“That’s right,” the guard who was in charge of the detail said. “We got us a Gatling. If we need to, we can mow down the whole lot of you in less than half a minute. And we’ll do it, too, if it looks like you’re gonna get away. Don’t you doubt it for a second.”
Frank didn’t doubt it at all. From the sound of the guard’s voice, the man would have enjoyed watching the bodies spout blood and fall as the multiple barrels of the Gatling gun revolved and its deadly chatter filled the air.
The trick for an escaping convict would be not only to get away, but to somehow silence that Gatling gun while he was making his escape.
Either that, or somehow turn the Gatling’s stuttering roar to his advantage somehow …
The guards didn’t hunt some shade and neglect their duties; Frank had to give them credit for that. They stayed out in the sun like the convicts and watched alertly as the work got under way. The prisoners shoveled up wheelbarrows full of rocky dirt, then wheeled those barrows along the road to the washed-out spots and dumped them there. Other men used their shovels to tamp down the new dirt and make it solid enough to sup port the weight of a stagecoach wheel.
It was hard labor, especially under the merciless rays of the sun. Frank quickly discovered that he hadn’t re covered as much of his strength as he thought he had. Weariness threatened to overwhelm him. He forced him self to keep working, but after a couple of hours his head suddenly started spinning, and before he knew what has happening, he found himself on the ground where he had fallen.
He heard the ominous sound of numerous guns being cocked.
Squinting against the sun, Frank looked up to see him self surrounded by guards. “What’s wrong with you, Morton?” one of them demanded. “If this is some sort of trick, you’ll regret it.”
Gideon hustled forward. “It ain’t a trick, boss, and he ain’t fakin’! You know he just done two days in the Dark Cell not long ago. Shoot, he probably shouldn’t even be out here workin’ yet-“
Frank waved off Gideon, even though the man was just trying to stick up for him. “Just give me a second to … catch my breath,” he told the guards. “I’ll be all right.” He picked up the shovel he had dropped when he collapsed and used it to help himself climb back to his feet.
But when he tried to take a step, he swayed and almost fell again. “For God’s sake,” McCoy muttered as he stepped forward. “Let me give you a hand, Morton.” He grasped Frank’s arm to steady him.
One of the guards said in a grudging voice, “Take him over to the wagons, McCoy. I reckon he’ll have to sit in the shade for a while, and get him a drink.”
“Yeah,” another man put in. “The warden don’t like it when a man dies on work detail.”
Frank was about to mutter his thanks, when McCoy leaned closer and whispered so that only he could hear, “Keep it up. The bastards believe it. I won’t forget how you helped me get away, Morton.”
No! Not yet … McCoy was about to try something, and Frank was in no shape to stop him, let alone escape with him. They had to wait—
The guards’ horses were picketed next to the wagons.
The teams were still hitched up. If McCoy jumped onto one of the wagons and whipped up the team, then stam peded the saddle horses, he’d stand a chance of getting away, Frank realized as he forced his brain to work as fast as it could.
That is, McCoy would stand a chance of getting away … if it hadn’t been for that Gatling gun. When the guards manning the gun opened up, hundreds of slugs would chop the wagon to pieces, and McCoy with it.
“McCoy,” Frank muttered. “Don’t … “
“They’re not paying any attention,” McCoy insisted. “I’ll never get a better chance.”
They had reached the closest wagon. McCoy lowered Frank to the ground.
“So long, pard,” the bank robber whispered with a grin. Before Frank could stop him, he sprang to the wagon seat and grabbed the reins that were looped around the brake lever.
“Hey!” one of the guards yelled. “McCoy, what’re you—”
“Hyaaahhh!” McCoy shouted as he slashed the rumps of the team with the reins. The startled horses leaped into motion.
But even as that was happening, Frank forced his mus cles to work, no matter how much they protested. He twisted around, lunged up, and grabbed the back of the wagon as it went past him. He was pulled off his feet, but he didn’t lose his grip.
McCoy must have felt the added weight. He looked around and saw Frank trying to pull himself into the back of the wagon. “Morton!” he shouted. “Let go!”
