risk involved. We could get trapped in the corridor and caught again. For myself, it’s worth any risk. What can they do to me that they haven’t already done or threatened?’
‘True enough.’ Voorman again grew meditative. ‘I can manage to slip up into the corridor. It’s easy enough. But once we’re out the warden’s window, what then?’
‘Hogan’s bribed a man from the stable to bring two horses up outside the western wall.’
‘Bribed with what?’ Voorman asked skeptically.
‘I’m not sure. Hogan said it wasn’t important for me to know.’
‘It’s a set-up for sure,’ Voorman repeated. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with that. You see, Cam, there’s no risk involved at all. The warden’s plotted it. He and Hogan. They want you to lead them to the loot from the robbery. They’re making it all quite simple. Hogan just has to keep telling you that it is really dangerous to convince you that you must go along. To continue to place it in your mind that you’re willing to risk all for freedom.’
‘And I am,’ Cam admitted. ‘Plot or not, I’m going.’
The way Voorman put it, Cameron could understand that he might be about to be taken for a ride. No matter, that was the chance he had to take. He couldn’t do another month in Yuma prison, let alone years, a lifetime. This could be his only chance at escape – ever.
Voorman said, ‘Just be sure not to breathe a word about me. I’m going along, Cam. And I’m on your side.’
Was that even true, Cameron wondered as he returned to his work? Maybe it was Voorman who was the informer and Cam had been duped into telling him the plan. Maybe it was Voorman who was reporting to the warden and taking a hand in the break for his own reasons. What reasons? Maybe his brother still had influence with the warden. Maybe his politically connected brother had manipulated Warden Traylor, bribed him to let the big-shouldered Dutchman escape.
In the night these thoughts spun and collided with each other in Cameron’s mind which he had to admit was even now not as clear as it should be after the bullet that had grooved his scalp, the beatings he had endured, the starvation and barbaric treatment he had endured.
None of his suspicions mattered; now all that he cared about was escaping this rotting, oppressive prison. He would rather take his chances on the open desert with two convicted criminals than spend another night on that rough plank bunk with the rats scuttling from hole to hole, with his stomach knotting with hunger. A man should at least die free if he must die.
Cameron vowed to trust neither of them – as he had once trusted Stony Harte to his sorrow. It was Yuma prison or the long sand desert. Both savage wastes in their own way, but he had made his choice. He was going to make the escape no matter what was to come.
Cameron Black had been asleep for no more than an hour when he felt the presence of Elliot Hogan next to him and heard him whisper from the darkness.
‘Up now. Quiet and cautious, son. We’re going over the wall.’
Rubbing roughly at his eyes, Cameron sat up on his bunk. ‘How …?’ he mumbled.
‘Shut up and do as I say,’ Elliot Hogan hissed. ‘This is our only chance.’
Cameron listened to the instructions whispered into his ear. Incredulous, but desperate – they had indeed managed to make him the most desperate of men – he agreed.
‘The guard won’t fall for it,’ he had to object.
‘For you he will. The warden can’t let Stony Harte die until they have the money. Everybody knows what kind of shape you’re in! Just do it!’
The plan was a si
mple one, of the kind they worked out in dime novels. He lay back on his bunk, moaning as loudly and pitiably as he could. Elliot went to the door and began calling for the night guard who approached on heavy feet.
‘What is it, Hogan?’
‘What do you think, you fool? Harte’s dying. That sheriff broke him up real good. He won’t last in here. You’ve got to get him to the doc’s.’
The guard hesitated only a minute then drew the set of keys from his belt to open the heavy door. Elliot Hogan stood behind the door as it opened and, as the guard entered the room to stride toward ‘Stony Harte’, Hogan stepped up behind him and slammed his joined fists into the base of the prison guard’s skull. The man dropped to the floor.
The fix is in, Cameron thought, as Hogan urged him to his feet.
If he had had any doubts before, Cameron had none now. No trained guard would enter the cell alone. He would have summoned help. Hogan had hit the man hard, but that hard? No. The man had fallen softly, not like a felled tree. The fix is in, and somehow that raised Cameron’s morale. They wanted him to escape the prison. He wanted nothing more himself. Let the future take care of itself.
