THE CELL WAS bare and cold. The floor was packed dirt, the walls brick. There was a set of bars covering the front and a single, narrow window at the back, filled up with inch-thick steel bars and a secondary covering of wire mesh. There was a narrow bunk with a thin mattress over the wood slats, and a slop bucket beneath it. The roof was wood and adobe, the supporting beams covered with another spread of mesh, like the window.
Azul was fed twice a day: coffee and bread in the morning, a hash with beans or potatoes at night. He was allowed two cups of coffee a day, and a single pitcher of water that served for drinking and washing.
The cell would have stunk had it not been for the cold wind blowing in through the window.
The circuit judge was due to arrive in three days’ time, and Studenmire had already ordered the gallows built. Azul’s only consolation was that the marshal had agreed to keep up the payments on the stable, so at least the Arab wouldn’t be sold off. At least not until after they hanged Azul.
He watched the platform going up during the days of confinement. It was built from strong pine, brought in from the lumber camp, a good eleven feet from the ground, with the cross-tree of the gallows itself lifting up another ten. There was a ladder going up one side, and a trapdoor at the center. Watching the construction made him almost as uneasy as the claustrophobic restraint of the walls.
Then Judge Danvers arrived and the trial began.
The hearing was conducted in the restaurant of the Frontier Hotel. Thaddeus Gideon took delight in explaining how the evil half-breed had attacked him, though less in outlining the exact nature of the assault. Bloody sheets were produced, and a description of Jill Torrance’s body given. The owner of Jolene’s, a fat man with greasy hair, agreed that Jill had been in a hurry to leave work that night, and both Gideon and the clerk confirmed that room eight had been booked by the man calling himself Matthew Gunn.
Marshal Studenmire explained how he found Azul with a blood-stained knife in his hand and three dead men around him.
Judge Danvers took exactly three minutes to sum up and proclaim the death sentence: at dawn the next morning the half-breed known as Matthew Gunn, or Azul, should be taken from his cell and hanged by the neck until he was good and goddamn dead.
They took Azul away and locked him up again.
Later, Studenmire came to ask if he had any last requests.
‘Yeah,’ Azul grunted, ‘I do. You ever see a big outlaw with red hair? Beard to match, and a black suit?’
‘Sounds kinda like Arne Nillson,’ said the marshal. ‘Why?’
Azul ignored the question, answering with another of his own.
‘He run with a Mexican and two other men? One with near-white hair. Mean about women? The other built like a farmer?’
‘Sure.’ Studenmire nodded. ‘You done real bad mixing with them. The Mex is called Paco Camino. Sometimes known as Cuchillo Camino on account he’s good with a knife. The fair feller is Burt Hart. Bible crazy or just plain crazy, depending on how you see it. The farmer-type is Maze Lynch.’
‘Where they come from?’ Azul asked. ‘Close by?’
‘Here an’ there.’ Studenmire shrugged. ‘You must know that.’
‘No.’ Azul shook his head. ‘Like I told you: I was framed.’
‘You know something?’ Studenmire stared in through the bars. ‘I could almost believe you. You never been to Blood City?’
‘Never even heard of it,’ said Azul. ‘Where is it?’
‘Hills, three days’ ride goin’ north an’ west,’ said the marshal. ‘Outlaw town. Like Hole in the Wall. One way in an’ one way out. None if they don’t like your face.’
‘I’ll find it,’ Azul said quietly. ‘I’ll find it and bring you the money they took.’
‘Twelve thousand dollars?’ Studenmire laughed. ‘That’s long gone by now. Like them.’
‘I’ll bring it back,’ promised Azul. ‘Along with evidence they’re dead.’
Studenmire shook his head, chuckling.’ You ain’t goin’ nowhere except out this door an’ over to the gallows. You’re gonna hang, Breed. No two ways about it.’
Azul stared back, his face cold.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll not hang.’
‘One thing you ain’t short of is guts,’ grunted the lawman. ‘But they’ll spill out when the rope gets tight.’
He stood up, kicking the chair back against the inner wall, and went through to the outer office. Azul watched the door swing closed and began to think of escape for the last of many times. He couldn’t see any clear way out. Not through the window or the barred front. Not through the crowd that would throng the gallows the next morning, when his hands would be tied behind his back and armed deputies would flank him all the way to the rope.
But there was—maybe—another way.
He rattled the bars, shouting for Studenmire to come back.
When the marshal poked his head through the door Azul demanded a decent breakfast.
‘You got nerve, too,’ grinned the lawman. ‘What you want?’
