McCoy understood that he didn’t give a damn what this fat little toad said about anything. But he just jerked his head in a curt nod. He was ready to get on with it, and didn’t need a lot of jabber from some stinking warden.
Townsend looked up at the man driving the wagon and nodded. The man slapped the mules with the reins and got them moving again. “Remember what I told you, McCoy!” Townsend called after the vehicle as it circled the administration buildings and headed for the prison’s main gate.
When it drew to a stop in front of the gate, one of the guards on horseback dismounted and used a big key to unlock the heavy padlock on the door at the rear of the wagon. Leaving the door closed, he backed away and lev eled his rifle at McCoy. All the other guards took the same precaution. Half a dozen guns were pointed at him.
“Come on out, McCoy,” the guard who had unlocked the door ordered.
McCoy pushed himself up from the filthy planks that formed the wagon bed and hobbled to the door, bent over because of the low roof. He pushed the door open and climbed down to the ground. His movements were awk ward and unsteady, and as he straightened from his crouch, muscles that were stiff from being cramped up for days screamed in protest. He didn’t allow that to show on bis face, but kept his expression as stony as ever instead.
The big wooden door had a square, barred grate in it. Another guard peered through that opening, and then McCoy heard the sound of numerous bolts and bars being withdrawn. The door swung open. Four more guards waited just inside it, each carrying a pistol. McCoy saw that the entrance was an old-fashioned sally port like something from a fairy-tale book with castles in it. The wall here was a good twelve feet thick, with a passage cut through it from the gate into the prison compound. At the far end of the passage was a second door, this one made of thick iron bars. It was closed and locked at the moment. The inner door wouldn’t be unlocked and opened until the outer one was secure again. It was a good setup, a double layer of security.
A rifle barrel prodded McCoy in the back. “Get in there,” one of the guards who had accompanied the prison wagon growled.
Still stiff from his confinement, McCoy shuffled into the sally port. “So long, you bank-robbing bastard;’ one of the other guards called after him. McCoy didn’t look around to see which one it was.
The outer door shut with a crash. When all the bolts had been thrown again, one of the blue-uniformed guards took a key ring from his belt and unlocked the inner, barred door. McCoy had already looked through the bars and seen the long, low stone cell block inside the compound. The walls around the outside were high and steep, and their thick coating of whitewash would make them too slick to climb. There were guard towers at each corner of the compound, too, and McCoy had no doubt sharpshooters were posted in each of those towers. If a convict ever made it over the wall somehow, at least a couple of riflemen would have a clear shot at him wher ever he ran. There was no cover within two hundred yards all around the prison. If there ever had been any, it had been cleared away.
The guards took him to the cell block. The place actu ally had several wings, McCoy discovered as he was led inside. It was laid out something like a maze, probably to confuse the mmates and make them less likely to at tempt a breakout. Each cell had a thick wooden door with a tiny barred window in it.
The fact that the guards still had their guns told McCoy that the whole prison had been locked down for his arrival. The guards wouldn’t have carried firearms in if the prisoners had been loose inside the compound, as they were sometimes. At those times, the guards would rely on the thick bludgeons they carried in loops on their belts to maintain their authority, as well as on the threat of the sharpshooters in the towers.
One of the guards unlocked a cell. As the door swung open, McCoy saw that the chamber inside was no bigger than eight feet by ten feet, and maybe not quite that big. A bunk with a thin mattress and one threadbare blanket was bolted to the wall. The ubiquitous bucket was there for bis wastes. That was all.
“Inside.”
McCoy held up his shackled wrists. “How about taking these off, and those damned leg irons, too?”
“Warden didn’t say nothin’ about takin’ your chains off,” the guard said. “When he’s ready for’ em to be off, he’ll let us know.”
“You can’t expect me to wear them from now on” McCoy objected. “They’re already rubbing sores on my wrists and ankles.”
“Well, now, ain’t that too bad?” The guards all laughed “Not as bad as bein’ shot down by some damn snake-blooded, bank-robbin’ killer like you, though.”
