Yuma Prison Crashout, page 26
Preacher Lang chuckled. So did Quinn, Allan, Maynard, and Mendoza.
“I would like to scout ahead,” Yaqui Mendoza said as he rode his horse up alongside Monk Quinn.
Quinn turned in the saddle and studied the big man long and hard. Next, he twisted the other way, and standing in the stirrups, looked back. Captain Allan rode immediately behind the two men at the point, followed by Doc Fowler and Gloria Adler, then Hank Fallon, with Preacher Lang dragging along a few yards behind them, and Maynard pulling the string of pack mules behind him at the rear.
“Very well,” Quinn said as he looked ahead. “Be quiet. Be careful. And don’t try to double-cross your compadres.”
“Bueno,” Mendoza said. “Yo se.”
He kicked his horse into a trot and rode on ahead.
“And don’t fall into any snake dens, my friend,” Quinn called out, and laughed.
Mendoza laughed, too, and rounded one of the many twists and turns in the canyon.
* * *
Gloria Adler let her horse fall back to Fallon, and rode on his right.
“How’s the doc?” Fallon asked.
She did not answer. Staring straight ahead, she asked, “What happens when they get the gold?”
Fallon kept his eyes trained on the rocky ledges above him, left and right. This was the trail frequented by scalp-hunters, chasing the bounties on Apache. Fallon had seen many arrowheads along the trail, which meant this canyon had been used for a long, long time by Indians. Yet most of the Apache were imprisoned on reservations across America these days. There were reportedly a few bands of Apache hiding in the mountains of Mexico, but not likely enough to interest scalp-hunters.
He looked ahead and on the canyon floor now. He watched Monk Quinn’s back. The man rode with confidence. At length, he turned to find Gloria Adler’s eyes.
“You know what happens,” he said.
“But when does it happen?”
He shrugged. Fallon had decided that this part of the canyon would not be where any ambush would be made. Too many boulders along the floor offered too many hiding places. There were not enough rocks on the top to roll down to block one or even both openings to prevent escape, and the top offered very little cover. Once they rode out, into the clearing where the snake den—and the gold bullion—was, maybe the slot canyon would be different. Maybe if any bandits still frequented this area, that’s where an ambush could be sprung.
But Fallon and Adler were not talking about an ambush by scalp-hunters or Mexican outlaws.
“That’s anyone’s guess,” Fallon said. He nodded ahead at Monk Quinn. “Does he need us once he has the gold loaded? Or does he kill us then? Has he selected a partner to help him kill the rest? Or maybe two?” He looked at her. “Am I one of Quinn’s partners?”
Her head shook. “You are honest.”
He laughed. “You’re talking to a convict who violated his parole.”
She asked, “Am I one of Quinn’s partners?”
He shook his head. “You are honest too.”
Her laugh was short, and filled with bitterness.
“I killed my husband. Why do you think I was in Yuma?”
“You had your reasons,” he said without looking at her.
“Is any reason enough to commit murder?”
He looked back at her. “You tell me.”
“I thought so. He was coming at me with a knife. He was drunk. I had told him that he had beaten me for the last time. He should have listened to me. He slapped me, and I fell across the bed. Then he picked up a lantern in his hand that did not hold the knife. He said he would burn me, then kill me. He kept a pistol under his pillow, but he was too drunk to remember that. I grabbed the pistol, and I shot him. I shot him and I shot him and I shot him.”
Her eyes were closed all this while, and Fallon thought she was revisiting that nightmarish scene.
“He fell. He dropped the knife and the lantern, which exploded and fire spread across the rug, onto the bed, over his body. But he was already dead. I think. I climbed out the window. I ran to our neighbor’s place. I lost my mind for that night. We watched our home burn to the ground.”
The eyes opened, and she turned back to look at the saddle. “Is that a good enough reason to kill the man you were once in love with?”
“Self-defense,” Fallon said.
She laughed and spit on the ground. “Our neighbors did not think so. The judge did not think so. The jury did not think so. They knew my husband as the justice of the peace, an honorable man. They thought I was nothing but what the Spanish call a puta. You know what that means?”
He kept his eyes on the trail. “I know.”
