After chewing on that for a few seconds, the larger guard nodded once. “Who you lookin’ to see?”
“Rand Liddell.”
“You friends or family?”
“Family,” Clint replied. “He’s my second cousin.”
“Why you need to see him so bad?”
“His aunt passed away. I’d rather tell him in person, so he doesn’t get the news from a letter or one of you.” Glancing to both lawmen, Clint added, “No offense meant.”
The second lawman spat out a juicy wad and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “None taken.”
“What’s your name?” the first lawman asked.
“John,” Clint said with a straight face. “He’ll know his cousin John.”
“Come back tomorrow and we’ll see what we can do. Till then, you boys are gonna have to leave.”
“Hopefully we can find our way out before we’re eaten by a gator.”
“I’ll point you in the right direction,” the second lawman said. “Come on along.”
Once that lawman got moving, the first one held his ground and put his hand on the shotgun bolstered on his saddle. There was no mistaking from the look on his face that he would draw that shotgun if he got the slightest provocation.
Clint didn’t intend on provoking anyone. At the moment, he was genuinely concerned with making it back to someplace where the ground didn’t threaten to swallow him up. The next mile of road sloshed by like a ten-mile stretch, but the guard stayed with him the entire time.
At the end of that mile, the guard pointed to the north and said, “Town of Boudreaux is just that way a few more miles. Stay at the Charlotte House. It’s cleaner than the other hotel. You and your friend can come ...” As he spoke, the guard shifted in his saddle to get a look at Ed. When he didn’t spot Ed, he shifted and turned as if he was about to flop off his horse. “Where the hell your friend at?”
“Aw shit,” Clint snapped. “I hope we didn’t lose him in that swamp.”
“Swamp ain’t that big,” the guard said as he drew his gun and pointed it at Clint. “You stay put while I go an’ find him. I see you, an’ I’ll shoot you.”
Clint raised his hands and didn’t move a muscle as the guard started to retrace his steps.
Before the guard could get out of Clint’s sight, he stopped and raised his arm so he could sight along the top of his gun barrel. “Let’s see them hands!”
Ed rode forward slowly. He had both hands in the air, which forced him to wobble as he tried to keep his balance and stay in his saddle. Whenever his weight shifted toward his wounded hip, Ed winced and cursed under his breath.
“Where the hell’d you go?” the guard shouted.
“I got turned around in that shit back there.”
“It’s a straight trail.”
“I know. I had to stop to take a piss. You satisfied now?”
The guard studied Ed and moved his horse so he could keep him and Clint in his sight at the same time. After a few seconds, the guard waved Ed along while keeping his gun steadily in place. “Go on with your friend, then.”
Wincing even more as his horse moved, Ed buckled and grabbed for the wound, which had now bled through the bandages and clothes he wore. “Can I lower my hands?”
“Yeah. Just get moving.”
Ed did as he was told and rode to Clint’s side.
“Thanks,” Clint said. “Sorry about him.”
The guard kept his gun drawn and watched as Clint and Ed rode away.
After he’d put a good amount of space between himself and the guard, Clint asked, “Did you see what you needed to see?”
“And then some. When did that prick notice I was gone?”
“About a minute before you showed up.”
Ed chuckled and shook his head. “This is gonna be even easier than I thought.”
NINETEEN
Clint returned to Callahan the next day. He came alone, and the guards who met him didn’t seem to mind that one bit. They were the same pair that had been there the day before.
“Where’s your friend?” the smaller of the two asked.
Clint hooked a thumb over his shoulder and replied, “Back in town. He started up a poker game, so I’ll probably have a hard time getting him to leave.”
For a moment, neither guard said anything. Instead, they eyed Clint suspiciously before glancing to each other. The bigger guard was the first one to break the silence.
“You ain’t taking that gun one step closer to this place,” he said.
“I wasn’t even going to wear it this far,” Clint told him, “but there are more snakes around here than I’ve ever seen in one place.”
“An’ plenty more you don’t see. Go take that gun from him, Luke.”
The smaller guard nodded and rode toward Clint. Just like the last time he’d seen him, Luke had his gun drawn and aimed at Clint’s chest. “Don’t do nothin’ stupid, now.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Luke took the modified Colt from Clint’s holster and then told him to get off his horse. After Clint complied, Luke dropped down after him and patted him down to make sure Clint wasn’t carrying any more weapons. “That’s a fine horse,” Luke said. “Where’s the rifle that goes in that holder?”
Glancing toward the leather straps that normally tied his rifle to his saddle, Clint said, “I left the rifle behind. Like I said, I only brought the pistol for snakes and such.”
Grudgingly, Luke nodded. “Go on. He’ll show you the rest of the way.”
“What about my horse?”
“I’ll keep it safe. Most of the crocs don’t come this close anyways.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Clint was handed off to the bigger guard, who held his shotgun cradled in one arm like a baby. There were plenty more guns on him, but they were strapped and buckled down tight enough to prevent them from being taken from the guard without one hell of a fight. Judging by the scars on the guard’s face, arms and neck, he’d had plenty of anxious prisoners try their luck and lose.
