Black Ransom, page 6
“C’mon, Burrows,” Buck Leighton said woodenly, no emotion, no expression, doing his job. “Gotta take yuh back to the jail ’til the wagon arrives.”
Ehron Lee looked bewildered. “Melinda,” he muttered numbly. Then with more emphasis: “Can’t I say good-bye to my wife?”
Buck gave his head a slow, regretful shake. “Don’t advise it, Burrows. We gotta get yuh ready. Don’t think you want your woman to be watchin’ that. ’Sides, you don’t got a whole lotta time.”
Back at the jailhouse, Ehron Lee understood why the sheriff had discouraged him from seeing his wife. She would have watched the humiliating process of him being locked in shackles, a mandatory precaution for “condemned men” to prevent any attempt at escape along the trail.
He would be the sole occupant of the prisoner wagon. He was about to begin his long journey to Hell’s Doorway, accompanied by the driver and a shotgun-carrying guard.
He was locked inside the transport compartment: a cell on wheels, which was a primitive enclosure, surrounded by metal walls with two narrow windows, barred with rows of sturdy but weathered metal slats. Ehron Lee felt like a caged animal, and would feel even more like one as the wagon started its deliberately slow ride down the main street, where he was gawked at by citizens, as if he were some wild beast on exhibit. Many who had been at the trial were now sufficiently drunk to step from the saloon and shout cruel comments. He was further humiliated when some of the unruly boys of the town picked up chunks of hardened mud from the street and tossed them at the windows, jeering and taunting the prisoner.
Ehron Lee didn’t even try to see if Melinda was among the onlookers. It would have been too much to bear.
And for Melinda to see him now would be too much for her.
But suddenly she was there, rushing through the crowd toward the wagon.
She walked with quick strides to keep pace with the rolling wheels. She reached out and pressed her hand against the bars, tightly, desperately, as the prisoner wagon rolled down the street.
Ehron Lee fought back his tears, though Melinda’s were flowing freely.
“Ehron Lee,” she said with a tremor in her voice, “this isn’t right. It isn’t fair… . Why couldn’t they see that?”
“You just stay strong, Melinda. I’ll be back,” he assured her staunchly, mustering as much conviction in his voice as he was able. “Just remember that. Trust me. I’ll be back.”
He pressed his own hand against the bars, curling his fingers through the opening to touch her hand, but they connected only for an instant …
And then Abigail was behind Melinda, taking her by her slender shoulders and pulling her away from the wagon, her eyes shooting daggers at Ehron Lee, at the same time confirming her promise. She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t have to.
The look of triumph was etched into her expression.
THREE
THE RIDE TO Rockmound Prison would take four days, weather and trail conditions permitting, the prisoner wagon traveling north across the coarse flatlands and requiring navigation through the rock-strewn trails of a narrow canyon passage that was bordered by large walls of sandstone. The trail also bordered Navajo country, and though the threat of an uprising had successfully been thwarted with many of the tribe rounded up and sent on the Long Walk to Fort Sumner, there was always the chance they might run into renegades still at large and known to occasionally scout these parts, thus the other reason for the shotgun guard’s presence. There were occasional rest stops, where the driver and his riding companion would take a break to water the horses and to stretch their legs, but this was a privilege not extended to Ehron Lee. That was given only when Ehron Lee urgently expressed the need to relieve himself, which wasn’t often because he was given only minimal water and was mostly dehydrated. The midday sun was especially oppressive and Ehron Lee’s thirst was constant.
The driver and shotgun guard were resentful. Although no special privilege was ever given to any prisoner they transported, they took out their specific displeasure of this trip on Ehron Lee. Per their contracts, both were paid “by the head” and on a typical run from other parts of the territory, they carted no less than six prisoners to Rockmound. Cullen County posed another problem. Outside of Ehron Lee’s conviction, as of late there had been no crimes in the county serious enough to warrant “hard labor” incarceration at Rockmound. The judge’s order stated that Ehron Lee’s sentence could not officially begin until he was delivered to the prison, and it would not do for Ehron Lee to sit out time in the town jail while waiting, perhaps for months, for a sufficient roundup of county felons.