“So they sent me to Yuma. You know what prison . . . especially a place like the Hell Hole . . . does to a man.”
Fallon only nodded. He felt his chest tighten and his teeth begin to grind at the memories of Joliet . . . of Yuma . . . of even being locked in the dungeon at Fort Smith.
“It is much worse on a woman.”
He sighed. “Especially an innocent woman.”
She did not look away from him, and he made himself turn to look into her eyes.
“Or an innocent man,” she said.
They stared at each other, and Fallon made himself look back at the trail.
“I was innocent once,” he said. “I’m not sure I can say that ever again.”
“I know how you feel.”
He shook his head. Fallon tried to think of something to say, but he could find nothing reassuring in his vocabulary. Besides, hooves were sounding up the canyon. A horse was running at a decent lope, and Monk Quinn was reining in his mount and bringing up his left hand. Signaling them to stop. His right hand reached for his revolver, and he drew it.
Fallon reined up, and heard those behind him and ahead of him do the same.
“Whenever it happens,” Fallon whispered, “do whatever you have to do to stay alive.”
“You do the same,” she said, and rode up, stopping alongside Doc Fowler.
The rider rounding the bend was Yaqui Mendoza. He slowed his horse once he saw the others and trotted up to Monk Quinn.
Preacher Lang called out, “Is it scalp-hunters?”
The last word echoed up and down the canyon, and Monk Quinn and Captain Allan whirled in their saddles. But Allan snapped and cursed first.
“Keep your voice down, you damned fool! You want everyone up or down this canyon to hear us? Shut up!”
Quinn looked back at Mendoza, but he did not holster his pistol. The big brute rode alongside Quinn and waited for the others to ride up close.
Mendoza’s face was beaded with sweat.
“What is it?” Quinn asked.
“Trouble,” Yaqui Mendoza said. “But it is not scalp-hunters. Not bandits. It is the kind of trouble you did not expect. Nor did I.”
“What is it?” Quinn demanded.
Mendoza laughed. “You will see for yourself. Come. It is not far.”
“An avalanche?” Allan asked. “The trail’s blocked? It’s a dead end?”
“No. Come. Vamanos. This is something you must see for yourself.”
Monk Quinn cursed the big man, but kicked his horse into a trot. The others followed.
“Stay close,” Fallon whispered to Gloria Adler as he eased his horse ahead of hers and Doctor Fowler’s.
The drunken doctor said, “Gloria, dear, soon we’ll be richer than God.”
“Shut up,” she snapped at him.
Two turns later, they saw the opening, where this part of the canyon ended, to spread out into a wide valley, more or less, with the narrow canyon on the opposite end.
Monk Quinn dismounted, left the reins dragging the ground, and crept to a boulder. He peered over the side and looked out into the clearing.
He holstered his gun at last and uttered the vilest of oaths.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The first thing Fallon noticed was the cornfield. Then he caught the scent of beans being cooked. A dog barked. A woman sang in Spanish. He saw the horno, the outdoor oven, and then the corral and lean-to. A Mexican man in a white cotton shirt and trousers walked along the edge of the cornfield, beyond which lay a field of cabbage, of potatoes, of carrots, and of beans.
Yaqui Mendoza laughed. “This is what two hundred thousand dollars in gold buys,” he said, mocking Monk Quinn, who scowled at the big man and spit in the dirt.
“No. This is just some poor farmer. Too stupid, too frightened, to even look into a den of rattlesnakes.”
“Like you were six years ago?”
Quinn’s hand darted for the butt of his revolver. Mendoza reached for the hilt of his machete, but both men froze, though hatred remained etched into their faces.
“Why don’t we be sociable?” Captain Allan said. “Pay a visit to these folks.” He motioned at the path that led across the farm to the entrance to the far canyon. “See what has happened. And then maybe we can see if we’ve come a long way for nothing.”
“At least we are out of the Hell Hole,” Morgan Maynard said.
Monk Quinn did not remove his hand from his revolver until Yaqui Mendoza had nodded and had taken the reins to his horse in both hands. He turned the horse around, kneed it gently, and led the animal toward the farmer.
