War on the Cimarron (9 page)

Chapter VII

Frank was just finishing an early breakfast when the jailer climbed the stairs again to let Otey and Red into the corridor, afterward leaving them.

The moment the jailer was gone Red said savagely, “All right, Frank! This runty foreman of yours is a tinhorn thief!”

“You're a liar!” Otey shouted. “You say that again an' I'll gunwhip hell out of you!”

Red's face was dark with fury, and Otey was so mad that he was dancing. Both were out of breath, both furious at each other and a hair's breadth from fighting.

Frank came to his feet and said quickly, “Quit it, you two!”

Red sobered down and so did Otey, and gradually, by quizzing each of them, Frank learned what had happened.

Barnes's bail money was gone!

Red claimed that Otey had stolen the money in the night and either hidden it or thrown it out the window to a confederate. Otey, when his turn came, claimed that Red had picked him up in the hotel lobby only so as to have someone to blame for stealing the money while he himself really took it. When Frank learned how close he had come to being bailed out he felt a sick feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He sat down on the cot, and Red and Otey, sobered by his expression, looked helplessly at him. Red, because he saw no advantage in hiding it now, told Frank where the money had come from. Frank was too downhearted to wonder at it, and he listened despairingly to the bitter end of Otey's story of Corb taking over the place.

“What you want us to do, Frank?” Otey asked miserably.

“Do?” Red said hotly. “Break him out of jail, you damn fool!”

Frank said quickly, “No. At least we got the cattle on grass, and you can run 'em. You try and break me out of jail and you'll wind up here too.”

He came to his feet, a restlessness driving him, and paced back and forth in his cell under the grave regard of Otey and Red.

“You're in here till fall, kid,” Red said. “You can't stay.”

Frank only glanced bleakly at him and didn't answer. Ever since daylight he had been thinking the same thing. And then to have bail within his reach and suddenly vanish was the last bitter pill to swallow.

“Let it ride,” he said gloomily. “Go back to the wagon and give me time to think.”

He was interrupted by the jailer again. Edith Fairing came into the corridor, looked curiously at Otey and Red, who stepped aside, and then paused in front of Frank's cell. She was wearing a black dress which was not as black as her hair, but in spite of the mourning color there was a vitality in her sad face that made Red stare at her.

“I'm sorry, Frank. I just heard. You should have taken my advice.”

“Looks that way,” Frank said wryly. Then he remembered and introduced her to Red and Otey. Afterward Edith took a folded piece of paper from her dress pocket and handed it through the bars to Frank. “I found that under the door this morning, Frank.”

Frank opened it and read: “Tell Frank Christian if he gets out on bail he'll get the same medicine Morg Wheelon got.” It was unsigned.

Frank handed it over to Red and Otey, who read it in grim silence. When Red looked up at Edith there were small spots of angry color in her pale cheeks.

“I think you were foolish to stay, Frank,” she said in a low, passionate voice, “but after getting this note I'm going to help you. It's—it's the same slimy way they got Morg, and it's the same slimy people!” She paused, and the wave of her anger was passed. “My dad left some money, Frank. It isn't much, but it's enough to get you out of jail.”

Frank said promptly, “Thanks, but I won't take it, Edith.”

“It's yours to take, Frank. And once you're out you can do so much more than you can in jail here! Won't you take it?”

Frank shook his head stubbornly.

Edith shrugged and then smiled a little. “It's the only way I can help, Frank. How are you going to get out?”

“I dunno,” Frank said. “But I do know this, Edith. Red and Otey aren't in jail. And they were as much Morg Wheelon's friends as I was.” Frank looked at Red. “You go with Edith, Red. Somebody might have been careless enough to leave tracks last night. Look the place over. Do what you can till I'm out of here.”

Red said gloomily, “All right.” He looked at Frank, trying to see some hopeful sign, but Frank's eyes were troubled. Edith and Otey and Red went out, and Frank settled back on the cot and then lay down, his hands locked behind his head.

