Yuma Prison Crashout, page 28
Another shadow fell, and he saw Gloria Adler leaning over the edge.
“You got the canteen?” she called down, and smiled.
He held it up to her, but his throat felt too dry to actually verbalize a response.
She motioned behind her. “They’re going down to bring up some of the mules and horses.”
Fallon brought the canteen to his mouth. The water, tepid and with more than a taste of alkaline, felt wonderful. He gargled first, and spit it onto the floor. Then took a small sip, just enough to refresh and revive him. He drank again, more, but still not too much.
“Thanks,” he called up to her, and sighed.
She was staring at the body of Doctor Jerome Fowler.
When her eyes returned to Fallon, he said, “It was quick. He didn’t suffer.”
“Too bad,” she said. “He should have.”
She looked behind her, and Fallon heard the voice of Preacher Lang. Gloria cursed him and turned back to Fallon, who had to guess that Lang had remained up to keep his eye on the woman, and to make sure she didn’t try to get Fallon out of that hole or drop him a weapon. Again, he looked at the pistol in the holster on the mummy.
“Get that canteen out of that hole, missy!”
This time he heard Preacher Lang plain as day.
Gloria Adler turned back toward the cold-blooded killer. “Maybe you’d like to go down and take his place?”
“You can get pushed into that pit a lot easier than I can. Get the water out. He’s had enough.”
She looked back down at Fallon, her face apologetic. Fallon took another sip, then screwed the top back onto the canteen. His right hand reached out and grabbed the rope, and he managed to tie a loose knot on the canvas strap. As he did that, he studied the body of the dead Yuma doctor. A thought came to him, and he tugged on the rope and looked back up into Gloria Adler’s eyes.
In a voice that never would have reached the young woman if he had not tasted the water, he asked, “Did Fowler carry a pistol?”
Her head shook.
Fallon swore.
She whispered into the pit, “I can try to get you one.”
Instantly, he looked back up. “No,” he said, louder than he had meant. He dropped his voice again into a whisper. “They’ll kill you.”
“What are y’all yakkin’ about?” Preacher Lang demanded, and Gloria Adler brought the canteen above the rim. She disappeared, and he heard her tell the killer, “I’m just getting the canteen up. Or maybe you’d like to cross this desert without water.”
“Shut up. And he don’t get no more nothin’. Nothin’ till we got the rest of that gold out of that hole.”
More noises dribbled into the pit. Voices, too muffled to make out, and the clopping of hooves. Fallon wondered how many animals they had brought up. He had to guess all of them. They would start packing the animals now, so they could get out of this place as fast as possible. Fallon looked back at the saddlebags. He could count them now. There were that few, and they were spread out.
Six. They had hauled up twelve. Six more. He had just that long to figure out a way to survive.
The first pair of bags disappeared over the lip of the hole. Fallon moved over to the mummy and pulled the Smith & Wesson out of the holster. He tried to thumb back the hammer, but it would not move at all. Sand or dirt fouled the cylinder, and now he could see that the barrel was clogged. It wasn’t rusted—well, not bad anyway—but he couldn’t cock the weapon, and even had he been able to, most likely the weapon would have blown up in his face and hands.
He pitched it onto the ground near the remains of the dead express agent.
The rope fell back down, and Preacher Lang looked down into the hole.
“Hurry, buster. It’s gettin’ late in the afternoon.” The fake preacher giggled. “I always love preachin’ funerals in the late afternoon. Especially double funerals. And by that, buster, I don’t mean you and the doc.”
The man laughed as Fallon bent over and tied the rope around the leather. He tugged. The rope began pulling upward, taking another pair of bags to the surface.
Fallon found a rock. He laid it at his feet as the saddlebags rose above him. Another rock he pushed over with his boot, and he hefted it, shrugged, and set it beside the first one. So this is what it would come down to: he would be throwing stones at men with guns.
The saddlebags disappeared. The voices above him sang out with joy and almost immediately the rope fell back down.
