Rope Burn

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “As a matter of fact, we haven’t,” Ace replied. “We’ve, ah, found ourselves behind bars a few times, but it was always a misunderstanding, like the one back in Packsaddle.”

  Chance said, “That little misunderstanding could’ve gotten our necks stretched. I’ll take busting rocks over that, any day.”

  “You say that now . . .” Costello told him, again with a faint smile.

  Soon, the ringing blows of pickaxes smashing into boulders echoed across the foothills. Ace and Chance both wielded picks, their young, sinewy muscles swinging the tools high and then bringing them down on the rocks with as much force as they could muster. As the boulders cracked into smaller pieces, other men picked up those chunks, carried them off to the sides, and tossed them out of the way. Men with shovels scooped up gravel and dirt and slung those loads away from where the road would be. They also scraped the ground to smooth out rough spots.

  All of it was hard, tedious work, and it didn’t take long for Ace’s muscles to start protesting, especially those in his shoulders and back. When he glanced over at his brother, he could tell that Chance was suffering the same sort of aches and pains. The late afternoon sun beating down on their bare heads didn’t help matters.

  “Maybe Costello was right,” Chance muttered after a while. “Maybe getting our necks stretched would have been better. At least it would have been over with a lot quicker.”

  “We don’t give up as long as we’re still alive, remember?” Ace reminded him.

  “Tell that to my hands,” Chance said as he paused to show Ace the blisters forming on his palms.

  “Get back to work, you two!” one of the guards yelled at them. The Jensen brothers sighed and started swinging their picks again.

  The lowering sun turned the landscape red as it neared the horizon. When it dipped below that line, shadows closed in quickly, as they tended to do in this high-desert country. The guards called a halt to the work. Most of the prisoners leaned wearily on their picks and shovels for a moment before they started trudging back to the wagons.

  “If this was just part of a day,” Chance said, “what’s it going to be like when we’re out here for a whole day?”

  “There’s a reason they call it hard labor,” Ace said. “I guess we’ll have to be tough enough to stand it, at least for a while.”

  Chance glanced over at him. “What are we going to do? We don’t deserve to be here, Ace. We have to find a way to escape.”

  “I’m not sure any of these men deserve to be here. What we really need to do is figure out a way to get word to the proper authorities about what’s going on at Fort Gila.”

  “Not that sheriff and judge at Packsaddle,” Chance said. “They’re as crooked as Olsen, I’ll bet.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Ace agreed. They stopped their muttered conversation as they reached the tool cart and handed over the pickaxes. Nobody else needed to know what they were talking about.

  They climbed into one of the wagons, trying not to groan from exhaustion and pain as they did so. Costello lowered himself onto the bench seat beside Ace and asked, “How are you boys holding up?”

  “We’re alive,” Ace said, “but it’s just going to get worse, isn’t it?”

  “More than likely,” Costello said. He had wielded one of the shovels during the afternoon. “Try not to do the same job every day. That’ll help . . . a little.”

  Once all the picks and shovels had been returned and the prisoners had clambered into the wagons, the vehicles started back to the fort. Full night had fallen, but millions of stars popped into view overhead and cast enough silvery light for the drivers to follow the rutted trail.

  “Do the prisoners normally work until after dark like this?” Ace asked Costello.

  “No, usually we head back in time to reach the fort about dusk,” the former lieutenant replied. “Even though there hasn’t been any trouble with the Apaches lately, traveling at night like this probably isn’t a good idea. Some people will tell you that Indians won’t attack at night, but in my experience, that’s not true. They’ll attack whenever the odds favor them, or just when the mood strikes them, and nobody’s harder to predict than an Indian.”

  Ace remembered the watchers Chance had spotted earlier. He wasn’t the sort to get antsy, but his nerves crawled a mite during the group’s unhurried return to Fort Gila. When the lights of the fort finally appeared up ahead, it was a relief.

  The gates were open when they got there. The wagons pulled up in front of the guardhouse, where several troopers waited to cover the prisoners with their rifles as they climbed out of the vehicles.

  Lieutenant Frank Olsen was waiting, too. He said to the soldier who had headed up the detail, “Did you get those rocks moved, Parnell?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied. He had dismounted and stood there holding his horse’s reins. “I knew you wanted it done today, so I kept the men at it until they finished, even though we’d be getting back later than usual.”

  Olsen nodded. “Very good. I want that stretch smoothed in the morning, and then you can move on from there.”

  “Yes, sir,” the trooper called Parnell said again. “We’ll—” He stopped short, then quickly took off his forage cap and went on, “Evening, miss.”

  Ace and Chance had just dropped from the wagon’s tailgate to the ground when they heard that. Chance turned quickly. Ace didn’t react quite as fast, but he was curious, too, and looked in the same direction as Parnell was.

  A blob of yellow light from a lantern approached. As it came closer, Ace saw the pale glow wash over the face of the young woman holding the lantern out at the same level as her head. She had a shawl around her shoulders to ward off the night’s chill, but her head was bare. Thick waves of red hair fell around her rather thin face.

  Olsen took off his hat as well and smiled as he said, “Good evening, Miss Sughrue. What brings you out after dark like this?”

