The Loner: Seven Days to Die Page 6

  The Kid shook his head. “I don’t know a thing about it.”

  “You’re a damned fool. You know you’ll never get out of here again. That money can’t do you any good now. The only possible benefit you might get from it is if you reveal where it is. That might get you a little clemency somewhere along the way.”

  “Or get me hanged,” The Kid shot back. “Like Haggarty said, those bankers won’t let me be convicted of murder and strung up as long as there’s a chance they might get their money back. But once they do, they won’t give a damn about me. Telling you where the money is would be the same thing as signing my death warrant.” He shook his head. “But it’s all moot anyway, because I don’t know where the money is. I’m not Bledsoe.”

  Behind The Kid, one of the guards muttered to another, “What’s moot?”

  Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “Being stubborn’s not going to do you any good.”

  “On the contrary, it’s all I have left,” The Kid said. “Except…”

  He might as well go ahead and play the only card remaining in his hand, he decided, the one he had started to trot out when Jillian was in there.

  “Did Ben Bledsoe know Latin?” he asked. “Cogito, ergo sum.”

  “Did he say that’s Sioux?” the guard whispered to his companion. He fell silent as Fletcher glared at him.

  Fletcher returned his attention to The Kid. “Well, now, that’s mighty fancy talk. Do you know what it means?”

  “‘I think, therefore I am’,” The Kid quoted. “Or veni, vidi, vici… I came, I saw, I conquered.”

  “So you think by throwing around a few Latin phrases, you’re going to convince me you’re not Ben Bledsoe?” Fletcher asked. He seemed amused, which didn’t make The Kid feel any better. “Is that the idea?”

  “How many outlaws would know something like that?”

  “Not many, I’ll grant you,” Fletcher replied. “But Bledsoe would, since before he took up the owlhoot trail, he was Professor Benjamin Bledsoe and taught law at William and Mary in Virginia.”

  It was The Kid’s turn to be thunderstruck. It was impossible that he could have predicted such an unlikely turn of events.

  Life was full of bizarre happenstances. Hadn’t he turned out to be the son of one of the most famous gunfighters in the West? After years as a businessman, hadn’t he taken up the gun himself and carved out a reputation as an hombre who was slick on the draw and deadly accurate with a Colt?

  “I didn’t know that about Bledsoe,” he said softly.

  “Here’s something else you don’t know,” Fletcher said as he came to his feet. “I’m tired of pussyfooting around with you, mister. We’re going to end this.” He jerked a hand at the guards. “Take him outside. Get his shirt off him and tie him to the whipping post.”

  The Kid’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t seen a whipping post when he was first brought in to Hell Gate Prison, but he hadn’t been in good shape then, either. He could have overlooked it.

  The idea that Fletcher intended to have him whipped was both horrifying and repellent. He shot to his feet and exclaimed, “You can’t do that!”

  “I can do anything I want,” Fletcher said coldly. “I’m the warden here. Inside this prison, my word is law, and you should have thought of that before you defied me, Bledsoe.”

  One of the guards took hold of The Kid’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “Don’t make this any worse than it has to be.”

  “This is inhuman!” The Kid raged, still looking across the desk at the warden.

  “So is robbing banks. So is murdering guards.” Fletcher gave a curt nod. “Take him.”

  Another guard reached for The Kid’s other arm, but before he could grasp it, The Kid suddenly twisted and struck out at the man already holding him. His fist whipped around and crashed into the guard’s jaw, knocking him loose.

  The Kid lunged forward, trying to get across the desk so that he could reach Fletcher. He thought wildly that if he could get his hands on the warden, he might be able to force the guards to back off. With Fletcher as his hostage, he might even be able to bluff his way out of there by threatening to kill the warden.

  At the moment, he wasn’t too sure it would be a bluff.

  But Fletcher was ready for him. The man’s hand closed around a heavy paperweight on the desk and brought it up with blinding speed. The paperweight smashed against the side of The Kid’s head and knocked him sprawling on top of the desk.