Thus the long and potentially dangerous ride they were undertaking guaranteed the two men only minimal pay. This sat well with neither, and their sadistic comments and actions directed toward their “passenger” were their way of showing it.
Biscuits were the only food provided to Ehron Lee, tossed at him through the bars when the wagon was stopped, like he was a dog expected to fetch. The biscuits were dry and hard and tasteless, but he ate them if only to keep up his strength. It seemed to him that the journey was a way of preparing him for what he was soon to endure at the prison.
A form of medieval conditioning.
And in that it succeeded. His resentment grew until long before he reached the gates of Rockmound, Ehron Lee Burrows had already become a changed man. Years of bloody combat in the Civil War had not affected him as severely or as rapidly as these last weeks, where he had become the victim of injustice in Justice.
They had condemned an innocent man to a corner of purgatory, their unfair judgment not only taking away his freedom, but threatening to take from him the only person he had ever truly loved … along with a child he conceivably might not ever see. Their judgment had left his bride at the mercy of a vindictive sister.
Indeed, he could physically feel the hatred well up inside him, like an advancing and virulent disease. But rather than fighting it, Ehron Lee determined he could benefit from that hate. It might just be the tool he’d need to survive the next five years at Hell’s Doorway.
*
A man named George Watson was superintendent of the prison. A bald, darkly tanned, beetle-browed individual who sported a thick mustache, which crawled down both sides of his face, Watson was an intimidating presence with an undeniable military bearing, though in fact he had never served in the army. He was a former lawyer turned prosecutor whose enmity for felons ran deep. As a young, idealistic defense attorney, he’d used his ambitious legal tactics to free an alleged murderer named Billy Burkett, who was later found to be guilty of the crime, but only after he and his gang had slaughtered a young pioneer family, including three children. While some of the gang were subsequently apprehended and hanged, Burkett himself had never been caught, and it continued to trouble Watson’s conscience as he contemplated the further carnage that might result from his own fancy courtroom maneuverings. From that point onward, Watson relentlessly focused his skills on punishing, not protecting, accused felons. He was proud of his many convictions that had sent criminals to the gallows. No murderer who had ever been prosecuted by him had escaped the noose.
It was his impressive record and his determination to see lawbreakers properly punished that had earned him his appointment at Rockmound Prison. It was a job he relished.
As was his custom, Superintendent Watson was standing out on the grounds to meet the new inmate when the wagon finally rolled into the forbidding walls of the prison. The driver handed Watson the necessary papers and then brought Ehron Lee from the back of the wagon. His shackles were removed and tossed back into the wagon to await the next unfortunate prisoner to be transported to Hell’s Doorway.
Ehron Lee’s muscles were stiff and sore from spending so much time in a crouched or sitting position. He was achy and bruised from being jostled about on the rough canyon trails. It was difficult for him to obey Watson’s order to stand erect, though with effort he did manage to straighten his posture in the man’s presence. Adding to his discomfort, Ehron Lee was exhausted from the intense, near-claustrophobic heat he had been forced to endure during the long ride. He was lightheaded and nearly faint from dehydration. Only his defiance kept him from collapsing.
The driver and the guard were invited inside the superintendent’s quarters for some refreshments before starting on the long ride back, but the driver declined for both of them. The prison gave him the willies, and he was eager to be away from there. He knew he’d be returning soon enough with more human cargo.
Sucking on the long, thin stem of a pipe, Watson looked Ehron Lee over with a trained, critical eye, determining what type of prisoner he would be. He prided himself on his ability to instantly reach into a man’s soul; it had come from years of practice dealing with criminals. And once he spoke, Watson made it clear to Ehron Lee that the conditions the new prisoner was about to experience would not be pleasant regardless of his attitude—for on introduction he referred to the prison not by its official title, but by one of its feared nicknames:
“Burrows, welcome to Cartridge Hill,” he said, forming the words around his pipe.
