The Loner: Seven Days to Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “Who in God’s name to?”

  “My lawyers in San Francisco. Claudius Turnbuckle and John Stafford. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”

  The warden’s eyebrows went up instead of down. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t heard of them, but I find it hard to believe that a bloody-handed outlaw like you would have lawyers in San Francisco, Bledsoe.”

  “That’s because I’m not Bledsoe.” Before Fletcher could lose his temper and hit him again, The Kid played the closest thing he had to a trump card. “My name is Conrad Browning. I’m a businessman.”

  Or at least I was, before my wife was murdered.

  Fletcher stared at him for a long moment. The warden’s thin lips curved in a smile, and surprisingly, he began to laugh.

  “A businessman?” he repeated.

  “Surely you’ve heard of the New Mexico, Rio Grande, and Oriental Railroad Line. It runs from Lordsburg up to a mining town called Ophir.” The Kid paused. “I own it.”

  “You own a railroad?” Fletcher sounded like he was about to laugh again.

  “I own stock in several railroads. Also silver mines, banks, freight companies, a steamship line—”

  Fletcher silenced him with the slash of a hand over the desk. “That’s enough. Do you really think I’m crazy enough to believe such claims? What would some sort of…some sort of business tycoon be doing wandering around such a godforsaken place as these mountains?”

  Because I turned my back on that life when Rebel died, The Kid thought. Because all I had left to live for was vengeance, and in the end, that wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  But Fletcher would neither believe nor understand that, he sensed, so he said, “I was just trying to get away for a while. I am who I say I am, Warden, and if you’ll wire Turnbuckle and Stafford, I can prove it. I’m sure one of them would even come out here and identify me, if that’s necessary.”

  A short bark of laughter came from the warden. “I’ve already identified you. When you first came here, you sat across this desk from me and cursed me and spat on me. You told me that you’d see me dead. Do you think I’m going to forget that, Bledsoe?”

  The Kid didn’t answer the question. He said, “Send the wire…unless you’re afraid to. Tell them you have a man here who claims to be Conrad Browning.” The Kid shrugged. “If I’m lying, what do you have to lose?”

  “My time,” Fletcher snapped. “And that’s something I happen to value.” He shook his head. “No. I’m not sending any wires for you, Bledsoe.”

  The Kid wanted to shout Stop calling me that! He knew it wouldn’t do any good, so he remained silent.

  The office door opened, and a stocky man in late middle age came in. A brush of white hair stuck up from his scalp, and he carried a black bag. He was the doctor.

  “Sorry it took me a while to get here, Warden,” the man said. “I was down in Hades trying to keep a man from bleeding to death. An altercation among the inmates got out of hand, you know.”

  “Were you successful, Doctor?” Fletcher asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. You’ll have to assign some men to a burial detail.” The doctor set his bag on Fletcher’s desk, looked at The Kid, and rubbed his hands together as he smiled, revealing some poorly fitting false teeth. “Hopefully we’ll have more luck with you, young man.”

  The Kid wasn’t sure he wanted the doctor to touch him. The man had the air of a quack about him.

  With two armed guards standing by, and guards who hated him because they believed he had killed a couple of their comrades, The Kid knew he would have to cooperate for the time being.

  “I may have to cut that bloody shirt off you,” the doctor murmured. “Of course, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll soon be getting completely different clothing, anyway.”

  The Kid sat stoically while the doctor cut the shirt off and unwound the makeshift bandages that had been wrapped tightly around his torso. When the bandages came off, they revealed a puckered, raw-looking furrow in the flesh of The Kid’s right side.

  “Not too bad, not too bad,” the doctor said as if he were talking to himself. He turned his head to look at Fletcher. “Who tended to this wound when it was fresh?”

  Fletcher was taking a cigar from his vest pocket. He bit off the end and spat it out before answering the question. “Tom Haggarty.”

  “It appears that he did an adequate job.” The doctor opened his bag. “I’ll just clean the wound again and bandage it properly.”

