Escape from Five Shadows

11

The new road had reached as far as the sycamore grove the morning Manring arranged to work with Bowen’s stump-pulling detail.

He waited until the wagons were unloaded and the convicts had moved off before he went over to Frank Renda, who had dismounted and was standing near the equipment wagon.

Manring touched the brim of his straw work hat. “Mr. Renda-”

“What do you want?”

Manring leaned over the end gate of the equipment wagon then, reaching for the handle of a shovel. “I want to work with the stump pullers.”

Renda rolled a fresh cigar between his lips and clamped it in the corner of his mouth. He moved leisurely to the end of the wagon to scratch a match against the gate board. “Before,” Renda said, “it was to get off that job.”

“I’m not talking about permanent,” Manring murmured. “Put me on it a couple of days…long enough to find something out.”

“What’ve you heard?”

“Nothing yet. Bowen and Ike got their heads together. That’s all I know. Set me with them a couple of days and we’ll know more.”

“What’s your price this time?”

“I’ll let you know. After I think about it.”

“Keep talking like that,” Renda said, “your price’ll be the punishment cell.”

Manring’s eyes raised briefly. “Look, I don’t have time to be polite. Either put me with them or don’t.”

“They find out what you’re doing,” Renda said, “some morning we’ll shovel you out of the barracks.”

“That’s my worry.”

“I know it is,” Renda said. “I’m just curious to know what you want in return. You got about the softest job now-riding that scraper.”

“If I’m going to pull stumps,” Manring said impatiently, “I better get at it.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll have to get rid of the Mexican.”

Renda nodded. “Send him over. I’ll put him on the scraper.” He watched Manring shoulder the long-handled shovel and walk off toward Bowen’s group.

Now another one to watch, Renda thought. And he wondered if it was worth it. You didn’t trust anybody in this business, least of all a man who would inform on his own kind. Still, a man like that could be valuable and sometimes having one around was worth it, even if you couldn’t trust him.

Manring had been right about Bowen planning to jump the supply wagon that day. It had marked the beginning of Manring as an informer. And it was a strange beginning, because he had given the information without first asking for a reward. It was not until days later, after Bowen and Ike were in the punishment cell, that he asked to be taken off the stump-pulling detail. And then only hinted that perhaps he would learn other things that would be worth passing along.

Because he had been right the first time, there was no reason to doubt Manring now. That Bowen and Pryde might be up to something made considerable sense. Some men you could beat till your arms fell off and they still wouldn’t learn. Bowen had tried it once. You could tell by looking at him that he had the itch to run, and you could bet safely that he’d try it again.

And Pryde. Serving thirty years. Only six of them behind him. Thirty years for killing a man with a broken whiskey bottle in a saloon fight. Yes, Pryde qualified. With twenty-four years to go-no time off-he’d be more likely to run than Bowen. But Ike would be more choosy about how the break would be made, because he had more time to think about it.

So let Manring snoop, Renda thought. Make him tell whatever he learns. And if his price is out of line, then throw him the hell in solitary. Let him think it over by himself. He thought then: Which is what you ought to do with Lizann.

But you wouldn’t be sure of Willis’s reaction. Willis was weak, and by now too whiskey-soaked to think for himself. But if something were to happen to Lizann-No, you couldn’t be sure what Willis would do…even afraid as he was.

Since his talk with Lizann, Renda had thought it out very carefully. There were only two ways she could leave Five Shadows. Either try to run away by herself, or try to summon help from the outside. Both of these avenues were blocked. He read every piece of mail she wrote or received and a Mimbre followed her whenever she took her sorrel out. So Renda told himself she was bluffing. She was being wearisome, trying to get him excited, because there was nothing she could do about her situation.

Still, as Lizann had predicted, he continued to think about it, and merely telling himself that she was bluffing did not ease his mind.

Manring was confident now that Renda would believe almost anything he might tell him. That was a sign that his luck was still running. No, it wasn’t all luck. Getting in with Renda wasn’t luck. Arousing Bowen’s interest in the dynamite wasn’t luck either. It was work and thinking and sweating and being five jumps ahead of any luck that could turn against you.

