LASSITER WENT BACK to Pasquinada. He sat cross-legged in the dim hut, bargaining. The chief was withdrawn, the round face bland; short, squared hands comfortably folded across the round belly. He idly scratched at his navel. His trading pose. His favorite occupation. He loved to dicker.
“The prison pays one hundred dollars for every man we take back to them. We should not make the prison mad at us.”
Lassiter was patient. You could not rush the ceremony.
“The prison won’t know.”
“Maybe they find out.”
“Not unless your braves talk.”
“Brave’s do not talk.”
“Two hundred. Two hundred gold eagles. Now.” He pulled his pouch, counted coins on the dusty ground between them.
Pasquinada’s eyes glittered. He liked gold, horses, women. Especially gold. It would buy much in the Yuma stores.
“Five hundred.”
Lassiter picked the coins up one at a time, dropped them into the pouch. Pasquinada’s belly trembled as each fell. The pressure built. Lassiter sounded thoughtful.
“I’m doing you a favor, old friend. We get this man out; the other convicts will get the idea. Many will try it. It can make you rich, taking them back.”
The Indian’s face changed, showed respect. He liked this possibility.
“Four hundred.”
“Three.”
They settled on three-fifty.
“A hundred now, two-fifty when he’s loose.”
Lassiter put the coins in the brown palm, shook hands. Pasquinada grinned. Both were satisfied with the transaction. As it should be. Lassiter rose, walked to the lodge where Crouse was held.
The Captain sat against the lodge pole, his ankles tied, his wrists tied behind him, around the pole. Three young squaws baited him, pricking with knife points at his naked private parts. They giggled and ran out when Lassiter lifted the curtain. Crouse raised a distorted face.
“I’ll kill you. I swear to God I’ll kill you. Those damn witches.”
Lassiter leaned against the reeds. “You better pray they don’t cut it off. They’re just getting their kicks, having a little fun. As a beginning.”
“All right, all right, I know. Call it off … I’ll back up whatever you say.”
“Write me a retraction.”
“Write nothing. My word’s good.”
“You did lie about Parsons?”
“Yes … yes.”
“Why?”
“He accused me of cheating, pulled a gun on me. A lousy river boat sharp.”
“That the only reason?”
The man cursed, kicking his legs to drive off the flies gathered around the blood. “Why else?”
“I like to know why people do what they do.”
“So now you know. Cut me loose.”
“Not yet awhile. Maybe another day you’ll write my paper. You can write?”
Crouse spat at him. Lassiter left, joined Pasquinada and his six chosen braves, explained the operation. Pasquinada was going along, to make sure, he said. His current wives were palling on him. Three hundred and fifty dollars would buy some new ones.
They rode at dark, silent as the desert animals they were raised with. After midnight they swam the Gila to a point above the prison, left one brave there with the horses, drifted like shadows to the top of the bluff. The night was doubly dark, no moon, a swamp mist dense, swathing the stockade. A good night for the work.
Lassiter took the brave Nahaana toward the top guard tower, where the stockade was twelve feet high. He held one slanting support brace for balance, stepped on the crouching Indian’s shoulders. Nahaana straightened. Lassiter’s head rose level with the platform.
He saw the bulk of the guard, facing away, toward the yard, the gun held loose, ready. Lassiter reached for the low rail, chinned himself, hoisted over it. He made no sound. The guard sensed the foreign presence, shifted to turn. Lassiter chopped his neck cord with the side of his palm, lowered the falling body, used his gun butt against the head. It would keep him out longer. He swung the limp weight over the edge, down to Nahaana’s upstretched arms, turned for a quick survey around the enclosure. It was quiet. Nothing moved. Guards at the other three corners were not aware of action on this tower.
They carried the man back to the horses, left him to be tied there, went for the other three.
Pasquinada had located the air hole. The Indians were digging, prying into the tight rubble with iron bars, two in the new depression, two shoveling to clear it.
Lassiter stood with a guard’s rifle, watching the yard. Twice the administration door opened, spilled light across the paving stones. He signaled, stopped the digging, gave the all clear when the door closed.
Frenchy was right, it was hard going. Once loosened, the pebbles rattled, sounded loud. The braves spelled each other. The shaft went down. The heads sank below the surface.
Pasquinada materialized beside Lassiter, stretched to speak close to his ear. They were down three men deep. They had stopped working; afraid the roof of the cell would fall out under them. They would not go further.
Lassiter passed the rifle to Pasquinada, had the Indians hauled out on the rope, went down himself. It was awkward in the dark, the three-foot diameter, and there was far to go. Frenchy had said twenty to thirty feet. Three Mojaves high meant only under eighteen feet.
In the cell below Parsons lay chained, listening. He heard the chunk and scrape above his head. Dislodged pebbles began to fall on his face. He fought panic as time dragged out.
Then there was a new sound. It stopped his breathing. A chain rattled; the cell door hinges grated. He yelled, to warn those in the shaft, but his dry throat gave little sound. There was the scuffle of crawling in the entrance tunnel. A lantern blinded him. He shut his eyes, opened them slowly as his pupils contracted and saw Sidney Blood, a prison guard behind him.
Blood stayed on his knees, crawled to Parsons, put a key in the lock of the leg chain, threw the cuff open.
“Let’s go, gambler. I’m tired of waiting. San Francisco for you, we can make you talk there, quick.’’
The man behind him hissed. “What’s that? Listen.”
Blood listened. He heard the rattle of stones but could not locate it. Then a pebble dropped through the air vent, struck his hand. He looked up, motioned for silence, whispered a curse.
“Digging … down from up top.”
The guard turned, cramped in the close quarters, started for the tunnel mouth to sound the alarm.
The roof and Lassiter fell in on him, knocked him flat and breathless. Dirt half buried Sidney Blood; a rock knocked the gun from his hand.
Lassiter landed feet first, on the guard’s back and head, pushing the face into the dirt. The guard lay still. Like a falling cat Lassiter kept his balance, swung on Blood, already rising out of the debris, holding the pointed iron bar he had been using like a lance.
“Stay put, Sidney.”
Blood shook his head, brushed dirt from his eyes. His mouth twisted down. Hating this man, he still did not fear him. They had been hunter and hunted too long. Lassiter would not kill him, not unless Blood was firing at him. And Blood knew why. But his voice choked on his red rage.
“Damn you. You got it. I knew it. I smelled you in it first thing.”
“Wrong, Sidney. I didn’t even know about the shipment.”
Blood spat dirt. “You … expect me to believe that?”
“Don’t push me. Don’t push your luck. This thing would make a great skewer. Stay on your hands and knees.”
Blood stayed, too entangled in rubble to risk the fight he wanted. Watching him, Lassiter called up the shaft.
“Send the rope down.”
The coil snaked down. Crouching, holding the bar point within a three-inch thrust of Blood’s face, he used his free hand blind, behind him, with Parson’s weak help wrapped and tied it under the gambler’s armpits.
“All right. Heave him up.”
The rope tightened. Parsons was lifted, swung, pulled into the shaft slowly spinning. Blood strangled on his curse. Lassiter shifted, felt for the guard’s head, lifted and turned it to let the man breathe, let it drop. The man was out cold.
The rope came down again, hung waiting. Lassiter said, “Even to you, Sidney, I hate to do this, but we need time to get off this hill. I’ll see you around.”
In a quick shift he arched the bar, slammed it against the agent’s skull above the left ear.