  The next instant, several pairs of strong hands grabbed him and jerked him upright. A fist hit him low in the back. The kidney punch sent pain stabbing through him. He gasped and arched his back, and as he did, another fist buried itself in his belly.

  The Kid doubled over, wracked by pain and nausea. The wound in his side wasn’t completely healed, and the struggle opened it up again. He felt the wet heat of fresh blood flowing.

  Another punch hammered into him. His knees gave out, and he would have fallen if the guards hadn’t been surrounding him and pummeling him at close range.

  “Enough!” The word lashed out from Fletcher. “He doesn’t have any more fight in him. Get him out of here and string him up to the post! I’ll be out there in a minute to deal with him myself.”

  One of the guards began, “Warden, are you sure you don’t want one of us to—”

  “I said I’d deal with him myself!” Fletcher roared. “It’s time this outlaw scum was taught a lesson…and by God, I’m going to enjoy doing the teaching!”

  Chapter 12

  Still stunned, The Kid was aware the guards were dragging him outside, but he couldn’t summon the strength to fight anymore. His muscles wouldn’t obey his commands.

  The toes of his shoes plowed furrows in the dust as the guards hauled him around one of the barracks. He saw a thick beam standing upright in the ground. About fifty yards past it, backed up to the stone wall that ran all around the prison, was a small, squarish house built of rocks. It was probably Fletcher’s residence, The Kid thought as his brain began to function better.

  His head ached intolerably from the blow with the paperweight. He tried to ignore the pain. He had a choice of agonies: his head, his belly, his kidneys, the wound in his side…

  They reached the upright beam that served as a whipping post. A metal hook was attached to it about seven feet above the ground. The Kid had a pretty good idea what it was for.

  A couple guards grabbed his shirt and ripped it off. In other circumstances, the warmth of the sun would have felt good on his bare chest and back.

  The Kid knew what was coming, but was too battered to fight back. Outnumbered as he was, it wouldn’t have done much good to put up a fight. He regretted not being able to plant his fist right in the middle of some of those smug faces surrounding him.

  One of the guards snapped a pair of shackles around his wrists. They were connected by a short length of chain. A longer length was also attached to the shackles. Another guard took it and tossed it over the hook above The Kid’s head. He pulled on it and forced The Kid to raise his arms.

  The Kid wound up facing the post with his arms stretched above his head as far as he could reach. At the same time, he had been forced up on his toes so that his stance was painfully awkward and a lot of weight was on his shoulder sockets. He felt his bones and muscles groaning under the strain.

  He twisted his head to look at the men around him and rasped, “You know this isn’t right. Some of you have to know I’m not Bledsoe.”

  “We just do our jobs, mister,” one of the guards said.

  “You look a hell of a lot like that bastard Bledsoe to me,” another put in.

  They began to move back, and even though The Kid couldn’t see Fletcher, he knew the warden was coming.

  Fletcher circled the post so he could look at The Kid. He had taken off his coat and tie, but still wore his vest. His shirtsleeves were rolled up a couple of turns. He carried a coiled blacksnake whip in his right hand.

  Fletcher glared at The Kid and s
aid, “I’d tell you that you have one last chance to avoid this by admitting where you stashed the loot, Bledsoe, but it would be a lie. You’re getting this whipping no matter what you tell me now. You’ve got it coming.” He paused. “Still, I might be inclined to be a little more merciful if you cooperate.”

  “I can’t tell you something I don’t know,” The Kid said between gritted teeth. “The only thing I have to say to you, Fletcher is…go to hell.”

  That show of defiance brought a smile to the warden’s face. “You’re about to be more convinced than ever that’s where you are,” he said softly.

  He let go of the whip except for the handle. It uncoiled and slithered around his feet with a sinister whisper. Nodding slowly, Fletcher moved out of The Kid’s line of sight again.

  Silence hung over Hell Gate as The Kid waited.