  “I heard the wagons coming in,” Evelyn Sughrue said. “I wanted to make sure these men get some supper, even though it’s later than usual.”

  Olsen’s voice was still cordial enough, but Ace thought he heard an undertone of annoyance and tension in it as the lieutenant said, “I’ve told you before, Evelyn, you concern yourself too much with these men. They’re not worth being worried about by a young lady such as yourself.”

  “They’re not animals, Lieutenant. Prisoners or not, they’re still human beings.”

  “Of course,” Olsen said. “And they’ll be given their normal rations, I assure you.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  “There’s not. You’ve done more than enough.”

  There was more than one way that comment could be taken. But she just said, “All right, thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Bid your father a pleasant good evening for me, if you would.”

  “Of course.” Evelyn turned and walked back toward the quarters she shared with her father, the major, carrying the lantern with her.

  Ace could still see Olsen well enough in the starlight to tell that the lieutenant wanted to say something else, but whatever it was, Olsen kept it to himself. He jerked a hand toward the prisoners and ordered, “Get them locked up, and then see to it that they have their rations.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” Parnell replied. He put his cap back on and tugged it down.

  Still holding his hat in his hand, Olsen stalked off toward the row of officers’ quarters.

  With the ready Springfields of the guards aimed in their general direction, the prisoners marched into the darkened guardhouse. They all slumped tiredly to the ground and leaned back against the walls. As they did, Ace asked, “Do snakes and scorpions ever get in here?”

  “Sure they do,” Costello replied. “That’s why it’s a good idea to shuffle your feet while you’re moving around. That’s not a guarantee you won’t get bit or stung, but at least it improves the odds that you won’t
. A little bit.”

  “That was nice of Miss Sughrue to come out and check on us like that,” Chance said. “We might not have gotten any supper otherwise.”

  “Oh, they’d have fed us,” Costello said. “You can’t get enough work out of a man if you don’t feed him. Mind you, you don’t have to feed him a lot, and the rations don’t have to be particularly good, but you have to give him something.”

  As if to prove his point, the bar on the outside of the guardhouse door rattled as it was taken down, and then the door swung open. Light from another lantern preceded rifle-toting troopers who moved the prisoners back against the rear wall. Another soldier placed jugs of water on the ground, along with large bowls containing hunks of bread and pieces of salt pork. The man with the lantern stood by so the prisoners would have light as they helped themselves to the water and food. The rifle-carrying guards stood watch over them, as well.

  The prisoners reminded Ace a little of a pack of dogs as they swarmed around the food. Luckily, there was no snapping and snarling, and no fights broke out. The men were too tired and hungry for that.

  The bread was stale but not weevily, the pork hard on the teeth but not too bad. There wasn’t really enough to go around and leave everyone satisfied, but at least it was better than nothing. When everything was gone, the guards collected the bowls and jugs and withdrew, letting the darkness claim the place again as the door was closed and the bar dropped into place.

  As they sat with their backs propped against the wall again, Chance murmured, “If Miss Sughrue is really sympathetic to the prisoners, maybe she could get the word out about what’s really going on here.”

  “How did she take it when her mother passed away?” Ace asked Costello.

  “It was rough on her, of course,” Costello said, “but the major took it even harder, and I guess you could say that taking care of him was a welcome distraction for Evelyn. She’s devoted to him, and even more so since Mrs. Sughrue passed.”

  “That could make her less likely to help us, then. Because if the truth ever comes out, the major’s going to look pretty bad, no matter how it happened.”

  Costello said, “I wouldn’t put it past Olsen to try to claim the whole thing was the major’s idea, if the law or the War Department ever caught up to him. I’ve thought about trying to catch Evelyn alone sometime—although I don’t really see how I’d do that—and appealing to her for help, but I worried that it might backfire. We could wind up worse off than we already are.”

  “It’s something to think about, though,” Chance said. “I just can’t believe that a girl who looks like that would stand for something as shady as what Olsen’s pulling.”

  Costello chuckled and said, “Well, there’s your mistake, thinking that just because a girl is pretty, she can be trusted. It doesn’t always work out that way.”

  “But—”

  “Why don’t we all just try to get some sleep?” Costello suggested. “Morning’s going to be here a lot sooner than you expect, and all those rocks out there in the foothills will still be waiting for us.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Costello was right about the first part of his statement. It seemed to Ace like he had barely closed his eyes when the bugle blew the next morning and the guardhouse door opened to admit troopers bringing a breakfast of coffee, bacon, and beans. The coffee was watery, the beans and bacon underdone. Nobody complained, though, not even Vince MacDonald. After the meal, the prisoners filed out into the gray dawn and loaded up on the wagons to head for the foothills and the day’s work.

  Muscles had stiffened up overnight and protested mightily this morning when the wagons reached their destination and Ace and Chance went back to swinging the pickaxes. Costello had advised working on a different job today, but the soldier in charge of the tools handed picks to them and didn’t look inclined to discuss the matter.

