Massacre Canyon

by William W. Johnstone

Nobody was going to stop Simon Ford from doing what was right. Not Governor John Charles Frémont, not some backwater district attorney, and sure as hell not a gunslinger like Smoke Jensen.

  He didn’t work for Frémont, of course, but rather for the United States Justice Department. The governor couldn’t order him to step away from his pursuit of the Kroll gang.

  But Frémont could make a formal request that he do so, and as the governor of the territory his request would be honored by Washington. It would carry even more weight because of who Frémont was, his own illustrious background, and the fact that his late father-in-law was Thomas Hart Benton, the powerful, long-time senator from Missouri. Benton had been dead for more than twenty years, but his reputation still cast a shadow in Washington. All of that insured that the Justice Department would go along with Frémont’s wishes.

  Ford couldn’t abide that. He put down the pencil, picked up the telegraph form, and carried it over to the window where he handed it to the telegrapher.

  “That goes to the Chief Marshal for the Western District at the Denver Federal Building,” Ford told the Western Union man.

  The telegrapher read the message, then glanced up at Ford from under his green eyeshade.

  “I’m not really supposed to ask this,” he said, “but are you sure you really want to send this, Marshal?”

  “I wouldn’t have written it and given it to you if I wasn’t sure,” Ford snapped.

  “Of course,” the man said. He reached for his key and started tapping out the message.

  When Ford left the Western Union office a couple of minutes later after paying for the telegram out of his own pocket, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. With that chore taken care of, he could get on with his work. His real work.

  As he walked along the street, he thought briefly about the young woman called Darcy Garnett. He remembered her name and that she was a journalist who wrote for Harper’s Weekly. He recalled meeting her in the saloon and then sitting and talking with her in the lobby of her hotel. She was a beautiful, intelligent young woman, he knew that much.

  What he didn’t know was exactly how much he had told her about the Kroll case and the plan Smoke Jensen wanted to put into effect soon. Ford supposed he had had a bit more to drink that night than he’d thought at the time, because his memories of the conversation with Miss Garnett were fuzzy.

  Since that conversation several nights earlier, he had hoped to see her again so he could sound her out about what he’d said and maybe ask her again to keep everything confidential for the time being. She had checked out of the hotel, however, and although he had looked from one end of Prescott to the other, he found no sign of her. Clearly, she had left town.

  He couldn’t do anything about that. He would have to trust her judgment. When faced with a problem he couldn’t solve, Simon Ford didn’t linger on it or brood about it. Instead, he put it behind him and moved on to the next challenge.

  That was what he did now. His career as a lawman had given him a great many odd bits of information, and he had filed them all away in his mind because a man never knew what might come in handy. He had asked around Prescott and had been given the name of a man, a name he recognized. The sort of a man he would have arrested under normal circumstances, but as far as Ford knew, he wasn’t wanted, despite all the rumors about his previous activities.

  And these were far from normal circumstances, too. Sometimes you had to make a deal with a lesser devil in order to catch a greater one.

  He went into a saloon and looked around. He’d been told that the man he wanted to talk to could be found here most of the time. The description he had was a good one. The man sat at a table in the back, drinking and playing cards with two other men. The pot in the center of the table looked small, meaning the stakes were low and the game was a friendly one.

  The man was slouched in his chair, but even so, Ford could tell that he was tall and well-built. He was dressed all in dusty black range clothes, from the boots on his feet to the hat pushed back on a tangle of sandy curls. He was a handsome man, Ford supposed; the former marshal was no real judge of such things.

  One of the other men at the table gave Ford a twitchy glance as he approached. He said, “Lawdog.” He and the third man, whose face seemed as lean and sharp as an ax blade, tensed and sat up straighter.

  Their black-clad companion didn’t seem bothered, though. He barely spared Ford a glance, then put down his cards and said, “Three jacks, boys. I don’t think you’ll beat that.”

  The other two tossed in their cards. The man in black grinned and raked the pot to him. Then he looked up and asked, “Something I can do for you, Marshal Ford?”

