Author of “The Medicine Man,”
“Hashknife and the Fantom Riders,” etc.
Like a brown leaf fluttering in the wind it came through the bars of
the cell door. It floated in past a corner of the cot and came to rest
on the concrete floor. A heavy brogan slid over it, and “Tex” Rowland,
otherwise Number 1733, owner of the brogan, squinted speculatively at
the bars.
A trusty had just passed; a wizened-faced, hump-shouldered little old
trusty, who had been “Hump” Sherrill before other people’s horses had
somehow come into his possession, and through said possession had been
given a number in a place where there is little use for the Eighth
Commandment.
Hump Sherrill had known Tex Rowland in the cattle country. In fact, he
and Tex had worked for the same outfit, although there was a vast
difference in their ages. Hump had spent a long time in the Elk Lodge
penitentiary; a model old prisoner, who had become a trusty around the
warden’s office.
There was little chance that Hump would ever see the wide ranges again.
The law had given him twenty-five years. He had sent two perfectly good
officers to the hospital at the time of his arrest, and his combined
crimes had caused the judge to give him the limit. And Hump was past
middle-age at the time of his arrest.
Tex Rowland sat perfectly still for several minutes. He was in no hurry.
Time was something he had more of than anything else. Finally he leaned
over, lifted his foot a trifle, and secured the brown cigarette paper
which he held concealed in his hand. Slowly he went to the bars and
peered out before opening his hand enough to see what was on the paper.
The writing had been done with a lead-pencil and was almost illegible.
It read--
_Tex look out their framin’ yu._
He shut up his hand and squinted wonderingly. He was not at all
handsome. His nose was crooked, which gave him sort of an evil look; but
there was no evil in his soul. His face was thin, with high cheek-bones,
a generous mouth and a strong chin. His upper front teeth were decidedly
of the “buck-tooth” variety, which did not add to his facial beauty. But
his eyes were level and gray, set in a net-work of grin-wrinkles.
Tex was above medium height, with sloping shoulders and long, muscular
arms. He looked as lean as a greyhound and tipped the scales at about a
hundred and sixty pounds. Tex had also been a model prisoner since his
arrival, about two months previous; but the guards did not put their
stamp of approval upon a prisoner until said prisoner had been there
long enough to realize what it all meant.
Just now Tex was trying to puzzle out the meaning of Hump Sherrill’s
message, as he masticated the bit of paper and swallowed it. The prison
was still a trifle upset over an attempted “break,” in which a prisoner
had been shot and killed by a guard.
Tex had taken no part in the affair. In fact, he did not know anything
about it until it was all over. The authorities had made an attempt to
find out who was the instigator of the thing, but, from what the
prisoners had been able to find out, they were unable to fix the blame.
“What are they tryin’ to frame me for?” wondered Tex. “I ain’t done
nothin’. They framed me into this place, and that ought to be enough
to do to one ordinary cow-puncher.”
He leaned back on his stool and tried to figure out what he had done.
He did not like Jim McHague, the head warden. It was not a dislike born
from anything that McHague had done, but an instinctive dislike. He did
not like the perpetual sneer on McHague’s hard features; the aggressive
swing of his beefy body. It had seemed to Tex that McHague’s every
action spoke plainer than words--
“I am your master.”
And Tex Rowland’s gorge arose at this. He had been railroaded into
prison; sent up for five years for stealing horses, which he had not
stolen. Perhaps that was why Hump Sherrill took the chance of warning
him. It rather made them brothers-in-crime.
But Tex had little time to puzzle out why he was to be framed. A guard
came down the hall, unlocked his door and informed him that he was
wanted at the warden’s office.
“What for?” asked Tex.
“You don’t ask questions here,” reminded the guard coldly.
“Uh-huh,” grinned Tex. “Oh, all right, pardner.”
The guard growled and herded Tex down the narrow corridor. The
warden’s office was on the ground floor at the front of the main
building, connected to the prison proper by a sort of anteroom, with
heavily barred windows. Tex was conducted through this room and into
the office, where he came face to face with McHague.
The guard, at a nod from the warden, backed out of the room, leaving
Tex apparently alone with the head warden. McHague was busy at his
desk and paid no attention to Tex, who stood waiting for him to make
known his wants.
At the right, another door opened into a room. Tex could see a high
desk and stool and some books. It was evidently part of the office.
