Hot spur, p.8
Hot Spur, page 8
Now he leaned back in his comfortable armchair. He placed large, fleshy hands over his paunch and eyed the prisoner in a fatherly manner. The two guards behind Harry bent forward, and each gripped a shoulder. Grunting with the effort, they hauled him back into his chair. Harry sat slumped in the seat. His head lolled on his neck. He had trouble staying upright.
“Right, Harry, let’s start again. I don’t think you realise the seriousness of your situation. So, I am giving you the chance to rethink it all.”
The effort to remain upright became too much for Harry. He slipped sideways. Brutal hands jerked him erect. He tried to focus on the man opposite. Waves of intolerable pain coursed through his body. He had been beaten so brutally he had lost consciousness on more than one occasion. Face slapping and kicks brought him back again and again.
What did the fat man want? Harry couldn’t remember. The fat man was speaking again. Harry tried to concentrate. The words hummed across the desk that separated him from the fat man. He saw the heavy spittoon near the desk. It was made from brass and tin. He tried to focus on the spittoon. What was it about spittoons that he needed to know? Perhaps if he asked, the fat man could tell him. The fat man was talking.
“There has been a serious incident in my prison, Harry boy. I don’t like things happening in my prison without my knowledge. Two men are dead and two so seriously injured they may never fully recover.
“They were discovered in the latrine. Shortly before they were found, you were seen leaving the area. The guard that saw you was certain there were other prisoners with you.”
The governor paused and smiled benignly at the battered man slumped in the chair opposite. He couldn’t be certain if Harry was able to hear him or not. Nevertheless, he proceeded with his interrogation.
“That makes you the chief suspect. Having placed you at the scene of the crime, I now need to know who else was involved.”
Harry’s stubborn refusal to name names was the main reason for his brutal maltreatment. Throughout the savage punishment, he held onto one thought: he had promised to protect Luke Parsons.
No one knew Luke had been involved in the fracas at the toilets. The guards had only noticed Harry. He had successfully shielded Luke from observation. Worried that his torn clothing would draw attention to him, Harry had sheltered the younger man with his own large frame. The ploy had been successful, and that was why Harry was now being interrogated.
The governor was in charge. He must be seen to control all aspects of prison life. Therefore, all infringements of prison rules were stringently enforced.
“Now, Harry, once again I am asking. Who helped you murder those men in the latrine? I know you’re in here for murder. But you had to have help to inflict such injuries on those men. So, who was with you?”
Harry remembered now. Through the fog of pain, he remembered what he mustn’t reveal. A vision floated into his mind.
At first it was a flash of long, fair-skinned legs and the gentle swelling of white breasts. The image slowly resolved into a pale, oval face. For the first time he noticed the freckles splattered across the nose. Green eyes gazed anxiously into his.
“I’m worried…” she had said.
What was it she was worried about? And the answer came—the rustler. She was worried about the rustler. And he had promised to look after him. That was what he could not speak. He could not reveal the name of the man involved in the attack at the toilet block.
The word of Harry Grant was binding. He could not break that faith no matter the cost. And so, he endured the beating and wished he could pass into unconsciousness again.
He focussed on the spittoon. There was something he knew about spittoons, something important. He tried to concentrate. While he looked at the spittoon through pain-misted eyes, the governor was talking patiently to him.
“I might be inclined to go lenient on you, Harry, if you agree to cooperate. I could lighten your punishment. You will have to be punished, of course. Murder is a serious crime even inside a prison. The rule of law operates in here just as it does outside. It will be my painful duty to administer that punishment. But it is not unknown for me to be lenient. Now, Harry, once more I am asking. Who was with you in the latrine? Who helped you beat those men to death?”
The spittoon. Harry remembered about spittoons. Some were manufactured with a weighted base to lessen the likelihood of overturning. Sometimes lead was used, and sometimes sand was poured into a hollow cavity. Harry stared at the spittoon. That was it! The base would be heavy. Now he had to concentrate as he tried to remember why that was important. He felt a blow to the back of his skull as one of the guards cuffed him.
