Cap Fog 3

by J. T. Edson

  ‘I know that,’ Tragg claimed, but shook his head and went on somberly, ‘Only this goes way beyond anything they’ve had to do so far. It’s that and not whether they can do it, which gets to me.’

  ‘Those boys know why it had to be them who was handed the chore,’ the elderly peace officer stated with conviction. ‘And why, no matter how much we want to, you, me, nor any of the other old hands could do it.’

  ‘I know that too, Jubal,’ the Major confessed, his demeanor showing the depth of the emotions he was feeling. ‘But I still wish there wasn’t the need for any of us to have to do it.’

  ‘If there wasn’t the need, Maj’,’ Branch drawled, his tone and leathery visage showing he understood but did not under estimate the gravity of the situation, ‘there wouldn’t be any need for Company “Z” neither.’

  ‘You’ve got some company for the night, Mr. Foote,’ announced the burly, if-elderly and generally amiable guard, entering the cell block in which the gang leader was the only prisoner.

  Despite the purpose for which the building was intended, Philip “Handsome Phil” Foote, having had time to settle down and do some thinking since his arrival the previous evening, now concluded he was far better situated than he had anticipated during the journey from Falls County.

  Over the years, the State Prison Farm at Jonestown had become accepted as the repository for those criminals serving sentences who were known to be well behaved and non-violent. As a result, discipline was much less severe than in the other penal establishments. Furthermore, the guards tended to be easy-going, older men who asked little other than to be allowed to spend their remaining periods of service as quietly as possible prior to retiring.

  On being delivered to his revised destination, the gang leader had been given what he considered was official corroboration for the disturbing information he had received from his escort. In answer to the protest he had commenced on learning where he was to be accommodated, the Warden had explained that the State Attorney General personally had sent instructions for him to be segregated from the other inmates as a security measure. While there had only very rarely been any violence showed by them, Hogan Turtle wielded such a moral ascendancy over the criminal element of Texas that some might be willing to change their pattern of behavior in order to earn his approbation. Wishing to avoid subjecting them to the temptation, which might result in orders being given for punitive measures detrimental to everybody on the Farm, it had been decided that Foote was to be put in the execution block. As was generally the case, this was empty and its cells offered a standard of comfort equal to that supplied throughout the rest of the establishment. Nor, he had been assured, was it likely his stay there would be lengthy in duration.

  At first, Foote had experienced considerable qualms over being in such close proximity to the room in which the executions were carried out. He had even tried to avoid as much as glancing at the door which gave access to the fatal chamber. However, he had gradually overcome his misgivings. The guards assigned to the block had not been friendly or sociable, but neither were they abusive and he was never overly susceptible to atmosphere.

  Having slept badly, the gang leader had spent the night thinking about his future. By the time morning had come, he had concluded it might not be anywhere nearly as gloomy as he had envisaged during the conversation with the two Texas Rangers. For one thing, possibly in the hope that he would supply incriminating information about other criminals, the authorities were clearly concerned about keeping him alive and in good health.

  One of the summations at which Foote had arrived was that, as he was reconciled to the probability of his receiving a prison sentence and not a fine for the pretended bootlegging, he should do everything in his power to try and arrange to be sent to serve it at the Farm. Everything he had seen had convinced him that it was deserving of the reputation it had acquired as being a “rest home”, the underworld’s term for a prison where discipline was not severe nor the work given to the inmates too strenuous. All of which would suit his needs. Provided he could make his peace with the Big Hombre, he could take advantage of the easy-going conditions and, by exerting the full force of his ruthless personality over the more passive prisoners, would become the unofficial ruler of the establishment. He might also be able to retain control and continue running the operations of his gang from inside the Farm. He was aware that such had been done in similarly lax penal institutions in other parts of the country.

  ‘Company for the night?’ the gang leader repeated in a puzzled tone, knowing there was no inmate awaiting capital punishment. He also doubted whether a man sentenced to death elsewhere would be transferred to the Farm and have the punishment inflicted after only one night as the comment had implied. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘An out-of-State U.S. marshal’s put the arm on a couple of owlhoots who’re real bad wanted here and thereabouts,’ the guard replied. ‘Only his jalopy got a flat down the road a piece and he can’t get them locked up good ‘n’ safe in Austin afore nightfall. So he’s asked the Warden could he bed them down here until morning.’