Another bag. Finally, only one saddlebag remained to make the final six. By then, Fallon had gathered eight rocks that might be good enough to do the job. He could hide in the corner, with the other corpse, but they might let him live. Live for as long as one man can in a hole with no way out, and no water.
“Get that rope tied, buster!” Preacher Lang called out. “Last one, boys! Lord be praised, it’s the last of the saddlebags!”
Fallon hesitated. Lang found his derringer and aimed it. “One more load, buster. If you don’t get it up here, since I don’t think there are no snakes in that pit no more, I’ll put a bullet in your belly and come down there to do that last one myself. Now.” He swung the barrel away from the hole. “Or maybe I’ll just put a bullet in Miss Jezebel’s belly first. I got two shots.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Ignoring the rocks at his feet, Fallon moved to the last pair of leather saddlebags. He grabbed the rope, and secured the rope around the leather. He tugged, and looked at the slack. The boys up top were getting tired, or maybe just lazy. Lang climbed to his feet and grabbed the rope with his left hand.
“All right, Cap’n!” he yelled. “It’s time to make our golden idols!”
Fallon jerked the rope. Preacher Lang screamed, and dropped into the pit. The killer landed on the mummified corpse, which disintegrated into a cloud of yellow and brown dust. Fallon leaped on the body, driving his knee between the preacher’s legs, and bringing the palm of his right hand straight into the man’s throat. He saw the horror in the killer’s eyes, felt the larynx crush and heard the man try to suck in air that could not, would not, reach his lungs. The man gripped the Remington derringer, and Fallon pulled the two-shot .41 from Lang’s fingers. By that time, Preacher Lang was already in hell.
Fallon rolled onto his back, bringing the popgun up, aiming at the sky.
No one appeared, and then Fallon heard the roar of chaos above him. Somehow, he thought he could make out Gloria Adler’s screams. There was a gunshot. Another. But no bullets were coming down into the den. Fallon came up, keeping his eyes on the hole. Mules snorted. Some other noise came, like the roaring of a tornado, like the unleashing of total fury.
Fallon saw the rope, tight now, and he realized one end was wrapped around that boulder up top, and the other connected to two hundred pounds of gold bullion. He shoved the derringer into his waistband and lunged at the rope, which he gave a firm tug. Feeling minimal resistance, he reached up, gripped the hemp, and pulled himself up. One hand over the other, shimmying like when he had climbed trees as a kid. His eyes remained at the opening, and he wondered if he would be able to pull that Remington out of his waistband and kill anyone who dared look inside.
He reached up and pulled. Pulled. Pulled as hard, and as fast, as he could. Now he knew he heard gunshots.
A shadow appeared, and Fallon stopped climbing, just a foot or less from the surface of solid ground. Holding himself on the rope with his left hand, he shot his right to the derringer, and pulled it up, aimed, and saw Morgan Maynard pitch over the edge. Fallon ducked away as the body fell, barely missing his shoulder. The Remington slipped from his grasp, and he heard Maynard crash atop the body of Preacher Lang. Fallon looked down at the rising dust and the unmoving body of the gunfighter. He couldn’t go back down to get the derringer. His right hand moved back, found the rope, and he pulled himself up. His head came up. He could smell the dung of horses, gunpowder, and what seemed to be rain. Mules ran all around him. He saw a saddled horse leap over a mound of rocks.
He dragged himself out of the hole. Yaqui Mendoza lay spread-eagled on the ground, sightless eyes staring at the clear sky, his chest riddled with bullet holes. Fallon looked for a weapon, but saw nothing near the dead bandit. He crawled over toward the saddlebags, and dived out of the path of a stampeding mule.
That’s when he saw the machete Yaqui Mendoza had dropped. He rolled over. Grabbed it and came up as Monk Quinn leaped atop of a boulder, bringing his smoking six-shooter down at Fallon’s stomach. Fallon let the machete fly. He saw Quinn’s eyes widen, and saw the flame burst from the barrel of the killer’s revolver.
