Yuma Prison Crashout, page 17
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Two convicts Fallon did not know had found a spot near the sally port and appeared to be shooting marbles. The clouds from the monsoon had passed on, and the sun shone hot and bright as it dipped toward the prison walls. Warden Gruber rounded the corner and headed toward the sally port when one of the marble players rose, removed his hat, and said in a respectful voice, “Mr. Gruber, might I have a word with you, sir?”
“About what, McMahon?”
“Well, sir, I have five more years before I’m out, and I was wondering about getting a position in the shoe factory in town.”
“You want to be a cobbler?” Gruber shifted his notepad under his arm and against his side.
“It’s a trade. I thought I could set up a store in Wickenburg when I get out.”
“Commendable, McMahon. What experience do you have in the shoe business?”
“None, sir. But a man can learn a lot in five years if he puts his mind to it.”
“Also commendable.” Gruber looked at the other marble player, who was just beginning to stand and pocket the marbles. “You could learn a lot from McMahon, Lopez, other than how to play marbles.”
“Putting shoes on another man’s feet won’t do me no good, Gruber,” the Mexican said in an acid voice. “I’m in the Hell Hole for life.”
McMahon shuffled his feet and asked, “So I know that shoe factory in town has only a few openings for prisoners. How do I go about getting in it, sir?”
Gruber shrugged. “I will talk to Mr. Sandoval when next I visit Yuma, McMahon.”
McMahon smiled. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, kindly.”
Gruber gave Lopez a hard stare, and turned toward the gate. That’s when McMahon and Lopez rushed alongside him, each grabbing one of the prison superintendent’s arms and jerking him back. Almost simultaneously, two other convicts charged toward him. One, a skinny man with a pale face, had a knife he had manufactured, and he put the blade against the warden’s throat. The other, a burly Mexican with India ink marks covering his arms, held what appeared to be a railroad spike, its edges filed down, and he jammed the spike into the gut of a prison guard—the one named Gates—as he rushed to assist the warden. The big Mexican held Gates upright, using him as a shield, and turned toward the guard tower from which Captain Allan aimed the Sharps rifle.
“Open the damned gate,” McMahon shouted, “or we cut the warden in half.”
“And Señor Gates will die soon eef you no do as we say,” the burly Mexican demanded.
Fallon saw the blood gushing out of the vicious wound the railroad spike had made.
Prisoners hurried to the scene, forming a semicircle around the four prisoners and their two hostages. They kept a lot of ground, however, between them and the men trying to crash out of Yuma. From the rear, Preacher Lang began a prayer for the deliverance of everyone. Fallon figured that the killer did not mean Gates or Gruber.
McMahon saw Fallon and warned, “Just go back to reading your book, bucko.”
Fallon nodded and opened up the battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
“Open the damned gate!” McMahon yelled.
“For God’s sake, Charles!” Gruber cried out. “Do as he says.”
Fallon felt as though he were back in Joliet, hearing Captain Daggett’s screams.
“That’s right, Gruber!” McMahon said. “And tell your boys with their rifles and that damned machine gun that one shot gets your throat sliced from ear to ear.”
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Gruber was sweating. Fallon could see that from here, but he did not blame the superintendent. Fallon was sweating himself.
He tried to figure out what McMahon’s plan was. Once the gate was opened, where could they go? To the barracks or Gruber’s home and find more weapons? They’d be surrounded instantly. To the river? Unless some boats were waiting, they’d have a long swim. And on most boats, they would be sitting ducks. To town? Unless someone was waiting for them outside, Fallon figured they had no chance whatsoever of getting far before they would be cut down. The Lowell battery gun would cut them to pieces before they made it past the railroad tracks. And Fallon saw no smoke and heard no locomotive on the rails. This was an act of desperation. McMahon and his followers had no chance. Then again, he didn’t hold out much hope for Gruber living much longer. And Gates? He was already dead.
“Charles, for the love of God, man, get that damned gate open!” Gruber wailed.
“I’m working on it, sir!” Metal clinked. The gate swung open just a bit.
“Hold it!” McMahon shouted at the gatekeeper named Charles. “Step inside . . . with your Winchester and sidearm.”
