“Reckon I’d have to figure out the details once I got in there.” Frank rasped a thumbnail along his jawline as he frowned in thought. “Who all would know about this?”
“Warden Townsend, of course. And I suppose we’d have to let the guards in on it—”
Conrad stopped as Frank shook his head. “If the guards know that I’m not a real convict, McCoy will tumble to it, too. They wouldn’t be able to fool him.
“But if the guards didn’t know about it, they’d treat you like any other prisoner,” Conrad said. “You might get hurt.”
Frank chuckled. “You want me to bust out of prison and go on the dodge with one of the worst bak robbers and killers north of the Rio Grande, and you’re worried about the guards. Let’s say the trick works and McCoy and I do bust out. What’s to stop him from double-crossing me just like he did the members of his gang? He might shoot me in the back the minute we’re clear of the prison.”
“Well … I was counting on you not letting him do anything like that. After all … you’re Frank Morgan.”
This time Frank had to put his head back and laugh out loud. When he was done, he said, “I’ll give you an other reason the guards can’t know what’s going on. If they did, they’d probably make it too easy for McCoy to escape. He’d get suspicious from that, too. The only way for this to work is if it’s damned hard for me and McCoy to get out of there, as hard as it would be for anybody else to escape from Yuma.”
“That’s going to be dangerous, too.”
Frank shrugged. “No way around it. But if everything goes like that … well, it’s still a harebrained scheme, but it just might work. What happens after we’re loose?”
“McCoy heads for Ambush Valley to recover the loot, you go with him, and Abner Hoyt and his men trail along behind to give you a hand if you need it. Once McCoy has the money, you take him prisoner and rendezvous with Hoyt.” Conrad looked intently at his father. “Does this mean you’ll do it, Frank?”
Another moment went by before Frank nodded. “Looks like I’m going to prison,” he said.
Of all the damn fool stunts he had pulled in his life, this just might be the craziest, Frank Morgan thought as he swayed back and forth in the back of the prison wagon while it made its long, slow way up the hill toward the fortresslike stone and adobe compound at the top. The miserable heat sure as hell made him miss the cool breezes of the mountains in Nevada.
It had taken several days to reach Yuma by stagecoach and train. During that time Frank hadn’t shaved, so now a heavy coating of dark beard stubble covered his cheeks and jaw. His hair was uncombed. He had what seemed to be a permanent scowl on his face, as if he were angry at the entire world.
In other words, he looked like most of the other convicts this wagon carried up the hill to Yuma Territorial Prison.
In fact, one of the two men in the back of the wagon could have almost been his brother, except that the man had coppery red hair. The third convict was bigger, with huge, brawny shoulders, long arms, and a bald, bullet shaped head. As he rocked back and forth, he glowered at Frank and the other prisoner.
When the guards from the prison arrived at the Yuma city jail to pick up Frank, the other two prisoners were already in the wagon. They had been picked up at other places for transport to the prison. Frank didn’t know their names or why they were being sent to Yuma. Conrad and Warden Townsend thought it would look more natural for Frank to arrive at the prison along with other con victs. They’d had to let the local marshal in on the plan, so they could use his jail, but the man had been sworn to secrecy and Frank didn’t figure that he would want to cross Townsend, whose position as warden made him an important man in these parts. Other than Townsend and the marshal, nobody around here knew who Frank really was or what he was doing here. That was the way Frank wanted it, even though he realized it might cause him to be in even more danger.
Up in Buckskin, Frank had let Catamount Jack in on the plan. He felt like he owed that much to the old-timer, since he was counting on Jack to hold down the fort while he was gone. Jack was perfectly capable of keeping the peace in Buckskin for a while, and he had also agreed to look after Stormy and Goldy, Frank’s horses, and the big wolflike cur called Dog. Frank wouldn’t have minded having Dog with him, since the shaggy varmint had fought side by side with him many times in the past, but he couldn’t very well take an animal to prison with him.