  Fletcher lit the cigar and smoked while the doctor went about his work, humming softly to himself. While The Kid was still Conrad Browning, he had enjoyed a good cigar. The foul-smelling stogie Fletcher was smoking didn’t fit that description.

  The Kid didn’t allow any expression to show on his face when he felt the sting of the carbolic acid the doctor used to clean the wound. Nor did he react when the man covered the bullet crease with pads of clean gauze and bound them in place with strips of bandage that he pulled so tight The Kid could barely breathe.

  After that, the doctor examined the gash on The Kid’s head where Haggarty had pistol-whipped him. “That could use a couple of stitches to close it up,” he said. “Otherwise it’s going to leave a little scar.”

  Fletcher smirked. “I don’t think Bledsoe will be too worried about a scar, Dr. Thurber.” He left unsaid the implication that a scar wouldn’t matter because the man would soon be dangling from the end of a hangrope.

  But everyone in the room understood.

  Thurber smiled weakly. “It never hurts for a surgeon to practice his art. With your permission, Warden…?”

  Fletcher made a magnanimous gesture.

  Thurber cleaned the wound first, then took two stitches to close it with a deft touch that surprised The Kid. He wouldn’t have guessed the doctor was that skillful. Thurber bandaged the injury, winding a single strip of bandage around The Kid’s head. Then he took hold of The Kid’s chin and moved his head to the side. “Nasty looking bruise starting to come up there on the jaw,” he commented.

  Fletcher sat forward and clamped his teeth tighter on the cigar. “Don’t worry about that,” he said around the stogie, not bothering to explain that the bruise came from the punch he had handed out to the prisoner.

  Thurber began replacing his supplies in the black bag. “Very well,” he said. “My services don’t seem to be required here any longer. If you need me, though, Warden, don’t hesitate to send for me.”

  “Of course, Doctor.”

  The white-haired medico nodded to Fletcher, picked up his bag, and bustled out of the office.

  Fletcher stood up and put the cigar in an ashtray on his desk. “All right, there’s no use postponing this. On your feet, Bledsoe. You’re going back to Hades.”

  The Kid tried one last time. He looked up at Fletcher and said, “I’m not Bledsoe, I tell you. My name is Conrad Browning. Sometimes I’m called Kid Morgan.”

  One of the guards standing behind The Kid grunted in surprise.

  Fletcher looked at him and snapped, “What is it?”

  “I’ve heard of Kid Morgan, Warden. He’s some sort of gunfighter. He was mixed up in a big ruckus over in West Texas a while back.”

  Fletcher sneered. “That doesn’t mean this man is Kid Morgan. Look at him, Smithson. Doesn’t he look like Ben Bledsoe?”

  “Well…yes, sir, he does, I guess, except for the fact that he doesn’t have a beard. But anybody can shave off a beard.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m just not sure why a man would claim to be a gunfighter if it wasn’t true.”

  “He’s trying to save his life,” Fletcher said. “He’s grasping at straws. Now get him on his feet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the two guards moved in, The Kid said, “Take it easy. There’s no need for any more rough stuff.” He stood up slowly, keeping his hands in plain sight so they would know he wasn’t trying some sort of trick.

  “There’s a full guard detail o
utside, as I ordered?” Fletcher asked.

  “Yes, sir, Warden,” the guard called Smithson replied.

  “Good. I want Bledsoe completely surrounded, so no one can get to him. Take him straight to Number One.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Kid wanted to ask what Number One was, but he had a bad feeling he would find out soon enough.

  He looked through the window behind Fletcher’s desk and saw that black hole looming in the cliff face. Once again he had the feeling that anybody who went in there might not ever come out again. His instinct was to rebel. His heart slugged heavily in his chest, and he wanted to fight, to run, to do anything he had to do to keep from being put in that hole.

  With an effort, he controlled himself. He knew if he put up a struggle, they would knock him out and drag him in there anyway. Injured, alone, and unarmed, the odds were too high against him. No one could have overcome them.