Frank didn’t release his hold on the wagon. Instead, he hauled himself into the bed, sprawling on his stomach. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the Gatling gun swinging toward them with its deadly circular array of barrels. In a matter of seconds, flame and lead would begin spitting from those barrels, and McCoy wasn’t anywhere close to being out of range of the weapon.
Moving automatically, not thinking about what he was doing, just acting, Frank scrambled to his feet as McCoy sent the wagon careening through the group of saddle horses, just as Frank expected him to do. And also as ex pected, the horses spooked, jerked loose from their pick ets, and scattered in a wild stampede. The guards would have to spend some time rounding them up again.
But that didn’t matter, because by then McCoy would be riddled with bullets from the Gatling gun, unless Frank could somehow prevent it. And with McCoy’s death, the chances of ever finding that hidden loot would die as well.
Frank launched himself in a dive over the back of the seat. He slammed into McCoy. Wrapping his arms around the outlaw’s shoulder, he drove both of them toward the side of the wagon. McCoy howled curses as Frank shoved him right off the seat. Both men tumbled to the ground, landing hard and rolling over and over in the dust.
And as they did, a hail of bullets gouted from the Gatling gun and tore into the wagon with devastating force. Splinters flew as the slugs chewed their way through the vehicle. Wagon spokes snapped, The two horses in the back of the six-horse team screamed and stumbled as they were hit. One of the wheels flew off, and the wagon came to a lurching, shuddering, skid ding halt. The two wounded horses collapsed in their traces.
Frank and McCoy lay there, unhit by the bullets, as the Gatling gun fell silent. After the terrible chattering roar that had filled the air, the quiet was almost eerie. Then the guards started yelling as they ran toward Frank and McCoy. They trained their rifles on the two prisoners and ordered them not to move.
“You son of a bitch,” McCoy grated. “Why’d you do that, damn you? I could’ve made it!”
“No, you couldn’t have,” Frank told him. “Look look at that wagon, McCoy. The seat’s … shot to hell You’d have … forty or fifty bullet holes in you right now if I hadn’t knocked you off of there.”
McCoy pushed himself into a sitting position and glared at the wrecked wagon. What Frank had said was beyond dispute. McCoy would be dead now if not for what Frank had done.
“All right,” he said in a grudging growl. “I reckon it was a fool play. But I’ve been in here longer than you have, Morton. And I got more waiting for me outside.”
He didn’t say anything else, but Frank knew he was talking about that eighty grand.
The guards reached them then, surrounding them. One of the men screamed curses as he stepped behind McCoy and drove the butt of his rifle into the bank robber’s back, right between McCoy’s shoulder blades. McCoy grunted in pain as he was driven face down on the ground by the vicious blow.
Frank and McCoy were both hauled to their feet. “You’ll go in the Dark Cell for a month for this, McCoy!” the guard who had struck him threatened.
Frank hoped not. He didn’t want to spend a month waiting for McCoy to get out of that dismal hole. Warden Townsend would have to punish McCoy for this at tempted escape, though. It would look too odd if he didn’t. And after this, it would look a mite strange, too, if Townsend turned around and assigned McCoy to the road
gang again.
This was the worst break so far, Frank thought. McCoy’s impulsive act had set everything back, at best, and made the plan unworkable, at worst. If only McCoy had waited …
It looked like Frank would have to be mighty patient if he wanted to have any chance of pulling this off, he told himself.
But being patient was easier said than done … especially when a man was in prison.
Chapter 14
One of the guards caught his horse and rode back to the prison with the news of McCoy’s attempted escape. He brought back another wagon to replace the one that had been heavily damaged by the Gatling gun. In the back of the new wagon was one of the heavy iron balls, which was soon chained to McCoy’s leg irons. The warden had ordered that because he couldn’t treat McCoy differently than he would any other prisoner.
McCoy didn’t say anything else to Frank during the afternoon. His sullen silence was enough of an indica tion that he hadn’t completely forgiven Frank’s interfer ence—even though it had saved his life and McCoy had to be aware of that.