And as Tex flashed a glance in that direction, he saw the muzzle of a
shotgun slip past the edge of the partly-open door. It was only there
for a fraction of a second; but that was long enough for Tex to know
that Hump’s warning was not a joke.
He studied McHague closely, and the warden looked up. For several
moments they looked at each other, like two fighters measuring each
other’s defense. Then McHague got to his feet. On the flat-top desk
was a heavy revolver. Tex had seen it when he first came in. It was
a mighty good-looking gun, thought Tex.
“You are 1733, eh?” said McHague throatily.
“My name’s Tex Rowland,” said Tex evenly.
“Not here, it ain’t!” snapped McHague. “You’re just a number here, young
feller.”
Tex shut his lips tightly and looked past the warden. He knew that there
was no use quarreling. McHague grinned. His eyes flashed toward the gun
on his desk, as if wondering if Tex would be fool enough to try and grab
it.
“What did you want me for?” asked Tex softly.
“That’s a ---- of a question for you to ask,” grunted McHague. “Just
take my advice, and don’t try to hedge. We’ve got the goods on you,
1733.”
“Thasso? What for?” Tex was thinking fast. He knew that there was a
double-barreled shotgun in that room behind him; and a shotgun, at
close range, is a mighty wicked weapon. He wanted to turn his head,
but did not want McHague to know that he had seen the muzzle of that
gun.
“What for?”
McHague laughed hoarsely and lighted a cigar. Tex could see that his
hands trembled. He also noticed that McHague was keeping out of a
direct line with the door. It was growing dark outside, and McHague
snapped on a light.
“I’ll tell you what for, 1733; for instigating that attempted jail-break
a few days ago. We’ve got the goods on you; so come clean, you dirty
horse-thief!”
Tex jerked forward at the epithet; but did not move out of his tracks.
He knew that McHague was trying to provoke an attack, but just why, he
did not know. He shot a glance at the gun on McHague’s desk. He was
nearer to it now than McHague was.
“Unloaded,” he decided. “He’s tryin’ to get me to make a break for it
and give an excuse for that jigger behind the door to blow me into jerky
with that shotgun.”
McHague was paying little attention to Tex, although waiting for Tex to
answer the accusation.
“You know that’s a ---- lie,” said Tex evenly.
McHague whirled angrily, gripping the cigar tightly between his big
teeth.
“Don’t tell me that I lie!” he snorted. “You know who I am?”
“I know what I’d call yuh,” said Tex slowly. “I know who yuh are and
what yuh are, accordin’ to my own views, McHague.”
McHague laughed shortly and threw away his cigar.
“You’re in a place where you’ll be ---- glad to change your views,
1733. I’m running this place, and, by a crook of my finger, I can
hand you more unadulterated ---- than you ever dreamed about. And if
you don’t come across and tell all you know about the plans for that
break, I’ll show you what I mean by unadulterated ----. Now, start
talking.”
Tex shook his head slowly.
“Hop to it, McHague. You know I didn’t have any hand in that job.”
“Won’t talk, eh?” McHague moved aside, completely masking himself from
those inside the other office. “We’ll make you talk. They tell me that
you were quite a fighter in your own home; but you won’t have any chance
to fight here. We don’t fight men in here--we break ’em.”
“I s’pose that’s right,” said Tex softly. “But when yuh say ‘we,’ yuh
mean ‘I,’ don’tcha, McHague? The state don’t stand for none of that
stuff. Yo’re put here to take care of men--not to torture ’em.”
McHague laughed and shook his head.
“The state put me in charge here, 1733.” He came nearer and shoved out
his square jaw belligerently. “And I’ll do as I ---- please, as long as
I have charge. You’re here for five years, and I’ll make it seem fifty.
“You left a girl, didn’t you, 1733? I think they told me that you were
about to get married. Was that right?”
Tex had turned pale and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Just now he had
forgotten the man with the shotgun.
“Well?” he said huskily, his hands clenched tightly, as he swayed
forward a trifle. “Go ahead, McHague.”
“She hasn’t written to you, has she?”
“You ought to know,” said Tex. “The letter would have to come through
your office.”
McHague laughed grimly, meaningly.
“You’d steal my letters?” asked Tex hoarsely. “You----”
“I told you I could make it seem like fifty years, 1733. Now, you tell
me who planned that break. Talk fast. I’ve wasted enough time with you.”