  ‘Why in here?’ Foote asked, as much from a desire to continue the conversation after the uncommunicative way he had been treated all day as through a desire for information. ‘Are they a couple of hearse-men?’

  ‘They’re real likely to wind up’s gallows-dancers, what I’ve heard of them, but they’ve not been tried and sentenced to it yet,’ the guard answered, aware that the term, “hearse man” meant a convicted murderer awaiting the death penalty and employing a name for a person who was to receive capital punishment. ‘I reckon it’s the same with them’s with you. The Warden likely figures they’re such ornery sons-of-bitches he doesn’t want ’em mixing with and giving such like notions to all the good old boys we’ve got rooming with us here.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Foote requested, concealing his resentment over the way in which the information had been supplied.

  ‘Name of Rapido Clint and Comanche Blood,’ the guard obliged. ‘Do you know ’em?’

  ‘I’ve been hearing some about them just recently,’ the gang leader admitted, remembering he had given much the same answer to his escort after they had told him about the activities of the two men in question. ‘How’d they get taken?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ the guard admitted, sounding as if he did not care either.

  The opening of the main door brought the conversation to an end.

  As Foote was turning his attention to the entrance, he gave thought to what he had heard about Rapido Clint and Comanche Blood prior to the story told to him by the two sergeants.

  Although comparative newcomers to the criminal scene, they had already acquired a reputation as being pistolero valiente—as professional killers were known along the international border with Mexico—of the first water. Clint in particular was said to be exceptionally skilled in the use of firearms, efficient, cold blooded and deadly.

  Studying the handcuffed pair who followed the gray-haired captain of the guards into the block, the gang leader decided he could identify them without the need to be introduced. However, in spite of the rapidity with which they had come into prominence, he was not particularly impressed by what he saw. Neither would be beyond his mid-twenties and they had on cowhands’ clothes which clearly had never been worn for work of any kind.

  Despite his hair being rusty-red, if the nickname he had acquired and the moccasins he wore were any guide, the taller of the newcomers was “Comanche” Blood. His handsome face, set in a surly scowl which was understandable under the circumstances, was sufficiently bronzed to indicate he had Indian as well as white antecedents. Slender in build, he had a lithe stride suggestive of fast and, when necessary, silent movement backed by a wiry, whipcord strength. There was, in fact, something latently savage about him that warned he might be a very bad hombre to cross, especially when there was a knife in the now empty sheath on his waist belt.

  At first, particularly when compared with his
companion, the second prisoner gave no sign of how he had gained his reputation. Certainly it was not because he possessed an exceptional physique. Nor was there anything particularly commanding about his face. He had on a black Texas style Stetson with a fancy leather band decorated by silver conchas and an unfastened new waist length brown leather jacket. Tightly rolled, the ends of a scarlet silk bandana trailed over the breast of a dark blue satin shirt with a white arrow motif on its pockets. Around his waist, a wide belt with a floral patterning and a monogrammed silver buckle held up his smart brown striped trousers which hung outside tan Justin boots.

  Trying to reconcile the physical appearance of Rapido Clint with the stories being circulated about his prowess both as a gun and fist fighter, Foote looked more closely at him. It would be unwise, the gang leader concluded after a moment, to dismiss the tales as falsehoods or exaggerations on account of his lack of size. There was a good spread to his shoulders and he trimmed down at the waist in a manner implying he might have strength well beyond the average for his height. Nor, despite being tight-lipped and frowning, was there anything weak about his features. All in all, he too could be a man with whom it would be unwise to trifle.

