Katy was looking at some yard goods when Warren came up to her. “Have you heard the news?”
“News?”
“They’ve arrested Cullen Baker. They plan to hang him.”
“He will be tried first, I think.” According to Jane it didn’t seem that Katy wanted to discuss it.
“There are rumors that he will be taken out of jail and hung immediately.”
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“He’s a common outlaw, a murderer. How could I like him?”
“You know that I do?”
Warren had shrugged at that remark. “You feel you should like him because he’s from here and because your Uncle Will liked him. He will bring you nothing but trouble, and it will ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation is my own concern.”
“It may,” Warren said stiffly, “some day be your husband’s concern. That is why I feel concerned.”
From what Jane said, Katy looked startled, and she said merely, “You have no reason to feel concerned, Tom. I like you, but the idea of you as my husband, if that is what you mean, why that’s impossible.”
“Why? Why should it be?”
Katy drew away from him at this point and perfectly composed she said, “Mr. Warren, I am afraid you are assuming an interest on my part that has never existed. As for Cullen, no matter what is said of him, I know him to be a good man.”
Warren was excited then, or so Jane told me. He was so excited that it didn’t appear just right somehow, or maybe that he was a little off balance. Anyway, he told Katy, “He won’t look so nice at the end of a rope! He is an evil man! That’s why I—”
“Why you—what?”
Abruptly he walked away from her, but at the door he had looked back. “You will feel different when you’re rid of him,” he said, “and then I’ll be back.”
Right then, as Warren went out, Lacy Petraine came in, and she walked right up to Katy. “Miss Thorne, we need your help.”
And that was when Jane Watson went up to them both and told them why she had come to Jefferson. She knew how they both felt, and she said right out what she had come for.
There was one other thing Chance had said that stuck in my mind, and with good cause. Just as he was leaving he had said that he and Joel Reese and some others would be back before I was hung. They wanted, Chance said, a private session with me in the cell. They would, he promised, make it easy for me to die. They would make me want to die.
And that was enough to give a man something to think about.
Chapter 6
KATY HAD TOLD me a good bit about Warren, and some of it I could sort of piece together, seeing how he shaped up to me. He’d been born, she said, into a house that was run by two maiden aunts, and what happened to his folks, I never did hear. Only those two aunts must have made much of him as a youngster and, from what he told Katy, they had taught him to study hard, to stay away from rough boys and rough play, and to avoid all the vices named and unnamed in this most wicked of worlds.
A man brought up like that is likely to grow up but not out, and I expect the world he lived in at twenty-seven wasn’t much different than it had been at seventeen. To me he seemed like a man mighty positive of his own rightness, and usually those sort are all torn up inside by a lot of petty worries and petty ideas. But with those aunts always telling him he would be somebody.
Maybe like some others he figured when the war was over that Texas was the place to come. A lot of young men had been killed, and there should be a lot of girls around with money. I heard talk of that sort, myself, and I wouldn’t be surprised if something like that had been in his mind when he met Katy Thorne.
Right now he was probably mad clear though, but less at Katy than at me.
Standing by the window I saw Katy come out of the store with Lacy Petraine and Jane Watson. Now there was something to think about, and I was hoping that I was the only one doing that kind of thinking. Only I wasn’t. Thomas Warren was standing across the street under a tree staring at them.
Why? Well, it sort of didn’t fit, if you know what I mean. Three women might get together and talk, that’s true, but Lacy wasn’t considered a quite nice person and Katy Thorne was as much aristocracy as we had in that corner of Texas right then, and she would have been aristocracy anywhere else too.
Jane Watson? Well, she came of a poor family on a small place south of here. There was no likely reason for her to be in town, and less reason for her to even know Katy or Lacy. Maybe Warren was thinking what I was that the only common tie those three had was me, Cullen Baker.
It was hot in that cell with the sun beating against the outer wall. Sometimes I’d hear a rig go by in the street with a jingle of harness or the crack of a whip, or I’d hear people talking, or hear the clank of horseshoes from a vacant lot up the street where somebody was always playing.
From the outer office I heard simply nothing at all, so the guard must be sitting outside against the front wall.
There was nobody else in the jail but me, although there were three empty cells. If I could get that door out of the way I would have to go through that little office, overpower one or two guards and then would come out on a street where most of the crowd would be enemies and most of the remaining folks would want to stay out of it. Therefore that derringer was useless unless I could get out when nobody was around.
Once outside there would be the problem of slipping past the patrols and getting into the swamps. Chances were an easy thousand to one I’d never make it.
Unless I was altogether wrong, all hell was building up outside. Knowing the boys like I did, I knew no matter what I wanted they would try to get me out of there, just as I would try to help them. This was a fact known to Colonel Belser, too, and to Chance Thorne. It was a good guess they’d leave a hole for them to come through, then trap them inside, maybe right here at the jail.
And if my figuring was right, and from what Chance had said it was right, somewhere to the south Sam Barlow would be riding up to lynch me.