“Go to hell,” McCoy muttered as he shuffled into the cell.
“Why? So’s I can visit you? Because that’s where you are now, McCoy, whether you know it or not.” The door slammed shut, and the lock fastened with an awful, metallic finality. “You’re in hell.”
The bastard wasn’t telling McCoy anything he didn’t already know. And for the first time he felt a thread of panic worming its way around inside him. What if he couldn’t escape? What if he was doomed to spend the rest of his life here, however long that might be? One thing was for sure-he couldn’t stand to be locked up for the full twenty-five years of his sentence. He would go stark raving mad long before that time was up.
McCoy took a deep breath and steeled himself. He sat down on the bunk and swung his legs onto it. The leg irons clanked as he straightened out and lay there staring at the stone ceiling. Not much light came in through the lone window in the door.
Would he ever see the light of day and feel the sun on his face again?
Once again he forced himself to take a deep breath. Think, Cicero, he ordered himself. There has to be a way out. Think.
And slowly, even though he had no idea yet how he would get out of here, his confidence began to return. He would escape because he had to. He had eighty thousand dollars waiting for him.
It was as simple as that.
Time dragged inside the walls of Yuma Territorial Prison. McCoy wasn’t sure how many days had passed. Three, he thought, based on how many times the slot in the door had been opened and a tray with food and water had been thrust into the cell. The food was simple and there wasn’t enough of it, but at least the bread wasn’t moldy and he didn’t see any worms in the meat. Could have been worse, he supposed. He still wore the shackles and the leg irons. Looked like they were going to be lifelong com panions.
Then one day, footsteps came down the long aisle in the cell block when it didn’t seem like it was time for a meal yet. They stopped outside his cell, and a key rattled m the lock. McCoy sat up and swung his legs off the bunk. He wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but a sudden chill went through him as he realized that the odds were it wouldn’t be good.
That big, sandy-haired bounty hunter, Abner Hoyt, stood there when the door opened. A couple of his men were with him—the Mexican and the one called Mantee wh? looked more like a greaser than Escobar did. Hoyt smiled at McCoy, and it was one of the ugliest things McCoy had ever seen.
“Thought we’d come and pay you a visit, Cicero,” Hoyt said.
“Where are the guards?”
Hoyt shook his head. “Not here. It’s just the four of us.”
“The warden-“
“Was only too happy to cooperate,” Hoyt interrupted. “You saw him, Cicero. How do you think he reacted when we told him we wanted to talk to you alone?”
McCoy fought hard to keep his face and voice under control. “I think the slimy little bastard took the bribe you offered him and told you to do whatever you wanted.”
Hoyt took a step into the cell, followed by his part ners. “That’s exactly right.” The Mexican shut the door behind them. Hoyt went on. “He said it was all right if you screamed some, too.” He chuckled. “They’re used to it here.”
Chapter 8
Conrad said, “So he still didn’t talk.” His voice had flat, bitter finality to it. …. “
“We pushed it far as we could without killing him, Hoy
t said. He sounded as gloomy as Conrad did. “Esco bar’s a Mexican. He knows something about making a man talk. And Deke Mantee’s worse than Joaquin is. He’s got ice water in his veins.” Hoyt shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say that McCoy doesn’t even know where that money is.”
“But he does know. He has to. He went into Ambush Valley with it but didn’t have it when you captured him in Hinkley.”
Hoyt nodded. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Mr. Browning. McCoy knows damn good and well where the loot’s hidden. Probably buried some where. I could see it in his eyes. Just a hint of a smirk. He thinks he’s beaten us.” Hoyt’s voice hardened with anger. “Beaten me.”
“It appears that he has.” Conrad’s tone was cool. He wasn’t over his disappointment, but he was trying to move past it, trying to think of what to do next. The one thing he knew for certain was that he wasn’t going to give up. The people who had deposited that money in his bad put their faith in him. He wasn’t going to let them down.
Hoyt sighed. “I can go back to Yuma and try again. Maybe it’s just a matter of time before McCoy breaks.”
