Ralph Compton Sixguns and Double Eagles Page 12

  “I reckon we’ll obey the sign and avoid the place,” said Wes. “Now we can ride west again.”

  “Perro far ahead,” El Lobo said.

  “He’ll change direction,” said Wes, “when he finds we’re not following.”

  But Empty did not return quickly enough to warn them.

  “You’re covered,” a cold voice said from behind them. “Rein up, or I’ll drop you.”

  Wes and El Lobo obeyed the order, turning their horses to face their challenger.

  “We’ve done nothing, Sheriff,” Wes said. “We’re passing through.”

  “You just think you are,” said Sheriff Denbow. “You’re under arrest for trespassing. Unbuckle your gunbelts and let them drop.”

  Wes and El Lobo did as ordered, and Denbow slung the gunbelts over his arm, careful to keep them covered with his Winchester.

  “Now dismount and lead your horses,” Denbow said. “You’re going to walk the rest of the way. Judge Hawk is waiting for you.”

  “Good,” said Wes grimly. “You’re out of line.”

  They reached the saloon, and Sheriff Denbow waited while Wes and El Lobo tied their horses. He then marched them into the saloon.

  “Face the bar,” Denbow said.

  Wes was nearest, and he threw himself into Denbow, seizing the wrist with the gun. El Lobo slammed a hard-driving right to Denbow’s head, and he dragged Wes to the floor with him.

  “That’s enough!” a voice shouted. “You’re covered.”

  El Lobo raised his hands and Wes got to his feet. Judge Hawk had a double-barrel shotgun leveled at them, and three of the men at the poker table were on their feet, Colts in their hands. Sheriff Denbow struggled to his feet, rubbing his head. Taking his Colt off the floor, he backed away from the bar, holding the weapon on Wes and El Lobo. Judge Hawk, the shotgun under his arm, went behind the bar.

  “Court is now in session,” said Hawk, rapping on the bar with the butt of his Colt. “You men will identify yourselves for this court.”

  “I’m Wes Stone, and he’s Palo Elfego,” Wes said, “and you have no right to bring us before your court.”

  “This is my town,” said Hawk, “and I have every right. You were brought in accused of trespassing. Now I am forced to add resisting arrest to the original charge. The Court finds you guilty on both counts. I am sentencing each of you to two years’ hard labor and fining you two hundred dollars. The court will seize your horses, saddles, and weapons to satisfy the fines and Court costs. Giddens, assist Sheriff Denbow in getting these men into irons and putting them to work. Court is adjourned.”

  Taking the shotgun, Judge Hawk entered his back-room office and closed the door. The second man—Giddens—had drawn his gun, joining Sheriff Denbow.

  “Out the door,” Denbow ordered, “and take it slow. One bad move, and you’re dead.”

  Denbow and Giddens marched Wes and El Lobo across the dirt street and along the bank of the river. Eventually they reached an arroyo which had once served as a runoff, but the river had cut a deeper channel and the arroyo was dry. It deepened, and reaching a dead end, they came upon the mouth of a tunnel. Amid piles of ore, there was a shack which served as a guard station. A man with a shotgun across his knees sat on a stone, his back to the wall, facing the open shaft. He got up, grinning, and spoke.

  “The judge is havin’ a big day in court, I reckon.”

  “Get the irons, Kelso,” said Denbow.

  Kelso entered the shack and returned with the shackles. He knelt before El Lobo, and then Wes, securing their ankles. He then sat down on the stone and took up the shotgun.

  “Into the tunnel,” Sheriff Denbow ordered.

  Wes and El Lobo shuffled forward, the cruel chains clanking as they walked. Only an occasional coal oil lantern offered any relief from the gloom. As they progressed deeper into the mine, there was the sound of picks and shovels.

  “Whitmire, Nance,” said Sheriff Denbow, “another pair of volunteers.”

  The two guards stepped out of the shadows, each armed with a Winchester. Beyond, in the feeble light from a coal oil lantern, five men labored. They paused, their eyes on the newcomers.

  “Back to work,” one of the guards said with a growl. “You’re gettin’ some help, but that don’t mean you can slack off. You that’s just come in, we ain’t got many rules. Lay down on the job, and you get a taste of the whip. You can choose a pick or shovel, as long as you bend your back to it. Stir up trouble of any kind, and Judge Hawk will add more time to your sentence. Now get to work.”

  Whitmire and Nance took up positions in the tunnel, their backs against the wall and their eyes on the laborers. Wes and El Lobo took up picks and began working alongside two other captives. One of the men, dirty and bearded, spoke.

  “What’s your sentence?”

  “We both got two years,” said Wes.

  “Don’t mean nothin‘,” said the bearded one. “I got six months, and I ain’t seen the sun since I don’t recollect when.”

  “Quince,” said one of the guards with a growl, “you know better. No yappin‘. One more time, and you get the lash.”

