Hard Luck Money

by J. A. Johnstone

  “I believe that you can.”

  “I don’t see how.” The Kid wasn’t sure why he was debating theology with this lunatic, but if he was going to be sharing a cell with Schofield it was probably a good idea to learn as much about him as he could.

  “Look around you,” Schofield said.

  “At this prison?”

  “At this world. If this isn’t the anteroom of hell, what else can it possibly be? Think of all the sin and suffering that goes on constantly, the human misery and degradation that’s all around us. When people tell me to go to hell, Waco, I tell them there’s no need. I’m already there.”

  With that he started to laugh softly, and The Kid felt an unaccustomed chill go through him.

  Loco or not, John Schofield was friendly and unassuming. Knowing what he did, The Kid didn’t think he would ever actually like the man, but figured they could get along all right. And since Schofield had been locked up at Huntsville for seventeen years, he certainly knew how things worked in the prison.

  For instance, as they were walking toward the mess hall that evening, The Kid mentioned Ike Calvert, the trusty who had brought him his blanket and extra uniform, and Schofield frowned. “Never trust that little weasel.”

  “He told me he can get just about anything a fella might want.”

  “He probably can, but the price might wind up being more than you’d want to pay. He’s an evil man, Waco. I know that after the things I’ve done, I’m not one to be talking, but Calvert is truly an agent of the Devil.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” The Kid didn’t expect to have any dealings with Calvert, but it was good to know if he did, he should tread carefully.

  The tables and benches in the mess hall were bolted to the floor. Guards prowled constantly between them, keeping an eye on the prisoners to make sure nobody tried to swipe a spoon that could be used to make a weapon.

  “They keep a close count on utensils, bowls, and anything else that might prove to be dangerous,” Schofield explained. “If even a single spoon turns up missing, we’re all searched and so are our cells until it’s found.”

  “I’ll bet fellas manage to steal one every now and then anyway,” The Kid said.

  “Of course. Every man harbors the desire to commit murder inside him. Some are unable to control it.”

  The Kid might have argued with that ... but he remembered how he had once pulled the trigger of a rifle he was holding to a man’s head. Did the fact that the man was one of those responsible for his wife’s death make a difference? Was that cold-blooded killing any less murder?

  The Kid had long since stopped worrying about it except on the occasional dark night of the soul.

  “Who are some of the troublemakers in here?” he asked quietly as he and Schofield ate.

  “Well, there was a man named Boozer ... but he was killed in an escape attempt several months ago. He may have been the worst. But nature abhors a vacuum, you know. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Whenever something happens to one SOB, another SOB comes along to take his place,” The Kid said.

  “Exactly. There’s a man named Cushman who’s very bad to cross. He’s over there, two tables across and down several seats. The big one with the bald head.”

  The Kid could tell which convict Schofield meant. Cushman looked like a bruiser, all right. Big, broad-shouldered, slab-muscled. Prematurely bald, because he appeared to be a relatively young man. The Kid didn’t like the looks of him, or of the other men who sat around Cushman, who seemed to be the same brutal sort.

  “He’s bad about starting fights,” Schofield went on. “You’ll want to stay away from him as much as possible, Waco.”

  “Thanks,” The Kid said with a nod. “I’ll remember that.”

  He knew the other name Schofield had mentioned. Boozer was the prisoner who had tangled with Quint Lupo and sent him to the infirmary. Later, Boozer wound up dead, supposedly killed along with a couple other prisoners during Lupo’s breakout.

  It was pure speculation on The Kid’s part, but if Boozer had been working with the gang all along, they might have decided it was time to get rid of him. The corrupt guards wouldn’t want to take a chance on a disgruntled accomplice exposing what they were doing.

  If that was true, they might approach somebody else to help them get “Waco Keene” out, and if the pattern held true, that someone might well be Cushman. It was a good thing to know.

  Schofield might be loco, but he was being helpful so far.