And right here in town three women were in a way to get themselves into a lot of trouble trying to help me. Whatever else happened this here had shown me how many friends I had, and for a man with a bad reputation, I was doing all right.
Only I didn’t dare let them help me.
Somehow, some way, I had to get out and away before any of them could do a thing to help, before they could get their tails in a crack trying to help.
To have friends a man has to be friendly, and to get others to think of you, you have to think of others. I wanted no man dying for me, and the mere fact that Seth Rames was in Jefferson showed something was up, and whatever Lacy Petraine was in, John Tower was in, too.
It was closing in toward sundown. If all went as I figured, it would be some time after midnight before Barlow arrived, and right about midnight when I could expect the visit from Chance Thorne and his men.
That meant that some time before midnight I was going to have to be out of here, and the sooner the better. If I was going to help those friends who wanted to help me, I’d have to get out before they could get far enough in to be in real trouble.
Right then was when Jane Watson showed up. Wesley brought her in, blushing up to his freckled ears, and I could see he was mighty taken with her.
When he left she moved right up to the bars. “It will be at ten,” she spoke quickly and quietly. “John Tower will hold up the guards and we will be outside in the buckboard. He will have two horses, and when the two of you start to leave, we will drive across the street ahead of anybody who might try to chase you.”
It was silly, and I told her so. Same time I knew it was silly enough and simple enough to work. It meant making an outlaw out of John Tower, and I didn’t see why he should do that for me. I said as much to Jane.
“It isn’t for you, although he likes you. He is in love with Lacy Petraine.”
She told me about that, and it added up to something none of us had known.
Of course, I had my own bit of knowing about John Tower, but that’s neither here nor there. According to what Jane said, John Tower had walked up to Mrs. Petraine and he had told her right out, “Mrs. Petraine, I am the man who shot Terence O’Donnell. I shot your husband, Mrs. Petraine.”
Lacy being what she was, I could understand what followed. That was a sight of woman, believe you me.
“Terry,” she said, “always believed himself a better man with a gun than he was.”
“I am sorry.”
“Yes, as he would have been sorry had he killed you. Mr. Tower, let me assure you of this. Terence would have killed you if he could. He was not a man to make foolish gestures with a gun.”
“Is that all? I mean now that you know this you will probably want me to leave your employ?”
“That was long ago, Mr. Tower, and in another world than this. We have both changed since then. I believe I was very much in love with Terence, but now it is like a dream, and like all dreams, it has ended.”
But from what Jane said it was there between them, and they knew they loved each other, and they both knew that in time something would come of it. So now he was to help me because of her.
Well, now. Maybe down inside I’d figured she would help me because it was me she liked, or because she thought me a fine figure of a man, like she had practically said, one time. Showed how wrong a man could be, and I felt kind of let down and cooled off, if you know what I mean.
Well, I was a wandering sort of man when it came to that, and once out of this fix, I’d wander again.
Come to think of it, there was nothing I’d rather be doing about then than just wandering, almost anywhere.
Surprising how proximity to a noose in the end of a rope can make man appreciate things. Living, just being alive, had never seemed quite so desirable as right now. When I started thinking of some of the fool chances I’d taken before I was dry behind the ears, it scared me…and did me no good at all. I was right here in these stone walls and time was closing in on me. Time was a noose.
“All right,” I told Jane. “That there is a fool idea but it might work. My advice to you is to have an ace-in-the-hole, however, and get me a horse and saddle him up with a pistol on him and leave him in the trees back by Webster’s stable.”
She went out of there and Wesley put more water in my bucket. Wesley bothered me. That long tall boy had never done anyone any harm and I didn’t want him out there when the shooting started.
Only two things I wanted. To get shut of this place and to put Sam Barlow in that grave at the Corners. And if I could pile Chance Thorne in there with him, I’d be more than pleased.
Belser? We don’t worry about the Belsers of this world. Once I was free he would scare himself to death thinking what I might do to him.
Standing by that window and looking out on the street I could see the red sun going down behind the old Tilden barn, and I could hear the squeaky complaints of a rusty pump as somebody pumped water for coffee or maybe for washing hands before supper.
I could smell food cooking, cabbage, it smelled like, and sometimes hear a door slam as somebody came or went. Standing there I heard the first sounds of somebody milking a cow into a tin pail. It was suppertime in Jefferson on the night before they were to hang Cullen Baker.
That was me. I was Cullen Baker, and I knew they planned to have that hanging tonight, and if they were right and I was wrong, this was the last sun I would ever see, the last of these sounds I’d hear.
Like a jackass braying, or an owl hooting…an owl? It was early for an owl.
More than one kind of owl hoot.
It was something to figure on, that hooting owl. Soon he hooted again. Time was shaping up, it soon would be hanging time and unless I wanted to be the key man at that hanging I would have to get out.
The streets were growing empty as folks went for supper. All right then, this was what I wanted. No use waiting until ten o’clock and maybe getting folks killed. Right now while everybody was busy with supper and when it wasn’t quite dark, right now and without waiting any further. I didn’t want Wesley to get hurt but I wasn’t wanting to be hung, either. So I walked over to that door and took a good hold of those iron bars. Like I said, I’m a man of strength, and so I took hold of those bars and gave them a yank.
