Perley slipped cautiously around to the front of the store where Possum was plastered up against the doorway. “Hug that ground,” he said to Wheeler as he went past him. When he got beside Possum, he asked, “You sure those shots came from that direction?” Possum said he was sure because he could see the angle the slugs ripped up the ground. “There ain’t nothin’ past the store but the church,” Perley said.
Thinking again about the angle the shots came from, Possum decided, “Those shots came from the church bell steeple,” he said. “And I bet it ain’t the preacher.”
“Ned Stark,” they both said at the same time. People were running from the street now as the shots continued to ring out from the church steeple.
“The rat has gone loco,” Possum said, “and I reckon he’s tryin’ to kill as many people as he can.”
“This is the second time him or one of his men has taken a shot at me in front of this store,” Perley said as he tried to inch his way up close to the corner of the store, so he might see for sure if Stark was really in the church. He peeked around the corner just in time to see a muzzle flash. “You’re right, he’s in the steeple where the bell is. What worries me is where are the preacher and his wife? Maybe they’re in the house.” He looked back at Wheeler, lying as flat as he could up against the edge of the board walkway. “Mayor,” Perley called. “If you roll over a couple of times, you oughta be out of his line of fire. The building will block his line of sight.”
“You sure?” Wheeler asked fearfully.
“Yeah, but hurry up, we got to do something about that mad dog before he kills somebody,” Perley answered.
“Like what?” Possum said.
“We’ll think of something, but first, we need to see if the preacher and his wife are okay.” Impatient with the mayor’s fearfulness, he blurted, “Come on, Wheeler, roll!” The mayor did, three or four revolutions instead of the couple Perley had suggested. Relieved to still be alive, Wheeler hurried inside the store when Perley pointed toward it and followed him inside.
Seated on the floor behind the counter, Cora Wheeler cried out when they came running in. “Get down, he’ll kill you!”
“You’ve got the right idea,” Perley replied. “Stay down and stay away from the windows. We’re well within range of that rifle he’s using. It’s just a miracle he ain’t hit nobody yet. There ain’t no tellin’ what he’s got on his mind to do, so keep a sharp eye,” he said to Possum.
“Where you goin’?” Possum wanted to know, afraid Perley was going to try something stupid.
“I’m goin’ to try something stupid,” Perley answered. When Possum started to object, Perley said, “I’m worried about Reverend Poole and his wife. I’ve gotta see if there’s anyway I can help ’em.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Possum said. “Damn it, be careful.”
“I will,” Perley said and ran through the stockroom to the living quarters behind the store, then to the kitchen and the back door. Before going out, he opened the door a crack and peeked out to see what kind of cover he could find. He was in luck, because he couldn’t see the little window below the bell that the rifle shots were coming from. That meant the shooter couldn’t see the back door of the store, so he ran out the door, out of the back yard and into the trees by the creek before stopping to catch his breath. While he did, he checked to make sure he hadn’t lost his six-gun on the way. “Cow pie, cow pie, cow pie,” he kept repeating under his breath as he made his way down the creek bank toward the house behind the church. Down by the edge of the creek, he saw a saddled horse wandering loose, a sign that told him Stark had nothing on his mind but killing. The parsonage was nothing more than a small cabin. All the money had been spent on the church building. It seemed adequate for Harvey and Nancy Poole, who had no children, a subject that was discussed among the town folk quite often—and a puzzle that was not on Perley’s mind as he trotted up to a back window of the cabin.
Using very little caution, because he knew where Stark was, Perley hurried around the side of the cabin, looking inside each window he came to. By the time he got to the front, he knew the cabin was empty. He turned then to look at the church. They had to be in there. Now it was time for caution, he thought as he went to the back door. The door was ajar, so he pushed it slowly open. He saw what appeared to be two bodies lying on the floor before the first row of pews. Damn, he thought and stopped to listen. In a few seconds, he heard the sound of the rifle firing and knew Stark was still in the steeple. So he pushed the door wide and walked as quietly as he could toward the bodies. As he neared them, the woman moved. They were not dead but tied hand and foot and gagged.
