The Loner: Seven Days to Die

by J. A. Johnstone

  “Now the irons,” Smithson reminded him.

  The Kid picked up the shackles and sat down on the bunk. The leg irons would make a decent weapon in a fight. The shackles themselves were heavy enough and had a short but thick length of chain between them.

  But once they were snapped onto his ankles, they would be useless for anything except forcing him to shuffle along with his steps greatly restricted. That was their intended purpose, of course.

  Smithson looked through the window. “If you don’t put them on,” he said, “you won’t get to come out for chow. You’ll have to live on what we can pass you through the bars. You won’t get your free time. We can’t even clean your slops bucket. We have to see the irons on your ankles before the door is ever unlocked. That’s the way it works.”

  “All right, all right, blast it,” The Kid said. He closed first one shackle and then the other around his ankles. “Satisfied?”

  “Don’t blame me, Bledsoe,” Smithson said. “You’re the one who robbed all those banks and killed those two guards.” His voice took on a harsh edge. “They were friends of mine.”

  “In that case, it ought to really bother you that the wrong man is locked up. The son of a bitch who really killed them is still out there somewhere.”

  “One thing I’ve learned working in prisons,” Smithson shot back. “Everybody’s innocent. It’s always a mistake. It was somebody else who robbed and killed. You think anybody on this side of the bars ever believes that?”

  “This time it’s true.”

  Smithson just shook his head and started to turn away.

  The Kid stood up, lurched over to the door, and gripped the bars in the window. “If I’m lying, what harm could it do for the warden to send that wire I asked him to?” he demanded of the guard’s back. “If he refuses to do it, maybe it’s because he’s afraid I’m telling the truth.”

  Pointing it out to Smithson probably wouldn’t do any good, The Kid knew. The man was a guard, without any real power except over the prisoners. He couldn’t change Fletcher’s mind. The warden probably wouldn’t even listen to him.

  But The Kid wanted somebody in that hellish place to believe him. He wanted a shred of hope to cling to. Giving up and accepting the cruel twist of fate wasn’t an option. He would never give up, never stop trying to figure out some way to be free again.

  Smithson said without looking around, “You missed midday chow. You’ll have to wait until tonight to eat. Sorry.”

  With that, he was gone. The Kid watched the dwindling figure until Smithson stepped out of the tunnel and passed through the gates into the sunlight.

  The Kid wondered if he would ever again feel the warmth of the sun on his face.

  During the long afternoon, The Kid watched through the bars and began to get an idea how things worked in Hades.

  Prisoners were taken out of their cells in groups of six. They were allowed to shuffle around the tunnel with their leg irons clanking, talk to each other, smoke, and go up to the gates so they could look out. The sun didn’t shine directly into the tunnel, but at least they could see it splashing its rays over the compound outside.

  Each prisoner was trailed at all times by a pair of guards armed with rifles, so that when all six inmates congregated together, they were surrounded by a dozen guards. In addition, other guards were stationed here and there around the tunnel and at the entrance, plus there were those two Gatling guns guarding the gate.

  Making a break for freedom seemed almost impossible. More than anything else, it would be a good way to get yourself killed in a hurry.

  The Kid wondered how Bloody Ben Bledsoe had managed to escape.

  While the prisoners were out of their cells, older prisoners fetched out the slops buckets and emptied them into a barrel mounted on a cart. Another cart carried a water tank used to refill the water buckets. The Kid figured the men responsible for those tasks were trusties who lived in the barracks in the compound.

  Hades seemed to be reserved for the prisoners who were regarded as the most dangerous.

  After fifteen minutes, the men were herded back into their cells and locked up. The process started all over again with the next six prisoners.

  The Kid noticed some of the cells were skipped. The men inside them weren’t let out. They were probably being punished for some infraction of Warden Fletcher’s rules.

  The trusties finished the chores by late afternoon. They trundled the carts out of the tunnel once all the prisoners were locked in the cells again.

