Way of the lawless, p.7
Way of the Lawless, page 7
CHAPTER 18
It was approaching nightfall when they arrived in the vicinity of the silver mine. They hid the horses in a patch of mesquite and made their way on foot to the outskirts of the mine workings.
‘I say we walk through this place as if we had every right to be here. The chances of someone recognizing us are pretty remote. The first gang of convicts we come across we take out the guards and vamoose pretty damn quick.’
‘What about those leg-irons? Those fellas won’t be able to run with chains on and we won’t have time to break them.’
‘You’re right. We need a wagon. Pile them all on the wagon and hightail it back to the village.’
The two men looked at each other. Suddenly they grinned.
‘It’ll take a lot of luck to pull this off.’
‘I guess you’re right, but hell! We done harder than this in the past.’
Spontaneously each raised a hand towards the other. They slapped palms together.
‘Good luck, pardner!’
Once again the pair visited the stables and selected two horses that looked as if they might be able to stand up to a journey back to the village. There was plenty of harness to tack up the horses and when they were ready they led them outside.
No one took any notice of the two men threading their way through the cluster of mining buildings with a couple of horses. Such a spectacle was normal enough not to arouse comment.
When they got to the area of the mine workings the noise of the crusher was ear-numbing. Five prisoners were loading rocks on to the continuous belt that climbed unremittingly up to the maw of the crusher and tumbled the rocks into the belly of the beast, to be pulverized and washed for the silver content.
There were five men loading, with a guard watching over them. The guard was amusing himself by flicking his bullwhip at each of the men in turn, catching them on various parts of their bodies. With every strike the prisoners jerked with the sting of the rawhide. This was normal behaviour for the warders, who were invariably sadistic by nature and whiled away the tedium of guard duty by abusing the men in their charge.
So engrossed was this guard in harassing his charges that he took no notice of the men leading in the horses. Butch headed over to where a couple of wagons were parked and indicated for Joe to harness up. Then he turned and walked towards the workforce labouring and sweating under a dying sun.
Butch realized that they had to be quick, for the shift would be ending soon and the men working underground would be coming up to the surface. He and Joe had to be on their way before that happened.
The first thing that made the guard realize something was amiss was the appearance of the pistol pointed at his belly. His hand twitched towards his own weapon. Butch shook his head and raised his pistol so that the guard should not mistake his intention. He signalled the guard to turn around. With the racket of the crusher there was no possibility of vocal communication. With a snarl and a threat that was lost in the noise the guard did as he was told. Butch removed the man’s pistol and transferred it to his own waistband.
The prisoners, realizing something out of the ordinary was happening, were glancing up warily at the man in the sombrero. Butch kept his gun on the guard, waiting until Joe had brought up the wagon. Then, after motioning to Joe to keep the guard covered, Butch used the whip to bind the man’s hands. Then he tipped him to the ground. So far the whole operation was going smoothly.
Butch strode over to the prisoners, who had now ceased work and were observing his activities with keen interest. He was vaguely disappointed to see that there were only five prisoners, but he knew he could not push his luck by waiting for more to be brought up from underground. The convicts would not be alone but would be accompanied by guards. There would be every possibility of Butch and Joe having a fight on their hands.
Using signs, he urged the five men towards the wagon, pointing vaguely towards the distant hills to indicate that they would soon be free. They immediately grasped the essential idea that this was a rescue operation and shuffled forward, trailing their chains, eager to clamber aboard the wagon. Butch heaved a sigh of relief and kept glancing every now and then towards the mine entrance. When he looked again at the wagon he frowned. Only four men were on board.
‘Damnit to hell! Where’d that other fella get to?’
No one answered as there was such a din from the machinery that no one could hear him. He glanced back at the crusher and saw the missing prisoner. The rescued man had gone to the trussed-up guard, had picked up a piece of rock and was now raising it above his head.
