Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [43]
Slocum considered arguing for the sake of cementing his role as a guard but held back. The wagon rattled around the bend in the road and the sight of the walls took away his speech. He shook himself to clear his head. From here on, he had to be quick, respond properly, and get himself into the prison.
“Good to be back home,” the armed guard said. “You want to go fetch the next batch of prisoners? Somethin’’bout bein’ outside the walls gives me the willies nowadays.”
“We can talk about it,” Slocum said. He was willing to go after more prisoners now.
“How many you got?” came the shout from high on the wall.
“Four.”
“Open up,” the guard called down. “We got more fish to swim in our pond!” He laughed at that, and the guard opening the gate was laughing, too.
Slocum forced himself to laugh, just to fit in.
“Let me help you,” Slocum offered to the wagon guard.
“Much obliged, ’specially with that one.” The guard pointed at the crying prisoner, who had once more descended into sobbing.
Slocum pulled the man out, got him on his feet, and moved so he kept the prisoners between him and the two guards coming from inside.
“Git ’em movin’. We ain’t got all day.”
Slocum shoved his prisoner ahead of him and passed through the gate, aware of other guards watching. Many of them tapped their truncheon against a thigh or slapped it against a palm in a drumbeat that chilled his blood.
“That way,” Slocum said, steering the crying convict toward the processing area. He began to hang back and let the real guards do their duty.
Then he froze when a gruff voice called out, “You, the new guard. Come here!”
Slocum turned and saw Sergeant Wilkinson, his ledger tucked under his arm, pointing straight at him.
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Slocum reached under the ill-fitting left coat sleeve and gripped the knife sheathed there. He would die but only after taking Wilkinson with him.
He stepped forward, but Wilkinson looked past him. Slocum veered away, his knife still hidden. Wilkinson bellowed again for the new guard to come to him.
Slocum let out pent-up breath when the guard with the rifle from the prison wagon marched forward.
“What you doin’ violatin’ regulations?” Wilkinson bellowed so loud that both guards and prisoners milling about in the yard some distance away all turned to see what caused the ruckus.
“Don’t rightly know what you mean, Sergeant,” the guard said.
“No firearms inside the prison, unless they are locked up where I can find and dispense them in a hurry,” Wilkinson said. He continued to chew out the guard, giving Slocum a chance to drift even farther away until he was surrounded by other truncheon-tapping guards and a few sullen prisoners.
He made several quick turns intended to keep him out of Wilkinson’s line of sight, though he knew he attracted some attention because of his shoddy uniform. More than one prisoner looked at him and sniggered. Finally, a guard sauntered over and positioned himself so he blocked any further escape from Wilkinson’s attention.
“Don’t remember seein’ you in here before,” the guard said.
Slocum settled his uniform coat and moved his hand nearer the knife again. If he had to, he could gut the guard and toss away the knife so it would look as if a prisoner had killed him instead. The blood might be a problem, but Slocum doubted the other guards would be too observant if they thought they had the beginning of a prisoner riot on their hands.
“New,” Slocum said.
“That’s one crappy uniform you’re wearin’. I wouldn’t be caught dead in it.” The guard laughed.
“Yours is pretty nice,” Slocum allowed, “but I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in it either.” He half drew his knife when the guard stopped laughing. The flare of anger told of a killer no different from any of those locked up behind the prison walls.
“You got a mouth on you,” the guard said. He slapped his truncheon against his thigh, as if testing how hard he could hit before bruising started.
“That the gallows