Shotgun Charlie (12 page)

“Charlie, you got to listen to me now. I'm getting to the good part.”

Charlie nodded. “Okay, okay.”

“The prison this man was locked up in was so rough, so tight, so well built that no one was ever able to escape. Might say it was one of the best built in the whole of the West. I should know, because I worked there as a young man.”

“You did?”

“Yep, but you never mind where because I'm not about to tell you.” He smiled, then continued his story. “Long story short—no easy task, given my nature—this fellow, he up and decides one day that his desire to prove he was innocent and didn't deserve to be incarcerated was so great that he said to himself, ‘I can end up staying in this cell, muddle-headed, not thinking straight, and dying like a mouse. Or I can take my life in my own two hands and get on out of here.' And that, Charlie, is what that man did. He made his escape.”

“He did? What happened to him?”

“Last I heard he ended up having a harder time than he thought proving his innocence. Heck, maybe he was guilty all along, I don't rightly know. But I did hear he ended up a wealthy rancher down in South America somewhere.”

Charlie nodded, rubbed a big hand over his jaw. “Seems to me you're trying awfully hard to tell me something most lawmen wouldn't want to be telling a prisoner, Marshal. Don't that strike you as a little odd?”

“Not at all, Charlie, not at all. I'm adding color to a dark situation. Take my meanderings for what they're worth. Do what you will with them.” He stood and dragged the chair back to the dark corner. “Oh, I almost forgot. I have a sack of food for you out here. Nothing fancy, but I don't like my prisoners to wither on the vine in here. An apple, half a loaf of bread, hunk of cheese, a flask of water. It's out in the office, on my desk. That's where most everything I forget about ends up. It's the Devil getting old, Charlie. But it beats the alternatives, eh?” He winked and headed up the hallway. “I'll be right back.”

Now that the marshal had mentioned food, Charlie felt peckish. Could be why he was having trouble concentrating. True to his word, the old man came back, canvas sack in one hand, the walking stick clacking and tapping in the other. Looked as though he walked well enough, so Charlie wasn't sure why he needed the stick, but he reckoned that was a thought for another time.

“Now, Charlie, I'm going to have to ask you to turn around and head to the back of the cell so I can open this door without fear of you rushing me. You got me?”

“Oh yes, sir.” Charlie made his way to the far end of the cell. Two strides were all it took. He faced the wall. Then heard the cell door's clock being keyed, the tumblers clicking, and then the door swung open. He heard the soft sound of the man's boots on the floor, the sack being laid on the cot—and Charlie gave quick thought to doing exactly what the old man had told him not to. Maybe that was what he wanted him to do?

But then the moment passed. He herd the cell door slam shut once again.

“Okay, then, Charlie. Have yourself a snack. Sorry I can't do a thing about those bruises and scrapes you took at the hands of the crowd. I reckon you'll heal up. You look tough enough. I'll bid you good night, then, Charlie. And mull over everything we've talked about. If nothing else, it'll make for good fodder for sleep.”

“Thanks, Marshal. I will. And good night, sir.”

The old man stopped, turned, and said, “Well, and a good night to you too, Charlie.” He chuckled as he walked on up the short hallway. Charlie heard the doors clang into place. The iron and wood and stone echoes sounded for long moments, filling the cold space of the cells. Charlie didn't know what to make of the entire talk he'd had with the lawman, curious old sort that he was. But it hadn't been altogether unpleasant. And he had sort of promised to make sure Pap got treated right. That was something.

He sat down on the cot once again, with a groan, and rummaged in the sack of food. He found all the items in there the old man had promised. And he promptly set to work on munching the foodstuffs—a tasty portion of dark rye ripped from the half loaf, alternating with bites of the soft cheese that tasted as if it had been smoked. It was, Charlie thought, one of the most delicious things he'd ever tasted.

Of course, it wasn't until he'd devoured half of everything in the bag that he realized he'd been grunting, jamming the food into his mouth like a greedy child set loose at the candy counter. He belched quietly, looked around the otherwise empty cells, red-faced, as if the shadows might be appalled at his behavior.

