heads off the wood. He figured he had about a hundred matches, it was a slow and tedious job but he needed those match heads. He had been careful to hide the rest of his equipment under the bed so if the door was suddenly opened by the wrong party, he’d be able to cover up his work simply by laying another sheet of newspaper on top of what he was doing.
It took him about forty-five minutes, but he finally ended up with a nice pile of yellow and white phosphorous match heads. Now with his fingers, he began to crumble them into a substance like cornmeal. When that was done, he very carefully folded the paper over about an inch from the edge. With that creased, he took his knife and slowly made a long line of the crumbled match heads along the length of the newspaper. He was making a fuse. When the crumbled phosphorus was evenly stretched the length of the paper, he carefully cut along a line even with the edge he had turned over. Then, being careful not to lose any of the precious ignitable material, he rolled the narrow piece of newspaper into a single thin straw. To keep the contents in place, he twisted it at one-inch intervals, being careful to twist each end closed first. The result was a fuse about two and a half feet long and about the thickness of a big hay straw. He put the fuse under the bed and then got his cartridges and the pliers. Using another piece of newspaper, he gripped the lead head of each cartridge and slowly twisted the slug loose from the casing. Then with the point of his knife, he removed the thin wad that stood between the powder and the slug. When that was done, he poured the powder carefully onto the newspaper. He breathed very shallowly. He couldn’t afford to lose a single speck of it.
It took an hour to carefully get every bit of powder out of the eight cartridges. After that, he got the empty whiskey bottle and, making a funnel out of the newspaper, poured the powder carefully into the bottle. It made a disappointingly small amount but it was going to have to do. He methodically dropped all eight brass casings and all eight lead slugs into the bottle. He looked longingly at the lamp. It was only half full. He needed the bottle full. The candle still remained to be used, but he couldn’t use it or insert his fuse until, or if, he could get some more kerosene. Once again, hope was the only horse he had to ride. He carefully hid the bottle behind the bed and then sat down to wait.
It was almost three o’clock by his watch before a key turned in the door and it opened. Sarah was there and he saw that she was unaccompanied. To his relief he saw that, along with his tray, she was carrying a small tin bucket with a spout on it. He could almost smell the kerosene.
He said, “Hurry, Sarah, hurry! Shut the door.”
She rushed forward holding out the can of kerosene. He unscrewed the cap off the spout, found his whiskey bottle, poured it almost full. She stood by, watching in wonder. He said, “You better get to picking up those dishes or they’ll wonder why you’re so long.”
“Right,” she said.
Longarm finished with the kerosene, screwed the cap back on the spout, and then carefully hid his whiskey bottle now full of kerosene back behind the bed. Now came the part that was the most important.
He went up to Sarah, first glancing down the hallway to make sure no one was near. He said, “Honey, you’ve got to do something and you’ve got to bring it off. There’s no two ways about it.”
She looked up at him, frightened. She asked, “What?”
“You’ve got to get one of the three pistoleros to come back with you and they have to be wearing a gun.”
She said, “How do I do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe tell them I tried to take the key away from you, or maybe that I ran into the hall. Tell them you’re afraid of me, tell them anything. Tell them that I want to see them, that I’ve got some information for them. Tell them anything, but get one of them to come with you.”
She swallowed. “Can you tell me what’s going to happen?”
“You saw that whiskey bottle?”
She nodded. He said, “If things go right, that whiskey bottle is going to get us a pistol, a revolver, a gun, a way out of here.”
She looked uncertain. “How is that going to happen?”
“I want you to do exactly what I tell you,” he said. “Don’t worry about what’s going to happen. If you know what’s going to happen, you’ll worry and you’ll give it away. You’ll be too nervous, so I won’t tell you.”
Her voice broke a little as she said, “All right.”
He said, “When you come in with my supper, come straight to the table. I will be on the other side of the bed. Let out a shriek, yell, drop the tray, and throw yourself to the floor as far away from the door as you can. Try to edge yourself under the bed.”
She looked at him in wonder. “Why would I want to do that?”
“You can’t ask me any questions. Just do it.”
Her eyes searched his face. “Well, if you say so, but what if more than one of them comes?”
“Try to just get one, but if more than one of them comes, I’ll have to handle it as it is. Just do what I tell you. You come in first, drop your tray at the table, dive under the bed. That’s all. And you yell, scream as loud as you can. Make as much commotion as you can.”
She let out a long shuddering sigh. She said, “Custis, I’m not used to this sort of thing. I’m not brave like you are. I’m not sure I can do it.”
He reached out and softly stroked her hair. He said, “Honey, it’s not that I’m brave. I’m desperate and I think you are, too. Now, you can do this. Don’t you worry. You only have to do that small part. If you get one of those pistoleros to that door, I’ll take over from there.”
She smiled bravely and said, “Yes, I’ll do my best. I don’t know what I’ll say, but I’ll get one of them here.”
He leaned down and kissed her. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back, hard. Then he let her go and she picked up the tray and walked to the door. She looked back at him, wistfully.
He said, “It won’t be long.”
She said with a faint smile, “I was sort of looking forward to tonight.”
