The cackling laughter of the crazy prisoner drifted across the sun-baked prison compound. In the shade of the porch of the commissary, the guard un-propped his chair from against the wall and looked at the man. Why didn’t the lunatic keep his mouth shut and stop that infernal crowing?
“Crazy, you’ll have a heat stroke out there in the sun,” the guard yelled at the tall, lanky man laying the stone wall of a new building in the hot August sun.
“No, sir, not me, Guard Al,” answered Crazy Caloon, raising his head to stare at the man with the rifle. “I just want to be sure to finish this guardhouse so you and the other guards will have a warm place come winter.”
With a horny finger, Caloon flicked away a rivulet of sweat from the beads on his forehead and the puddles in his sun- bleached eyebrows. He finished wiping his face with the sleeve of his worn prison shirt and reached for another piece of lava rock.
“Hell, man, it’s three months before it’ll turn cold,” called the guard. “Go on inside and loaf like the other prisoners ‘til it cools off. It must be a hundred and twenty degrees in the shade.”
Crazy Caloon skillfully finished fitting the slab of stone onto the straight, plumb wall and then looked searchingly at the guard. “Are you telling me I can’t work anymore?” he asked dejectedly, and cocked his head to the side and watched the guard.
“No, I’m not saying that,” said the man, his voice climbing a notch in anger. He could catch a couple winks of sleep if the prisoner would go into his cell and settle down. “Kill yourself if you want to. I’m saying you can get into the shade until the sun drops a little lower if you want.”
“Thank you, Guard Al, but working will make my twenty years go faster.” Caloon laughed again, shrill as the excited chatter of a squirrel.
“Okay, have it that way,” said Al. Best let the man alone; the sergeant would raise hell if he caught a guard trying to get a prisoner to stop working, no matter how hot it was. He re-leaned his chair against the wall and closed his eyes.
Crazy ran his tongue over the edge of his yellow-stained teeth and reached for another slab of rock. As he laid the slab in place on the wall, he swept his eyes over the two-hundred- foot-square prison compound enclosed by a ten-foot-high stone wall. It was a bare fraction of the size of the pen at Yuma, a rat hole of a prison. With the tall walls stopping all wind, it baked like a fry pan under the sun.
Past the south end of the cell block, on the opposite side of the prison yard, he saw a second guard standing in the shade of the mess hall. In the tower on the south wall, a third guard faced back toward the two on the ground. Between the three, they could see every inch of the enclosed compound.
The sergeant and the remaining two guards would be looking for coolness in their stone cabin outside the wall. The location of the Quechan trackers would be anybody’s guess. They had built a small brush-and-stone shelter when the contingent of prisoners and guards had first arrived at the site. They seldom used it now. But they would be close enough to hear a pistol shot or the heavy bell used to signal an escape.
Crazy dropped his head and began to work on the wall again. Every day since he had walked through the iron gates of Yuma Prison, he had thought of only one thing. Escape. He had obeyed every rule, controlled his quick temper, and did not strike back at the cruelty of the guards. In March when they had chained him like a dog to the tail end of a wagon and marched him into the desert, he had begun his plan to escape.
And today of all days he could not afford to be locked up. Only one more step of his plan remained to be accomplished. If he pulled it off, all would be ready for him to go over the wall tonight.
“That’s the last of the rock, Guard Al,” called Crazy to the guard by the commissary. “Is it all right if I go fetch another wagon load?”
“If it’s okay with the guard at the gate,” growled Al.
Caloon filled a half-gallon canteen at the spring and walked to the wagon to toss the water into the bed and close the tailgate. He moved into the deep shadow of the stables and leaned against one of the upright supports. The pungent smell of the sweaty horses and fresh manure lay heavy in the heat.
The odors recalled pleasant memories for Crazy. They reminded him of happy times before his son had been shot down in a burst of gunfire by two drunken cowboys firing blindly along a street in Tucson. And he, in terrible grief and anger, had rushed from his livery stable, walked straight into the men, and shot them dead with his six-gun before half a hundred witnesses.
Crazy forced away the sad memories and lifted his head. He breathed deeply of the familiar aromas of the stable and felt as if he were already half free. Within a very short time he would be completely free. Or dead.