  Not even Frank Morgan.

  “Let’s go, Bledsoe,” Smithson said quietly.

  The Kid took a deep breath and turned toward the door.

  And stopped short because a young woman stood in the doorway, a surprised expression on her beautiful face.

  Chapter 6

  “Jillian!” Fletcher exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You know you’re not supposed to come to my office.”

  “I-I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “Mother was asking for you, and I thought you’d want to come as soon as possible.” She peered more intently at The Kid. “Is this…?”

  “Yes, Ben Bledsoe,” Fletcher said, his voice sharp with impatience. “He’s been recaptured.”

  The Kid saw a bare sliver of a chance. “That’s not true, Miss Fletcher,” he said quickly. “I’m not Bledsoe. My name is Conrad Brown—”

  A rifle butt slammed into the back of The Kid’s neck. The blow was a savage one, struck by the second guard at a sharp gesture from the warden. The Kid caught a glimpse of the horrified surprise etched on the young woman’s face as he fell.

  “This man is a very dangerous prisoner, Jillian,” Fletcher said. “I want you to go back to our quarters immediately. You know you’re never supposed to leave them without a guard accompanying you.”

  “I’m sorry, Father, I just…”

  Jillian Fletcher’s voice faded out as The Kid struggled to remain conscious. He had gone through too much in the past eighteen hours, absorbed too much punishment. His body and brain had been stretched as far as they would go.

  He managed to lift his head for one last look at the young woman. Her mouth was moving and he could hear the words, but he could no longer make sense of them.

  She was beautiful. Petite and well-shaped, with two wings of glossy auburn hair framing her face. Her deep brown eyes locked with his for a second. “Get him up! Get him out of here!” The order came from Fletcher.

  Strong hands grasped The Kid’s arms and hauled him upright. Jillian Fletcher stepped back so that the guards could shove The Kid through the doorway. The Kid shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs, but it was no use.

  He was only half conscious as the guards took him through the outer office and outside the administration building. More armed men closed in around him. The two who had hold of his arms marched him past the fenced-off barracks, straight toward the mouth of the tunnel.

  The Kid’s senses returned to him a little once he was out in the fresh air. He saw two stone walls about three feet tall and topped with sandbags another foot or so high. They formed circles about ten feet in diameter and were fifty feet or so from the tunnel mouth, set to each side of the opening.

  Inside each circle was a Gatling gun manned by two guards and pointed at the tunnel. A shudder went through The Kid as he thought about what it would be like if both of those rapid-firers began pouring thousands of rounds through the opening. Nobody inside the tunnel would survive.

  The guards took The Kid between the two Gatling gun emplacements. More blue-uniformed men unlocked the gates and swung one side open a few feet. It took two men to move the massive iron gate, even though it swung smoothly on its hinges.

  “Everything locked down inside?” Smithson asked the men who opened the gate.

  “Yeah, they’re all in their holes,” one of the men replied.

  Smithson and his companion manhandled The Kid into the tunnel. It was fifty feet wide and twenty feet high, with an arched ceiling. The shaft had been bored out of living rock and was braced with thick timbers and vaulted beams. It ran straight into the mountain for a hundred yards.

  Both side walls and the rear wall were lined with heavy wooden doors, each with a small, barred window in it. The Kid didn’t try to count the doors, but there must have been a hundred of them. He knew without being told that behind each door was a cell, also hewn out of the rock.

  In the area of the tunnel closest to the gates were several long tables with benches built onto them. It was where the prisoners took their meals, The Kid guessed.

  The air was smoky. The shaft was lit by dozens of torches thrust into holders attached to the walls. The Kid looked up and saw that several ventilation holes had been drilled in the ceiling, but there weren’t enough to carry the smoke away efficiently.

  The dark, brooding stone walls, the flickering red light from the torches, the stench of the smoke—he could see why the tunnel was known as Hades. Anybody who spent much time there would feel like he was doomed—damned to the underworld realm of Satan himself.

