Escape from Five Shadows (1956) (7 page)

Chapter
7

By five thirty A. M. the roving night guard had made his last swing through the compound, checked with the gate guard and had gone to wake up the cook. Fifteen minutes later, Renda and the day men were up and dressed. They unlocked one door of the barracks, brought the convicts out single file and counted them before marching them to the outside mesquite-pole-awninged mess tables behind the barracks.

At six o'clock they were lined up in front of the barracks again. A few minutes later, three single-team wagons moved out of the compound the first carrying equipment, the other two, the convicts. A guard rode alongside both of the convict wagons and Renda and Brazil brought up the rear. As the wagons rolled through the gate, twelve Mimbre
n
o trackers rode out from their camp. Three of them held back to follow the wagons, but the rest went on, spreading out and running their horses now toward the looming sand-colored slope less than a mile in the distance. As the sun rose higher, five shadow lines formed by washes and rock slides would creep down the slope like a gigantic hand groping for the convict camp below.

In the third wagon, sitting next to Bowen, Pryde said, There they go. You see them in the morning, then you see them maybe once all day.

Unless, Bowen said, you try to run. Then you see them again. He watched Salvaje, a good fifty yards out, ride by the wagons, and he nodded, saying to Pryde, How'd you like to have him on our side?

Pryde turned to watch the Mimbres. That would do it, wouldn't it?

That would do it all right, Bowen thought his eyes raising to Renda and Brazil who had separated and dropped back a dozen yards or more to be clear of the dust rising from the wagons once you got by those two. Maybe, he continued to think, there's where Lizann comes in. To help you get by.

But how does a woman help you break out of a convict camp?

No don't underestimate her because she's a woman. Not that one. And don't think she's doing it for you. You guessed it and she admitted it. She wants out. She wants to be free of Renda'aand the wire fence and the Mimbres and the sun and'aeven if it means running away with a convict she doesn't know from any other convict. Think about that. Think about it good and see what it tells you. A woman who's willing to leave her husband behind'awilling to help a convict if he'll help her. Picture the way she was in the stable and the way she spoke, then add. Add it up without cluttering it with running-hiding-making-it-escaping-from-it pictures and see what you get. Put yourself in her shoes. Be sick of your husband and hating Renda and hating everything in sight. Then look at you. A weapon. Somebody Renda beat hell out of. Somebody angry enough. You said it yourself. You don't have to reason it out. You said it yourself in the stable. Somebody angry enough. She'll use you for a battering ram to bust the door down. That's all. If you can get up and run out yourself, all right. If you can't, she's not going to stop to help you up. And if she fails, then it was a convict who forced her into it.

And so you know all that just by looking at her face, guessing what wasn't said but what was almost said. Is that how you know all about her?

Yes. Some things you know.

Some things are very simple and you can take all this reasoning that really isn't reasoning and throw it out because you knew with the first word she said and the way she said it that she was after something and if she wanted it bad enough she'd get it, one way or another. With you or with somebody else. And knowing it you'll go along with her, because at least it's a chance and one chance is better than six more years of this. Even if you don't make it.

So what have you got?

He was still watching Renda and he thought: Ride over here close and look the other way and let that shotgun barrel stick out a little more.

Then get Brazil first.

Yes, that's smart thinking. Ask Pryde if he thinks that's cool, calm, smart thinking. Ask him if he feels anything about it.

If you planned a break with one of the convicts, he wouldn't think of you, would he? He'd think of himself. And you'd think of your self. That's what it comes down to. She's as much a prisoner as anyone else. So if she wants to get out, even needing somebody else, she'll be thinking of herself. It's not surprising now, is it? Suddenly it's not surprising. Your mistake was thinking of her as a woman instead of as another convict.

So forget she's a woman and just listen to whatever she has to say. Forget she's supposed to think like a woman, however women are supposed to think. She's another convict. Put a convict's shirt on her and numbered pants if that makes it any easier.

He began to picture Lizann in a man's shirt, not doing it intentionally, but because it was already in his mind; but suddenly the woman was no longer Lizann and he was picturing Karla Demery in a faded blue chambray shirt, the one she had been wearing that day three weeks ago.

As the trail began to climb, Bowen watched Brazil come up almost to their wagon before turning his horse from the trail. He rode even with them then, but off beyond the twisted, shaggy-barked cliff rose bushes that grew close along the wagon ruts. Renda remained behind, though he seemed to be closer to the wagon now. The three Mimbres who had trailed him were no longer there.

Then, watching Renda, Bowen thought of Karla Demery again picturing her with Renda in the station yard. Then later, when he had been close to her

Her short black hair making her look almost like a boy yet, strangely, more feminine because of it. A slim body. Small even features. Clean-scrubbed, clean-smelling and dark from the sun, though you knew some of the warm brown was Mexican blood and you could see it in the eyes one quarter from her mother's side. Not more than one quarter. In the eyes that were alive and didn't move from your face as you spoke, though not the way Lizann Falvey's had not moved.

Read Karla, Bowen thought. Not the giving you the clothes and the horse and the talking about the lawyer. Read what was behind her eyes the way you did Lizann's. If you can do that, you'll understand the horse and the clothes and the other thing. But it isn't as easy, is it? You don't just label her and say, There, that's why she's doing it.

Which one would you rather be with?

For what?

For anything!

You almost kissed her.

You almost kissed both of them.

No'aKarla. You almost climbed right off the horse to kiss her. Not for what she had done but because you wanted to. The other was different. Lizann was trying to make you kiss her. But you didn't.

Maybe you should've gotten off the horse.

