Joe Boot sat in the Yuma Territorial Prison library staring at the strings of letters he desperately wanted to read. The prison trusty at the desk was doing the self-same thing. Dell Henry had earned the title of “trusty” by having proven himself of value to the warden. Dell’s particular importance was his penchant for gratuitous violence. Joe didn’t speak much around Dell. It was hot even for Arizona in August. Dell had a particularly putrid smell wafting off him and making its way to Joe, who quietly got up and moved further away.
Dell put both feet up on the desk and slid his pokestick across the back of his neck, and casually draped both arms over the ends like he was Jesus Christ on the cross. The pokestick, an aptly named weapon, was a mopless handle with rings etched into it. Each round an honorific to the beaten and bruised it had left in its wake. Pokesticks were the first weapon afforded a new trusty. Trusty’s of particularly violent natures were awarded, in due time, of course, with a rifle. For a man with escape on his mind, Joe could think of little else than becoming a trusty himself. Dell yawned loudly and shifted his feet on the desk. Joe turned back to the book and continued to pretend to read.
The door to the library swung open, and a new prisoner stood in the opening. The newly arrived still held their heads up and walked straight, hope still glinting in their eyes. This one filled space more than the others had. His black and white stripes bolder. The white brighter and the black blacker. His long handlebar mustache pointed straight out over his shoulders. The man looked around the room, noticed Dell, and nodded once. Joe watched quietly over the top of his book as the man walked directly toward Joe.
The prisoner sat uninvited in the chair next to Joe. Quickly but silently, Joe stood ready to move to yet another table. He was not there to make a friend or get tossed into the hole for talking out of turn.
“Name’s August Lancaster, Esquire,” he said. Joe stood and stared, waiting for Dell to introduce August Lancaster to his pokestick. Prisoners were forbidden to speak to one another.
“Mr. Fancy-lawyer man is here to teach us our letters, ain’t that right, Esquire?” Dell asked from his desk.
“You royalty or something? Esquire?” Joe ventured, not taking his eyes off of Dell.
“Not royalty. Lawyer. Got carried away with selling land,” August explained.
“Sold the same land to fifty different prospectors,” Dell added. August smiled and raised both eyebrows in reply. “Boot, you wanna read that book or keep looking at it like you’re about to marry it?”
Joe dropped the book onto the table and sat back in his chair. There was no need for him to explain who he was or why he was in Yuma. Everyone knew who Joe was: Pearl Heart’s gentleman friend. The infamous Lady Robber and Joe had held up a stagecoach two years prior. The robbery went fine. The escape, not so much.
August held out his hand in an offer to Joe, who cautiously accepted and shook the man’s hand. August slid the little hardcover book closer to himself. Joe didn’t know the name of the book. He chose it because he liked the image of the author on the first page. The writer was drawn wearing a black hat, cocked to one side. His button-down shirt was wrinkled and tucked into a pair of work pants. There was something about the way he stood that Joe liked. Like he was waiting for the artist to hurry so he could get busy living his life again.
“Leaves of Grass? That might be a touch out of our league.” August said and flipped through the green book with the fancy lettering on the cover. He took a piece of chalk out of his pocket and wrote the alphabet onto the wooden table in front of them. Joe knew the alphabet, just not what to do with it. Finally, he was going to find out.
The two men met in the library under the watchful eye of Dell regularly. Joe figured anything was better than lying in his cell with five other prisoners shitting and pissing in a bucket at his feet. The few times August spoke outside the context of teaching Joe how to read was to invite Dell into the lesson. Joe had noticed Dell inching closer to the men week by week. He had been worried Dell would do something stupid, and right on cue, he did.
“Pardon me, Dell, would you like to join us in the lesson today?” August asked again on one sweltering September afternoon. The moment the words came out, the air in the room went electric. The version of Dell that Joe was waiting for arrived in full measure.
“You think I can’t read?” Dell was on his feet in seconds.