Tip Woodford and many of the other citizens hadn’t been happy about Frank taking a leave of absence from his duties as marshal, but when Frank explained that he had some im portant personal business to take care of, they had grudg ingly gone along with the idea. They knew it had something to do with Frank’s son, Conrad Browning, but they didn’t pry … although Frank had been able to tell that Diana Woodford was dying to do so.
Rebel knew what was going on, of course, and she wasn’t happy about it, either. In fact, she had tried to talk Frank and Conrad out of it, to no avail. “All right,” she had said as she hugged her father-in-law good-bye, “but if you go and get your damn fool head shot off, don’t expect me to cry about it.”
“I don’t,” Frank had told her with a smile. “I expect you’d go after the son of a buck who shot me and try to even the score.”
Conrad had looked horrified at that comment. “For God’s sake, Frank, don’t give her any ideas!”
They were both far behind him now. Conrad had re turned to Tucson to set up the rest of the plan with Abner Hoyt. Frank had never met the man, but he vaguely re called hearing Hoyt’s name before. He knew the bounty hunter by reputation, and it was a tough, ruthless one.
He came out of his reverie as he realized that some body was talking to him. Looking across the wagon in the stifling heat, he saw the big, bald-headed convict glaring at him. “Yeah, you, mister,” the man said. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You deaf?”
Frank shook his head. “Nope. My mind was just somewhere else, I reckon.”
The red-haired man laughed. “I wish my body was somewhere else. Damn near anywhere else except halfway up the hill to Yuma Prison.” He extended his shackled hands toward Frank. “Name’s Nash. Jim Nash.”
Frank shook hands with Nash as best he could, since his wrists were shackled, too. “Fred Morton.” The ini tials were the same, and the name wasn’t too far from his own.
The bald-headed man didn’t offer to introduce him self. Nash laughed and said, “Don’t mind Jessup over there. He’s just got a natural-born hate for everything that lives and breathes. Ain’t that right, Jessup?”
“Keep runnin’ your mouth and I’ll show you how much I hate you, Nash,” Jessup said.
“Yeah, he’s so full of hate he strangled his own wife and kids, then burned down their house around them. You wouldn’t think that a son of a bitch as ugly as him would even have a wife and kids, would you?”
An animal-like growl came from Jessup’s throat. “That does it, you carrot-topped bastard!” He launched himself from the other side of the wagon, his gorillalike arms outstretched as if he meant to grab Nash by the neck and choke the life out of him.
Somehow, though, he crashed into Frank instead The close quarters in the prison wagon weren’t big enough for a brawl. Jessup’s massive weight bore Frank to the floor of the wagon like a mountain falling on him, and suddenly the man’s sausage like fingers were around Frank’s neck in a killing frenzy.
Chapter 10
The violence was so sudden, so unexpected, so shocking, that Frank had had no time to prepare for it, either mentally or physically. From here on out, as long as he was in prison, he needed to remember that trouble could come at him any time, from any direction, with no warning whatsoever. Keeping that in mind might just save his life.
Assuming, of course, that he lived through this little ruckus.
With Jessup’s weight pinning him to the floor of the wagon, he wouldn’t have been able to breathe even if the monstrous bastard’s hands hadn’t been wrapped around his throat. A red haze was
already beginning to form in front of his eyes. Frank was vaguely aware of shouted curses and orders from the guards on horseback around the wagon. The vehicle lurched to a halt. The guards would pull Jessup off him.
But Frank figured he would be dead by the time they got the rear door unlocked and climbed in there. If any body was going to save his life, it would have to be him.
Just like always.
He brought a knee up, aiming it at Jessup’s groin, but the big man was expecting that. He twisted aside and took the blow on his thigh. His ugly face was made even more hideous by the vicious leer that was plastered on it as he looked down at Frank from a distance of only a few inches.
When Jessup twisted away from Frank’s knee, that had shifted his weight just enough so that Frank could get his right arm free—just as Frank had planned. There was enough play in the shackle chain so that his hand could shoot up and grab Jessup’s right ear. He hung on for dear life and twisted as hard as he could. He was willing to tear the ear right off Jessup’s head if it came to that.
