Hart the Regulator 7

by John B. Harvey

  This they did with one guard overseeing them: a procedure the brothers had got used to when working on a cotton farm down deep into Mississippi. One which they had endured until the plantation owner had taken it into his head to make an example of one of them and have him publicly whipped. Since the offence was making indecent advances at his youngest daughter, and since both brothers knew full well that it had been the daughter who had been advancing at the time, they naturally objected.

  In the resulting fracas, three of the owner’s white overseers were badly injured, one of them having his head stoved in with the end of a piece of picket fence. The plantation owner’s eldest son tried to make use of a double-barreled shotgun and had the stock broken across his back for his pains - the back itself was broken in the process. Gideon and Joseph eluded the pursuing dogs and the police force of Bogalusa, escaping north up the Pearl River as far as Jackson. They robbed a store for food and clothes and the takings from the cash box, did the same in Yazoo City and went across the state line into Arkansas. Here they kept themselves going by a mixture of laboring work and petty crime until one night they ran afoul of a US Deputy Marshal and wound up in the State Penitentiary close by Danville on the Petit Jean.

  The man guarding the two blacks usually leaned back against the house wall with a shotgun resting on the ground beside his right leg. He had a Colt .44 holstered on the same side, the gun belt high on the hip and a safety thong over the hammer.

  All the work in and around the penitentiary ceased at sundown. That was the rule. The governor’s wife, however, was anxious to get her garden finished before her relations came over from Little Rock to stay a while. On this account, Gideon and Joseph were kept working for an extra couple of hours, using the light from a kerosene lantern to wield their pick and shovel. After this time, they were taken in and fed separately in the kitchen. By Levy.

  It had taken Scott Levy some time to get the confidence of the two blacks, who weren’t too sure that they were any better off outside the prison than they were inside it. But eventually the promise of being able to ride with Tap Loughlin’s gang—and get a percentage of the railroad money—convinced them.

  This goes wrong,” Gideon had said to Levy, “we’re goin’ to have a pack of hounds chewin’ on our ass!”

  “Yeah,” added Joseph, “an’ that’s just for starters!”

  “Don’t worry,” Levy had gulped, turning away with a slight but obvious limp, “everything’s goin’ to be all right.”

  But there was strain in his eyes and sweat on his forehead as he said it.

  Chapter Two

  Gideon’s arms moved through a slow but powerful arc, taking the shovel up into the air and then driving it down at a slanting angle into the earth; as it neared the ground his leg moved with it and the underside of his boot met with the upper edge of the blade. The shovel was forced deep into the ground, Gideon leaned his weight against the handle and then lifted the blade clear. A load of earth and stones was hoisted high and then thrown in the direction of a growing heap off to the left.

  Meanwhile, Joseph was squatting close to the lantern, using a short-handled hammer to break up large pieces of rock that had been dug out earlier. These would later be carted off and used as foundations for a new wing of the penitentiary.

  The guard, tired, bored, smoked a thin cigarette which he held in a cupped hand down by his side, down by the shotgun. A sliver of grey smoke showed momentarily as it glided past his face and then disappeared into the gathering dark. The meal would be over by now, the guard was thinking, and the prisoners locked back into their cells or dormitories. His stomach grumbled a complaint, and he started to curse his luck at drawing this particular duty. There was compensation, though. When he got to the kitchen, his plate would be piled higher than most anyone else’s had been. He allowed himself a smile at the thought and moved the cigarette to his lips.

  Joseph raised the hammer above his shoulder.

  Gideon guided the shovel into the earth and lifted it clear.

  The guard drew hard on the cigarette, then cupped it away, a small red glow between his fingers.

  Gideon started to swing the shovel towards the pile of earth; this time he carried on swinging. The contents of the shovel were hurled hard into the guard’s face and at the instant that the load had left the curved blade, Joseph smashed the hammer head down into the side of the kerosene lantern. The guard staggered sideways as the mixture of soil and stones showered across him, temporarily blinding him. His hand dropped the cigarette and grasped at the barrel of the shotgun, but his sudden movement had sent it falling away from him. He leaned over and blinked his eyes clear, only to discover that it was dark anyway. A shadow seemed to lunge towards him and he was torn between evading it and trying to retrieve the gun. He did neither. The underside of the shovel blade landed on the side of his head and smashed him against the brick wall. A muffled shout escaped from his mouth and a hand grabbed him, holding him off the ground. Joseph brought the hammer through a sharp arc.

  They took up the shotgun, rolled the man over and pulled the pistol from his holster. Inside his pocket was a bunch of keys and, after the third attempt, Gideon found the one which unlocked the lengths of chain shackling their legs together. The chain gave them enough room to do their work; not enough for what lay before them. Both men left the shackles on the ground, but after a moment’s thought, Joseph retrieved his and let it swing from his left hand. In his right he gripped the Colt .44. Gideon led the way with the shotgun.

  Instead of heading directly to the kitchen, the two blacks ran around the rear of the governor’s house and skirted the outbuildings until they reached the stables. The old timer who kept the guards’ horses in trim, and who curry-combed the pair of bays that drew the carriage for the governor’s wife, was enjoying a quiet game of cards with the stable boy. One sight of the shotgun in the light of the lamp that hung from the rafters, and cards were forgotten.

