Hart the Regulator 7 Read online

  ARKANSAS BREAKOUT

  HART THE REGULATOR 7

  By John B. Harvey

  First published by Pan Books in 1981

  Copyright © 1981, 2015 by John B. Harvey

  First Smashwords Edition: February 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2014 by Edward Martin

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book ~*~Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  THE REGULATOR is Wes Hart - ex-soldier, ex-Texas Ranger, ex-rider with Billy the Kid. He’s tough, ruthless and slick with a .45. He’s for hire now and he isn’t cheap.

  The train had a very special cargo as far as the Regulator was concerned. His lady and her two young kids were aboard as it burned up the cold steel rail.

  Then the desperadoes came. He'd fought them before, back in the town of Caldwell. Lead flies like a red-hot hailstorm and one of the victims is one of those kids.

  Hart has a vengeance run on his hands now. Those killers will pay in blood and he will do the debt collecting. With a little help from a friend called Rose, a lady of the night with her own reasons to get even...

  Chapter One

  Tap Loughlin eased himself away from the wall, his throat dry, tongue moving across lips that were cracked and filmed with sweat and dust. The dust was fine and near white and as Loughlin chipped at the stonework around the iron bar, more of it sprayed over his lean face, whitening the dark lank hair unkempt on his head. His eyebrows and lashes were finely coated, his skin felt as if it had been rolled in powder. He shifted his balance a little, his left arm in danger of going numb as it took most of his weight. The bunk swayed perceptibly beneath him and springs creaked. Loughlin angled his right arm so that he could insert the broken knife blade into the growing space above the bar. His knuckles hit the wall and the implement was jarred between his fingers. Grasping at it, he caught nothing. A swift intake of breath and then the clatter of the knife against the stone floor.

  “What the hell!”

  The voice hissed angrily from the opposite side of the cell and Lloyd Majors swung underneath his end of the bar and stared at Loughlin hard.

  “Shut it!”

  Loughlin glared back at Majors and held out a hand before him, fingers spread, signaling Majors to wait and listen. There were guard’s footsteps off in the distance, not coming nearer but moving away. Somewhere, an inmate was whistling, a hymn tune that both men recognized but neither could have named. Their church going had stopped early. Closer, a prisoner coughed with a harsh, retching croak that continued for minutes without relief.

  Nobody had heard the knife drop.

  Lloyd Majors turned back to his work and continued to prise the end of the bar loose from the stone into which it had been set. Loughlin climbed quietly down from the upper bunk at his side of the cell and retrieved the blade. They were confined in a space barely big enough for two double bunks, two buckets, a single enamel bowl. Nothing more, no table, no chairs. If the two men got off their bunks at the same time, they had to squeeze past one another sideways to move. Twice a day a guard would bring trays of food which would be slid under the double-barred cell door -dark, watery stew in which the only meat would be scraps of gristle, hard, flat bread, oatmeal, water. That was their diet. Once a day they were allowed out for exercise: a walk round an enclosed compound under the eyes of three armed men with orders to shoot them down if they deviated from the path already worn into the ground.

  Not only Majors and Loughlin, but a number of other prisoners as well. It varied between eight and a dozen, depending upon how many had been hanged at the previous dawn. These were the special category cases, hardened and dangerous criminals whose lives were already forfeit and with whom no risks could be taken. The State Penitentiary had a proud record of not losing a condemned man until the hemp had done its work; the governor had no intention of blemishing that achievement.

  Once inside the cells the chances of escape were fewer still. Apart from the double bars on the doors, there was a window too small for a man to squeeze his head through and this was heavily barred too. Over the tops of the line of special category cells there ran a thick wire mesh, attached to four thick lengths of iron running through the stone walls. Above that was a gap of four feet and then the roof, stout timbers covered with tarpaulin. Watching over the roof and the compound close by, a guard sat in a twenty-foot tower with a searchlight, a siren and a Winchester.

