ACES WILD

 By Andii Valo

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

Frank Coughlan felt sick, and not for the first time. He got up cautiously from his chair on the sun deck of the steamboat Santa Camina and moved tentatively towards the starboard rail. He took a firm grip on it, leaned his head forward and closed his eyes, feeling the rush of wind in his hair, hearing the distant chug of the boat’s engine and the splash of the Colorado River directly below him.

Standing was better than sitting because his guts felt less queasy and he was soon able to open his eyes. He scanned the broad river and its overgrown banks automatically, as he’d been doing for the past three days, looking for escaped convicts who had so far managed to evade capture. As usual he saw nothing of interest.

But recapturing the men wasn’t Coughlan’s prime concern and his hand moved reflexively to the inside pocket of his coat and the sheaf of papers contained there. He decided to buy himself a drink, something to settle his stomach before reading them again, and headed for the saloon on the middle deck. He got himself a beer and took it to a window seat, where he could still keep one eye on the river while reviewing the paperwork.

He doubted he’d ever see the boat and the fugitives it contained. The river was busy with all kinds of traffic and although he had a pretty good description of the vessel they’d run off in, there were too many others around which looked just the same. It was likely he’d passed them days ago anyway, since the steamer moved a lot quicker than a rowboat, and if he was in Cortez Thompson’s boots he’d be doing most of his travelling after dark, when the river was quiet.

Coughlan pulled the papers and telegrams from his pocket and spread them out on the table before him. As always it was Ben Carter’s letter that drew his attention and he scanned the pages of close-written script for what felt like the thousandth time – still looking for something he’d missed, something that might indicate the words were a lie and Frank Coughlan had put his job, reputation and possibly his life on the line for the sake of a hunch and dubious belief in a few men.

He’d arrived at Yuma prison early that fateful day. He’d not slept well the night before, kept awake by memories of the flogging and the damned unfairness of it all. Thompson had been hurting bad when they got him to the hospital and although the doctor assured them the injuries to his back were relatively minor, he’d had no hesitation in prescribing laudanum for the pain. Coughlan had thought about visiting the hospital block when he got to work but decided nobody there needed waking up at 5am. Instead he’d snagged a cup of coffee from the kitchen then gone directly to his desk in the guardhouse. Carter’s letter was waiting for him but he’d forgotten how the hell it had gotten into a locked drawer as soon as he started reading. He had a good hour to digest its contents before the prison alarm sounded and guards began running from all points towards the hospital block. Coughlan was glad of that hour since it gave him enough time to reach a decision, start forming a plan, and pray to God he was doing the right thing.

As second in command of the prison he was obliged to take charge until Governor Farleigh arrived, and he played it by the book. All prisoners remained locked in their cells while the prison was searched top to bottom and the guards found chained inside the hospital were taken to the mess hall for sustenance and questioning. When the search and questions turned up nothing of value, Coughlan rode down to Yuma to inform off-duty personnel an escape had occurred. He told them to haul their arses up to the prison immediately.

Afterwards he’d gone to the railroad office and sent some telegrams before visiting the Yuma marshal and telling him and his bleary-eyed deputies they’d better start raising a posse. When he got back Governor Farleigh was creating holy hell, running around and yelling orders at any man who happened to get in his way. To all intents and purposes Cortez Thompson, Ben Wade and their two accomplices – prison staff, by God – had vanished from the face of the earth and it took him a long time to figure out what had actually gone down. Coughlan could have told him right away, of course, but he chose not to.

It was fortunate for Farleigh that the citizens of Yuma were an upstanding bunch of people or he’d have never gotten to the truth. The locksmith and boat trader who came to see him late in the afternoon were most probably looking for some kind of reward – in that respect they were disappointed – but it set him on the right road and a close search of the riverbank outside the prison revealed a discarded lantern which was enough to tell him the convicts had escaped downstream, by boat, following the strong, storm-induced current and enjoying a considerable head start.

What Farleigh did next was in line with his military background but bad all round for the prison. He’d handpicked twenty guards, men who had served with him in some campaign or other, then joined forces with the fifteen-strong Yuma posse. After dawn on the second day they’d all gone charging up the riverbank on horseback – the prisoners had a thirty hour lead by then, but nobody seemed bothered. Coughlan was left in command of a prison which was now severely short staffed. By necessity he kept most of the prison population on lockdown which led to arguments, fights and worse, and he had his own pressing business, which could not be attended until reinforcements arrived by train from Florence, twenty hours down the track.

It was two days after the escape when Coughlan finally made his own. He left Warden Jones in charge of the prison – an act which evoked pride and terror in the man in roughly equal measures – then booked passage on the Santa Camina as far as Hardyville, secure in the knowledge that twenty US Marshals were riding over from Prescott to meet him there.