  “Seven horses. The best. Get ’em saddled.”

  “One sound an’ you’re both deader’n possum.”

  It wasn’t easy to fix harness with both hands shaking, but somehow it was done.

  “Okay, now the rest. Soon as we’re gone get ’em out in that corral. You hear shootin’,” Gideon pointed the shotgun at the boy, “you open the gate and drive ’em hard.”

  Joseph started taking up reins. It was a forty-yard dash from the cells where Loughlin and Majors were imprisoned to the stables, but tethering the mounts anywhere closer was impossible.

  “You all right, brother?” Joseph asked.

  Gideon finished looping the last rein. “Let’s go.” He whirled round on the livery man and brandished the shotgun once more. “These horses ain’t here. Anythin’ else goes wrong, I swear I’ll ram this bastard down your straggly throat an’ laugh while I pulls the trigger. You understand me?”

  The old man was shaking so much he couldn’t answer; it was clear enough that he understood. The stable boy’s face was white as linen and he was awful close to throwing up.

  “Okay.”

  The two blacks set off towards the kitchens as fast as they could.

  The side door was always kept locked and the trustee who was waiting for the extra work detail to return only unfastened it when the guard knocked and called his name. On this occasion, things were different. Joseph swung the hammer hard against the wood and the lock broke away; he leaned his shoulder against the door and it sprang back, splintering widely. The trustee was still turning in that direction, his warning shout still forming on his lips, when Joseph swung the chain that dangled from his left hand. It struck the man across the face, instantly drawing blood and knocking him back against one of the stoves. There was a clatter of pans and the chain swung a second time and wrapped around the trustee’s neck, hauling him close. Joseph hit him in the stomach with the handle of the hammer, and when his head came sharply forward, he drove the top of the implement down into his skull.

  Gideon had drawn the pist
ol from his belt and passed it to Levy, along with the bunch of keys. They knew that it would enable them to unlock the main doors to the dormitory in which Baptiste and Little Kinney were kept, but that it was useless to get into the condemned men’s cells. Keys to those were restricted to the guards who worked that area alone.

  Levy pointed at the cupboard to his right, in there. Sacks of supplies. I’ve been stashing ’em ready. There’s a couple of bigger sacks loose at the back.” Again he pointed. “Load ’em up an’ get ’em ready.”

  “Right,” called Joseph. “Move out!”

  Levy half-ran, half-hopped through the kitchen to the dining room, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his leg. Plenty of time to let that heal up later when they were in the clear. He unlocked the dining room door and hurried across fifteen yards of blackness until he was by the entrance to the first dormitory block.

  Fumbling with the keys, he dropped the ring to the ground; anxious, he only retrieved it on the third attempt. The butt of the Colt pushed awkwardly into his stomach and he readjusted it. His tongue seemed to be made of fur; thick fur.

  The key caught in the lock and refused to turn more than half an inch. More sweat pumped through Levy’s pores; his breath caught low down in his throat. The keys were wrong. The whoring keys were wrong! The key turned another fraction then stuck. Levy was filled with thoughts, images of disaster. When he did finally get the door open the dormitory would be full, not of prisoners, but guards. Armed and grinning. Ready to blast him...

  The heavy lock gave under continued pressure and Levy pushed the door back. No guards. Wire cages, all the way up to the roof, divided the long room into two sections. Bunk beds pushed close together; here and there a pair had been moved even closer by the inmates themselves. Levy’s feet refused to move from where he stood. Couldn’t.

  A shout broke his thoughts, his inaction: Baptiste calling from the far end. What in God’s name was he doing?

  What?

  Levy scurried around the first cage, a small figure, no more than five six, his shoulders rounded and the suggestion of a hump to his back; he seemed to have no neck worth speaking of. A round face with a squashed-up nose and blue-green eyes that looked permanently startled.

  “Get this damn thing unlocked!”

  Baptiste was standing close to the door, fingers pushing between the diamonds of wire mesh. Tall where Levy was short, broad and strong where Levy was merely misshapen. His eyes were dark and they glared at Levy with anger. Sweat showed clearly on his skin, on the stubble that fringed his beard and moustache.

  “Come on!”

  Levy made the connection at the third attempt, wondering where Kinney had got to, glancing round for him, not concentrating on what he was doing.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  But the door came back with a creak and suddenly Kinney was there, at Baptiste’s shoulder. A dozen or more other prisoners were up and on their feet, moving to the cage door. Voices yelled, startled, jubilant. Baptiste turned fast, his left arm extended. Two men staggered back, one of them losing blood freely from his nose, the other with both hands to his face. Little Kinney pulled Baptiste through and slammed the door shut. The howl that went up was deafening.

  The three men raced to the main dormitory door. The other cage was awake and aware now and men hurled themselves against the wire, rocking it, threatening to bring it down. Levy let the other two out into the darkness and this time his fingers were more certain on the keys.

  “You reckon Tap’s okay?” Kinney glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the condemned cells.

