Tap Loughlin grasped Gideon’s hand and grasped his arm at the elbow. One second he was precariously balanced, the next he was swinging through space then being hoisted high enough to let go of Gideon and catch hold of the roof itself. In another moment he was straddling the gap, breathing the musky air, listening to the baying of the dogs.
“Hey!” Majors’ shout reached them from below.
Loughlin and Gideon exchanged glances.
“What the hell’s goin’ on up there?”
Loughlin still hesitated. So easy to let Majors stink in his own juice. The voices of the other condemned men began to rage and storm around them. At any moment the entire prison would be roused.
Loughlin nodded towards Gideon. “Get him up,” he said and started towards the end of the roof. Once he glanced up at the tower and his heart stopped momentarily, seeing a figure seated there, gazing down. A second later he realized it had to be the other Negro.
“Come on!”
Loughlin grasped the shotgun Gideon had leant against the wall. Figures moved through the semi-darkness off to the side and Tap recognized Baptiste’s gruff voice. He glanced back and saw Majors and Gideon moving along in his wake. The sound of horses. A warning shout which was followed hard by a pistol being fired. Three men in the saddle leading four other mounts, sacks of supplies bouncing out from their flanks as they moved.
“Let’s go!”
Another shout and three men were running from the direction of the guards’ quarters, at least one of them firing aimlessly. Joseph moved to the edge of the tower and angled the rifle down. His shots came fast, the first couple flying wide, the next wounding one of the guards, startling the others. Tap swung up into the saddle; Majors grabbed hold of an animal’s reins and it bucked away from him, alarmed, nostrils flaring.
“Joseph!” yelled Gideon, astride one horse and leading another. “Get down here!”
He rode towards the tower, aware that more guards were racing towards them. Suddenly the darkness was pierced by flashes of gunfire, seeming - impossibly - to surround them. Joseph fired back from the tower, not knowing whether he was taking effect. He sprang back and descended the ladder as quickly as he could.
The night had gone berserk. Bells were ringing, and through them the shrill blasts of whistles. Off towards the dormitory block, there was a bright flickering as if part of the building had somehow been set ablaze. A guard sprinted close to the milling horses, intent upon getting to the dogs and releasing them. Scott Levy leaned well over in his saddle and followed his run, steadying the pistol as best he could. The first shot went wide, the second made the guard stumble, without apparently hitting him. The third left him clawing dirt, a bullet high in the back of his leg.
“Move out!”
Tap Loughlin’s voice roared loud and he kicked into his horse’s sides and whipped the reins down on to its neck. He urged the animal through a knot of men, uncertain if they were guards or other prisoners. A hand grabbed at his leg and tried to drag him from the saddle.
Joseph came fast alongside and the hammer swung in a wide arc. There was a crunch, hard and then soft, a shout and the man let go, falling away beneath the hooves of the others.
The escaping men turned hard past a group of outbuildings and the gate was less than eighty yards ahead. A solitary guard shuffled his way in front of it, lifting his rifle to his shoulder. Tap looped the reins round the saddle pommel and guided the horse with his knees. The shotgun was in both hands and the guard still hadn’t fired. Wasn’t going to. Faced with seven charging riders, he threw down his gun and ran. Too late to stop his finger against the triggers, Tap blasted both barrels of shot through the white-painted slats of the gate. Just in time he released the shotgun into his left hand, grabbed the reins with his right and leaned back in the saddle. He felt the animal start to jump beneath him and then they were down on the other side and galloping hard, hooves of the others thundering at his back.
Sounds of shooting, clamoring bells and strident whistles all faded until there was nothing left but the drumming of their own escape along the dirt-track road. Even Tap Loughlin’s hatred for Majors had evaporated in the excitement of their success. Free as the wind, and as far as he could tell not one of them had received so much as a scratch.