The luck had been in the beginning. First, seeing the basis of a plan come apart with the word that Bowen was ready to run. Bowen the dynamiter, without whom the plan was nothing. So there had been no choice and informing on Bowen had been a good way to test his luck.

Manring reasoned it this way: If Bowen escaped, or, if he were killed in the attempt, the dynamite plan was finished. But if Renda knew beforehand that Bowen was going, they would be ready for him and Bowen would have only a slim chance at best. He might be killed; but, to Manring, the odds leaned slightly toward his being taken alive. Perhaps with gunshot wounds, but nevertheless alive.

As it happened, Bowen was taken and Manring’s luck began its run. That he had tested his luck with a man’s life in the balance rose to his conscience only briefly. He shrugged it off with the thought that if Bowen had been killed, he deserved it. He would be repaid for that night in the Prescott jail cell: the night Bowen slugged him four times before the deputy pulled him off.

It was not until a few days after Bowen and Pryde had been thrown into the punishment cell that Manring realized that he had not asked Renda for a reward. He could not risk Renda suspecting that he had informed on Bowen for any other reason than for a reward. So he asked to be taken off stump-pulling.

Now he was doing the same thing in reverse. Nearing the end of the canyon, it was time to be working with Bowen again. When the dynamite arrived he would still be with Bowen. Renda would be asking what he had learned and he would have to stall Renda. But that could be done, he was sure. And Pryde. It was too bad Ike was still working with Bowen. But maybe something would happen to Ike.

Bowen was backing the team into position, Pryde pushing down on the long handle of his shovel, levering the stump, and the Mexican was passing the chain through the stump’s shallow roots. Pryde saw him first. He said, “Here comes Earl.” And now the three of them paused. They waited expectantly, watching Manring coming toward them.

As he reached them, Manring’s eyes went to the Mexican and he lowered the shovel. “Renda wants to see you.”

The Mexican’s hand moved to his chest. “Me? What does he want with me?”

“Don’t get overheated. You’re going on the scraper.”

“On the scraper? But why does he want me?”

“Ask him. I don’t run the place.”

The Mexican rose slowly, wiping his hands on his thighs. “Maybe he thinks I did something that I didn’t do.”

“You’re going on the scraper. That isn’t punishment.”

The Mexican shook his head. “Something’s wrong.”

“You’re just jumpy,” Manring said.

“I’m jumpy since the time Chick Miller went to see Renda.”

“Go on, get out of here.”

Manring’s eyes followed the Mexican as he started off toward the equipment wagon, then his gaze returned. He looked from Pryde to Bowen as he said, “I got transferred.”

Bowen only nodded, but Pryde said, “We saw you talking to Renda.”

“Sure. He was sending me over here.”

“You’re talking to him all the time, aren’t you?”

Manring looked over at Bowen. “Your friend don’t trust me.”

“Maybe I don’t either,” Bowen said. He backed the team up to the stump and there was no more said until they had pulled the stump and Pryde moved off with the team, dragging the stump to the nearest bonfire.

Manring said then, “I talked Renda into sending me over here. We got to be working together, Corey, if we’re going to pull it.”

“You can talk in front of Ike,” Bowen said. “I already told him about it.”

“You told Ike!”

“He wants to get out just like you do.”

“We don’t need three!”

“But you need me. And if Ike doesn’t go, I don’t.”

“Corey…it’s different with you and me. We got no business being here in the first place. Ike killed a man. He deserves to be here.”

“I’m not judging him,” Bowen said. “If I go, so does Ike.”

By late afternoon, the road had passed the sycamore grove and was halfway to the horse trail that slanted gradually up the western tree-covered slope of the canyon.

“By tomorrow afternoon the brush cutters will be on the slope,” Manring said. His shovel jabbed at the roots of the stump they were working on. As Bowen went to his knees, Manring stooped, pushing down on the shovel and one side of the stump lifted, popping the roots that held it. Pryde passed the end of the chain to Bowen and they fastened it to the stump. As they worked, their eyes would raise to the tree-covered slant of the canyon wall looming above them.

