Hard Luck Money

by J. A. Johnstone

  “If he can’t, you’ll have to take up the slack for him, Keene,” Hagen told The Kid.

  “He started the fight,” The Kid pointed out. He was breathing better, but starting to hurt from the pounding he’d taken.

  “I don’t give a damn about that,” Hagen snapped. “All I know is that at the end of the day there’d better be as many full sacks of cotton as I’m expectin’. Understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” The Kid muttered. He reached for the wooden dipper, filled it, and dumped the water over his head before refilling it and drinking.

  Two of the convicts dragged Cushman under the wagon as they’d been ordered. His screams had turned into groans of abject misery.

  The other men were allowed to crowd around the wagon for their turn at the water barrels. The Kid handed over the dipper and moved out of the way.

  Schofield came up to him and said quietly, “You made yourself a bad enemy today, Waco.”

  The Kid shrugged. “Cushman’s the one who came after me. I reckon he already had his mind made up the two of us were enemies.”

  “Maybe so, but he’ll feel like he has to kill you now. The only way anybody in here will ever respect him again is if you’re dead.”

  “People have wanted me dead before.” The Kid shrugged.

  “I’m sure they have. But trouble can come at you from any direction in prison, without much warning. I’ll try to help you keep an eye out for it.”

  The Kid nodded. “I’m obliged to you for that, John.”

  With the excitement over, the convicts got back to work. The guards allowed Cushman to stay under the water wagon the rest of the day.

  When they were loading up to head back to the prison late that afternoon, Hagen ordered him placed in the back of the wagon with the barrels. “Take him to the infirmary. I’ll send a man along with you to keep an eye on him.”

  “Sure, boss,” Calvert agreed.

  The Kid didn’t think that boss meant anything. Some of the prisoners addressed all the guards that way.

  Bruises stood out on The Kid’s face, and he knew his body was black and blue from Cushman’s pounding fists. The fight had convinced him Cushman wasn’t working with the gang. Cushman had been trying too hard to kill him.

  But having the big man as an enemy was liable to complicate things. The Kid hoped it wouldn’t scare the gang off and decide they didn’t want to break him out of the penitentiary after all.

  During the hour the lights were still lit after supper, The Kid was surprised when footsteps came along the cell block, drawing curses and catcalls from the prisoners they passed. Several men stopped in front of the cell he shared with Schofield. He was even more surprised when he recognized one of them as Warden Preston Jennings.

  “Step up here, Mr. Keene,” Jennings ordered. He was flanked by four guards.

  “What is it?” The Kid asked as he stood up from his bunk and approached the bars. He kept his tone deliberately surly, the way Waco Keene would talk to the warden.

  “It’s been reported to me that you were involved in a fight in the cotton fields today,” Jennings said.

  “Cushman jumped me.”

  Lawrence, one of the guards with Jennings, snapped, “Keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re talking to the warden, Keene.”

  Jennings lifted a hand to signal it was all right, then went on. “I’ve spoken to all the guards who were there, and they agree Cushman provoked the fight and you were only defending yourself. For that reason, I’m going to recommend no additional charges be filed against you.”

  The Kid frowned. “Charges?” he repeated. “Charges for what?”

  “Murder,” Jennings said. “Hank Cushman died a short time ago.”

  That came as a shock to The Kid. He had landed a few decent punches, and had planted his knee in Cushman’s groin with quite a bit of power, but none of that should have proven fatal.

  “What the hell!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t do anything that would have killed him.”

  Lawrence stepped toward the bars. “I’m warning you, Keene.”

  Again Jennings gestured for Lawrence to move back. “Dr. Kendrick informed me that Cushman died from internal bleeding. If he hadn’t been left lying out there in the field for the rest of the day after he was injured, it might not have happened. So all the blame doesn’t lie on you, Keene, and as I said, it’s been established that you fought back in self-defense. However, the final decision isn’t up to me. I’ll recommend to the local prosecutor that you not be brought to trial, but that’s all I can do.”