Loughlin swung in the saddle and raised a hand in triumph. Baptiste saw the gesture and responded in like manner. They would ride hard for the next couple of hours, until they came across some farm where they could steal fresh mounts. By daybreak they should be on their way out of the state: on their way to freedom. Above them the moon was as round and unreal as a silver circle stuck into a kid’s picture book.
Chapter Three
Wes Hart had been to Fort Smith before and he didn’t have a single good memory of it. On that occasion he’d ridden in with a US deputy marshal’s badge pinned to his vest and a couple of prisoners in tow behind him. Kids had run along the street after him and men and women had turned from the boardwalk and stared. Not so many days later, Hart had stood in a crowded square in front of the courthouse and watched as Judge Parker’s hangman had stretched the pair of them from lengths of best Kentucky hemp. One of the prisoners had been little more than a kid himself and it had taken him a long while to die. Dangling there, legs kicking while his stubborn breath slowly choked out of him. Hart had quit then, turned in his badge and ridden away, the remembrance bitter in his brain.
Now he’d ridden in with a freight wagon, supplies that had been in need of a driver who was handy with a gun in case anyone decided to take early delivery along the route. But the journey had been straightforward, untroubled. Hart had been well enough paid. He squashed his first instinct to turn right around and head back where he’d come from. With money in his pocket he had a hankering after a hot tub and a close shave, a steak so big that it flopped over the edges of the plate - and a bottle of whiskey that didn’t take the skin off your lips as it went past. Whatever else Hart thought of Fort Smith, he was the first to admit that it was the kind of town that afforded a man the chance to enjoy himself more than a little. As long as he could afford to pay for it.
The town was set out in regular patterns, the main streets wide and lined with trees; name plates had been stuck up which called them such-and-such avenue and even so-and-so boulevard. The stores had plate glass windows and were packed with goods; the streets were busy with folk wandering up and down, men in suits some of them, women who looked like the pictures Hart had seen often enough in company catalogues but seldom in real life. Children ran between the slow-moving wagons on the street, chasing one another with pretend guns fashioned from pieces of wood. A girl with long blonde ringlets and a gingham dress that flared out over a starched petticoat wheeled her hoop in a wide circle.
Hart rode between them, hardly an eye turning in his direction. There was no badge pinned to him now, nor were there any desperadoes roped or handcuffed to their horses behind him. He was a nobody, a cowboy, a drifter - just one more man with a horse and a gun and not a lot else.
He pulled on the rein and went down a narrow street running off the side. Midway down there was a sign that announced rooms for rent, clean linen and bath, fifty cents. It didn’t take long for Hart to secure one for the night, take his horse along to the nearest livery, get back and ask the woman whose place it was to boil some hot water for him. The room was at the front, facing out on to a slender branched tree with leaves that were tinged with yellow. The mattress gave beneath his weight but not too much. The sheets were torn and then patched but clean right enough. There was an oval mirror above the chest of drawers and Hart stared into it, surprised by the amount of trail dirt that was smeared over his face and clogged into the corners of his eyes.
He tipped cold water from the enamel jug on the washstand into a broad china basin. He cupped the water into his hands and splashed it up into his face, shaking his head from side to side. In the mirror it was possible now to see the tanned skin of his lean face, taut across the high cheekbones;
the faded blue of his eyes. It was the face of a man nobody would mistake for an inexperienced youngster; nor would anyone consider his prime years were behind him. He stood an inch over six feet and his frame was wiry and strong; it was doubtful if there was one pound of surplus flesh on his bones.
Recognizing himself at last, Hart turned away from the mirror and unbuckled his gun belt, hanging it over the brass rail at the foot of the bed. The belt was made from strong but supple leather, patterned with dust but evidently well cared for. The pistol in the holster was a Colt Peacemaker .45 and no ordinary one. The grip on the butt was made from mother-of-pearl carved with the Mexican emblem of an eagle gripping a snake tight between his claws and in his mouth.