Conrad shook his head and said, “I don’t think so. I saw the man myself, during his trial and as he was being taken away. I think that no matter how long you torture him, he won’t talk. He’ll die before he gives us what we want.”
“Then that’s the end of it. He’s the only one who came out of Ambush Valley. The rest of the gang has to be dead somewhere in there. That means McCoy is the only man alive who knows where the loot is.”
“Therefore we have to keep him alive if we want to have any hope of recovering the money.” Conrad sud denly leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Maybe there is a way.”
“You thought of something?”
“Perhaps. But it may take some time to arrange.”
A short, humorless bark of laughter came from Hoyt. “McCoy’s in Yuma Prison. He’s not going anywhere. Time is the one thing we’ve got plenty of.”
Conrad hadn’t liked the idea of bribery and torture to begin with. He had learned over the years to be prag-matic when it came to business … but he couldn’t help but wonder what his mother would have thought of the tactics he had tried—unsuccessfully—to use here. Vivian Browning had been hardheaded and determined when she needed to be, but Conrad had to believe that she would have drawn the line at torture. He wished now that he bad, too. Even though Abner Hoyt hadn’t gone into detail about what had been done to Cicero McCoy, Conrad would have a hard time forgetting the grisly sce-narios his own imagination came up with. And in all likelihood, he knew, what had really happened was probably worse than anything his civilized Eastern mind could imagine.
So more torture was out of the question.
Deception and subterfuge, on the other hand …
Hoyt left the office in the bank after Conrad promised to remain in touch. The bounty hunter hadn’t given up on the hope of earning the rest of that reward, and that was good because if Conrad was able to put the plan that had begun to form in his mind into motion, he would cer tainly need the assistance of Abner Hoyt and the rest of those bounty hunters.
First, though, he had to secure the assistance of someone else. Someone without whom the plan had no chance whatsoever of succeeding.
He left the office and returned to the hotel. Rebel was waiting in their room, and he saw the impatience on her face as soon as he came in. Growing up in the West, she had always lived an active life. Sitting around and doing nothing, staying in one place for too long, even as nice a place as this hotel, those things didn’t agree with her.
“How much longer are we going to stay here, Conrad?” she asked.
He smiled. “You’ll be glad to hear, darling, that we’ll be leaving as soon as I can arrange things for us to travel.”
“Thank God. Nothing against Tucson, but it’s hot and dusty here. Are we going back to Boston?”
“Not just yet. There’s somewhere else I have to go first. I think you’ll like it there, though. It should be much cooler, and the scenery will be more picturesque.”
She stood up and came over to him, a slight frown of suspicion on her pretty face. “Does this have something to do with the money that was stolen from the bank?”
“Well…” Conrad couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. He had never been very good at that.
“Well, we can’t be going to Yuma, since you said it was going to be cooler than here.”
“We’re going to Nevada,” Conrad said.
Rebel’s eyes widened. “Nevada?” she repeated. “That means….”
Conrad nodded. “That’s right.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going to see my father.”
Things had been pretty quiet in Buckskin in the weeks since the attempted robbery of the Lucky Lizard payroll. Frank Morgan’s duties as marshal had been confined to breaking up the occasional saloon fight between miners from the Lucky Lizard, the Alhambra, and the Crown which was the operation owned by the Browning Mining Syndicate. Each of the big mines employed sev eral dozen men. Like cowboys who rode for the brand, miners tended to be loyal to their employers, too, and that loyalty led inevitably to rivalry, and rivalry com bined with whiskey led to punches being thrown and chairs being busted over rock-hard skulls. But as long as nobody got hurt too bad and the combatants paid for the damage they caused, Frank didn’t come down too hard on the brawlers. A night in jail and a small fine were punishment enough, especially when those things were usually accompanied by a hell of a hangover.
The only serious trouble had been a couple of instances intense young men rode into town determined to make a reputation for themselves by gunning down the infamous gunfighter known as The Drifter. It didn’t matter to them that Frank was trying to settle down and put all that behind him. They were determined to force a showdown, to make this old man who was past his prime hook and draw.
