It was hotter on the third tier than it was below. Not stifling, and nothing like the extreme heat down in Yuma. The heavy blocks of limestone and the spaciousness of the building kept the temperatures cooler. But it was still warm enough for the men to sweat a bit.
Fallon tasted salt on his tongue. He kept staring directly at the boss of the guards.
“You ever killed a man, Fallon?” the guard asked.
Fallon did not blink. He did not avert his eyes. He did not even breathe. He just answered: “Never a prison guard.”
It was the kind of answer that could get Fallon thrown over the railing to fall to his death. Probably not, Fallon figured, but it might get him knocked upside the head with one of those line sticks. It certainly wouldn’t get any laughs.
It didn’t.
“Well,” said the guard, “maybe you’ll keep it that way. But you ought to remember this, smart aleck. I can’t say I’ve never killed a scum-sucking convict with a smart mouth.”
Fallon lowered his gaze and studied his uncomfortable prison boots.
“Where is Full of Himself Fowlson putting this one to work?” the guard asked.
“They didn’t tell us that, either.” And the tougher of the two guards escorting Fallon cut loose with a string of profanity about both Underwood and Fowlson.
“Which cell does he get?”
The guard answered, but the leader of the escort patrol did not appear to care for that answer.
“No. He can’t go in that one.”
“It’s what Underwood said.”
The guard swore. “That can’t be right.”
Both guards assured the leader that they had their orders.
“Underwood’s a damned fool,” said the guard.
“Ain’t that the livin’ truth,” said one of Fallon’s escorts.
“Well,” said the leader of the other group, “I’ll have to go straighten things out with that moron.”
The guards walked past Fallon, who kept his eyes trained on his bar of soap and the coat and waited for one of the guards to slap him silly. All he felt, though, was the sweat trickling down his cheeks and the throbbing in his stitched-up calf. The guards’ footsteps echoed and faded as they turned into the stairwell and climbed down the flights to the ground floor.
“All right, Fallon,” said the meaner of the two—but at least he had stopped calling Fallon “fish.”
Fallon moved down the path. An oblong window stood in the center of the front and back walls, rising from around the tier Fallon was on to above the fourth. The two windows seemed to provide the only light in A-Hall. Fallon counted the small doors of solid iron that he passed. Not that he needed to, for numbers were chalked onto the black iron.
“Stop,” said the lead guard.
Fallon obeyed. None of the inmates the guards had escorted from whatever work detail they had been assigned for the day had entered this cell. It was pretty much in the center of the building. He didn’t know how many roommates he would have, or if any would be inside.
He could see the cold floor down on the bottom level. Another group of prisoners was being marched to the far end of the building, turned right, and up the stairs. The black-coated guards shouted at them, cursed at them, and followed them. They disappeared in the well, but Fallon could hear their footsteps.
Fallon’s cell was right across from the center catwalk.
The key grated in the lock, the other guard cursed and tried it again, and finally the loud click sounded.
“You got a new bunkie, you son of a dog,” said the guard as he pulled the creaking door open and pointed his line stick inside the cell. “Stay put,” he told the inmate inside. “And say hello to this fish.”
Fallon felt the other guard’s line stick poke him in the small of his back.
“All right, Fallon,” the guard said. “Go inside and be quick about it.”
Keeping his head down, Fallon took a few steps away from the railing, ducked—the doors had been built for circus midgets or to remind inmates of their place—and came inside the cell that reeked of sweat, straw, tobacco, urine, and the foulness of mankind.
As he lifted his head, he realized just how many men had been crammed inside this twelve-by-eight-foot room. Five. Fallon would make six. Only one of the inmates was inside, lying on a straw mattress in the corner, chewing tobacco.
You couldn’t smoke in the cell. Matches and prisoners, Fallon knew, were not a healthy combination.
Fallon saw his roommate. The roommate looked up, and his face hardened at the sight.