  Some of the doors were open, leading into empty cells. One such door was in the rear wall, as far as it could possibly be from the light of day. The Kid realized that was their destination.

  He twisted his head to look back over his shoulder. The oblong of light that marked the tunnel mouth had shrunk, and it was growing smaller with every step. The Kid felt panic coil inside his belly like a rattlesnake.

  They were going to lock him up because they thought he was Bloody Ben Bledsoe, whoever that was, and he would never get out of there. Even if they didn’t hang him, he would spend the rest of his days in that hellish place, wasting away until he was a mere shadow of himself, a dried-out husk of the man who was both Conrad Browning and Kid Morgan.

  He fought down the urge to scream and thrash, to do something—anything—to stop them from putting him in that cell. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. The guards would beat him into submission and then throw him in there.

  And he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him lose his nerve. He was sure if he gave in to what he was feeling, the guards would tell Warden Fletcher that he had broken down.

  The Kid was damned if he was going to let that happen.

  So he steeled his nerves and stood up straight as they took him to the cell.

  “Welcome home, Bledsoe,” one of the guards jeered as they reached the door. Shoving him forward, they pitched him bodily through the opening.

  He stumbled on the cell’s rough stone floor but managed to stay on his feet. As he swung around, the door slammed with a boom that echoed from one end of the tunnel to the other. He heard the clatter of a key turn in the heavy lock. A moment later, a thick bar thudded into the brackets set into the rock on both sides of the door.

  “Enjoy your stay,” another of the guards said. Several of them laughed.

  The Kid heard their footsteps going away.

  He dragged in a deep breath inhaling smoke, and coughed. Turning slowly, he looked at the cell.

  There was no light. The only illumination came from the reddish glow that filtered in through the small window with iron bars. As his eyes adjusted he was able to make out his surroundings. The cell was eight feet wide and ten feet deep. A narrow canvas bunk with no mattress, only a metal frame, hung from the right-hand wall. A thin, folded blanket lay on the bunk.

  A small bucket stood in one corner. The Kid saw that it had water in it. A larger bucket, in another corner, was to be used to relieve himself.

  That was everything in the cell. A place to sleep, a li
ttle water to drink, a bucket to answer the call of nature in.

  Home, sweet home, The Kid thought bitterly.

  He knew if he had to stay in there for very long, he would go mad.

  Chapter 7

  Footsteps approached the cell again. The Kid turned, looked out through the window, and saw the guard named Smithson coming toward him. Smithson had some sort of bundle in his arms.

  He didn’t unlock the door, shoving the bundle between the bars instead. It was a tight fit.

  “Take your clothes off and put these on,” Smithson told The Kid. “Then pass your clothes back out through the window. Boots, too.”

  “Is this necessary?”

  “It’s the rule. You’ll learn pretty quick that things go easier around here if you follow the rules, Bledsoe.”

  The Kid picked up the bundle. He saw that it was a pair of gray wool trousers and a gray wool shirt wrapped around a pair of shoes, along with some rough underwear and socks.

  Smithson pushed something else between the bars. It fell to the cell floor and landed with a clang of metal.

  “When you’ve got the new duds on, snap those leg irons on your ankles,” Smithson said.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you don’t set foot outside your cell. Nobody does without the leg irons on.”

  “Maybe I like it in here.”

  “You say that now. You won’t feel that way after a few days without being able to go up to the mouth of the tunnel so you can see the sun. You’ll really feel like you’re in Hades. The real thing, I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” The Kid muttered. “I already feel that way.”

  “Then if you know what’s good for you, you’ll cooperate, Bledsoe.”

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you again that I’m not who you think I am.”

  “I wouldn’t know a thing about that,” Smithson said. “And I don’t want to. Now, are you gonna put on those clothes?”

  With a sigh, The Kid started taking off his own clothes.

  A few minutes later, he was dressed in the drab, scratchy prison outfit. He took his boots off and put on the shoes. He pushed his clothing back through the bars, one item at a time.