  The prisoners were followed by, as the badge of office pinned to his vest indicated, their captor. Black haired, tail, well built and middle aged, his rugged, leathery and heavily mustached face might have been carved out of granite for all the expression it showed. He had on a tan Stetson with a Montana peak crown, 59 a dark brown three-piece suit of good cut and material, a white shirt, black necktie and black ‘old man’s comfort’ boots. Although he gave no sign of being armed in any other way, the sawn-off double barreled ten gauge shotgun cradled on the crook of his left elbow suggested how he could have managed to take the pair alive. Faced by it and its grim visaged owner, even the most hardy and desperate wanted criminal would realize that to do other than surrender as ordered was futile and, in all probability, would be sure to prove fatal.

  ‘Put them in next door to Foote, Joe,’ the captain ordered. ‘They’ll be company for each other.’

  ‘On the side nearest the room,’ the marshal supplemented, his accent that of a Montanan, gesturing towards the door of the execution chamber. ‘It’ll keep them in mind of what’s coming to them real soon.’

  ‘Yo!’ the guard replied, giving the time-honored assent of a cavalryman to a command and leading the way past the gang leader’s cell.

  ‘Hold the scatter for me, please, captain,’ the marshal requested, as the prisoners were going through the door opened by the guard. ‘Stay put there, Clint. And you go stand with your face to the far wall, Blood.’

  ‘My, he’s a real old scaredy-cat, Rapido,’ the taller young man remarked in a tone filled with mockery, but nevertheless carrying out the instructions he had been given. ‘Now isn’t he, though?’

  ‘He for certain sure acts like one, Comanch’,’ the shorter prisoner agreed, his voice firm yet without any trace of bombast serving to hide fear. Turning and holding out his hands, he went on, ‘You can take them off, Uncle Long Arm. 60 I promise I won’t jump and whup you while you’re doing it.’

  ‘And I’ll see that you don’t get the chance, count on it,’ the marshal answered, handing the shotgun to the captain and taking a small bunch of keys from his coat pocket. ‘My name’s J.B. Macauley, not Dutchy Soehnen. You won’t rile me into doing something rash so you can jump me. But, happen you’ve a mind to try, just make a stab at it.’

  ‘So you’ve heard about that, huh?’ Clint inquired, noticing that his captor was avoiding coming into the possible line of fire of the captain and that, having cocked the hammers of the weapon, the latter was holding it ready for use. ‘Only I don’t aim to hand you any excuse to have us gunned down in “self-defense” either. There’s not one small chance you’ll be able to get Comanch’ and me found guilty on any charge.’

  ‘That’s for the courts to decide, not me,’ Marshal Jason Bowen Macauley pointed out disinterestedly, unfastening and removing the handcuffs in a cautious, but not nervous, fashion. ‘All I do is haul in smart-assed young sons-of-bitches like you pair so’s they can be brought to trial. What comes after that’s none of my never-mind. Back off to the wall and lean with your hands against it while the ‘breed comes to be set loose.’

  ‘How tough they get how quick, when they’ve got the drop,’ the taller prisoner commented, advancing while his companion moved away to do as ordered, it’s like to scare a body ’most to death.’

  ‘Whatever you fellers on duty in here do,’ the marshal counseled, his tone charged with warning, stepping back quickly and closing the door after having liberated Blood, ‘don’t let them rile you into taking chances with them.’

  ‘You can count on it!’ promised the guard, to whom the advice had been directed, impressed by the deadly serious way in which it was delivered.

  ‘If it’s all right with you, captain,’ Macauley went on, ‘I’d sooner the door to their cell wasn’t opened for any reason unless I’m here. Should it need to be, I’ll be bedding down in the guard house and, no matter what time it might be, I’ll come straight over as soon’s I’m called.’

  ‘That’s all right with me,’ confirmed the senior member of the Farm’s security force, showing no resentment over what might have been construed as a lack of faith in the abilities of his men. ‘Fact being, Mr. Macauley, seeing’s how I’m a mite short-handed right now, it’ll save me putting any more of the boys on watch in here.’

  Being conscious of his position of importance among the criminal element, Foote had not wished to appear too openly interested in the new arrivals and had remained seated on his bed during their incarceration. He had, however, watched and listened to everything that happened, finding it enlightening. Taking notice of the extreme caution displayed by the marshal while dealing with them, he was more impressed than he cared to admit even to himself. Clearly, despite being inside the confines of the Farm and with numerous armed guards close at hand, the peace officer had taken a warning from what had happened to Sergeant Hans ‘Dutchy’ Soehnen and did not intend presenting them with an opportunity to escape.

