by Bill Crider
There’d been a time when Ellie had wanted a child, but it hadn’t happened. And Ellie knew she wasn’t likely to get married again. She wasn’t exactly the kind of woman men wanted for a wife. She was still young, but she’d been married once already, and she wasn’t exactly a beauty. Even though she owned considerable property, no one had come courting her after her husband’s murder.
Ellie didn’t worry about things like marriage, however. With the ranch, she had plenty of other things to occupy her mind, and having Laurie around the place was almost as good as having a child of her own.
“Have you two had breakfast?” Ellie asked.
Laurie laughed again. “We get up real early, Miss Ellie. We had breakfast a long time ago.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” her father said, smiling. “But the way you eat, we have to get up early. Otherwise, you’d still be at the table all morning.”
“I don’t eat much,” Laurie said, and Ellie smiled. “Just some eggs and bacon.” She looked at her father. “And you wouldn’t let me have any coffee.”
“Well, we didn’t come here to talk about food,” Lane said. He looked at Ellie. “I’d better go check on that low place down behind the cottonwoods. We’ve had a lot of water, and a place like that gets muddy mighty fast. We don’t want any cattle to get bogged down there. And if they’re already stuck, we’d better get ’em out.”
“That’s fine,” Ellie said. “Take one of the other hands with you. What about Laurie?”
Lane turned his hat in his hands. “I hate to ask it, but would you mind if she stayed with you for a while? Her ma’s got a touch of something.”
Ellie stopped smiling. “Does she have a fever?”
“Not much of one. She’s just feeling peaked. If you could look in on her later, I’d sure appreciate it.”
“Well, Laurie’s certainly welcome to stay with me.” Ellie was secretly pleased. She always enjoyed having the child around. “And I’ll be glad to look in on Sue. Laurie and I can read some more of that book by Mr. Irving before we go.”
“About Rip Van Winkle?” Laurie asked.
Ellie shook her head. “We’ve read that one already.”
“We could read it again.”
“Well, I guess we could, at that.”
Ellie enjoyed reading aloud to the girl, and it didn’t matter to her if the story was one that she’d read already, especially if Laurie liked it.
“How much longer do you think the rain will last?” Ellie asked Lane.
“Maybe an hour or so. It’s already getting light back in the west. I never heard a harder one, though. It did us some good.”
He turned to go out the door. Laurie was already heading to the big room that first Jonathan Crossland and now Ellie used as an office. Jonathan had kept his library in there too—several thick, heavy books in a tall bookcase.
Ellie had been reading some of the books in the evenings when she had time. She liked the ones by Irving and Cooper, but she wasn’t as fond of the ones by Melville and Hawthorne. She liked Shakespeare, too, but she wasn’t sure that Laurie was ready for something like that.
Laurie was awfully smart, though, smart as a whip. She might just catch on to that Shakespeare fellow without much trouble at all. And besides being smart, Laurie had plenty of spirit. She liked to laugh and joke, and she stood up for herself when she thought she was in the right. She was just the kind of girl that Ellie would have wanted for a daughter if she’d ever had one. She never would, though, so she would just have to enjoy Laurie, who, Ellie told herself, would be around the place for years to come.
Smiling at the thought, Ellie followed Laurie into the office.
THREE
Hob Bowman didn’t like the situation one bit. Letting Angel work outside the Walls was a bad idea from the git-go, but the warden had said it had to be done, and the warden was the man who ran things. Mr. Fisher needed men, the warden said, and Angel Ware was as able-bodied a man as there was in the whole prison. Sturdivant, Riley, and Jephson weren’t far behind. Besides, according to the warden, Ware wasn’t any worse than any of the rest of the bad ’uns they had locked up, and he was probably better than some.
Which proved to Bowman that the warden didn’t know diddly squat about the prisoners. As far as Bowman was concerned, Ware was the worst son of a bitch behind bars in the state of Texas. He’d known it since the first day that Ware had turned up at Huntsville and broken Bowman’s nose. If it had been up to Bowman, Ware would have been dead and buried out behind the prison in an unmarked grave a long time ago.