  Tap Loughlin didn’t want to hang. Neither did Majors. It was about the only thing they agreed on then, or were ever likely to. The time they had been thrust into that small stinking cell together was the first time they had met. Now they shared each other’s nightmares and the stench of one another’s bodies. Loughlin had run a small gang of outlaws and like-minded gentry since late in the 1870s. They made a specialty of skipping across the Arkansas and Missouri borders, stopping a stage here, robbing a small bank there, always keeping a few paces ahead of the law and never over-reaching themselves by being too greedy. Once in a while, they’d ride over into Indian Territory, but usually found the competition there a little hot. Everything had been going fine until Tap met up with Sara-Lee Danziger, a Springfield schoolteacher with large blue eyes, a neat figure and an almost overwhelming passion for the works of an English writer named William Shakespeare. When she tired of getting Tap to recite to her Romeo’s speeches from Romeo and Juliet, she persuaded him that what he really ought to be doing was holding up a train. Not just any old train, but the special which carried gold bullion and bank notes down from St Louis to Texas. Tap Loughlin had thought it a fool idea and had half a mind to tell her so, but she’d fixed him with her blue eyes and he knew he wasn’t going to get out of it so easy. Besides, it would be a sight better than reciting Shakespeare.

  So Loughlin had done the thing properly; he’d ridden the track in both directions, noted the best places to stop a train, where to hide horses, where to blow the caboose, everything. He and his men had gone through the plan so many times, it seemed impossible that anything could go wrong. If the railroad company hadn’t been experimenting with plainclothes detectives among the passengers that trip, it all might have passed off fine. As it was, before Loughlin and the survivors of his gang got away with most of the gold and money, there were five dead men scattered up and down the train, to say nothing of another six wounded, two of them women; one more man took a fatal bullet in the back as he jumped on to his horse, another was shot through the side of the head after he’d galloped maybe thirty yards. Of the total of seven killed, three were working for the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad Company, the other four had been riding with Loughlin.

  One of the wounded men was a farmer returning home with a brand new mechanical hoe in the freight car, one was the driver of the train - the others were Tap Loughlin and his right-hand gun, Baptiste LaRue. Loughlin took a flesh wound from a .44 and suffered mild concussion after being hit around the head several times with a long-handled coal shovel. LaRue was shot twice in the right leg, on both occasions missing the bone, and hacked through the left hand with a single-bladed knife which one irate passenger attacked him with when he was trying to crawl away into the scrub alongside the track.

  The rout didn’t end the
re. Two days later, the butt end of Loughlin’s gang ran smack into a sheriff’s posse at a place called Garfield, north of Beaver Lake. They were less than an hour’s ride from the Missouri border. Two more were shot and killed, two captured and brought back to join Loughlin and LaRue in Fort Smith prison to await trial.

  What the sheriff’s posse didn’t recover was the haul from the train – which meant that there were still two of the gang at large and those two had between them somewhere around six thousand dollars. Loughlin had never had time to count it.

  The thought of all that money somewhere out there, a good share of it belonging to him, was yet another incentive for Tap Loughlin to get out of prison. To say nothing of what Sara-Lee and himself would do with it when it was retrieved.

  She’d been there in the public section of the courtroom when Judge Isaac C. Parker had lived up to his name as the “hanging judge’ and sentenced Tap to be swung from the neck until dead for his part in organizing and leading the attack on the train. Baptiste La Rue and the two others, Little Kinney and Scott Levy, were let off with twenty years’ hard labor apiece.

  Lloyd Majors was sentenced to death on the same day but his case was of a different nature altogether. A heavy-set, glowering man who spent the first eighteen years of his life in and around the dockyard slums of New York City, he came west with a wagon train and spent the following ten or so years acting as a guide and wagon master for various groups of settlers heading out across the Great Plains towards the far west. Majors drank a lot and gambled almost as much. When he had liquor enough inside him he was emblazoned by a lust that could only be slaked by one or more whores who’d grown accustomed to taking a little beating with their work and were capable of shrugging their shoulders and putting it on the bill.