‘Eggs. Bacon. Biscuits. A full pot of coffee.’
‘All right. I guess it’s the least we can do. Best be up early if you want to enjoy it, though.’ Studenmire’s grin left his face. ‘Hanging’s fixed fer dawn.’
‘I’ll be up,’ said Azul. ‘Up and ready.’
The door closed, leaving only the dim light of the single candle he was allowed in the cell. He picked it up, ignoring the hot wax that dripped over his hand and began to study the roof.
Between the flat ceiling of adobe and wooden beams, the wire mesh hung down at the center. It was fastened into the corners with bolts, the same method being used to secure the edges to the walls. At the front, where the bars joined the ceiling, it was held only by metal hooks driven into the crosspiece. The mesh was wide, just small enough to prevent a prisoner from getting a hand through to dig at the roof. But spaced broadly enough that a leather belt might be fitted through the squares of wire.
Azul took off his belt and dragged the slop bucket to the center of the cell. Standing on tiptoe on the bucket, he was able to touch the down-hanging mesh.
It was difficult, working the belt through the squares of wire, and harder still to do it silently without toppling from the bucket. He slotted the belt up through the wire and then worked it clear again a little over a foot farther on. Then he fastened the buckle so that a shallow loop hung down from the protective mesh.
He set the bucket back under the bunk, kicking the spilled contents after it, grateful of the cold air. He measured the distance between the hanging belt and the edge of the wire, pacing off about seven and a half feet, which would be the total length of his body with arms extended above his head. Then he clambered up the bars to grasp the wire and swing his full weight down.
The mesh cut into his fingers, and a hook rasped as it tore loose from the frontal beam, but the main part held, supporting him.
He let go and dropped to the floor.
It was a long chance, and there wasn’t too much hope of it working. But it was all he had. He stretched out on the bunk, pulling the blankets over his body, and closed his eyes.
There was a thing old Sees-The-Fox, the Chiricahua hunter, had taught him on many raids. It was useful now.
There are times, the old man had said, that you will need sleep. Those are often the times you need to be awake. Learn to sleep with your eyes closed and your ears open. Rest, but listen for your enemy at the same time.
Now Azul slept that way, as he had done on horse and war-raids many times before. He allowed his mind to sink into a kind of shallow oblivion that afforded his body needful rest, while his aural senses remained tuned to the sounds around him.
Thus he heard the first cock crow, and the shifting of the lawmen in the outer office. The door open. And Studenmire’s voice say, ‘Dawn ain’t but one hour off. Go fetch his breakfast, Charley.’ The door close again.
The chilly, opalescent light of the pre-dawn lit his cell with a misty greyness as he came up from the bed and hauled the blankets on to the floor. He grabbed the mattress and rolled it to a column about as wide as a sleeping man. Stuffed it back against the wall and draped the blankets over it. He bulked the single pillow up to form the shape of a head, and dropped his hat over the joindre of mattress and pillow. Standing back in the dim light, he thought the bunk held a reasonable facsimile of a body.
He went to stand under the belt looped through the wire mesh and paced his own distance over the dirt floor. Then he powered upwards, hooking his fingers into the mesh so that he was able to swing his legs up to touch the belt. It took three attempts before he got a foot thrust through the belt, but then he was able to hike the other ankle into the makeshift sling.
It took longer to get twisted around so that he hung face down from the ceiling, and the wire was cutting into his hands so that the fingers began to grow numb. His arms and shoulders and thighs began to ache. He hoped the deputy would hurry fetching his breakfast.
He hoped his gamble would work.
There was perhaps one thing his Apache upbringing had taught him above all others. It was the need for stoicism, for calm acceptance of pain. As a youth, taking his manhood trials, he had been required to run a mile in the hot sun. Progress was checked by mounted warriors, and others running on foot alongside. At the start of the run, the fledgling warrior was given a cup of water, just enough to fill his mouth. At the end of the run, he was required to spit the same amount into another cup. If there was less, the youth was not a man.
There had been other tests, both mental and physical, but that was the one Azul remembered as he braced his aching muscles and tried to ignore the pain as he waited for his breakfast to arrive.
It came on a cloth-covered tray balanced on the outflung arms of the deputy called Charley. Studenmire came in behind him, rubbing sleepily at the stubble covering his jaw as he turned the key in the lock.
Charley shouldered the door open and set the tray down on the floor.
Studenmire said, ‘You want this? You only got an hour.’
Azul dragged his feet clear of the belt and let his hands slip clear of the wire mesh.