Behind him, Fallon heard Gloria Adler pray, “Please, God in heaven above, do not let this poor couple have any children. Please, God in heaven above, do not let this poor couple have any children. Please, God in heaven above . . .”
Hogs roamed the edges of the cornfield. Two large cats sat lazily in the shade of the canyon. Fallon saw the corral, with only a couple of burros standing contentedly near a water trough, and another bunch of piglets suckling from their fat mother. The dog stepped off the porch and barked a warning as the riders came out of the canyon. The farmer stepped away from the corn. His wife appeared in the doorway to the adobe and stone cabin, and wiped her hands on the apron.
Yaqui Mendoza kicked his horse into a trot and rode over to the farmer, who had walked over to his dog and now approached the men. The woman stepped off the porch. She looked to be between thirty and forty years old, Fallon thought, not exactly the prettiest woman he had ever seen, but not ugly. Behind him, Fallon heard Preacher Lang whispering to himself. Fallon moved his hand to the double-action revolver that remained under his shirt.
“Hold up here for a moment,” Monk Quinn said, and he brought his horse to a stop. “Let’s see how Mendoza plays out this hand.” Still, Quinn gripped the butt of his revolver, but he had turned his horse at an angle so that neither the farmer nor his wife could see his movement.
Once the farmer was close to Mendoza, they began conversing in Spanish.
Doc Fowler moved his horse alongside Fallon’s. The drunkard asked, “Can you make out what they’re saying?”
Fallon shook his head. “My Spanish is limited. Very limited.”
“They are making introductions,” Quinn said in a voice just loud enough for the men and woman right behind him to hear. Captain Allan and Morgan Maynard kept their eyes trained on the hill just behind them and to their left. They could see the rocks, and the ledge, and they knew that somewhere up there was a hole that was filled with many rattlesnakes, the bones of a former Adams Express Company employee, and eighteen saddlebags holding a fortune in gold bullion.
Preacher Lang, Fallon saw, kept his eyes on the woman, who had moved to a well and began drawing a bucket.
Gloria Adler had stopped her prayers.
“His name is Ignacio,” Quinn translated. “He and his wife have been here for two years.” Quinn sighed bitterly and spit again. “The fool is giving Mendoza a history in farming in this desert.”
The farmer turned and pointed to the clouds behind the far canyon, to the mouth of the canyon, to the crops.
Mendoza interrupted him and pointed at the shelf and the rocks. He asked something. The farmer laughed.
“He has never climbed that hill,” Quinn translated. “It is not good soil to grow corn, and there are no rabbits up there or other game to hunt for meat.”
“He must not eat rattlesnakes.” Morgan Maynard chuckled.
“Why don’t we kill them now?” Captain Allan asked.
“Let him finish,” Quinn rebuked them, “and be quiet. I cannot hear when you all gab foolish nonsense.”
“The trail is not used much anymore,” Quinn translated. “No bandits have been cleaned out or have taken their trade south or north, where more people, where rich people live. The Apache are all but ghosts and long-forgotten nightmares.”
Quinn shook his head. “This man loves to talk about farming. He . . . wait . . .” He leaned forward and listened with religious intensity.
“The cats, the dog, and, yes, even the pigs they have keep most of the snakes away. One dog was bitten by a rattlesnake when they first got here, and it died, but their new dog has never been struck. Yes, they see snakes, but not as often as they once did when they had chickens. They got rid of their chickens. It is hard not to have eggs for breakfast, but lard from the pigs is good to use in cooking. His wife cooks fine. Fine enough for him.”
Quinn shook his head. He drew his revolver and thumbed back the hammer.
“They have no children.”
“Thank God,” Gloria Adler said.
“Yet,” Quinn continued. “But if it is the wish of the Lord . . .” He shook his head and yelled to Mendoza in Spanish. Quinn spurred his horse and brought the pistol up.
Fallon was reaching for the revolver he had hidden underneath his shoulder, only to feel Doc Fowler dive off his horse, knocking them both to the ground. Their horses bolted. Gloria Adler shouted, “Look out!” Preacher Lang loped his horse toward the cabin.
