“What’ll it cost me?” Fallon asked.
“Don’t worry. You’ll pay me, all right. But it’ll be reasonable.”
He snapped his fingers.
“Johnson,” Hardin called out. “What’s for dessert?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
For a week, he had been pretty much left alone, which reminded him of those ordinary days at Joliet. You fell into the routine. Up for the head count. Marched to the toilet facilities. To breakfast. To work. Keep your head down. Never look a guard in the eye. Do your job. Don’t talk. Dinner. Supper. Back to the cell. Lights out. He proved passable at the mill. They had tried him at some of the more complicated jobs, then sent him to menial work.
Dan MacGregor had told him that the American Detective Agency and the Texas attorney general were going to take their time on this case—at least, for the time being, until they could find out just what it was that Justice had in mind. Well, they certainly had spent enough time training Fallon and everyone else. How many weeks had they spent in the South? How many times had they pored over Rules, Regulations and By-Laws for the Government and Discipline of the Texas State Penitentiaries, at Huntsville and Rusk, Texas?
So, Fallon wondered, how long would it be before he got out of that stinking mill? Or had the American Detective Agency and Texas attorney general forgotten all about him?
It was Sunday. He had attended church services in silence, as usual, and now wandered around the exercise yard. He had not seen Hardin since supper that night. Fallon did not see him now. Nor had he seen much of Sergeant Barney Drexel, but that was about to change.
“Alexander!”
Fallon tensed, stopped, lifted his eyes to see the sergeant standing by the whipping post.
“Get over here, boy!” the guard shouted. “I got a job for you!”
The sadistic jackass laughed, and Fallon saw another inmate, shirt stripped off, tied to the post, waiting for his punishment.
Somehow, Fallon managed to force down the bile that climbed up his throat.
“Pronto, Alexander!”
Fallon jogged over and stopped a few feet in front of Barney Drexel. His head remained lowered, and he touched the bandage that the prison doctor had put over his nose a few days ago.
“Yes, boss?” Fallon said in his quietest voice.
“Look at me, boy.”
Fallon raised his head. The bandage hid some of his features, and the bruises had not completely healed.
“You remind me of somebody, Alexander.”
“Who’s that, boss?” Fallon asked meekly.
“That’s the trouble. I don’t know. Where is it you hail from?”
“Arkansas, boss. But I grew up in Louisiana.”
“Used to work in Arkansas, boy. Ever been to Fort Smith?”
Fallon hesitated. “Can’t recollect, boss,” he said, and watched the grin widen on the big man’s face.
“I bet you can’t. Federal court was there.”
“That sounds right, boss.”
“Where did you live in Arkansas?”
He didn’t like talking this much. “Farm up north a ways.”
“You wore the gray?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Bit young for that, weren’t you?”
“Old enough to hold a Colt, boss.”
“Somebody told me that you rode with those guerrillas that hid out in the Devil’s Den.”
“I heard the same thing, boss.”
Drexel laughed. “I like a man who curbs his tongue, Alexander.” He tossed the blacksnake whip into the dirt before Fallon’s feet. “Pick it up.”
Fallon stared at the whip. It was ugly, eight feet of black leather that resembled a snake.
“Pick it up, I said.”
Bending, but now keeping his eyes on Drexel, Fallon found the handle with his left hand, and he rose. The butt of the blacksnake was about an inch in diameter, heavy, too. Likely the leather had been braided over a heavy shot load. That made the whip two types of weapon. The narrow, sharp, painful whip at the top, and a heavy blackjack style of club at the butt.
“Reginald has been a naughty boy, Alexander.” Drexel nodded at the man lashed to the post. “You’re gonna whip him.”
“No, boss,” Fallon said, trying to sound as though he were pleading.
“Eight lashes.”
“No, boss.”
“Boy,” Drexel said. “Reginald here was a traitor to the South, to Texas, to all that you were fighting for all those years ago. He didn’t wear the gray. He backed the blue. You ought to enjoy laying eight lashes on his back.”
“No, boss.”
Drexel straightened. Fire burned in his dark pupils. “That’s an order, Alexander.”
Fallon wet his lips. “I can’t do it, sir.”