“You’d steal my letters?” queried Tex. “You’d stop me from hearin’
from anybody? Why, McHague? What have I ever done to you? You know I
never planned that break. You’ve got a shotgun man in that next
room, and he’s ready to fill me with buckshot; but you never stopped
to think that a riot-gun scatters kinda bad--and I’m goin’ to take a
chance with you.”
* * * * *
Tex had spoken softly; so softly that his voice would hardly carry to
the next room, and before he finished he was in action. Even McHague,
who had taunted him into a killing mood, was hardly prepared for the
assault, and Tex’s first blow loosened his front teeth and split his
upper-lip badly.
And as Tex smashed him with a left hook, which staggered the big man,
he ducked past, leaving McHague between him and the door. McHague was
swinging wildly with both hands, forcing Tex to back toward the wall;
but Tex shifted his eyes enough to see that the man with the shotgun
was already inside the room, but unable to use his weapon.
Tex realized that, in the eyes of the law, this guard would be justified
in killing him. It would be recorded as a case where a convict attempted
to kill the warden during an investigation.
McHague was forcing him toward a corner, and Tex had his choice of being
pinned to the wall by a giant of a man, or to duck aside and allow the
shotgun man to get in his deadly work. They had fought silently; only
the soft shuffle of their feet and their quick breathing to show that
they were in combat.
Now McHague was reaching for Tex with his two big hands, thinking that
Tex was quitting; but a fraction of a second later Tex’s right hand shot
from his hip in a sweeping uppercut, and caught McHague squarely on the
point of his chin. It was sent in with every ounce of Tex’s strength and
weight behind it--timed perfectly.
McHague’s hands dropped to his sides, his head jerked back and he
dropped in a loose-jointed heap on the floor. He was completely knocked
out. Tex leaned back against the wall, staring at the shotgun man, who
was flat on the floor, doubled across his gun, while behind him stood
the stooped figure of Old Hump Sherrill, a heavy stool in his hands.
He straightened up, a half-grin on his seamed face, as he glanced
quickly toward the other door. Swiftly he came across the room and
looked at McHague. The big warden was groaning softly. Swiftly the
old man took a big handkerchief from McHague’s pocket and proceeded
to gag him securely. Then he crossed the room, picked up the shotgun
and examined it.
“This one is plumb cooled off,” he whispered across to Tex, indicating
the man he had hit with the stool. “Nobody knows what has gone on in
here, Tex. Shuck off your clothes and help yo’reself to what McHague’s
wearin’. It’s too big for yuh, but we can’t wait for a fittin’. Hop to
it, kid.”
“You mean--we’ll make a break, Hump?” whispered Tex.
“---- right. It’s a chance, Tex. If anybody comes in--well, I’ve got two
loads of buck-shot. Hurry up.”
As swiftly as possible Tex removed McHague’s clothes. McHague was
recovering dully now, muttering softly, trying to prevent Tex from
removing his clothes. Then he sat up and goggled around. Old Hump
Sherrill shoved the muzzle of the shotgun close to his face and said
softly:
“Don’t talk, McHague. That gag ain’t none too good, but it’s a good
alibi. Now, you set still, or I’ll shoot yore ---- head off.”
McHague knew what Hump was saying. His eyes shifted to the figure of
his guard and back at Old Hump. He knew that the old trusty had hit
the guard from behind.
But just now his jaw was aching and the gag was uncomfortable.
Old Hump squinted at Tex, who was draped in McHague’s clothes, and a
grin wreathed his face.
“Danged good thing it’s dark, Tex. Take this gun a minute.”
He went softly into the next room and appeared in a moment with a
collection of handcuffs, which he proceeded to put on McHague. Then he
added a dirty rag to McHague’s gag, took another look at the unconscious
guard, picked up the empty revolver and handed it to Tex.
“It ain’t loaded, Tex; but it looks good. C’mon and don’t lose yore
nerve.”
They went down a long hall, which opened outside. At the door Hump
cautioned Tex.
“There’s a guard out there, Tex. We’ll start toward McHague’s residence:
_sabe_? I work over there once in a while. But when we hit the main
trail we’ll go straight to the big gate. There’s a gateman there and a
guard on the wall.
“Jam that gun into his ribs and make him open the gate. If he yelps,
we’re a goner. Now don’t git nervous. It’s our chance, kid. C’m on.”