But the revolver was turning away from Fallon because the top of Quinn’s head was disappearing into a sea of blood, hair, and brains at the same time the machete was embedding itself deep into the outlaw’s stomach. Almost at the same time, Monk Quinn was pitching forward, landing on Fallon’s right, rolling over, and then sliding into the pit. Fallon heard the crash of the dead body below, and he came up.
Captain Allan was still out here. Somewhere. And so was...
Gloria Adler came around the rock. She was holding Allan’s Winchester, which was smoking, and slowly, numbly, Harry Fallon realized that she had blown the top of Monk Quinn’s head off. And if she held Captain Allan’s Winchester, that meant . . . ?
“They’re all dead,” Gloria Adler said, and she lowered the Winchester and sank onto her knees.
* * *
They stood on the rim, looking at the last of the floodwaters pour out of the slot canyon.
“You see”—Fallon pointed at the dead farmer’s fields— “that’s how they grew crops here. Soak the fields. Has to be a short growing season, just during the monsoons, but . . .” He sighed.
“When the water rushed out,” Gloria said, “all hell broke loose. Captain Allan must have decided he could take the gold for himself. Or maybe it was Quinn. Hell, it was probably all of them. I don’t even know who killed who first.” Her brow knotted in confusion. “What happened to Lang?”
Fallon shrugged. “I brought him down to my level.”
“Snakes?” she asked.
He shook his head. “There are no snakes. Not anymore.” He gestured at the opening to the pit. “There’s another body down there, and a bunch of broken poison bottles. My guess is that this prospector or bounty hunter or maybe a wolfer just happened along. Saw the saddlebags. Must have guessed that it was stolen loot. So he pitched bottles of poison into the pit. It caused a gas that killed the snakes. Only, he must have gotten too close to the edge and slipped in. He tried to get away but breathed in too much of the gas. He’s down there too. With Conrad, the express agent, and . . .”
Gloria said, “They have plenty of company.”
The mules and horses had calmed down, higher up the ridge. Fallon saw that most of the mules already had been saddled and loaded with the bags. Monk Quinn was wasting no time.
“So . . .” Gloria Adler asked. “What happens now?”
* * *
The bodies were up, wrapped in bedrolls, and loaded on the backs of mules or horses. As the water had receded or been soaked up by the roots of corn and cabbages, softening the desert ground, Fallon had buried the bodies of the dead farmer, his wife, the dog, and Doctor Jerome Fowler.
Burying the bodies, and getting the corpses, and the last saddlebag of gold bullion, had taken them into the night. Adler and Fallon had eaten raw corn, and the beans the farmer’s wife had been cooking for their supper. They were not hungry, but knew they had to eat.
They slept fitfully, if they slept at all, and when dawn came, they stared at each other long and hard.
Fallon pointed to the horse Gloria had been riding, and the mule he had picketed beside it. The mule still held a packsaddle, and one of the saddlebags was on it, along with food, water, and Captain Allan’s Winchester rifle.
She looked at the animals, and then back at Fallon.
“Who are you?”
He smiled. “Hank Fallon. Ex–deputy marshal. Paroled convict.”
“I don’t need that gold,” she said.
“I’d give you more,” he said, “but I knew you wouldn’t want it.”
“It’s not yours to give.”
“That’s why I’m taking it back to Arizona.” He drew in a deep breath. “It’s a long story. But the mines and the law won’t miss a few bars of bullion. And you’ll need it to get to”—he shrugged—“wherever you’re going.”
“Vera Cruz,” she said, “sounds nice.”
“I’ve heard,” he said, “the western coast is nicer. Not as many people. Or bounty hunters.”
“Maybe,” she said, “I’ll go west.”
“Be careful where you show off that bullion.”
“I will.”
He adjusted the gunbelt he wore and moved to the string of mules. “Maybe,” she said, as she walked to her horse, “one day you’ll decide to see the western coast of Mexico yourself.”
Fallon looked at her. “I have some personal business I have to take care of first. A few jobs I promised this fellow. But . . .” He turned away from her, tried to block her from his mind.
She rode south.
Hank Fallon rode toward Tucson.