Jessup howled in pain and jerked his head back, but Frank didn’t release his grip. Jessup’s movement just put more agonizing pressure on his ear. He had to let go of Frank’s neck in order to grab Frank’s wrist and try to pry his fingers free from the ear, which was now bleeding where it was torn partially loose.
Frank’s left hand was free now. Because of the shack les he brought the fist up in a necessarily short but still powerful blow that landed solidly on Jessup’s jaw. That jaw was built like an anvil, and that was about what it felt like when Frank hit it.
He punched again and again, though, as he continued to tear at Jessup’s left ear. Finally, he had to let go or Jessup would have broken his wrist. Frank couldn’t afford to have that happen, especially to his gun hand. Jessup snorted and bellowed and shook his head like a maddened bull. Droplets of blood from the injured ear sprayed through the air like crimson rain.
Frank knew he wasn’t doing much good punching Jessup in the jaw. All the bones in his hand would break before he did much damage to the big man. But those blows, along with the excruciating pain from his ear, dis tracted Jessup enough so that when Frank tried again to drive his knee into Jessup’s groin, this time it landed with brutal effectiveness. Jessup screamed and doubled over as best he could in the tight confines of the crowded prison wagon.
Frank had always been stronger than his compact build suggested. He grabbed Jessup by the shoulders and shoved him backward. He put all of his considerable strength behind the pile-driving move and rammed Jessup’s head against the iron bars that formed the walls of the enclosed wagon bed. Because of the shape of Jessup’s head, his skull went halfway through the bars before the ears stopped it. Jessup shrieked and convulsed as the left ear tore again. It was still attached to his head, but more than half of it had been ripped loose.
Frank heard the clanging of the door being thrown open, and the next second something crashed against his head. He was driven to the planks. Strong hands grabbed him and pulled him away from Jessup. He flew through the air and then slammed down on his back. The sun stabbed into his eyes. He was outside the wagon, lying on the rocky hillside. A particularly sharp-edged stone gouged painfully into his back. One of the guards stood over him, rifle lifted and poised to strike a blow. “Settle down or I’ll bust your skull wide open with the butt of this Winchester!” the man ordered.
Frank’s eyes flicked toward the wagon. The other guards ringed it, all of them with their rifles leveled at Nash and Jessup in case either of the convicts made an attempt to escape.
Frank was breathing hard. His pulse hammered in his head like the pounding of a drum. He was too old for fights like this. When he had gulped down some air, he asked the guard, “What was I … supposed to do? Just let that big ape Jessup … choke me to death?”
One of the other guards said to the man standing over Frank, “He’s right, Chet. I saw when the fight started. Nash said something to Jessup, and then Jessup jumped Morton there. I couldn’t tell which one of ‘em he was really goin’ for, but once he got his hands on Morton, he didn’t care. He was gonna kill him.”
“You blasted fool!” the guard called Chet snapped. “Nash and Jessup are partners! Jessup wouldn’t have tried to kill him.”
Frank sat up and gave Nash a hard look. The redhead shrugged and said, “We figured we’d see what sort of stuff you’re made of, Morton.” He grunted. “Never fig ured you’d nearly rip one of Jessup’s ears clean off, though.”
“It was all a setup,” Frank said. “That business about Jessup killing his family—”
“Is that what he told you?” Chet interrupted in a dis gusted tone. “Hell, Nash and Jessup have held up stage coaches and rustled cattle and worked as hired killers all over Arizona Territory and probably other places, too. Neither of them ever even had a family, as far as I know. The law finally caught up to them and sentenced them to life in prison.” Chet nodded toward the top of the hill. “Yuma Prison.”
Frank felt as disgusted as Chet sounded. Nash and Jessup had been playing a rough game with him. Jessup probably wouldn’t have killed him. But Frank hadn’t had any way of knowing that.
“All right if I get up?” he asked.
Chet regarded him suspiciously. “You gonna cause any more trouble?”
“I didn’t cause this trouble. I just defended myself.”
“All right, Morton. Back in the wagon.”
