Norma started laughing as Shelby said, “Jesus, are you crazy? What are you talking about, back to Sentinel? You mean back to
“That’s right,” Harold said. “Me and Raymond decide that’s the thing you’d like the worst.”
She stopped laughing altogether as Raymond said, “You’re going too, lady.”
“Why?” Norma looked dazed, taken completely by surprise. “I’m not with him. What have I ever done to you?”
“Nobody has ever done anything to us,” Raymond said to Harold. “Did you know that?”
The section gang that arrived from Gila told Mr. Manly no, they had not heard any news yet. There were posses out from the Sand Tank Mountains to the Little Ajos, but nobody had reported seeing anything. At least it had not been reported to the railroad.
They asked Mr. Manly how long he had been here at Sentinel and he told them five days, since the escape. He didn’t tell them Mr. Rynning had wired and instructed him to stay. “You have five days,” Mr. Rynning said. “If the convict pair you released do not return, report same to the sheriff, Maricopa. Report in person to me.”
Mr. Manly took that to mean he was to wait here five full days and leave the morning of the sixth. The first two days there had been a mob here. Railroad people with equipment, a half-dozen guards that had been sent over from Florence, and the Maricopa sheriff, who had been here getting statements and the descriptions of the escaped convicts. He had told the Maricopa sheriff about sending out the two trackers and the man had said, trackers? Where did you get trackers? He told him and the man had stared at him with a funny look. It was the sheriff who must have told Mr. Rynning about Harold and Raymond.
The railroad had sent an engine with a crane to lift the locomotive and the baggage car onto the track. Then the train had to be pulled all the way to the yard at Gila, where a new locomotive was hooked up and the prisoners were taken on to Florence. There had certainly been a lot of excitement those two days. Since then the place had been deserted except for the telegrapher and the section gang. They were usually busy and it gave Mr. Manly time to think of what he would tell Mr. Rynning.
It wasn’t an easy thing to explain: trusting two convicts enough to let them go off alone. Two murderers, Mr. Rynning would say. Yes, that was true; but he had still trusted them. And until this morning he had expected to see them again. That was the sad part. He sincerely believed he had made progress with Harold and Raymond. He believed he had taught them something worthwhile about life, about living with their fellowman. But evidently he had been wrong. Or, to look at it honestly, he had failed. Another failure after forty years of failures.
He was in the station house late in the afternoon of the fifth day, talking to the telegrapher, passing time. Neither had spoken for a while when the telegrapher said, “You hear something?” He went to the window and said, “Riders coming in.” After a pause he said, “Lord in heaven!” And Mr. Manly knew.
He was off the bench and outside, standing there waiting for them, grinning, beaming, as they rode up: his Apache and his Zulu—thank you, God, just look at them!—bringing in Frank Shelby and the woman with ropes around their necks, bringing them in tied fast and making Mr. Manly, at this moment, the happiest man on earth.
Mr. Manly said, “I don’t believe it. Boys, I am looking at it and I don’t believe it. Do you know there are posses all over the country looking for these people?”
“We passed some of them,” Raymond said.
“They still after the others?”
“I guess they are,” Raymond said.
“Boys, I’ll tell you, I’ve been waiting here for days, worried sick about you. I even began to wonder—I hate to say it but it’s true—I even began to wonder if you were coming back. Now listen, I want to hear all about it, but first I want to say this. For what you’ve done here, for your loyalty and courage, risking your lives to bring these people back—which you didn’t even have to do—I am going to personally see that you’re treated like white men at Florence and are given decent work to do.”
The Apache and the Zulu sat easily in their saddles watching Mr. Manly, their painted faces staring at him without expression.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Mr. Manly said. “You keep your record clean at Florence, I’ll go before the prison board myself and make a formal request that your sentences be commuted, which means cut way down.” Mr. Manly was beaming. He said, “Fellas, what do you think of that?”
They continued to watch him until Harold Jackson the Zulu, leaning on his saddle horn, said to Mr. Manly, “Fuck you, captain.”
They let go of the ropes that led to Frank Shelby and the woman. They turned their horses in tight circles and rode out, leaving a mist of fine dust hanging in the air.
About the Author
ELMORE LEONARD has written more than three dozen books during his highly successful writing career, including the bestsellers
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Elmore Leonard
“CLASSIC WESTERN FARE.”
“BEFORE LEONARD’S CONTEMPORARY CADRE OF URBAN COWBOYS, THERE WAS AN IMPRESSIVE LINEUP OF THE REAL THING. BOUNTY HUNTERS, INDIANS, STAGECOACH DRIVERS, BANK ROBBERS, SHERIFFS, AND COWPUNCHERS PEOPLED THE PAGES OF HIS NOVELS IN A GRITTY MIX RICH IN THE FLAVOR AND INDIVIDUALISM OF THE OLD WEST.”
“ALL THE ELEMENTS OF HIS DETROIT, MIAMI, AND ATLANTIC CITY NOVELS ARE HERE: OBLIQUE DIALOGUE, CLOSELY OBSERVED BEHAVIOR, A CERTAIN SUNNY CYNICISM, A MELANCHOLY COURAGE.”
“HE KNOWS HIS WAY ONTO A HORSE AND OUT OF A GUNFIGHT AS WELL AS HE KNOWS THE SPECIAL KING’S ENGLISH SPOKEN BY HIS PATENTED, NOT-SO-LOVABLE URBAN LOWLIFES.”
“TRUE LEONARD FANS WILL NEED TO HAVE THIS.”
