Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles (17 page)

“Not near as quick as I will be,” said Quince. “I've seen ‘em kill a man, whippin' him to death.”

 

By the time Empty discovered Wes and El Lobo had changed direction, it was already too late. Sheriff Hobie Denbow had them under the gun, marching them toward Hawktown. Empty followed as closely as he dared, and when Wes and El Lobo entered the mine, the hound remained in the brush, lest the shotgun-wielding guard discover him. It was near dark when Empty realized there was something wrong, that Wes and El Lobo wouldn't soon be leaving the forbidding hole in the canyon wall. Hungry, Empty went looking for food, and his nose led him to the rear of the rundown café. There he found only some unsavory scraps, but the old Mexican cook spotted him and came to the door.

“The
perro,
he is hungry, no?”

The voice didn't sound threatening, but this was a strange place, and Empty retreated. He paused, his eyes on the open door, for the cook had turned away. When he returned, he opened the door and placed a tin plate of food on the stoop.

“Eat,
perro,”
he said. “I go.”

He closed the door, and Empty waited only a few moments before wolfing down the food. He then crept into the shadows and waited. His benefactor opened the door and took the tin plate. Empty started back to the mine, prepared to keep a vigil there until Wes and El Lobo emerged. Thanks to the kindly Mexican cook, he wouldn't starve.

 

 

All too soon the morning came, bringing Whitmire and Nance with a lantern and their Winchesters.

“Time to bring down some more ore,” said Whitmire. “Quince?”

Knowing what was expected of him, Quince got to his feet and approached the guard. In the dim light from the lantern, Wes could see Whitmire hand over a single stick of dynamite.

“One match?” Quince said.

“One match,” said Whitmire. “If that one goes out, you get another. If the second one goes out, you get the lash. Now get at it. The rest of you move back this way.”

The rest of the captive laborers stepped toward the lantern, purposely grouping themselves between Quince and the two guards. Quince was nothing more than a shadow in the passage ahead. First there was the flicker of a lighted match, and then the sparks from a sputtering fuse. Quince retreated as rapidly as his chains would allow. But after only a few seconds the fuse sparked out.

“Damn,” Nance said. “Another bad one.”

“Here,” said Whitmire sourly, passing Quince another stick of dynamite.

Quince placed the second stick, lighted the fuse and retreated. The blast shook the very ground on which they stood, as a portion of the shaft ahead was torn loose and piled waist-deep on the passage floor.

“Now get busy,” Nance said.

The men took picks and shovels and began. Conversation was impossible, and Wes had no way of knowing if Quince had salvaged the original stick of dynamite, or where he had concealed it. The day dragged on. There was only a brief respite while they had their stale corn bread and bean soup. Halfway through what might have been midafternoon, one of Macklin's wracking coughs drove him to his knees.

“Get up,” Whitmire shouted. “Get up and get to work.”

But Macklin couldn't get up. The terrible coughing continued, his breath coming in rasping sobs. Removing the coiled lash from his arm, Whitmire laid it on the unfortunate Macklin's back. But when he drew back the vicious lash for a second blow, Wes caught his arm.

 

“You heartless son of a bitch,” said Wes, “the man's sick. He should have a doctor.”

“It's you that'll be needin' a doctor,” Whitmire said, driving his foot into Wes's groin. Wes doubled up with pain, and freeing the whip, Whitmire laid it on. The force of it drove Wes to his knees, and the beating continued until El Lobo leaped forward, seizing Whitmire's arm. But it stayed the lash for only a moment, for Nance had his Winchester cocked and leveled at El Lobo. Slowly El Lobo backed away, and when Whitmire's arm tired, he coiled the whip. Wes lay belly-down, breathing hard.

“Get up,” said Whitmire, “or you'll get more of the same.”

Wes struggled to his hands and knees, and then drunkenly to his feet, but he wasn't beaten. He said nothing, but when his eyes met those of the surly guard, Whitmire backed up a step, a chill climbing his spine. It was Nance who spoke.

“You two ain't been here but a day, and already you're shapin' up as troublemakers. I reckon we'll have to report you to Judge Hawk. What you just done ought to get you at least another year.”

“Couple of you drag Macklin out of the way,” Whitmire ordered.