Along with the dapple grey mare that Hart rode, that Colt was his most precious possession. He had killed a man out in Indian territory for stealing the mare; if there were anything more than that he could do to anyone who tried to take his gun away from him then he surely would.
Hart sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off, with some difficulty, his scuffed and worn leather boots. Blood raced down his feet to his toes and tingled. There were large holes in the pair of outer socks that he wore, his toe was beginning to poke through those underneath. It passed through his mind that he might ask the woman if she’d darn them for him while he was soaking in the tub. He stood up and slipped off his brown leather vest, began to unbutton the thick wool shirt.
“Water’s ready!”
Hart stepped out on to the landing, bare-footed, socks between the finger and thumb of his left hand.
“Bathroom’s down below, through the kitchen. You’ll have to lift the pans of water off the stove yourself, I can’t manage heavy work like that any longer.”
She broke off abruptly, staring through wire-framed spectacles at the socks Hart was dangling in her direction.
“Is there some significance in that, young man?”
Hart grinned. It was a long time since anyone had called him young man, but he supposed this woman had the years to do it.
“I was wonderin’ if. . .”
“If I’d kindly mend them for you, I guess.”
“Well, I figured...”
“That an old woman like me wouldn’t have anything better to do with her time than push a darning needle through what seem to be a remarkably unpleasant pair of socks.”
Hart sighed and withdrew the socks. “It don’t matter,” he said shortly and went to walk past her.
“Now don’t take on so!”
“I weren’t taking on.”
“Huh! That’s what I’d call it.”
Hart shrugged and continued along the landing. As he came level with her, she reached out a hand and took hold of the ends of the socks. For a few moments they stood, facing one another, each clinging to the holed, sweaty socks.
“Well?” she demanded. “Are you going to let me have them or what?”
Hart let her have them.
“I suppose those things you’re wearing wouldn’t be any the worse for a wash.” She held her head back as she spoke, making the smell of stale sweat and riding dirt obvious.
Hart hesitated.
“You have got some other clothes you could wear while those are drying?”
“’Cept pants,” admitted Hart.
“All right then. Though why I should put myself out I’m not really sure.”
She went towards the stairs, holding the socks as if they were infected. Hart ducked back into his room and pulled a creased but fairly clean shirt from his saddle bag, along with a pair of cut-off long Johns. A few minutes later he was easing himself down into a hip bath of steaming water and his dirty clothes were headed for the back yard. Hart lay back for a while, just enjoying the warmth and the way it soaked the soreness out of his limbs. After that he reached on to the floor for a slap of soap and began to lather himself. He was attending to his arms when the door started to open.
“Hey!” Hart called out, thinking it must be the woman.
It was not.
The man was wearing a battered Stetson that was angled down over his left eye near close enough to shut it out. A long moustache, grey at the ends where it met the jaw line and brown higher up, was the most remarkable feature of his face. Over a green shirt he was wearing an old buckskin coat that came past his hips. It was unbuttoned and hung loose, letting Hart see a good length of his gun belt, though not the pistol that was holstered at the right side. The only other thing to note about him was the six-pointed star pinned to the lapel of the coat, the words us marshal engraved deep at its centre.
He stared down at the tub and snorted a half-laugh.
“Lo, Wes,” he said.
Hart nodded. “Marshal.”
Already Hart was trying to figure out what the lawman wanted, how the hell he knew that he was there at all. There was only one way out of the room and that was the door and the marshal had placed himself between that and the tub. Hart’s Colt was up in his room, hanging from the end of the bed. He didn’t have to need it, only...
“You ain’t forgot who I am, then?” said the lawman, with a faint smile to his face.
No: James F. Fagan, United States marshal and running-boy for Hanging Judge Parker. The man who’d run into Hart a year or so back in a one-eyed hole named Stillwater that later was to run deep in blood. Fagan was the one who’d persuaded him to ride as deputy, the man who’d sworn him in. It was at Fagan’s feet - and Judge Parker’s - that he’d hurled his badge in disgust.