‘Come on,’ Hogan whispered fiercely. Cameron stepped around the fallen guard’s body and followed Hogan into the corridor. No other guard was in sight. Cameron smiled again. It was a game they were playing and he was beginning to like it very much. He tried to act stupid and concerned, moving tentatively as Hogan swiftly followed the corridor toward the stairs leading down to the warden’s office.
‘Hurry up!’
‘Where are the guards?’
‘At a meeting: I told you I had a reason for picking this night,’ Hogan lied thinly.
Cameron almost laughed out loud. Let him lie, let him complete the ruse. In only a little time he would be free on the desert. Then let Hogan and the others do their best; he would at least have a chance.
They clattered down the adobe steps, their heavy work boots making far too much noise. Still no one else stirred in the prison until they had nearly reached the steel door to the warden’s office. The figure appeared from out of the shadows. Hogan drew up short, obviously confused and startled.
‘I’m going with you boys,’ Voonman said in a low voice.
‘The hell you are,’ Hogan said bitterly.
‘The hell I’m not,’ Voorman said, and, in his hand, Cameron could make out the long, thin menace of a leather awl. ‘No time for arguing now, Hogan.’
‘No,’ Hogan agreed haltingly. He knew that Voorman was a killer and believed the man would use the long deadly awl if pushed to it.
‘Get the door,’ Voorman commanded, and Hogan did so, cursing under his breath. He shot a poisonous glance at Cameron, knowing who had given up the plan to Voorman. Cameron Black cared nothing at all for the threat or Hogan’s frustration. The three men shouldered through the partially locked steel door and made for the window opposite. They quickly dragged the warden’s desk beneath the high narrow window and in another moment were outside.
It was a matter of minutes before they had scaled the twelve-foot outer wall using the Indian ladder made from a barked pole with a dozen cross pieces secured to it with rawhide. Then, dropping to the sandy earth on the far side, Hogan led them on a weaving run through the tall sage and greasewood to a small clearing where two horses waited in the night, their eyes bright with curiosity and reflected starlight.
‘There’s only two horses,’ Hogan said, stating the obvious.
‘They’ll do to get us on our way,’ Voorman said. ‘I’ll ride behind you, Hogan.’
‘Why not with Stony?’ Hogan said complainingly.
‘Because I say we do it this way,’ Voorman said, and Hogan, knowing what the desperate man could do with a thrust of the awl, could only nod with resignation.
Cameron took one of the horses, a roan with a bad coat, while the other men clambered aboard a time-weary bay, an old army horse, Cameron guessed. Neither was in its prime, but why would the escapees be supplied with sturdy mounts? Cameron wished he had Dolly under him. He might even then have made a break for it if he had Harte’s mare, but he did not. He followed docilely. From here on, he knew, every chance at escape had to be attanded to.
There was a small creek here which was the prison’s water supply. As usual in this part of the country it was lined with willow brush, here and there a clump of cottonwood trees casting shadows against the sand and only now and then a sycamore. They followed the creek northward for half a mile and then Voorman had Hogan halt the bay horse.
‘Back toward the south now, I think.’
‘We’re wasting time!’ Hogan said peevishly.
‘It’s not time wasted if we can confuse them,’ Voorman said strongly. ‘Once we hit the flats we’re visible for miles and any good horses can run down these pieces of dog meat we’re riding. I don’t intend to get caught, do you, Hogan?’
‘Of course not,’ Hogan said indignantly. He wiped his hand across his face. The moon was beginning to rise too quickly to the west. ‘I just wanted to put some ground under us before they got wise.’
There was palpable tension between the two, each mistrusting the other as they started to back-track, riding in the creek proper to disguise their tracks. Hopefully the prison did not have an Indian tracker or an experienced army scout at its disposal. Most men, Cameron knew, could not find such slight traces as a stone chipped by a steel horseshoe, let alone follow after them swiftly. Voorman, he knew, was correct and he was momentarily glad that the Dutchman was with him.
But which of the two was to be more feared? Hogan’s job was to find the missing stolen money by coercing Cameron Black. Once he finally came to understand that Cameron was not Stony Harte, he was apt simply to leave him in the desert to die. Voorman? Did the Dutchman simply wish to escape or had he made a separate bargain with the authorities to try to make them reconsider his own pending death sentence?