“You will.”
“No, boss. Rules say so.”
That stumped the sergeant. He tilted his head and even took a step back. “What the hell?”
“Prison rules, boss,” Fallon said. “Convicts can’t punish another convict.”
“What?”
“It’s in the rules, boss. That’s what it says.” Actually, it said: No convict shall be made in any manner to punish another convict.
Fallon remembered other rules and regulations regarding the whipping of prisoners, too. First of all, the blacksnake whip was prohibited. Lashings were to be made using a leather strap, two feet long and maybe two and a half inches wide, affixed to a wooden handle. There were other rules, too, but Fallon knew better than to tell Drexel everything he had learned about The Walls.
Drexel removed his cap, scratched his head, returned the cap, and grinned. “You’ve been spending a fair amount of time at the library, haven’t you, boy?”
“Yes, boss.”
“You ought to be reading the Bible, boy, and not prison regulations.”
Fallon kept quiet.
“But you’re going to lay eight lashes on this cur’s back. Now.”
Fallon lowered his head, shook it, and whispered, “No, boss. I can’t do that.”
“Well, one of you dogs are going to whip him. Holderman!”
Aaron Holderman stepped up to Drexel.
“Give me that whip.”
Fallon’s eyes lifted to see Aaron Holderman raise his beefy left hand toward the sergeant. Holderman held a whip, too, almost an exact match to the one in Fallon’s hand. Drexel had anticipated this. Maybe not an inmate citing prison rules, but certainly refusing to whip another convict.
“Give it to the greaser,” Drexel ordered, and Aaron Holderman, not even glancing in Fallon’s direction, walked about forty paces and held out the blacksnake to a burly Mexican, maybe six foot two and better than two hundred pounds. The convict took the whip, and Holderman spun on his heel and returned to the whipping post.
“The winner,” Drexel announced, “gets to whip Reginald. And gets the day off tomorrow from his assigned duties and an extra quarter pound of tobacco. The loser gets the day off, too, but he’ll either be in the sweatbox or in the infirmary.”
Dully, Fallon realized that the guards and the prisoners had backed away from Fallon and the Mexican inmate, forming a circle that included the whipping post where the man named Reginald remained lashed. Fallon glanced at the closest guard tower. The guard was watching, smoking a cigar, rifle butted on the floor.
Fallon realized his mistake. He never should have taken his eyes off the Mexican. The grunt caught his attention, and he felt the blacksnake bite into his britches just above the ankles, wrap around his legs. The Mexican grunted again, and the whip jerked Fallon off his feet.
Fallon rolled, freeing himself from the whip. He came up, felt his legs give way, dropping him to his knees. The Mexican was gathering the whip. Realizing that he still held the blacksnake in his right hand, Fallon reached out and back, letting out the leather, and grunted as he sent the whip toward the Mexican.
It fell lamely to the ground, not even coming close to the big man.
Fal
lon came up, moved forward and to his left, as the Mexican sent the whip again. This time, the lash failed to find Fallon’s body.
Stopping, Fallon tried again. He missed again.
He cursed himself. All those years riding for the federal court. He had been in fights involving guns, rifles, shotguns, knives, hatchets, pitchforks, fists, knees, claws, a ball-peen hammer, chairs, tables, bottles, a single tree twice, firewood, a tree branch, hats . . . He had even thrown cow pies at one felon when they had both shot their pistols dry and missed when they had thrown their empty revolvers at each other. All those brawls, but never once had he ever used a whip in a fight.
His left arm came up, just in time to prevent the whip from possibly taking out one or both of Fallon’s eyes. It bit into his forearm, slicing the sleeve like a dressmaker’s scissors. Grimacing, Fallon felt and smelled the blood running out of his arm. But he dropped his own whip and grabbed the taut end of the Mexican’s blacksnake with his right hand, wrapped the leather around his hand once, and charged forward.
The movement surprised the prisoner. The Mexican had expected Fallon to move backward, and had leaned back. Now he fell on his back, his head striking the ground hard, and he released his grip on his whip.
