The Right Side of Wrong

by Reavis Wortham

  They were surprised when Yolanda and George bounced out of the car. “Okay. Be careful and vaya con Dios.” They disappeared into the darkness, running in new Red Ball tennis shoes.

  Stomach fluttering, Ned took a deep breath. “You can still back out and wait here in the car.”

  In response, John opened the door and stepped out into rich, thick air smelling of manure, damp mud, and rotting vegetation from the nearby river. He reached through the open back window and withdrew his gun belt. Strapping it on, John realized it was the first time he’d ever worn his pistol without pinning on a badge. That morning, both he and Ned wrapped their badges in folds of paper, dropped them into an envelope, and mailed them to O.C. in the motel mailbox.

  On the passenger side of the car, Ned slipped his dress belt through his leather holster and threaded what remained of the belt through the loops. He buckled it and settled the .38 into its accustomed place. He slid a second revolver into the waistband at the small of his back and dumped Jimmy Foxx’s cartridges into his right-hand pocket until it bulged. The other swelled with twelve-gauge shells.

  John handed one of the already loaded shotguns to Ned when he came around. His mouth dry as cotton, Ned noted that John’s khakis and white shirt were almost a lawman’s uniform. The strap of a canvas ammunition belt crossed John’s chest. Designed for duck hunting, it was filled with twenty-five double-ought buckshot shells. His pants pockets were also full of .38 rounds.

  Without another word, John led the way down the narrow alley. The first twenty yards were silent, then a yard dog opened up and before long, more dogs were announcing their passing with ferocious barks.

  Frightened and nervous, they hurried past angry curses in the predawn darkness as the neighbors and owners shouted for quiet. They came out on a street one block from the jail.

  “I thought she said this was the way to go.”

  Before Ned answered, dogs tuned up on another block and they realized the uproar was a usual occurrence for that part of town.

  “I reckon this way we blend in, instead of walking out in the open on the street.” A man stepped out of the alley, carrying his lunch in a syrup bucket. He either missed the two armed men wearing distinctly American Stetsons, or elected to ignore them.

  “They’s the same as us,” John said. “He’s jis’ going to work.”

  “Good people are the same everywhere. Let’s go.”

  They stepped into the second alley, more at ease this time. Early risers were already moving in the houses, casting shadows on the few curtains that were drawn. Most of the doors and windows were wide open, and if the lights were on, illuminating the residents sitting at tables, or standing idly and peering into the darkness.

  “These folks get up early,” John said. “Maybe we should have gotten here a little earlier.”

  “Too late to think about that now.”

  Unconsciously picking up their pace, they finally came to the street and found themselves in front of the imposing structure of Las Células. An extremely bright bulb in a single fixture over the entrance threw stark light over the same two dented cars that were parked there the day before. The wide building’s corners were cloaked in darkness.

  “Are you ready?” Ned asked.

  Without answering, John jogged across the street and dodged between the cars, his shotgun at port arms. Praying the guard was alone, he opened the door and stepped inside. Ned was right on his heels, his own shotgun muzzle alongside his leg.

  They were lucky. A different guard was dozing in the chair. John rushed across the room and rapped the desk with the gun’s muzzle. “Morning.”

  Ned took one last look outside, and seeing no one, gently closed the door. The sleepy guard snapped awake, but his head was still full of cobwebs. His eyes cleared at the sight of the enormous tube pointing at his chest. He raised both hands.

  “No disparar!”

  Ned rounded the desk. “I don’t speak that. Call back there and tell them you have a prisoner and to open the door.”

  Silence.

  Ned suddenly panicked. “Do you speak American?”

  The terrified guard shook his head. “No hablo ingles!”

  “Now what we gonna do?” John asked. Only seconds into the rescue, and already things were falling apart.

  Ned spoke to himself. “I bet if we slap him hard enough, he’ll understand English better than he lets on.” The outside door slowly creaked open. He spun and leveled his shotgun at a heavily armed Tom Bell.

  Looking every inch like a worn out cowboy coming into a saloon for a whiskey, Bell nodded from under his big Stetson. “Mornin’, gents.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  An intricately etched and cocked pearl-handled .45 automatic rode on Bell’s hip. “What are y’all doing here?”

  Cradled in the crook of his arm was a nasty-looking Browning automatic rifle. A heavy belt full of extra magazines for the BAR hung over one shoulder. The light, portable machine gun was the favorite weapon of Clyde Barrow, of Bonnie and Clyde fame, and a staple of the WWII infantryman.

  The old man’s presence astonished Ned, but John wasn’t fazed in the least. “We’re fixing to get Cody out of this jail, and to kill some people if we have to. Especially a crooked lawman named Guerrera.”

  “I’d be proud to help out.”

  It was the Texas Ranger badge on his shirt that finally jolted Ned to speak. “How the hell did you find us?”

  “O.C. told me what town y’all called him from, and a little Mexican gal outside with long, black hair told me y’all were in here.”

  “Where did you get that badge? You’re gonna get killed wearing that thing.”

  “They haven’t killed me yet, and I’ve been wearing it for fifty years. I figured you needed the help.”