One of them, in trying to goad Frank into a fight, had gotten close enough for a swift blow from the marshal’s iron-hard fist to knock him out. He had come to, dis armed and with an aching head, in one of the cells in Buckskin’s small jail. Frank had given him a good talk ing to, and as a result the young man had decided that he didn’t want to risk his life slapping leather against The Drifter.
The other youngster had been more experienced. He’d been in gunfights before. He had kept his distance, and nothing Frank said to him had done any good. In the end, he had lost his patience and yanked his iron first, leav ing Frank no choice.
That young man now rested in Buckskin’s boot hill, dead from the single shot Frank had fired. The bullet had gone right through the tag hanging down from the to bacco sack in the young man’s shirt pocket. Frank hoped the hombre was at peace now … but that was sort of out of his hands.
So the way things had been going, Frank didn’t really expect any trouble as he leaned against one of the porch posts in front of Leo Benjamin’s general store and watched the stagecoach roll past. The coach was coming in on its regular run from Virginia City. Most of the time, the only passengers were traveling salesmen. Oc casionally, someone looking for work in the mines ar rived that way.
Catamount Jack was sitting on one of the porch steps, whittling on a block of wood. As the stage went past, he let out a low whistle. “Did you see that, Marshal?” he asked.
“See what?” Frank responded. “The stagecoach?”
“The gal inside the stagecoach. I just caught a glimpse of her, but she looked like one o’ the prettiest fillies I’ve seen in a long time.”
Frank hadn’t noticed a girl inside the red-and-yellow Concord coach, but the dust from the hooves of the team had blocked his vision to a certain extent. It didn’t sur prise him that Catamount Jack had noticed her; the old timer had an eye for a pretty girl, you had to give him credit for that.
A cool, pleasant wind blew the dust away as the stage coach stopped at the depot down the street. Frank straightened from his casual stance and looked in that
di rection. The shotgun guard hopped down from the driver’s box and came around to open the coach door. A slender hombre in a brown tweed suit and a bowler hat climbed out. Something about him struck Frank as fa miliar, but he just figured the fella for a drummer who had come to Buckskin before.
But then the stranger turned back to the coach and helped a woman out, and as Frank saw her shapely, graceful form and shining blond hair, he knew her and knew why the man with her had seemed familiar, too.
“There she is,” Catamount Jack said. “Weren’t I right, Marshal? She’s a real looker, ain’t she?”
“That she is,” Frank agreed. “She’s also my daughter in-law.”
Jack’s head jerked around in surprise. He looked up at Frank and repeated, “Your daughter-in-law? You mean that dude with her is your boy?”
“Yep,” Frank said. “That’s Conrad.”
He walked toward the stagecoach station, taking his time since Conrad and Rebel hadn’t seemed to notice him yet. He wanted to get a good look at his son and the girl Conrad had married.
Frank had known when they met Rebel over in New Mexico Territory, during all that trouble about the rail road spur line Conrad was building, that she was the gen uine article. Smart, tough, able to ride and shoot and fight … To be honest, Frank had thought that maybe Rebel Callahan was really too much woman for his son.
But the experiences of the past few years had forced Conrad to grow up some, so Frank wasn’t too surprised when he heard that they had gotten married. He was a mite surprised that he hadn’t been invited to the wed ding, but he wasn’t the sort to dwell on such things. Be sides, the youngsters had gotten hitched in Boston, and Frank didn’t care much for it or any other big town in the East. His one and only trip to Boston had been on a mis sion of vengeance, the same quest that had in the end brought him to Buckskin.
Now as he looked at Conrad and Rebel, he saw that both of them appeared to be healthy. Rebel was as beau tiful as ever. Conrad didn’t look particularly happy, though. He had a worried expression on his face as he turned toward Frank. When he spotted his father, a smile replaced the frown. That made Frank feel pretty good. There had been a time, not all that long ago, really, when Conrad Browning hated him.
Ambush Valley Page 8