  “You know who I am,” Ford said.

  “Sure. Just like you know who I am. We’re sort of in the same line of work, just on different sides.” The man chuckled. “Although, nobody’s been able to prove that yet.”

  “You haven’t heard the latest news. I’m not a marshal anymore.”

  The man cocked a bushy eyebrow and said, “Oh? As of when?”

  “As of about ten minutes ago. I just sent my resignation to the chief marshal in Denver. I’m just a private citizen now, Clinton, and it’s as a private citizen I want to discuss a business proposition with you.”

  If the notorious gunman Jesse Clinton was surprised by that, he didn’t show it. Instead, he said to his companions, “Clear out, boys. It looks like Marshal—I mean, Mister—Simon Ford and I are gonna talk turkey.”

  Chapter 28

  Yuma Territorial Prison

  Smoke had never liked wearing a necktie or anything else tight around his throat. Maybe that came from being unjustly outlawed at a fairly young age and having to live for a while with the possibility he might wind up with a hanging rope around his neck.

  That made it doubly awkward wearing a priest’s collar around his neck. The thing was uncomfortable and made him want to tug at it, and at the same time the idea seemed blasphemous to him. Even though he considered himself a good man, with all the blood on his hands he shouldn’t be pretending to be a man of God, he thought as he trudged toward the front gate of Yuma Territorial Prison. This was a good way to go to hell.

  Of course, since he was walking into Yuma, some would say that was exactly where he was going.

  Not that the prison, which had been open for a few years, was any worse than many others. In fact, it was considerably better than some, as Superintendent Samuel Jesperson had explained to Smoke when they met to discuss the plan to break out Mordecai Kroll.

  At the request of Governor Frémont, the prison superintendent—basically the same as a warden, just a different job title—had agreed to get together with Smoke, Matt, and Preacher at the hotel in the town of Yuma, not far from the prison. Jesperson had had a note of pride in his voice as he said, “The place isn’t the hellhole it’s made out to be. Why, what with it being up on a hill overlooking the Colorado River, there’s often a cool breeze. And since the buildings where the prisoners are housed are all constructed of rock and adobe, it’s really rather temperate as far as the climate is concerned.”

  Smoke didn’t really care about that; he didn’t intend to be inside the prison long enough to care how hot it might get during the summer.

  Preacher said, “I hear the place is full o’ snakes and scorpions, though.”

  Jesperson frowned. He was a tall, well-built man with wavy gray hair and a brush of a mustache. He said, “Well, we’re located in desert terrain, and it’s impossible to keep all the natural wildlife out, Mister . . . ?”

  “Just Preacher,” the old mountain man said.

  “It’s true there are snakes and scorpions and other venomous creatures, but there are some amenities to help make up for that. For example, we have one of the best libraries of any prison in the world.”

  “What about the guard tower?” Smoke asked in an attempt to steer this conversation back to where it was supposed to be.

  “The main one is outs
ide the prison itself, overlooking the sallyport . . . the front gate. There’s another tower toward the back of the prison, on the wall next to the caliche hill,” Jesperson said. “Unfortunately the men posted in the guard towers are sharpshooters.”

  “Can’t you tell them what’s going on and give them orders to miss?” Matt asked.

  Smoke said, “Too big a chance Kroll would find out about it somehow.”

  Jesperson said sharply, “The men who work for me are trustworthy.”

  “I’m sure they are, but it’s too big a chance to take. Besides, if they all were to miss, that might make Kroll suspicious, too.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Matt asked. “If the guards shoot you, that might make it more believable, but it won’t help rescue Luke.”

  “We’ll have to take our chances,” Smoke said. “I’m counting on Superintendent Jesperson here to do his part and make Kroll believe he’s really being rescued.”

  “Governor Frémont expressed his belief that this plan is worth trying,” Jesperson said. “I’m willing to run the risk and go along with what the governor wants.”

