Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [2]
“Oh, sure, there’ve been a few. Mighty few, I’d say, but it can be done. Them guards is human mostly. They look the other way, and a few clever folks can sneak on out. Need a lot of money to bribe ’em, though, if that’s what you got in mind.” Doc leaned closer and said in a husky whisper, “You got money?”
“If you’ve got a way out,” Slocum said. “I don’t intend staying behind the walls too long.”
“Smart man. The longer they got you, the harder it is to get away. They starve you, and some of the unlucky bastards get put in the dungeon. Yup, that’s right,” Doc said, seeing Slocum’s startled expression. “They got theyselves a dungeon, jist like the tyrants over in Europe got in their castles.”
“Torture?”
“Not so much, ’less you earn it.” Doc looked smug. “Truth is, most new prisoners earn it. Keeps ’em from thinkin’ ’bout escapin’ later. That’s what’s known as gentle persuasion.”
“What’s gentle about it?” Slocum asked.
“They reckon they don’t have to hang you, that’s gentle.”
The heavy gates opened and the wagon rolled through. The brief flash of shadow from the wall caused Slocum to shiver in dread. He liked this less and less, but he realized he had gotten what he deserved for not thinking things through. He should never have listened to Conchita or fallen under her spell. If he had kept riding north, up to Oregon maybe, he wouldn’t have spent those nights in the sultry woman’s bed and—
He jumped as the gates slammed shut behind him. Slocum watched the guards draw the locking bar into place, then padlock it securely. That lock was as big as his head and would take a stick of dynamite—more!—to open without the key. The wagon pulled around to the side of a three-story building made entirely of stone.
“You kin see San Francisco Bay from the roof,” Doc said. “Fact is the south side of the prison fetches up along the shoreline, but don’t think to get out that way. Water’s colder ’n a witch’s tit all year round, and they got guards in boats patrolling outside all the time. A signal goes up and they shoot anything that moves.” He chuckled. “They shot ’emselves a shark last time the alarm was sounded.”
“A bell?” Slocum asked.
Doc looked at him funny, then nodded. Before he could answer, rough hands grabbed his coat and dragged him out to crash onto the ground. Slocum was similarly treated. The others in the wagon had difficulty keeping their footing, but Doc and Slocum took the brunt of the punishment compared to other prisoners getting down from the wagon. More than one boot caught Slocum in the back, making movement painful. He cried out when a guard kicked him hard in the side.
“Git up. You ain’t gonna lay about all day.”
Slocum had learned how to climb to his feet with the shackles and did so. He started to help Doc to his feet, but the guard shoved him away so he could use a truncheon on the prone man. Doc covered up the best he could and waited for the rain of blows to cease. Only then did he get to his feet. Slocum figured that Doc had been through such treatment before and knew how to survive it.
As he and the others shuffled into the building, Slocum damned Conchita Valenzuela and her brother and the harebrained scheme that had brought him to this point.
Standing in a single file, shuffling forward when the prisoner in front had been processed, Slocum finally reached the desk, where a guard sporting bright gold sergeant’s stripes on his uniform sat with a ledger open in front of him. He glanced up at Slocum, then at the book, and ran his finger across a line.
“Jasper Jarvis, in for robbery. Two years.”
Slocum said nothing. The sergeant looked up, one bushy eyebrow rising.
“So? That you or not?”
“It’s me,” Slocum said.
“Get those chains off and into those,” the sergeant said as another guard shoved a prison uniform into his hands.
Slocum started to ask how he was supposed to get the chains off when the guard grabbed him and sent him staggering toward an arched doorway. He bounced off one side and then the other, keeping his balance, then saw the prisoner who had been