Chapter Eighteen

"What do you mean it's not enough to get them out of Yuma? You have the money back! What else do you need?"

"Proof."

Every lawman hated that word. The gut could tell you who was guilty and be completely right about it, but the heat of indigestion couldn't put the guilty man behind bars for the rest of his life. The sheriff had to prove he belonged there. And while there was enough proof to put Buck Brooks and those he worked with behind bars or straight to the gallows, as Brooks was scheduled to take his final walk at dawn, that same proof wasn't running a valiant race to unlock a pair of cells in Yuma yet.

"Everyone on that jury, everyone in that courtroom knew that Sherman and Harper were in cahoots with somebody. So you caught them. That doesn't spring your friends from prison."

Mort stared at McLaughlin until he feared his eyes would pop straight out of his face. But why, when he peeled them away, he turned toward the south, toward Yuma? "What else can I do?"

"You can take up those papers on your desk and write the final word in the Sherman and Harper case."

"Oh, no. This can't be over, not until Slim and Jess are out of Yuma."

McLaughlin's mouth in a quirky lift, he fired back Mort's words with nauseating sweetness. "What else can you do?"

"Slim and Jess are innocent. You're a lawman, doesn't that do anything to you to know that they're imprisoned for something they didn't do?"

"Prove it."

Mort's hands spread wide. "I thought I did when I brought Buck Brooks and the money in!"

"It's not enough. Sherman and Harper have been tried, convicted and sentenced. The only way to undo all of that is to prove that they weren't involved in the first place. And your say so doesn't qualify as proof."

The huff there even before facing the hard-nosed detective, his mood worsened further and Mort stormed out of his own office and slammed the door behind him. Pacing not good enough, Mort gripped the hitching post so hard his knuckles performed a repeated crackle.

"I can't go this far and come up short. Dear God! Give me something!" Half the town offered him a bewildered stare, but none of them gave him an answer. "Anything!"

Head in a shake, Mort stared at the dirt beneath him. Despite what McLaughlin advised, he couldn't pick up pen and ink and jot down the few lines that would close the case for good. And he would rip the pages in half if that so-called detective or anyone else wearing a badge of authority did it for him. It wasn't over, it just couldn't be. Slim and Jess were innocent. But as the argument was still sitting heavily on his chest, that dreaded word made an even harder return.

Proof. He had to have proof!

There was still one more man involved in the robbery that hadn't been taken in. Lon was looking for him now, but it would take some hard searching to come up with him. Now that the money was reported back in the possession of the Great Central Overland Mail, likely he hurried out of the territory so fast not even his horse could outrun him.

With Welch dead, that left Brooks and Spinner as the only keepers of the truth.

Feeling his fist form, Mort gave the hitching post a whack. He had guessed wrong on who was going to Yuma and who was going to the gallows. Since Spinner's trial had been over for more than a week, likely he had already met his small square of hell for the next dozen years. And Brooks was set to hang in the morning.

The gallows too far away to ride there in one night, it was tempting to hurry to Tom Stephens' office and request a delay of execution. If he could have just three days tacked on, then Mort could try to convince Brooks to confess that he framed Slim and Jess. But even if he did get the message sent in time, Mort doubted Judge Shaffer would agree to it. Not when he was the one who tapped the gavel and gave the death sentence to one of the territory's most notorious outlaws.

But it was the bigger doubt that kept Mort away from begging the Laramie judge to sign his name on the request. The way Brooks cussed and spit both sheriffs into oblivion when they took him to the closest law office in Montana, swearing even louder that he would pay them back for what they had done, Mort knew Brooks would never tell the truth, even with a noose looming over him. For the sake of retaliation, he could easily say that Slim and Jess were involved, maybe go far enough to say that they had planned the entire thing. Then that lie would take them all to their graves.

There was no one else to talk to. There was nowhere else to turn to. Or was there?

An elderly woman coming out of the general store caught his attention. For his wellbeing it was a good thing that she didn't notice his stare, but it was enough to give Mort a thought. No, he wasn't going to race up to Claudia Welch's place and upturn her house before she could get her team and wagon there and look for a shred of evidence. It was the death of her stepson that was playing in his mind and a house that looked more like a rundown shack.

Brooks' hideout.

If there wasn't something within those four walls, then he just might have to quit this fight. But not yet. Not yet!