The guard hesitated.
“Do it, man!” Gruber yelled, his voice high-pitched. “We have to get Gates to a doctor quickly. The man’s bleeding to death.”
Gruber couldn’t see Gates’s body slumped against the burly Mexican, the guard’s arms hanging limp, and his feet being dragged as the Mexican backed up.
The gate opened wider and the gatekeeper named Charles slipped inside, the Winchester rifle shaking in his trembling hands. The inmate named Lopez rushed toward Charles, while the skinny, pale convict moved around, but kept the homemade knife against the warden’s throat.
The guard stopped, his face dripping with sweat, and Lopez jerked the rifle from the man’s grasp and tossed it to McMahon, who released the warden’s arm, caught the Winchester, and swung the barrel up to aim at Captain Allan.
“Lower that long gun, Cap’n. And stick your hands up high.”
Fallon didn’t watch to see if the big brute obeyed. He watched Lopez jerk a Remington .44 out of the guard’s holster and viciously slam the barrel against the man’s skull. The gatekeeper fell hard to the ground and did not move.
“Open the gate wider!” McMahon shouted. “And let’s get out of the Hell Hole now!”
“Vamanos!” yelled the big Mexican, as he dropped the dead body of Gates, pitched the bloody spike toward McMahon and the pale man with the blade against the warden’s throat, and ran to pull open the gate. Fallon glanced at the closest guard tower. Captain Allan had dropped back out of sight. Fallon could not tell if the big brute still held the Sharps, but he gave odds that Allan had not followed McMahon’s directive.
The big Mexican in the prison uniform of gray and white stripes dragged the gate open. He stepped into the entrance and came erect. “Mi Díos,” he said, his words barely audible.
Bullets drove him back, spun him around and to his knees, sending geysers of blood in all directions. More rounds drilled him into the back, knocking him into the dust. White smoke poured from behind the bars.
The prisoner named Lopez snapped three shots from the .44. One sent sparks off the hard iron, and another ricocheted off and wined over the heads of the spectators to Fallon’s right. They dropped into a heap, while a few others laughed as though they were watching Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show or some other outdoor melodrama.
Lopez hurried away from the gate, yelling in rapid Spanish. He tried to fire another round from the Remington as he ran, but more gunfire erupted. Now Fallon could see barrels of repeating rifles sticking through the holes in the iron. The impact of several bullets lifted Lopez into the air and he flew forward a few yards, the Remington sailing out of his hand, hitting the dust, and skidding about ten feet in front of Fallon, who was now taking shelter behind the bench he had overturned.
Fallon flattened his body on the hard earth. Bullets thudded into the walls near him. He inched forward and saw Lopez lying in the dirt, a pool of blood already forming around his twitching corpse.
McMahon worked the Winchester, firing into the gate. Sparks flew off the dark iron, and the bullets whined. By now, most of the prisoners who had been watching were running for the safety behind some of the buildings. Others lay flat and played possum. Over the roar of gunfire and ricochets, Fallon heard several prayers in Spanish and English.
He bit his bottom lip.
“Kill Gruber!” McMahon roared as he levered the Winchester and kept firing.
The pale man with the makeshift knife stood frozen by fear. All he had to do was drag the blade over Gruber’s throat.
McMahon jacked another cartridge into the Winchester and whirled around. “Kill him, damn you!”
Fallon saw motion above him. He looked to find Captain Allan aiming through the telescope on the Sharps rifle. The massive weapon roared, and both the pale man and the prison superintendent slammed into the ground.
The pale man did not move. A few feet away, Gruber dragged himself no more than a few inches, and rolled onto his back. The bullet from Allan’s weapon had gone through the pale man’s body, struck the superintendent in the lower part of his back and exited just above his hip. Somehow, miraculously, the pale man’s knife had not even nicked Gruber’s throat.
The warden’s mouth moved, but nothing audible reached Fallon’s ears.
McMahon swung around and snapped a quick round at Allan, but the captain of guards had dived back behind the wooden structure and the .44-40 slug just splintered a corner post. McMahon jacked another round into the rifle and dropped to a knee, aiming the rifle at Gruber’s head.