Silently, Quince and Kincer carried the unconscious Macklin away from the debris that blocked the passage. The weary men, taking up picks and shovels, resumed their never-ending task. Macklin was left alone, seeming to grow weaker with each fit of coughing. He couldn't be roused for his suppertime ration of corn bread and bean soup. Kneeling beside him, Wes tried for a pulse, but found none. Macklin's painful breathing had ceased, and his skin was cold.

“He's dead,” said Wes.

“
Bastardos
,” El Lobo said.
“Los diablos
.”

“What's the jabberin' about?” Nance demanded. “Get Macklin on his feet.”

“You get him on his feet,” said Wes through gritted teeth. “He's dead.”

“Couple of you tote him to the guard shack at the mouth of the tunnel,” Nance said. “I'll follow, just so's you don't forget to come back.”

“Rest of you, back to work,” said Whitmire.

Quince and Kincer carried Macklin to the mouth of the mine, leaving him there. They then plodded back down the shaft, joining their unfortunate comrades. Finally the terrible day ended and the guards withdrew, taking the lantern with them. Macklin's death had been a blow to them all, and for a while nobody spoke. Kincer broke the painful silence.

“Quince, did you save the dynamite?”

“Why, hell yes,” said Quince irritably. “Didn't I say I would? Had it in my boot all day, just ruinin' my foot.”

“Find some dry place to hide it,” Wes said. “It'll take a couple of weeks to get the rest of it.”

“Well, I ain't in favor of waitin' that long,” said Baker. “Two more days of blasting, and we could have enough.”

“No,” Quince said. “Dynamite don't misfire that often. ”One day out of three, maybe, but not every time.“

“He's right,” said Wes. “It's our one chance to free ourselves of this dungeon, and we can't afford to arouse any suspicions.”

“Hell,” Olson said, “what gives you the right to order the rest of us around? I can't see you bein' all that smart, takin' a beating for a dead man.”

“Just call it my business,” said Wes, seizing Olson by the front of his shirt. “Maybe in some ways I'm not too smart, but I'm smart enough to have come up with a plan to break us out of here, and I won't have an ignorant varmint like you spoiling it.
Comprende?”

“Yes,” Olson growled. “I just ain't wantin' to wait.”

“Well, you're going to,” said Wes. “One fool move out of you, and you'll answer to me. If it means the difference between freedom and bein' stuck in this hole, I'll personally kill you without any regrets.”

He shoved Olson, who stumbled back against the passage wall.

“What he just said goes double for me,” Quince said.

“Me too,” said Kincer. “For a ticket out of here, I'll wait another month, if it takes that long.”

“It ain't gonna take that long,” Quince said. “I figure just about the time we get our hands on enough dynamite, Judge Hawk's bunch of renegades will be ridin' out on another lootin' spree.”

“I want out,” said Baker, “but I'll wait for the right time. Olson and me ain't been in here but a day. I reckon we don't have that much of a handle on the situation.”

“Damn it,” Olson said, “speak for yourself. I'm just goin' along because there's more of you than there is of me.”

“It's fortunate for you that we can't bust out without takin' you with us,” said Quince. “If it was so I could, I'd leave you in here to rot.”

“We all have a common problem,” Wes said, “and we can't afford fighting among ourselves. All of you know where I stand. Quince, get us a couple more sticks of dynamite, but do it as you safely can.”

Quince waited a week before taking a second stick of dynamite, and the misfire didn't seem to arouse the suspicions of Whitmire or Nance. In fact, they seemed preoccupied with something other than the men in their charge.

“Somethin's up,” Quince predicted. “I look for another raidin' party pretty soon.”

Three weeks after the start of their plan, Quince got the third stick of dynamite that was necessary for their escape. Two days later, Whitmire and Nance were absent, and two other guards took their place.

“They've rode off on a raid,” Quince whispered when they stopped at noon for their meager ration of corn bread and bean soup. “We got to make our break tonight.”

Near the end of their brutal workday, the earth shook with the rumble of thunder, as a storm moved in from the west. Their guards retreated, taking the lantern.

“By God,” said Kincer, elated, “with that thunder, them that's left here ain't likely to hear our blast.”