‘No!’ Butch yelled. He lurched towards the convict. The guard, seeing what was coming, tried to twist away. It was useless. Thirty pounds of jagged rock smashed into the side of his head with such force that his skull was cracked open like an eggshell. Blood and brains spilled out. Such was the bile and hatred roused in the convict that he brought up the rock to strike again. In any case it would have been overkill for the man was already dead. No one could have survived that initial brutal blow.
Butch cannoned into the convict as he was about to repeat his action. The man overbalanced and the rock fell from his hands. His face was contorted with rage and hatred and he was mouthing curses.
Butch grabbed the convict by the shirt, attempting to drag him away from the crusher with the intention of getting him into the wagon. He was sickened and shocked by the brutal slaying of the guard and felt in some way responsible, for he had bound the man, leaving him helpless and unable to defend himself.
‘Get in that goddamn wagon afore I use that rock to pound your brains out,’ he yelled.
The killer swung a roundhouse at him. Butch tried to sidestep to avoid the blow. He only partly succeeded for his foot trod on the bloody head of the dead guard. Butch went down and the convict aimed a kick at him. Seething with anger, Butch grabbed the foot and heaved with all his considerable strength. His action had unexpected results.
His attacker grabbed wildly at the crusher as he overbalanced. Butch saw the convict’s mouth open as he yelled something. Then the man was rising up along the frame of the rumbling belt.
Butch reckoned the convict was trying to escape him by riding the belt out of his reach. He jumped up and grabbed the man around the waist. It was of no avail; the convict’s grip on the conveyor was secure. Still holding on to the convict, Butch was being hoisted upward and the two men rose up along the conveyor of the crusher.
‘Goddamn it!’ Butch yelled into the noise. ‘Let go!’
Then Butch saw why the man was not relinquishing his grip: he wasn’t holding on, his arm was trapped in the conveyor. Slowly the two men were pulled higher and higher as the belt shuddered and growled inexorably upwards.
‘Turn the goddamn thing off!’ Butch yelled, hoping someone down below would see what was happening and come to his aid.
He might as well have sneezed for all the good it did him. The watchers below could only speculate that Butch was trying to recapture the escaping man. From the ground, there was no way of telling it any other way. So they waited and watched the struggle and wondered if Butch would win the fight to bring his man down to earth again.
CHAPTER 19
Butch felt the convict’s body wriggling as he struggled to free his arm. He was yelling something at the same time. Butch tried to move his hold and clamber higher over the trapped man in an attempt to assist him. A fist came round and punched him on the ear. Butch almost lost his grip as he slipped. His hands grabbed desperately, one finding a grip on the man’s britches while the other reached out for a hold on the conveyor.
The convict was trying to free his arm and at the same time rid himself of Butch. His wildly kicking foot hit Butch in the face.
‘Goddamn!’ Butch yelled. When the boot came round a second time he instinctively put out a hand to block the kick. At the same time he lost his grip.
He grabbed frantically at the side of the conveyor belt. Another powerful kick from the convict sent him backwards out into space. Yelling wildly, Butch crashed to earth with a jolt that knocked the wind out of him.
‘Goddamn!’ he wheezed feebly, staring up at the struggling convict. Then the man went over and into the crusher.
Butch stared in disbelief at the empty space where the man had been one moment and in the next had disappeared into the maw of that brutal machine designed to crush rocks.
If the doomed convict screamed no one could hear him above the roar of the machine that was pulverizing his body into mincemeat. Butch closed his eyes and shuddered.
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Butch punched out instinctively before looking; when he did look he saw Joe Peters’s irate face glaring down at him.
Joe’s mouth was working as he yelled something. Butch sat up, dazedly looking around him, then noticed the wagon moving off as the remaining convicts made good their escape.
‘Goddamn it, Joe! Would you look at that. Stop those mad bastards before someone else does.’
Joe looked at where Butch was pointing, then turned and ran after the wagon. Butch groaned as he struggled to his feet and felt the pain throbbing through his bruised and battered body.