  “You’re supposed to be taking care of the kids. Becky said they were with you back on the other side.”

  “They are…I hired a woman to keep an eye on them two in your motel room, and I doubt I paid her enough for the job. But let’s talk about this little situation we have here. It looks tense and I imagine you don’t speak the language, right?”

  “We done thought of that.”

  “Too late, probably. Tell me what you want to say.” He pointed at the guard whose hands were still raised.

  “We ain’t got no choice, Mr. Ned,” John said. “We got to do something and do it quick.”

  Never one to hesitate, Ned decided. “Tell him to call back and say they have a prisoner here. Open the door.”

  Bell addressed the young man in rapid Spanish. The man sat perfectly still with his hands still in the air, taking in the situation. John pushed the muzzle closer to the guard’s head, and his terrified eyes flicked back and forth from the Ranger to the giant black man glaring at him over the shotgun.

  Bell spoke again in Spanish, softly, and the guard got the message not to try and warn anyone on the other end. He gingerly picked up the receiver, conversed briefly, and then answered a question as Bell listened carefully. He replaced the receiver and waited with both hands flat on the table.

  “Did he say the right words?” Ned asked.

  “Yes.”

  With a fast, smooth motion borne of long practice, Ned reached into his back pocket for the lead-weighted sap he always carried. His wrist flicked. The leather-covered sap made a sickening crack behind the guard’s right ear, and he dropped face forward onto the desk. A thin trickle of blood found its way through his hair.

  Tom Bell nodded in approval. “Always liked the way those work.”

  Ned remained behind the desk and kept an eye on both doors. “You’re liable to get killed here this morning.”

  “It don’t matter, I’ve got the cancer anyway,” Tom said dismissively. He took up a position to cover both entrances.

  John waited beside the door leading into the jail. Keys
rattled on the other side and it creaked open. The big deputy’s huge arm shot through the opening and grabbed the first shirt he saw. Surprise always makes unprepared people pause, to take stock of the situation, and question the reality of what’s happening. It worked once again. With a violent yank, John slung a very shocked guard into the room, where he slammed to the floor. Tom kicked him hard in the side, and then in the head, his pointed boots inflicting serious damage.

  Capitán Guerrera stood in the doorway, his hands held high and staring smack down the large bore of John’s twelve-gauge. Abruptly awakened from the deep sleep of the virtuous on the cot in his office and unable to comprehend what was going on, the capitán hadn’t even buttoned the shirt over his flat belly. They’d gotten a call that a prisoner had been brought in, and when they opened the door, the deputy beside him had literally flown away.

  Guerrera’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Tom Bell lifted his chin and spoke quickly in Spanish. Guerrera kept his hands high and entered the room to face the deep barrel of still another shotgun and a mean-looking rifle promising a long, deep sleep.

  John tugged a pair of cuffs from his back pocket, spun Guerrera around to face the wall, and snapped the metal around his wrists.

  When Bell asked a question in Spanish, Guerrera’s sly eyes flicked to the floor. He shrugged, buying time to clear his head.

  “No se.”

  Bell leaned his forearm against the back of the capitán’s neck, forcing his stubbled face into the gray wall, all the while keeping up a steady stream of words incomprehensible to the two Texas lawmen.

  “I’ve trailed dope from this pig sty to Texas and right back here to you and Whitlatch. I know you rubbed him and his men out, and for my own reasons, I’m ending this business here this morning, so you can’t send no more of that shit into my country.”

  “What’s he saying, Tom?”

  “Hang on a minute, Ned.” Bell switched back to Spanish. “I’d just as soon gut you like a fish, but I’m about to turn you over to this man here. I just wanted you to know that I’ve passed the word to the Rangers, so they’re about to tear your playhouse down.”

  Guerrera raised his lip in a sneer. “No sé lo que estás hablando.”

  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Bell’s dead eyes erased the sneer and replaced it with fear. “No me importa. Estás muerto. Dónde está Cody?”

  I don’t care. You’re dead. Where’s Cody?

  Ned’s patience was wearing thin. “Where the hell does he have Cody? Have they moved him out yet?”

  Guerrera shrugged. “No se.”

  “Says he don’t know where Cody is,” Bell translated.

  “We do.” Ned was at the end of his rope. He stepped forward and drove his fist deep into Guerrera’s bare abdomen, doubling the man over in a cough of pain. “I told you I’d be back.” He whacked the side of Guerrera’s head with the leather-covered lead sap, harder than he’d ever hit anyone before, and then in blind rage, harder once again.

  “Ned.”

  He heard John’s caution. “I ain’t.”

  Ned tugged a handkerchief from his pocket. A handful of bullets came with it and rattled at his feet. He quickly stuffed the cloth into Guerrera’s mouth. Instead of pushing it in with his fingers, he used the barrel of the .38 to jam it deep. John pitched him the red bandana he used as a handkerchief, and Ned yanked the material between Guerrera’s lips and tied it firmly into place behind his head.

  He rolled Guerrera onto his belly, removed the capitán’s belt, and drew it tight around the man’s feet. Finally, he bent Guerrera’s legs and looped the remainder of the belt through the cuffs’ short links. Trussed on his stomach like a hog to slaughter, he lay helplessly, trying to breathe through his congested nose.