He elaborated—with emphasis, “Reckon you know why we call it that. But in case you don’t …” He pivoted and pointed to all four corners of the surrounding walls. Armed prison guards patrolled the catwalks, keeping a vigilant eye on activities both inside and beyond the compound.
“That’s all they do all day, every day, them and those that relieve ’em,” Watson said, a note of pride in his voice. “Just stand up there waitin’ for a prisoner to make a break. They get mighty antsy doin’ the same thing over and over, so when they see somethin’ amiss … well, they take full advantage of the diversion. And just so you should be knowin’, each of ’em is a crack shot. Target practice is pretty much their sole recreation. You’ll see a lot of guns ’round here, Burrows. When you work, when you eat. Even during break period. Chances are within a coupla weeks you’ll even be seein’ guns in your dreams.”
Ehron Lee listened but did not acknowledge. He doubted he’d be allowed to speak in any case, unless he was asked a direct question. He hoped he wouldn’t be. He didn’t think he’d be able to offer much of a reply beyond a rasp; his mouth was dry and his throat was parched.
Flanked by two uniformed guards, Ehron Lee followed Superintendent Watson as he started across the sandy grounds. Watson continued speaking while they walked, though they were not words Ehron Lee particularly cared to hear.
“Wasn’t sure at first where we’d put you, Burrows. Sometimes we get so crowded here we’ve had to fit four to a cell. But some room was made for you yesterday; three men tried to break out. Two were killed. The third … well, let’s just say you won’t be meetin’ him right away. So you’ll be bunkin’ with just one other for the time being. ’Round here that’s considered a luxury.”
Superintendent Watson took another sweeping look around the compound. He wore a satisfied expression as he surveyed his “kingdom.”
“Understand you were a soldier,” he said crisply. “Lieutenant in the Union army. Impressive, but holds no merit here. The only uniform we recognize here is the one you’ll be issued and won’t have no fancy hardware pinned to it. You must know something ’bout discipline, though. Well, that’s fine because it won’t take long for you to discover that discipline and obedience are two qualities we insist upon here.”
Ehron Lee noted the strange yet telling smile offered him by the superintendent.
“Mr. Brady, you’ll take charge of the prisoner,” Watson then said, turning to one of his men, who was chewing aggressively on a wad of tobacco. He was a barrel-chested man with sparse, close-cropped hair. The white glare of the sun reflected noticeably off his pink scalp.
The man named Brady expectorated a brown stream of juice, half saluted, and said, “Yessir,” before giving Ehron Lee a nudge with his rifle barrel to get him moving.
Watson broke away from the men and headed toward his office. Ehron Lee, prodded forward by Mr. Brady, was directed toward another building.
Before Ehron Lee would be taken back to the superintendent to officially be read the rules of Rockmound, he first had to exchange his clothing for prison issue. He couldn’t truly be considered a convict until he was dressed as one. There was no consideration of proper fit; Ehron Lee was of medium size and thin, so he was thrown a bundle in approximation of his height and weight.
Once he was outfitted in his gray, black-striped uniform, Ehron Lee was escorted by Mr. Brady to the superintendent’s office, where Watson flipped through the papers prepared by the court.
A look of familiarity crossed his stern features as he came to an item recorded on one page, and he lifted his close-set, piercing eyes toward Ehron Lee.
“I see here you served under Henry Halleck at Corinth,” Watson said, phrasing his words in a way that did not encourage an answer. Nor did he elaborate the reason for his comment.
In any case, it was quickly dismissed as Ehron Lee stood silently and motionlessly for twenty minutes while Watson slowly and precisely explained the rules and regulations of daily prison life. Ehron Lee listened without really hearing. What did catch his attention was a photograph sitting off to the side of the superintendent’s desk. It was of a youngish woman, dark-haired, attractive, whom Ehron Lee imagined was the superintendent’s daughter. Although there was hardly a resemblance between the woman encased in the ornate silver-edged frame and his wife, Ehron Lee felt a twinge of hurt, as the photograph was a reminder of Melinda.