Returning back to his office with the same kind of slam as he left it, Mort thrust a finger at the man propped in his desk chair, swirling the pen inside the inkwell. "All right, McLaughlin. I'll find that proof. But because I don't want to track down your impossible carcass a second time, you're coming with me."

"Where to?"

"A small shack in the southern tip of the Laramie range."

"And if there's nothing there but dust and cobwebs?"

"You can sweep the floor with my hide."

The shoulders were given a lift. "Suits me fine."

.:.

The shack's door was still in the same condition as it had been left in, but even with the broken hinges lined with some of those spider signs that McLaughlin had mentioned, Mort went in with his gun in hand. He dropped it in his holster a moment later. No one was home.

Stepping inside, Mort gave a long look from ceiling to floor and back again. It was emptier than he remembered it being, but a thorough cleaning it apparently hadn't seen in a long while. The dishes were the same mess in the basin, although with more mold and mouse droppings scattered about the glass. The table was still lying where Mort had tossed it, with a broken leg so severe it would never sit properly again. Blood stained the floor where Welch had died, only now showered with enough dust that the color was duller than its original shade.

In this first, but very hard glance that Mort gave it, he wondered if McLaughlin was going to have the final laugh this day after all. But Mort wouldn't be much of a friend if he didn't tap into a few boards just to have a look. Starting in the corner, he walked to the single cot and pulled apart every piece of it, even the straw that made up the mattress. All he found was the mouse and her offspring that had done the dirty deed to the dishes.

"I need to be back in Colorado on Monday."

Mort ignored the irritation coming from McLaughlin in the doorway and then walked to the basin. The one cupboard above it had a tin of coffee and a box of cigars inside. These he promptly picked up and gave a sniff. They were definitely not the ones that Spinner smoked.

Dropping them back onto the shelf with a clap, Mort turned toward the small stove and opened the lid. What did he expect to find other than ashes? Frustration starting to turn into fear, Mort gave the stove's belly a kick. And then something clanked behind it. Tilting his head, Mort barely gave the object a glance. It was only a poker.

Maybe it was because McLaughlin was patting the sleeves of his jacket, adding another layer of dust to the already unkempt floor that started to turn Mort's fear back into frustration. A retort close to forming, Mort reached for the poker to offer to thrust its point at McLaughlin, anything to wipe that rotten smile from his face.

But then his reply froze inside his throat. There was a piece of paper stuck to its tip.

Plucking it free, Mort looked the page over. It was a list of all the men that were hired to carry a rifle on the stagecoaches. The only name missing was where the poker had pierced through and torn it out. But Mort didn't need to see Jed Kelly's name among the others. What he needed was printed at the top, with Jess' name traced in more than one circle. But it was the ominous scrawl on the side of Jess' first and last that made Mort's heart quicken the most.

He thrust the page in the detective's face. "Read this."

McLaughlin's eyes widening, he felt his mouth go dry. Fortunately there was still enough moisture on the tip of his tongue to get out what Mort wanted to hear. "That's it."

.:.

"New blood's coming."

While he heard the steps performing more of a shuffle than a hard clop through the corridor, Jess wouldn't turn to look. It was just another prisoner, another victim set to suffer in Yuma like he was.

"I can tell he's scared from here," said the man several cells down from him.

"Who ain't?"

Jess nodded his head. Indeed, who ain't. Although of being whipped, that fear had finally been allowed to diminish throughout the prison. The no talking order had been lifted for two days. While Jess expected the chatter to run up and down the corridor like a bunch of gossiping women gone berserk, it had remained fairly quiet since the month of silence was over. It was only because a new prisoner, or as Shultz liked to phrase it, new blood had entered the cell block that brought the voices out from behind their locked tongues.

"Stop here, Spinner."

Jess' ears perked. Spinner? Sure, there was likely more than one outlaw running around the west wearing that name, but since Jess knew one rather personal, he couldn't help but wonder. His bunk offering a creak as he left it, Jess stepped to the bars and looked to his right. Close neighbors they wouldn't be and as all Jess was looking at was the man's slumped shoulders beside the guard's looming frame, he couldn't tell if there was anything to recognize.

Retaliation begging him for clarity, Jess took a deep breath. There wasn't any smell like a pair of old, wet boots sizzling over a fire coming from the man. While most prisoners would describe it was the worst scent in the entire world, Jess didn't even think Yuma's putridity could cover A.J. Spinner's cigars. Returning to his cot, Jess formed a scowl. It wasn't him.