  After supper, the prisoners had an hour in their cells before lights-out. Schofield slid a Bible out from under the mattress on his bunk and spent the time reading. After what the former minister had done and the disbelief he’d expressed, The Kid thought he probably wouldn’t have wanted to read the Good Book, but obviously that wasn’t the case.

  Maybe Schofield was looking for some loophole, The Kid mused, some way of believing again and escaping damnation. The Kid didn’t think he’d find it.

  When the lights went out and stifling darkness closed in, awareness of all that stone and metal between him and the outside world sunk in and made The Kid’s nerves stretch taut. Somewhere along the cell block, a man laughed, and it had the sound of insanity to it.

  The Kid thought Schofield was actually sort of right about one thing. The whole world might not be hell, but being locked up in prison sure was.

  Chapter 14

  The worst part, at least starting out, was the sheer monotony of existence inside the prison walls. The same things happened at the same times every day, from breakfast to supper to lights-out.

  The Kid’s job in the laundry was to stir the big vats of hot water where uniforms and bedding were washed. The work was mind-numbing and miserable. The heat and humidity made it hard to breathe and ensured that he spent his days covered in sweat. The stink of the harsh lye soap stung his nostrils.

  A week passed with nothing unusual happening. He made the acquaintance of a few men he worked with, but no one approached him about an escape attempt.

  That wasn’t really a surprise, since Hughes and Culhane were of the opinion the gang didn’t tell their targets beforehand what was going on. It was more likely Lupo hadn’t had any idea he was about to “escape” until the breakout was already in progress. Secrecy was the only way to make sure no one went to the prison authorities and spilled the truth.

  All The Kid could do was tend to the job he’d been given and wait. He didn’t like it—he was used to action—but he had no choice.

  A week later, things changed abruptly. He was assigned to work in the fields.

  Each morning prisoners were loaded into enclosed wagons after their ankles were shackled together. The wagons took them to the fields, where they clambered out awkwardly and were given canvas sacks. Their job was to pick cotton, something The Kid had never done in his life.

  He quickly discovered it was miserable, backbreaking work, spending long hours bent over in the sun, fingers growing raw from handling the plants.

  Schofield was part of the same detail, and The Kid finally understood why the man was so tanned and weathered. He had been doing this for nearly his entire sentence, Schofield explained to him as they labored side by side.

  In East Texas, not that far inland from the Gulf Coast, the growing season was long, and a lot of fields were planted in cotton. The prison even had its own gin to process the crop.

  A dozen mounted guards armed with shotguns and rifles watched each group of fifty prisoners. Schofield told The Kid a number of convicts had been shot while trying to get away. Everybody knew the futility of it, but sometimes the temptation to make a stumbling run for freedom was just too much to resist.

  As hard as the work was, The Kid preferred being outside to being stuck in the prison laundry. He wondered if Warden Jennings was responsible for getting him transferred to the work detail, or if it was something that would have happened on the same schedule anyway.

  It didn’t really matter, of course. H
e was there, and there he would probably stay until the gang made its move.

  If the gang made its move.

  If the gang really existed.

  Doubts about that assailed The Kid from time to time. If Culhane and Hughes were wrong, all he was going through was for nothing.

  One morning he was surprised to see Hank Cushman being loaded into one of the wagons bound for the cotton fields. Cushman hadn’t been one of the pickers, and with his big, brawny frame he wasn’t built for the job. But the convicts went where they were told to go and did what they were told to do, so The Kid supposed somebody in authority had decided Cushman needed to be picking cotton for a while.

  That thought started suspicion percolating in The Kid’s brain.

  Without being obvious about it, he kept an eye on Cushman for the next few days. The big man rode in a different wagon and didn’t approach him while they were in the fields. The Kid was starting to wonder if he ought to make an attempt to talk to Cushman.

