Yuma Prison Crashout, page 8
“My son,” the voice then said, “do all Methodists beat around the bush as much as you do?”
Fallon laughed. The priest said, “Tell me.”
Which Fallon did.
* * *
“There must be another way,” the priest said.
“I’m sure there is, but this is the hand that was dealt me.”
“Then fold.”
“The pot’s too big. The hand’s too important.”
“You are a gambler as well as a peace officer?”
“Being a peace officer is the biggest gamble there is.”
“Amen. So what do you need of me?”
Fallon sucked in a deep breath. “That Scot I told you about. The man who runs the detective agency.”
“Most Scots are Presbyterian. Most Presbyterians I’ve met are not bad souls.”
“I don’t think he’s anything but rotten.”
“From what you’ve told me, I must agree. But I have not met the man.”
“You don’t have to do what I’m about to ask you, Father,” Fallon said.
“And if I do not like what you ask me to do, I will send you on your way.”
“Fair enough.” Fallon breathed in deeply, exhaled. “I have that letter I made MacGregor write for me. Signed and dated. MacGregor knows this could land him in big trouble. He’ll want it back.”
“I understand.”
“I’d like you to take the letter. Keep it. Hide it. Show it to no one. I have another letter MacGregor wrote, the first draft. I made him redo it. So with luck, I can make this idiot they sent with me think he got the letter and destroyed it. But there’s no guarantee.”
“So I take the letter. Then what?”
“Keep it. Do you read the newspapers?”
“Yes, my son. And many of our parishioners read too. And almost everyone who comes to this church talks. Between the newspapers and the gossip, I know much of what is going on in Tucson and the territory.”
“That’s good. So if you hear that a man got killed in Yuma who was sentenced to prison for robbery . . .”
The priest asked, “And if that man’s name is Harry Fallon?”
“No. The name I’ll be using is Hank Fulton. But there’s a decent chance Harry Fallon’s name will eventually come out. Especially if Sean MacGregor has any say in it.”
“Who do I send the letter to?” the priest asked.
He was a smart one.
“Isaac Parker, federal judge, Fort Smith, Arkansas. The judge will know what to do from there.”
“Slide the envelope through here.”
Fallon did. He wasn’t sure how he felt. Relief? Not yet. Regret for getting this old man involved? Hell, Fallon didn’t even know if the priest was old. He could be in his twenties.
“I will remember you in Mass till I hear from you again, Harry.” The use of the name made Fallon relax. “Is this all you have?”
“That’s it,” Fallon said. “It’s not much.”
“What else can I do for you?”
Fallon started to shake his head, but he remembered something. “I’m not Catholic. My . . . wife . . . she was. Very Catholic, except for the part of her marrying a backsliding Methodist like me. Could you remember her in Mass? And my daughter?” He felt a wetness in his eyes. “And pray for their souls?”
“Tell me their names.”
Fallon did.
“They are with God, my son. Remember this. Never forget it.”
“Thank you, Father. I’d better get going. The idiot outside won’t wait forever.”
The hand came through the opening. A black robe covered the arm, but Fallon, even in the darkness, could make out the hand. It was old, covered with spots, the hand of a poor man. But the hand of a good man.
“I would like to wish you luck, Marshal Fallon.”
They shook. The priest, whose name Harry Fallon did not know, did not want to know, had a strong, hard grip.
“Now we must pray for you, too, Marshal.”
“I’m not much of a praying man, Father. And I told you already that I’m not Catholic.”
“Just remember to say the Hail Marys for the latter. As far as the first, not praying much, you’re going to Yuma Territorial Prison. You had damned well better pray . . . before you get there. I don’t think people pray in hell.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You was in that church a damned long time,” Aaron Holderman said, a bit too loud, but no one on the street paid any attention.
“Ten years in Joliet,” Fallon whispered as he stopped to clean from one of his boots those horse apples he had purposely stepped in. “Lots of things to get off my chest, my soul.” He kept scraping the boot, and eventually he saw the private detective’s eyes widen. Finally, he had spotted the envelope barely peeking above the top of the boot.