Nash had helped Jessup work his head free of the bars. The big man was sitting up now, holding one hand over his injured ear and cradling his throbbing privates with the other. Blood from his ripped ear coated the left side of his head and neck. His deep-set eyes never left Frank.
“You want me to get back in there with them?”
“They won’t try anything else,” Chet said “Because if they do, I’ll shoot them. They won’t ever be leaving Yuma alive, anyway. You reckon anybody will care if we have to dig two more holes in the prison graveyard now or later?”
Frank knew the words were directed as much at Nash and Jessup as they were at him. He climbed wearily to his feet and walked over to the wagon under the watch ful eyes of the guards. When he climbed into the vehicle, he hunkered on his heels in a rear corner, as far away from the two convicts as he could get. If either of them made another try for him, he was going to see them coming this time.
Nash and Jessup just sat there, though, as the door at the back of the wagon was closed and padlocked again. The vehicle lurched into motion again and continued its slow journey up the hill toward the prison.
As the wagon circled around what appeared to be sev eral administration buildings and barracks, Nash finally spoke up, saying, “No hard feelin’s, eh, Morton? We had to find out what sort of hombre they were puttin’ us in there with. We know now that you’re plenty tough. Might be you’d want a couple of partners like us in there.”
“I’m not looking for partners,” Frank bit off.
“Just want to do your time and get out, eh?” Nash laughed. “I don’t know how much you know about Yuma, friend. Once you go in, chances are you won’t ever come out.”
Chet had mounted up along with the other guards. Now he edged his horse closer to the wagon and leaned over a little in the saddle to say, “You’re wastin’ your breath, Nash. Morton knows he won’t get out. He’s a lifer, like the two of you. Killed a sheriff and four deputies, up in the Mogollon Rim country, when they caught him with a running iron.”
That was the story Warden Townsend had concocted, and the legal documents he’d had drawn up reflected it. Frank had been to the Mogollon Rim country several times and knew it well, so no one would be able to trip him up on matters of geography or anything like that. He hoped that his appearance was different enough so that if there was anyone inside the prison who had run into him up there, they wouldn’t recognize him.
It wouldn’t do for “Fred Morton,” the vicious killer of four lawmen, to be revealed as Frank Morgan, the noto rious gunfight
er known as The Drifter, currently em ployed as the marshal of Buckskin, Nevada.
With luck it wouldn’t come to that. Frank kept his face stonily vacant as the wagon drew to a stop in front of the prison’s main gate.
Warden Eli Townsend was waiting there. Frank had met him several days earlier. The fat, bearded official looked at him as if he’d never seen Frank before. Then Townsend’s gaze moved over to Nash and Jessup, and the warden was genuinely shocked as he saw the blood on the big, bald-headed man.
“Chet!” Townsend barked. “What the hell happened here?”
Chet, who was apparently the leader of the guard detail, said, “Jessup and Morton got in a little scuffle down the hill, Warden. Jessup, show the warden your ear.”
Townsend’s breath hissed between his teeth in surprise as Jessup lifted his hand away from the mutilated ear. “He’ll have to have medical attention for that,” Townsend said. “I’ll have the cell block guards take him to the in firmary.” He looked over at Frank. “You did that, Morton?”
Frank just stared straight ahead and didn’t acknowl edge the warden’s question either way. That was the way he was going to play this-hard as nails. As harrowing as the fight with Jessup had been, Frank might be able to turn the incident to his advantage. He knew that the story of what had happened would make its way through the prison in no time. That was the way things worked behind bars. By tonight, everybody in there would know that Fred Morton was a tough, ruthless hombre who was dangerous to cross.
Just the sort of man, in other words, who might make a good compadre for somebody like Cicero McCoy ….
“Open the sally port and get them inside,” Townsend ordered. As the guards covered them, Frank, Nash, and Jessup climbed out of the wagon. While they were doing that, the heavy wooden outer door was swung open. The three of them were herded into the entrance passage at gunpoint, where the cell block guards took over. When the outer door had been closed and locked again, the inner, barred door was opened. The three prisoners walked in …
Ambush Valley Page 10