He threw harness upon the backs of the two horses, backed them into position in front of the wagon and hooked up the traces. He clucked the reluctant team of animals out into the bright sunlight and reined them in the direction of the south gate.
* * *
A slight puff of air drifted in through the open window of the guard tower and stirred the superheated air. The guard twisted about to face toward the breeze and pulled his sweaty shirt open to allow the air to cool him. He shaded his eyes and scanned the shimmering, heat-distorted plain stretching away mile after mile to the west and the distant Colorado River, and Yuma, and the women. The wind d away to nothing and the man cursed.
The crunch of approaching iron wagon wheels on the rock and grit of the prison yard drew the guard’s attention. As he swung around, he picked up the .44-40 Winchester from where it leaned against the wall and held it ready.
“Guard Tom, I need another load of stone to finish the wall of the new guardhouse,” Crazy called up from below. “Guard A1 said I could go get it if you thought it was all right.” Caloon grinned his silly grin, stretching his lips thin as paper across his teeth.
“You’re a dumb son of a bitch, you know that, Crazy? Why in hell do you keep bothering people when it’s so goddamn hot?” Tom leaned out the window, shifted a great quid of tobacco, and spat brown juice down toward the prisoner.
Crazy felt the spray of spittle on his face and his gray eyes hardened into icy marbles. The foolish grin remained on his lips and he laughed his short squirrel chatter, high and jerky, as he played the lamebrain.
“Just trying to earn my keep, Guard Tom,” he said.
“Go get your load of stone. But you had better remember the ‘dead wire.’ One step beyond it and I’ll blow your head off.”
The guard lifted a long iron bar, sliding it vertically upward until it was free of a series of iron rings that extended up the full height of the gate. The two half portals began to swing slowly apart. Only from the guard tower could the gate be unlocked.
Crazy shoved the gates completely open and slapped the horses through. The animals, glad to be outside, broke into a trot along the dusty road, the empty wagon bouncing and rattling behind.
After giving the horses a quick look to measure their speed, Crazy pulled the gate shut and held it in alignment while the guard plunged the rod back down through the metal loops.
Crazy sprinted to catch the horses. His cowhide moccasins splattered and splashed the inch-deep dust, staining his pumping legs halfway to his knees with chocolate dirt.
He ran lightly, his shirt billowing in the breeze created by his own speed. His stride was long and effortless, his breathing slow and deep. The time was growing short. He could feel escape in the air—in every cell of his body.
As Crazy overhauled the wagon he scanned the wide expanse of land before him. The convicts had built their prison in a location selected by the sergeant on the north end of Castle Dome Plain where a small spring trickled out of the flint-like lava. That was the only source of water for twenty miles in any direction, the nearest being the Gila River, due south, and on the far side of a chain of mountain peaks barely visible in the distance.
Castle Dome Plain was the nearly flat, lower slopes of Castle Dome Mountain. The mountain’s massive ramparts had been formed by molten rock pouring from great vents in the earth and spreading more than forty miles across the land. Then as the outer reaches of the flows hardened into solid rock, the lava had piled upward nearly three quarters of a mile thick, crowding the sky for space.
For many miles in all directions from the prison, the land was barren except for a scattering of tall saguaro cactus standing like giant sentinels and patches of stunted creosote and greasewood bushes. The terrain, scarred by numerous shallow washes, slanted downward at a low angle to the southeast until it was cut by the west-flowing Gila River.
Crazy caught up with the wagon and then moved ahead to run beside the team. The dust he and the horses roiled into the dead still air hung like a pall for several seconds before it settled back to the ground.
In the tower, the guard leaned the Winchester against the wall and picked up a .56 Spencer, his long-distance killer gun. He worked the action of the breech open until the brass shell slid into view, then rammed the lever back into place ready to fire. Maybe this time Crazy Caloon would make a mistake and cross the wire.
The “dead wire,” a single strand of barbed wire hanging from rock mounds spaced two rods apart completely encircled the prison. The wire, new and glinting in the sunlight, sagged in deep drooping arcs between the piles of stone.
The guard knew the range to the wire, exactly three hundred yards. He had practiced with the gun at that distance. It was a moderately difficult shot, just far enough to make the placing of a bullet into a man’s chest a sporting proposition.