“I mean no disrespect, Dell,” August tried. Joe didn’t want to get involved, but he wasn’t about to get beat either. Especially not by someone like Dell. He was big, sure, but he was slow and stupid. Dell wasn’t Joe’s concern as much as the hole was.
“No disrespect! No disrespect!” Dell mimicked August, his voice getting louder with each repeat. He was standing over August, pokestick raised in the air, poised to come down onto the first man who ever tried to teach Joe anything.
Dell tore the chair out from under August, who landed on the floor in a thud. Joe didn’t miss a beat. He grabbed the pokestick out of Dell’s raised hand right before he could crack August’s bald head.
Dell turned and looked at Joe, not believing who had just grabbed his stick out of his hand. In that silent instant, Joe had the pokestick under Dell’s chin, squeezed against his throat with both hands. Joe was behind him, manipulating the stick to control how much oxygen was allowed in and out of Dell’s lungs. Dell’s faded blue eyes rolled in their sockets like a bull at a rodeo. He was afraid. Joe saw it plain. August got to his feet and backed a few steps away from the struggling men.
Joe squeezed the stick harder against Dell’s throat and held it there, not saying a word, letting the stick speak for him. Dell was gurgling, his knees buckled from underneath him. Joe knew the trusty would pass out any moment. Joe heard the urine hit the floor before he smelled it. Dell’s bladder had let go. Joe shoved Dell forward onto the table. He leaned in close and in his ear whispered, “Coward,” before standing and backing away from the shamed trusty.
Dell took a beat before standing. August and Joe were looking at each other and then back at Dell. They were waiting for one of them to break the silence. It was Dell’s loud, overtly fake guffaws that broke it. He kept at the phony laughter and slapped August on the back.
“I gotchu good! I got him good, didn’t I? HAR! HAR! HAR! I got you both good!” Dell kept laughing as he grabbed his pokestick off the floor and backed away to his seat at the trusty desk.
Later that night, Joe opened the Bible he kept on his bunk, the one book allowed inside their cells. A slip of paper fell from between the pages. It had two verses written on it. Joe quickly found them, knowing of exactly one prisoner in all of Yuma with free access to ink and paper.
Acts 16:27, “When the jailer awoke and saw the prison doors opened, he drew his sword and was about to kill himself, supposing that the prisoners had escaped.” Joe breathed deep. This was unexpected. Next was Ecclesiastes 4:14, “For he has come out of prison to become king, even though he was born poor in his kingdom.”
If forced to take on a partner, Joe Boot could do worse. Nobody had escaped from Yuma and lived to tell the tale. A partner might improve the odds of survival.
The pair communicated through books. There was no way to escape Yuma without horses and rations. Of that, they were confident. The prison was surrounded by hundreds of miles of desert sand or the raging Colorado River. The only way to gain access to Yuma’s horses was to drive the chain gang’s supply wagon. This was where Fulton Swaney, longstanding trusty driver of the supply wagon, came in.
August had connections Joe did not. His cell was on the side of the prison that housed other lawyers, accountants, and fallen lawmen. It explained the scent of soap and lack of lice. While Joe kept his eyes and ears open for dirt on Swaney, August did so from his side of the prison. It was August who first discovered that Swaney was smuggling moonshine.
It was another endless Sunday afternoon in the library. The men were reading out loud in turn to each other. “Joe, you hear about Swaney?” August asked. Joe shook his head. No, he had not heard about Swaney. Dell, interested now at the mention of Swaney, lowered the front legs of the chair back to the library floor.
“He was drunk. Damn near fell out the wagon. Moonshine,” August whispered. Joe feigned shock. Dell was leaning toward the two men, listening intently. August continued the lesson.