Bringing the boot down into the street, Fallon wiped the bottom in the dust. He looked up and down the street.
“I’ll find us a hotel,” he said. “Remember what I said.”
“I already found us a place to stay,” the brute said.
Fallon shot him a cold stare, and, when he realized this side of the street was empty for a few blocks, he let the stare harden. “What?”
“Over yonder.” He pointed.
Fallon frowned. “A wagon yard?”
The brute’s head bobbed. “See. Nobody in a wagon yard pokes his nose in anybody’s business. Nobody remembers who was talkin’ to who. And it only costs a dime a body.”
Fallon shrugged. “All right. I’ll get a place first. You wait and—”
“Already got my place. So you go ahead and get yourself a spot. But don’t you go nowhere till I’m leanin’ ag’in that corral fence yonder so I can keep my eye on you.”
Fallon shrugged, and watched the cad amble across the street to the wagon yard. It wasn’t even much of a wagon yard.
“Fresh out of prison,” he said to himself, “and I’ve slept on a depot bench, on a train, and now in a wagon yard. I guess a downy bed just isn’t in my future.”
* * *
As many men as crowded into the yard by evening, Harry Fallon began to wonder if any hotel in Tucson had a vacancy. Several fires were going, but the men surrounding them seemed cognizant not to let the fires get too big. They watched them carefully. Hay, straw, and fire never made a very good combination. Fallon rolled out his bedroll in a corner that had not gotten too crowded. He removed his hat, positioned his grip so that it made a decent pillow, took off his boots and stuck the envelope deep into the foot, and interlocked his fingers as he rested his head against his hands and the piece of luggage.
He listened to the sounds he had not heard in ages.
The clopping of hooves on dirt and sand. The wind blowing through the scrub that passed for trees in this country. He heard the tinny sound of a piano banging away in some saloon, and beyond that what sounded to be a trumpet or some type of horn. Sounds carried far in the desert, even in a city the size of Tucson. Chickens cackled, and a rooster, perhaps unaware of the actual time of day, crowed. He could catch snippets of conversation as men and women passed down the boardwalk across the street.
“How is Alice faring?” “Can you believe what that butcher charges? This is Tucson, Margaret, not Denver or San Francisco.” “What time is the hoss race supposed to start on Saturday?” “Mr. Cassidy says that he expects that he should have that bolt of calico from the Sears, Roebuck and Company in two days. Then, Mother will make that new shirt for me, and I can wear it to the church social.” “Oh, won’t Tommy be proud!” “When is the last time it has rained?” “Jasper Tanner. The schoolmaster told me that you brought a rattlesnake into school today and scared all of the girls, and that is why he gave you a good paddling, but trust me, young man, your father will tan your hide tonight.” “But, Ma, it wasn’t nothin’ but an old bull snake. It couldn’t hurt nobody.”
He could listen, he thought, to such mindless banter forever. You never heard talk like that in Joliet.
But he frowned, sighed, and tried not to listen. Listening to sounds like that didn’t help a man, especially when that man would be in another prison soon . . . if everything went according to plan. Listening to sounds of decency, or humanity, of common everyday lives, only tortured a man who was bound for Yuma.
The nearby church bells began to ring. He counted. Then his eyes closed and he was asleep.
* * *
He almost opened his eyes at the sound, but remembered where he was and what he was doing just in time, so he rolled over, muttered something that made no sense, and steadied his breathing.
For a few seconds, he heard nothing else but the popping of wood in the nearest fire. He could smell the smoke, and even with his eyes closed, he knew exactly where the fire was. The moon would be up by now, and it had to be near full. Had Holderman even part of a brain, he would have waited. Still, Fallon began to think that Aaron Holderman had done him a favor. The wagon yard would be a much better place. Much, much better.
He waited.
Holderman’s big, clumsy feet trod closer. His knee joints popped as he knelt over Fallon’s boots. He even farted. Paper rustled. The man might have even wakened the dead in the cemetery behind the nearby church. Then a new noise reached Fallon’s ears. Men laughing, swearing, and the gate to the yard opening. Some of the residents for the night were coming in from a night on the town.
