Slocum's Breakout - Jake Logan [68]
“Keep your wits about you, and I won’t spill your guts all over the ground.”
“I’ll have you back, Jarvis. I swear it!”
“Say anything wrong and you’ll never live to see me anywhere but in hell.”
Slocum’s cold tone caused the warden to suck in his breath. He turned the rest of the way in the saddle to face his sergeant.
“Warden, we got word.”
“What are you going on about?” Harriman glanced at Slocum and the pistol, then back at his guard.
“Some of the men heard ’bout a tunnel from the solitary cells out under the wall. That might be where some of the prisoners went.”
“Have you seen the tunnel with your own eyes?” Harriman sounded genuinely pained at the notion of his prisoners being clever enough to tunnel out under his nose.
“Can’t find it. Do I have your permission to loosen some of the stones in the walls to hunt for it?”
Harriman looked hard at Slocum, then nodded brusquely.
“We need to tighten security, sir,” Wilkinson said. “There’s no telling how many of them thievin’, murderin’ bastards might have gone out that way.”
“Plug the hole, Sergeant. Whatever it takes.”
“Yes, sir.” Wilkinson started to go back into the prison yard, then stopped.
Slocum’s finger tightened on the trigger. First he would kill Harriman, then Wilkinson. From there it would be a race to get away, but at least two of them from San Quentin would pay for all they’d done to him during the eternity he’d spent in solitary confinement.
“Is there something wrong, Warden?” Wilkinson took a step back. Slocum didn’t have to know the sergeant was eyeing him hard. “Come on back, and I’ll show you where the tunnel’s supposed to be.”
“Get on with your job, Wilkinson. I’ll see to rounding up the escapees out here.”
“Sir, I—”
“Do as I order, Sergeant Wilkinson!” The warden’s voice rose and almost cracked with strain. “I cannot have my prisoners roaming the countryside one instant longer than needful.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Harriman pointedly turned his back. Slocum gestured with the gun, and the warden rode ahead at a trot. Never looking back, Slocum caught up.
“Don’t bother looking to Wilkinson for help,” Slocum said. “You did good. You kept him alive. Yourself, too.”
“I’ll personally throw the trapdoor on the gallows for you, Jarvis. I swear it!”
Slocum let the warden rant on until they came to the junction in the road. The left fork went back to the San Francisco ferry. Since he had no idea about the schedule, Slocum couldn’t afford to wait long there. Closer down another peninsula was the Tiburon ferry. Its schedule was a mystery, too. He had no choice but to ride north.
The lure of Oregon called powerfully. Anything to be away from California and San Quentin. But he had to make sure he had plenty of time.
“Off your horse,” Slocum ordered. “Now take off your shoes.” He had Harriman tie the laces together and drape them over the now riderless horse. By the time the warden hobbled back to the prison, Slocum hoped to be long gone.
“You’re not going to kill me?”
“I’ve done my share of killing,” Slocum said, “during the war and after. Never killed a man who wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“I said I’d see you hanged.”
Slocum laughed. “You trying to get me to shoot you? Start running. That way, toward the San Francisco ferry.”
Harriman hesitated, then saw how Slocum sighted along his barrel. He took off at a dead run. Slocum watched him for a minute until he disappeared around a bend in the road, then swung his horse around and galloped north. He held the reins to the other horse to keep it close by. When the horse he rode tired, Slocum switched horses. He shucked off the guard uniform and kept riding hard until he saw how the shoreline bent around and back southward.
He knew better than to poke his nose back San Francisco way, but he had unfinished business. Just the thought of that business made him run eager fingers over the worn handle of his six-shooter.
“Not sure when the ferry’ll be across, mister,” the port agent said.