“That gives us an edge,” Quince said. “We got to make our break while that thunder's shakin' the world.”

“When we get out,” said Baker, “we'll still be in leg irons with no weapons.”

“Not for long,” Wes said. “I know Judge Hawk has a couple of shotguns, and I reckon the Colts he took from us. We'll pay him a visit.”

“Yeah,” said Olson. “You got a knife. Kill the old bastard in his bed.”

“We're not killing anybody, if we can avoid it,” Wes said. “I figure Hawk has keys to these leg irons, and we may never find them with him dead. Leave the judge to El Lobo and me. Once we've taken care of him, the rest of you can come in.”

“He owes us for the months we've worked this damn mine for nothing,” said Quince. “If he's got any gold, I aim to claim wages.”

“Yeah,” Kincer agreed.

“Wages, hell,” said Olson. “Let's take it all and split it.”

“Once we're out of here and have our weapons,” Wes said, “it's every man for himself. El Lobo and me won't be taking anything that wasn't taken from us. That includes our gold, our weapons, our saddles, and our horses. Those of you who take more than you deserve will be stealing. Whatever Hawk is—however crooked he is—he still might have the law on his side.”

“All the more reason to kill the old fool,” said Olson.

“I don't think so,” Quince said. “Aside from the right or the wrong of it, some of the outlaws will still be here, and shooting will warn them something's wrong. If we can break in on the judge without firing a shot, there's a chance we can ride away from here without any of us bein' hurt. Start a gunfight, and some of us may die.”

“That makes sense to me,” said Baker, “since we don't know how many of that bunch may still be in town. We better do it their way, Olson.”

Olson said nothing. Wes felt a hand on his arm. Quince was returning his knife. They followed Quince in single file as he started along the passage toward the shaft through which they hoped to escape.

“Here's the piece of candle,” Quince said softly. “If you'll light it, Stone, I'll use it to set off the dynamite.”

Wes lit a match, touching it to the candle's wick, and immediately the small flame did a dance, leaping toward the passage ahead. They followed Quince only a short distance, and they could hear the dripping of water somewhere ahead. Again thunder rumbled, shaking the earth.

“This is far enough,” said Quince.

Quince moved on, the flickering flame of the candle growing smaller as he neared the end of the shaft. Then there was a shower of sparks from a sputtering fuse, and the sound of chains, as Quince hurried along the passage. When the explosion came, they were flung to the floor, showered with earth and fragments of stone.

“On your feet!” Quince shouted.

They were barely in time, for the river rushed in, and they were suddenly waist-deep in water, fighting to avoid being dragged back into the flooded shaft. Once they were free of the hole they had blown in the riverbank, they waded to shore. Jagged golden fingers of lightning danced across the western horizon, followed by rumbles of almost continuous thunder. The wind whipped sheets of rain into their faces as they stumbled along the riverbank. In the distance, when lightning flared, they could see the distant shapes of buildings which were Hawktown. There was a single pinpoint of light, and Wes led the way toward it. It proved to be the saloon, and with Wes leading the way, the men circled around to come in from the side, away from the light that shone through the front window. Taking advantage of a flash of lightning, Wes held up his hand for the others to halt. When he again moved toward the saloon, only El Lobo followed. Slowly they worked their way to the window through which the light shone. Just inside the door, his chair tilted against the wall, sat Sheriff Hobie Denbow. His hat was tilted over his eyes, and a shotgun leaned against the wall beside him. Wes tried the door, and when it opened there was a squeak. Denbow slammed his chair to the floor, but before he could get his hands on the shotgun, Wes hit him. The chair toppled over with a crash, and like a cat Denbow was on his feet. The door to Judge Hawk's office swung open, revealing Hawk in his nightshirt. He held a shotgun, but El Lobo had been waiting beside the door. He seized the shotgun, wrenching it from Hawk's hands. He then turned the weapon on Hawk, as Wes and Denbow fought. Wes ducked Denbow's right, bringing up one of his own, slamming Denbow against the wall. As Denbow slid down to a dazed sitting position, Wes took the other shotgun, holding it on Denbow. Reaching behind him, Wes shoved the door open, allowing the light to penetrate the rainy darkness. It was signal enough for the drenched men who waited, and they filed into the saloon.