Which made the timing perfect.
His eyes shot open. There squatted Aaron Holderman, oblivious that Fallon was awake. The American Detective Agency operative held the envelope in his left hand by the ground, while his right hand held the first draft of Sean MacGregor’s deal with Harry Fallon. The man’s lips moved as he read.
At least, thought Fallon, he can read.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Turning suddenly, Holderman lost his balance and fell onto his buttocks. Fallon was coming up, and the big man dropped the envelope and tried to stand. Fallon had to time himself, slow himself down.
“You little sneak thief!” Fallon shouted. He saw the men, likely drunk as the devil, stop between the largest fire and one that had turned into embers. He saw the moon, guessed the time, and he saw Holderman’s terrified face. The big man shoved the paper into his coat pocket and tried to stand.
“Give me that!”
Fallon came to his feet, and drove a right fist that caught a glancing blow against Holderman’s face. He went down, but managed to stand. Fallon let him. Then he threw a wicked left into the man’s gut.
Holderman gagged, bending over but not falling to his knees.
Don’t hit him too hard, Fallon reminded himself.
The men standing about thirty feet away began pointing. One yelled, “Fight!”
Another cried out, “Hot dang!”
They shouted loud enough to wake some of the other nighttime patrons of the yard.
Holderman was up, shooting quick glances at places where he might retreat. Fallon swung high, and Holderman ducked underneath the blow. The big man backed up. Fallon threw another punch that glanced off the man’s shoulder.
He came in again, let the operative block a punch, then sidestep another. Fallon was having fun.
Then Aaron Holderman landed a crushing blow that sent Fallon back against his grip and bedroll. His eyes blurred. He had to shake his head. Blood dripped from his upper lip and onto his tongue.
Don’t get too cocky, Fallon warned himself. There’s one reason MacGregor has this blowhard on his payroll. He can hit. He will kill.
The punch had, on the other hand, made Aaron Holderman think that he was top dog again. Instead of retreating with the prize that he had pulled out of Fallon’s boot, he brought his own boot up in a savage kick. Fallon rolled underneath it and came up in a crouch, waiting.
He feinted. Holderman swung and missed. Fallon jabbed him in the back, three punches, a little softer this time but with still enough force to cause the brute to cough and swear.
Holderman turned, swinging wildly, and Fallon ducked underneath it. He was breathing hard, and he wiped the blood from his lip, spit again, and made an uppercut, then a left, followed by a couple more jabs. Holderman deflected and dodged them all.
Behind the two brawlers, the guests of the wagon yard were making bets. Most were taking the big man. Holderman seemed encouraged by the cheers, but now Fallon felt his plan going the wrong way. The men had made a circle around the two fighters. That’s not what Fallon wanted, or needed. So he let Holderman throw a fist that rang his ears. He propelled himself into the men, but these were strong men. Muleskinners, perhaps even freighters. They tossed, almost without effort, Fallon back into the center. He landed on his knees, saw the kick Holderman aimed at his head at the last instant, and leaped back out of the way. He sprang up, and the two circled one another.
“That’s boring, boys,” one of the admirers shouted.
Holderman swung, and Fallon let his momentum carry the big cur past. Instantly, Fallon turned, lowered his shoulder, and put every ounce of strength into his legs and arms as he propelled himself into Holderman’s broad back, churning his legs, wrapping his arms around the man’s ample torso, and driving, driving, driving Holderman toward the ring of men.
The ring quickly disintegrated as the drunks and half-awake ruffians dived out of the way. No one wanted to be trampled by a leviathan like Aaron Holderman. No one wanted the fat tub of scum falling on him.
He saw the fire, wanted to keep pushing Holderman in that direction, but the big man tripped, and down both men went. Fallon released his hold, moved to the left of the crashing man, who fell with a groan and rolled over. Fallon rolled, too, but came up, wiping the dirt and sweat out of his eyes. He could just make out other sleeping men rising out of their bedrolls, some cursing, a few still too groggy to do anything but try to find the source of the disturbance.
