“Yeah, me too,” Clifton grumped. “Bastards caught me across the line in Texas.”
“Hold on a minute. I want a word with Tilghman.”
Doolin walked to the front of the bull pen. He stopped at the bars, ignoring Thomas and nodding to Tilghman. “How’s tricks?” he said amiably. “Got a line on the rest of my boys?”
“Only a matter of time,” Tilghman observed. “They’re not bright enough to beat the law.”
“You never know.” Doolin paused, lowered his voice. “My wife was by to visit last week. I’m obliged for the way you treated her.”
Tilghman sensed that the statement was purposely cryptic. With Thomas listening, there would be no direct mention of the money he’d sent to Edith Doolin. “No thanks necessary,” he said. “Your wife strikes me as a good woman. She deserves whatever luck comes her way.”
“For a lawdog, you’re all right.” Doolin flicked a glance at Thomas. “Not like some buttholes I could mention.”
Thomas bristled. “You smart-aleck sonovabitch. I’m gonna dance on your grave after you’re hung.”
Tilghman moved between them. The last week in October he and Thomas were scheduled to testify at Doolin’s trial. The charges were cut and dried, with an army of witnesses, and the verdict would result in a death sentence. Doolin’s fate was sealed, and he saw no reason to push the matter further.
“C’mon, Heck,” he said forcefully. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve finished our business.”
Thomas seared the outlaw with a look. Then, muttering a curse, he strode off along the corridor. Tilghman followed him out, trailed by the guard. Doolin waited until they were gone before turning back into the bull pen. He clapped an arm over Dick Clifton’s shoulders.
“Don’t look so down at the mouth, sport.”
Clifton grunted. “Why the hell not? They’re gonna string me up alongside you.”
“Trust me,” Doolin said in a conspiratorial tone. “It’ll never get that far.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dick, if you had to pick a day to get caught, you couldn’t have done better. You played into luck.”
“Quit talkin’ riddles, will you?”
Doolin walked him off to one side. “How’d you like to bust out of here?”
“What?” Clifton gaped at him. “You figgered a way to escape?”
“Took a while, but it’s all set. Tonight’s the night.”
“Tonight?”
“You lucky dog. You got here just in time.”
Doolin, ever the strategist, laid out the plan.
* * *
In the evening, after supper was finished, the dirty dishes were collected. Inmates were required to stack their dishes in an open cart, which was mounted on wheels. While three armed guards watched, one of the prisoners rolled the cart to the door where it was taken by a fourth guard. The door was then closed and locked.
After supper, the prisoners were allowed the freedom of the bull pen. Some played checkers or dominoes, while others lounged around, talking of better days. There were thirty-five inmates, only a few of them hardened criminals, and they were permitted to stay in the bull pen until eight o’clock. Four men to a cell, they were then locked up for the night.
There was seldom any official activity during the night hours. Shortly after supper, the chief jailor and the daytime guards were relieved of their duties. The night guards, a skeleton staff of two men, then assumed responsibility for the jail. The head guard at night, Jack Tull, was a man of few words and cold nerves. He was assisted by Joe Miller, one of the youngest guards on the staff.
A few minutes before eight Tull halted outside the bars. “Awright, boys,” he rumbled in a sing-song voice. “Time for bed.”
The prisoners slowly stood, grumbling among themselves, resigned to the nightly routine. Doolin and Clifton, absorbed in a game of checkers, remained seated at the table nearest the door. George Lane, a burly whiskey smuggler, ambled toward the bars with a tin cup. Outside the bars, to the left of the door, was a water bucket on a wooden stand. Inmates were allowed to take a cup of water to their cells for the night.
Tull, the key in hand, waited at the steel door. Following regulations, which permitted no armed guards in the cell block, Miller unholstered his pistol and placed it in a box mounted on the wall. Watching him, Tull turned, unlocking the door, and swung it open. Miller entered the bull pen with a master key for the cells, motioning the prisoners toward the tiered cages. His job was to lock them away.
Lane, who was reaching through the bars for the water bucket, dropped his cup just as Tull began to close the door. The cup bounced off the floor with a metallic clang, and Tull looked down, momentarily distracted. In the instant his eyes were on the floor, Lane lowered his shoulder and charged the half-open door. The impact drove the heavy steel door into Tull’s face, smashing his nose. He staggered backward, dazed, blood pouring out of his nostrils.
On cue, Doolin spun out of his chair and raced for the door. Clifton and another prisoner jumped Miller, hitting him high and low, and took him to the floor. Lane hurtled through the door, grabbing Tull in an iron bear hug, and pinned his arms to his sides. Only a beat behind, Doolin stepped through the door and snatched Tull’s pistol from the holster. With no hesitation, he moved to the box on the wall and grabbed Miller’s pistol. He turned with a gun in either hand.
“Well now!” he said, grinning broadly. “How’s that for teamwork?”
Tull, still struggling to break free from Lane’s grip, glowered at him. Clifton climbed to his feet, the master key in his hand, while other inmates hauled Miller off the floor. The majority of the prisoners, stunned by the flurry of action, crowded together along the rear of the bull pen. Doolin motioned with his pistols.
“You boys know the drill. Let’s get to it!”
Lane wrestled Tull to the door and hurled him into the bull pen. Under Clifton’s direction, several