“What is it, Fagan?”
“Just a few words.”
Then they can wait till I finished here.”
Fagan shook his head slowly. “You forget I’m a busy man.”
“My heart bleeds,” said Hart sarcastically.
Fagan laughed, an unpleasant sound. That ain’t the kind of thing a man in your position ought to joke over.”
“My position bein’ what exactly?”
Fagan brushed back the right side of his buckskin and let his hand fall close to the butt of his pistol. “Your position bein’ that you’re bare-assed naked and your Colt’s a long way from home.”
That so?”
Fagan nodded.
“An’ am I goin’ to be needin’ that Colt this visit?” asked Hart, his voice flat and hard.
The same smile spread across Fagan’s face, his mouth curling at the edges, his eyes wrinkling. He moved his hand, left not right, and delved at the back of his coat. The gun he slid out from his belt was the pearl-handled Colt Peacemaker that was unmistakably Hart’s.
“What. . . ?”
Fagan tossed the gun through the air in a slow, looping curve; Hart splashed his arm up through the water and caught the pistol at the first attempt. He turned it in his hand and sensed that something was not right. As he rested his thumb against the hammer, Fagan’s smile became an outright laugh.
“You didn’t reckon I’d leave it loaded, did you?”
Hart shook his head, glanced at the gun, set it down on the floor close to the base of the tub.
“Since when’ve you spent your time pussy-footin’ round folks’ rooms?”
“Since I needed to.”
“Meanin’?”
Fagan shrugged. “Meanin’ I had no way of knowin’ you was soakin’ your dirt off down here. I said before, all I wanted was a few words.”
“And my gun.”
“You got it back.”
“Empty.”
Fagan chuckled. “You can be pretty bull-headed at times. And I didn’t get to be forty-two by takin’ chances.”
Hart let his mind run over what the peace officer had said. He tried to work out if there was anything in the past months that might have brought Fagan to take a professional interest in him, but he couldn’t recall anything that might be considered specially unlawful. Not sufficient to interest Fagan, anyhow.
“What is it, Fagan? What are these words you want?”
“How long you fixin’ to hang round town?”
“No longer’n I need to. Why? You tellin’ me I ain’t welcome?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“For a man who was so damn anxious to see me, you didn’t say a lot of anythin’.”
“Okay. Take it easy. I just got a message for you is all.”
“Message?”
“Man wants to see you.”
“He want to watch me scrub my back, too?”
“Very funny, Hart.”
“Not so damned bad. Now s’pose you spit it out and let me get on with my business here before this water cools off.”
Fagan nodded and moved a few feet further from the door. Hart didn’t hear anyone else around, but he wouldn’t have minded placing a ten-dollar bet that at least one of the marshal’s deputies was hovering outside. Like the man said, he didn’t get to be forty-two by taking chances.
“Man name of Grant. Banker. Got a big place up north of here. Outside of Cass. You know it?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You’ll find it easy enough.”
“That’s if I go lookin’”
Fagan ignored him and carried right on. “This Grant he wants someone who’s good with a gun and ain’t over fussy about usin’ it. Someone he can pay to do a job and trust to see it through.”
Hart nodded. “You told him ’bout me. What else d’you say?”
“I said you were for hire and you weren’t cheap.”
“That all?”
“Said you were my deputy for a time. Handled yourself pretty good.”
Thanks. Now you want to tell me what it’s all about?”
Fagan shook his head, started to move back towards the door. “He’ll do that for himself. Male Grant ain’t the kind of a man who likes others to do his talking for him.”
Hart looked at Fagan keenly. This business,” he said, “there wouldn’t be nothin’, let’s say, illegal ’bout it, would there? That wouldn’t be the reason why you’re bein’ as shy as a young girl ’bout to head off to her first dance?”
Fagan glowered, then grinned. “Just remember, Hart, you’re talkin’ to a United States marshal.”
Hart the Regulator 7 Page 3