Nothing.
Just simply nothing at all. I took hold of those bars and braced myself and gave it everything I had…nothing.
That carpenter I’d said was slipshod, the one I figured hadn’t bolted those two-by-sixes into the stone, he hadn’t needed to. They were set so close and solid you could pull that wall down before they’d be noticed.
Right then I was scared. All the time I’d had it in mind that I could rip that doorframe out of there, I’d been sure of that—and nothing happened.
Sweat broke out on my forehead. That rope was suddenly mighty close. Sweat began to come out on me and it was cold sweat and my throat felt dry like nothing in this world. You could have bought my chances right then for a plugged two-bit piece and been ahead of the game. I felt like a limp deuce in an ace-high deck.
So I tried it again. Sometimes a man can be right stubborn, times like that, I spread my feet and braced them against the stone floor and gave a yank that would have taken a tree out by the roots…nothing.
Then I looked up at the ceiling. I don’t know why. I was just exasperated and I raised a hand to swear and looked up—and I kept on looking up.
The ceiling of that cell was of spiked plank, nailed to four-by-fours which served as beams, and it was high, just beyond the reach of my fingers when I jumped to touch it.
Spiked to those beams. With how many spikes? And what was above that? A shake roof? Well, now! A man thinks of many things, and I thought of them all, but mostly I thought of getting out. Suddenly I looked out and the sun was gone, only a few lonely red and yellow streaks in a graying sky.
Time was short.
The window…it had to be deep because the walls were thick.
Reaching up I grasped those bars and pulled myself up. Getting a knee on the sill, I hoisted a foot, then balancing myself against a fall back into the room, I straightened up.
Standing on the floor that sill had been just an inch below eye-level for me, now, standing on the sill, I had to bend my knees to stand and bow my back against those planks in the ceiling. To hold the position I had to keep pressure on the planks, and if I relaxed I’d fall forward and would have to land on my feet on the floor to keep from being hurt.
But my back was against those planks, and my knees were bent. The chances were mighty good that the carpenter who fixed that door had done a job on these planks in the ceiling, but I would see. Using my hands to grip the top edge of the window behind me, I started to straighten out my legs. It was no go. I couldn’t get enough pressure on it to make anything budge. Turning around and squatting on the ledge of the stone window I gripped a bar in one hand and started testing the ceiling planks with the other. And the second one I tried seemed the best chance. Turning and gripping a bar with one hand I put a shoulder against the plank and started to straighten my legs. Almost at once a nail screeched, but not too loudly. Waiting a moment and listening, I tried it again, and the plank gave still more. A third time and the spikes pulled free. There had been but two. With one hand I moved the board aside and then listened for an instant before I caught the edge of the adjoining board and pulled myself up and through the space.
It was completely black in the space under the roof, but I could feel the underside of the shakes. Swiftly I worked my way along, testing each one to the very rear of the building. And there I found one that was not tight. Tugging, I pulled the shake around and then got hold of another. There was an ear-splitting crack, and I caught my breath, and waited. Down below I heard footsteps that came to the rear of the jail, paused an instant, and then returned the way they had come.
At any minute someone might decide to check my cell, so there was nothing for it but to
make the attempt now. Crawling through the hole, although it was a tight squeeze, I worked out onto the roof, slid down and then dropped from the eaves to the ground. Only an instant I hesitated, and then started to walk swiftly away toward Webster’s stable.
There was about an acre of ground that must be crossed, and the lower end of the street. Trying not to look excited or do anything that would attract attention I walked from behind the building and crossed the street diagonally. Behind me a man came from the door of a house and I knew he was looking my way, but I simply continued to walk, but the hair on the back of my neck was crawling, and I wouldn’t have given two cents for my chances right then.
Turning the corner I went into Webster’s farmyard and crossed the yard toward the stable. Webster was a Union Leaguer, and very close to both Thorne and Belser, so I could expect no help from him if he came from the house and saw me. I could expect nothing but trouble, and lots of it.
The worst of it was, I had acted before I was expected and there might be no horse for me.
Quickly I trotted down the little slope into the trees and walked along the path where I expected the horse to be.
It was not there.
Turning I walked swiftly back along another way, searching the trees, but the area covered by trees was scarcely larger than a good sized farmyard, and the horse had to be within sight if he was there, but he wasn’t.
And then I saw him.
The horse was not tied; he was walking toward me, ears pricked, reins dragging. At almost the same instant I heard a yell from the street, then a shout and loud voices arguing, swearing. They had discovered my escape.
There was no time left. I started for the horse and in almost the same breath the brush cracked and suddenly a torch flared up and then another.
The first person I saw was Chance Thorne, and he was grinning. The second was Joel Reese, but there were at least six, and they had rifles.
Caught!
Reese lowered his rifle and from around his waist he unwrapped a short length of log chain.
Novel 1959 - The First Fast Draw (v5.0) Page 12