Callahan State Prison really wasn’t much of a place. Until he was led right up to its front gate, Clint couldn’t see that for himself. Now that he was being led into the place, Clint realized the prison wasn’t much more than a solid building made out of bricks and iron bars wedged into the outskirts of a putrid swamp.
The front gates were tall, but crooked since the posts had been sunk into moist ground. They were situated beneath a stone archway that was covered in moss. That crookedness worked in favor of the twelve-foot-high iron fence, however, since each section tilted into the earth at a different angle. It would have taken an act of God to budge those bars and it took nearly that much for the entryway to be opened.
The building inside the fence was almost as filthy as the slimy rocks nearby. The only doors Clint could see were slabs of iron, and the only windows were squares about a foot wide sealed off by more iron bars. Inside, the place was so quiet that insects from outside echoed down the halls. The air was thick, stagnant, and reeked even worse than the swamp itself.
“Yer visitor’s here, Liddell,” the guard announced.
It took a moment for Clint to realize he was in the presence of other prisoners. The hall was fairly wide, but appeared to be sealed off. That was just because the cells were closed off by thick wooden doors that almost perfectly matched the grain on the walls. Small openings marked each door, but were barely large enough for an adult’s hand to slip through.
Liddell’s door was open, revealing a set of bars directly behind it. Clint stood in front of the cell so he could see the cot, pot and Bible that were the cell’s only contents apart from Liddell himself.
“You got a few minutes,” the guard said. “I’ll let you know when they’re done.” With that, the guard backed away until he was far enough from Clint to turn his back to him. Even then, he had the shotgun trained on Clint in a matter of seconds.
Rand Liddell was a skinny f
ellow with sunken features and a hook nose that bent to the right. His cheekbones jutted from his face, making his skin look more like a mask that had been casually tossed over his skull. Liddell’s eyes were a cold gray. He moved with his head bowed as he slowly approached the door and leaned with both hands against either side of the frame.
“You ain’t my cousin,” Liddell said in a low, rasping voice.
Clint nodded, but kept a friendly smile on his face. “I know. Just give me a chance to talk.”
“Talk all you want. Cousin or not, a visitor’s a visitor. Just tell me one thing. How’d you know I had a cousin named John?”
“Most folks do.”
Laughing as if he was a little disappointed by Clint’s simple answer, Liddell nodded and said, “I suppose you’re right.”
“Most folks aren’t friends with a man like Chuck Brewer, though.”
Liddell’s head snapped up, and he looked at Clint with vicious eyes. “Don’t say that name again, or you’ll be locked up in one of these damn rooms right along with me.”
After pressing his face to the bars so he could get a look down the hall, Liddell waited until he was sure the guard wasn’t coming before hissing, “How the hell do you know ... him?”
Clint had been thinking for days about how to answer that question. There were two big choices, and either one of them could lead to a whole lot of trouble. The fact that Liddell had been imprisoned for three years after riding with Brewer for just over three months was the biggest factor that swayed Clint in his decision.
“I want to kill the son of a bitch,” Clint said. Although his voice and face hadn’t changed as far as the guard could tell, Clint put a coldness into his eyes that could have caused an angry bear to back down.
Liddell stared at Clint for a few seconds before asking, “Why?”
“He killed some friends of mine and tried to kill a few more. Mostly, I’m sick of him walking around and breathing my air.”
When Liddell smiled, it was like watching a mask crumble to reveal an even uglier mask underneath. “Try being stuck in this shit hole for a few years and left for dead by a man who swore to be your partner. Then you’d really want to kill the prick.”
“So you’ll help me?”
Tapping the bars with the palm of his hand, he said, “Don’t really see how I can from in here.”
“I may be able to do something about that.”
Liddell’s eyes widened and he practically jumped through the bars. “You’re gonna ... I mean ... you will?”
Despite Liddell’s attempt to check himself, his reply had caught the guard’s attention.
“I’ll need a show of good faith,” Clint said quickly as the guard made his way down the hall. “Someplace to start.”
“Go see Patricia. She’s in town. She’s got long black hair and a body you’d kill for. Talk to her about ... Just talk to her and come see me again tomorrow.”
Turning to the guard, Clint said, “I forgot to bring his aunt’s letters. Would I be able to come back tomorrow?”
“Make it three days from now. Nobody gets two visits in a week, but I’ll bend the rules seein’ as there’s a death an’ all.”
Clint was escorted out of the prison and practically booted into the swamp. Compared to the inside of Callahan, the dank, musty air smelled pretty good.
TWENTY
Boudreaux looked less like a town and more like a large family that had staked out some land and decided to build their houses close together. The streets were wide strips of mud that were made almost dangerous by all the deep ruts that had been driven into them. Shacks were scattered here and there, most of which were fronted by collapsing porches which came together to form a strange boardwalk.
Clint and Ed sat in rockers in front of the Charlotte House, watching the street and sipping from cups of lemonade. They’d been there for less than a day, but the folks around town had already taken to smiling and nodding to them as if they were already considered neighbors.