Fallon was dropping his clothes, blanket, soap, towels and even his knife, as the pale man with blood on his lips and more blood in his eyes shot off his miserable bed and came straight for Fallon.
The man had a knife in his right hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ford Wagner had aged since Fallon had brought him and Kemp Carver in from the Indian Nations to Fort Smith all those years ago. What hair that hadn’t been shaved off or fallen out was no longer red but white. The whiteness matched the tone of his skin. And a bloody froth sprayed through his lips. He was rail thin, more skeleton than man. Consumption did that to a person.
But Wagner had a knife—and not one of those homemade contraptions prisoners usually had to put together. Like the one Fallon had dropped with his clothing.
He had no time to try to grab the knife the old man had given him down below. For a sick man, Ford Wagner moved fast. He brought the knife over his head, but Fallon dropped, falling back through the doorway. Luckily, the two guards had not slammed the door shut. There had not been time, this had happened so fast.
Fallon kept his hands out to protect himself, brought his knees up, catching the charging inmate at his waist. He arched backward and flipped the crazed killer through the doorway. Luckily, Ford Wagner was tiny enough after that long lung sickness that he didn’t hit either the top of the frame or the sides. He landed on the flooring and skidded toward the edge.
Spinning around, Fallon came to his knees and leaped out.
The meanest of the guards said, “Hell’s fire” and backed away.
The other guard started at Wagner, waving his line stick, until the other guard said, “Steve, don’t be a damned fool. Can’t you see Wagner’s got a knife?”
Wagner came up, coughing, waving the knife in a menacing fashion in his right hand and wiping the blood off his lips with his left sleeve.
The knife was a hunting knife, with a crooked, long, and well-worn deer’s-foot handle and a curved guard of shiny brass. The blade had to be around seven inches long, dipping from the top and curving from the bottom. Like a bowie. Fallon could tell that the blade was made of very good steel. And sharper than a razor.
Wagner’s bloody lips formed a grin as he approached easily, waving the blade left to right. He did not pay any attention to the guards, but Fallon shot a quick glance their way. He also saw the other guards, escorting the prisoners to their cells on the opposite side of A-Hall. Someone blew a whistle.
“What’s going on?” came a shout from across the deep chasm.
“The lunger’s got a knife!” replied the leader of the two guards who had escorted Fallon. “Showing the fresh fish the law of the land.”
“You better hope Wagner wins,” said one of the guards across the way.
What was happening came as no surprise to Fallon. The guards on the other side of A-Hall’s third floor stepped aside and approached the railing. The prisoners turned, too, but knew to remain in front of their cell doors. Fallon could not see what was going on below him or on the floor above. But the sounds that filled the dark, old building told him this was the main show of the day. Sounds echoed down the stairwell that Fallon had walked up. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the first group of guards, those who had escorted the prisoners to this floor, pile out and line up across the flooring near the first cell of the block.
The guards would not break up this fight. A few started placing bets. The pri
soners cheered, but it wasn’t for Fallon and it wasn’t for Wagner. They just wanted to see blood.
Fallon put a hand on the door, wondering if he could use it as a shield. He pulled, then let go and stepped away from the cell. The damned door was too heavy, and Fallon didn’t want to be pinned in. Out here, he didn’t have much room, but this wasn’t his first knife fight.
“I’ve been waitin’ a long time for this, Fallon,” Wagner said in a dry, wheezing voice.
Someone yelled from the other side: “What the hell are you doing, Ford?”
Many years had passed since Fallon had heard that voice, but it was one he recognized easily. Kemp Carver.
Well, at least Fallon didn’t have to wait forever to figure out when those two hotheaded outlaws would find him. It was better to get things out in the open, and over and done with.
Wagner started to reply to his cousin’s encouragement, but he stopped, suppressed a cough, and made a vicious swipe with the blade. Fallon leaped back, sucking in his gut, and found himself against the wall, but as Wagner twisted and tried to jab with the lethal knife, Fallon pushed himself away. He backed up a few feet until he stood in the center of the walkway.
