Spirit of the Mountain Man/Ordeal of the Mountain Man

Book 0: Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

The Message Was Written In Blood: Bring Me The Head Of Smoke Jensen! A hard term in Yuma Prison gave Ralph Tinsdale and his gunhawk sidekicks time to nurse a deep hatred for Smoke Jensen--the man who put them there. A bloody escape gives them the chance to get even. Their posse is already forty strong, the price on Smoke's head is up to twenty grand, and with Jensen's own wife shanghaied into Tinsdale's deadly trap, this time there's more at stake than Smoke's own life . . . Ordeal Of The Mountain Man Revenge On The Outlaw Trail. . .. The Wyoming tinderbox of Muddy Gap is feeling none too friendly ever since the Grubbs gang tore through on a hellraising rampage. And it's far from over. Because what the vicious Utah Jack Grubbs would really kill for just rode into town: Smoke Jensen. . .and a small fortune in rawhide. Smoke needed a break from driving a herd of remounts north when he showed up in Muddy Gap. Now, he's on the run again, headed for the Montana wilds--with Grubbs and his men shadowing his trail. As if that wasn't trouble enough, Chief Iron Claw's bloodthirsty Cheyenne warriors have just appeared on the horizon. It isn't long before a war between the white man's greed and the red man's savagery turns the peaceful Bighorn Mountains into a simmering powderkeg. Caught in the middle--with no way out--Smoke Jensen is just the man to set off the explosion. Either way, this mountain man could end up dead. . .

Release date: April 19, 2010

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 572

Sample

Sliding languidly, in big, oily swirls, over a few submerged sandbars, the red-brown surface of the Colorado River glided past the low, native stone buildings on the isolated knoll. The complex rested well above the sandy, ochre flood plain, beyond the maximum high water mark. According to the Army engineers who designed the structure, it made the ideal location for a prison.

For that was the purpose of this high-walled, forbidding construction. Yuma Territorial Prison; it housed the hardest of hard cases, the most unrepentant road agents, bank robbers, and highwaymen, the wife and baby killers who had escaped from other institutions to kill again and never show a flicker of remorse. At the quarry, guards’ shrill whistles announced the noon hour and the men working on the rock pile lowered their hammers and drills. They shambled wearily through the shimmering mid-day desert heat to find what solace they could in the shadows of an overhanging wall of the strip quarry. Among them, three men stood out from the rest.

Victor Spectre could never be mistaken for a drifter or a highwayman. A graduate of Yale, he had the look about him of a businessman, albeit one who kept himself in excellent condition. Trim, with hard muscles, in his mid-forties, he had only the beginnings of a pot belly. The latter had developed quite a lot during his seven years in various prisons. He used to be the brains behind, and leader of, a large outlaw gang that operated in Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado.

He had lived the good life, in luxurious splendor, in a fancy St. Louis hotel, and directed the actions of his vast gang from there. That is, until his greed and the viciousness of his underlings attracted the wrong sort of attention. That’s when he met up with trouble. And it was spelled Smoke Jensen. They had a series of violent encounters.

Since that time, Spectre’s thick shock of black hair had a white streak to the left of his part, caused by a bullet fired by Smoke Jensen. The slug had knocked him unconscious and saved his life. His eighteen-year-old son, Trenton, had not fared so well. Originally sentenced to hang, Victor Spectre’s money and influence got his death warrant commuted to life in prison. With icy green eyes and thick, bristly brows which met in the middle of his forehead when angered, he quickly became the head cock on the yard at any institution in which he had been incarcerated. It also earned him frequent transfers when enemies and rivals among the prison population turned up mysteriously dead. No different from previous occasions, Victor Spectre had assumed leadership over his two companions.

Ralph Tinsdale was a contemporary of Victor Spectre. He had a thick build, going somewhat to pot with advancing years and a starchy prison diet. He used to be a big land speculator, who obtained prime ranches and city properties by the simple expedient of having the owners killed and dealing with the widows. He had been in the process of acquiring from a silver-haired dowager a choice square block in the heart of the business district of Denver when he discovered that the late Harrison Tate had been a close personal friend of one Smoke Jensen.