They walked boldly out of the door and crossed the court. The guard
merely glanced at them, but in the half-light he only saw the head
warden and a trusty. McHague’s tan suit and light-colored fedora hat
were easy to identify, and the guard did not notice the difference
in size.
“One baby down, one see-gar,” chuckled Old Hump as they turned sharply
and headed for the big gate.
They were walking slowly as they came up to the gate. The guard squinted
narrowly at Old Hump, recognizing him as a trusty. He had already
noticed the light fedora, but on closer inspection he suddenly realized
that it was not McHague. But before his lips had a chance to frame a
question, Tex shoved the big six-shooter into his waist-line. The guard
on the wall had seen them approach the gate, but was not interested in
seeing McHague leave the prison.
“Open the gate,” demanded Old Hump softly. “We’re goin’ out, if we have
to take the keys off yore carcass.”
“And one yelp will be yore last,” added Tex. “Move fast.”
And the gateman obeyed. He knew that he was worth a lot more to himself
than the gateman’s job was; and this crooked-nosed, young convict seemed
entirely capable of following out his threat.
The big gate swung open without a sound. Tex shoved the gateman out
ahead of him, just as the guard on the wall looked down toward the
gate. He was not suspicious--just looking. It was the first time he
had ever seen the gateman step outside.
Then he observed that it was the trusty who was closing the gate behind
them. Of course, it was McHague’s business if he wanted to take a trusty
outside with him; but the guard moved a trifle closer, watching more
intently. The three men were talking. Then they started away together,
with the gateman walking slightly in the lead. It was so irregular that
the guard called McHague’s name. Neither of the three stopped. In fact,
they began going away faster. Then the guard threw up his rifle and
began shooting.
The gateman had voiced no objection, when Tex demanded his company. In
fact, the gateman felt that it was either that or a smash over the head,
because these men would not leave him there to send the alarm. Perhaps,
he thought, the guard would notice that it was irregular--which he did.
The first shot whizzed over their heads and tore deeply into the macadam
road-bed. The light was weak and the guard was shooting high; being
unable to notch his sights closely.
“Run for it!” grunted Hump. “To ---- with this jasper!”
He shoved the gateman aside, and he and Tex raced down the road.
Suddenly Old Hump stumbled, recovered and tried to go on, but slumped
to his hands and knees.
“Don’t stop, Tex,” he croaked hoarsely, as Tex stopped and came back
to him. “They got me, kid. Through the lungs, I reckon. Go on, Tex.
For ----’s sake, go on--can’t--talk. Wanted--to--see--old range,
kid--McHague wanted to kill you--before--pardon--go on--Tex.”
He slid face down in the road and Tex knew that Old Hump Sherrill was
dead. The guard was shooting again. Somewhere a bell rang loudly and
the big whistle sent out its siren warning, telling the world that a
convict had escaped.
Tex whirled and ran swiftly down through some bushes, down the side of
a hill, where he scrambled through a fence and reached the bank of the
river. It was dark down there. The whistle seemed almost at his elbow.
The blood was pounding in his ears, but he thought he could hear the
shouts of men, as they started on his trail.
Then he plunged over the clay bank of the river, slid into the water and
headed for the opposite side. The water was cool and sluggish. He had
only swum a few strokes when he found that his feet would touch bottom;
so he waded the rest of the distance and plunged into the brush on the
opposite side.
He found an old trail, which led up the other bank, and he came out
on to a railroad grade. He stopped and tried to find his bearings.
Far across the river he could see the lights from the prison. They
seemed farther away than he would suppose. There was a singing sound
on the steel rails which told him that a train was approaching.
Swiftly he slunk back against the brushy side of the cut and went
through the pockets of his clothes. Pocket after pocket he emptied,
until there was nothing left that could possibly identify him. The
accumulated mass of water-soaked letters, etc., were quickly buried
under a rubble of dirt and stones.
Now the headlights of an engine flashed down past him, and the roar of
the oncoming train drowned out all other sounds. Tex had never beaten a
railroad out of a ride; did not know how to swing on to a moving car;
but he was going to take a chance.
It was a passenger train, evidently running the grade on a slow-order.
The engine clanked past him, running at not over five miles an hour,
and Tex sprang upright, grasped the handles and drew himself on to the
blind-baggage, where he crouched down.