“Answer the boss when he talks to you.”
Harry’s throat was dry. He opened his mouth to speak but only croaked. With his finger he pointed to his mouth. His lips were split and discoloured and his mouth filled with blood. Just the effort to open his mouth was painful. In front of him on the governor’s desk was a heavy, cut-glass decanter on a tray with matching tumblers. It was filled with a pale liquid that looked suspiciously like bourbon. Harry pointed to the decanter and then again at his mouth.
“Drink…” he croaked.
The governor nodded to one of the guards. Instead of using the decanter on the desk, the guard went to a bucket standing in a corner of the room. He brought a dipper of water to the prisoner. Harry reached for the dipper. The guard teased him and kept pulling it back out of reach.
“All right, Fred, that’s enough. Give him a drink.”
Harry noticed his hands were trembling when he took the dipper. He managed to get the water to his mouth. It might have been urine for all he knew, but he slurped at the liquid. His throat was swollen and dry, and he had difficulty swallowing. He was fascinated by the tremor in his limbs. The dipper rattled against his teeth. Suddenly the dipper was wrenched from his lips. The guard slung it across the room, and it clanged against the bucket.
Harry was reminded of the bucket swinging in the toilets. He remembered the solid clunk of the wood against heads and limbs as Luke battered his attackers.
Damn that kid, but he had pluck. Harry would be the one lying in the morgue if the rustler had not come to the rescue. Harry had no illusions of his probable fate as the prisoners gathered round viciously kicking their helpless victim.
“No one helped me do nothing.” His voice was a croak, the words hardly audible. “I didn’t do nothing…”
He had not the ability to tense himself against the expected slug. The blow came each time he gave that answer.
“I didn’t do nothing.”
Helplessly he pitched out of the chair. This time he went further forward. The guards had to come around his chair to pick him up.
They were becoming bored now. No matter how vigorously they hit this stubborn hard-ass, he still gave the same stupid answers. Normally a prisoner at this stage of the proceedings would be willing to say anything to stop the beating.
The guards were experts in barbarous interrogation. They vied with each other in the brutal treatment of their charges. The prisoners walked in constant fear of drawing attention to themselves. A guard would beat a prisoner for just looking at him. They couldn’t understand how this damn cowboy could take so much punishment and not break under it. When Harry moved, it caught them completely off-balance.
The spittoon came round in an arc. It did have a weighted bottom. There was a satisfying clunk as it hit the guard in the side of the head. Spittle sloshed from the container and splashed onto Harry’s clothes. With a startled cry, the guard fell sideways and stumbled into his companion.
Harry was scrabbling around on hands and knees. His mangled fingers found the stock of the rifle dropped by the guard when the spittoon hit him. In spite of the pain it caused, he gripped the barrel of the weapon. He drove the stock into the kneecap nearest him. There was another scream, and the guards went down in a tangle. They were not used to prisoners fighting back. Their speciality was beating helpless men who could not retaliate. Now this cowboy, who should have been beaten into submission, had taken the initiative and was fighting back.
Cradling the rifle, Harry rolled sideways and then came up onto his knees. He fumbled with the weapon. Crushed fingers were not much use operating the intricate mechanism of a rifle. He had to get a shell into the breech, had to hold the guards at bay and escape from this hell-hole. Harry was working on instinct only. The impelling force for survival was uppermost. He would kill his tormentors if necessary.
Harry came from sturdy stock. His ancestors had trekked thousands of miles across the plains of America carrying all they possessed in their wagons. The prairie schooners, as the wagons were known, were their home. It was a brutal existence. They survived sickness and disease, Indian attacks, snake bites, heat, drought, and floods. And they endured. The hardy among them survived; the weak went to the wall.