At the sound of the lock going closed, Jess popped his fist into his palm. "Dadgum."

"What's eating you now, Son?"

Jess barely flicked his eyes toward Davey's cell. "Memories."

"Well, the way you offered a punch, I can tell it ain't a woman in your thoughts. One of the guards, maybe?"

"One of the men that put me here."

"Oh. You still say you were framed, huh?"

"I know I was."

"Well, if you ever get the chance, punch that fella harder than what you just gave yourself."

"How'm I gonna do that? I ain't never getting outta here."

Jess hated that his body started to tremble with anxiety as the guard's steps approached his cell. When the boots pounded by without stopping at his bars, Jess shook his head. He knew he wasn't going to be pulled from his cell and tied to the whipping posts. That threat was over, just like his pain.

His fingers sliding inside his striped shirt, Jess felt for the puckers that were draped over each shoulder and down his back. They weren't smooth yet, but the flesh had grown over the marks enough that they no longer wept. He might still be feeling the pulsating throb if he had been whipped a second time in the same day. The only thing that had saved him from being jerked out of his cell was that he had fallen into a dark abyss as the guard stood over him. Out so far that shaking him didn't lift a single eyelash, the guard couldn't blame the forbidden conversation on him.

Davey whispered a day later that the guard had growled and walked on.

Leaving his scars alone, Jess rested his head against the solid wall. Like he did throughout every day, his mind went to Slim. After these last three weeks, Slim's back should be just as healed, maybe even more so. After all, it was Jess that had taken on the brunt of the warden's wrath. But even with the lashes disappearing, that didn't change the shape of each man's heart. What exactly had they been reduced to now?

Jess already knew by the way he flinched every time a guard went by. He was weak. And how could there be any hope for recovery of that kind of caliber when Yuma wasn't going away?

There wasn't any hope. Not in this, not in anything anymore. With Mort dead, there was no way he would ever get out of Yuma. Unless he was carted out.

"Lunch!"

The guard broke through his thoughts, and even though Jess didn't want another taste of what noontime had to offer, he stepped to the bars anyway. His name not called for work duty since being whipped, Jess had only seen the outside of his cell a few times during the entire prison's punishment. Now that they could resume gathering in the dining room, Jess desired the change in scenery.

The smirk was quick to form. He really was weak if what was inside the dining room was appealing enough to make his heart race.

But in one part of Jess' being was the kind of strength that could carry him farther than a Yuma dream could take him. Maybe it would be enough to get him out. It would, if he was carried out. And that possibility suddenly became quite real.

Jess' inner throb having reason to change, he narrowed his eyes at the man that was being let out of his cell. "Dadgum."

The new prisoner really was A.J. Spinner.

Guards close enough to feel their breaths on him, Jess' pace remained slow as he followed the line of inmates to the dining room. There were six men between him anyway, too many to plow over just to tap Spinner on the shoulder and watch his eyes pop out of his face. While seeing a pair of brown marbles rolling around on the floor might make Jess grin, it wouldn't be enough. Not nearly enough.

"You have fifteen minutes to eat it," a guard said as Jess took hold of his cup and plate, the same thing that was said to him at the delivery of every meal of every day.

But it wasn't the repetition that made Jess offer a quiet echo. "Fifteen minutes."

He had fifteen minutes to meet up with Spinner. Fifteen minutes for whatever came after. And then what? Fifteen lashes?

It was strange, but Jess didn't shudder at the thought of being unable to run from his tormentor. Not this time. If they came for him again, then he could fear the pain that would scream over his back. But the only pain that Jess wanted was for Spinner. Bypassing Davey and Crawdad's position in the room's back corner, Jess followed Spinner and took a seat a table behind him.

As Jess stared at Spinner, the anger grew hotter, the fear grew dimmer, and he stepped away from his lunch plate. "Spinner."

The sandwich halfway up to Spinner's mouth suddenly landed on the floor. "Harper."

"Yeah. It's me." Jess' eyes flickered with the hottest part of a flame as Spinner leapt to his feet, to run supposedly, but Jess wasn't going to let him get anywhere. "How'd you get here?"

"I was caught," Spinner answered, waving a hand around the room. "And this was my sentence. How about that?"

