Slocum's Breakout (5 page)

Both Valenzuela and Murrieta joined him.

“Well done,
novio
,” Valenzuela congratulated him. He laughed in a way that irrationally irritated Slocum. He didn't like being reminded that Conchita considered him her lover, although it was true. “She will reward you well.”

“Silencio,”
Murrieta said. He pushed them through the open doorway. “We must not betray ourselves now.”

Slocum agreed with the son of Joaquin Murrieta. The less said now, the better.

They had come out on the west side of the prison. San Francisco Bay lapped on the shoreline to their left, giving them a constant beacon so they wouldn't be distracted from their escape and walk in circles. In the darkness Slocum knew this was a distinct possibility. The last thing he wanted was to end up where they had started. The only way off the outjut of land into the Bay was westward. Then they might swing around and get down to Tiburon and take the ferry across to Oakland. Better to go farther south still and find a way across the Golden Gate to San Francisco, if that ferry wasn't running at night.

He stopped and stared at their striped canvas prison garb and knew that wouldn't happen until they changed clothes. The wooded area thinned as they ran farther west.

“I need to get my bearings,” Slocum said.

“What for? We can go only this way. In any other we would have to swim,” said Murrieta.

“I cached some clothes and guns,” he said.

“What?” Murrieta stopped and stared at Slocum.

“Why would you do such a thing unless . . .”

“Unless he got into prison to break me out,” José Valenzuela said proudly. “Conchita did not find a fool for this dangerous jailbreak.”

“You were sent?” Murrieta shook his head in disbelief. “I have planned for months how to escape but never did I have anyone outside helping me.”

“You didn't need it,” Slocum said, slapping him on the back. “You had me. I've got clothes for me and José.”

“Conchita raided my wardrobe, eh?” Valenzuela laughed heartily. “I must see how she chose to dress me.”

Slocum stared at Valenzuela but could not see the man's face in the dark. Something about the way he spoke of his sister put Slocum on edge.

“They are after us,” Murrieta said, turning to look at their back trail.

“I hear nothing,” Valenzuela said. “Come, let us keep going, find those clothes Jarvis has told us of.” He reached out, made his hand into a gun, and pretended to fire. “I would also have a six-shooter in my hand once more. You have a six-shooter for me?”

Slocum ignored Valenzuela and went to stand beside Murrieta. The wind blowing through the trees masked much of the sound. What wasn't robbed by the wind was swallowed by the sound of waves, but Slocum heard a single yelp from a dog.

“Bloodhounds,” he said.

“They found the hole sooner than I thought they would,” Murrieta said. “We should have taken more time and hidden the doorway better.”

Slocum knew they should have done a lot of things differently, but there hadn't been time. He had drawn an ace when Doc stopped Mick from taking a swing at him. But the dark of the moon had dictated escape tonight or waiting for a month. They might have been successful escaping during a storm, but the drought had spread north. Thunderstorms were a rarity at this time of year.

“We didn't have a choice,” Slocum said. He looked around for some way to cover their scent. He had hoped to find a stream or other river. He suspected the closest river that would have been useful hiding their escape lay miles to the north. The Petaluma River might as well have been in Kansas for all the good it did them.

“Can we make it to the shoreline?” he asked.

“It is too far, but that is the only way to throw off the dogs,” Murrieta said.

“They come closer!” José Valenzuela heard the baying dogs for the first time. “What are we to do?”

“Due south,” Slocum said, trying to get the lay of the land squared away in his head. They might be a mile away. If they hurried, there was a chance—slim—of staying out of the clutches of the guards so eagerly pursuing them.

“They are angling toward the Bay,” Murrieta said. “They will find us before we can get a boat or swim away.”

“There is no way to swim,” Valenzuela said sharply. “The water is too cold. And there are sharks!”

“I will lead them away,” Murrieta said. “You go to your dying father,” Murrieta said to Valenzuela.

“You can't—” Slocum started.

“What can they do to me they have not done before?”