  The Kid took a deep breath. “All right. Thanks, Warden. I really didn’t mean to kill him.”

  Jennings gave him a curt nod. “You’ll carry on with your usual activities until I receive a final determination in this matter.”

  With that, he turned and walked back up the cell block with Lawrence and the other guards accompanying him. The Kid shook his head slowly and went over to sit down again on his bunk.

  “I heard all that,” Schofield said from the other bunk. “Looks like you won’t have to be watching over your shoulder for Cushman after all.”

  “I guess not.” The wheels of The Kid’s brain turned over rapidly. He had speculated from the first that Dr. Simon Kendrick might be involved with the gang, and what had happened to Cushman made him even more suspicious. He supposed it was possible Cushman had died just the way Kendrick had said, but The Kid had his doubts. If he was being targeted by the gang, they wouldn’t want him killed by a vengeful Cushman before a breakout could be arranged.

  It would be much easier to get rid of Cushman ... while they had the chance. Kendrick could have killed him somehow, and since the doctor was the person responsible for determining the cause of death ...

  The theory fit together, The Kid thought as he stretched out on his bunk and rolled to face the wall. And if it was right, it was more proof—as if anybody needed it—just how ruthless the gang was.

  Tired and sore though he was, The Kid had a little trouble falling asleep that night.

  Chapter 16

  The Kid’s muscles were stiff the next morning. He bit back a groan as he climbed out of his bunk.

  But he was better off than Hank Cushman. At least he was still alive.

  The Kid was aware that more prisoners than usual were looking at him as he and Schofield filed into the mess hall with the rest of the men from their cell block. He tried to ignore the added scrutiny, but Schofield said quietly, “Looks like you’re famous today, Waco.”

  “I reckon,” The Kid agreed. Infamous was more like it, he thought.

  He was the man who killed Hank Cushman.

  Hunger got the better of curiosity as the men settled down to eat, but every now and then The Kid caught somebody staring at him. He heard whispers behind his back, too, and wondered if any of Cushman’s cronies were going to try to settle the score for their friend.

  Crawling into the wagon taking him to the cotton fields, The Kid noticed Cushman’s friends were no longer part of that job. He was grateful. He didn’t need the extra worry. The day passed in the usual manner.

  Within a week the Kid’s bruises faded and the aches went away. He had gotten used to picking cotton, although he knew it was something he would never enjoy, no matter how long he did it.

  He was also getting restless. He didn’t like being locked up. He had volunteered for the task and was ready for it to be over.... even though it would likely mean more danger.

  Ike Calvert hadn’t driven the water wagon since the day of the fight with Cushman, but he showed up again, bringing the vehicle with its pair of water barrels to a halt on the dirt lane running through the fields.

  Calvert climbed down from the seat and stood to the side, rolling a cigarette while the convicts gathered around the wagon to get their drinks.

  The Kid wasn’t really surprised when Calvert sauntered over to him.

  The trusty spoke in a voice so quiet it couldn’t be heard more than a few feet away. “The
re’s a rumor goin’ around that Cushman’s partners are gonna jump you durin’ chow tonight. They’ve got knives, and they plan to cut you to pieces for what you done to Hank.”

  “That was an accident,” The Kid said. “And Cushman started the fight, anyway.”

  “That don’t matter none to them. They’re gonna kill you, Keene ... unless you get out of here today.”

  Sensing this might be what he’d been waiting for, The Kid was careful not to let anticipation show and he let out a disdainful snort. “Yeah? How in the hell am I gonna do that?” He nodded toward the guards, who were watching the prisoners closely, as usual.

  “You might be surprised,” Calvert said. “There are people on the outside who are interested in you, Keene. All you got to do is play along, and you’ll be looked out for.”

  It was a little different from the approach they had taken with Quint Lupo, The Kid thought, no longer doubting such a gang really existed and Calvert was connected to it. Bert Hagen was one of the guards assigned to the cotton fields, too. The Kid had noticed. He figured that wasn’t an accident.