  Studying the two prisoners as the marshal, the captain and the guard walked away, the gang leader reached a conclusion. Young and comparatively newcomers to the criminal scene in Texas though they might be—and, in the case of Rapido Clint, insignificant looking—but he and Comanche Blood were clearly far more dangerous than showed on the surface. They were, in fact, the kind of men Foote would have tried to enlist if he had been at liberty.

  Fourteen – I’m Not Going to Try to Escape

  ‘’Morning, Marshal Macauley,’ the guard on duty in the execution block greeted sleepily, having risen from the table at which he had been dozing and opened the main door in response to the sound of its bell. ‘Lordy lord! And is it half past four already?’

  ‘As close as damn it,’ the visiting peace officer replied, entering. ‘Have you had any trouble with them?’

  ‘Nary so much’s a peep from either of them,’ the guard declared, glancing along the dimly illuminated passage to the cell which housed the two temporary inmates. Then he closed the door. Swinging his gaze to the coffeepot on the stove behind the table, he continued, ‘If you haven’t had breakfast, I can let you have a cup of Java.’

  ‘I’ve grabbed a bite to eat at the guard-house,’ the marshal answered, taking a hip-flask from the left hand pocket of his jacket. ‘And, anyways, this’ll go down a heap better than coffee.’

  ‘Likely,’ the guard conceded, eyeing the flask appreciatively. ‘I reckon it would have to be knowing the kind of coffee they make there.’

  ‘Here,’ Macauley said, some of his grimness departing briefly as he held out his right hand. ‘Take a nip for looking after those two young bastards for me, ’less it’s against your religious beliefs.’

  ‘Any time it gets to be,’ the recipient of the offer granted, showing neither surprise nor disapproval at the suggestion that he sho
uld contravene the “Volstead act”, ‘damned if I don’t right quick change religions.’

  Despite his cheerful concurrence with committing a misdemeanor and eager as he was to accept the flask, the guard restrained his first impulse to drink deeply. Even in the Lone Star State, where pride of place among the hierarchy of peace officers tended to be accorded to a major or captain of the Texas Rangers, a United States marshal was still a person of considerable importance. Deciding it might be impolitic to arouse the ire of one who held such an influential post, he restricted himself to a sip which merely titillated his taste buds and produced a desire for more.

  ‘Hell, friend, take a good drink,’ Macauley instructed amiably, as the flask was held towards him. ‘There’s plenty more where I filled that from.’

  ‘Gracias, Marshal,’ the guard responded and did as he had been authorized. Having lowered the level of the liquid considerably, wishing his own station in life offered such opportunities to obtain so excellent a product, he wiped the neck with the palm of his hand and returned the container to its owner. ‘By cracky, that son-of-a-bitch sure went down smooth.’

  ‘I’ll just bet it did,’ the marshal replied, showing no annoyance at the reduction to his property which had taken place, but he made no attempt to drink. Instead, he replaced the stopper and dropped the flask into the pocket from which it had come. ‘Give me the keys and I’ll go fetch my prisoners out.’

  ‘Sure,’ the guard assented instantly, without giving a thought to the other’s abstinence being at odds with the reason for which the hip-flask had ostensibly been produced. He turned towards the desk but before he could pick up the key ring which lay on it, he swayed and gasped, ‘What the—?’

  ‘Easy now!’ Macauley said, stepping forward quickly. ‘You’d best sit down!’

  Taking the guard by the shoulders with both hands, which he was able to do as he did not have the sawn-off shotgun with him, the marshal did not rely upon his words alone to cause the man to be seated. Finding himself being guided around the desk and eased in to his chair, an expression of mingled realization, alarm and anger came to the guard’s face. However, although he tried to rise and shake off the grip on his shoulder, he found he was so weak that he was held down with no difficulty in spite of his burly build. He knew such weakness was not normal and, even though his head was spinning, he could guess how it had been induced.