“I swear to God, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him, you double-crossing sons of bitches!” He looked toward the scattering prisoners. “Quinn! Quinn! Quinn! Where the hell are you?”
The echoes of gunfire bounced around the prison.
Another shot roared from the guard tower on the southwest corner. A large chunk of adobe blew out of the wall behind McMahon, who squeezed the trigger as he ducked. The bullet carved a gash across the top of the warden’s head. McMahon scrambled to his feet, snapped a shot at the guard, and backed toward the wall. He levered another round into the chamber.
That’s when Fallon decided he had to make a play.
He came to his knees and lunged toward the Remington the dead prisoner named Lopez had dropped. McMahon was aiming the Winchester at the warden, now unconscious, but when he saw Fallon, he brought the rifle up and at him. The bullet McMahon fired sliced the coarse fabric of the back of Fallon’s shirt. He crashed to the ground, found the Remington in his right hand, and rolled onto his left side, lifting his arm—and the .44—as he moved.
McMahon had the rifle ready. The Remington in Fallon’s hand spoke first. Blood spurted between two orange stripes in the center of McMahon’s chest—about the same time two bullets dug up the earth on either side of Fallon. The guards thought he was taking a hand in the escape, and shooting at Gruber.
He moved, onto his knees, diving as more bullets chewed up the earth where he had been.
“Don’t shoot him!” came a cry from the tower Captain Allan occupied. “He’s working for us. Kill McMahon! Kill McMahon before he gets Gruber!”
Fallon already had the Remington cocked. He squeezed the trigger and saw more blood fly out of McMahon’s body, this one higher up and to Fallon’s right, catching the killer in the shoulder and spinning him around. The Winchester flew out of McMahon’s hands and slammed against the wall. McMahon dropped to his knees, but forced himself up, then fell. His arms reached out to stop his fall. He came up with the railroad spike that had been dropped. After pushing himself to his knees, he lunged toward the warden. Fallon shot McMahon in the belly.
McMahon did not fall. He spit up blood and dragged himself toward the warden, not moving, bleeding profusely, an inviting target for a bloodstained, sharpened piece of metal that could serve as a snake. Fallon knew the Remington was empty. Lopez had fired three times. So had Fallon, who raised the gun over his head and behind his back, and hurled it.
It caught the crazed inmate in the face, breaking the nose, and driving him off his feet. The momentum also sent Fallon to the ground and dust. He lifted his head to see McMahon push himself back to his feet. He still held the railroad spike.
He raised it again to drive it into the unconscious Fallon’s chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A .50-caliber Sharps bullet tore the top of McMahon’s head off. He dropped the spike and his body collapsed in a heap.
“Inside! Inside! Inside!” Captain Allan yelled from the tower as he lowered his Sharps and hurried toward the ladder.
The gate at the sally port swung wide open. Fallon was sitting up, but now he raised his hands skyward. Four guards rushed to him, covering him with their rifles. Fallon held his breath. The other guards, numbering somewhere between eight and a full dozen, came to the other prisoners lying in bloody heaps. A few cut loose with a few rounds before Allan reached the gate.
“Stop it!” he yelled. “Stop it!”
He offered only a glance at Fallon, and took full charge. “O’Brien, Hernandez. How is Gates?”
Two guards came over, but had no need to check the man’s pulse. “He’s dead, Captain,” the dark-skinned one said.
“Gruber?”
Another guard was plugging the hole above Gruber’s hip with a rag. “Bad shape, sir,” he said.
“Donovan,” Allan yelled. “Hitch up a wagon. We have to get Mr. Gruber to Doctor Roybal in Yuma.”
“In town, sir? But—” He was pointing in the direction of the prison hospital.
“Are you crazy, Donovan?” Allan roared. “You’re going to put Gruber’s life in the hands of the Killing Sawbones? Not on my watch, man. Not hardly. And I’m in charge until the assistant superintendent gets back from Phoenix. Hurry, man. Some of you boys lift Charles. Be careful. He got hit hard on the head. We’ll take him to Roybal’s office.”
“Do we want to send a telegraph to . . . ?”