He was up, chest heaving. His vision became blurred, and something kept ringing in his left ear. He spit blood and sand, and ran his tongue over his teeth, surprised to find none loose—yet—and all that had been there still intact.
Holderman rose, surprisingly quickly and deftly for a man his size. It took a few seconds, but he soon found Fallon and moved toward him. The crowd had learned a lesson. Nobody tried to form a circle. They kept their distance while lowering their voices but increasing their bets.
He let the big man come. Fallon backed up. He threw one punch, deliberately missing, and then glanced behind him. He felt the heat. The orange flames hurt his eyes, but he had made it this far. Now . . .
He sprang forward, lifting both legs and driving them in a powerful kick that caught the man’s gut. Down they went, and Fallon came to his knees and leaped on the man. He slapped Holderman rapidly—once, twice, four more times—and brought a knee into the man’s groin.
Holderman groaned, and Fallon reached inside the pocket and pulled out the paper.
“Nooooo!” Holderman responded with a left Fallon never saw. He landed hard on the ground, tried to get up, but felt Holderman’s boot catch him in the chest. He went up, then down, landing near the fire on his back.
If he lived to be a thousand years old, Fallon knew he would never understand how Aaron Holderman had managed to get up before he could.
Somehow, he saw the operative coming for him, diving, screaming. Fallon rolled, but could go no farther. The flames and hot coals already singed his face, his hair. Holderman’s giant paw clasped Fallon’s right wrist. Fallon elbowed the man with his left. That gave him enough time to turn his face away from the fire.
Then Holderman knelt on Fallon’s chest, crushing him. He groaned, spit, coughed, and felt the man’s massive hand gripping Fallon’s wrist. Fallon slipped, somehow, to avoid his ribs from being splintered. He felt intense heat, turned his head just enough to see Holderman bringing the arm, the hand, the paper Sean MacGregor had written.
“Noooo!” Fallon managed to say, but the heat proved too intense for both men.
Crying out in pain, Holderman released his grip and fell back away from the fire. Not expecting that move, Fallon felt his arm and hand rush downward, slamming into the burning fuel and coals. He screamed, let go of the paper, and rolled away from the flames.
The paper Sean MacGregor had written erupted into flames.
Fallon came up, on his knees, alternately clutching his right wrist and hand, then shaking it. The sleeve smoldered, and welts and burn marks already started appearing on the back of his hand, but he had been hurt worse. He watched the paper turn into black ash, then nothing.
A second later, Aaron Holderman drove a fist into the back of Fallon’s head. He fell down, rolled over, and closed his eyes.
“That’ll teach you,” Holderman said, spit, and staggered back toward his bedroll.
The men who had watched paid off their bets, or complained, or decided to go find a saloon and talk about what all they had seen.
When all had turned quiet, Harry Fallon opened his eyes. Someone had added fuel to the fire, and the blaze leaped higher. He tested his burned hand. He tested everywhere that hurt.
The letter, the paper, the first draft Sean MacGregor had written, was no more.
Just as Harry Fallon wanted. If he had not hurt so badly everywhere on his body, he might have even laughed. Or tried to smile.
Instead, Harry Fallon closed his eyes and slept in the dirt.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I could’ve kilt you,” Aaron Holderman said that morning. “The boss would’ve liked that.”
Fallon rubbed butter on his hand. “I don’t think MacGregor had you bring me all the way to Tucson to kill me.”
“Yeah, well you ain’t got nothin’ no more. That note. That paper. It’s gone.”
“Then I can only hope Sean MacGregor’s a man of his word.”
The big man grunted. Fallon liked the bruises and cuts that covered Holderman.
“He is,” Holderman said. “When it suits him.”
“All right. So when do we do the robbery?”
“Today.”
* * *
The revolver Aaron Holderman handed Fallon was covered with rust. A cap-and-ball Manhattan .36, Fallon somehow managed to turn the loose cylinder without having the entire relic crumble into dust. Eventually, he lowered the hammer, and adjusted the cylinder so the hammer fell into its proper place.