Quite quickly, Smoke Jensen wrote finis to the evil machinations of Ralph Tinsdale. In their final confrontation, Smoke had left Tinsdale for dead, at the bottom of a deep ravine, with two bullet holes in the belly. Tinsdale had survived with large scars and a permanent limp. Smoke found that out when called to testify at the trial. When the guilty verdict came in and the judge sentenced him to life in prison, Tinsdale cursed Smoke hotly in language unbecoming the stylish clothing the swindler wore. His time in prison had failed to mellow him. Tinsdale had grown slack behind bars, so that his once lustrous hair had turned a mousy brown, poorly cared for, and his once natty pencil-line mustache had been replaced by a scraggly wisp of its former self. Only his hatred of Smoke Jensen gave him a semblance of youthful vigor. Enough, though, that he was accepted as second in command of the unholy trio.

Olin Buckner had nearly ten years on his associates. His auburn hair, which had faded to mostly gray, was worn slicked back tightly on a long skull. He had a porcine appearance, enhanced by a jowly face, with a pug nose and small, deep-set black eyes. An over-large mouth and big ears added to the illusion. He had already developed a middle-aged spread. Once, though, he had been trim and almost compulsively active. He had owned an entire town in south-central Montana. Most of it he had acquired by unlawful means, and he ruled with an iron fist—until he tried to drive out the daughter of a mysteriously and recently deceased friend of Smoke Jensen.

Smoke went after Buckner with a particular vengeance. Olin Buckner replied by hiring an army of gunfighters, putting a bounty on the head of Smoke Jensen, and sitting back to enjoy the results. Buckner might have been a fine, skillful fisherman, but he had never hooked a shark before. When Smoke Jensen got through with him, he had lain in a hospital bed for five months before he could stand upright, and another three before he could be brought to trial. Like the others, his residual wealth and influence bought him a commutation of sentence. The hangman was cheated and Buckner went to the worst prisons in the west. He ended up in Yuma and soon found a common bond between himself and the other two.

Now, this trio of the lowest form of human debris stood quietly in line to take a bowl and tin cup in turn, and shuffle past the trustees who dispensed the mid-day meal. Each inmate received a large dipper of a thin soup, purported to be chicken, but lacking even the sight of a speck of meat, and half a round loaf of sourdough bread. Then they retreated to the blessing of shade. As always, the topic of conversation among Spectre, Tinsdale, and Buckner centered on Smoke Jensen.

“I hate that bastard,” Olin Buckner spat. “I’ve not been able to enjoy a day or night without pain since Jensen shot me. I want him dead—no, crippled and suffering would be better.”

“You both know I have ample cause to despise Smoke Jensen,” Ralph Tinsdale spoke in precise tones, as his stomach cramped and growled in protest to the food. “I was a man of consequence and ample means before Jensen thrust himself into my affairs. Since then, I have not been able to eat a meal without terrible agony. And prison has further destroyed me.”

Victor Spectre gave a snort of amusement through his nose. “And you have destroyed a few of them, from what I hear.”

Tinsdale sniffed disdainfully. “I was not afforded the respect I deserved.”

“Well, whatever,” Spectre muffled through a mouthful of bread. “I have no reason to love Smoke Jensen, as you well know. He maimed me and murdered my son, took everything from me. The only thing is—”

“Quiet down there,” a guard snarled. “No talkin’ among the prisoners. You three know the rules.”

After the guard turned away, Victor Spectre repeated himself. “The only thing is, there is not a thing we can do about it from inside here. Smoke Jensen is free as a bird to go and do anything he wants, with no harm to him.”

“I’d give a hell of a lot to see it otherwise,” Buckner growled. He spooned the thin soup into his mouth.

Ralph Tinsdale studied Victor Spectre while he munched on the chewy sourdough bread. “Are you proposing we find a way to get out of here?”