The next day, Joe was sent to the stables to see the stable trusty, Perry. He had a total of three teeth in his mouth and not much more going on upstairs. He was waiting at the barn door impatiently waiting for Joe’s arrival. Joe had been reassigned to the supply wagon for the day on a trial basis. He was busily walking around the wagon, pointing out the various features and items Joe would need to restock during his twelve-hour shift. As the old man rambled on about beans and water, Joe studied the barn and the supplies that surrounded him.
Perry was standing inside the wagon explaining how to arrange the supplies just so when Joe noticed a shadow move from under the wagon. He stepped in closer and blocked Perry’s view. Joe was suddenly more interested about the proper organization of the supply wagon.
“Perry, this is fine work you do, just fine,” Joe said.
“Why, thank you kindly, Joe Boot, that’s awful nice of ya,” Perry blushed. Joe was gob smacked; flattery worked better at men than it did the ladies. Perry was grinning broadly at Joe, waiting like a puppy for a treat.
“Perry, can you keep a secret?” Joe asked. Perry nodded his head yes up and down quickly, his grin widening even more. Joe looked from one side to the other in an exaggerated lookout. “I still write letters to Pearl.” Perry squealed out loud and began to jump up and down in excitement. “And if you want, I’ll help you write one, too,” Joe said, pulling out a letter from his pocket.
Prisoners’ mail was read by the guards and closely monitored. These particular letters weren’t going through the guards, Joe explained. Perry ran in a small circle, jumping up and down in hushed excitement. “Now, I only have one hour to get these letters to my contact. If you can get us what we need, we’ll write yours now,” Joe offered.
“I can do that, Mr. Boot!” Perry said and took off running.
Joe dropped to the ground and looked under the chassis of the wagon. August waved at Joe from his hiding spot and gave him a thumb’s up. Quickly, Joe ran through the barn, searching for the trusty’s rifle. He knew there was one here and surviving their exit would be near impossible without it.
He saw the shotgun hanging above the last stall’s door. Joe grabbed the gun and the bag of shells from the hook and got into the wagon.
The horses moved forward slowly at first. Joe slapped down hard on the horses’ rear ends, shouting, “Yah!” as he did. The pair of draft horses lunged forward, the wagon lurching faster and faster as it approached the gates to the outside world. The guards in the towers on either side of the main entrance were yelling and waving their arms wildly.
Joe cracked the reins, again and again, the horses in a furious gallop, barreled down on the gates. The reins wrapped around his hand, he reached for the shotgun and hoisted it to his shoulder. Still, the horses ran on.
The guards were screaming. The one on the right shot at him, the bullet ricocheting off the seat. Another hit the back of the wagon and sent a bucket of water flying. Joe ducked, the reins still wrapped around his hand, the gun against his shoulder, and yet the horses ran on.
They hit the wooden gate at full speed, the posts splintering across the massive stallions’ chests. The horses were in a panic. Joe couldn’t have stopped them now if he wanted. Lucky for all involved, he didn’t want them to stop any time soon.
The horses ran into the hard-packed sand of the Arizona desert. They ran until they could not run anymore. Covered in foamy sweat and exhausted, they came to a stop. Joe swung down off the wagon and immediately looked for August.
There was no trace of him. Joe searched fruitlessly along the horizon for his friend. There was no time to ruminate on such matters, he told himself. Joe filled the two canteens he had tossed into the wagon. As he raised one to his lips, he saw the note tucked into the canvas covering the tin. Joe quickly opened the small square of paper. In neat lettering, his friend had written, “I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”
He tucked the paper back into the canteen and slung it over his shoulder. The desert sky was a vast open blue, and Joe decided to find where it would take him.
*The rules for this contest: Word count: 2,500 max; Genre: Historical Fiction; Action: Ambush. I’ve never written from a dude perspective! It honestly never even ocurred to me until my husband mentioned it in passing. I’ve also never tried Historical Fiction, so why not put two new things in one story? I also only had eight days to write this. This is exactly where my story was after two revisions. I didn’t even re-read it when I posted it.