  Still sounding dubious, he said, “What in blazes are you talkin’ about, Calvert?”

  “There’s a gun in the bottom of the water barrel closest to the tailgate.”

  The Kid’s eyes widened slightly. He didn’t have to do much acting to look surprised by what Calvert told him. “Are you tryin’ to get me killed?”

  “I’m tryin’ to save your life, you damn fool!” Calvert dropped the stub of his quirly and ground it out savagely under his foot.

  “Listen to me,” he went on in an urgent half whisper. “Somethin’s gonna happen in a few minutes. When it does, jump in the wagon, grab that gun, and shoot one of the guards off his horse. Then you’ll be able to jump in the saddle and light a shuck out of here before anybody knows what’s goin’ on.”

  “That’ll be a neat trick with my ankles shackled together,” The Kid looked down at his feet and his lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace.

  “Here.” Without appearing to do anything, Calvert’s hand moved slightly at his side.

  The Kid felt something metal pressed into his palm. “Is that a key to the irons?”

  “Yeah. Don’t ask me how I got it.”

  For the first time, The Kid allowed himself to sound interested. “I wasn’t planning to. Is this for real?”

  “Damn right it is. I got contacts on the outside, men who can use an hombre like you. They’ll be around when you make your break. Join up with them and they’ll see to it you get out of here, free and clear.”

  “Yeah, free and clear with every lawman in the state on my trail.”

  “If you’d rather sit in a cell with that loco sky pilot for the next twenty years, wonderin’ when he’s gonna snap and murder you in your sleep, that’s up to you, kid.”

  For a second The Kid stiffened, thinking Calvert had somehow figured out who he really was.

  Then he realized Calvert had called him “kid” because he was so much younger than the trusty. That was all.

  “The gun’s fully loaded?”

  “Six in the wheel,” Calvert confirmed.

  “Sounds good. What’s this distraction you were talkin’ about?”

  “You’ll know it when it happens. Just be ready to move. The ball won’t take long to get started as soon as I give the high sign. Are you in?”

  The Kid hesitated, but only long enough to make the reaction look real. Then he nodded. “I’m in.”

  “Good. There’s just a couple more things ... When you jump up in the wagon, give me a clout on the head. Don’t bust my skull open or nothin’ like that, but make it look real. I don’t want any of the guards thinkin’ I had any part in this.”

  “What’s the other thing?” The Kid asked.

  “Don’t shoot Hagen.”

  The Kid gave Calvert a shrewd look. “It’s like that, is it?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just do what I told you.”

  “Sure, sure,” The Kid said. “Now I’ve got just one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This better not be some kind of double cross. If you’re setting me up, Calvert, I’ll make sure you’re dead before I go down.”

  Calvert chuckled. “Don’t worry about that. You’ll see, Keene. Just be ready.”

  The Kid nodded and moved away from Calvert, but didn’t stray far from the water wagon.

  He watched Calvert climb back onto the wagon seat and lift his right arm to scratch vigorously underneath it. That was probably the signal. Somebody had to be watching them through field glasses or a telescope.

  A few more minutes went by, and The Kid started thinking the guards would order the prisoners back to work. If the gang was going to make a move, it needed to be soon.

  So why hasn’t anything happened yet?

  Even as that thought went through his mind, an explosion suddenly roared in the distance, strong enough to shake the ground.

  The Kid’s head snapped around. A column of smoke and dust rose into the air about two hundred yards away. He knew a fence of some sort surrounded the fields, although he hadn’t been close enough to get a good look at it. From the sound of the blast, somebody had just made themselves a gate where there wasn’t one.

  “Everybody down!” one of the guards bellowed as he swung his rifle toward the startled prisoners. “Get down on the ground, damn it!”

  Most of the convicts dropped to the dirt between the rows of cotton plants, wanting to be well out of the line of fire if any shooting started. A few began trying to shuffle away, futile though it might be.