“I think that would go a long way toward accomplishing our mutual goal, to bring an end to the career and life of Smoke Jensen.”

“It won’t be easy,” Tinsdale offered.

“No,” Victor Spectre agreed. “And, as I said, we can’t do it from here. We will have to find a way to escape.”

Suddenly the guard rounded on them, his Winchester no longer on his shoulder, but held competently at high-port in a menacing manner. “No talking among prisoners! I warned you three jailhouse lawyers once. This is the second time. There won’t be a third. You’ll be taken direct to the Sun Box.”

Silenced by that most effective threat, the three master criminals froze in silence. They knew all too much about the ingenious variation on solitary confinement employed at Yuma Territorial Prison. Four coffin-like boxes of sheet iron and rock had been constructed in the center of the Yard. They were so small a man could not lie down, could not even sit properly with the door closed and locked. The only openings were tiny, barred holes in the upper part of each door. Each of the recent arrivals at the institution had heard the screams, wails, and blubbering of men driven mad in the heat of a Sun Box. Finally, the warden turned away to snarl at other offending prisoners.

Buckner, by far the most devious of the trio, leaned forward and whispered, “Find some way this afternoon to be sent to the infirmary. We can talk freely there.”

Spring had awakened new buds on the aspen trees of the High Lonesome, which had unfolded into tender, pale green leaves. The meadows and pastures of the Sugarloaf had turned emerald. Warm, soft breezes called longingly to those with sufficiently sensitive natures. One of those was a tall, broad-shouldered man with faint streaks of gray in his hair. He breathed deeply and savored the winey fragrance of renewed life. Then he set his coffee cup on the plank flooring of the porch and came to his feet.

“I think it’s time to go fishing,” he told the lovely woman beside him. “I’ll take Bobby along and get in three or four days on Silver Creek, and over Honey Spring way.”

His wife looked up with a frown of protest on her forehead. “That boy has yet to finish his studies, Smoke.”

Smoke Jensen smiled a wide, white smile in a sun-mahoganied face. “Sally, there’s a universe of learning out there in this magical country. He can learn biology, botany, even weather studies.”

Sally Jensen broke her stern visage with a giggle. “Also a lot about rainbow and brown trout, I’ll wager.”

Smoke took her outstretched hands and raised her from the wooden rocking chair. He remained amazed that she had never lost her youthful figure. The years and five children should have done some damage, yet he could detect none at all. “And right you would be, my dear. The last day we’ll catch a mess and bring them home to you. Have some fresh biscuits waitin’. And a pie. We have to have a nice pie.”

“I’ve a Mason jar of cherries left, and a couple of blackberries. Which would you prefer?” Sally asked sweetly.

Smoke patted her on one shoulder. “Whatever you pick will be all right with me. Now, I’ll go get Bobby and we’ll round up our gear.”

Bobby Harris had been living with the Jensens since he became an orphan at the age of ten. His stepfather had been beating the boy’s pony and Bobby had been tearfully pleading with the drunken brute when Smoke rode up to the small homestead outside of Thatcher, Colorado. Smoke Jensen could not abide any man who would harm an animal and watched in growing anger. When the abused critter stumbled to its knees, the lad became hysterical. Smoke stepped in when the stepfather decided to turn the length of lumber on Bobby.

After a thorough beating, administered by the hard fists of Smoke Jensen, the drunken sot had gone for Smoke with a pitchfork. Bobby’s shouted warning saved Smoke’s life and cost that of the stepfather. Smoke was on the way to give assistance to old and true friends in Mexico at the time and at last decided on sending Bobby and his pony north to the Sugarloaf. A year later they made it official by adopting the orphaned boy. He was bright and energetic, although at times a bit forgetful of the limitations of a small boy. He was doing such now, risking any future progeny on the saddle of an unbroken mustang, when Smoke came upon him at the big corral.