He removed the gag from her mouth and whispered. “Mrs. Poole, are you all right?” She nodded, then tried to turn to look at her husband. “Just a minute and I’ll get you untied.” Perley told her.
“He’s in the tower!” She whispered fearfully.
“I know,” Perley said. “I wanna get you outta here. How bad is your husband hurt?” He thought maybe Harvey was dead, for he had not moved and he could see blood on the side of his head.
“I don’t know,” Nancy whispered as he worked to untie the knots. “He hit Harvey in the head with his rifle. Harvey didn’t move while that man tied him up.”
As soon as she was free, she went to her husband while Perley untied his hands and feet. She bent over him and whispered, “He’s alive! I can feel his heartbeat!”
“Good,” he whispered. “Can you walk?” She nodded. “All right, let’s see if we can get him outta here to your house. Have you got a gun in the house?” She nodded again. “You know how to use it?” Once again, she nodded. “Good, let’s get both of you in the house.” He stopped to listen then, and when he heard another shot fired, he said, “Let’s go while he’s still at it.”
Between the two of them they managed to half drag, half walk Harvey, who began mumbling and calling for Nancy as they crossed the yard between the church and the cabin. Perley was afraid Stark was going to hear him, but Stark was busy trying to kill Bison Gap. When they got Harvey inside, they lowered him into a chair and Nancy ran to get her shotgun. “Okay,” he told her. “I’m gonna go see if I can pull him outta there. You lock this door and don’t open it unless I tell you it’s me.”
“You be careful,” she said. “He’s crazy.”
Since this was his first time in the church, he wasn’t sure what he might run into when he opened the door at the front of the church, beneath the steeple. So, to be cautious, he opened the door very slowly and as quietly as he could. What it revealed was a small closet with a ladder up to the bell. Just as he opened the door, he heard the rifle fire, and an empty shell fell to join about twenty others on the floor of the closet. The bell tower was built to hold the heavy church bell and nothing else, so he figured Stark had to be shooting from an extremely cramped position. Maybe that was why his shooting hadn’t been that accurate. Perley hesitated before making a decision on whether or not to stick his head inside the closet to get a look at what the situation actually was. What the hell . . . he decided, he won’t likely be looking down, so, with his six-gun in his hand, he stuck his head in the closet and looked up.
Right away, he could see that cramped didn’t begin to describe the confines of the shooting platform Stark had chosen. Evidently desperate to rain some hell down on the settlement of Bison Gap, this unlikely steeple was the only position that afforded him enough elevation to see down the street. With his legs astraddle the “A” stands that supported the heavy bell, and his upper body across a narrow access space, he had to support himself with his elbows on the sill of the tower window. Perley’s first inclination was to point his six-gun straight up and fire away, but he was not crazy about the possibility that his shots might ricochet off the bell and come back at him. Should give him a chance to surrender, anyway, he thought. But how to get him down outta there? Seeing the rope hanging right in front of him, he decided to give that a try.
He holstered hi
s gun and grabbed the rope with both hands. Then as hard as he could, he set to his task with determination. The sudden unexpected clanging of the heavy bell between his legs startled Stark, causing him to drop his rifle when he grabbed the windowsill to keep from falling. Perley increased his efforts on the rope, ringing the bell as hard as he could. Amid the sound of the ringing, he could hear a string of swearing coming from Stark in the confines of his perch. The crazed outlaw struggled to reposition himself so he could draw the handgun he wore. With the deafening sounds of the bell making him even more crazy, he finally managed to get his .44 out of the holster and promptly emptied it into the closet floor below him. Luckily for Perley, he was standing on the other side of the small closet where the rope hung. In an effort to reload his pistol, Stark tried unsuccessfully to reach his gun belt. Realizing what Stark was trying to do, and that he was helpless at this point, Perley stepped up on the ladder and reached up to grab Stark’s one free arm. He yanked on the arm with the same enthusiasm he had used with the bell rope and pulled Stark down the narrow opening to land on the closet floor.