  While the gates were still open, men brought in big pots of what smelled like stew and set them on the tables, along with stacks of wooden bowls. They left, and the gates were locked again.

  The prisoners were let out a dozen at a time. Watched constantly by armed guards, they sat at the tables, picked up the bowls, and dipped them into the pots of stew. They had to eat with their fingers, which they did greedily, licking the last drops of juice out of the bowls.

  As soon as they had finished eating, the guards put them back in their cells.

  The Kid’s hands tightened on the bars in the window as he thought about what it would be like to live like that day after day, month after month, year after year. The body might remain alive, but the mind and the spirit would not. They couldn’t possibly survive. Even a year in there would be enough to turn a prisoner into a twisted, shambling mockery of a man, a mindless wreck.

  If he couldn’t convince Fletcher that there had been a mistake, that he was the wrong man…he’d have to find a way to escape. That was the only alternative.

  When it came his turn to eat, the guards passed by his cell and opened the next one in line.

  “Hey!” The Kid called through the bars. “What about me?”

  One of the guards came up to the door and ordered, “Step back.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, or you won’t get anything to eat at all.”

  “I put on the damn leg irons like I was supposed to!” The Kid objected.

  “For the last time, step back away from the door.”

  The Kid moved back and watched as the guard shoved two thick pieces of bread between the bars and let go of them so they fell to the floor just inside the door. The Kid scooped them up and said, “What the hell! This is all I get?”

  “Warden’s orders,” the guard said as if that explained everything, and in truth, The Kid supposed it did. Jonas Fletcher’s word was law at Hell Gate Prison.

  The Kid sat down on the bunk and slowly ate the bread. Washing it down with water from the smaller bucket, he made the skimpy meal last as long as he could.

  When he finished, he leaned back against the stone wall and watched the cell grow darker as night settled over the rugged mountains outside the prison. The torches still burned inside Hades, of course; the guards replaced them as necessary. But losing the light that had come through the mouth of the tunnel made more difference than The Kid expected.

  Sometime during the long, lonely night, The Kid dozed off. He woke shivering from the cold, wrapped the thin blanket around himself, and went back to sleep.

  The guards woke the prisoners early, before dawn, and started taking them out for morning chow. The routine was the same. Trusties brought in wooden bowls and pots of what looked like oatmeal. The prisoners were taken out a dozen at a time to eat.

  Once again the guards skipped The Kid’s cell. He got a single piece of bread shoved through the barred window.

  The midday meal was more of the same.

  It was only a matter of time until the lack of decent food made him so weak he wouldn’t be a threat to anybody. He suspected that was what Fletcher had in mind.

  They had to let him out eventually, The Kid thought. His water bucket was almost empty, and his slops bucket was almost full.

  That afternoon when the trusties came around with their carts, one of the guards unbarred and unlocked the door of The Kid’s cell. Then four guards instead of the usual two stood with rifles trained on the
door while one of them called for him to come out.

  The Kid pushed the door open and hobbled out. He immediately started toward the mouth of the tunnel. He wanted some fresh air and light, and nothing was going to stop him.

  He had to take such short steps because of the leg irons he began to worry he wouldn’t reach his destination in time. It would be cruel indeed if he was almost there and the guards forced him to turn around and go back.

  He made it to the gates and leaned against one of them, holding on to the bars. The shadow of the cliff extended out about twenty feet. It was torture to be so close to the sunlight, yet unable to step out into it and let it wash over him.

  “Pretty bad, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 8

  The unexpected voice surprised The Kid, and he looked toward the prisoner who had shuffled up beside him. The man was older than him, around forty, with a lot of gray in his hair. He wasn’t as gaunt as some of the other men, which meant he hadn’t been there as long as they had.

  He had dark hollows under his eyes, the same as all the other prisoners. It didn’t take long for those to form, in that underground world. The Kid wondered if he already had them under his eyes.