  “We got about a minute to find out,” said Baptiste. “If he ain’t out and runnin’ by then

  He let his sentence trail off into the night. There was more to do than talk. The hounds were already beginning to bay inside their runs, bodies banging against the sides. Soon the guards would be out, roused from sleep and heading for the dormitory block to see what was happening. Baptiste wondered if they shouldn’t take off straight away; maybe a minute was going to prove too long.

  ~*~

  Joseph belly-crawled the last twenty yards to the foot of the tower. The lanterns spilled down a wide, slightly wavering pool of light, the edges of which shifted with the wind. Holding his breath, he pushed himself up to his feet and took the one step necessary towards the bottom of the ladder. The chain was wrapped around his left wrist, fingers holding it taut so as not to allow the links to clink against one another. The hammer was pushed down into his pants with the head jutting out above the waistband.

  Joseph tested his weight against the first rung, holding the sides as steady as he could. There was very little movement, next to no noise. He allowed himself the beginnings of a smile and began, slowly, to climb. Ten rungs from the top, he stopped and leaned forward, flattening himself as much as he could. From the footsteps above he knew that the guard had got up from his stool and was pacing around. A moment later he heard the quick, sharp scratch of a match and a long intake of breath; the spent match was tossed over the side and fell past him, spinning and turning.

  Still the man turned and turned again within the confines of his circle. Joseph was beginning to get the first twinges of cramp in his right thigh; he straightened the leg to an exaggerated degree and pressed the sole of his foot down on to the ladder as hard as he dare. The feeling stopped, held, began to disperse.

  There was a scraping sound as the guard readjusted his stool and then sat back down.

  Joseph allowed himself no smiles this time - nothing until it was done. All of it. The last section of the climb took him longer than all the rest; the seconds before he peered over the top were fraught with expectations of disaster. The guard was sitting, cross-legged, smoking; he was two-thirds turned away from Joseph, looking out over the compound and the roofs beyond. Joseph said a quick, brief prayer without a sound, without a single movement of his lips.

  He held out his left arm and took careful hold of one end of the length of chain, letting it silently unwind. One leg crossed the parapet, one leg followed by another. He could smell the slightly acrid tobacco smoke, see clearly the reddened swelling of a boil at the side of the man’s neck.

  Joseph brought his arms up above his head as he darted close, swung them down as he stopped short of the stool. Pulling his arms outwards sharply he wrenched the chain hard around the guard’s neck and jerked it back into his own stomach, choking off any attempt to cry out. The chain twisted and turned and tightened again. There were sounds of fought-for breath, wriggling, gasping sounds which were not loud enough to travel beyond the top of the tower.

  Joseph looked down and saw the eyes beginning to bulge out from their sockets and the tongue, purplish, slide out from the mouth. The muscles in his own arms strained against the sheen of his skin. One more effort and he felt the guard go limp. The cigarette had fallen from his fingers and lay smoldering on the floor. Joseph trod it out and released the chain. He noticed with disgust that the man’s boil had burst against it, several of the links smeared with a mixture of puss and blood.

  He lowered the guard to the ground and took up his rifle, checking the load. Joseph sat down on the stool, silhouetted by the lamps on either side of him, but no detail of his appearance visible-from below. He stared down at the condemned block and waited.

  ~*~

  Gideon had found it more difficult than he had anticipated scaling the wall of the building and swinging his weight on to the roof. He was sure it had taken him longer than planned and, as he slid the shovel ahead of him, he hoped that Tap wouldn’t understand his lateness as meaning something had gone seriously wrong.

  But there hadn’t been shooting, only the sound of the dogs that was now beginning to start up across the central compound. Perhaps it was still going to be all right. He moved along the roof bent low, making as little noise as possible until he reached the far end. Then he counted back and felt the tarpaulin with his fingers. The knife that Levy had given him in the kitchens had been small but now p
roved sharp. He needed little enough pressure to slide the blade through the tarpaulin and then tear it away, exposing the boards of the roof. Gideon grunted with satisfaction and stood back, inserting the blade of the shovel into the narrow gap between the boards. He leaned backwards, straining his weight against the handle, levering the wood away. Slowly, the long nails came up through the rafters and soon he was able to kneel down and use his hands to wrench the first plank free.

  Immediately, he heard the soft hiss of a voice calling up from the darkness below.

  Tap Loughlin and Lloyd Majors had been scraping and carving away at the stonework near the top of their cells at intervals throughout the whole day and the preceding night. Moments only before they heard the sound they assumed to be Gideon on the roof, the first breakthrough had come. Majors had chipped clear sufficient space for his end of the bar to be heaved up and finally free. Both men had breathed deeply; Majors had grinned and nodded - he had been the one to do it. Loughlin turned away and now his end of the heavy bar came out with comparative ease.

  They shimmied along the bunks, rolling the wire and iron back far enough to allow them to climb through.

  When Gideon prised away the first board there was a dim but definite shaft of light above them. Loughlin moved along to the right, positioning himself underneath the gap, which increased as another board was removed. Then something snaked down through and it was the Negro’s arm.