Escape from Five Shadows (1956) (2 page)

Lizann? Renda said with mock surprise. Why Lizann likes it up there fine. He would have said more, but Brazil called out to him

Frank! I'm sitting in the sun while you pass the time of day!

There's a man that's all business, Renda said. He motioned the two convicts onto the wagon, then called to Brazil, Let's go! He walked past Demery and Karla and mounted his chestnut mare. From the saddle he said, Karla, we'll visit awhile the next time you bring the mail.

He reined the mare and rode straight out from the adobe to meet the wagon making a wide, slow turn to head back toward the willows.

For a moment Karla and her father watched the wagon in silence. Finally Karla said, Did you ask him?

Demery nodded, still watching the wagon as it drew near the willows. I asked him.

What did he say?

Enough so you won't have to write Lyall. Demery looked at his daughter then. A year ago he was convicted of cattle rustling and tried at Prescott. He's already spent nine months in Yuma. He's been here three months and he's got six years to go of a seven-year sentence. That, Sis, is the nice-looking boy you have the warm feeling for.

For a moment Karla said nothing. Then, And his name?

Corey Bowen, her father answered.

Chapter
2

The driver, Earl Manring, drew in on the reins as the wagon reached the willow trees that lined the creek bank. He stood up, kneeling one knee on the seat, and looked back at Renda. We better water first. Right?

Renda neck-reined his mare closer to the wagon. All right. He looked at Bowen and Ike Pryde sitting on the end gate. Get a drink, he told them, then rode over to the willow shade where Brazil was dismounting.

Brazil drank first, then Renda; and now, as they watered their horses, both of them watched the three men kneeling at the creek a few feet from the wagon team.

Manring cupped the water in his hands and raised it to his mouth. He drank the water, but his hands remained at his face and he said to Bowen, There'll be a better time than today. Today's not right for it.

Bowen said nothing. He was lying on his stomach now with his elbows propped under him, staring at the sandy creek bed.

If I know it, Manring said, then Renda knows it.

Not looking at him, Bowen said, You don't know anything.

Listen. It's written on you like a sign. You don't talk and you keep watching Renda'athinking he don't know it.

Ike Pryde, the convict wearing number 17, half turned. He was in his late thirties, older than Bowen and Manring by not more than ten years; though he looked old enough to be their father. He had taken off his hat and in the sunlight his skull showed white through his thin, close-cropped hair. His face was hard-lined and rarely changed its expression; but age showed in his eyes and in the stoop-shouldered way he moved. Six years at Yuma before the road gang. Six years that had added sixteen to his life. His eyes raised to Earl Manring as he turned.

Leave him alone, he muttered.

If he'd think for a minute, Manring said, he'd change his mind.

Bowen leaned closer to the bank to scoop water. I'll say it once more. You don't know anything.

I know somewhere between here and camp you're going into the woods.

You think what you want, Bowen said.

Manring's jaw was clenched. This isn't the way to do it! You got no horse. You got nothing!

Earl Pryde's lips barely moved you're going to get your jaw broke.

Renda and Brazil came out of the willow shade. Bowen rose and moved to the end of the wagon, then looked forward to the team again as he saw Pryde staring in that direction. Manring stood by one of the horses adjusting the harness and Renda was leaning over his saddle horn, saying something to him.

They forded the creek. On the other side, they followed wagon tracks that formed a long, slow-sweeping curve up to the jackpines along the crest, then skirted the shoulder of the hill before sloping down again and after this the trail kept to deep, rock-rimmed draws that twisted through the hills.

Renda rode in the lead now, turning in his saddle every few minutes to look back at the wagon. Behind the supply load, he could not see the two men on the end gate. They were Brazil's concern. Brazil and his Winchester brought up the rear, keeping not more than twenty feet behind the wagon.

The two men on the end gate had not spoken since leaving the creek. Now, unexpectedly, Pryde said, In another mile we reach the steep part.

They sat with their legs hanging, their shoulders hunched forward and their eyes on the trail falling away beneath their feet.

Bowen said nothing.

It's steep enough, Pryde mumbled, that we'll have to get off and lean on a wheel.

I know that, Bowen said.

How? This is your first trip.

I was told.

What else were you told?

That was enough.

Pryde's eyes raised momentarily to Brazil following them. That boy's dying to use his Winchester.

If you want to talk, Bowen said, tell me something I don't know.

Pryde's jaw tightened, then relaxed slowly. You're tough, huh?

Bowen didn't answer.

It takes more than being tough, Pryde said. He was silent for a moment. You're thinking when we reach the grade and have to get off, that's the time to go. Then or never. Pryde paused again. I'll tell you one time. Don't do it today.

Bowen said, You and Manring.

Manring has his own reason. I don't know what that was, but I'm telling you what I feel.

You didn't say anything at the creek.

It wasn't the same then. If you wanted to jump, that was your business. Now there's something wrong. That man with the Winchester knows what's about.

Bowen's eyes raised. He looks the same as always.

You don't see a difference, Pryde growled. You feel it.

Well, I don't feel it.

You haven't been locked up long enough.

I'd say long enough, Bowen answered.

Pryde waited. After six years you know things. Things you didn't know before. I don't know how, but you do.

Bowen glanced up, then looked down at the wagon ruts again. When you were at Yuma'adid you ever try to run?

Twice.

How long before they caught you?