  “Yes, it’s bad,” he said. “I wouldn’t have expected I’d miss standing in the sun so much, so soon.”

  The other prisoner grinned. “Yeah, they couldn’t have designed this place any better if they wanted to punish us or something.” He chuckled at his own dry humor and held out his hand. “I’m Carl Drake.”

  “Morgan,” The Kid said as he shook Drake’s hand. The strength in Drake’s grip was another indication he hadn’t been there for a long time.

  “I saw them bring you in yesterday. Looked like you’d had a bad time of it. Fletcher rough you up some?”

  “A little,” The Kid admitted.

  “That bastard.” Drake said the words without any real feeling in them, as if he had cursed Fletcher to the point it didn’t mean much anymore.

  The Kid pointed to the bandage around his head. “Fletcher didn’t do this, though. A fella named Haggarty hit me with a pistol butt. After he’d creased me in the side with a bullet.”

  Drake let out a low whistle. “I’ve heard of Haggarty. He’s a bounty hunter. A good one.”

  “I guess that depends on your point of view.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean,” Drake said with a chuckle.

  Since Drake seemed talkative, The Kid indulged his curiosity. “I’d never heard of Hell Gate Prison before. How long has it been here?”

  “It’s been open about a year. Took a couple years of work before that to get it ready.”

  The Kid glanced around. “I can imagine. They had to blast out this tunnel, didn’t they?”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “That’s what they did,” The Kid said. “I can tell. I have some experience with mines.”

  “Now, me, all I know about mines is how to steal their payrolls and ore shipments.” Drake grinned.

  The Kid laughed softly. “That’s why you’re in here?”

  “That and some assorted other things, most of which involved helping myself to money and gold that didn’t actually belong to me.”

  The Kid’s interest quickened. “When were you brought here?”

  “Four months ago.”

  That ought to be long enough, The Kid thought. “Did you know a man named Bledsoe?”

  “Bloody Ben? Sure, I knew him.”

  The Kid glanced around. Several guards were watching him intently, but none of them were standing too close. He lowered his voice and said, “Haggarty captured me thinking that I’m Bledsoe. For some reason, Fletcher believes it, too. Nothing I could say would convince him I’m not Bledsoe.”

  Drake’s eyes widened as he looked at The Kid. “But…you’re not Bledsoe,” he said. “Yeah, there’s a resemblance—put a beard on you and the two of you would almost be twins—but you’re definitely not him.”

  A sense of excitement gripped The Kid. “Would you be willing to tell that to the warden, Drake?”

  “Why, sure I would.” Drake grunted and shook his head. “But do you really reckon he’d believe me?”

  The Kid’s spirits had lifted for a second, but dropped again. Drake was right, of course. There was no reason in the world to believe Fletcher would take the word of a convicted robber. Drake could probably insist until he was blue in the face that The Kid really wasn’t Bloody Ben Bledsoe, but it wouldn’t do any good.

  “Hey, if you want me to try…” Drake went on.

  The Kid shook his head. “No, it would be a waste of time. I see that now.”

  “You could get every man in here to swear you’re not Bledsoe, and it wouldn’t change Fletcher’s mind. Once he’s made it up, that’s it.”

  The Kid gave a hollow laugh. “Yes, but he wants me to tell him where the loot from all of Bledsoe’s robberies is hidden, and I can’t do that. I don’t have any idea.”

  “Of course not. While he was in here, Bledsoe bragged that the only one who knew was him. I reckon that’s why he busted out, so he could go and get it.”

  The Kid knew they were running out of time. Soon the guards would start herding them back to their cells. The trusties were almost finished with their chores in the cells that were currently open.

  “How in the world did Bledsoe manage to get out?” The Kid asked. “I’ve looked around, and I don’t see any way to escape.”

  However Bledsoe had gotten out of Hell Gate, Fletcher had probably taken action to make sure it didn’t happen again. Still, knowing how Bledsoe had managed might be a handy thing to know somewhere down the line.