  “That took long enough,” Bell said. “Cutting his throat would have been faster.”

  “I thought about it, but I ain’t that far into this, yet. We’re lawmen even though we’re in the middle of this bidness. Thought you were, too.”

  “Sometimes the law gets gray around the edges down here.” Bell’s wide eyes took in the empty hallway. That one sentence spoke volumes. “Where to now?”

  “Cody’s cell, and that’ll be the hard part.”

  “You know where it is?”

  “We have a map.”

  “This gets better.”

  John stuck his head through the doorway and checked the area in both directions. The hallway was empty, except for a wooden table directly opposite from where they stood. When John ducked into the corridor, Ned matched his pace. Bell brought up the rear, keeping a careful watch over his shoulder for anyone suddenly appearing behind them.

  Three old lawmen men crept through the stench and filth to break a fellow lawman out of a Mexican jail.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Ned had memorized the map, but he took it out of his shirt pocket and kept one eye in the smudged lines as they crept down the hallway. He counted doors on the right to orient himself, and breathed a sigh of relief when the marks on the map matched the actual openings they passed. The tally was correct when they reached the corner and turned right.

  The prison was designed in a huge three-story square, with cells on the inside facing a bare concrete courtyard where prisoners exercised in the sunlight. The bleak outside wall of the square consisted of offices, solitary confinement cells, interrogation rooms, and unadorned spaces for everyday use, such as bathrooms, kitchen, and dining room.

  Unfortunately, Cody’s cell was on the square exactly opposite from where they stood, so they were forced to traverse the entire length of the left side’s ground floor. The three men moved without a word. It was early enough that most of the prisoners were still asleep in dirty eight-by-ten-foot cells.

  The air was thick with the reek of unwashed bodies, piss, and shit. Flies buzzed through the bars without impediment. Roaches crawled on the walls and floor, and crunched underfoot.

  Their luck held. Not a guard was in sight so early in the morning. This was the hour when generals traditionally initiated attacks, when men slept heavily and were less inclined to wake quickly. No one noticed their passing, at least until a prisoner jerked up as they passed a cell crammed with so many men that some had to sleep sitting upright. A whispered exclamation caused his cellmates to stir, but the trio had already passed, moving swiftly along the corridor.

  Three Americanos wearing Stetsons was an unusual sight in the depressing jail. Behind them, stirring sounds and murmured conversations told them that the cells were coming alive.

  “Mr. Ned.”

  “I know. I hear ’em. It’s the third cell on the right after we turn the corner.”

  Ten steps later, John backed against the wall, peeked around the bend, and found another empty corridor. Rats and mice darted across the open floor.

  Quiet as a well-oiled watch, the determined trio ducked around the corner and rushed to Cody’s cell.

  “Cody!” Ned’s heart beat so hard he thought it would explode.

  Shadowy figures snapped awake and sat up, two and three men to each vermin-infested bunk. Someone coughed quietly. It was so dark they couldn’t distinguish the inmates swinging their legs over the sides. Ned’s head reeled when the floor shimmered, then waved in the darkness. It took a moment to realize people were packed in so tightly there was no empty floor space at all.

  “Here.” Tom handed him a metal Eveready two-cell flashlight.

  Grateful, Ned found the small red spotlight button above the on-off switch with his thumb. The light clicked on and he played the beam around the cell as men covered their eyes. Roaches scurried and unidentifiable insects leaped from one man to another. None of the prisoners were Cody.

  “Oh lordy. He ain’t here. You think they moved him already?”

  Shading their eyes against the sudden glare, the men beh
ind the bars began to talk. Ned turned to Bell. “What are they saying?”

  “Hang on a minute.” He spoke in hushed tones to the men inside.

  They drifted close to the bars and Ned worried that someone might reach through. Old habits learned in the Lamar County courthouse had kept him safe for years. Ned rested his hand on the pistol butt at his waist. He didn’t want to risk injury from an inmate.

  The whispered exchange was disheartening. Bell translated the information. “They never put him back in here after y’all left yesterday. They say he’s in one of the solitary cells, but they don’t know which one.”

  Ned groaned deep in his throat in barely contained frustration and faced the line of blank doors across from the cells.

  More soft voices carried from the cell as Bell conversed with the prisoners.

  “They say he wasn’t walked back past here, so they don’t think he’s on this side, or on this hall. Ned, there’s two sides on this level, and eight more in the two stories above us. There ain’t no telling where he is.”

  “Guerrera knows.”

  “Oh, lordy,” John said. “Now we got to go back and get him.”

  “Told you we didn’t need to cut his throat,” Ned said. “Yet.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Bell and the cell’s occupants spoke softly as a low buzz like that of a giant beehive filled the air around them. “They’ll pass the word about what we’re doing, so maybe it won’t get too loud too quick.”

  John more than heard the jail fill with conversation that almost immediately began to build. “How are they gonna do that?”

  “You watch. The news will beat us back around to Guerrera, especially after I told them how we’d left him.”

  Anxious to the point of panic, John led the way. “Let’s go, then.”