"Yeah." Jess took a step closer, and then another. "How about that."

"Coincidence, huh?"

"That ain't the word I was gonna use."

Spinner lifted a brow. "Then what?"

"Fate comes to mind. Like how all of this mighta come about by a specific design, just so I could meet up with the likes of you one more time."

His backpedal already begun, now that he could see the vengeance in a wild print across Jess' entire being, he increased the space between them. "Stay away from me, Harper."

"No. I wanna have this out. Just you and me."

Spinner flung a desperate finger at the closest guard. "They ain't gonna let you touch me."

Jess gave the uniforms his own look. A poker game started between a group of prisoners, all three guards were studying what would turn out to be the winning hand. Or maybe that winning hand would turn out to belong to Jess.

"They let another prisoner rip my belly in half. Wanna see?" Pulling his shirt open, Jess traced the scar with his hand. "I got some more marks on my back. Maybe you wanna see those too? And you wanna know something else? You put them there."

"No, Harper. It wasn't me! It was Brooks!"

He didn't know the name, he didn't even care. All Jess saw was the man that he knew played a large part in making him suffer, in giving Slim the same dose of hell. And Spinner was going to pay for that. It didn't matter that his prison sentence was sufficient pay in the law's eyes. What Jess wanted Spinner to receive went beyond Yuma's power. It was right there in Jess' middle, boiling like a teakettle. It was right there in his chest, heaving the rhythm of heat, the rhythm of hate. It was right there in his hands, squeezing so tight Jess could have broken his own fingers if he didn't loosen his grip. It was right there in his head, revisiting every memory that existed because of Spinner. From the first accusation, to the trial and the sentencing, then the ride with Holloway, the imprisonment, the abuse, the neglect, all the way to getting whipped. Everything wanted to come out, wanted to explode in Spinner's face.

The keg of powder lit, its smoking sizzle was complete and Jess' hands went toward Spinner's throat. "You're the reason I was thrown in here! Me and Slim!"

While he couldn't perform a deadly clench, Jess used his left hand to hang onto Spinner's collar. The right was roaring back for a powerful throw. Connecting with Spinner's jaw, the crack was reminiscent enough of the whip crashing over his back that Jess flinched. Remembering his weakness only made the fuel burn hotter.

Both hands to Spinner's front, Jess pushed him into the wall. He could hear the cacophony around him; the stomping boots of the guards, the prisoners' encouraging hurrahs, and the loudest call of all, the warning that came from his conscience telling him to stop.

He wouldn't listen to any of it. Jess only wanted to hear the sputter and spew of Spinner as he was pummeled. Blood leaping out of Spinner's nose and over the hand that struck it, Jess pulled back for another swipe. This coming at his cheek, Jess heard the splintering of bones and somehow feeling sorry for the man's face growing uglier, Jess switched his aim. Putting his fist into Spinner's stomach, Jess' hair rustled with the whoosh of air as Spinner's lungs went empty. Another blow going to his middle, the sudden drop of Spinner's body stirred Jess' pot so hard, bursts of vengeance rolled over him like steam.

Clapping his hands together, Jess raised them high to cause a hearty crash over Spinner's head. He would never get to throw it.

"Harper!"

A warning bullet landed at his feet. He jumped back, panting just as hard as Spinner there on the floor. Eyelids slamming together, Jess darkened his soul further by placing his palm across his face. This was it. The real end of his sentence when Jess would get carted out.

"What've I done?"

"Harper!"

The thunder of feet silenced, Jess felt the jostle of a rifle and lowered his hand, the clench being formed at his side. He was surrounded by guards, even more than what had been assigned for meal times. Staring at each gun, Jess wondered which bullet would be the one to add him to the long line of graves. But then one by one each uniform pulled back. And into the fray walked Hogan.

His rifle was in a point, but not toward Jess' chest. That position belonged to Hogan's hand. "Come with me, Harper."

Seeing the whipping posts with every blink, hearing the crack with every breath, Jess' body began to cower. "No."

"I said come with me." Hogan's fingers sealing the grip on Jess' arm, he hauled him to his side.

The outside door in the opposite direction, Jess slowly walked down a hallway he had never been through. "Where're you taking me?"

"To the warden."

His breath slammed into his chest with bitter heat and was held there. That was worse than the whipping grounds.

"Dadgum."