His fingers traced the words on Ben Carter’s letter and he paused to consider the details contained, which still read like some kind of particularly fanciful dime novel. Warden Cartwright – legally Benedict Carter – was a lawman, a deputy US Marshal no less. Cortez Thompson – cold-blooded killer, armed robber and notorious outlaw – was a town marshal and former priest. Medical Assistant Furnley – Tobias Furnell – was the son of a minor aristocrat, a prodigious, pioneering frontier doctor and somehow found time to serve as a deputy, too.

Initially it had been too much for Coughlan’s brain process but he’d received prompt responses to the telegrams he’d sent on the day of the escape. One was from Jack Bellows, acting marshal in an upcoming town called Redemption. The others were from the US Marshal’s Office and US Treasury. All confirmed the facts contained in the letter as genuine.

Carter presented Ben Wade as nothing more than the callous, manipulative outlaw he truly was. The thing which surprised Coughlan was how vital he was to this whole affair. The letter explained why Thompson had accepted the risky mission of entering Yuma in disguise, and why the US Marshal and US Treasury played such a significant part in the deception. It all came down to information Wade possessed and might reveal in payment for his freedom, but Coughlan doubted Thompson would ever get the name he needed. It would all become academic when Coughlan’s party apprehended them anyway; Wade would be sent straight back to Yuma and justice. If Farleigh got there first, however, it was another story entirely. It meant certain death for them all.

Coughlan had supper and several more beers as the sun set over the Colorado River. He felt calm and content now. All the paperwork led to one logical conclusion and things were clear in his mind. Thompson, Carter and Furnell were brave souls who’d risked getting killed while escaping Yuma, and he looked forward to meeting them as free men. Ben Wade needed hanging at everybody’s earliest convenience and the US Treasury’s gold bullion could go straight to hell as far as he was concerned. Tomorrow he’d have the means to do what urgently needed doing and he prayed he’d have sufficient time to do it.

Later on he asked the maid to bring an extra blanket to his berth; the weather had turned chill after dark and bought back the same rain which had plagued the area for days. He smiled as he lay in his warm bed and thought about Farleigh and his posse shivering in the storm. He’d passed them on the boat early this morning – all looking tired, dusty and pissed off - and he’d felt like waving and telling them they were damn fools to be chasing prisoners up the river on horseback. Horses needed regular rest, so did people, and it was easier to handle a boat than a large group of angry and frustrated men. If Farleigh had thought a little harder about pursuit before he’d actually gone and done it, he might have realised how the river was the quickest and easiest method of travel.  But Farleigh hardly ever thought like that.

The next morning at eight, Frank Coughlan walked into the marshal’s office in Hardyville and introduced himself. Twenty minutes later he was having breakfast with the marshal and his deputies in their favourite cafeteria. Thirty minutes after that he was drinking coffee in the bar of the Rosemont Hotel with twenty US Marshals. Coughlan gave them his report, showed them the paperwork and was encouraged by a show of solidarity. Cortez Thompson was apparently a highly respected lawman who’d managed to turn around a dangerous frontier town almost single handed, bringing down a disreputable and murderous preacher in the process. Coughlan listened to nothing but praise for half an hour and couldn’t help marveling how a man with Thompson’s recent history had gotten to be such a damned fine actor!

Ben Carter’s letter gave them the groundwork to firm up a plan. The boatful of fugitives intended to follow the river as far as Las Vegas, but Hardyville was right between them and their destination. Coughlan was convinced they couldn’t have gotten here yet but time was now of the essence and everybody was given half an hour to saddle up and get supplies.

By 10.30 they were all riding back upstream – fourteen men on each bank of the river. They’d managed to rustle up a few hunting dogs and brought their owners along for good measure. They planned to search the riverbank until they found the fugitives, or ran into Farleigh’s posse, but Coughlan was hopeful they’d find Thompson first. He had no option than to go along the river and slowly. He’d been in a boat for five days and Coughlan knew from personal experience there was absolutely nowhere along the route to get horses or strike out on another trail. The first trading post was Hardyville and that little boat had a distance to go yet.

His confidence slipped a little as he recalled his final conversation with Farleigh. The Governor had been mad as hell and made it clear he had no intention of bringing any of the fugitives back alive. Coughlan knew right away it was pointless telling him the truth since his mind was set. He bore a major grudge against Cortez Thompson but refused to say what it was, even when asked outright. He did, however, promise to make every man involved in the escape suffer before he died, but Thompson most of all.

He’d been grinning the whole time he said it and Coughlan believed every word he said.

ON TO CHAPTER 16

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