A day one time. Four the next. They paid the Pimas fifty dollars to bring you back.

When you broke out'adid it feel like it was the right time?

Pryde hesitated. I don't remember.

But you're telling me one time's wrong and another time isn't.

Pryde said, Go to hell then. But he added, Even if you get clear, Renda's got better than Pimas. You know that.

So it's a chance all the way.

You don't outrun the trackers he's got. They been reading sign since they were little kids.

That's not something to worry about now.

But that Winchester is, Pryde said.

The trail began to rise again. Bowen could feel the wagon slanting upward and his hand gripped the end gate chain close to his right leg to steady himself.

Another twenty minutes, Bowen thought. He pictured the ride in earlier that morning, coming down the steep grade and studying the country carefully as they did, then reaching this section that clung to the hill shoulder and dropped off steeply on the right side.

No, he thought, may be only ten minutes to the grade. But it doesn't make any difference how long. When you reach it, they'll pull you off the wagon and you'll know.

He thought of what Pryde had told him about them being ready and expecting him to break.

That was foolishness. You don't feel things. Even if you do, you don't bet on a feeling. You don't stake something big on it.

They're always ready, he thought. It's just a question of moving when they're least ready.

A convict on the road gang named Chick Miller had described the trail between the camp and Pinale
n
o. Every foot of it that he could remember. He had told Bowen, Going there isn't the time. But when you're coming back, Renda rides in front. If he was to stay behind, then the load would be between him and the driver and some places the trail is only as wide as the wagon. That means only one man's in back to watch you. Now I'd say a man's best time would be when you reach the high grade and have to get off. Now you're on the ground, getting the feel of it under your shoes'aand your rear guard is worrying whether the wagon's going to come sliding back at him.

He remembered Chick winking and saying, That's the time, Corey. Right then.

And when he asked Chick why he had never tried it, the answer was that he was along in years and his legs wouldn't bear up under running. Boy'ayou'll run till they drop off.

Bowen had waited, every day thinking about it, picturing himself doing it'aand finally this morning he was picked for the Pinale
n
o trip and the time had come.

Maybe Chick told Manring, Bowen thought. That's how he knows. And Pryde picked it up from Manring.

His eyes raised to Brazil again. The Winchester was across his lap. Of course they're ready, he thought again; but you catch them when they're least

Suddenly he saw his error.

Why should they be least ready at the grade? Because Chick said so?

If Brazil thought you had even a halfway better chance there he'd be readier than he was ever ready!

Why is being on the ground an advantage? Your back's to him then!

He breathed in and out slowly and thought, more calmly: You're facing him now. You're looking right at him and you even know when he scratches himself.

He glanced over the side of the wagon. The trail dropped off abruptly, slanting steeply for twenty-five or thirty feet. Then thick brush. Brush and scrub pine and rock and beyond that a second slope that was more gradual.

But how do you make the Winchester wait five seconds?

He noticed loose stones along the edge of the trail and he thought: One of those could stop him long enough.

But how do you know there'll be one where you jump off? We could come to a bare stretch just as

He stopped'ahis eyes on Brazil. He watched Brazil raise the rifle barrel and rest it in the crook of his left arm. His right hand came up and across his chest and two fingers hooked into the shirt pocket to bring out the tobacco sack.

You're looking at it, Bowen thought, knowing it, being sure of it, and feeling the excitement inside of him now and trying not to show it.

You don't sit and think about it. You go or you don't go.

The crook of Brazil's left arm squeezed the barrel tightly as he poured tobacco into the troughed square of cigarette paper. Both of his hands were busy; both of them away from the trigger of the Winchester.

You go!

It was in his mind and out of his mind as he pushed himself from the wagon and went over the side of the ledge, not looking at Brazil, but hearing suddenly a hoarse yell as he hit the slope falling, sliding, raising dust, the abrupt leg shock of reaching the bottom, and now rolling and hearing another yell from above and another and lunging into the brush as a shotgun blast ripped the mesquite branches above him.

He was on his feet, running, stumbling through the scrub pine, then suddenly, instinctively, swerving to the left and the shotgun roared again, spattering buckshot through the trees behind him and it went through his mind: Where's the Winchester!

But he did not look back. Coming out of the trees he hesitated, but only momentarily, only long enough to be sure of his direction. His shoes dug into the loose sand and he sprinted down the open hillside, his shoulders drawn tight waiting for the gunfire.

Then it came, the whining report and sand kicking up behind him, and he knew the Winchester was at work. Three times the .45'70 slugs whined ricocheting after him; then stopped abruptly as he reached the dense trees at the bottom of the grade. Silence followed.

He stood for a moment making himself breathe in and out slowly, then started up the slope, up through heavy timber, knowing he would not be seen now. At the top of the ridge he stopped again and this time looked back.

Far across, the wagon was a small shape on the hillside. He could make out men standing behind the wagon, but he could not distinguish one from another or even count how many were standing there. His gaze dropped down the slope, following the course he had taken, but there was no movement anywhere. Minutes went by as he waited and listened, but still there was no movement, nor the sound of anyone coming up through the trees.

Now they'll put the trackers to work, Bowen thought'aand Brazil probably already halfway there to get them.

His only chance was to make his way back to the Pinale
n
o station and somehow get a horse. He knew this; and he knew that he had little time before Renda's detachment of Apache police would be reading his tracks.

Chapter
3