Ambush Valley

by Johnstone, William W.

  If they had been paying any attention, they would have seen the grin that flickered briefly across Frank’s bloody, battered face.

  His plan was working.

  Warden Townsend was aghast as he walked into the front room of the infirmary, a stout adobe building set off to one side of the massive cell block wings. Two armed guards followed him. Frank sat on a table while the prison surgeon wrapped bandages tightly around his torso. The surgeon thought Frank might have some cracked ribs, so he was binding them up as a precaution. Frank had had cracked ribs before and didn’t think that was the case this time, but he didn’t argue with the man.

  Moans and whimpers and an occasional scream came from another room in the rear of the building. That was where Jessup was.

  The surgeon had already cleaned and bandaged the wounds on Frank’s face, arms, and shoulders. Huge bruises had started to appear everywhere he had been struck with the clubs. Townsend stared at him, then paled as more shrieks of pain came from Jessup.

  “Good God, man, what have you done?” the warden demanded.

  “Defended myself,” Frank said. “Jessup attacked me, just like before.”

  “But you goaded him into it. I’ve talked to Nash, and he confirms it. So do the guards.”

  The surgeon stepped back, finished with the job of binding up Frank’s ribs. Frank shrugged as best he could and grimaced as pain shot through him.

  “He threatened me. Said he was going to get me sooner or later. I figured I’d rather have it over and done with, right then and there, out in the open.”

  Another of Jessup’s screams trailed away into a bub bling whimper.

  Townsend wiped a hand over his face and said to the surgeon, “Can’t you do anything for him?”

  The surgeon shook his head. “I can’t repair his knee. It’s torn to pieces inside.”

  “Then for God’s sake, can’t you shut him up?”

  “I’ve already given him as much laudanum as I dare. Any more and I run the risk of it killing him.” It was the surgeon’s turn to shrug. “He’s so big the stuff is taking a long time to take effect. But he should go to sleep soon.”

  “Lord, I hope so,” Townsend muttered. He turned back to Frank. “The punishment for fighting is twenty four hours in the Dark Cell, Morton. The next time it’ll be forty-eight hours, so I’d advise you not to cause any more trouble. Some men crack after forty-eight hours in there.”

  Frank wasn’t worried about that. He said, “I’ve got something to tell you, Warden. You, personal-like.”

  Townsend glared and shook his head. “Impossible.” “It’s important.”

  “I’ll go check on Jessup, even though it’s not going to do any good,” the surgeon said. He left the room, going down a hall toward the room where Jessup still moaned and cried while waiting for the laudanum to make the pain in his knee go away.

  Townsend thought about it for a minute, then told the guards, “Step back.”

  The guards looked dubious. “I ain’t sure that’s a good idea, Warden.”

  “Look at Morton,” Townsend snapped. “He’s so beaten up that he doesn’t pose any danger to anyone right now. And the two of you will still be right here in the room if he tries anything. Now step back.”

  The guards exchanged a glance and then followed orders, moving back until they were just inside the door. Townsend came closer to Frank and said, “Now what is it?”

  Townsend’s broad body blocked the guards’ view of Frank’s face. He whispered, “When I get out of the hole, put me and McCoy on road detail. Got it?”

  Townsend nodded, the motion so slight as to be almost imperceptible. But Frank saw it and knew the warden understood. He went on in a louder voice. “Lean closer, Warden, so you can hear me better.”

  Townsend did so.

  Frank spat in his face.

  Townsend recoiled in disgust as Frank laughed and the guards leaped forward. The warden’s reaction was gen uinely surprised, which was what Frank wanted. One of the blue-uniformed men cursed and swung a fist, crash ing it against Frank’s jaw and knocking him back off the table. The surgeon rushed in as Frank sprawled on the floor and shouted, “What the devil’s going on here? You can’t brawl in here! This is the infirmary!”