Like a raccoon pulled out of a tree, Stark hit the floor hissing and clawing to get to his feet to attack his assailant. Perley backed away, his six-gun in hand, prepared to stop him. He intended to give him one warning before he put him down for good, but he never got the chance. Even though almost out of his mind, Stark was still sane enough to recognize the man he hated above all others. With his eyes locked on Perley Gates, he lunged, only to be stopped cold by the blow of the rifle butt against the side of his head. Startled, Perley looked at the Reverend Mr. Poole, who had just stepped in front of him. Holding the Henry rifle by the barrel, he looked at Perley and said, “Thou shalt not kill.”
“Amen,” Perley replied.
“The sheriff can hang the useless varmint,” the preacher said and handed Perley the ropes he and his wife had been bound with.
They were joined moments later by a crowd of people from the street. After the shooting had stopped and the church bell continued to ring out, everyone rushed to the call. They came in the church, led by Possum and Sheriff Mason, to find Perley tying Ned Stark’s hands behind him. Lying still dazed, Stark had blood on the side of his head in about the same location as did Reverend Poole. Nancy Poole came into the church carrying a basin of water and a towel to tend to her husband, who seemed to have recovered enough to say, “I hope that I see this many of you back here on Sunday.”
The sheriff helped Perley get Stark up on his feet, and Mason couldn’t resist telling the dazed outlaw, “Things have kinda changed around here, ain’t they, Stark?”
Ralph Wheeler looked around him to see many of the members of the town council, so he looked back at the sheriff. “There’s enough of the council here to vote on it, so how many vote for a hanging?” He received a quick reply from all those members present. “There’s your verdict, Sheriff. I see no point in delaying the execution of the sentence.”
Perley stood back, since there were many willing hands to assist the sheriff with his prisoner. He looked at Possum and said, “I reckon that really is the end of Ned Stark.”
“I expect so,” Possum agreed.
“You still wanna go back to the Triple-G with me?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I expect we’ d best get goin’.” Perley laughed. “I still gotta get outta town before sundown.”
Keep reading for a special excerpt . . .
DEAD TIME
A HANK FALLON WESTERN
Johnstone Country. Try Not to Get Killed.
In this explosive Hank Fallon thriller, the justice-seeking ex-con goes undercover and behind bars to expose a plot as big, as bold, and as deadly as the American Civil War . . .
GET OUT OF JAIL FREE—OR DIE
Doing time in Texas is no picnic. But getting sent to The Walls in Huntsville is a fate worse than hanging. If the guards don’t kill you, the prisoners will. And if it weren’t for the fact that the man who framed Hank Fallon and murdered his family could be inside The Walls, Hank would never step one foot in that heinous hell-trap—let alone go undercover as an inmate. But this isn’t just another assignment. This is his chance for revenge . . .
Inside The Walls, Hank quickly discovers who’s boss—as well as judge, jury, and executioner. The only relief from the gang fights and guard beatings is a prison work program that allows inmates to leave The Walls to work for plantation owner J. J. Justice. Hank figures it can’t be any worse than jail. But it is. Seems that Justice is ordering the men to commit robberies and murders. He’s stockpiling weapons.
Building an army. And planning to restart the Civil War—all in the name of Justice . . .
Look for DEAD TIME, wherever books are sold.
CHAPTER 1
The lousy coffee he had managed to drink for breakfast started rising from his gut when he stepped out of the prison wagon and saw “The Walls.”
Harry Fallon forced the coffee back down. He had seen prisons before—too damned many, thanks to Sean MacGregor, president of the American Detective Agency in Chicago, Illinois—but sight of the Texas State Penitentiary in Huntsville did something to his nerves.
Buck up, he told himself. This is no different than Yuma or Jefferson City. And behind those walls, you’re going to find the man or men who sent you to Joliet, that murdered . . .