  Every day a trusty drove out to the fields in an open wagon with a couple water barrels loaded in the back. Several times during the day the guards allowed the convicts to gather around those barrels and get a drink, passing around a wooden dipper among them. After laboring in the hot sun, the men were always parched with thirst, so there was usually considerable crowding going on.

  The men moved back quickly, though, when Cushman came up and reached for the dipper. The man who had just filled it with water handed it to Cushman without complaint.

  Cushman drank, the muscles in his corded throat working as he swallowed. Then he callously tossed the dipper on the ground as he turned away. Behind him, one of the convicts picked it up and wiped away the dirt sticking to its wet surface.

  Cushman saw The Kid looking at him, grinned, and walked over to him. “What’s the matter with you? You don’t like what I just did?”

  “I don’t give a damn,” The Kid replied with a shrug. “I already got my drink.”

  “You’re that train robber, aren’t you? Keene?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Hank Cushman.”

  The Kid nodded. “I know.”

  “Then you know you’d be smart to steer clear of me.”

  “I don’t go looking for trouble, Cushman. But I don’t step around it when it’s in my way, either.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I go over it.”

  Cushman took that just the way The Kid meant it, as a challenge. His huge hands knotted into fists. For a second The Kid thought Cushman was going to take a swing at him.

  The guards thought so, too. One of them suddenly moved his horse closer and called, “Hey there, you two. Back off from each other. Now!”

  Cushman looked like he wanted to defy the order, but the guard had a Winchester pointed in his general direction. After a couple heartbeats he grinned at The Kid again. “Another time.”

  “Sure,” The Kid answered easily.

  “I said move,” the guard snapped.

  “Don’t get a burr under your saddle, Hagen,” Cushman told the man. “I’m goin’.”

  “I won’t put up with anything from you,” the guard growled. “You remember that.”

  So that was Bert Hagen, The Kid thought. Until that moment he hadn’t known which of the guards was the one involved in Lupo’s escape ... if you could call it that.

  Hagen was a big man—not as big as Cushman, but nobody else around there was—with a long, mean, horse-like face and a few wisps of pale hair sticking out from under the broad-brimmed hat the guards wore when they were out in the fields.

  The Kid felt an instinctive dislike for Hagen, but to be honest, he felt that way about most of the men inside the prison walls, guards and convicts alike.

  Still, he was glad to know which one was Hagen. He could keep a closer eye on the man.

  Several more days passed. Cushman continued to work in the cotton fields, but kept his distance from The Kid.

  Schofield was usually somewhere close by. Knowing what the man had done to land himself in prison, The Kid couldn’t bring himself to actually like Schofield, but he felt sorry for him in a way. The guilt Schofield must feel over his actions would be enough to drive a man crazy, if he wasn’t already.

  Ike Calvert wasn’t the usual trusty who brought the water wagon out to the fields. The Kid’s eyes narrowed with suspicion when he saw the weaselly little trusty hauling back on the wagon’s reins. Calvert being assigned to the job might be entirely innocent ... or it could be the opening move in the game The Kid had been sent to crash.

  When the guards called for a water break, the convicts left their sacks stuffed with cotton bolls on the ground and headed for the wagons. Even though the leg irons limited their movement, they moved along pretty quickly. A great thirst gripped them.

  The Kid had been picking fairly close to where the wagon had stopped and was almost there when somebody rammed hard against his left shoulder from behind. His feet tangled in the chains and he went down, sprawling on the dirt between rows of cotton plants.

  He rolled over and looked up in time to see Hank Cushman dropping toward him, obviously intending to pin him to the ground with his knees and bring those giant fists crashing down into his face.

  Chapter 15

  The Kid rolled hard to the side, barely avoiding Cushman’s attack. Still vulnerable, he rolled back the other way. He didn’t want those clubbed fists smashing into the back of his head.

  Bringing his hands up, he grabbed Cushman. The big man was a little off balance, having landed on his knees in the dirt, and The Kid was able to heave him to the ground.

  The other convicts began to shout excitedly. Nothing like a nice bloody fight to break up the boredom of the day’s work.