  Quince said no more, and in silence broken only by the consumptive coughing of one of the men, they labored on. Supper consisted of watery bean soup and corn bread. Only when they were totally exhausted did the day’s work cease. Bedding consisted of filthy blankets on the hard floor of a worked-out shaft. Their guards—Whitmire and Nance—left them with a warning.

  “You gents that’s just become our guests, don’t get no fancy ideas durin’ the night. A scattergun’s always watchin’ over the mouth of the shaft, and the hombre behind it can hear you comin‘. He’s got orders to shoot anything that moves.”

  Nobody spoke until Nance and Whitmire had gone.

  “Bastardos,” El Lobo said.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” said Quince. “It’s sixteen-hour days, bean soup and corn bread. I’m Quince, and these gents next to me is Kincer and Macklin. Ain’t had a chance to talk to them that come in this momin‘.”

  “Next to me is Palo Elfego, known as El Lobo,” Wes said, “and I’m Wes Stone.”

  There was a long silence before the remaining captives spoke. Finally Baker did.

  “We’re Baker and Olson, and we ain’t guilty of nothin’ except stoppin’ for a drink in that old buzzard’s saloon.”

  “Sí,” said El Lobo.

  Wes nudged him, lest he mention the obvious. Although Baker and Olson had been hired guns, this wasn’t the time and place for retaliation. They must all work toward some means of escaping their prison. Wes spoke.

  “There has to be a way out of here.”

  “Oh, there is,” said Quince. “Feet first. Once you’re dead, Judge Hawk don’t have no more use for you. Lemme tell you somethin’ about the judge and this outlaw town of his. There ain’t nothin’ to this mine but low-grade ore. He makes a go of it with slave labor, but that ain’t all. The old varmint sells protection to outlaws and killers. They pay Hawk right handsome.”

  “You know an almighty lot about it,” Wes said.

  “Yeah,” said Olson. “Trapped like a rat, how would you know?”

  “I once was one of Hawk’s outlaws,” Quince said, “but I got tired of a town with bad whiskey, a rundown hotel, and no women. So I rode out, but they caught me. Hawk said I owed him money, and I was convicted as a thief. I been in this hole ever since.”

  “Then you’ve never tried to escape?” Wes asked.

  “No use,” said Quince. “The only way out is through the mouth of the tunnel, and like you been told, there’s a scattergun guard day and night.”

  “There are mined-out shafts,” Wes said. “What about them?”

  “We work like dogs sixteen hours a day,” said Kincer, speaking for the first time. “We get just enough time to rest for another sixteen-hour day. There’s no time to dig our way out, and no way of knowing how far we’d have to dig.”

  “Best I could tell,” Wes said,
“this main shaft parallels the river. Surely some of these played-out shafts run toward the river.”

  “Couple of ‘em do,” said Quince, “and I know what you’re thinking. Dig through that riverbank, and we’d all drown like rats. You’d never make a hole big enough for a man to get out, before the river flooded the shaft.”

  “You can’t work this mine without blasting powder or dynamite,” Wes said. “Even if the river floods the shaft, we can blast a hole big enough to escape.”

  “We use dynamite,” said Kincer, “but you ain’t about to get your hands on any of it. Quince is the only one of us allowed to handle it.”

  “Yeah,” Quince said. “Dynamite or black powder, ain’t nobody better. But like Kincer says, we get dynamite only when we got to have it, and then one stick at a time. You got to stick to small charges, or risk bringin’ the tunnel down on your head.”

  “Sometimes,” said Wes, “a charge doesn’t blow. What happens to that dynamite?”

  “Nothin‘,” Quince said. “We generally lay a new stick alongside the one that didn’t fire. Sometimes they’ll both fire, sometimes just the one.”

  “Good,” said Wes. “You’ve just told me how we can get our hands on enough live dynamite to blast our way out of here.”

  Chapter 8

  “Foolin’ with dynamite that don’t fire is dangerous,” Quince said. “A man can get blowed all to hell.”

  “Maybe not,” said Wes. “How often does a charge fail to fire?”

  “Once ever’ week or two,” Quince said. “We blast every third day.”

  “So if a charge fails once a week, nobody gets suspicious,” said Wes.

  “Not usually,” Quince said. “I know what I’m doin‘. What you got in mind?”

  “Suppose you cut that fuse in half two or three inches from the end,” said Wes. “The fuse would sputter out, and it would look like another misfire, wouldn’t it?”

  “I reckon it would,” Quince said, “but I got nothin’ to cut the fuse. Have you?”

  “I have,” said Wes, “if you’re game. When you plant a second stick, you’ll have to get that doctored stick up your sleeve until you can conceal it somewhere.”

  “Quince,” Kincer said, “if you get caught, they’ll kill you.”

  “I reckon there’s worse things than bein’ dead,” said Quince, “but it’ll take some time to pull this off. If there’s too many misfires too often, they’re likely to wonder why.”