Well, maybe he could do something about that now. There wasn’t much doubt in his mind that Ware would try something on the way to the Fisher plantation. That’s just the way Ware was, and Bowman aimed to take advantage. In fact, he was going to help Ware out. He’d give Ware a little opening, and when Ware took it, Bowman would be ready for him. He’d already had a little talk with Rankin about the way it would go.
And if any of the others tried to help Ware out, well, that was too bad for them. Bowman would just as soon have them dead, too. They were troublemakers, all of them. There was no way the warden could blame Bowman for having them shot, not if they were trying to escape. The prison orders were clear on that point. Shoot to kill. There’d been far too many escapes in the last year or so, and it was beginning to look bad on the warden’s record.
Bowman had to admit that the prisoners in the wagon didn’t look like they felt up to escaping. They were manacled together two by two at the wrists and ankles, and while they might be able to get out of the wagon, they weren’t going to shuffle very far away before they got ripped apart by the shotgun. Bowman knew what kind of hole Rankin’s gun could make in a man. He’d seen it more than once. It was big enough to drive a steam locomotive through.
Bowman had called Yankee Tom and Gut aside earlier and explained that the prisoners were most likely going to make a break for it.
“And Rankin’ll have to kill ’em,” he said. “We can’t have any escapes. It’s bad for discipline. You can see that, can’t you.”
“Sure can, Boss,” Gut said. “You can’t let those bastards get away. No tellin’ what they might do to the citizens if they was on the loose. And we sure wouldn’t want anybody else gettin’ ideas.”
Yankee Tom just nodded. He was a man who didn’t like to waste any more time talking than was absolutely necessary.
The thing Bowman hadn’t counted on was the rain. The day had been hot and clear when they started out, so hot that Bowman had felt as if he might boil in his own sweat.
Then the clouds started to pile up, big and thick and fluffy white on top, but with flat black bottoms. After that, it began to get dark to the north and west. The wind began to pick up a little just after noon. Dust danced along the wagon tracks and little grains of sand jumped up off the ground to sting Bowman on the face.
“Storm comin’, looks like,” Gut said.
Yankee Tom nodded.
“Bad one, from the looks of it,” Gut said. “And we’re gonna be caught out in the open unless we can make that stand of pines.”
The trees that Gut was referring to were about a mile ahead, in the direction of the storm. Bowman didn’t think the pines were likely to provide much cover, but he supposed they’d be better than nothing. And once in the trees, he might be able to tempt Ware to try an escape.
That’s what he’d been planning to do all along, get back in the trees, out of sight of anyone who might happen along, and let Rankin take care of business.
Bowman was driving the team of mules, and Rankin was sitting beside him on the wagon seat, looking back at the prisoners every now and again, turning that one eye on them without saying a word. He didn’t talk even as much as Yankee Tom.
Bowman shook the reins, but the mules weren’t much encouraged. They seemed to sense the approaching storm. Probably smelled it, Bowman thought, and they didn’t want to head into it.
Bowman’s bullwhip was lying on the seat be
tween him and Rankin, but he didn’t pick it up. He used it on the prisoners every day without a second thought, but he didn’t like to use it on animals. The mules plodded on at their own pace.
“We ain’t gonna make it,” Gut said, as the wind picked up.
Ahead of them the trees were bending under the force of an even stronger wind. In the dark clouds there was a bright white flash, and then the thunder rolled. A few big drops of rain spattered into the wagon.
The mules picked up their pace, as if they had decided that Gut was right about getting to the cover of the trees, but they were still a hundred yards away when the storm hit.
Bowman could hear it coming through the trees, the water sounding like a billion agitated bees as it slashed down through the green needles of the pines, the wind whipping through the branches. After that it was only seconds before a powerful wind hit them, ripping off Rankin’s black hat and sending it flying away like a carrion crow. Then a wall of water washed over the wagon.