Whoever left that note was Morg Wheelon's killer. In its indirect way it was not intended to scare Frank; it was meant to scare Edith and keep her from putting up bail money. The effect on Edith had been exactly the opposite, but he couldn't accept bail from her. He cursed softly and bitterly, turning on his side and staring at the wall. There was one way he could get out of here, and that was to sell his herd. He rolled over on his back, staring at the ceiling, considering this. But he knew he wouldn't do it. That herd was a symbol of his right to be in the Nations. It was his backlog and his fortune, and he would rot in jail rather than sell it. Red and Otey would find some way to raise the money.

And that reminded him of Barnes and of Red and Otey's story. They were each convinced the other stole the bail money. Frank wondered about that, and suddenly he came up on his elbow, staring out the window. Presently he smiled crookedly and lay down again, certain he knew where the money was. He filed that knowledge away in his mind, ready for the time he could use it.

His glance settled on the lantern hanging far out of reach on the corridor wall. His eyes were fixed on it, musing, vacant, and then suddenly his eyes focused. Slowly he came up off the cot, staring at the lantern. Then a slow, grim smile broke over his face. Presently he lay down again and was immediately asleep.

He had to be wakened twice that day for meals. After dark, when the jailer left his night meal, Frank took the big spoon, and as soon as his jailer had gone down the steps he knelt on the floor beside the wooden-framed cot. With the edge of the spoon he contrived to unloosen all the screws that held the cot together. Then he ate his meal and lay back on the cot.

When the half-breed jailer, a greasy-looking amiable man who was part Arapaho Indian, came back for the tray Frank borrowed a handful of matches from him and was bid a pleasant good night. As he passed the lantern the jailer shook it to see if it was full and then, satisfied, turned down the wick and tramped down the stairs.

Frank waited out the long evening, listening for the small sounds belowstairs that would tell him when the jailer went to bed. Along toward midnight he heard them, and then he set to his task.

It was the work of only a few moments to take out the screws in the cot. It collapsed, and Frank pulled out the long brace that formed one side of the frame. It was over six feet long, and after he had pulled it through the canvas slot he took the stick and poked it through the bars toward the lantern.

It barely reached, but by stretching he could touch the wire bale of the lantern. He fished carefully for a moment, got the stick under the bale, and then, by bracing the stick against the wall and prying up, the lantern bale slipped off the nail and slid down the length of the stick into his waiting hand. He lifted it through the bars and listened. No sound downstairs.

Then he took the pitcher of water which the guard had left and poured it in a wide circle on the plank floor. Inside the circle he piled the pieces of the cot frame and then took the lamp, unscrewed the cap to the tank and drenched the pile of kindling with kerosene.

Then he lighted the pile, took the pitcher of water, squatted beside the fire and waited.

The frame of hardwood was dry as tinder, and with the aid of the kerosene it immediately flamed into a hot blaze. The floor underneath began to char, and before the wood was well afire the floor planks started to burn too. When the fire threatened to get out of hand Frank poured water on the planks and waited, his pulse hammering. Slowly the cell block began to fill up with blue smoke, gathering in a dense cloud at the ceiling and then lowering as the fire fed it. Finally it was streaming out the corridor window, and then, because the window was not big enough to take care of it, it began relentlessly lowering toward the floor.

Frank crouched on the floor, watching the fire, his ear cocked for any noise. The floor planks were burning in a wide circle now, sending up plumes of choking blue smoke.

Then he heard the sudden pounding of running feet in the alley outside the window. It faded momentarily and began again on the boardwalk in front. There was a booming knock on the door below, and then someone shouted: “Open up in there! Firel Fire!”

Cursing soundlessly, Frank rose into the smoke and tested the burning planks, stomping on them. One small section gave way and fell into the room below. Through the hole the pounding came louder, and Frank heard the hurried tramp of the jailer running toward the front door. He tramped savagely on the burning planks, cracking another section. But still the hole was pitifully small, and it was only a matter of minutes before the jailer would be up there. He walked into the flames then, burning his boots, shielding his face against the flames, stamping savagely at the weakened planks. Another big piece gave way and fell clattering to the floor below, and then he heard the jailer and another man on the stairs. One last piece barred the hole in the floor, and Frank, risking anything now, jumped on it with both feet, letting his whole weight come down. The plank gave way with a rending sound, and he half fell through the hole. Looking up through the smoke, he saw the jailer's head heave into sight in the stair well. Then putting his hands on the smoldering planks, Frank squirmed down through the hole.