  They spent more time going over the details of the plan. Then Jesperson had shaken hands with Smoke, Matt, and Preacher and headed back to the prison. Once the superintendent was gone, Matt had expressed another worry.

  “Even if everything works out at the prison, you’ll have to spend who knows how long traveling with Mordecai Kroll back to the gang’s hideout,” he said. “From everything you told me about him, Smoke, he’s lower than a snake. He’s a cold-blooded killer. You won’t be able to trust him for a second.”

  “I don’t intend to trust him,” Smoke replied with a grim smile. “He’ll be my prisoner the whole way.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll stand a better chance of surviving if you don’t have to go it alone,” Matt argued. “Why not just take me and Preacher with you? The three of us can handle Kroll better than just one man.”

  Preacher said, “I’ll tell you why we can’t do it that way. ’Cause when we got to the hideout, wherever it is, then Kroll’s brother and the rest o’ them varmints’d have the drop on all of us. We’re gonna have to have surprise on our side if we’re gonna have any chance of roundin’ up the whole bunch.”

  “Besides,” Smoke said, “Rudolph Kroll’s letter made it pretty plain that I’m supposed to bring his brother to him by myself. If he sees anybody else with Mordecai and me, he’s liable to go ahead and kill Luke.”

  “Assumin’ that Luke is even still alive,” Preacher said.

  Smoke’s face was grim as he said, “He’d better be. If he’s not, it’ll be up to us to avenge him.” He paused, and then went on. “The letter from Rudolph Kroll didn’t sound like he knows you two even exist, so he won’t be expecting you.”

  “Well, I suppose that makes sense,” Matt said grudgingly. “But I don’t have to like it.”

  “No, you don’t have to like it,” Smoke agreed. “All you have to do is make sure you don’t lose our trail.”

  “You got to get Kroll outta that prison first,” Preacher said.

  “Yep, that’s the first job.”

  And it was the job in which he was engaged now, wearing the collar and cassock of a priest, along with a flat-brimmed black hat with a slightly rounded crown. He had donned a pair of rimless spectacles as well, although the lenses in them were clear glass. The long robe was baggy enough to partially conceal his broad shoulders and muscular arms, along with the gun he had tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

  This masquerade made Smoke feel like a total idiot. He wasn’t cut out to be an actor, that was for sure. But the ruse was the only thing he’d been able to come up with that Mordecai Kroll might believe.

  Smoke had driven up from the settlement in a buggy and left it parked outside the wire fence that surrounded the front part of the prison compound. Inside the wire were the administrative buildings, the superintendent’s quarters, the guard barracks, the kitchen, and several storehouses.

  Beyond those buildings loomed the wall that enclosed the prison itself. Built of adobe and stone, it was a massive barrier some sixteen feet high, about eight feet thick at the base and five at the top. Even though it tapered like that, the slope was still too steep to be scaled.

  The only way in or out of the prison was through the sallyport, an arched tunnel through the wall. A closely woven strap-iron gate barred the opening, which was heavily guarded inside and out by rifle-toting guards. In addition, as Jesperson had explained, the main guard tower rose just east of the sallyport and gave the sharpshooters posted there a commanding view of the prison’s entrance.

  The superintendent walked alongside Smoke as they advanced toward the sallyport. Quietly, he asked, “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Mr. Jensen? I can’t guarantee your safety. I can’t guarantee the safety of either of us, for that matter.”

  “I know,” Smoke replied, “and I’m obliged to you for taking that chance, superintendent. If we come through this alive, I’ll sure owe you a debt.”

  “And I may well call it in to collect one of these days.” With a faint smile, Jesperson added, “If we come through this alive.”

  The uniformed guards at the sallyport didn’t actually snap to attention as the two men approached, but they did stand up straighter and look more alert. One of them nodded and said, “We didn’t know you were visiting the men today, Mr. Jesperson.”

  “A matter came up unexpectedly,” Jesperson replied. “Father Hannigan here has some family news for one of the prisoners.”

  “Bad news, I hope,” one of the other guards muttered. He looked away when Jesperson glared at him.