  Townsend pulled out his handkerchief and with a trembling hand wiped Frank’s spittle from his face. “Take Morton to the Dark Cell,” he ordered in a voice that shook with rage. Some of it was a sham, Frank thought as the guards grabbed him and jerked him to his feet, but some ofit wasn’t. Townsend was really upset. That was perfect. “Lock him up in there,” the warden went on.

  “For twenty-four hours?” one of the guards asked. Frank cut his eyes back and forth, hoping Townsend would understand what he meant. They had to make it look good, and this would do the trick.

  “No,” Townsend said coldly. “For forty-eight.”

  “Warden, are you sure—”

  “I gave the order, didn’t I? Now carry it out!”

  The guards nodded and hustled Frank out of the infir mary. Outside, several more guards closed in around them. He was marched rapidly toward the rear of the prison where another slope rose. As they approached it,

  Frank saw a dark hole gaping in the caliche hillside like an open mouth waiting to swallow him.

  “I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast,” he protested as they shoved him toward the open door of the Dark Cell.

  “Should’ve thought of that before you started a fight and spit in the warden’s face, you stupid bastard,” one of the guards grated.

  They practically threw him inside the hole in the hill. He tripped, stumbled, and lost his footing. The cell was only about five feet deep, so he hit his shoulder against the rear wall when he fell. He landed in a huddled heap on the stone floor and twisted around toward the door just in time to see it swinging shut. It closed with a slam of finality, cutting off all light in the windowless cell. Frank wondered how air got in here. There had to be some tiny cracks here and there, enough to let some air in so prisoners wouldn’t suffocate, but not enough to admit any discernible light. Or maybe there was some sort of chimney arrangement in the roof that blocked the light but let air in. He hadn’t had time to get a good look before he was tossed in here.

  Not that it mattered. A thick bar dropped across brack ets on either side of the door outside the cell, sealing him in here good and proper. He wouldn’t be going anywhere until someone let him out. That would be forty-eight hours if Warden Townsend stuck to the original punish ment he had decreed. Frank hoped that he would. Townsend couldn’t afford to make it look like he was taking it easy on this troublemaking new prisoner “Fred Morton.” Not if they wanted the plan to work.

  The cell was too small for Frank to stretch out. He sat with his back propped against the wall instead and put a hand to his jaw, working it back and forth. The guard’s punch hadn’t done any real damage, but it hurt. That didn’t matter much, either, because he wouldn’t be eating anything for a couple of days. By then some of the bruises would have healed.

  “Conrad,” Frank said in a voice so low that only he could hear it, “I sure as hell hope that you appreciate all this.”

  Chapter 13

  Forty-eight hours or forty-eight years … Frank Morgan wouldn’t have taken bets on which was the cor rect answer when the door of the Dark Cell finally swung open again and guards stood outside the cramped chamber to wait for him to crawl out. They wouldn’t come in and get him, one of them explained. The rules said he had to come out under his own power. Frank fig ured that was because he hadn’t had any place to relieve himself, and none of the guards wanted to enter the cell until some of the trusties had taken buckets of water in there and washed down the stone floor.

  He didn’t crawl. Knowing that was what they ex pected, he forced himself to his feet. He was already bent in what felt like a permanent crouch, so he had no trouble getting through the low door. He staggered for ward, blinking against the light that seemed more harsh and blindi
ng than ever. As he lifted a shaking hand to shield his eyes, a blurred shape moved in front of him. He couldn’t see well enough yet to tell who it was, but he recognized the voice as Warden Eli Townsend said, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Morton, and won’t have to go in there anymore. But just to make sure that you don’t have enough energy left to start trouble in the future, we’re going to work you like you’ve never b.een worked before.” An angry and vindictive edge came mto Townsend’s voice as he added, “You’ll be on the road gang until you drop!” .

  Frank didn’t allow himself to chuckle or even smile. Townsend’s words were perfect. Even after the hellish two days he had spent in the Dark Cell, Frank’s brain was still clear enough for him to realize that.

  He could think about the plan later. Right now he just wanted some food and water, and to stretch out muscles that had been cramped in unnatural positions for far too long.