Again, Wagner turned and rushed him, but tripped. He went down to a knee. Fallon tried to kick him in the face with his left foot, but the inmate, more cadaver than man, somehow pushed himself away, rolled over, and came up near the two guards. Fallon found himself back beside his cell. His foot caught something. He glanced down. It was the jacket. He didn’t know if the knife was underneath it, but he knew that he could use the jacket. Quickly, his knees bent, his right hand snagged the sleeve and he was up and standing, moving away from the cell, and not even trying to see if his thin little blade with a handle manufactured from pieces of wood was anywhere within reach.
By now the din of cheers, curses, and just screams to blow off steam filled the cellblock. Fallon wrapped the sleeve of the striped coat around his left hand. Ford Wagner looked confused as he came at Fallon again. Fallon popped the jacket like a whip, and the thin man staggered back.
The guards on this side of the cell sniggered.
Enraged, Wagner charged, brought the knife up as Fallon leaped to his right and slapped the side of Wagner’s face with the shabbily made coat. A button must have caught Wagner on the cheek, because blood began leaking as Fallon brought the jacket back. This time he rolled it quickly around his right arm.
Wagner coughed slightly and touched his cheek with his free hand.
“Come on, Ford!” Kemp Carver yelled from across the pit. “Get it over with. Kill him.”
Did Carver recognize Fallon? Maybe not. He was just like everyone else in this slaughterhouse. He just wanted to see blood spilled.
Fallon started to wrap the jacket around his left arm. Wagner wet his lips. The blade slashed this way, then the other, and Wagner came at him again. But just as quickly as Fallon had wrapped the jacket over his arm, now he slid it up, and tossed it like a lariat at the weak man’s stumbling feet.
Fallon jumped out of the way, turned around, and saw Wagner fall. The knife came out of the man’s hands. He kicked the coarse woolen jacket from his ankles. Fallon wet his lips, hoping that one of the guards would take advantage of the situation and pick up the knife. End this stupid, senseless fight. Instead, the leader of the duo stepped over and kicked the knife with the toe of his boot—back toward Ford Wagner.
The pale man gripped the hunting knife, keeping his head up, his angry eyes locked on Fallon. Wagner coughed, spit out more blood, and moved on his knees to the walls. He had to grip the cold stones with his left hand and somehow manage to pull himself to his feet. Again, Wagner wiped the blood and staggered toward Fallon.
This time, the deranged, dying man came yelling, swiping left and right, up and down, blinded by fury. Fallon stepped into the man, which Wagner had not expected. And the longtime prisoner was so blinded by his hate, his desire for revenge, that he barely even saw Fallon.
This wasn’t much of a fight. How long had Ford Wagner been incarcerated? How long had he been suffering from the lung ailments? How much longer could a man in his condition live?
Fallon’s two hands gripped Wagner’s right hand with both of his. He knew he could break the man’s wrist, his arm, easily. The man’s eyes filled with hatred, and Fallon twisted the hand, shook it, brought it back, and then sent his knee into the man’s groin.
The knife dropped and rattled on the floor. Fallon shoved Wagner away, and the rail-thin man staggered blindly, ramming into the younger of the two guards, who angrily, or maybe just reflexively, shoved Wagner away.
“Nooo!” That cry came from the leader of the guards down by the stairwell. The one who had tested Fallon just moments ago. Fallon saw the guard racing down the pathway, while the other two guards turned to look back.
Fallon wasn’t looking back, though. Because he was moving toward the railing. He saw that Ford Wagner had no control and staggered to the narrow barrier. Across the pit, Kemp Carver screamed, too. Fallon reached the edge of the walkway just as Wagner hit it. Fallon’s right hand grabbed the bony left arm of Wagner as he hit the rail and flipped over.