Fallon shuddered.
“She sure has a way of doin’ that to a feller,” the deputy marshal drawled as he stepped up on Fallon’s right. “Another feller once tol’ me that ‘The Walls ain’t no place to be.’” The lawman snorted, laughed, and spit chewing tobacco onto the cobblestone path cut into the spring grass and pine needles.
The Walls. One hundred thousand square feet surrounded by a foreboding wall of red brick, fifteen feet high and three feet thick. And inside . . . hell on earth.
“Ready, Fallon?”
“Alexander,” Fallon told the lawman in a tight, hard whisper. “Harry Alexander.”
The deputy cursed softly. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I knowed that. Just ain’t good at this private detective business.”
“Just don’t slip once we’re inside.”
“Right.”
“Let’s go.”
The chains hobbling his legs and wrists rattled as Fallon walked to the gate, where beefy guards waited to welcome the latest inmate to The Walls.
Those red bricks, the stories went, got their coloring from the blood of every inmate to be sentenced to the prison since it had first opened in 1848.
* * *
“Warden,” the deputy said, removing his hat, as he stepped inside the dark office behind Fallon, whose manacles had been removed in the anteroom inside the gate. Another prison official shut the door behind Fallon and the deputy.
“Superintendent,” the warden corrected. “According to the Rules, Regulations and By-laws for the Government and Discipline of the Texas State Penitentiaries, at Huntsville and Rusk, Texas.” He nodded at a four-shelf bookshelf to his left. One shelf held a Bible. The top shelf held what Fallon figured had to be Rules, Regulations and By-laws . . . The rest of the case was empty.
Fallon hoped the prison library had more books.
“Besides, I detest that vulgar word, warden. And Warden Walter Wilkinson has far too much alliteration.”
The deputy stared in complete confusion. Alliteration would not be in his vocabulary, but Fallon considered him to be a good man . . . as long as he didn’t forget to use Fallon’s alias.
Walter Wilkinson, warden—personally, Fallon never cared much for the word superintendent—at the Texas State Pen, looked pretty much like every other warden Harry Fallon had known. Sweaty, pale, beady eyes, balding—in fact, Wilkinson was completely bald—whose handshake would be flabby had he dared lower himself to shake hands with a prisoner. Fallon already had the man pegged. A politician, he went to church to keep up appearances, took part in all the fairs, attended the meeting of men of power once a month, and used the underground
tunnel that led from the hall to some classy brothel. He took bribes frequently, but not from prisoners. Prisoners didn’t have enough clout or influence, let alone money.
“You’ve been a naughty, naughty young man.” Wilkinson shook his head and muttered, “Tsk-tsk.” He did not look up but kept right on reading the file the American Detective Agency and the Texas attorney general had prepared. “A life sentence.” Wilkinson tsk-tsked again. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that when your life is over, we have a very fine graveyard for you.”
He had a nasal voice, a heavy gut from too many mashed potatoes and port beer, and thick, dark, unruly eyebrows that contrasted with a bald head glistening from sweat. “I suppose you’re innocent, too.”
Fallon said, “Why should I be different than anyone else here?”
The warden looked up. His eyes considered Fallon for a long time before he stepped back toward the window, leaned against the sill, and brought the tips of his fingers together.
“Actually,” he said, “we have one prisoner who says he’s guilty. You’ll meet him eventually . . . if you live that long. The first night usually drives the weak ones to kill themselves. But . . .”
The fingertips parted, and the warden shoved his hands into the deep pockets on his striped woolen trousers. “. . . I don’t think you’re weak, Harry Alexander.” He said the name as though he knew it was an alias, but, in this part of the United States, people were always choosing whatever name they wanted, and that wasn’t because they were outlaws or running away from someone, or something. Before he pinned on that badge in Fort Smith, Arkansas, Harry Fallon had cowboyed and hunted buffalo, and he had known cowboys and skinners who changed their names with the seasons, sometimes on a whim or bet. Just to freshen things up.
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