  The first strike didn’t come without warning. The Kid heard Fletcher’s grunt of effort and had a split second to close his eyes and steel himself for the lashing impact. The whip struck him at an angle across the back and cut into his skin and flesh, leaving behind a streak of hellish fire that made The Kid surge forward against the post. He panted as agony coursed through him.

  “That’s just the beginning,” Fletcher warned.

  With a snake-like hiss, the whip retreated, then sprang forward again as Fletcher wielded it with a cruel, efficient touch. He jerked it back so the weighted tip popped just as it touched The Kid’s left shoulder blade. The Kid bit back a yell of pain as the tip gouged out a chunk of flesh.

  The song of the whip continued its grim tune. Fletcher varied his brutality, moving the blacksnake around so that it left a criss-crossing grid of bloody stripes on The Kid’s back, which was also dotted with wounds from the tip that oozed crimson. At first The Kid tried to hold himself upright, but as the torment continued, the sea of pain in which he found himself engulfed him so completely that all he could do was hang limply from the shackles attached to the whipping post.

  Somewhere in his brain, a part of his mind numb to the agony wondered if the prisoners inside the cavern called Hades could hear what was going on. They couldn’t see it—the whipping post was shielded from the tunnel mouth by one of the barracks—but it was so quiet in the prison compound they had to be able to hear the whip popping and slashing.

  He wanted to scream in agony, and the prisoners would have been able to hear those cries for sure. He swallowed the cries again and again, because he didn’t want to give Fletcher the satisfaction of hearing them, but the screams were coming closer and closer to escaping.

  “That son of a bitch!”

  The Kid’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the familiar voice. He saw her standing in front of him, a look of fierce anger on her face. She wore jeans and a buckskin shirt, and her hat hung behind her head by its chin strap. Her thick blond hair fell to her shoulders and framed her beautiful face. She looked much like she had the first time he had met her, right down to the holstered six-gun strapped around her hips.

  “Rebel,” he whispered.

  “Don’t let that bastard win, Conrad. If I could, I’d plug the varmint right between the eyes. You’ll have to do it for me. Promise me you will, one of these days, Conrad.”

  “I…I promise,” The Kid husked between lips that he had bitten bloody to hold back the screams.

  She moved a step closer to him and held up a hand. “I miss you so much.” She reached toward him, as if she wanted to brush her fingers across his cheek.

  He ached for her touch, strained forward so that for the first time in more than a year, the two of them could make contact. He wished he could kiss her. He knew the sweetness of her lips would take away all his pain.

  Though they strained toward each other, she couldn’t quite seem to touch him. An expression of deep sadness came over her face.

  “I have to go now, Conrad.”

  “No!” he cried hoarsely. “No, don’t go! Don’t leave me again!” The words were in his mind. He didn’t know only incoherent croaking sounds were coming from his mouth.

  “Be strong, Conrad. Don’t let him win. You have to get out of here. You have to get out…”

  She was gone, and the strength he had drawn from the sight of her disappeared with her. Bitterness flooded through him. She hadn’t really been there at all, he realized. She hadn’t returned to him, however briefly, from beyond the wall of tragedy and death. It was all his feverish imagination. It was over, all over, and despair welled up inside him…

  Something cool touched his face.

  Something smooth and soft and comforting.

  The hand of the woman he loved.

  It was a fleeting thing, there and then gone, but it was enough. Even in his terrible state, The Kid knew some things should not be questioned, only accepted, embraced, clung to with the power of hope and love.

  His faith was restored.

  And with it came a terrible thirst for justice and vengeance.

  His head fell forward, and darkness closed around him.

  He barely heard the screams, followed by angry shouts. He had no idea what was going on, and he didn’t care. As the darkness took him, his final thought was that he wasn’t defeated. Not yet.

  Not as long as he still drew breath and still loved Rebel Callahan Browning.

  And that would be forever.