“No, no, no, damn it!” Allan cut the guard off. “We’ll have newspaper reporters and lawmen rushing over here. Posses too. And putting citizens from here to Ajo in a panic.”
Allan managed to catch his breath.
“How are all the rioters?”
“Dead, sir. All dead.”
The guard nodded, and he walked among the bodies, and finally walked back to Fallon.
“You hit?”
Fallon’s head shook. “I don’t think so.”
“Lucky.” The big brute grinned. “You might have saved Gruber’s life. That’ll be in my report.”
He stopped by McMahon’s body, grinned at his handiwork, and drove the toe of his boot into the dead man’s ribs. Fallon heard bones crack.
“All right. Get these stinking killers to the hospital . . . the prison hospital. We’ll have Fowler write his death papers on these scum. Then we’ll bury them. Bury them and Roach immediately. Right now. Before the sun sets. Find Pinky. Find Pinky and . . .” He whirled, his wild eyes stopping at Fallon. “No. We’ll use this one. Fulton. All the other prisoners are to be locked in their cells. If they are not there, heads will roll. Find Pinky. Never mind, here he is.”
Pinky ran his fingers through his white hair and swallowed. “Yes, Cap’n.”
“Get some men. Haul these carcasses to Fowler. I want death certificates done immediately. And I want the bodies buried by nightfall. I’ll go with you to read over the graves. That’s Mr. Gruber’s job, but he won’t be reading anything for a while.”
“Captain,” a young guard said. “We’re supposed to hold the bodies of inmates on ice in case the families want to . . .”
“Who in hell would claim these vermin?” Allan roared. “They just tried to kill Mr. Gruber and break out of Yuma and raise hell from here till their deaths. We’re not holding anyone any longer. I’ll take responsibility. Full responsibility. If some mama wants to dig up her scum of a son, she’s welcome to have him. But I want these dead men out of here. Pronto!”
He stormed away.
The weapons trained on Fallon were lowered, and one guard even held out his free hand and pulled Fallon to his feet. Fallon breathed in deeply, wiped his hands on his trousers, and stepped toward the superintendent. To his surprise, he found Gloria Adler kneeling beside him, wrapping a bandage around the warden’s bloodied head.
“He’s in bad shape,” Gloria said.
Fallon nodded. He thought, What kind of shape is Doc Fowler in? Maybe Allan has a point in getting the warden to one of Yuma’s town doctors.
Captain Allan had returned. “I don’t want Gates’s body with McMahon and those other villains. Take his body to the greaser doc in Yuma too. He can make out the death certificate, and he can fill Gates’s veins with that juice to keep him in decent shape till his family comes to take him back to Camp Verde.”
The big man’s eyes found Gloria Adler, and he grinned. “You, Adler. You go with Fallon. Get the hospital—morgue, rather—ready for when Pinky and his crew bring in the dead. Then both of you help the doctor make out these death certificates and load the coffins for burial. Hurry.”
“I’d rather go with him.” She nodded at the warden.
Guards were already backing a wagon toward the gate at the sally port.
“What on earth for?” Allan demanded.
“He needs help,” Gloria Adler said, and she nodded at the warden. “The others don’t.”
“You’re not stepping through that gate, missy. Do it. To Fowler or to the Snake Den for ten days. I’m in charge now.”
* * *
When Gloria Adler and Fallon walked into the hospital, they found five coffins on the floor. Every one was empty, and Doctor Jerome Fowler was leaning a lid against the wall. He whirled around, sending the coffin lid he had been struggling with tumbling. It bounced off the edge of a bed and slammed onto the floor.
“Get in and close that damned door,” the doctor said.
Fallon nodded at Gloria, who stepped inside, as did Fallon. He pulled the door shut. Things started to make sense.
“You expecting an epidemic?” Fallon asked. He watched the doctor find a nearby bottle, but kept Gloria Adler in his vision. She seemed surprised by the coffins as did Fallon.
“I heard the shots.” The doctor took a heavy pull on the clear liquid.
Fallon looked around. The shutters were all closed. The electrical lights had been turned low.
“Jerome?” Gloria asked. Her voice was confused. So was her face.