  But he was still proud enough to wave the guards away as a couple of them moved forward to give him a hand. Like an old, old man, he tottered toward the cell block on his own two feet, without any help.

  With the guards surrounding him, he walked all the way to his cell without any help. As he passed along the aisle between the barred, stone-walled chambers, the prisoners stepped up to watch him .go b!. Some of them spoke low, encouraging words to him, like GIdeon, who said, “That’s showin’ ‘em, Fred.” Others just looked on in silence. But all of the convicts seemed to be impressed that he had not only survived the ordeal, but come through it in better shape than those unlucky enough to get thrown into the Dark Cell usually did.

  The door of his cell slammed shut behind him, cloak ing him in gloom once more. It was positively bright in here, though, compared to where he had spent the past two days. He stumbled over to his bunk and collapsed on it. A groan escaped from his lips as he stretched out. He couldn’t hold back the sound as his stiff muscles tried to unkink themselves. His whole body was one giant throb bing ache.

  Frank wondered how long it would be before Warden Townsend assigned him and Cicero McCoy to the road gang. It couldn’t be soon. Frank needed at least a little time to recover. No matter how much resolve he had, he was in no shape to be out working on a stagecoach road in the hot sun.

  He pondered that for a few moments, but those were the last coherent thoughts that went through his head.

  After that, he was sound asleep, utterly drained and exhausted by the hellish experience.

  Frank roused enough that evening to eat and drink a little, then fell asleep again. By the next morning he felt better, though he was still only a shadow of his normal self, The prison surgeon came by the cell to check on him and see when he would be fit to go back to work. When the surgeon was finished with his examination, he said, “I’ll tell the warden that you can resume your normal activities in a couple of days.”

  Frank nodded. His active, outdoor life had given him an iron constitution that enabled him to recover quickly. He wanted to get on with the plan. The less time he had to spend behind bars, the better.

  Besides, the idea of getting out in the open air and working appealed to him, even though he would proba bly have to do it wearing leg irons and shackles.

  The two days passed fairly quickly. Frank slept a lot, ate the food that was brought to him, and let strength flow back into his body. By the time several guards showed up on the third morning to unlock his cell and lead him out, he was most of the way back to normal. Not there yet, but getting better all the time.

  He joined a line of other convicts assembling in the courtyard. Gideon was among them-and so was Cicero McCoy. The white-haired bank robber said under his breath to Frank, “I’ve been wanting to get put on road detail ever since I got here. You made it almost right away, Morton.”

  “What’s better about this job?” Frank asked. “Besides being out in the open, I mean.”

  “That’s it. When you’re working on the road, you’re not behind these damned walls anymore.” One of McCoy’s eyes closed for a second in a lazy wink. “That makes it easier to get away, like we were talking about that other time.”

  Frank gave a knowing nod. He hoped McCoy wouldn’t be impetuous enough to try to make a break for freedom right away. Frank still needed a little time to work his way in with the outlaw, so that there was no question they were partners and would make their escape together.

  Of course, if McCoy did get away and Frank didn’t, the charade could be ended. He wouldn’t have to spend any more time behind bars. But that would mean that his mission to Yuma had been a failure, and Frank didn’t like the notion of failing. Never had, and never would.

  Gideon was one of the men being sent to work on the stagecoach road, too. As they were climbing onto wagons to be taken out of the prison, he grinned at Frank and McCoy and said, “Here we are, together again, boys. We’re gettin’ to be sort of like the Three Musketeers, ain’t we?”

  “Who?” McCoy asked with a puzzled frown.

  “Characters in a book,” Frank explained. During his drifting days, he’d nearly always had a book or three in his saddlebags and had spent many an evening reading by the light of a campfire. He knew the work of Dumas quite well. “The musketeers were good friends, three sol diers in France.”

  McCoy shook his head “I never cottoned to the idea of taking orders like a soldier, and I don’t like Frenchies.”

  “Well, I didn’t say we had to be just like them,” Gideon said as he sat down in the wagon bed with his back propped against the driver’s seat.

