before he left. With an awkward hand, because of the manacles, Longarm poured his cup half full and then added a little of the whiskey. The coffee would be weak, second grounds, since Shaw had just added water to what was left in the pot and let it simmer some more. But that was all right. It was good and warm and felt good going down his gullet. He hadn’t been afraid as much as he had dreaded the thought of being shot while manacled to a post. And then to be found like that. It wasn’t the way he wanted to go at all. Not that he’d ever selected a good way, or a way he thought would be best. There was no best, just a few ways that were better than it being clear he had been taken off his guard and manacled with his own cuffs and then killed. It wouldn’t have looked good on his record, he thought wryly to himself.
He wasn’t at all certain how he was going to get out of the manacles. He had some hope for the key he hoped still resided in his jacket pocket, but he had to find some way of getting loose from the post before he could worry about the key. And until it got lighter he wasn’t going to be able to examine the situation very well. The fire from inside was dying out and casting less and less light and less and less warmth. He was grateful for the blanket over his shoulders. It didn’t help all of him, but it at least kept his back warm.
The whiskey and coffee kept his insides in good shape, though he had no plans to drink much of the whiskey. He settled down to wait for dawn, not sure himself how far off it was.
As it had before, it came light all of a sudden. Longarm thought he would never cease to be amazed by the sunrises and sunsets in the high plains. There was something about them that clearly let you know a mighty hand was in charge, and if not a hand, then a design that was intended to let you know just about how small you were, no matter what size shirt you wore.
He guessed Shaw might have been gone an hour, but no more, maybe even less. As soon as he could see, Longarm began the task of freeing himself by examining the roof post he was chained to. It appeared to be a piece of mountain cedar, some six inches in thickness. He thumped it up and down with his knuckles, and pretty well convinced himself the post was solid and likely to remain so for another hundred years or so.
To study the base he pulled his hands down, got down on his knees, and put his face close to the end of the post. If it was buried in the ground, he didn’t have much chance. But as near as he could tell, and from what he could see by scraping away at the rock-hard dirt around the bottom of the post, it was just sitting on the ground and not buried. Next, he looked up to the end of the post where it supported the roof. The end was against the beam that ran all the way across at the edge of the porch. Longarm could not see a single nail or screw or even a piece of wire holding the post and the barn together. The post was simply held in place by the weight of the roof and the post kept the roof supported. It was not a lash-up that was intended for the fancy. It was only intended as a place for a cowboy to sit of a hot afternoon and look out over the prairie from the shade.
He looked the roof over. It was made up of fairly heavy sawn beams that formed a framework that had then been covered with tin. The back end of the roof was held to the face of the building by what looked to Longarm, glancing upward and leaning as far back as he could, like tin straps that had somehow been secured to the rock face, maybe by long screws into the mortar between the stones.
He sat down and took his boot off. It was a hard job working with the manacles on. His plan was to try and lift the post and then, while he held it an inch off the ground, slide his boot tip in under it. Then, with the base of the post held off the ground enough for the chain to pass under, he’d get down on the ground, slide the chain under until he got to his boot tip, and then yank himself free. He had no idea if it would work or not.
He rested a few minutes, thinking about it, and then stood up and got himself in position. He hugged the post to him and carefully curled his arms around the wood. He could feel how slick it was, how the weather and the sand had smoothed it down. Once, probably, it had had bark on it, but that was long since worn away. The post was a little bent, but the kink was too high up for him to make use of. He had to get hold of it around his belt or a little below to bring his powerful back and leg muscles into play. Nobody was going to lift the post and that part of the roof with just arm muscles.
He set himself, feeling for his grip. He could feel his heart beating. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He tightened his hands and then his arms around the post, pulling it to him, to his chest, locking it solid. Slowly he began to lift. He could feel the post start to come, feel it part with the dirt. He strained harder and harder, his teeth gritted, his eyes closed, the sweat popping out on his forehead. Then, just as he thought the post was about to come up some more, his hands began to slip. Frantically he hugged the post harder and harder, desperately trying to force it to rise.
Then, all of a sudden, he gave out. He collapsed to his knees, panting, his breath coming in gasps. For a long few moments he stayed that way. Finally he straightened up and sat down heavily. He looked up at the underside of the roof. It appeared to him that the top of the post had moved slightly from its centered position on the end beam.
He didn’t know what that meant, but at least something had happened besides him almost ruining his back.
He stayed down on the ground, studying the post, studying the roof, trying to think of some way to get a piece of chain through a solid piece of wood. He even eyed the matches Shaw had left him, wondering if he could somehow set the wood framework on fire and burn the thing down. But the roofing was tin and the boards of the framework were too far apart to burn. If the roof had been shingled with wood shakes, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.
Finally he looked at the chair Shaw had been sitting in and then up at the roof. The front edge of the roof was low. He’d noticed, going and coming under it, that he’d had to duck his head when he was wearing his hat. He stood up and looked at a beam running from the wall to the front edge of the roof. It looked to be a two-by-six plank. It was the beam the top of the post was abutted against. When he stood up, it was only some six to eight inches over his head. He glanced again at the chair, which he reckoned to be about thirty-four or thirty-six inches high at the seat. It was, he thought, worth a try.
He sat down again, and then lay down and wiggled and squirmed on his back toward the chair, until he could just reach one of the legs with the toes of his stocking foot. He curled his big toe around the leg, and then slowly and carefully dragged it toward him. The chair came until he could get his whole foot behind the leg, and he gave a jerk and the chair came flying to him.
Slowly he worked his way back up to a sitting position, and then circled the post until he was out from under the roof. He pulled the chair up until the seat was just touching the post on the cabin side.
He worked his way back around and, with some difficulty, picked up his blanket, folded it, and then refolded it and then folded it again until it was a good pad some six inches thick. With both hands he carefully placed it over his right shoulder and across his neck. It would accomplish two things; it would give him some added height and it would serve as a pad between his shoulder and back and the hard two-by-six.
Before he did anything else, he sat down in the chair and carefully drew his boot back on his right foot. The extra two inches in height might make the difference.
Now was the test, and if it didn’t work he didn’t know what he was going to do. He stood up and put one boot