Hitting the ground, Fallon felt the air rush out of his lungs. He saw Doc Fowler astride him, heard him whisper, “Don’t be a damned fool. There’s nothing you can do.”
A gunshot rang across the valley.
Fallon pushed, but Doc Fowler found some strength from within and shoved him down.
The dog barked. A revolver spoke. Fallon heard the whimper and cry of a dog.
“Get off me!” Fallon roared, and shoved the doctor to the dirt. Coming up, Fallon slammed into the horse Captain Allan was on. The prison guard had his Winchester. The rifle roared, but Fallon had spooked the animal. Allan turned in the saddle, pulled the reins tight to get his mount under control, and looked down at Fallon, who was backing away while reaching again for the revolver hidden underneath his shirt. He saw the flash of the rifle, felt the hot barrel slam against his face, and down Fallon went.
He tasted blood on his lips. His nose was busted.
“For God’s sake!” Doc Fowler was yelling, but not at Fallon now. He directed his plea to Captain Allan. “Kill that woman before Lang reaches her!”
Fallon rolled over. Underneath the belly of Allan’s horse, he saw the woman. She had dropped the bucket of well water and was running back toward the house. Preacher Lang was riding toward her, leaning low in the saddle, reaching out to grab her by her long black hair.
The red splotch appeared on the back of her plain yellow dress almost as soon as Captain Allan’s rifle roared. She fell to her knees, and Preacher Lang’s hand just missed snatching more than a few strands of her hair. The horse raced by, and Lang turned the horse at a full gallop. The woman sat on her knees. The redness spread against her back. Captain Allan sent another round from his Winchester. This one struck her lower in the back and drove her facedown into the dirt.
The sounds of gunfire died down.
Fallon came to his knees. He felt Gloria Adler beside him. Holding a silk scarf wadded into a ball, she dabbed at his bleeding nose and a wicked cut across his cheek. Fallon saw Quinn moving his horse to the body of the farmer, Ignacio, who lay spread-eagled across two rows of cabbage plants. The evil killer stopped, extended his pistol, which sent smoke and flame toward the man’s head. The body shuddered, the act of a dead man.
Off to the left, the dog lay dead.
Fallon wondered if these sons of bitches had killed the two cats or the pigs too. He heard Preacher Lang’s screams at Captain Allan. “Why’d you kill her, you miserable cur? Why’d you kill her? That was my job. I am the right hand of God. I kill all the wicked women. You robbed me of my glory.”
Leaning forward, Fallon vomited. He wiped his mouth, and felt that insatiable rage roaring to his head. He whirled, found the doctor, and sent a haymaker to Fowler’s jaw. The man fell, stunned, his top and bottom lips bleeding. Fallon went over to punch him again, but Gloria Adler stepped between them.
“What?” Fowler said through his busted mouth. “Get yourself killed? Is that what you wanted to do? Get her killed.”
“Stop you from becoming richer than God?” Fallon fired back. “You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to save lives.”
“And what about you?”
“Shut the hell up,” Captain Allan said. “The both of you. Let’s see if that gold’s still in that hole.”
* * *
First, they put the livestock in the corral with the burro. The cats paid no attention to their dead masters, the dead dog, or the newcomers. The burro tried to give the horses and mules a wide berth.
“What about the dead farmers?” Morgan Maynard asked.
“Why did you not let me save this woman’s soul?” Preacher Lang wailed over the bloodied corpse.
“Let’s look at that gold!” Captain Allan said.
* * *
Maynard and Mendoza hauled the bodies of the couple and the dog into the root cellar. After that, they followed Monk Quinn up the path.
Clouds had formed off to the southeast, but overhead in this rugged opening, the sun shone hot and long, directly overhead. Gloria Adler had to help Doc Fowler make the journey uphill, even though the grade was not steep at all. Preacher Lang kept stumbling. When he reached the ledge, Monk Quinn hesitated and drew his revolver. He had found a stick down below and kept this in his left hand.
“Where is that hole?” Captain Allan demanded.
Quinn nodded and carefully moved toward the wall that rose about six feet over the level part, then climbed up several more feet to form the canyon. He stopped, moved back, and then inched his way to the opening of the pit.