The wagons followed a dry wash down through rock-strewn, pinyon-studded talus to the wide floor of a canyon and here intersected the new road that, following the canyon, came down from the north. The wagons moved down canyon a good three hundred yards before halting at the end of construction.

Bowen waited his turn, then jumped down from the wagon. Pryde followed him. They started for the equipment wagon as Brazil rode up.

You two unhitch the team.

Pryde looked up at him. We're going to pull stumps?

Brazil grinned. Till your back breaks.

They watched Brazil ride on to the equipment wagon. I knew we'd be pulling stumps, Pryde said.

One job's as bad as another, Bowen said. He looked back along the new road. We didn't miss very much. That needle rock back there. We were even with it three weeks ago.

Pryde squinted along the canyon. Maybe two and a half miles.

Renda's making it last, Bowen said.

Pryde nodded. Four months to come about twelve miles and not doing much more than cutting a path.

With another four miles to go, Bowen said. He turned to look down the canyon. The hardest four. Up over the rocks, then down to come out somewhere behind the stagecoach station. Renda can make that last a good two months.

He must know somebody, Pryde said.

Bowen nodded. He'd have to. He doesn't know anything about road building.

The government must have lots of money, Pryde said thoughtfully. Six months to build sixteen miles of road through the mountains to save one day's travel from Willcox to San Carlos.

To save a half day, Bowen corrected. You know Renda knows somebody.

Brazil motioned to them and they brought the team up past the equipment wagon where two convicts stood waiting for them. One, a Mexican, with a twelve-foot length of chain over his shoulder; the other leaning on a long-handled shovel. Bowen nodded to them.

The convict with the shovel squinted as if he needed glasses and the lines of his face formed a nervous, half-smiling expression. He was a small man, perhaps forty. His straw hat was cocked over one eye and his shirt collar was buttoned, though it hung loosely, at least three sizes too large for him, and he gave the impression that even in convict clothes he was trying to keep up his appearance the white collar, coat and tie appearance of a man who had been an assistant cashier at the Wickenburg bank until the day he stole five hundred and fifty dollars to cover a gambling debt. His name was Chick Miller; the man who had described the supply wagon trip to Bowen.

Corey, he said now, I'm sorry you didn't make it. When Bowen said nothing, he added, I hope you don't hold it against me.

Why should I?

I mean since I was the one told you to try it.

I made up my own mind, Bowen said.

Chick grinned. Brazil came riding like hell through here to gather the trackers and we thought for certain you'd made it.

Chick, did you tell Earl I was going to try it?

The question came unexpectedly and Chick Miller straightened, his hands sliding down the handle of the shovel. Why would you think that?

Just tell me if you did.

Of course not!

Chick, I don't care if you did.

Maybe he saw us talking.

Bowen nodded. Or maybe you suggested he try it.

I might have done that.

Then told him I was going to.

Why would I do that?

Chick, I'm not holding it against you if you did. I just want to know.

I might've mentioned you were thinking about it. Chick Miller shook his head then. But I wouldn't have come right out and told!

The Mexican, a young, clean-shaven, dark-skinned man, said, That's why I don't even think about it. You get it in your mind to run and everyone knows about it.

Chick Miller looked at the Mexican. You keep out of what don't concern you. He stopped then, seeing Brazil riding toward them.

Brazil pulled up, his Winchester across his lap and pointing at them. Just passing the time of day?

Chick Miller grinned. We're waiting for the axe crew to give us some work.

Brazil nodded to a tree stump just beyond them. There's one left from Saturday. Start on it.

That one won't be in the roadway, Chick Miller said.

Brazil studied him. You going to argue over it?

I just thought, why pull her out if she's going to be off the road anyway. He saw Brazil start to dismount and the half-smiling, squinting expression came over Chick's face. I mean it's not going to be in the way.

Brazil swung down and started for him. He waved the barrel of the Winchester at the other three men and said, Get out of the way, not taking his eyes from Chick.

We'll take her out, Chick said. He glanced at the Mexican, seeing him move away; then to Bowen and Pryde who were watching Brazil and now he saw them back away slowly. As he turned to Brazil again the Winchester barrel was swinging toward him. He threw up his arms and fell back stumbling but keeping his feet and the barrel slashed past his head. Chick started to run.

Stand where you are!

He stopped, but seeing Brazil coming toward him again, began to back away.

I said stay where you are!

Chick held up his hand. I don't want to get hit. Listen, we'll pull the stump. Just let me get my shovel. His extended hand pointed. I dropped it over there. His eyes opened wide as Brazil moved toward him and at that moment he turned to run, taking one stride as the rifle barrel slammed across his back and he went down covering his head with his arms.

Brazil looked down at Chick, then turned from him. Now pull the stump, he said.

The Mexican went to Chick and kneeled over him. Bowen watched Brazil mount and ride down canyon. There, twenty yards ahead of them, a half dozen convicts were clearing the pinyon clumps: cutting the trees close to the ground, but leaving enough stump for the chain to be wound around and fastened to securely.

As the Mexican helped Chick to his feet, Pryde and Bowen walked over to them. Pryde asked, How are you?

An exaggerated expression of pain was on Chick's face. He'll be sorry he did that.

Pryde shook his head. When the time and the day comes, you'll be second in line. I got first dibs on Mr. Brazil.

The Mexican was looking at Pryde. He smiled then. If that day ever comes, I hope I'm there to see it. When you're through with him, maybe I'll kick him in the face.

By noon, they were not more than a hundred yards farther down the canyon. The convicts worked as slowly as Renda would let them, knowing that he wanted to stretch the job time for all it was worth. Still, two or three times a day Renda would conscientiously speed up the work pace, as if rebelling against this one small advantage they held over him.