Watson concluded his briefing with: “It’s after six and you missed tonight’s supper. Y’might as well go direct to your cell. Breakfast is at five a.m. Workday starts at six.” He focused his attention on some other paperwork laid out on his desk and added curtly, “Dismissed, Burrows.”
Ehron Lee was taken to another building. There were three such enclosures, each situated on the north, east, and west sides of the compound. Each was a long, rectangular, one-level structure comprised of large chunks of granite with rows of about twenty evenly spaced barred windows all facing south, but opening upon a view that extended no farther than the high walls of the prison. Each block was supervised by a captain. Mr. Brady was the captain in charge of the block that Ehron Lee would be occupying.
The interior was dark and depressing. The cells were separated into sections of four units, with each unit walled off from the next. A heavy wooden door with a sliding bolt lock on the outside provided entry to each. A guard was responsible for supervising each of these units. There was a narrow corridor running lengthwise between the entrance to the block and the cells, and on the width of wall between the first two cells was a wooden peg on which hung a large ring holding four oversized metal keys, positioned so that the ring was far out of reach from either of the two cells.
The cell itself was small and cramped, measuring eight feet by seven feet, and an unpleasant odor permeated the air. There were three bunks fastened to the walls by chains, two on one side and one on the other. If as the superintendent said there was occasion to fit four men into a cell, one would have to sleep on the floor.
Once Mr. Brady turned the key, locking the new arrival inside the cell, Ehron Lee noticed his cell mate, lying on the top bunk, on his side facing the wall. He was lying very still, didn’t even seem to be breathing. Maybe he was asleep, maybe not. Ehron Lee was in no rush to get acquainted and so just sat himself on the bunk against the opposite wall.
After a while the man spoke.
“You don’t gotta mouse around. I ain’t sleepin’.”
Slowly, he shifted his body and turned to face Ehron Lee. At first his face was partially shadowed, but it soon came full into the fading light of day.
Ehron Lee’s first glimpse of the man almost caused his breath to catch in his throat.
He had witnessed all manner of terrible sights during the war: mutilation, disfigurement. After a while, if only to maintain his sanity, he’d become immune to most. But the face looking at him now truly chilled him.
It didn’t even resemble a face, really, but rather, a ghastly mask.
The flesh was as white as a freshly laundered sheet. The only coloring evident was a long, brownish-red scar that stretched from the far corner of the right eye down to the upper lip. The eye drooped, veered outward, and had a twitch, suggesting that it had just escaped being permanently put out. A black bowler rested atop the head, under which long white hair, almost translucent, flowed straight and stringy over the shoulders and halfway down the back.
Gradually the man sat himself upright, his short legs dangling over the side of his bunk. He didn’t say anything for a long while, just observed his new cell mate intently, boring into him with pale, lifeless eyes.
Ehron Lee tried not to appear ill at ease, and he kept shifting his eyes so they would not be drawn particularly to the disfiguring scar. The wound was deep and evidently had never properly healed. Perhaps because of the prominent scar and affected eye, the man’s face seemed sort of lopsided.
His odd appearance made it difficult to determine his age: maybe late teens, early twenties. Whether he was, in fact, a younger man or if it was due to his strange condition, there was no suggestion of whiskers or facial hair; outside of the scar, his skin was smooth and shadowless.
Physically, he had a thin, weak build that suggested he could be bested in any fight. Yet despite his apparent frailty, he exuded a malevolent presence.
Finally, one side of his mouth started to widen in a strange semblance of a smile. The injury to his upper lip had clearly caused some nerve damage as the other half of his mouth seemed almost immobile, making his attempt at a smile appear more cruel and cynical than friendly.