“I'll get you out,” Slocum promised.

Valenzuela laughed harshly, and Procipio Murrieta grabbed Slocum's hand and shook it. Then he hurried straight south.

“Come on,” Slocum said. “He's buying us some time, but it won't be much.”

He headed back westward. He had left clothing and weapons at the junction of the road leading to San Quentin and the road working its way north toward Oregon. He longed to get on a horse and see what the lovely Pacific Northwest had to offer after the dry California countryside—and its prison.

Slocum dug like a gopher, kicking up a cloud of dirt and leaves as he hunted for the package he had left at the crossroads. The darkness didn't help, but he had been cagey enough to hide the clothing and six-shooters near a distinctive rock beside the road.

“Hurry, they are coming. I feel it in my bones.”

Slocum looked up from his digging and saw Valenzuela silhouetted against the starlit sky. The man looked nothing like his sister, but Slocum wasn't going to pry. There might have been different mothers. Childbirth was a dangerous undertaking, although the Valenzuelas seemed to live well and could probably afford a decent midwife. Still, life was uncertain, and he had no idea about how rich the family really was. All he knew was that he had helped Conchita when her carriage had broken down, and one thing led to another.

That had been almost three weeks ago. The pressure of time and getting José back to see their father before the old man died weighed heavily on him. If he hadn't gotten into the fight with Mick on that first day, they might have escaped earlier. As he returned to unearthing the oilcloth-wrapped package, Slocum realized that he was belittling himself for no reason. The escape had occurred because of a half-dozen small things. Doc had sacrificed his chance to escape so that the other three could make it to freedom. Murrieta had similarly given Slocum and Valenzuela the gift of escape by diverting the guards chasing them.

He wondered about the son of California's most famous outlaw. It hardly seemed possible Procipio Murrieta was guilty of anything, but Slocum had known some cold-blooded killers in his day who were sweet as brown sugar until someone crossed them. The little contact he'd had with Murrieta hinted that this wasn't the way the man was, but he had been sent to San Quentin for a reason.

Slocum snorted, wiped dirt from his eyes, and went back to digging. Hell, he had been inside the prison, and he hadn't committed any crime. A slow smile came to his lips. He had done his share of thieving and robbing and even killing when necessary, but nothing that would have qualified him for such a grim penitentiary. The smile faded when he realized he might have been hanged if the law caught up with him and twigged to the fact he was a judge killer.

After the war, he had returned to Slocum's Stand in Calhoun, Georgia, wanting nothing more than to recuperate from his wounds and begin farming again. His ma and pa were long dead, and his brother Robert had died at Pickett's Charge. He had lost himself in work until a carpetbagger judge had trumped up a phony tax lien and had ridden out with a gunman to seize the property.

He had gotten the property—a grave down by the springhouse. His gun slick had been buried a few feet lower on the hill, and John Slocum had ridden out, followed by a warrant for his arrest. Killing a judge, even a Reconstruction thief of a judge, was a federal crime.

But Slocum doubted any lawman in the San Francisco area had seen that wanted poster. All anyone inside San Quentin knew was that he was Jasper Jarvis.

His fingers closed on the buried package. He tugged, got the parcel out, and quickly opened it. His clothes and Colt Navy were safely inside. He shucked off his canvas uniform, wanting to get rid of the striped outfit as quick as he could.

“There, she chose well,” Valenzuela said, reaching over Slocum's shoulder to hold up a fancy embroidered shirt. It was gaudy and would attract attention. Slocum started to say something, then stopped. Perhaps this was for the best. Let José mouth off and make a spectacle of himself. That might be the last person a marshal would look at.

He quickly pulled on his jeans and stood brushing off dirt that speckled his shirt and Stetson. Only when he was sure he was clean enough to pass casual muster did he strap on the cross-draw holster and settle his six-gun in it.

Valenzuela looked at him, his eyes went wide, then narrowed.

“You wear that like a man accustomed to using it,” he said, pointing at Slocum's ebony-handled pistol.