“More or less,” Manring said, “the road’s got to follow that natural trail.”

Pryde said, “I don’t see any trail. Though it must be there. The girl passes this way and so does Willis.”

“You can’t see it for the trees,” Manring said. “It goes up a shelf, all the way up, that looks like it was put there for the purpose. When the trees are cleared, maybe the shelf would be wide enough for a wagon. But it’d be just wide enough, without any room to spare.”

“So,” Bowen said. “You blast the wall out and use the rock to build up the shoulder of the road.”

“That’s the way I see it,” Manring said.

“Is that the way you and Renda both see it?” Bowen said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You and he surveyed it together, didn’t you? Is that the way Renda said it would be done?”

“Something like that,” Manring said guardedly. “He wasn’t sure and he just talked about it generally.”

“So you weren’t sure either how it would be done,” Bowen said.

“As sure as anybody,” Manring insisted. “There’s only one way to get out.”

“We want to hear your idea,” Bowen said.

“You’re awful damn anxious. We got about a week yet.”

“Earl, I don’t think you have a plan.”

“You’ll find out.”

Bowen nodded. “We’ll find out right now.”

“It’d be easier to tell it once we got up on the slope.”

“Earl, I think you’re stalling.”

“I can’t give you details now! You got to be up there to see what I’m talking about, else it won’t mean anything to you.”

“Try us anyway,” Bowen said.

“Well,” Manring began, “it’s based on three things. We got to do three things else it isn’t going to work.” He spoke slowly, as if giving himself time to think.

“First, we got to take care of the guard that’ll be on us. I figure Renda or Brazil. We get hold of him, but without anybody else knowing about it. Second, we set the charge so as to close the road on anybody coming up from below. Lay a rock slide over it or else blow a hole in it that a horse couldn’t cross. Third, we got to take care of the Mimbres. I figure we can force Renda or Brazil, whichever one we’re holding, to call them out. See, we’ll have another charge planted. All this is timed to the second and just as they come out-boom-they’re blown sky-high.”

“Then what?” Bowen said.

“Then we run for the station. For horses.”

Bowen looked at Pryde. “What do you think?”

“He don’t anymore have a plan than I do.”

“He must’ve just thought it up,” Bowen said.

Manring looked from one to the other. “What’re you trying to pull?”

“You got a lot of holes in your idea,” Bowen said. “That’s all.”

“Well, sure,” Manring said. “You can’t work everything out until you got the stuff.”

“You can’t work anything out,” Bowen said.

“It’ll go like I said, or it won’t go at all.”

“Maybe some of it will,” Bowen said. “You’ve wanted us to believe you had a plan so we’d get it in our heads we need you. You supplying the brains and Ike and me lighting the fuse. But it comes out all you have is a sketchy idea…and now we’re not sure if we do need you, Earl.”

Manring remained calm, as if he had anticipated this and already knew how he would answer it. He shook his head saying, “You won’t do it without me. If you don’t like my idea, think it’s got holes, then figure your own way. But whatever way you do it, I’m going to be along.”

“Now he’s threatening us,” Pryde said.

“You can call it whatever you want,” Manring said.

Pryde shrugged. “I was thinking you wouldn’t want to go up there with us. A man could fall and kill himself.”

“Ike,” Manring said, “I can fix it for you right now.”

“You’re going, Earl,” Bowen said easily. “We might not need your help, but we sure as hell need you in plain sight.”

As Manring predicted, the “brush cutters”-the convicts who cleared the pinyon and scrub brush-were working their way up the slope by midafternoon of the next day. On the morning of the day after that, the crews that followed, including the scraper, had reached the beginning of the trail and could go no farther-not until dynamite widened the narrow, uneven horse trail. But the dynamite had not yet arrived.

By noon, two thirds of the convicts were idle-until Renda devised something for them to do. He was reluctant to put more men up on the slope. That would increase the rate of construction, shorten the job time and consequently decrease his daily profit. Still, the convicts had to be kept busy. So he put them to work clearing the canyon area beyond the point at which the road would begin ascending the west slope.