  The Kid threw himself to the ground, but didn’t just lie there. He reached down to his ankles, thrust the key Calvert had given him into the lock on one of the leg irons, and twisted it.

  If the key didn’t work, he might not live through it, he thought.

  But the key turned and the shackle sprang open. Moving swiftly, The Kid unlocked the other one and kicked free. He rolled over, and surged to his feet.

  A guard yelled, “Hey! Keene, stop!”

  The Kid ignored the warning. A quick leap carried him to the back of the water wagon.

  He plunged his right hand into the barrel, reaching for the bottom. His fingers touched the hard round metal of a revolver’s cylinder. Sliding his hand along it, he found the gun butt and grabbed it.

  A rifle cracked. The bullet punched through the water barrel, missing The Kid’s arm by a few inches as he pulled out the gun. Water began to spout out through the pair of holes the bullet left behind.

  The Kid straightened and twisted. He didn’t want to kill the guard racing toward him on horseback, who was just doing his job. He aimed for the man’s arm, thinking it was better to risk crippling him than killing him.

  He didn’t have to do either. As the guard galloped past John Schofield, the former minister leaped up and grabbed him, jerking him out of the saddle. The guard let out a startled yell and tumbled to the ground.

  Hoofbeats pounded. From the corner of his eye The Kid saw half a dozen riders galloping across the field from the site of the explosion. The gang was coming to break him out, he realized. Flame lanced from the guns in their hands as they traded shots with the guards.

  Innocent men were going to die, The Kid thought bitterly. But their blood would be on the hands of Hughes and Culhane. The Rangers were the ones who had come up with the plan. They probably hadn’t expected the gang to strike so brazenly.

  The Kid lunged toward the front of the wagon. Calvert was cowering on the seat. As the trusty had told him to do, The Kid swung a punch with his left fist, smashing it against the side of Calvert’s head hard enough to make the man slump to the floorboard.

  Schofield stumbled up to the back of the wagon and called, “Take me with you, Waco! Take me with you!” His willingness to stay in prison the rest of his life had evaporated as soon as he saw a chance to get away. He clambered onto the tailgate and struggled to his feet, thinking The Kid
was going to steal the wagon.

  Just as Schofield rose, one of the guards lined his rifle sights on The Kid and pulled the trigger. The slug caught Schofield in the back instead, ripping all the way through him to whine past The Kid’s head.

  Schofield’s eyes widened in shock and pain. He slumped forward but caught himself on one of the water barrels. “Waco ...” he gasped. Blood bubbled from the exit wound in his chest.

  “Sorry, John.” There was nothing The Kid could do.

  The light went out of Schofield’s eyes and he pitched lifelessly to the side.

  The Kid threw himself from the wagon and landed in the saddle of the horse belonging to the guard Schofield had pulled from the saddle.

  Most of the convicts were on their feet again, running and hopping around as best they could with the leg irons on. The guards had been forced to retreat from the gang’s attack, though they outnumbered the outlaws, and the prisoners saw it as a possible chance to get away.

  The gang probably counted on that confusion to help delay any pursuit, The Kid thought. He jerked his mount around and thundered toward the charging gunmen. He saw that they were all masked.

  Just like the bank robbers who had been with Quint Lupo, he thought. There was a good chance at least some of them were the same men, maybe all of them.

  One of the guards spurred out, evidently attempting to cut him off.

  The Kid was surprised to recognize the guard as Bert Hagen.

  He had suspected all along that Hagen was part of the gang, and what Calvert had told him about not shooting Hagen pretty much confirmed that.

  Then The Kid realized the outlaws were aiming high, making it look good so none of the other guards would suspect Hagen was in on the escape attempt.

  The Kid played his part in that, throwing a couple slugs in Hagen’s general direction but aiming well wide of him.

  Hagen could always be arrested later, The Kid told himself, after the gang had been broken up.

  Several prisoners lurched toward him, waving their arms and begging him to help them escape just like Schofield had done. The Kid weaved among them, jerking the horse from side to side to avoid trampling them.