There was no telling. Cameron could trust neither of them, he knew. His wish had been to find Stony Harte, somehow recover the loot and return it. Return it to … he was still a young man and unused to duplicity, but he realized that Warden Traylor and Sheriff Barney Yount who had been at this sort of business for a long time would happily welcome him back with the money – and as happily toss him back into a cell where he would never live to tell his tale.
No, the only intelligent thing to do, he considered, as his horse plodded on along the dwindling watercourse and they moved out onto the wide desert, was to wait for his chance and make a break for California, Mexico … anywhere.
But that would leave Stony Harte unpunished, wouldn’t it? And for what Stony’s betrayal had caused him to go through, the bandit would pay if Cameron could find a way.
‘Where’d you get these horses?’ Voorman demanded angrily.
‘When you’re in need you can’t pick and choose,’ Hogan shot back, regaining his recklessness.
‘This damn’ beast is staggering already. We’re going to have to walk a way and we haven’t made twenty miles. And look at that half-moon rising! We’re nothing but targets out here.’
‘If you hadn’t doubled back.…’ Hogan sputtered.
‘If we hadn’t, they’d probably already have us!’
The argument was somewhat surreal since both men knew that there would be no posse swooping down on them until they had somehow convinced or forced Cameron to show them where the stolen money was hidden. But both men were on edge – Cameron thought Hogan was nervous because he did not want to leave the pursuit behind and feared the doubling back might have done so. Then Voorman, although he probably would have liked to see the money, was a convicted killer who feared the men from the prison could be too close.
Cam allowed them their squabble, pretending to know nothing. Nonetheless, the horses, aged and out of condition, were weary and the three swung down to walk, leading the ponies across the moon-glossed white desert. The second day was a duplicate of the first, horse and man staggering across
an endless desert waste with a merciless sun overhead.
‘We got to make camp,’ Hogan complained, as they struggled on through the deep sand.
‘Not out here,’ Voorman said. ‘Let’s find us a place to lay up after sunrise. If we can’t find water, we won’t make it far in the heat.’
‘If we could find a ranch, maybe a small pueblo where we could snag up some good horses.…’
‘“If” is a fine and meaningless word,’ Voorman grumbled.
‘Hell with you,’ Hogan said. He was gradually regaining his truculence, convinced now, perhaps, that Voorman wasn’t going to attempt to murder him.
The sand became deeper and by the middle of the night they found themselves wandering through a moonscape of dunes, forty- to fifty-feet high. The horses labored on, Cameron could hear their breathing and the hard breathing of the men. Hogan, Cameron noticed, looked back across his shoulder more and more frequently as if waiting for help to arrive. It was still far too soon; and then, maybe Voorman’s maneuvering back on the creek had truly concealed their course from any pursuers.
‘There’s no two ways about it,’ Hogan said, as the three men sat resting in the scant shade of a half-dozen ocotillo bushes. The spiny plants rose twenty feet over their heads and the tips of these ‘coachman’s whips’ were decorated with incarnadine flowers at this time of year. The shadows of the tall whiplike plants wove and recrossed casting a basket weave of shadow against the hot sand. Cameron saw a fat horned toad, body panting as it breathed the hot dusty air.
‘We’ve got to find a little town, a ranch.’
‘Water,’ Voorman said.
‘Yes. At least water, or we’re not long for it. How about it, Harte? They say you know this desert as well as any man.’
Cameron hesitated a moment too long before answering, ‘Not this far south, I’m afraid.’
‘Water, boys,’ Voorman repeated. ‘Some clothes if we can find them,’ he said, plucking at his pale, ill-fitting prison garb. ‘And fresh horses. We haven’t got a chance continuing as we are.’
They weren’t quite desperate yet, but as twilight again began to dull the land with deep violet, Cameron’s lips were cracked with the heat and the back of his neck was burned raw. The two horses – what were they, plow horses! – stumbled on through the sand and then across the rock-strewn flats with their heads lowered, bodies swaying without energy. All the same, the horses were liable to last longer than they were out here. One more day – did they have the strength to ride one more day through the desert’s blast-furnace heat?