His heels slammed down against the deputy’s back, smashing the man flat against the tray. Charley groaned and Azul powered clear, hurling himself at the opened door and Marshal Studenmire. His arms were stiff, and his fingers were frozen into the clawed position necessary for holding the wire. He knew that he could not hope to snatch a gun, and so relied on sheer physical force to jump the lawman.
His head butted into Studenmire’s belly, and he wrapped both arms around the peace officer’s waist. Studenmire slammed a knee up, trying for the half-breed’s face, but striking his chest instead. His arms were pinned, and Azul’s weight dragged him down.
Azul rolled back against the bars and lifted both hands. Numbed as they were he barely felt the crashing force of the blows he landed against the sides of the marshal’s neck. He brought the edges of his hands down together, slamming the sinewy ridges of flesh-covered bone against the clusters of nerves linking chest and shoulders to the head. Studenmire’s eyes rolled upwards in the sockets, his lids snapping down as two tears erupted from the sides of his thin nose. Azul hit him again, then shifted clear as Charley began to stand up and fumble for his pistol.
Azul hit the deputy as he was climbing to his feet. Once. Hard, against the side of his neck. Already winded, and half-way unconscious from the blow to his back, Charley slumped down over the breakfast tray. A mess of spilled egg splattered his face and the coffee pot went down on the side, pouring hot liquid over the checkered cloth.
Azul picked up his hat and Charley’s gun. The latter was a Colt’s Frontier, the same model as Azul’s.
He got his belt down from the roof and dragged Studenmire inside the cell. Shut the door and turned the key after taking the marshal’s pistol, which he tossed away. He locked the door and went out to the other section of the jail.
His own gunbelt was hung on a peg with the Bowie and the throwing knife tucked inside the same sheath. He belted the leather around his waist and set the knives in position at waist and moccasin. Charley’s Colt fitted tidily in the holster and there were five Winchesters racked along the wall. He took one and then found a drawer full of cartridges. He checked the loads in the Colt and then did the same with the rifle, taking two extra boxes of shells from the drawer.
His saddlebags were in a corner of the office, so he slung them on his shoulder and went out through the front door.
Banner was wide awake even though it was only just on dawn. The sky was a dull grey color, like the eyes of dead fishes, with a few faint streamers of red crossing through to announce the rising sun. The air was cold and most of the people on the street wore coats. Those not heading towards the flatland in back of the jail were clustered around braziers set up outside the saloons and hotels. The saloons were open, already dispensing drinks to the audience; and the hotels were offering early breakfasts or takeaway meals.
No one recognized Azul as he moved swiftly through the crowds in the direction of the stable.
Honest John was dousing an oil lamp at the front of the building as the half-breed came up and shoved the Winchester against his ribs.
‘I thought you was due to hang,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Azul pushed him inside the stable and kicked the door shut.
‘I got an aversion to heights ’Specially when they open under me.’
Honest John chuckled: ‘Alice always said the opposite. She liked to get it open underneath.’
‘Yeah.’ Azul prodded the old man down the stable. ‘That was her preference. It’s not mine.’
‘What you want me to do, son?’ The old man grinned a spread of tobacco-stained gums at the half-breed. ‘Yancy Studenmire ain’t gonna wait around while you run out on his big day.’
‘Saddle my horse,’ rasped Azul. ‘And keep your mouth shut.’
Honest John shuffled off to the far end of the stable, where the saddles were hung on pegs. He was chuckling as he came back.
‘Reckon you musta broke jail.’ He swung the saddle over the pen holding the Arab and began to work the latch loose. ‘What happened to Yancy?’
‘He got locked in,’ grunted Azul. ‘I made a strike.’
‘He ain’t gonna like that.’ The old man set the saddle on the stallion and lifted a knee into the animal’s belly to draw the girth tight. ‘Yancy’s a dedicated kinda feller. Kind that comes after you.’
‘I been paying for my horse,’ said Azul. ‘Not advice.’
‘Don’t hafta listen,’ shrugged the old man. ‘I just thought I’d pass on a piece of knowledge I learned off Alice.’
‘She was a pretty wise woman,’ Azul grunted. ‘The way you keep quoting her.’
‘She got around some.’ Honest John set the bridle in the Arab’s mouth and buckled the straps tight. ‘One thing she always said was don’t leave no shit behind you. Bury it.’
Azul watched the old man lead the stallion out from the stall and climbed on to the saddle.
‘You go tell Studenmire I’ll bury my own dirt,’ he said. ‘I’d explain myself, but I can’t afford to hang around Banner.’