  One particular time, stopping off in Fort Smith, Majors had got the call without money in his pockets to pay for a visit to the whorehouse, it all having been spent on whiskey and lost at poker. He was wandering through the warren of small streets and alleyways that fed off the main square when he came upon Lewis and Katherine Grant, brother and sister and the pair of them a few years short of eighteen.

  When Lewis attempted to prevent Majors from forcing his attentions upon his sister, he was punched in the mouth and kicked a few times for his pains. Getting up a minute or two later and hearing Catherine’s screams, seeing her clothing torn and hoisted up about her body, Lewis jumped on Majors’ broad back. He was thrown brusquely off and hurled back against the nearest wall. When he slumped forward, arms spread, Majors lunged a slim, sharp knife between his ribs. Lewis died, choking on his own blood, gripping the immovable shaft of the knife, hearing his sister’s screams for help.

  Tap Loughlin had listened to the evidence in court and watched Lloyd Majors’ unmoved, unmoving face. He had taken as rich a dislike to the man as it was possible. Forced to share a cell with him, Loughlin had complained to the guards, to the governor. Finally, unable to do anything about it, he had simply ignored the man as much as he could in such a confined space. It had only become impossible to ignore him altogether when he conceived his plan of escape. He needed Majors to assist him and, in return for his freedom, Majors agreed;

  Loughlin settled again on the bunk and, with extra caution, raised the knife to the wall. He peered over his shoulder at the heavy form of Majors across the cell; once they were outside the penitentiary he’d make sure that the two of them headed in different directions and never met up again. The thought of what Majors had done made Loughlin’s skin crawl. He even thought it wrong and a sinful shame that the other man was about to escape the gallows. Hanging was the only thing for a mad dog like Lloyd Majors - unless it was shooting him down like a dog.

  “What the hell you starin’ at?” Majors snarled.

  “Nothin’.”

  “Then get on with that damned wall.”

  “I am!”

  Majors snorted. “Huh! Why I let you talk me into this, I don’t know. A dumb-ass scheme figured out by a cheap outlaw who couldn’t even stick up a train!”

  Loughlin’s fingers tightened around the end of the blade. His eyes narrowed and he thought about all the satisfaction he would get from driving the jagged point into Majors’ bulging, cord-like neck.

  Majors read the truth in Loughlin’s face and laughed.

  “You wouldn’t have the balls!” he jeered.

  “What for?”

  “For usin’ that.” Majors nodded at the knife in Loughlin’s hand.

  “Don’t you be too sure.”

  “Don’t waste your breath threat’nin’ me. First move you make towards me, I’ll take that toy away from you and break your head open on this stone floor. Tell the guards I caught you breakin’ your way out and put a stop to it.” Majors laughed at the thought. “Shouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t give me a reprieve.”

  He shifted his body across the narrow bunk.

  “Maybe I should do that anyway. Get myself free and a parole into the bargain.”

  Loughlin shook his head. “Don’t bet on it, Majors. You’d have to get this knife off me first. I ain’t some young kid who don’t know what he’s doin’. Wouldn’t be so easy finishin’ me. You’d best stick to kids and girls if you know what’s good for you!”

  Lloyd Majors sat up on the bed, swinging his legs round more quickly than Loughlin had seen him move before. His eyes seemed to be pressing out of their sockets and the length of sharpened metal he had in his right hand was tapping down into the opposite palm.

  There was no doubt that he was seriously considering embedding it into the top of Loughlin’s head.

  Tap for Tap.

  Loughlin held himself tense, ready to spring down. If it did come to a brawl, he knew he’d have his work cut out, the other man a good twenty or more pounds heavier. He would have to make the blade count first time, or he’d have little chance. Loughlin watched Majors’ face carefully, but the anger slowly subsided and the fingers round the metal began to loosen.