‘Goddamn!’ he yelled in frustration. ‘What a goddamn mess!’
He had been lying beside the dead guard. For a moment he looked with pity at the crushed skull, shaking his head at the utter senselessness of the killing. With sudden foresight he realized that the first people out of the mine would raise the alarm as soon as they saw the body of the murdered guard. With abrupt resolution he grabbed the dead guard under the arms and heaved him on to the belt, which was still rumbling away with no one to attend it and no one to load it. For a moment he watched the body being trundled towards the top of the moving belt.
‘Sorry, my friend,’ he muttered. ‘That might just delay discovery.’ When he looked for his partner, Joe was out of sight. ‘Hell damnit! This is turning into disaster.’
Muttering curses he hobbled in the direction in which he had last seen Joe and the wagon.
Joe had caught up with the escaping convicts. Luckily no one had observed the wagon being driven by a bunch of manacled men or the alarm would certainly have been raised.
When Butch eventually arrived on the scene Joe was waiting for him, holding the convicts at the point of a gun. Butch decided the best course was for the prisoners to sit peacefully in the body of the wagon; anyone noticing them would, hopefully, believe that they were being transported to another job within the mining compound. While Butch clambered into the driver’s seat Joe sat in the back along with the convicts, keeping his gun in plain sight.
‘I’m Joe Peters, and that’s Butch Shilton driving this here wagon. You might recall we escaped from Los Pecos.’
‘Hell, are you them two fellas? The prison was a misery after you broke out. It was bad enough before, but then we were put on short rations while they grilled us to say where you had gone. Nobody knew nothing. Why’ve you come back, anyhow?’
The four surviving convicts were a mixed crew. There was one black man amongst them. He was very dark, with matted curly hair and features that looked like rawhide stretched over a skull. An older man, with a full head of dark hair and a perpetual leer on his face, made a contrast with his pasty-skinned, smooth features. There were two younger men, probably in their early twenties but looking older, maybe because of the rough life they had led.
Joe began explaining the reasons for the rescue. Well, not everything. He failed to tell them about Barca and his fifty-strong gang.
‘We need some men for a job we aim to complete. You fellas just qualified for the position.’
Butch was driving steadily as they talked; soon the mining compound was left behind.
‘What’s this job entail?’ the oldest of the men enquired.
‘We’ll tell you more when we’re safely away from here. When they find that dead guard they’re bound to come after us.’
‘Won’t find no dead guard,’ Butch called. ‘I tossed him into the crusher to join that fella as killed him.’ Butch was shaking his head. ‘What the hell he want to go and do a thing like that for, sure beats me.’
‘That was Jeff Kouts. Never was right in the head. Kill a man as soon as look at him. Mean through and through. He ain’t no loss, neither.’
‘Well, no matter. We sure could have used him if he’d behaved.’
They reached the place where they had hobbled their own horses. They tied them to the rear of the wagon and continued onwards with the same arrangement: Joe riding inside with his gun on the convicts and Butch driving. All the time they kept looking over their shoulders at their back trail, wondering how long it would be, before a posse came chasing after them.
CHAPTER 20
The fugitives travelled all that evening and well into the night, Butch guiding the wagon and steering by the stars. The convicts, like men everywhere who have surrendered control of their lives to others, curled up in the bottom of the wagon and went to sleep. Joe kept nodding off from time to time, only to jerk awake with a guilty start.
Dawn was just edging up into the morning sky by the time they reached the site of the original camp where Barca had surprised them and trussed them with such deadly purpose. Butch reined in and sat in the driving seat for some moments, trying desperately not to close his eyes and fall asleep. His body ached all over and he was sore from sitting on the hard, wooden seat as the wagon jolted and rumbled over a trail that was not really a trail, only a route he knew they had to travel to get to their destination.
‘Butch, you OK?’ asked Joe.
The convicts were stirring now that the wagon’s movement had ceased. Slowly they raised themselves up and stared with sleep-dulled eyes at their surroundings.