By no means was Ford Wagner a heavy man, but Fallon felt his ribs pressing against the small round railing that came up to his waist. That was all there was separating Fallon from a long drop to a damned hard landing.
“Ford!” the convict’s cousin screamed.
“Help him!” said the guard charging from the stairwell.
Across the pit, convicts or guards—Fallon couldn’t tell which—shouted: “Let him fall! Let him fall!”
With a tight grimace, Fallon looked over. Now he could see inmates and guards on the second-level walkways staring up to watch the fight. Below them, a few other guards and prisoners, including the crazy old man who had given Fallon his clothes and knife, tilted their heads so they could watch the excitement.
The sound of Ford Wagner’s wrist breaking was barely audible, but Fallon could read the pain in the man’s face. He turned, looking at the guards for help, but they seemed frozen. Fallon began pulling the light, limp weight of Ford Wagner up.
“Help him, you damned fools!” the charging guard said, and this time the two men in black snapped out of their daydreams. One grabbed Fallon’s free arm. The other went to latch on to Ford Wagner. By the time the leader of the other detail had reached them, it was all over.
Ford Wagner was on the floor, hurting, bleeding, wheezing, spitting up more blood, but alive. The two guards helped pull him up off the floor, gasping for breath. The leader of the other guards had stopped to pick up the lethal knife Ford Wagner had been using.
It was over. Fallon tried to catch his breath.
But across the way, he heard Kemp Carver.
“Fallon! Fallon!”
Fallon turned, gripped the banister, and saw Wagner’s cousin, pushing aside one of the guards and stepping onto the center catwalk.
He sprinted across the narrow path. And Harry Fallon stepped over to meet him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Guards started after both Carver and Fallon, but they stopped at the edge of the catwalk. Nobody had any intention of dropping three stories to the floor of solid rock below. Fallon kept walking, steadily, and in control, but Kemp Carver slowed and stopped.
“I should’ve killed you at Maudie’s back in the Nations,” Carver seethed.
“You tried,” Fallon reminded him.
“This time my gun won’t misfire.”
His gun had not misfired back at Maudie’s all those years ago, Fallon knew. He nodded and waited. Fallon had always been taller than Carver, and that had not changed. Back in the Indian Nations, though, Carver had outweighed Fallon by quite a few pounds. That had changed with prison along with the fact that Carver didn’t have access to all the whiskey and Choctaw beer he had been running. Now, he wasn’t slight, but he would be far from a match for Harry Fallon. Fallon had also spent more time in prison. Any time spent in
Joliet and Yuma was hard time, too.
And Fallon still had both of his arms. Kemp Carver’s right arm stopped at his elbow. Fallon remembered that gunshot in the darkened cabin of Maudie’s. He could still hear Carver’s screams: God, my arm, my arm, you damned low-down dirty . . .
Halfway across the path, Fallon stopped, too. His eyes were hard. He waited.
Kemp Carver wet his lips with his tongue. His left hand kept clenching, and then unclenching, clenching and unclenching, over and over again. He drew a deep breath, let it out. Behind him came calls from his fellow prisoners.
“Come on, girlie-boy, go after him. He almost threw your cousin to hell and gone.”
“Carver. Let’s see a good fight. That first one didn’t last long enough!”
“Hey, boy, you gonna take care of that fresh fish? Or you gonna come back here and put on your petticoat?”
Carver’s face began to flush.
“You men shut up!” snapped a few guards, but their orders resulted in more catcalls and laughter.
Carver started walking again. The prisoners jeered and cheered. The guards started backing away, giving the prisoners room.
“Throw his carcass over the side, Carver. Like Millican done that Mexican four years ago!”
“Two plugs of tobacco says the fresh fish wins this one, boys!”
“You’re on. Hell, Carver rid with Linc Harper!”
“You danged, fool. Carver ain’t got but one arm.”
“Yeah, but that one arm put Munson in the hospital for two weeks last year.”
Behind the Iron Page 18