  After awhile, blisters burst and slickened the tools’ handles, so the Jensen brothers had to be extra careful not to let the picks slip out of their grasp and fly off dangerously. The morning passed in pure misery, and the short breaks that the guards allowed didn’t help much.

  The prisoners got to take a longer break at midday and were given bread, water, and jerky. Then it was back to work in the hellish heat and sun of an afternoon that seemed to last an eternity.

  By the end of the day, Ace had become one giant, throbbing bundle of pain, and his brain was stunned into submission. When coherent thoughts began to form again once the prisoners were in the wagon and headed back to Fort Gila, he could see why some men just gave up and surrendered to despair when they were in situations such as this. Mere survival, making it to the end of the day, became all that mattered.

  On the other hand, he could also understand why some men never gave up and were driven to escape, no matter what dangers they might face in doing so. That was the way he and Chance would be, he hoped. They had never admitted defeat before, and he didn’t want to start now.

  “Do you hurt too much to ever move again?” Chance asked as they rocked back and forth slightly in the swaying wagon.

  “It won’t last,” Ace said. “I hope.”

  Costello, who was sitting next to him, said, “It won’t. I’m not saying you’ll ever get used to it, but it gets better.”

  Ace wasn’t sure if he believed that or not, but he didn’t have time to ponder it. At that moment, one of the troopers called out to Corporal Parnell, who was in charge of the detail again today. Parnell reined in and turned his horse so he could look where the other soldier was pointing.

  Ace looked, too, and saw what had caught the trooper’s attention. A single rider sat on top of a knob about five hundred yards away. The only detail Ace could make out was a spot of bright blue where the man’s head was.

  Costello saw the same thing. He said, “See that blue? That’s the bandanna he’s got tied around his head. The Apaches really like red or blue bandannas, and they’ll wear bright-colored sashes around their waist, too. That’s generally the only color you’ll see them sporting.”

  “Don’t they realize that makes them easier to spot . . . and aim at?” Chance asked.

  “I reckon they do. They’re too good as fighting men not to know it. But the Apaches make war the same way they do everything else, according to their own lights, and they don’t care what anybody else does or thinks about it.”

  Corporal Parnell called for the wagons to halt and waved the outriders in. As the mounted troopers gathered around the wagons and stared anxiously into the distance at the Indian who was just sitting there, Ace quietly asked Costello, “Do you think they’re going to attack us?”

  Costello licked his lips and said, “No way to know. If they are bound on starting some mischief, we may not know it until it’s too late. Apaches can blend into the landscape so well that one of them can be a stone’s throw away from you, or even closer, without you having any idea he’s there. Parnell and the others know that. That’s why they’re nervous.”

  Chance said, “Shouldn’t we keep moving and try to find a place to fort up if we have to?”

  Costello didn’t have time to answer the question before the lone Apache suddenly whirled around and disappeared. Parnell heaved a sigh of relief and said, “Thank goodness he’s gone.”

  Speaking with the voice of experience, Costello said, “Just because you can’t see him anymore doesn’t mean he’s gone, Corporal. Maybe it would be a good idea for us to get moving again and get on back to the fort. Tonight probably isn’t a good night for us to be out after dark.”

  Parnell looked like he wanted to dismiss Costello’s comments, but maybe he remembered that the former lieutenant had been out here longer and knew more about the Apaches than he did. After a second, he jerked his head in a nod and waved the drivers ahead. The work detail got underway again.

  “The worst part about it,” Costello said quietly to Ace and Chance, “is that there aren’t enough weapons to go around for all of us. If the Apaches do jump u
s, we’ll have to rely on those guards to fight them off. I don’t like that idea at all. If somebody’s trying to kill me, I want to be trying just as hard to kill them.”

  “Amen to that,” Chance muttered.

  * * *

  No one jumped the wagons and the troopers on their way back to Fort Gila. They didn’t spot any more Apaches—but that didn’t stop Ace from feeling like eyes were watching them the entire way.

  Two more days followed that were very similar in most respects—pure hell for Ace and Chance, in other words. Fortunately for them, their drifting ways had toughened them up and accustomed them to hardships, although seldom any as extreme as what they were enduring now.

  One difference was that no one caught sight of any Indians during the journey from the fort to the hills on those days. Maybe the Apaches had decided to stop keeping an eye on them . . . although Ace remembered quite well former lieutenant Costello’s advice that just because you couldn’t see the Apaches, it didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  The next morning, the guards didn’t come to wake them before dawn, and when Ace opened his eyes and saw sunlight coming through the high, narrow slits on the eastern side of the guardhouse, he realized immediately that something was different.

  He reached over and shook Chance awake. Chance started to sit up quickly, saying, “Wha—” but Ace’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “Something’s wrong,” Ace whispered. “The sun’s up.”

  From where he was lying on his side a few feet away, his head pillowed on his arms, Costello said quietly, “Nothing’s wrong, you idiots. It’s Sunday. We don’t work today.”

  “Oh,” Ace said, feeling as foolish as Costello accused him of being. Since they had been here, every day had seemed the same, like an endless string of miserable days that never changed, and it hadn’t occurred to him to think about what day it actually was. “I’m surprised Olsen doesn’t work us seven days a week.”