Gideon said to Frank, “You came damn close to gettin’ yourself killed, Fred. What were you thinkin’?”
“McCoy’s my friend,” Frank answered. “I knew he’d be killed if I didn’t get him out of the line of fire of that Gatling gun.”
Gideon shook his head. “You can’t afford to be too friendly in here. You never know when it’ll get you in more trouble’n it’s worth.”
Frank didn’t say anything. He wanted McCoy to know that he considered him a friend. It was likely that Gideon would say something about it to McCoy sooner or later.
Frank wasn’t going to give up just because of this bad break. Something might be salvaged from the situation eventually.
When the wagons returned to Yuma late that after noon, Frank and McCoy were both taken under heavy guard to the warden’s office. Townsend glared across his desk at them. “I’m disappointed in you, McCoy,” he snapped. “You’ve been a good prisoner while you were here. I suppose that was all an act, wasn’t it? You’ve just been biding your time, waiting for a chance to escape.”
McCoy didn’t say anything, but his chin jutted out in defiance as his jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead without looking at the warden.
Townsend shifted his angry gaze to Frank. From the looks of it, it almost appeared that Townsend had for gotten Frank wasn’t a real convict. He seemed gen uinely mad.
“And as for you, Morton, were you trying to escape, too?” Townsend demanded.
“Is that what the guards told you?” Frank asked.
“Never mind what the guards told me! Just answer the question!”
Frank shrugged. “I didn’t think McCoy was going to make it before that Gatling gun got him. So I knocked him off the wagon to save his life.”
Townsend snorted and said, “A likely story. I think both of you tumbled off the wagon by accident. You thought you’d get away, too, Morton. Well, I’m tired of your troublemaking. You’re going back in the Dark Cell.”
That jolted a response out of McCoy at last. “Hold on, Warden,” he said. “Morton’s telling you the truth. He was just trying to help me. He just got out of the Dark Cell a few days ago. You put him back in there now, it’s liable to kill him.”
“And what is that to you?” Townsend asked in a cold voice.
“Well … he did save my life.”
Townsend sat back in his chair and glared at both of them again. After a moment, he gave a curt jerk of his head and said, “All right. Since you two are friends … you can go in the Dark Cell together.”
Frank knew from the startled expressions the guards wore that this was unusual. The Dark Cell was so small it was possible that two men had never before been put in there at the same time. With both of them in there, the space would be more cramped and uncomfortable than ever.
“Twenty-four hours,” Townsend went on. “I think that will be enough time.”
Maybe the warden was being canny after all, Frank thought. By putting them both in the Dark Cell, Townsend was cutting down the time that McCoy would be out of commission, and yet there was nothing all that suspicious about it.
“What about the ball and chain?” one of the guards asked.
“It stays on McCoy,” Townsend snapped. “Now get them out of here.”
The guards hustled them out of the office and back through the sally port into the prison itself. McCoy car ried the iron ball attached to his leg irons, grunting now and then from the effort. Word of the attempted escape had gotten around. Some of the convicts were out in the large open area, and they watched with avid interest as Frank and McCoy were taken to the Dark Cell. Frank spotted redheaded Jim Nash, and beside him bald Conner Jessup limped along on a pair of crutches, his in jured knee still heavily bandaged. Both men grinned in pleasure at the prospect of Frank. and McCoy being tossed into the hole in the hillside.
The guards unlocked and unbarred the door of the punishment cell and stepped back to motion with the barrels of their rifles. “Get in there, you two,” one of them grated. “This’ll teach you never to try runnin’ again.”
Frank and McCoy shuffled into the chamber. As they turned back toward the door, it swung shut, cutting off the light. Awkwardly because of the darkness, they low ered themselves to the floor and sat with their backs against the walls as the heavy bar and the chains were put back in place. Then they heard the guards walking away.
Neither man said anything for a while. Then McCoy spoke in a taut, angry tone. “If you’re waiting for me to apologize for you being thrown in here, you’re wasting your time, Morton.”