* * *
He left the mules and the dead bodies in an arroyo just south of town, and rode to the little church. He found the confessional, and waited until he heard the wood slide open.
The voice was too young.
“No offense, Padre,” Fallon said, “but I need to talk to the old priest.”
The voice coughed. “Do you mean Padre Julio?”
“Let’s try him.”
A few minutes later, Harry Fallon smiled at the voice. “Did you say your fifty Hail Marys when you left the last time, Marshal Fallon? Have you tried to live better?”
Fallon laughed. “How did you know it was me, Father Julio?”
“I have heard no reports of the death of a man named Harry Fallon, but I have read a lot about a bloody escape out of Yuma.”
Fallon lost the smile. “Well, bless me, Father, if you can bless a backsliding Methodist, for I have sinned.”
“What do you wish to tell me, my son?” the priest asked.
* * *
When he had finished, he waited. The old man breathed heavily in the dark, and, at length, he said, “Would you like me to remember your late wife and child in the next Mass?”
“I’d appreciate it, Father.”
“You’re going back to Chicago?”
“I must.”
“So this is good-bye.”
“Who’s to say?”
Another long silence, and then the old man on the other side of the confessional said, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Harry?”
Fallon let out a long breath. He said, “Actually, Father, there is. I was hoping you’d be able to send a telegraph as soon as I’m gone. I’ve written it out on a piece of paper.”
“I suppose I can do this.”
“Be careful that no one sees you.”
“I am always careful. But as a priest, a poor man, I don’t know if I have—”
“Don’t worry, Father Julio. I can pay for the price of the telegraph. In fact, I’ve brought what we called a tithe back in my church.” He cleared his throat. “Just be careful where you cash it in. I’d recommend this man I met down in Mexico, just below the border. I’ve written it on the note too. This place, it’s not far. It’s where I got my new duds. He takes a healthy cut, but . . . well . . . it’s probably worth it.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Harry Fallon, dressed in black boots, black-striped britches, a yellow shirt, blue vest, blue ribbon tie, and black hat, entered a saloon. He made a beeline for the corner table in the back of the place, stood in front of Aaron Holderman, who was sipping a frothy beer, and waited for the detective to look up. When Holderman raised his head, his eyes widened in recognition.
“You . . .” he gasped.
“Get a horse,” Fallon whispered. “And meet me at the south road in fifteen minutes. You’ve got some work to do, and a report to get to Mr. MacGregor.”
The drunk blinked. “You mean . . . you found . . . you got . . . you done it?”
“Yeah,” Fallon said. “I done it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The little man sat in the green leather chair in an extremely large office in Chicago. He wore a brown suit with a tan vest and red tie, and he smoked a repulsive cigar. Sean MacGregor, president of the American Detective Agency, did not look happy.
Dan MacGregor opened the door, and let Aaron Holderman and Harry Fallon inside. The son of the detective agency’s owner closed the door and leaned against the wall.
Holderman and Fallon walked to the desk the size of a battleship. Sean MacGregor laid the cigar in an ashtray.
“What the hell happened?” the Scot roared.
His anger took Holderman aback. The timid man wet his lips in confusion. “But . . . what . . . I mean . . . I wired you . . .”
“That you had the gold, all but a few bars! That Fallon brought it back, and the bodies of the dead men.”
“That’s right. Ain’t that right, Hank?”
Fallon shrugged. “I gave you the gold, even the mules, and you gave me a receipt.” Fallon patted the top pocket of his vest.
“Then . . .” MacGregor rose from his seat and slammed a newspaper, the Chicago Appeal, on the desk. “Explain this!”
Both men stared at the headlines in the lower right-hand corner.
PINKERTONS RETURN BULLION !
Detectives Discover Gold Stolen in
Arizona Robbery Six Years Earlier.
RECOVERY OF TREASURE LONG THOUGHT MISSING
BRINGS RELIEF TO MINES!
Amazing Story of Daring.
PRESIDENT PRAISES CHIEF.
Full Details of Exciting Story.
