Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [6]
So many details. But Slocum had plenty of time. He pressed his ear against the door, listening hard for any hint of movement outside. It might be day or night, the guards might patrol or simply lock a door leading down into the dungeons. Being caught by a guard took on less urgency than the need to read the note now. What could Doc possibly have thought worth risking ending up down in solitary to pass to him?
Another few minutes’ preparation allowed Slocum to press out the note on the stone floor, then clutch the lucifer. He closed his eyes, struck the match on stone, saw the dazzling flare through his eyelids, then opened his eyes fast before the match burned down.
The note was upside down. He hastily spun it around and scanned it. Doc, for all his boasting of being educated, could hardly spell, but he had written a considerable amount on the small piece of yellow foolscap. Slocum yelped when the lucifer burned down to his callused fingers. He would have traded an inch of his thumb and index finger to keep the guttering light for even a minute longer.
But the smell of burnt flesh and the blisters on his fingers were all he got.
A smile crossed his lips. He had singed his fingers but had read through the note and now had something to bolster his spirits. He reached out, pressed his palm into the wooden door, then worked his way to his right, going to the wall. From the spot where the walls met the floor, he carefully searched until he found one stone that stuck out more than the others on either side. His strong fingers pried the stone free.
“¿Quién está?” came the immediate question.
Slocum flopped belly down on the cold floor and pressed his face close to the hole leading into the next cell.
“My name’s . . . Jarvis,” he said, almost forgetting his alias.
“Gringo.” The word came out as an insult, but the disgust and loss of hope along with it spoke volumes more.
“I’m here to break out José Valenzuela,” Slocum said. He saw no reason to lie to whoever occupied the next cell. He needed allies and had to take the risk.
“So? I am not this Valenzuela. I am Procipio Murrieta, the son of Joaquin Murrieta. For no reason other than my proud heritage have they imprisoned me.”
“I’ve heard of Murrieta,” Slocum said. “A while back.”
“He is dead. I seek only to live peaceably.”
“This isn’t the place to do it,” Slocum pointed out. “Will you help in an escape?”
There was a long silence.
Then, “They will keep those who try and fail in these hellhole cells for years. I am only here for another day.”
Slocum pulled back from the small tunnel through the wall and reflected on spending the rest of his life in this cell. Better to be dead. He wanted nothing more than to see the sun again—and hold his Colt in his hand.
“Better to die than suffer them doing to you as they see fit. You said you were innocent. How can you be worse off?”
Murrieta took a while responding.
“I often have this thought. Another year or death? I would choose death.”
“Who else is down here? In the dungeon?”
“I do not know. I have tried to speak to whoever is in the cell on the other side, but no one answers. The one who was there might be gone.” Murrieta paused, then added, “Or dead.”
“If he’s dead, can you get to his food and water?” Slocum wasn’t the kind to let an opportunity slip through his fingers, but the question brought a hearty laugh from Murrieta.
“You have a sense of humor. I like that, gringo.”
“How hard is it to get over the wall?”
“Not possible, but there is another way. I worked on a repair of the wall and saw how badly