Sugarloaf riders had located the wild horses a month earlier, still snowbound in a box canyon. They patiently constructed a barricade across the mouth of the chasm and waited. When the snow melted and the animals calmed somewhat, flankers along the herd’s edges brought them in to provide a new bloodline to the prize horses raised by Smoke and Sally on the Sugarloaf.

Grunting and squalling, the wild bang-tail crow hopped and sunfished under the small, tightly gripping legs of Bobby Harris. Smoke rode in close and held his peace, gloved hands folded on the saddlehorn of his big ’Palouse stallion, Thunder. Two more jumps and a tornado spin later, Bobby tasted corral bottom. The spunky lad came to his boots after only a lung-jarring grunt, dusted off his jeans and chaps, and spat grit from his mouth. “Damn,” he followed it with. Then he saw Smoke Jensen. “Oh, sorry Smoke. I—ah—” He grinned sheepishly.

“What’s a damn or two between two friendly men?” Smoke asked lightly. Bobby literally glowed. He wore his hero worship of Smoke Jensen for everyone to see. “I thought you might be in a mood for something a little less strenuous.”

“Like what?” Bobby limped to the fence and squirmed through the two lower poles.

Smoke teased him shamelessly. “My nose and my mountain man instincts tell me it’s time to go hog out a few rainbows. Think you’d like that?”

Bobby dusted his hands together, then adjusted the angle of his pint-sized Montana peak Stetson. “Would I? You bet, I would. Where would we go? How long?”

Smoke raised his chin and spoke as though just thinking of it. “I thought we’d angle up Silver Spring a ways, then head over toward Honey Spring. Be gone three, four days.”

Bobby’s eyes went wide. “That’s stupendous, Smoke, I’ll git ready right away.”

“Stupendous?” Where the hell do they get these words? Smoke wondered silently.

Grinning from ear to ear, Bobby Harris turned in the saddle. “This is really great, Smoke.” He breathed deeply, filling young lungs. “It smells so good up here. I can tell pine an’ blue spruce, grass a-growin’ like crazy. There’s water up ahead, I can smell it, too. We never had nothin’ to smell around Thatcher, excect dust.”

“Whoa! Get a rein on that enthusiasm. And remember the grammar Sally has been drilling into your head.”

Bobby made a face. “Along with Miss Grimes at Punkin’ Head School,” he lamented. “Study, study, study. That’s all we do.”

Smoke pulled a wry expression. “Then how’d you manage to come home with that big bag of marbles at snow closin’ last winter?”

Eyes fixed on the skirt of Thunder’s saddle, Bobby slid out his lower lip in a pout and dug at his pug nose with a knuckle. “We only got to play during our nooning, Smoke, honest.”

“Then you must be the best marble player in all of Big Rock.”

“I’m . . . good, right enough. Sammy an’ me played some when I boarded at his folks’ house.”

Here, in a land of big and early snows, school was held on a reversed schedule, from the fifteenth of April until the fifteenth of October. Tutoring made up for the other three months of class work. Sally Jensen, who had taught school at one time, held group lessons for Bobby, the children of ranch hands, and neighboring youngsters. It vexed her students mightily, Smoke knew, yet they showed up and behaved extraordinarily well. A broken leg had prevented Bobby from starting in Big Rock this April and, now out of his cast, cabin fever had set in.

What else would account for the boy undertaking the hazards of breaking mustangs? Smoke asked himself. Well, in a week, two at most, he would be headed for Big Rock and the little red schoolhouse at the end of Main Street. It had been arranged for him to live with his best friend, Sammy, and the Weisers expected him no later than that. For all Bobby’s protestations, Smoke noted, he and Sammy had managed to get enough time away from the classroom the last summer to acquire a decent browning of their hides. A faint yellow-brown tinge of high altitude tan still colored Bobby’s cheeks and forearms. Given this summer, he would be free forever of the unhealthy pallor which had accompanied the boy to the Sugarloaf. The high altitude sun soon cured normal skin like leather, with about the same color.

“We gonna build a lean-to or sleep out under the stars?” Bobby asked.

Smoke smiled back. “We can do whatever you want.”