Lifting his cup to an old man who walked by, Ed muttered, “This piss water is making my throat itch.”
“Shut your mouth,” Clint scolded. “This is the best lemonade I’ve had in a while.”
“Then why do I have ta fight to keep it down?”
“Probably because it’s the only thing you’ve drank in the last week that wasn’t liquor.”
Ed paused and then shrugged. “You’re probably right about that. Did you get a look at the inside of that prison?”
“Sure did.”
“And?”
“It’s a fortress.”
Ed laughed, but stopped once he saw that Clint wasn’t laughing along with him. “You’re not joking.”
“Of course not. It is a prison, you know. In fact, it’s one of the hardest prisons I’ve ever seen. The walls and doors look like they wouldn’t crack if they were hit by artillery fire. What told me more was that the prisoners were quiet as church mice, and that means they’re either scared or have already found out for themselves it’s impossible for them to get out alive.”
“Or both,” Ed muttered.
Clint lifted his cup to agree with Ed’s statement, sipped the sweet liquid and asked, “What did you find?”
“I didn’t have a lot of time after I split away from you and that asshole the other day, but I did manage to figure out a few things. First of all, that swamp is a goddamn hellhole. Second, I should be able to find a way through it.”
“If anyone could guide me through hell, it’s you,” Clint said.
“Yeah, well, don’t get too happy until you hear the rest of what I got to say. I wasn’t able to get close to that prison the first time I went. I just managed to get close enough to see it the second time.”
“Having trouble in the swamp?”
“I been through swamps,” Ed replied. “I been through even worse country than that. The swamps ain’t the problem. The problem is that there’s more’n two guards posted around that prison.”
“I kind of thought there might be.”
“There’s men walking through them swamps that don’t work off of no pattern I could figure out. It could be that they change their pattern every so often amongst themselves. Whatever it is, the system works.”
“But you did manage to get closer each time?” Clint asked.
“Yeah, I managed.”
“Will you be able to figure out a way to get close and then out again?”
Ed shook his head and sipped his lemonade. After wincing at the taste, he said, “There’s more than just guards too. I found a few booby traps tucked away real good. Some of ’em were freshly laid down, so the guards must rotate them too.”
“Either that, or they need to replace them when they’re tripped by an animal or something.”
Freezing with his head cocked to one side, Ed finally nodded. “That’s probably it.”
“You spotted them, so you must be able to get through those traps.”
“Yeah. I can get through them. I’m not about to risk any of that until I figure out a good route in and out. I know you got it in your head to chase down Brewer as soon as you can, but if I don’t get this figured, we’ll just be rushing into another deathtrap.”
“I know,” Clint said. “You’re right.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re right.”
Ed grinned and nodded. When he sipped his lemonade this time, he didn’t seem to mind it so much. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“How does a few days sound to work out your route?”
After a few shrugs, Ed replied, “Should be fine. Them guards like stomping around like a bunch of elephants, so I should be able to get around without drawing too much attention. That still leaves the problem of getting Liddell out of there. The best route in the world won’t do a lick of good if you can’t break that man outta that fortress.”
“It’s well built, but it’s a pretty small place,” Clint said. “If all else fails, could just put some of
that dynamite of yours to work.”
Ed nodded and smiled even more as he said, “I could knock down a section of that fence as well as a good piece of that wall with what I got.”
“I said some of the dynamite. Not all. Remember, we’re not out to kill anyone here or put a prison out of commission. We’re taking Liddell and that’s it.”
“It might not be as easy as all that, you know.”
“Possibly. Liddell did mention someone I should talk to here in town.”
“Who’s that?”
“He said her name’s Patricia.”
“Patricia?” Ed asked in disbelief.
Clint nodded. “According to him, she’s got dark hair and a body to kill for.”
The disgust was plainly written across Ed’s face. “Of course she does. You always seem to get the good jobs while I get to crawl around in a goddamn swamp.”
“That’s called earning your percentage, my friend.”
TWENTY-ONE
Boudreaux wasn’t a big town by any means. It did, however, have more than one Patricia living in it. Clint started spreading that name around by asking the woman who ran the Charlotte House. She had a niece by that name, whom she thought would be perfect for Clint. The next day, Clint asked for someone named Patricia at a restaurant and a saloon. Everyone he asked came back with a different woman.
Since Ed had ridden into the swamp a while ago, Clint decided to give himself a rest and have some lunch before sifting through Boudreaux some more. While sitting on a bench outside of a baker’s shop and eating a cheese sandwich, Clint spotted someone walking directly toward him.
She fit Liddell’s description so perfectly that Clint didn’t even need to ask her name.
The woman walked with her head held high and a confidence in her stride. Her dress was a simple pattern of red and pink stripes, but it hugged her body like it had been poured onto her. Then again, with a body like hers, any dress would have looked just as good. Large breasts tested the limits of the buttons on her blouse, and rounded hips swayed beneath the plain red skirt. Black boots could just be seen under the hem, setting Clint’s imagination on fire with thoughts of how high up along her legs the boots went.
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