  The first guard called, “Superintendent comin’ in!” through the gate as he unlocked it. The guards who worked inside didn’t have a key to the massive lock, so they couldn’t be forced to open it in the event of a prison uprising.

  One of the guards gave Smoke a dubious look, as if he wondered whether they ought to search a priest before letting him in. Then Smoke could practically see the mental shrug the man gave. The superintendent was bringing in “Father Hannigan,” so that ought to be enough to vouch for the visitor.

  Once they were inside and the gate was closed and locked behind them again, Jesperson told one of the inside guards, “The padre needs to speak to Mordecai Kroll.”

  “He’s in the dark cell, Mr. Jesperson,” the guard said. “He won’t stop causin’ trouble. I reckon he figures he don’t have much to lose, since he’s already been sentenced to hang and all.”

  Jesperson nodded and said, “I know that. Bring him out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man hurried off toward the dark cell. Jesperson had told Smoke about that infamous hole tunneled into the side of the rocky hill. It was a terrible place, prone to being invaded by rattlesnakes, so any man locked into it had to worry whether he would go mad from darkness and isolation or die of snakebite first. Few prisoners actually did either of those things, but the possibility worried them, as it was supposed to.

  Smoke watched as the guard went to a thick wooden door set into the wall and unlocked it. On the other side was a narrow tunnel that ran through the wall and into the caliche of the hillside. At the end of that tunnel the space widened out into a chamber big enough to contain a cage made of iron bars. The cage wasn’t quite large enough for an average-sized man to either stand up straight or stretch out on the rock floor, so it was impossible to ever get comfortable in there.

  The dark cell was used for punishing troublesome inmates, so they weren’t supposed to be able to get comfortable. Smoke would have hated being locked up in there.

  The guard lit a lantern hanging on a peg beside the door and took it with him as he entered the tunnel. A few minutes later, he reappeared, using the club he carried to prod a prisoner along in front of him. The man wore a baggy prison uniform with alternating black and yellow horizontal stripes on it. The trousers and shirt hung loosely on his bony frame. His head
had been shaved when he entered the prison, the same as any other inmate, but his fair hair had started to grow back during the time he’d been locked up here.

  That was Mordecai Kroll, Smoke thought.

  Some men just looked evil.

  Kroll was one of them.

  He stumbled a little, probably because his eyes had to adjust to the light after being shut up in the dark cell. His muscles were probably stiff from the confinement, too. Those were good things. He would be less likely to cause trouble for Smoke if he wasn’t in his best shape.

  “Here he is, Mr. Jesperson,” the guard said as he brought Kroll across the yard to the two visitors.

  Jesperson nodded and said, “Thank you, Simmons.” He turned to Smoke and went on in harsher tones, “You claimed to have a humanitarian message for this prisoner, Father Hannigan. Deliver it so we can shut him back up where he belongs.”

  Mordecai Kroll blinked bleary, confused eyes as he peered at Smoke.

  “I don’t know this blackbird,” he croaked. His voice sounded rusty, unused.

  “But I know your family, my son,” Smoke said. The words sounded ridiculously false in his ears, but the guard didn’t seem to find them unusual at all. He supposed prisoners here got visits from various clergymen all the time.

  “I don’t have any family but my brother,” Mordecai snapped. “And he wouldn’t have anything to do with the likes of you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Smoke said. He slid a hand through an opening in the cassock, closed his fingers around the butt of the Colt, and pulled it out. His movements were unhurried, but they were so smooth the guard didn’t even notice what he was doing at first.

  Not until Smoke lifted the gun and put the muzzle against the side of Jesperson’s head.

  “It’s your brother who sent me to get you out of there, Mordecai,” Smoke said.

  Chapter 29

  Superintendent Jesperson reacted just the way he was supposed to, gasping in surprise, stiffening, starting to pull away. He was a better actor, thought Smoke. He closed his free hand on Jesperson’s shoulder to hold him still. He put enough pressure in the grip to cause a genuine wince on the superintendent’s part.