Fallon yanked hard, pulling the whip farther from the Mexican. He let it go and kept running. Part of the sheared sleeve fell toward his wrist. His lungs burned. The Mexican lurched for the handle of his whip, stopped, looked up, and felt Fallon’s shoe smash into his jaw.
“Hombre,” another Mexican inmate yelled. He shouted insults or encouragement in his native tongue. Some cheered for Fallon. Others booed. Most watched in silence.
Fallon tried to kick the Mexican again, but the big man reacted quickly, caught Fallon’s right foot with both hands, twisted, grunted, and rolled, sending Fallon flying. He hit against the whipping post, the body of Reginald cushioning the collision.
Fallon caught his breath, tried to bite down the pain, heard Reginald heaving. He slid around, blinking the grime and dust and sweat from his eyes, and heard the whistle of air as the Mexican let the deadly end of the blacksnake sail again.
For a big man, the Mexican moved fast. Fallon fell away. Reginald screamed as the whip caught his bare side and back. As the Mexican tried to gather up the whip again, Fallon leaped, fell on this stomach, and gripped the whip with both hands.
He rolled over, came up on his knees, and this time jerked the whip toward him. The Mexican had expected Fallon to keep moving toward him, as Fallon had the first time. The big man fell to his knees, but did not let go of the whip. Instead, he jerked backward, and Fallon fell on his face, dropping the whip.
He came up quickly, sucked in a lungful of hot air, and saw the end of his whip before him. Leaping, he grabbed the butt, felt the Mexican’s whip lash his back, still sore from the whipping Drexel had given him weeks earlier. Fallon did not stop, though, gathering his legs underneath him, he pushed himself forward, then stopped, turned, and swung his arm, sending the whip toward his assailant.
To Fallon’s surprise, the whip wrapped around the Mexican’s right arm. That had been pure luck, but in a fight like this, luck needed to be on somebody’s side.
The big man screamed. Fallon saw the blood staining his striped uniform. The Mexican dropped his own whip, and Fallon tried to pull his free from the big man’s arm. But the Mexican grabbed the leather and jerked Fallon forward.
Fallon kept right on coming. He collided with the prisoner, smelled the blood, sweat, and rancid breath. His head butted against the Mexican’s nose, but missed, catching more of the man’s cheekbone. Still holding the whip, Fallon pulled his right arm away, then slammed the heavy end of the whip. The handle smashed against the Mexican’s temple—probably would have killed a smaller, not-so-tough man—and the Mexican whispered something in Spanish and sank to his knees.
Fallon thought about bringing the weighted handle of the blacksnake down on the Mexican’s skull, to make sure the man was out cold, but he just didn’t have enough strength. He sank to his knees, and there Fallon and the Mexican were, heads bent over, breathing heavily, blinded by pain and sweat, wondering how long they would be able to stay conscious.
CHAPTER NINE
“What is the meaning of this?”
The voice sounded distant, even though somehow Fallon realized it came from nearby. The voice also sounded oddly familiar, though Fallon could not quite place it. Maybe he was dreaming. He reached up, gripped the Mexican’s shoulder, and used that as leverage to look up. It took a while for anything, anyone, to come into focus.
The first thing Fallon saw clearly was the Mexican, whose glassy eyes shone. The man heaved, bled, and spit out a busted tooth. Then he grinned.
“Amigo,” he said hoarsely, “you fight well.”
Fallon hadn’t known the man could speak English until then.
Fallon tried to nod, but the pain prevented that, and all nodding would have done was spray blood dripping from his nostrils across both men’s shirts.
“You do . . . too.”
“I said, what is going on here?” The voice sounded through the dust, and Fallon and the Mexican used each other to push themselves to their feet. They didn’t stand steadily. In fact, a slight breeze would have knocked both men down, but moments later they were surrounded and found themselves being helped by other inmates toward Barney Drexel, other guards, the lashed prisoner named Reginald, and a familiar-looking man in a gray suit and bowler hat.
“Sergeant Drexel, I presume, you will answer me,” the man said, “and you will answer me now. What is the meaning of this?”
“Who are you to be giving me orders, mister?” Drexel demanded.
“Byron Roberts,” the man said. “Inspector of penitentiaries.”