Angel drank it in. No one had given the prisoners anything to drink before they’d started out, and Angel hadn’t had a bath in two years. He turned up his face and let the rain batter him. It ran through his hair and soaked his ragged prison clothes. It was falling so hard that it almost bruised his forehead and flattened his eyeballs behind his closed lids. The raindrops rattled off the wagon bed like gunshots. Lightning flashed again, and thunder grumbled.
Bowman was cursing the mules as the wagon slewed in the suddenly muddy road, but his voice was lost in the rush of the rain. Water swirled around the wagon wheels, and the wagon slipped sideways, then slid back on track.
Gut and Yankee Tom were thrown off balance, and Angel might have risked jumping them then if he’d been ready. He didn’t think it would have worked, though, because he was manacled to Jephson, who didn’t look as if he were ready for anything. He was bending double, making a futile effort to keep some part of himself dry in the battering storm.
Riley and Sturdivant were looking at Angel, who shook his head. If they were going to try anything at all, they’d have to wait for a better chance.
The wagon reached the trees. Mist rose up off the ground like smoke. The rain sluiced off the pine needles in tiny waterfalls, but its force was reduced. When they had gotten about thirty yards into the thicket, Bowman slowed the wagon to a stop. There was no one around, and no one was likely to come along.
“I think there’s something wrong with one of the wheels,” Bowman said. “Feels loose to me. I want you boys to get out and have a look at it.”
Gut and Yankee Tom climbed out of the wagon. They held their clubs loosely and stood in the rain as if waiting for something to happen.
Angel had a pretty good idea what the something was.
“I didn’t mean just them boys,” Bowman said. “I meant you, Ware. You and Jephson and Riley and Sturdivant. Y’all get on out now and have a look at that wheel.”
Angel wiped water from his face and turned his icy blue gaze first on Bowman and then on Rankin. But he didn’t make any move to get up. Jephson started to stand, and Angel jerked on the manacles, bringing Jephson back down to the wagon bed.
“I know the kind of a man you are, Bowman,” Angel said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the sound of the rain. “And since I know you, we’re not going any damned where. If you’re thinking about having your butt-boy kill us, he’ll have to do it while we’re sitting right here.”
Bowman didn’t make any attempt to deny what his plan was. He knew Ware wouldn’t believe him anyway.
“You know something, Ware?” Bowman said, touching his nose as if it were tender. “You’ve been a trouble to me ever since you came behind the Walls. You tried to escape your first day, and I should’ve killed you then. But I didn’t. I don’t know why. It was just a mistake, and now I’m going to take care of it.”
“There’ll be blood and buckshot all over the wagon bed,” Angel said. “It might be hard to explain that to the warden when you get back. Not many people try to escape while they’re sittin’ down in a wagon.”
“This rain’ll wash out any blood there is,” Bowman said. “Poorly as you fellas look, there won’t be too much of it. Gut and Yankee Tom can pick the buckshot out. So you can die sittin’ there, or you can die on your feet like a man. It’s up to you. I don’t give a damn, and neither does Rankin. Ain’t that right, Rankin?”
Rankin nodded. His thin black hair hung in wet strings around his face.
“Hell, Angel, let’s get out of the wagon,” Abilene Jack said, leaning forward. “I don’t much give a damn whether they shoot us or not. If they do, at least we won’t have to go back to that damn prison.”
“Damned if I’m gettin’ shot,” Hoot said. “I’m too young and pretty to die. If you get out, you’ll have to carry me.”
“Ain’t worth the trouble, then,” Jack said. He relaxed against the side of the wagon.
Bowman sighed. “That’s fine with me, boys, if that’s the way you want it. Just remember that I gave you a chance to die standin’ up. Shoot ’em, Rankin.”
Rankin raised the shotgun, Jephson screamed, and lightning struck a pine tree not ten feet away.
FOUR
It was as if a stick of dynamite had exploded in the tree, which shattered into a thousand pieces, throwing limbs and splinters everywhere. Sparks flew upward like fireflies and were snuffed out by the rain.
One of the tree limbs, a short one, maybe two feet long, broke off and tore straight through Yankee Tom’s chest. The limb was as hard and white as bone, except where it was stained by Yankee Tom’s blood.