“There wasn't any way I could leave horses. We've still got a posse on our trail.”

“A posse?” Valenzuela laughed. “You sound like an outlaw. Inside, I thought you to be . . .”

“What?” Slocum turned and squared off.

Valenzuela shrugged and said, a smile curling his lips, “
Un pata cojo
. I was wrong. I must commend Conchita on her choice in men when we see her. She has told you where to meet?”

“I have no idea where to find her other than in your house where your pa's dying,” Slocum said. The pitch black hid Valenzuela's reaction, but Slocum thought the man recoiled at this. “You know how we can get horses?”

“We are across the Bay from San Francisco,” Valenzuela said. “We must cross the Golden Gate. Or we could go north, circle until we get to Oakland, and take that ferry. They did not place San Quentin where it was convenient for any who dared escape.”

Slocum listened hard for the sound of pursuit but heard only the sounds of night and the distant lapping of waves.

“To the Bay,” he said. “We can find a boat that'll take us across.” He didn't want to leave a trail. Stealing horses suited him, but not now. The owner would complain to the law, and it wouldn't take much imagination on the part of any of the San Quentin guards to know the thieves were their escaped prisoners.

“They might not know who has escaped,” Valenzuela said.

It was Slocum's turn to smile. They thought Jasper Jarvis had broken out. Then he realized that he could tell them he was John Slocum until he was blue in the face, and it wouldn't matter. They cared less about the man than the crime he committed. As John Slocum, he wasn't supposed to be in prison, but they saw only a ledger entry. Slocum imagined Sergeant Wilkinson running his stubby, ink-stained finger down a column of names and matching the phony name he found with the very real face of the man he had checked into the prison.

“Let's get the hell out of here.” Slocum started walking just off the road. The shoulder was smooth enough so he wouldn't stumble on many rocks in the dark, but being away from the middle of the road gave him the chance to dive for cover if he heard the search party coming. As he walked, he kept an inventory of places to hide, spots where he might hole up and shoot it out. No matter what, he wasn't going back into that prison.

After an hour hiking, they came to the shoreline. In the distance he saw San Francisco. Gaslights burned brightly on either side of a dead black area—the Barbary Coast. That blight on the city held the toughest gangs, the most dangerous outlaws, the worst of the worst. If necessary, Slocum could disappear into that city within a city, but he preferred to travel through the town to the south part of the city itself where Conchita waited with her dying father.

If the old man hadn't already kicked the bucket. From all the lovely woman had said, he was close to opening death's door when Slocum agreed to get José out of San Quentin. It had been ten long days, and a great deal could happen in that span when you were nearly dead. Slocum wished he had seen the old man to get a better idea of his condition, but Conchita had insisted her pa remain in a dark room and not be disturbed. All Slocum had heard were asthmatic wheezing and occasional moans.

Slocum scratched bug bites he had received while in the solitary confinement cell, then reached out and grabbed Valenzuela by the arm. To his credit, the man did not cry out but instead looked to where Slocum pointed.

Two men sat on rocks, bent over as they concentrated on some hidden chore. Nearby they had secured a rowboat that would serve nicely to cross the Golden Gate to the city.

“We should kill them,” Valenzuela whispered. “They will notify the prison if we do not.”

Slocum wasn't averse to killing when his life depended on it, but these two fishermen didn't deserve such a fate just because they owned a boat he wanted to use.

“Let me talk to them,” Slocum said. “Come quick if you hear gunfire.”

“But—”

Slocum gave Valenzuela no chance to argue. He strode forward confidently, sure he could deal with a pair of men who dragged fish out of the Bay. A few yards away, he stopped. The men were heavily armed. He saw shotguns resting against the rocks where they worked to repair a rope. Both had knives in their hands, and he was sure they had pistols jammed into their belts. They were armed to the teeth.

“Law's on its way,” Slocum called. Both men grabbed for their shotguns.

“Who're you?” demanded one of the men. Whatever they were,
fishermen
didn't describe their occupation.