  “Hell,” Baker said, “it ain’t gonna work. We’re in leg irons. Hawk’s got enough men to ride us down.”

  “That’s something to consider,” said Wes. “How many outlaws are in Hawk’s bunch?”

  “Maybe thirty,” Quince said, “but when they’re off on a raid, there won’t be more than four or five here. Then there’s Hawk and his pet sheriff.”

  “Then we’ll have to choose a night when they’re away,” said Wes, “but how will we know?”

  “Whitmire and Nance will tell us,” Quince said. “They been with Hawk since he took over this hellhole, and they always take part in the raids. When they ain’t here in the mine, they’re off on a raid. Two other varmints will be watchin’ us.”

  “There is a way out, then,” said Wes. “Quince is willing, but what about the rest of you? Breathe a word of this, and it could be the death of us all.”

  “It seems almost too much to hope for,” Kincer said, “but I’m ready.”

  “Hell, yes,” said Baker and Olson in a single voice.

  “I’m near dead,” said Macklin, “but I’d like to breathe free air one more time, before I cash in. I’m with you.”

  Macklin’s words ended in a spasm of coughing, and for a time nobody spoke. Quince broke the silence.

  “We’re blasting tomorrow, and it’s been a while since a misfire. How do you aim for me to cut that dynamite fuse?”

  “I have a throwing knife sewn into my boot,” said Wes. “I’ll get it to you before the dawn.”

  “By God, don’t you get caught,” Olson said, “or we’ll all die here.”

  “I don’t aim to get caught,” said Quince. “You just better keep your mouth shut, or I might just forget that knife’s for cuttin’ dynamite fuse.”

  “Then we’ll choose a night, after work, when most of the outlaws are away.” Wes said. “That means there’ll be only the shotgun guard at the shaft’s entrance. I don’t figure he’ll come charging into the mine. If we use enough dynamite on that retaining wall, the shaft should be flooded.”

  “You can count on that,” said Quince, “and that’s the only hitch in your plan. There’s a chance that our charge won’t open enough of a hole for us to get out, but a big enough hole for the river to get in. We could drown like rats.”

  “Then we’ll just have to wait until we have enough dynamite to blast our way out,” Wes said. “Since you’ve worked with dynamite, we’ll have to depend on your judgment as to how much we’ll need.”

  “Not less than three sticks,” said Quince, “and we’ll have to be careful, choosin’ one of them worked-out shafts. I was in one of ‘em once, and I felt a little fresh air, I believe there might be a crevice or something, leadin’ to the outside.”

  “Can you lead me to that shaft in the dark?” Wes asked.

  “I reckon I’ll have to,” said Quince, “since they take away the lantern when the work day’s done. I been hidin’ a piece of candle behind a ledge, but I got no matches.”

  “I have some hidden away,” Wes said. “If you can find that piece of candle in the dark, I want to investigate that worked-out shaft.”

  “There ain’t enough candle to light our way,” said Quince.

  “We won’t use it for that purpose,” Wes said. “If there’s outside air comin’ in, we can tell by the candle’s flame. The rest of you stay here and keep quiet, while Quince and me take a look at that shaft.”

  “Vaya con Dios,” said El Lobo.

  Quince led the way, taking short shuffling steps lest the rattle of his leg irons alert the shotgun guard at the shaft’s entrance. Wes followed. He stumbled once, falling to his knees. Quince paused, listening, and Wes held his breath. They moved cautiously on, until Wes felt Quince’s hand on his arm. They stepped into a shaft that Wes believed led off in the direction of the river. Quince paused again, and feeling along the wall, found the piece of candle. He passed the stub of wax to Wes, and from the oilskin packet sewn into his boot, Wes produced a match. He lighted the match, cupping it in his hand until the wick of the candle caught. It produced a flickering light not much more effective than a firefly, but it quickly proved what Quince had suspected. The tiny flame leaped, leaning toward the dark shaft ahead of them.

  “By God,” said Quince in a hoarse whisper, “there’s air comin’ in somewhere.”

  “Let’s get as close to it as we can,” Wes whispered back.

  They crept on, and soon there was mud under their feet. The candle’s flame flared upward, becoming more excited. Again they paused, listening, and there was the unmistakable sound of dripping water.

  “We’ve learned what we need to know,” Wes whispered. “Not only is there an opening to the outside, there’s water dripping through. The shaft is below water level.”

  “That means we got one chance to blast our way out of here,” said Quince. “With the river nearly on top of us, it won’t take much of a hole to flood this passage.”

  “It’s all ridin’ on you and your know-how with the dynamite,” Kincer said. “You sure you can do it?”

  “I can do it,” said Quince confidently, “if we can get our hands on the dynamite. Three sticks should bring that roof down.”

  “Here’s the knife,” Wes said. “Slit the lining of your boot and hide it there. If you’re caught, we’re done for.”

  “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 l
ate. 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.