Crazy reached out and caught the closer horse by its bridle, slowing it and its mate to a walk, and guided them off to the right. Two or three acres of flat black slabs of lava rock like the flaking skin of some giant reptile lay thickly on the surface of the ground.
The wagon gradually filled with rock as he worked farther and farther into the southwest corner of the fenced area. As he tossed another stone into the wagon, he surveyed the prison, its high walls framed against the hot yellow sky. He located the guard standing looking toward the wagon, the heavy Spencer hanging in the crook of his arm. He must be careful and not provoke the guard, for he had seen the man shoot.
Crazy was at the spot to which he had been working and he called a low command for the horses to stop. He must act now and hope the guard could not detect what was really being done.
He moved forward on the far side of the wagon opposite to the guard. Quickly he bent down and lifted four, thin flat rocks, three or so feet on a side, and flopped them out of the way. A shallow trench nearly large enough to hold a man’s body lay exposed.
With a broken leaf of a wagon spring he had used previously in excavating the hole, Crazy dug furiously, ripping and gouging at the ground. He scooped out the loosened dirt with his hands, tossing the dry soil away, hiding it among the rocks so there was no evidence of his labor.
A few minutes later he stopped digging. The hole was big enough now, six feet long and more than a foot deep. Crazy picked up a rock and made a show of loading it in the bed of the wagon. As he deposited it, he grabbed the canteen and, holding it pressed to his side, returned to the excavation. He placed it with a smaller canteen already there.
Swiftly he laid the four rocks back into position, bridging and concealing the result of his labor. He felt good; he had done it. He cackled his shrill laugh.
The guard heard Crazy’s laughter floating across the distance. It sounded happy. How could anyone in his right mind be happy working as a prisoner under such a scorching sun? But then Crazy Caloon was not sane.
* * *
In the cell behind the iron-barred door there was a stirring and rustling like a den of snakes as the thirty prisoners tossed restlessly on their straw ticks lying on the dirt floor. Now and then one of the men babbled a few words, mostly unintelligible, in his sleep.
It was after midnight, yet the rock walls of the cell still radiated heat. Not a breath of air had found entry through the small, barred windows to sweep away the heat from the burning day not long ended.
Crazy Caloon lay motionless, silent, too charged with the excitement of his escape to sleep. Sweat pooled in the hollows below his eyes as he waited, staring upward at the ceiling, invisible in the pitch-black darkness.
Hours later, impatience prodding him, Crazy climbed silently to his feet and slipped to the window on the north side of the cell. He looked out between the bars at the Big Dipper, measuring its position in relation to the polestar. He judged the time to be one o’clock in the morning. Time to make his try for his long anticipated freedom.
He moved toward the end of the cell containing the door, passing the two empty beds that had once been used by the Mexicans, Ortego and Bastamente. They were dead now, buried outside the prison.
The two Mexicans had seized upon the last day before the tall perimeter was completed, locking them inside, to make their bid for escape. While they were gathering stone outside prison, a dust storm had whipped in from the west. Under cover of the blowing dust, they had quickly unhooked the wagon from the horses, jumped astride the animals, and raced for Mexico, fifty miles south.
When the dust had blown itself away to the east and the guard gave the alarm, the Mexicans had had an hour’s head start. The Quechans gave chase, running effortlessly, trailing their short-barreled Winchesters and reading the signs of their quarry with ease.
Three days later Crazy saw the Quechans reappear at the prison, riding double on one horse with the dead Mexicans tied across the second like sides of beef. The bounty hunters dismounted and without a word stalked away to their crude shelter and fell into their blankets. The next day they collected their gold coins from the sergeant.
Feeling the side of the cell carefully with his fingers as he slipped through the darkness, Crazy found the long slab of rock in the wall ten feet from the iron-barred door. He had laid that very stone more than five months before. The score or more of smaller rocks below it bore no weight of the wall and only dry dirt, instead of mud mortar, filled the joints between them.
Noiselessly he pulled and pried at the stone directly below the larger slab. The rock pulled free in his hands. Silently he laid it on the floor and removed several others, the long slab continuing to bridge the growing opening.
“Kill the damn guard,” muttered a prisoner from the darkness.