  Chapter 13

  He woke up to the touch of something cool on his face, but it was a wet cloth, not ghostly fingers.

  It felt good. The Kid sighed as he embraced that slight bit of comfort and tried to ignore the terrible pains that wracked the rest of his body.

  “You’re awake, eh?” The voice belonged to the old, white-haired doctor. Thurber went on, “Just lie still, Bledsoe. You don’t want to be moving around much, and you sure as hell don’t want to roll over onto your back.”

  The Kid’s tongue felt swollen to twice its normal size as he worked it out of his mouth and swiped it over dry lips. That didn’t help much, since his tongue was parched, too, but after a moment he was able to say, “Wh-where…”

  “You’re in the infirmary,” Thurber supplied when The Kid couldn’t go on. “The warden wanted to throw you back in your cell, but I told him you’d die if he did that.”

  “Th-thanks,” The Kid whispered.

  “Oh, it wasn’t a lie. He beat you to within an inch of your life, and that inch would have slipped away without the proper care. You lost so much blood from your back and from the wound in your side that opened up again, there was a puddle of the stuff around your feet when they brought me to the whipping post. I cleaned you up and did what I could for you, but I’m afraid you’re going to have some scars on your back.”

  The Kid might have laughed if he hadn’t been so weak. He didn’t give a damn about scars. He already had plenty of scars on his soul that would never heal. A few stripes on his flesh didn’t matter.

  He lifted his head a little so he could look around. He was lying facedown on a narrow mattress on an iron bedstead, in a room with bare walls and a single high window with iron bars set into it. Several other beds were in the room, but they were empty.

  The Kid still had the shackles on his wrists, and when he moved his feet slightly, he heard the leg irons clank. “Don’t they know I’m…too beat up to…go anywhere?” he asked Thurber, who sat beside the bed in a ladderback chair.

  “They know, but it’s the warden’s orders that the irons stay on. He’s not taking any chances with you, whoever you are.”

  It took a couple heartbeats for the implication of the doctor’s words to penetrate The Kid’s brain. When they did, his head jerked up, causing a fresh burst of pain that made him wince. He ignored it and said, “What do you mean? You know I’m not Ben Bledsoe?”

  Instead of answering directly, Thurber reached out and brushed back the longish hair that hung over The Kid’s left ear.

  “What happened here?” he asked.

  The top of the ear was gone, leaving an odd-looking area covered by
a healed-over scar.

  The Kid closed his eyes for a second and cursed himself. He had gotten so used to his ear being mutilated that he never even thought about it anymore. It hadn’t occurred to him that the old injury could prove he wasn’t Bledsoe.

  “An outlaw used his knife to cut off part of my ear while he and his gang were holding me for ransom,” he said after a moment. Frank Morgan had gotten him out of that deadly jam, and it was the start of the thaw between father and son.

  “When did that happen?”

  “Years ago,” The Kid said. Despite the terrible shape he was in, he felt excitement surge inside him. “Go get Fletcher and show it to him. That’ll prove I’m not Bledsoe!” A thought came to him. “Unless…no, that’s crazy.”

  But he thought it was crazy that the outlaw who looked so much like him could speak Latin. “Bledsoe’s ear doesn’t look like this, does it?” he asked in a hollow voice.

  Thurber chuckled. “It didn’t when he busted out of here. There’s no telling what might’ve happened to him while he was gone. It was more than a month before you were caught and brought back here, you know.”

  “The wound on my ear is a lot older than a month.”

  “Well, it looks older than that to me, all right,” Thurber replied with a shrug. “But you have to understand, I can’t prove that it is.”

  “Of course you can! It’s your medical opinion. It’s proof. It would stand up in a court of law.”

  Thurber shook his head. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my friend, in this place, if it doesn’t convince Warden Fletcher, it doesn’t prove a damn thing.”

  The Kid knew that was true, but now that he had a straw at which to grasp, he wasn’t going to give it up. “You can tell him,” he said. “You have to tell him.”