The man, Fallon suddenly understood, was not Byron Roberts, inspector of penitentiaries. He was Dan MacGregor, vice president of the American Detective Agency out of Chicago, Illinois. MacGregor, son of Sean MacGregor, withdrew some sort of identification and showed it to the sergeant, who frowned.
“What happened to Horton?” Drexel asked.
“He’s down with the grippe,” MacGregor replied. “What’s the meaning of this?” A slim finger pointed at Fallon and the Mexican.
“Exercise.” Drexel’s smile was chilling.
“And this?” MacGregor nodded at Reginald.
Drexel wasn’t smart enough, or any fast thinker, to come up with a quick reply for that one, and the evil smile turned into a frown.
“Must I remind you of the statutes, sir? That convicts are to be treated with humanity. That whipping of an inmate requires an application to the inspector’s office, explaining the need for such a drastic measure, of the specifics spelled out as to what is appropriate for whipping a prisoner, that such punishment is to be administered by the underkeeper, overseen by the prison superintendent or his assistant superintendent . . .”
The more MacGregor went on, the redder Drexel’s face turned. Fallon quickly glanced at the closest prisoners and felt pleased to see many of them smiling as MacGregor dressed down the cold-blooded snake of a man. Even some of the guards appeared more than pleased at the sergeant’s comeuppance.
“. . . You do know, Sergeant, that I have the authority to investigate any illegal punishment and can have you suspended or even discharged for such repulsive, illegal, and immoral actions.”
MacGregor had to catch his breath. “Remove me? You’d need Superintendent Wilkinson’s approval for that, Mr. Inspector, sir.”
The cockiness returned to Drexel’s face.
“Do you think he’d defend you, Sergeant, after the governor, attorney general, and every newspaper reporter hammered this prison like Grant hammered Johnston at Pittsburg Landing?”
Drexel clenched his fists.
“Now answer me, Sergeant. Under whose authority were you going to punish this man?” Before the beast could answer, MacGregor ordered that Reginald be taken down, his shirt returned, and that he be escorted to the
infirmary immediately and given water to drink, a sip of brandy if the doctor deemed it appropriate.
Reginald looked a whole lot happier. Drexel didn’t.
“He wasn’t going to be whipped, sir. We just wanted to make him think he would be.” Drexel had managed to come up with a lie. “I wouldn’t give him brandy, sir. Because we think he’s been running illegal spirits to some of our . . . guests of honor.”
Reginald’s happiness faded.
“You have proof of this?” MacGregor asked.
“Suspicions, sir. Right, Hartley?”
A diminutive, pockmarked prisoner shivered. “Yes,” he said, his voice weak and cracking with fear. “I mean. Some of us thought so.”
“I see,” MacGregor said, and nodded at two guards besides Reginald to follow his instructions.
“And these two men?” MacGregor continued after the guards had escorted Reginald through the throng. “All that’s missing are the Romans, the Christians, and the lions.”
“This was a game, sir.” Drexel’s grin returned.
“A game.”
“Prisoners’ game. You don’t think we’d allow two murdering scum of the earth to whip each other in a regular brawl, do you, Mr. Prison Inspector? That might lead to a riot. Wouldn’t take much for those cur dogs to turn those blacksnakes on us.”
“A game?” MacGregor repeated.
“They play rough inside The Walls, sir.”
“We shall see about this.” MacGregor spun on his heel, snapped his fingers, and nodded at Fallon and the Mexican. “You two men. Follow me. You.” Now MacGregor spun, pointing—seemingly randomly—at Aaron Holderman. “Take us to . . . the visiting room.” He looked back at Drexel. “If I hear one complaint, substantiated or not, Sergeant, your head will roll, sir.”
* * *
The visiting room no longer smelled like Christina Whitney’s shampoo and perfume. It smelled of stale cigarettes and the foulness of a prisoner’s uniform. The Mexican sat at the table. Fallon leaned against the wall. MacGregor removed his hat and reintroduced himself as the inspector of prisons.
“I need you men to tell me exactly what happened out there,” MacGregor said. “Why were you two armed with long, lethal whips? What was the purpose of your fight? Why was the other inmate lashed to the whipping post?”
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