An animated face answered Smoke. “Then can you tell me some stories about you and Preacher? About back when you were my age?”

Smoke leaned over and lightly tapped Bobby on one shoulder point. “I didn’t know Preacher when I was your age. I was fourteen, I think, when I wound up lost out here and on my own.”

“So? Go on.”

“Tonight, over fish and biscuits.”

“That’s a promise, Smoke?”

“Promise.”

Toward mid-afternoon, Smoke Jensen called a halt to their journey. A small stand of silver-barked aspen beckoned. On his own land, Smoke could be certain of being safe, yet training and experience compelled him to pass up that inviting shelter. Instead, he used a short-handled axe to cut down a dozen forearm-thick saplings, bundled them and tied them off behind the packhorse. They traveled on to a moderate clearing, with plenty of grass for the horses, and shaded by a big old blue spruce.

It towered a good sixty feet into the air, and had, for at least 250 years, miraculously escaped the attention of the fierce lightning that crashed through these mountains and valleys each summer. With Bobby’s help, he quickly constructed a roomy lean-to and covered the long, slant back and square sides with overlapped layers of pine bough. They stood back, hands on hips, and admired their handiwork.

“Not bad for a couple of amateurs, eh?” Smoke opined teasingly.

Bobby made a face that indicated he knew his leg was being pulled. “Aw, Smoke, you must have made hundreds of these before.”

“Thousands, more like,” Smoke agreed. “Now, it’s your job to fetch firewood, while I bring stones from the creek for the fire ring.”

Bobby cocked an eyebrow. “Who says we’re gonna catch anything?”

“We have to cook something, don’t we?”

“Yep. But who says I’ve got to get the firewood?”

“I says. Is that good enough for you?”

Bobby gave a fake gulp. “Yes, sir, yes it is.”

He scampered off to do as bidden. Smoke turned toward the creek, located a suitable distance from their camp to muffle its noisy gurgling. As he neared the bank he heard lazy splashes from the sparkling water of Silver Creek. The rainbow trout would be thick enough to almost walk on, and hungry after the long winter.

An hour before sundown everything had been laid out in readiness. Outfitted with a Mason jar of live dragonflies and some of the newfangled artificial dry flies hooked into their shirt collars, man and boy set off to the east bank of Silver Creek.

At first sight, Bobby almost forgot himself and cried out in excitement. The water swarmed with mossy green backs. Hundreds of finny creatures filled the stream. Their deep color faded along their sides to the dividing line of rainbow colors. Beyond that their white, speckled bellies flashed brightly when one or another would roll gracefully after surfacing to snap up a winged insect. Bobby’s eyes danced.

“Let’s get to work,” Smoke suggested.

Within half an hour they had a dozen pan-sized trout. The larger ones they had unhooked and thrown back. Those they caught tomorrow would be filleted and smoked. This intimate time together would teach Bobby many mountain man tricks. Smoke got the fire going while Bobby cleaned the fish. Smoke made biscuits and put the pot of beans he had put to soaking over the fire on a trestle arm. Bobby looked on and asked endless questions about camp cooking, while he peeled onions brought from the root cellar at the Sugarloaf headquarters, washed and sliced potatoes, and put a large skillet of them on to fry. At last, when the coals undulated with just the right red-orange glow, he put the fish on to fry.

They ate it all, wiped the skillets with biscuit halves, belched and patted full bellies. Then Smoke leaned back and lighted a thin, hard, dry cigar. Bobby returned to his first interest.

“Tell me about you an’ Preacher.”

“Oh, my, where to begin? I had to be about fourteen when Preacher hooked up with me and Pa in Kansas. Now, mind, we did not hit it off at the first. Preacher was old. Nearly as old as God, the way I saw it. He was crotchety, set in his ways, and about as foul-mouthed as any ten men could get. He could fill the air with blue smoke when he took to cussin’.” Smoke paused to consider. Yep, Preacher had been all of that, and much, much more, too. “He was the best friend anyone could have, man or boy.