The trail west was dotted with the graves of those without the stamina to survive. Only the hardiest of the breed survived. They built places in which to live and work from the materials they found at hand. Log cabins or sod houses and even caves became home to these pioneers. Quitters did just that and did not make it.
Harry Grant was no quitter. He fumbled with the mechanics of the gun in his torn hands. The two terrified guards scrambled for the exit. Their nemesis had arrived. No more was it fun to batter a helpless prisoner. This one was fighting back. The guards struggled to get through the doorway.
The governor of Willoughby Penitentiary may have been a benign-looking man. He had been governor for ten years. When he had taken on the job, the prison had a bad reputation. His outer layer of softness hid the hardness that was the core of the man. A man did not get to be governor of a prison without a streak of toughness and cruelty. He tamed the prison and stayed in the job. Also, for a big man he could move very fast.
Harry sensed rather than saw the movement behind him. By now his torn and bleeding fingers had manipulated the loading mechanism. He brought the rifle round and fired instinctively. The big man flinched as the bullet cut away the lobe of his ear. As he stood, he had swept up the decanter of whiskey. This he now flung into the prisoner’s face. The heavy glass container hit Harry on the forehead, and he fell back. The pungent smell of spilt spirits was strangely reviving.
Frantically he worked at the rifle for another shot, his damaged fingers not operating very efficiently. By now the governor was around the desk. He ignored the blood streaming from his torn ear. This worm scrabbling round on the floor needed stomping on, and he was the very man to do it. He ignored the rifle in the prisoner’s hands. His boot lashed out and caught Harry in the head.
The blow with the heavy decanter had dazed an already befuddled Harry. He had endured the beating in the toilets followed almost directly by the brutal interrogation by the prison guards. Harry was functioning on adrenaline only. All his reserves had been used up. The vicious kick on the side of the head exploded a kaleidoscope of colours inside his skull. Harry toppled sideways as a wave of blackness washed over him. He did not feel the next kick, nor the next one, nor the one after that.
Chapter 19
The prison was buzzing with suppressed excitement. Whenever they could, the prisoners gathered in little groups and discussed the signs. Those in the know had seen a prisoner being taken to the governor’s office. After a while, a shot had been heard. What happened while the prisoner was there was shrouded in mystery. Those in charge of the morgue and dispensary had waited for a wounded man to be brought in.
“More than likely, they’ll bring in the body. Those bastards only shoot to kill. Don’t know no other way.”
Instead, the governor had arrived in the dispensary needing medical attention for an injured ear.
“Goddamn cut myself shaving,” he grumbled, his lowering stare daring the attendants to contradict him.
The wound had bled profusely, requiring all the skills of the inexperienced medical staff to staunch it. As a result, a bulky bandage now adorned the governor’s head.
In a vain attempt to disguise the unsightly dressing, the governor had perched a large Stetson on his head. With this headpiece the wounded man looked even more massive. The prisoners gazed with awe at him, but no one dared laugh. The sight of that grim face beneath the quaint headgear spelt trouble for someone.
The nature of the governor’s wound was avidly discussed.
“Goddamn earlobe missing.”
“I hear the whole ear was gone.”
“Cut hisself shaving, he says.”
“Must have been using a damn great Bowie knife.”
Then came the order next morning for a general assembly. The prisoners gathered in the main exercise yard. The full company of guards was on parade, all armed with rifles. Speculation was rife. The prisoners glanced up at the sentries posted around the walls. They were all facing inwards towards the yard. The guard towers were also heavily manned.
The prisoners avidly watched the preparations proceed. A table was carried into the yard. Then a couple of chairs were arranged around this. Decanters and glasses were placed upon the table. A bowl of fruit appeared. The prisoners watched, their mouths watering as the food and drink was produced. They would have traded an arm or a leg to be a guest at the table of honour.