“I don’t give a damn whether you apologize or not,” Frank. said. “Anyway, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. What I did was my own choice. I could’ve stood back and let them shoot you to pieces with that devil gun.”
“Yeah,” McCoy said. “You could have.” Again he was silent. The moment stretched out for a while; then McCoy finally said, “That damn warden was wrong. You weren’t trying to escape with me.”
“This time,” Frank said.
McCoy grunted in surprise. “What’s that mean?”
“Just what I said. I wasn’t trying to escape with you this time. But maybe next time … if we plan it out and don’t act on the spur of the moment … it might be a different story.”
“You want to bust out of here, too?”
“Hell, what do you think?” Frank gave a humorless laugh. “I never wanted to get locked up in the first place, and now, with Nash and Jessup in here hating me so bad, I sure as hell don’t want to be here. Sooner or later those two will try to kill me.”
“Yeah,” McCoy agreed, “you’re right. Jessup’s got a powerful hate for you, and Nash will go along with him and help him. If you stay in here, it’s a death sentence, not a life sentence.”
Frank laughed again. “So what do you say, McCoy? We come to an agreement and figure out a better way to get out of this place?”
“Maybe.” McCoy hesitated. “But there’s something you’re not saying. An agreement about what?”
Frank was glad McCoy had picked up on that. He had figured that the bank robber would.
“If we’re going to be partners in an escape, we’re going to be partners right down the line,” Frank said. “I heard about you, McCoy. You’re famous. You’re the fella who stole eighty grand from a bank in Tucson, and the authorities never got the loot back.”
“And you want a share of it,” McCoy said, his voice taut again.
“I want half,” Frank. said. “If I help you escape, and both of us get out of here, I get half the loot from that bank job.”
“Go to hell,” McCoy responded curtly. “That money’s mine.”
“Yeah, and it’s doing you a lot of good while you’re in here and it’s out there somewhere, isn’t it?”
Frank. couldn’t see the sneer, but he could hear it in McCoy’s voice as the outlaw said, “I’ll escape on my own. I don’t need your help, Morton.
”
“Without my help you’d be dead now, remember?” Frank pointed out. “Your first attempt on your own was so successful, that Gatling would’ve chopped you to pieces.”
McCoy didn’t say anything, but Frank knew he had to be turning things over in his mind. It was McCoy’s nature to bargain, so Frank wasn’t surprised a few mo ments later when he said, “Half’s out of the question, but I’ll give you a fourth of the bank money.”
“A third,” Frank countered.
“Thirty percent. Not a damn penny more.”
Frank was silent as if he were thinking over the pro posal. Then he said, “Twenty-four grand. I can live with that.”
“We have a deal?”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “We have a deal.”
“Then shake on it.”
Frank would have preferred that they didn’t do that. It went against the grain for Frank Morgan to give his word to anybody, even a vicious murderer and bank robber, knowing full well that he was going to break it. Shaking on it just made him even more uncomfortable.
But he didn’t have any choice in the matter. He put out his hand and felt around in the darkness until he encoun tered McCoy’s hand. They shook to seal the deal.
Now there was the little matter of figuring out exactly how they were going to make that escape ….
The Gatling gun was the key. That and being outside, working on the road detail. During the time they were locked up in the Dark Cell, Frank and McCoy spent hours talking about how the prison was run and how the work details assigned to the stagecoach road operated.
“We have to get our hands on that Gatling some way,” Frank said, “or at least fix it so that they can’t use it against us.”
“The guards are bound to know that’s how the convicts think. That’s why the wagon with the Gatling gun on it stays back a good ways. I’ll bet if a prisoner even starts toward it, they’d chop him down like a weed.”
Frank nodded, even though McCoy couldn’t see him in the darkness. “More than likely. Let’s put that aside for a minute and think about what we’re going to do for transportation. Taking one of the wagons and scattering the guards’ horses wasn’t a bad idea, but it would be better if we could get our hands on a couple of those horses for ourselves.”
Ambush Valley Page 14