“Preacher was also kind, loyal, astonishingly intelligent, and absolutely convinced that life, as he lived it in the High Lonesome, was the best sort of life anyone could ever have. He took me in after Pa died.”

“Tell me about one of you and Preacher’s famous gunfights, Smoke?” Bobby interrupted.

Smoke sighed. “All right. Just this once. I recall the time when Preacher and I had to fight off eleven tough outlaws, the last of a gang that had been preying on immigrant trains along the North Platte. It was in the ‘Sixties then, and the Army had mostly gone back east to fight for the Union. So, boarder riff raff grew bolder and bolder. This particular bunch had holed up in one of the trading posts they had also victimized. Preacher an’ me had to go in after them. . . .”

Preacher eased his head up over the fallen log and peered closely at the tumble-down shack that housed the eleven vicious highwaymen. This weren’t no dance for a seventeen-year-old tadpole to join into, he reckoned. But Smoke was here and rarin’ for a fight, so what could he do? He cut his eyes to where Smoke Jensen crouched between some fat granite boulders, some twenty yards away.

Good boy, Preacher thought approvingly. He’d learned the lad about not bunchin’ up right early in their time together. “The main idea is to give whoever is shootin’ at ya more air than meat for targets,” the mountain man had explained to a wide-eyed boy of almost fifteen. “Fact is, they’s always more air than meat, as you’ll find out when you are on the give side of that equation.”

That had been near four years ago. Now all the lessons on surviving in the Big Empty were about to be put to the test. Preacher fervently wished that Charlie Three-Toes and some of those other never-quitters among the trapping fraternity had come along for this showdown. Best to have all sides of a building covered. Whatever, there was nothin’ for it now. Preacher slid the barrel of his .56 Hawken over the fallen tree and took aim on a square of thinly scraped hide that served as a window pane. Behind it, kerosene lamps and flickering candles projected the head and shoulders of a human figure. Preacher eared back the hammer of the Hawken.

Sure, he could have hollered out for these scoundrels to surrender, to come out with their hands up, but he reckoned that such a move would only bring him and his young companion to more grief. So he fined his sight picture and squeezed the trigger. The Hawken made a sharp, clean report and shoved into Preacher’s shoulder. The conical bullet went straight and true.

From his vantage point, Smoke Jensen saw a small black dot appear in the skin window and a moment later the human figure popped out of sight as though pulled by a rope. As instructed, he fired at the doorway when the flimsy pine board panel flew open. An unseen man screamed and then Preacher bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“That’s two down! You men in there best come out and surrender. We’ve got you surrounded.”

Well, at least on two sides, Preacher eased his conscience over straying from the whole truth.

“Like hell we will,” came a belligerent reply. “We been watchin’. There’s more of us than you.”

By then Preacher had his Hawken reloaded. “Not for long,” he bantered back as he again took aim on the window.

A crash and tinkle, and one clear, bell-like note followed his shot. To Preacher’s right, Smoke put a round through the open doorway. His reward came in hurried orders.

“Drag Rafe back out of there, we’ve gotta close that door.”

Weak, though clearly audible to Smoke Jensen, Rafe spoke from the floor of the shack. “I’m gut-shot, Doolie. I ain’t gonna make it.”

Anger, colored by fear, filled the reply. “Then crawl outten that door so’s we can close it.”

“It hurts too much, Doolie.”

The crack of a pistol shot answered him, then Doolie’s growl. “Now, drag that body outten the way an’ let’s get to business.”

Preacher had trained him well. Smoke was ready for that. He winged another man who bent over the dead Rafe. The hard case made a yelp and a startled frog-leap obliquely to the doorway. “Oh, dang, they got me in the cheek, Doolie.”

“Can’t be much, you can talk all right,” the outlaw leader muttered.

“It’s the other cheek, Doolie. Oh, damn, it hurts.”

“Stop yer belly-achin’. We got to get ’em. By my count, they’s only two. I say we rush them.”