The jailer saw him, raised his gun and shot, and the slug ricocheted off the cell bar. The jailer shouted something to the man behind him, and then Frank went out of sight. He clung to the hot planks a second, wondering what was below him, and then he let go and fell through the darkness. He landed on the corner of a desk in the office below, overturned it with a crash and then lunged to his feet. There was a thunder of someone coming down the enclosed stair well. Frank reached the landing first, flattened himself against the wall, and when the dark shape of a man hurtled through the opening he struck out blindly and hit a solid blow.

The man caromed into a piece of furniture and crashed to the floor, and over the pounding of his jailer coming down the stairs Frank heard the noise of a gun clattering to the floor and skidding until it was brought up against the wall. Oblivious to anything in his way, Frank fought toward that gun.

He bumped into the downed man coming to his feet, and he kicked out savagely. He heard a grunt, and then the man was out of his way and he was down on his knees, feeling for the gun. When he got it he wheeled just in time to see the outside doorway filling up with townsmen. Frank snapped two shots toward it, and they ducked back into the street. And then a third shot from the stair well boomed out into the room, and Frank knew his jailer was downstairs now.

He got down on hands and knees in the dark room and, making as little noise as possible, crawled toward the back passage. Twice more the jailer fired and, getting no answering shot, he struck a match.

By its flare Frank saw he was almost beside an open doorway. He lunged through it just as the jailer fired and missed, and then Frank slammed the door. The alley door was ahead of him. He ran to it, swung it open and ran out into the alley.

A man rounded the corner of the building on the run, and Frank swore savagely and said in an angry voice, “Quiet! He'll take a shot at us!”

“Where is he?” the man said.

“Still in the buildin',” Frank said. “Keep a watch here. I'm goin' for help.”

He walked past the man, rounded the corner and then ran for the street. He was halfway there when three men came pounding around the corner on the run. When they were abreast with Frank he called: “Stay here and watch these side windows! He's still inside!”

The others, glad to hear the voice of authority in all this confusion, stopped obediently and flattened against the wall, and Frank ran onto the street. Everything was turmoil there, but he walked into the milling mass of men who were too timid to enter the building. At the same time he heard a shout from the rear, and he took it up.

“Around in back!” he shouted. “He's made a break!”

He hugged the front of the building in the half darkness as the crowd, stampeded by his voice, streaked for the rear of the building.

Afterward, when they were gone, he took the best horse he could find at the tie rails, mounted and rode out of Darlington headed toward the wagon and Red and Otey.

Chapter VIII

He hit the creek almost at the shack and followed the dark bank of willows for several miles. The night was black as pitch, and he could have passed within feet of the wagon without being seen. But it was a chance he had to take. His horse was almost foundered, and he knew that the shrewdest heads in the posse that was sure to form would think of Otey and Red first. He had to beat them here.

Presently, out of the night, came a sharp challenge. “Sing out, you!”

It was Red's voice, and when Frank answered Red woke the camp with a shout.

When the fire was going Frank briefly recounted his escape. Even Otey, who had disapproved of everything so far, seemed to be happy now. Frank sent Samse but for a fresh horse for himself and one for Red, and then the council of war was called around the chuck wagon while Frank hastily transferred some grub into a blanket.

“They'll be here for me inside an hour,” Frank said. “Otey, you drive that stolen horse a hell of a ways from here and turn him loose.”

“Let 'em find him,” Otey said angrily. “They'll get nothin' out of me.”

“That's just what I don't want to happen,” Frank said. “We've got to have one level head in our bunch that can keep out of this mess. We're goin' to need you, Otey. You've got to stay clear.”