“Cleaning out the brush is for your own good,” Renda told the convicts. “Then later on when we’re working high up and somebody falls off, we’ll be able to find the body for a decent burial.”

There were three bonfires to consume the brush as it was hacked down and cleared away. Bowen was given the job of tending to one of them. Shirtless in the close, almost unbearable heat, he would throw the dry brush into the flames. Then, waiting for more to be dragged over to him, his gaze would rise to the jagged, climbing trace of the horse trail that became visible, foot by foot, as the pinyon was toppled into the canyon.

Now it was a matter of patience, of waiting and using the time to think it out clearly, to think of every possibility. No, there was not that much time-not time to think of everything-so you eliminated some of the things right away. The things you had thought of already and had seen no hope in. Like Karla…and the lawyer…and walking out with a pardon or a parole or an acquittal or whatever you wanted to call it.

It was nice to think about that. It was nice to think about her. But it didn’t do you any good. And now you think about only the things that’ll do you some good. And it’s the bad things that do you good. Do you realize that? You get good from bad. That isn’t possible, but that’s what you’re getting. From Lizann. And from Earl.

A gun from Lizann and an idea from Earl.

Bowen had hidden the gun in the stable. In the stall where Renda’s chestnut mare was kept, he had pried loose one of the boards against the back wall and slipped the gun behind it. There, because the barracks offered no safe place to hide it. Getting it again, when the time came, would be another problem.

But there were a lot of problems and one more didn’t make much difference. Shooting Willis Falvey, though, was not one of the problems.

Lizann’s plan, when he realized it, was very simple. It was not a question of running away. That had no part in it. If her husband were killed, there would be an investigation. Someone would come down from Prescott-if not for a formal investigation, at least to take over Willis’s duties. When he did, Lizann would leave, and Renda would be able to do nothing about it. It was that simple. A convict, trying to escape, had killed Willis. The convict either got away or was recaptured. That was the convict’s problem.

But it won’t be your problem, Bowen thought. And it won’t be anybody else’s problem, unless she had more than one gun.

He imagined that she would be confident, patiently waiting for it to happen, rehearsing what she would say to the man from Prescott-perhaps even taunting Renda with hints that she would be leaving soon.

Lizann had a surprise coming.

So you are left with Earl. Earl and the dynamite. And you have to be careful how you mix them if you expect to get out of this alive.

On the morning of the second day of tending the brush fire, Bowen saw Karla Demery ride down the canyon. The convicts on the slope stopped working to watch her go by; and those below, on the floor of the canyon, turned and followed her with their eyes as she crossed to Renda sitting in a shaded section of the east wall.

She spoke to Renda for only a moment, then reined her horse in a tight circle. As she did, her gaze found Bowen. She nudged her horse toward the fire, toward the motionless naked-to-the-waist figure who stood in front of the swirling, wind-caught rise of smoke. Renda called to her and she drew in the reins. Bowen watched. She was not more than fifty feet away, still looking toward him. She wanted to tell him something, he could see that by her expression. Then it was too late. Renda, mounted now, came up next to her and they rode off together toward the nearest team of horses.

A few minutes later they passed Bowen again, heading up the canyon. Behind them came a wagon carrying three convicts, one of them Manring. A guard followed, bringing up the rear.

She wanted to tell you something, Bowen thought. But it could’ve been bad news as easily as good, so don’t think about it. You’ve got enough to figure out already. But through the rest of the day his thoughts would go to Karla Demery. She was not that easily put from his mind.

That evening the convicts were in the barracks when the wagon returned. Six men were called out to help unload it and they did not return for over a half hour. When they did, Manring was with them.

The lean, bearded man came over to Bowen’s mat. He sat down at the foot of it and rolled a cigarette. “Let me have a match.”

Bowen handed him a box of matches and watched silently.

Manring struck the match. As he held it to his cigarette he said, “Boy, we just unloaded it in the stable. Enough to blow everybody clean to hell.”