Yankee Tom stood flat-footed for just a second, never making a sound, though his mouth was wide open. He had his hands around the part of the limb that stuck out in front of him, as if he might be going to pull it out and toss it aside.
Then he fell on his face without a word. Gut knelt beside him, screaming something that Angel couldn’t hear because his ears were ringing and because the mules had bolted straight ahead, nearly throwing the prisoners out of the wagon.
The mules had, in fact, tossed Bowman and Rankin off the seat in front, and now the mules were running free while the prisoners bounced around in the wagon bed like cornshuck toys.
“Get up, goddamnit!” Angel yelled at Jephson while he tried to stand himself. “We’ve got to stop those mules!”
Angel crawled over the jouncing wagon bed that was slick and wet as a river rock, dragging Jephson along with him. When he got to the front, he pulled himself up and saw that he wasn’t going to be able to reach the reins. They flopped out over the mules’ backs like black ribbons in the wind.
He also saw that the wagon was going to stop soon anyway. The mules weren’t running in the road, and there were trees all around.
That was Angel’s last thought before the wagon wheels on the left side hit something—a log, a rock, a hole—Angel never knew just what, and it didn’t matter.
The wagon flew up, turned halfway over, and dumped the prisoners out just before it slammed into a tree trunk with a crack like thunder.
Angel found himself rolling in the mud with Jephson dragging on him like an anchor. The rain washed over them like a river.
Angel tried to stand and slipped back into the mud. Jephson was just lying there. He was alive, though. Angel could see him breathing.
Angel was tempted to kill him right there where he lay, mash his face down into the mud and let him strangle on it, but Angel knew he couldn’t do that. He needed Jephson alive as long as they were manacled together. He sure as hell couldn’t carry him.
He looked around. Jack and Hoot were lying in the mud, looking dazed. Jack’s face was bleeding, and a pale splinter was sticking out of Hoot’s left arm halfway between the elbow and the shoulder.
Angel didn’t have time to worry about that. He had his own problems. He got to his knees and slapped Jephson across the mouth.
“Stand up, you son of a bitch.” His voice seemed to echo around in hi
s head. “Rankin’ll be here with that shotgun before you know it. We have to get away from here.”
Something about that seemed to register with Jephson. He shook his head, blinked, and bent forward. Angel dragged him up into a sitting position, then stood himself. Jephson came along with him.
“Come on,” Angel said, pulling Jephson toward where Jack and Hoot lay.
They hobbled over to stand above the prone prisoners. Jack looked up at them. Hoot was moaning softly with his eyes closed.
“Hoot’s hurt,” Jack said.
“I can see that,” Angel said. “He’s gonna be hurt a lot worse if Rankin blasts him with that scattergun of his. Can you get up?”
“Sure enough,” Jack said. “Come on, Hoot, boy.”
Jack stood, bringing Hoot up with him. Hoot opened his eyes and looked at his arm.
“Got a damn pine limb stuck in me,” he said.
Angel looked at it. There wasn’t much blood. “Might just be part of the wagon. We’ll see about it later on. Right now, we gotta get away from Rankin and that bastard Bowman.”
“Maybe they got their necks broke,” Jephson said hopefully.
“We ain’t that lucky,” Jack said.
“Maybe we are,” Angel said. “Else they’d be after us by now.”
“They are after us,” Hoot said, his keen hearing apparently undisturbed by the rushing rain, the explosion, or the fall.
He pointed through the blanket of rain with his undamaged right arm. Angel could see two dark figures moving toward them. He wondered if they could see him.
Maybe not.
“Let’s move off into the trees,” he said. “We might can get behind them and catch them off guard.”
He didn’t know exactly how that was going to be possible, but it was worth a try. And it was a hell of a lot better than standing around out there in the rain waiting for Rankin to kill them.
He stumbled away, hauling Jephson along. He didn’t look to see if Jack and Hoot were coming. If they did, that was fine. If they didn’t, that was their own look-out.