Doolie and his henchmen did not get the chance. Preacher’s next blind shot through the opaque window shattered a kerosene lamp and the whole shelter went up in flames. Clothes afire, two men ran from the doorway, their weapons forgotten. Preacher dropped first one, then another with a pistol ball from his Model ’60 Colt. Smoke fired at a third who went to one knee, shot through the side. Smoke’s rifle sights still had him shooting low. Doolie and a couple more stubbornly insisted on fighting it out from inside.

When it was all over, only five of the eleven remained alive, all wounded. The shack burned to the ground with Doolie in it. And that’s how Preacher handled that....

Smoke Jensen looked down at Bobby Harris to find the boy with his head on one crooked arm, eyes closed, breathing deeply in a sound sleep. Smoke chuckled, then asked himself aloud, “Was I that boring?”

The boy did have a long, hard day of it, he reasoned. Tomorrow there would be more adventures. Smoke settled in his soogans and closed his eyes under the starry sky.

Darkness lay in a heavy blanket over the Yuma Territorial Prison compound. Droopy-eyed guards stood watch in the eight turretlike towers atop the walls at each corner and in the middle of each span. The two on the river side would be their targets, it had been decided. When he judged that alertness had sufficiently drained from the sentries, Victor Spectre forced a spate of coughing that would signal the other two to put their plan into operation.

Spectre’s plan was simplicity in its most distilled form. They would incapacitate the turnkey, get out of the cell block, knock out the guards and pitch them over the side, then follow them on ropes made of torn blankets. To that end, when the cough ended, Buckner began to bang the bars of the cell he shared with Tinsdale with a tin cup. When he received no response, he called out.

“Hey! Hey, turnkey. There’s a man sick in here.”

No answer. Not even a light at the end of the corridor outside the open-fronted cells. Buckner, the most guileful, drew breath and yelled again. “Damnit, I mean it. He’s powerful sick.”

At last a light came, weakly from a hooded kerosene lantern. “Stow that racket.”

“My cell-mate is powerful sick,” Buckner wheedled. “It’s that rotten pork we had at supper. He’s about to die on me.”

“Have him report to the infirmary in the morning.”

“He is not going to last until morning, Boss. Please, come take a look for yourself. He’s all gray and green, eyes are rolled up. Hurry!”

Grumbling, the turnkey complied. He had a rolling gait, a leftover from his years before the mast on a clipper ship. When he had left the clipper ship service, he swore he never again wanted to see a body of water he could not hurl a rock across from bank to bank. He wound up here, at the top of the Rio Colorado delta, where the river ran a mile wide. He muttered to himself about the whims and petty annoyances of his charges as he approached the cell. He looked inside and saw a man who could indeed be on the edge of death.

Unadvisedly, he unlocked the cell and stepped inside. To his credit, he locked it behind him before he crossed to the bunk. He had no way of knowing that the pale, gray-green face had been achieved by mixing whitewash powder with scrapings from an ancient copper deposit in the quarry. When he bent to get a closer look, Olin Buckner snaked an arm around his neck and began to squeeze.

In less than two minutes Buckner had quite thoroughly throttled the prison guard. Ralph Tinsdale took the man’s keys and helped to lift him onto the bunk in his own place. They gathered their makeshift ropes and slung the coils over both shoulders. Then Tinsdale unlocked the door and stepped out under the overhang of the second tier catwalk. Buckner followed and they locked the cell behind them.

They went directly to the cell that held Victor Spectre. Spectre waited for them at the bars. His cell-mate had awakened and suddenly realized what was at hand. “Take me along,” he pleaded. “Hell, man, I’m doin’ life like the rest of you. You gotta take me.”

“We do not have to take you anywhere,” Spectre told him coldly.

A crafty light glimmered in close-set eyes. “You don’t take me, I’ll make a fuss, get you caught. It’s a floggin’ an’ another five years for attempted escape. Best be takin’ me.”

Resignation blossomed on the face of Victor Spectre. He nodded curtly, and gestured toward the