Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [63]
Valenzuela did his part, wobbling in the saddle with his hands bound behind his back. Instinct kept him in the saddle when his best chance would have been to fall to the ground, then run like hell. If he had done that, Slocum would have been forced to shoot the man. But Valenzuela found himself at the gate, guards lifting their rifles to fire when Sergeant Wilkinson bellowed for them not to shoot.
“Capture him. That’s one of the escapees!”
Slocum grinned. So far everything worked well with Wilkinson recognizing Valenzuela. His smile faded when Wilkinson dragged José from the saddle, plucking the gag from his mouth.
Valenzuela screamed loud enough to be heard all the way back in San Francisco, “Slocum! He’s out there. In the woods!”
By now, Sheriff Bernard had come out to see what the fuss was about. He and Wilkinson exchanged quick words, probably arguing over what Valenzuela meant. They knew him as Jarvis, but Valenzuela’s insistence was enough to goad the lawmen into action.
Slocum used the time they spent discussing what was happening to mount. With his horse straining under him, Slocum bolted across the open area, where he found himself an immediate target. Both armed guards opened fire on him, Valenzuela screeching the entire time for Slocum’s death as they fired.
Slocum bent low and raced after Murrieta as Wilkinson mustered his guards. Bernard found his horse first and rode to cut Slocum off, but there was little chance that would happen. More guards rushed from inside the prison. Slocum heard the warden’s strident voice ordering the guards back inside to control the prisoners.
He had been right about the noise blossoming from inside the prison. The warden had assembled the prisoners to watch. There might be hundreds of them in the yard surrounding the gallows.
Slocum rode harder, striving to stay ahead of the sheriff. His horse began to tire just as he saw Murrieta waving to him. Murrieta had unloaded the packhorse and had piled the two cases of dynamite against the stone wall.
“I have it ready,” Murrieta called.
Slocum glanced up. His memory was good. This stretch wasn’t easily seen from either of the guard towers at either end of the wall. He hit the ground running, knowing Bernard wasn’t far behind.
“You did good,” he said, seeing that Murrieta had burrowed down some into the dirt to half bury the crates of dynamite. The explosion had to go inward if they were to breach the wall. Slocum whipped out his tin of lucifers, scratched one against his belt buckle, and applied the flaring tip to the fuse.
“Only six inches,” Murrieta said, “as you told me.”
Black miners’ fuse burned at one foot per minute. Thirty seconds ought to be enough to get them safely away.
Only Sheriff Bernard had chosen this instant to gallop up, six-gun out.
“Grab some sky, you two. Now or I’ll shoot!”
Slocum saw the fuse sputtering toward the blasting cap and knew they had another fifteen seconds.
“Run,” he said, shoving Murrieta along the wall. “Stay with the horses!”
He dodged away from the wall to draw Bernard’s fire. The sheriff didn’t open up but rode closer. Slocum played for time—and won.
The dynamite erupted with a throaty roar that shook the ground and made the world stand still for an instant. Then rock, dirt, and debris exploded outward, showering Slocum where he lay facedown, arms over his head. Shaken, he rolled over and saw that the blast had knocked Bernard from his horse. Where the horse had gone, he couldn’t tell. Slocum was partially deaf, and his eyes watered from the still-billowing dust cloud.
He got to his feet and ran to the six-foot hole they’d blown in the wall.
He was almost crushed by the prisoners fighting to escape through the hole. Slocum grabbed the men and heaved them from his path, forcing himself into the prison. He felt like a fish swimming up a fast-running stream.
Some prisoners fought with guards, but most tried to get free through the hole that had miraculously opened for them.
Slocum made his