As he chewed and swigged the water in the flask, he felt his head clear a bit. He was still bone-tired, but whatever cotton batting had been stuffed in his skull felt as though it was fading away. And as his head cleared he thought more and more about what the old lawman had told him.

Not much of it made sense at first, but Charlie knew he was nothing if not methodical, so he repeated the lengthy visit over and over in his head. And as he did so a few truths bubbled to the surface, until it became pretty obvious to him that the old man had been more than trying to tell him something, that there was obviously a hidden meaning behind the man's words.

The marshal wanted him to escape. Or at least try. But why would the man do that? The most obvious answer to Charlie would be that he would be lying in wait, ready to pounce on him, probably to lay him low and make himself out to be the hero before the townsfolk.

But somehow that didn't sound right to Charlie. Didn't sit right. It seemed to him that the old man was more of a straight shooter than that. Then why would he tell him to make a run for it? No, he thought. Couldn't be. But that was the line of thought that got Charlie to his feet.

He heard his knees pop, felt the stitches in his sides—felt as though he'd broken a rib or two again. And the side of his head throbbed when he walked. But he made his way to the strap-steel cell door.

He held up his hands before the steel, not yet touching it. The old man wanted him to escape so he could . . . what? Follow him? Had to be it. Had to know that Charlie knew where to find Haskell. Sure, all that talk the old man had done about avenging and getting revenge. He knew what Charlie had been thinking, hadn't he? Charlie almost smiled. Why, he'd practically told him what he was thinking without the old man asking him any real questions. He reckoned it wasn't the marshal's first day on the job.

And then what happened next did bring a smile to his big face. A wide smile, never mind that his jaw had been punched or kicked so hard it hurt like the Devil to smile. This was something worth grinning about.

Charlie gripped the steel of the door and rattled it—and the door banged loudly for as long as he rattled it. But it swung wider than it should, in fact. Because it was no longer locked.

Of course, when the old man had brought in the food sack, he'd shut the door, but had not locked it. Charlie hadn't heard the mechanism click into place.

He tugged lightly and the door swung outward a couple more inches, squawking slightly. Charlie's smile paused, froze in place, tempered now with caution. No matter the outcome, he knew he was being toyed with, for good or ill. He poked the door once with a big sausage finger. It opened farther, swung to a stop. He looked behind him, saw the last half of the food in and out of the sack on the cot. He hated to leave the door for fear it might swing shut and really lock him in there.

He pushed the door wider, winced as its squeak seemed to fill the otherwise still air in the cells, and quickly snatched the food and sack from the bed. Then he took a breath, stepped through the door, and stopped. No one shouted, no one shot at him, nothing much happened except his heart jittered more and he felt sweat bead on his lips and chin.

He walked on up the short hallway and there stood another door, the big one leading to the cells themselves. Here was the true test. If the marshal truly had arranged this escape for him, then this door would also be unlocked. If not, maybe he really was nothing more than a chatty old man who was forgetful with his keys. He had admitted, after all, that he'd been forgetful in the past, but could always find the lost item on his desk.

“Stop thinking so much, Charlie,” he rumbled to himself in the dark, and grabbed the steel ring handle of the door. It turned and stuck. His heart fell. He reset his palm on the handle and gave it a good twist, then shoved it forward. The heavy, ponderous door swung open slowly.

Charlie made his way forward, saw a short stairwell headed upward to what he guessed was the marshal's office, up out of the basement to the first story, street level. It took him a few long minutes to make his way up the narrow, angled set of steps—thick hard planks, well worn in the middle, set in steel supports.

In this manner he made his way upward to the first floor. Soon enough he found himself crouching low, the small food sack gripped in his left hand. He expected to be shot at, as he had expected moments before. But he heard no gunfire, no shouts, no rocks thrown through windows. Nothing, save for the occasional sound of a passing person on the dark street outside, the clopping of a horse whose rider was in no hurry to get to where he or she was going, the gravelly rolling of a buggy's wheels.