  “Outside,” Majors said softly, tapping the metal once more, “that’s where we’ll settle this. Outside.”

  A pause and then Loughlin shrugged: “Suit yourself. Just let’s make sure we get there.”

  Majors brought the sharpened length of iron down once more and closed his fingers around it, squeezing hard. When he lifted the metal away, the imprint of his hand was clear about its edges. With a quick leering smile he turned on the mattress and went back to his task. Loughlin waited a few more moments, fighting down the impulse to leap across there and plunge the blade into the back of the man’s neck.

  Instead he turned himself and shifted back into position. Soon the only sound in the cell, apart from the breathing of the two men, was the slight scraping and chipping as the ends of the long bars were freed to the point where a good hard yank would take them out. That would be the beginning. For the rest to work depended upon other people than themselves.

  ~*~

  Baptiste and Little Kinney swung their picks in time, over their shoulders and then down into the rock-hard earth, breaking up the sods into smaller chunks which could be turned by the hand-drawn plough. They were chained together at the legs, another dozen men on either side of them, swinging and picking, swinging and picking.

  Back of them a guard stood with the brim of his hat pulled low to keep the sun out of his eyes; he had a stubby cigar clamped into the corner of his mouth and a shotgun cradled across his chest, resting on his arms. Every move of the work team, every swing of the pick axes, he watched keenly, looking for the first deviation, the first sign of laziness or insubordination - even of escape. A couple of days after Loughlin’s two former gang members had been added to this particular work detail, one of the prisoners had made his bid for freedom. Complaining of stomach cramps, he had got himself freed from the long linking chain and had gone off into the bushes to relieve himself. Two other prisoners, bribed beforehand, had started a fight to distract the guard’s attention. The man in the bushes had taken off towa
rds the river.

  It was his misfortune that the posse of prison guards that set out after him was much slower than the dogs. By the time the guards had arrived, guided by the frenzied barking and the dying screams, the escaper had been torn to pieces.

  The couple who had begun the fight were forced to stand up to one another, bare fisted, and punch each other until both were at a bloody standstill. Once they had recovered, they were chained to a fence before all of the other inmates of the penitentiary and whipped close to their lives.

  Neither Baptiste nor Little Kinney had any illusions about what would happen to them if their scheme went wrong. But the odds—set against twenty-five years of hewing and digging as well as their share of six thousand dollars—seemed small indeed.

  They knew that attempting to escape from field work was the obvious thing to do, in that you were already beyond the prison walls, but it was also the quickest to be detected. The baying of the hounds each night made the disadvantages of being caught only too clear. The plan Tap had devised, and which he had got to them through one of the trustees he’d managed to bribe, was more complicated but - if it worked - safer. It depended a great deal upon the third member of the outfit, Scott Levy, whose leg wound had got him assigned to inside duties until it healed up. A little dexterous work with a piece of stick had made sure that the wound stayed bad enough to keep him where he was most useful. Levy worked in the kitchens, occasionally in the hut that was laughingly called the prison hospital. It was through him that the knife blade and length of iron being used in the cell had been obtained. It was also Levy who had slipped to Tap Loughlin the extra food and tobacco with which the guard had been bribed. More than that, it was Levy who would get hold of the guns.

  Not on his own.

  There were two others involved in the breakout.

  Gideon and Joseph were black brothers; at one time it’s possible they had another name but neither of them knew what it was; it was also possible that their dates of birth were logged somewhere, but neither brother knew where. Gideon always claimed that he was the eldest and Joseph likewise. What was beyond doubt was that each was four inches over six feet and a number of pounds in excess of two hundred. It was this great physical strength and an apparent willingness to work which had singled them out to work on one of the governor’s special projects. His wife had decided that the two-acre strip of rough land beside their house would be more useful and pleasant if it were transformed into a garden, so Gideon and Joseph had been detailed to clear the land, level it, dig it and - under the woman’s guidance - plant small trees and shrubs, flowers and vegetables.