After hanging round for some time with nothing much happening, the governor himself appeared. He was flanked by two guards, both heavily armed with sidearms and carbines. With great deliberation the governor seated himself at the table. When he was seated comfortably, he poured a drink. Prisoners licked their lips as they watched. Sipping the liquor, the governor nodded in satisfaction. He turned and spoke to his escort. The man made a sign to someone out of sight.
There was a disturbance to one side. All heads craned to see what was happening. A man was being led out between two guards. Rather, he was being dragged out, for he looked as if he was not able to walk under his own steam.
He slumped in the grip of the men on either side of him, barely moving his legs as he was bundled along. His face had been battered beyond recognition. If his head had been dropped onto the table at which the governor sat, it might easily have been mistaken for a raw slab of beef set there prior to roasting.
A collective sigh went up from the assembled prisoners. The guards dragging the miscreant had stopped by “Lot’s wife.” Now at last, they guessed what was about to happen.
Set firmly in the tramped-down dirt of the yard was a thick post. Hewn from a large tree trunk, a man could just about embrace its girth. So solidly was it set in the earth that it was easy to imagine it might have been there before the prison was built.
As far as the prisoners were concerned, the post was known affectionately as Lot’s wife. The biblical connotation may have been lost on most of the prisoners. Lot’s wife had been transformed into a pillar of salt. The men that copulated with this infamous female writhed not in ecstasy but in agony. The salt was rubbed into the raw wheals on their backs as part of the mating ritual. Lot’s wife was the prison’s whipping post.
The crowd in the yard watched avidly as the guards pulled the prisoner’s arms up around the post. Above head height were two iron rings hammered into the wood. Once secured to these, the victim could only twist helplessly against his constraints as punishment was administered.
The guards stepped back. Two fresh men strode forward. They, too, were stripped to the waist. Exertion in the hot sun was sweaty work. Each carried a long, flexible, leather whip. They popped the whips experimentally, then turned and looked towards the governor’s table.
The governor had risen to his feet and was walking towards the whipping pole. He looked big and formidable, his clothes stretched tight on his fleshy body.
“Well, my friend, you have had a night on which to ponder your plight. You are about to be flogged. The number of strokes you’ll receive depends on your answers to my questions. They’re the same questions as before. Who were your accomplices? Name them and you don’t get as many stripes.”
The bound man did not respond. As he hung from the iron rings, cords of muscle rippled like live snakes across his arms and shoulders. Dark bruises had mushroomed on his fair skin. His once long blond hair had been shorn short. The handsome face that had characterised Harry Grant was no longer recognisable. Blood and bruises had obliterated the features.
The governor nodded. He had not expected the man to break. Anyone who could still take a rifle away from the guards after the brutal beating he had received at their hands was one tough hombre. It would take the flogging to break him. The governor smacked his lips in anticipation. The punishment promised to be a long and painful process. He did not expect his prisoner to survive. So much the better.
“Listen up, you scumbags,” he suddenly shouted out to the assembly. “This man is guilty of a crime. He committed murder in my prison.” He paused for this to sink in. “Some of you helped him. I want to know who you are.” He jerked a thumb at the tethered man. “This son of a bitch won’t tell me. I’m depending on you to come forward and identify yourselves.” He looked around at the mass of humanity already beginning to sweat as the sun grew higher in the sky. “If you own up now, your punishment won’t be so harsh. But if I have to find out the hard way—and find out, I will. I always do—you, too, will be rutting with Lot’s wife.”
The silence grew in the yard as the governor waited. At last he walked back to his table, sat, and poured himself a drink.
“Proceed with the prisoner’s punishment.”
The guards appointed to administer the flogging took a stance on each side of the post. They rotated their shoulders and took in deep breaths. Before they could begin, there was a commotion at the gates of the prison.
Heads craned to see what was causing the interruption of the entertainment. A smartly turned out young man, somewhat travel stained, strolled inside. He was escorted to the table and presented to the governor. A marshal’s badge gleamed on his well-cut coat.