It was late and he heard each of these sounds but once. And footsteps, measured, perhaps hurried, crunching on the gravel outside in the street. He kept low and cast his glance about for a door that might lead to the back of the building. There, to his right, near the back corner of the room. Had to be it. He made his way over there, still keeping low, hoping it would guide him to a back alley where he might make his way out of town.

He wasn't sure what part of town he was in, but figured he would get a sense of direction once he could see the stars. And if it was cloudless, he'd take his chances. Anywhere but in the cell was the place he wanted to be.

By that time, he made it to the back door and found that it did lead to an alley. Despite the increasing cold of the autumn weather, dribbles of sweat ran down the bridge of his nose, tickled his scruffy beard. Once he committed to opening the door to the alley fully, he felt relief as the cool night air chilled him all over. Down four wide plank steps and to his right, he saw a low, jutting angle of roofline, stark against the blue-black sky. His breath plumed and he struggled to keep his breathing quiet and controlled.

Charlie felt sure his excitement was going to get him caught. Bound to be some snoopy townsfolk wandering around. He'd already heard a few on the street, not unusual for a town of this size. He cut his eyes again to the low roof. There was a gaping black hole beyond and . . . the smell of horse dung and old hay. Might be the stable for the lawmen? It was dark as the inside of a boot over there, but he kept to the edge of the building, low, and sidestepped toward the place.

The smells, always welcoming to a farm boy, grew stronger, and then something moved ahead of him in the shadows. Dang—his heart hammered like a pugilist on a hayseed at a county fair. Whatever it was moved again as he watched. Might mean that whoever it was wasn't afraid of him. Might mean whoever it was didn't even know he was there.

And then it snorted and Charlie knew it was a horse. He squinted into the night without moving, saw the faint outline of its back. It was saddled, tied to a rail there. But he didn't see a soul sitting on top of it.

He rubbed his big jaw, nibbled his bottom lip. He'd already been put in jail for murder—would horse theft really matter? Then the horse nickered, seemed to turn its head toward him. Charlie walked forward. Nah, couldn't be. He leaned closer.

“Nub?” He breathed the name quietly. The horse nickered again, tossed its head as if to say, Yes, yes, it's me. Your old horse. Now get a move on. . . .

That was all the invitation Charlie needed. He would normally hedge, look over every angle before making a decision like that. But this wasn't a normal situation. And somehow he didn't think his life would ever be normal again.

He risked it and moved out away from the building's deeper shadow, into the moon glow, then back into shadow as he approached the horse. He knew before he touched the horse that it really was Nub. Pap must have brought him along for Charlie.

Nah, he reasoned. He was Pap's horse anyway, so of course Pap would have brought the horse along. Charlie shook his head at being so foolish. Odds were the law had rounded up all the horses and gear belonging to anybody associated with the robbery.

He reckoned now that Pap was gone, the horse was more his than anyone's anyway. He'd been ridden by Charlie more than by any of the other fellas in the group; that much Charlie was sure of. And while in the eyes of the law that didn't make Charlie the horse's owner, he reckoned he'd be darn close. And besides, he told himself as he reached for the saddle horn, up until a few minutes before, he'd been in a jail cell, accused of murder. How could it get worse?

“Hey, boy, hey, now,” said Charlie in a low whisper, rubbing the horse's neck. He looked closer. Yep, it was the same saddle he'd used, and what was more, as his hand roved along it, he stopped, tensed when he felt was for certain his own bedroll and satchel. All snugged and cinched down tight behind the cantle. The old marshal had to be the one to have done it.

Then his hand stopped short again as it roved over the horse's back, across the seat. There was the polished butt of a long gun. His fingers played along it lower. Not a rifle, but a shotgun. Single barrel. His gut tightened. Same one that laid Pap low. Same one. Had to be. All of a sudden Charlie's instincts and cautions fluttered out whatever window might have been open in his mind. And in their place roosted the cold killing bird of revenge.

Sure, the old lawman might well be setting him up. But he'd gotten this far, and if the ruse continued to play in Charlie's favor, there might be shells for that shotgun nested somewhere in his satchel. And if not, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.