  Frank noticed that several of the convicts had heavy iron balls attached to their leg irons by means of a chain that was long enough for the men to carry the balls as they were walking. They were men who had tried to escape in the past, he reasoned. If they tried to run with one of those balls chained to them, they wouldn’t move very fast or get very far. The guards could run them down without any trouble.

  The road gang had two dozen men in it. They rode twelve to a wagon. Ten guards accompanied them—one man riding point, one bringing up the rear, and two on either side of each wagon. The guards were armed with rifles and pistols. In addition, a smaller wagon rolled along about fifty yards behind the vehicles carrying the prisoners. Three men rode on that wagon, which had something sitting in the bed. Frank couldn’t tell for sure what the object was since it had a canvas tarp draped over it, but he could make a guess.

  Gray-uniformed trusties drove the wagons carrying the prisoners. In the event of trouble, they would proba bly stay out of it, not taking either side. Their lot in prison life could hardly be called comfortable, but at least they were better off than the regular convicts, and they would want to protect the extra privileges they had.

  The wagons rolled down the hill and headed east out of the settlement of Yuma, following the stagecoach road The sun grew hotter as it rose. Almost an hour went by before the wagons stopped where the road swung around a rocky outcropping topped by boulders to the left. To the right the ground fell away at a fairly steep angle into a dry wash that followed the curve of the road. The gully had a gravelly floor dotted with large rocks that looked like no water had run there for years.

  That wasn’t the case, though. A torrent had poured through the wash recently enough so that the edges of the road were ragged and washed out in places. As the wagons came to a halt, the guard who had led the proces sion out here waved his hand at the damaged road and called, “That’s what you’ll be workin’ on! Grab your shovels and build up the side o’ that road until it’s good and solid again. Wouldn’t do for a stagecoach to come along and have a wheel go off the edge and tip it over.”

  Several of the guards had brought along bundles of shovels tied together with cord. They untied the cords and the tools dropped to the ground with a clatter. The convicts climbed down from the wagons and each man picked up a shovel.

  The man in charge of the details shouted, “Give me or any of the other guards any sass, and it’ll be in the Dark Cell you go as soon as we get back
to the prison!” He grinned at Frank. “Morton there can tell you that ain’t no picnic, just in case you were thinkin’ it was. Ain’t that right, Morton?”

  Frank didn’t answer. He stood there in stony silence. The guard brought his horse closer. “Maybe you didn’t know it, Morton,” he said with a dangerous edge to his voice, “but the warden put me in charge o’ this detail. That means you do what I tell you, just like you would if the warden told you to do it. And that means you don’t ignore me, either.”

  With that he leaned forward and slashed the quirt that he carried across Frank’s chest. It hit gray uniform in stead of bare skin, but it still hurt like blazes. Frank hissed and his jaw tightened. It was all he could do not to reach up, haul that bastard out of the saddle, and throw him on the ground like the mean varmint that he was.

  “I said the Dark Cell ain’t no picnic. Ain’t that right, Morton?”

  “Yeah,” Frank grated. “That’s right. No picnic.”

  The man laughed and straightened in the saddle. “Now that we’ve settled that, I’d best point out somethin’ else for those of you who ain’t been on road detail before. You may think that since we’re outside the walls o’ the prison now, it’d be easy to run away. Well, we got a couple of special deals for anybody who wants to try that. First we put a ball and chain on you.” The guard nodded toward the prisoners who carried heavy iron balls. They stared sullenly back at him. The guard went on. “And if that don’t work … “

  He gestured toward the smaller wagon, which had come to a stop, still keeping its distance of approxi mately ftfty yards. Two of the men who had ridden on it had climbed into the back, and now they removed the canvas tarp from the object carried there.

  Frank grunted as the canvas slid smoothly over metal and then fell away into the wagon bed, exposing the sleek lines of a Gatling gun. He wasn’t surprised. He had guessed from the general shape under the tarp that the hidden object might be one of those deadly, rapid-fire re peaters.