‘What hell-hole is this you’ve brought us to?’ one asked sourly.
Butch clambered down from the wagon and stood stretching, trying to ease the stiffness from his aching body.
‘We take a break here,’ Joe told the men.
‘What about breakfast?’
‘Ain’t no breakfast yet. We got a mite further to go afore you get fed.’
‘Fella, you better tell us where you taking us, else we ain’t going nowhere.’
‘First off tell us your names and what you did to land you in Los Pecos penitentiary.’
‘Josh Killick,’ one of the younger convicts answered. He was a robust youngster, with a mop of dark, unruly hair. ‘I robbed a few banks is all, until I got caught.’
‘George Stanton,’ the other youngster contributed. ‘Josh and I rode together. We were caught at the same time.’
‘Damian Fakenham,’ the oldest of the men offered, ‘embezzlement and fraud.’
‘Aaron Charles,’ the black man was the last to speak, ‘stole a pig.’
‘What? You got sent to Los Pecos for stealing a goddamn pig?’
Aaron shrugged. ‘It were a white man’s pig.’
Joe and Butch were staring at him. The black man shrugged his lean shoulders once more.
‘My family were starving. I stole the pig, killed it and ate it.’
Fakenham started laughing. ‘Serve you right for murdering a pig.’
The black man glared at Fakenham. ‘I’d do the same to you, only I wouldn’t feed you to my dog, you’re too mean and sour.’
‘Shut your mouth! Have some respect for your betters.’
Aaron closed his lips tight and said nothing.
‘Well, now we all introduced, let me tell you why we’ve sprung you from Los Pecos,’ Butch began. ‘Since breaking out of prison we. . . .’
‘You killed a guard,’ Stanton interrupted him. ‘Isaac Devlin, and buried him in the cesspit.’
‘Hell! It was an accident,’ Butch riposted. ‘He fell in there and drowned.’
‘Try telling that to his brother. He got a posse made up of his family and they’re out there hunting you right now.’
Butch and Joe exchanged uneasy glances.
‘Well, they must be hunting in all the wrong places, for we ain’t seen hide nor hair of them.’
‘Then what you want us for?’
‘There’s a village not far from here and it’s full of ordinary farmers and women and children. Then there’s this here bandit fella, name of Barca, as is bleeding that village dry. He comes in with his gang and takes what he wants ? food and women and recruits for his gang. The people live in fear of his raids. He comes and goes as he pleases and takes what he wants.
‘Well, Joe and me, we intend stopping this galoot. We were hoping as you fellas would join us and help us fight Barca and his gang.’
There was silence as Butch’s audience digested this information. Then a voice said: ‘You want us to fight these goddamn bandits? What are these villagers paying?’
Butch had the grace to look a mite uncomfortable before he replied:
‘They ain’t paying nothing. They got nothing to pay. Over the years Barca has taken all their wealth. They’re poor and miserable and helpless against these bandits and right now we’re their only hope.’
‘So . . . so what do we get out of the deal?’ Fakenham sounded genuinely puzzled.
‘A chance to redeem yourself for your past misdeeds and gain your freedom.’
Fakenham looked at Butch with an incredulous expression on his face.
‘You’re one crazy son of a bitch if you expect us to believe that. Come on, tell the truth. These people have got hidden treasure or something. I hear there’s Spanish gold buried hereabouts in these hills. I bet that’s what it’s all about, ain’t it?’
For once Butch seemed to be lost for words. He stared at ground, scuffing his boot in the dust.
‘Ain’t no use, Butch,’ Joe called. ‘We got to let them in on it. After all, there’s plenty enough to go around.’
Butch looked up, his face impassive.
‘We didn’t want to say anything at this stage in case we all got to fighting each other over it, but Joe’s right. There’s enough to go around. When we get to the village I don’t want anyone blabbing about no treasure. If the villagers get wind of our motives they’ll vanish into the hills like they do when Barca comes raiding.