Crazy snapped a look down the length of the cell. The other prisoners must not awaken, for surely some of them would demand to try to escape with him. That would destroy any chance for success.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to get out of this damn hellhole?” asked the same voice. Then the man began to mumble incomprehensibly, his voice guided by a tormented, dreaming brain.
Crazy breathed again with relief. Quickly he took two more stories out of the wall. The hole was large enough. He squatted down and shoved his head through to the outside.
The prison yard lay quiet. Weakly lighted by a half-moon, the partially finished walls of the new guardhouse were faintly visible a stone’s throw away.
A horse stamped the ground in the stable. Off to the left, a red spot glowed in the tower as the guard sucked on a cigarette.
Crazy eased his shoulders into the opening. They stuck in the tight fit. He applied a little pressure and slid through with a slight rattle of falling fragments of rock.
For several minutes he squatted on the ground, pressed tightly to the wall of the building, listening. With all the prisoners securely locked inside the cell, the guard in the tower should be the only man on duty. But Caloon’s eyes searched every foot, every murky outline, for danger.
Then he moved, a dark shadow among other dark shadows, gliding in a crouch to the northwest corner of the tall barrier that caged him away from freedom.
In the roughly constructed stone wall, Crazy’s searching fingertips found a hold and he began to hoist himself up the wall. At the top, he slid across on his stomach so as not to be silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Then he dropped to the ground outside.
He was free. He was outside and no guard with a large caliber rifle watched his every move. His heart thudded and an overpowering impulse to race away into the night assailed him. His muscles tensed in readiness for the first lunge.
With all his will, he fought the urge. His original plan must be followed. Though he felt strong, he was no match for the Quechans. Even with the three hours until daylight as a head start, they would easily overhaul him. They had been known to run two hundred miles and pull a prisoner down. And to be caught by them meant death.
Crazy moved away slowly, carefully stepping on the stones lying on the ground. They were barely discernible. Sometimes he squatted down to reach out and feel the dim outlines to make certain they were indeed rock. For there was an excellent chance the eagle-eyed Indians would find the imprint if his moccasins touched the dirt.
As he searched for rocks to walk upon, he deliberately made a large arc, circling far out and away from the prison to keep a great distance between himself and the guard. He stopped often to examine the tower, but there was no movement there.
Crazy came at last to the trench he had dug in the ground. The first stone, then the second, were lifted aside. As he took hold of the last, the deadly warning rattle of a snake exploded in his face.
He jerked back and almost cried out. Catching his startled reflex, lie held himself rigid. The damn snake must have crawled into the excavation to get out of the hot sun and now was warning him to find another place.
He scooped up a handful of dirt and pebbles and hurled it into the blackness beneath the stone. The rattle instantly stopped as the snake struck. The serpent coiled for the next strike. Then the rattle began again, quickly increasing in rapidity until it was one whirring buzz of sound.
At the second blow of thrown dirt, the snake slithered up out of the hole. With its sensuous body, a wiggling shadow barely visible among the rocks, the snake speedily retreated into the gloom.
The last stone was slid aside. Crazy scrutinized the trench, looking for any form that would identify a second intruder. There was nothing but the dark outlines of the canteens.
* * *
Crazy sat in the darkness and watched the moon and stars arc through the heavens. A pack of coyotes yapped a high, clear chorus on the high ridges of the mountain above the prison. A large ghostly night flyer, spotting Crazy’s dark bulk on the ground, dropped down from the black velvet sky to investigate. Crazy heard the swish of the air past the diving body, heard the rustle of feathers as the bird altered the set of its wings and tail to maintain its course. He caught one glimpse of the hurtling body as it bottomed its fall and swept upward, not to reappear.
The wild flight of the bird caused a bright flame of happiness to spring to life in Crazy’s heart. For the first time he thought he might really make good his escape.
The Big Dipper wheeled around the North Star, marking off the remaining hours of the night. Before dawn showed first light, Crazy crept into the shallow hole. Reaching out, he brushed away the tracks on the ground and then carefully placed the stones to bridge the excavation.
He lay on his back and breathed deeply of the smell of the rock and the dry dirt. He hoped the pit would not end up being his grave. At the irony of the thought, he started his weird laugh but choked it off. There was no need for that. The game of playing the crazy was ended.