  Cushman was an experienced brawler and recovered almost instantly. He swung his legs toward The Kid, lifting them high so the chain hanging between them dropped neatly over The Kid’s head.

  Just before the chain snapped tight against The Kid’s neck, he managed to get his hands up and block the metal links. He hung on to them desperately, knowing it would take Cushman only a second to crush his throat if the big convict got the leverage he needed.

  The Kid threw himself backward so he landed on top of Cushman. His hands were all that was protecting his throat, so he twisted and jabbed a knee at Cushman’s groin.

  Cushman writhed out of the way of the blow, forcing him to let up on the pressure on the chain. Muscles in The Kid’s arms and shoulders bunched as he shoved it up and away from him. He ducked his head, free of the deadly chain, and rolled again to put some distance between him and his attacker.

  But is wasn’t far enough, Cushman leaped after him, and they crashed together, landing in a row of cotton plants and crushing them. Cushman hammered punches at The Kid’s head and body.

  The Kid blocked most of the blows, but some got through and landed with stunning force. Cushman’s mallet-like fist clipped the side of his head, and the impact made the whole world spin in the wrong direction for a second.

  The Kid knew he had to do something or Cushman might beat him to death.

  It couldn’t be part of the gang’s plan, he thought wildly. Cushman wasn’t trying to just put him in the infirmary. He was trying to kill him.

  The Kid hooked a left and a right into Cushman’s midsection. It was like hitting a wall. He sent a jab against Cushman’s jaw but might as well have punched a rock. The big man didn’t seem to have any vulnerabilities.

  One of Cushman’s fists dug into The Kid’s belly and took his breath away. Gasping for air, The Kid cupped his hands and slapped them as hard as he could against Cushman’s ears.

  That tactic finally brought a howl of pain from the man and made him heave upright. He pawed at his ears as he moved back a couple feet.

  The Kid snapped out a kick and drove the heel of his boot against Cushman’s left knee. The convict staggered as his left leg folded up underneath him.

  The Kid came up off the
ground and sent an uppercut whistling into Cushman’s jaw. Finally, a punch had an effect. Cushman’s head snapped back and he stumbled away another step. The Kid lowered his head and shoulders and drove forward, plowing into the man.

  Cushman went over backward and toppled to the ground like a giant redwood. Instantly, The Kid landed on top of him and drove a knee toward his opponent’s groin. Cushman wasn’t able to get out of the way in time, and screamed as the savage blow landed.

  The Kid pushed himself to his feet. Cushman, curled up around the agony gripping him, was still huge, but all the fight had gone out of him.

  During the battle, The Kid hadn’t paid any attention to what was going on around him. If he had allowed himself to be distracted, Cushman would have beaten his brains out.

  When he glanced around as he stood with his chest heaving for breath, he saw the other convicts herded together about twenty yards away, well covered with rifles and shotguns. Hagen and another guard were standing near the scene of the fight.

  “Why didn’t you ... put a stop to this ruckus?” The Kid asked.

  “What, and ruin the show?” Hagen asked with an ugly grin. “When two of you idiots start whalin’ away on each other, we generally let it run its course unless it looks like somebody’s fixin’ to get killed. You and Cushman didn’t look to be in any danger of that.” Hagen laughed. “Although I’ll bet Cushman’s hurtin’ so bad right now he wishes he was dead!”

  The Kid turned away and walked over to the water wagon. None of the guards told him to stop. He leaned on the lowered tailgate and tried to catch his breath.

  “You all right, Keene?” Ike Calvert asked from the seat. The little trusty looked worried.

  “Yeah, I’ll be ... fine. Just ... bruised and sore in the morning.”

  “You’re lucky. Cushman’s an animal.”

  “Yeah, I ... got that idea.”

  One of the guards said, “A couple of you men grab Cushman and drag him into the shade of the wagon. I don’t know if he’ll be able to work any more today.”