  “I can tell you—” Drake began.

  He didn’t get to finish. At that moment, a loud, angry voice said from behind them, “I told you I’d settle that score with you, Drake. Get ready to pay up…in blood!”

  The Kid and Drake swung around. One of the biggest, ugliest men The Kid had ever seen stood a few feet away, his hands clenched into massive, mallet-like fists. His bald head was shaped somewhat like a bullet, but it had enough lumps and depressions to show it had taken a lot of punishment over the years. He stood several inches over six feet, had shoulders like an ox-yoke, and arms like the trunks of young trees.

  “Friend of yours?” The Kid asked softly.

  “Not hardly,” said Drake.

  The man took a step toward them and said, “You didn’t think I’d let you get away with double-crossin’ me and the rest of the gang, did you?”

  Drake shook his head. “I told you, Otto, I never double-crossed you or anybody else. I didn’t have anything to do with that posse waiting for us in Raton. Somebody else in the gang must’ve sold us out.”

  “Then why were you the only one who got away?” Otto demanded.

  “Just the luck of the draw,” Drake said. “I tell you, I didn’t do it.”

  Otto gave him a stubborn glare. “If it was somebody else, why did the lawdogs arrest all of us? They would’ve let the one who sold us out go, wouldn’t they?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Drake argued. “Maybe they wanted it to look good, so they put all of you behind bars. They could’ve released the traitor later. I don’t know where all the other members of the gang are now. Do you?”

  Otto frowned as if thinking about such complex questions made his head hurt. He gave it a shake, reminding The Kid of an angry old bull.

  “No, I reckon they’re all scattered hell west and crosswise,” he rumbled. “But I’m still mad at you, Drake.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. You don’t have any reason to.”

  The Kid noticed the guards had been standing around, watching the confrontation to see how it was going to play out. If Otto had carried through on his obvious intention and attacked Drake, maybe the guards would have stepped in to break up the fight.

  The Kid didn’t know about that. He wasn’t at all sure they would have.

  For the moment, trouble seemed to have been averted by D
rake’s calm and reasonable responses to Otto’s bluster. The guards moved closer, and with a jerk of his rifle, one of them ordered, “All right, back to your cells now.”

  The prisoners began shuffling toward the open doors of their cells. Otto cast another hard, angry glance toward Drake but didn’t say anything else.

  “Looks like you’ve got an enemy in here,” The Kid commented to Drake.

  “Yeah, but that’s nothing unusual. It’s a bad bunch that gets sent to Hades. I’ll tell you about me and Otto sometime, if you’re interested.”

  The Kid nodded. He didn’t plan to make any friends in there, but it might come in handy to have a potential ally. Carl Drake was the first person at Hell Gate Prison to believe he wasn’t Bloody Ben Bledsoe. And Drake claimed to know how Bledsoe had managed to escape, which was definitely valuable knowledge.

  The Kid said, “Maybe I’ll see you at chow, if they ever take me off bread and water.”

  “They will,” Drake assured him. “Just don’t cause any trouble, and eventually Fletcher will get tired of it and move on to tormenting somebody else.”

  The Kid hoped he could wait that long.

  Chapter 9

  The next few days were some of the longest The Kid had ever endured. He was let out of the cell for a short time each day, but his meals still consisted of bread and water. He could feel himself growing weaker and there was nothing he could do about it.

  The doctor came every day, checked his wounds, and changed the dressings. Every time Thurber was in the cell, a guard came in with him, and at least two more stood just outside the door, their rifles ready.

  The white-haired physician proclaimed The Kid’s injuries were healing nicely. After a couple days he left off the bandage around the head wound, saying it wasn’t necessary anymore.

  The Kid saw Carl Drake several times through the barred window in his door, but they weren’t let out for their exercise period at the same time again. The Kid wondered if one of the guards had reported to the warden that he and Drake had been talking, and Fletcher wanted to break up any budding friendship.