He realized that there was no door opening on to that platform, and that
the tender prevented the engine crew from seeing him. For the time being
he was perfectly safe; so he stretched out and tried to reason out just
what he was going to do.
He knew that every train would be searched as soon as the alarm had been
sent out to a telegraph office. But he also knew that this train stood a
good chance of being immune. It had left Elk Lodge too soon for him to
have taken it. Only luck had sent him straight across the river in time
to board it on the grades.
Station after station they passed. Tex kept a close watch and always
managed to be on the opposite side from the brightest lights. A little
past midnight he dropped off at a division point, and hid behind a tool
box while the engines were changed. Then he climbed on again and they
roared away into the night, reeling off mile after mile, taking him
farther and farther away from the men who were beating the Elk Lodge
country for him.
It was about three o’clock in the morning. Tex was dozing sleepily,
trying to keep one eye open. They were on a down-grade, high in the
mountains. The brakes were screeching as they lurched around the
curves. Tex realized that they were going altogether too fast. It
woke him up and he started to get to his feet, when the tender
whirled sideways, a sheet of flame shot up from the rails and Tex’s
car upended, as if trying to hurdle the twisting mass of steel and
flying coal ahead of it.
Tex shot into space, struck heavily against something, which caused him
to spin dizzily; while to his numbed ears came the splintering crash of
the coaches; twisting, rolling, demolishing themselves in the worst
passenger wreck of the year. Then he went down, down, down into a black
void, where he seemed doomed to keep falling forever.
* * * * *
And while the passenger train carried Tex Rowland out of the Elk
Lodge country, Jim McHague swore bitterly at every one, as he sat in
his office and directed the man-hunt. Fifty men were out in the open;
guards watched every road and trail out of the country, while others
searched the town, the trains; leaving no loophole for the man who
had outwitted the State.
The story and a description of Tex Rowland was broadcast to the press;
but it was not the true story. McHague’s version was somewhat different
than what had really happened. He told that Hump Sherrill was the one
who planned the getaway.
He said that he had called Tex into his office for an interview,
regarding the late attempted prison-break. Hump Sherrill had hinted
that Tex knew something about it. He explained that Sherrill was an
old trusty, who had never given any trouble; but, unknown to the
authorities, was an old friend of Rowland.
During the interview, without any warning, Sherrill had struck the
guard, who was present, with a heavy stool, almost killing him. It
was so unlooked for that Sherrill had secured the guard’s gun and
had covered him--McHague--forcing him to put up his hands. Then Tex
Rowland had struck the blow that rendered the warden unconscious.
McHague, according to his version, awoke from the effects of the
foul blow to find himself bound and gagged. He was unable to sound
any warning; but found later that the guard at the gate had killed
Sherrill. He claimed that it was so unlooked for that neither he nor
the guard had a chance. Sherrill had been a trusty for several
years, and no one had ever suspected him of a plot to free himself.
McHague did not leave his office that night, but waited patiently for
them to bring Tex Rowland back to him. Morning came, but the searchers
reported failure. The wires were kept hot. Every sheriff in the State
was notified.
In the morning a pair of bloodhounds were put on the trail which led
to the river. They were taken across in a boat and had little trouble
in picking up the trail on that side. McHague went with the dogs. He
felt sure that Tex had headed into the mountains, and that the hounds
would lead them to him in a short time; but at the railroad they lost
the scent.
One of them circled several times and stopped at a small pile of dirt
and stones, pawing at it eagerly, unearthing the soggy contents of
McHague’s suit. McHague swore witheringly and sent the dogs back to the
penitentiary, while he went back to the town of Elk Lodge and sent more
telegrams. It was plainly evident that Tex Rowland had boarded a train.
But just what train and in what direction, there was no way of knowing.
News of the big passenger train wreck had reached Elk Lodge. McHague
questioned the operator about the train, thinking that Tex might have
boarded it; but its leaving time, and the time of Tex’s escape, seemed
to preclude all chance of him being on that train.
“We’ll get him,” declared McHague. “He may dodge us for a while, but
we’ll get him. You can’t mistake that face.”
And McHague grinned to himself, as he visualized what he would do to
Tex Rowland when Tex came back to Elk Lodge. He would surely pay Tex
for that uppercut to the chin. It still hurt. Still he was glad that
no one except Tex and Sherrill had seen it. McHague wanted to be
known as a fighting man. And he had other reasons for wanting Tex
back behind the bars.