Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [42]
He ducked his head, went outside, and saw the four horses waiting for him. Procipio Murrieta was nothing if not a man of his word. Murrieta picked one of the horses and vaulted into the saddle. He wore crossed bandoliers with a six-shooter carried at either hip. Slocum hoped this firepower wasn’t necessary, but better to have it and not need it than to find themselves lacking any way of shooting their way free.
Slocum mounted and headed north, with Murrieta riding as fast as he could to keep up. They had to reach San Quentin before Atencio got his neck stretched, and the ferry across the Golden Gate seldom ran on schedule.
“You cannot go to the front gate and ask to be let in. And it is almost sundown,” Murrieta said, obviously worried.
“We’ve got an hour before he’s to hang,” Slocum said with more confidence than he felt. Murrieta was right. They had reached the front gate of the imposing prison but had no way of getting inside. Simply wearing the guard’s uniform wasn’t enough.
“Work gangs,” Slocum said suddenly. “Are any sent outside the walls?”
“Not that I ever heard.”
Slocum toyed with the idea of pretending to have captured Murrieta and immediately discarded it. Murrieta would be recognized immediately as an escaped prisoner, and Wilkinson would clap him in solitary too fast for Slocum to do anything. Worse, the sergeant might recognize Slocum, too.
“I hear a wagon,” Slocum said, cocking his head to one side. On the late afternoon breeze came the faint rattling of chains and creaking wood of wheels bouncing along the rocky road. “Prisoner delivery?”
Murrieta shrugged eloquently.
“I’ll find out. You stay out of sight. There. In that grove. I’ll do what I can to get Atencio out, and you’d better be waiting with the horses. If you aren’t, we’re all going to hang.”
Murrieta nodded and immediately rode away, leaving Slocum alone beside the road. The desolation he felt came from being trapped between the walls of a prison and oncoming guards. To return voluntarily to the far side of San Quentin’s walls was the height of folly, yet Slocum was going to do just that. If he wanted to come out of this alive, he had to be bold and take the initiative.
He galloped away from the prison, hunting for the wagon. He found it just around a bend and barely out of sight of the prison guard towers.
The bed held four chained prisoners. The guard with a rifle perked up as Slocum rode toward the wagon. The rifle came up to the man’s shoulder and Slocum waved frantically.
“Put that damned thing down. Don’t shoot!”
“What do you want?” The guard was suspicious, but Slocum saw the one he had to convince was the driver, who glared hard at him.
He tried to remember if this was the same driver who’d delivered him to San Quentin what seemed a lifetime back. It might have been, but could the driver possibly remember every unwilling passenger? Slocum hoped not.
“You got a prisoner named José Valenzuela? Sergeant Wilkinson wants him double chained. He’s a slippery one.”
“Valenzuela? Naw, not this load.” The guard glanced over his shoulder. Two prisoners were ginger-haired and possibly brothers. Another had the look of a sailor about him, and the fourth sat, knees drawn up and sobbing uncontrollably.
“What about that one?” Slocum said, pointing to the one crying.
“Name’s Waring or Warren or something like that.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Slocum wanted to divert the guard’s attention. It worked. He lowered his rifle so Slocum could breathe a tad easier.
“Don’t cotton much to bein’ convicted of murderin’ the wife of a San Francisco politician. They was carryin’ on and had a lovers’ spat. Used a butcher knife on her, from what I hear.”
“He killed her. He caught us, and he killed her and framed me!” the red-eyed prisoner cried out.
“They’re all innocent,” Slocum said.
“You get on back and tell Sergeant Wilkinson we ain’t got his pet prisoner,” the driver said.
“I’ll just ride along. Not far to the front gates,” Slocum said.
“Suit yourself.