Тэлмидж Пауэлл - Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 1, January, 1957

“Sure, Hugh,” he said softly. “Call if you see anything unusual.”

I started for the other gate, mulling over some of the bad boys in my mind. And one, just one, stuck in my head until I couldn’t think about anybody else. His name was Keith Drumright. He was in for life, convicted of the murder of a bank teller. He’d been in on the planning of a break three or four months back, that had never come off.

I reached the other gate. Charlie Bates was on duty. Charlie had been a guard since the depression days. He was good, but the years were beginning to catch up with him. Still, you don’t fire a man like Charlie Bates. There’s always a place for a man with that much experience. He was in the right spot.

“Noticed anything funny goin’ on, Charlie?” I asked.

“No, sir,” he said raising an eyebrow. “Been quiet lately.”

“I may be wrong,” I said, looking out over the yard. From the top of the wall, through the windows of the guard shack, the prison stretched out like a giant ant bed.

I’m wrong sometimes. Maybe more often than I’d like to admit. I lit a cigarette and leaned against the door of the shack. Maybe I was getting the jitters, trying to keep at least one thought ahead of every dangerous con in this human zoo. But the quick glances I got this morning from some of the boys had given me that uneasy feeling. And then there was the way Jessup had acted.

It’s not imagined, this tension I felt. I’d been through it before too many times. It’s like walking into a dark room and knowing the minute you are inside that someone else is there. Okay. So this time maybe I was wrong.

The phone in the guard shack buzzed twice. Charlie moved easily inside and lifted the phone.

“Yes sir,” he said. “I’ll be ready for you, Warden.”

He replaced the phone and turned back.

“What was that?” I asked.

“The Warden. Says he’s going into town on an errand. Wanted me to be ready to open the gate.”

The pieces fell into place suddenly. I brushed past Charlie, jerked the phone and buzzed the warden’s office. One... two... four times the buzzer sounded and there was no answer. “I’ll be here all day,” he had told me.

I wheeled to the door of the shack as the black limousine swept around the corner of the concrete drive to the gate.

The car moved swiftly, slowed, then stopped thirty feet from the gate. Charlie reached for the lever to open it, but I got to him and grabbed his arm. Warden Walters was sitting in the front seat, a man on each side of him. Three men were in the back. My eye fell on the driver. It was Keith Drumright. Warden Walters sat staring up at us, his face a mask of death.

“It’s a break, Charlie,” I said, feeling my breath growing short. Charlie reached inside the shack and grabbed the riot gun from the wall. He eyed me frantically, waiting for the signal to fire.

“Hold it!” I yelled.

I heard Drumright. “Open it up fast or the warden’ll get his.”

Then the warden’s voice, following the pattern he himself had initiated. “Shoot, Hugh! Shoot it out!”

Drumright turned in the seat and swung hard. The gun butt smashed against the warden’s head and he slumped, a trickle of blood moving from his temple.

Charlie waited for me to give him the word to fire, the gun trained on the windshield.

“Let us out or we’ll kill him!” Drumright shouted.

I tried to think, tried to wipe away the numbness from my mind. Drumright was going all out this time. If he didn’t make it, he’d take the warden to the grave with him.

“You don’t have a chance,” I yelled. “They’ll get you before you get two miles.” I was stalling. There had to be an out, an angle.

“You lousy sonofabitch!” Drumright roared.

The rear door of the limousine opened and a man was shoved free. It was a guard and he hit the pavement, rolled and got up running. Drumright turned in the seat and fired with his right hand. I saw the gun jump in his hand. Twice. The guard dropped to the pavement and struggled to crawl. The gun barked again and the guard shivered, lay still.

It was very quiet for an instant. Then the alarm system was thrown.

Drumright jerked his head up toward the shack. “Open up or we’ll roll the warden out next.”

Drumright changed the gun to his left hand, aimed toward the guard shack and fired. He was aiming for me, because he knew I was the stop gap. But with his left hand his shot went wild. Charlie spun half around, his face suddenly knifed with fear, blood spreading over his right shoulder. Slowly he slipped to the floor of the shack. I was the only one left. I was the one that had to open the gate.

Charlie’s fingers still held the riot gun. “Take it,” he said breathing hard. I reached for the lever to open the gate, but I knew it was useless. They had killed one man, maybe another, and if they got outside they’d kill the warden a few miles down the road. There was only one chance. Stop them here. Now.

I grabbed the rope ladder and threw it over the wall, and went over the side. I heard the gun fire, felt concrete sprinkle my face. Five. That made five shots. They probably had only one gun and Drumright was trying to fire it from the driver’s seat with his left hand. I hit the ground and another shot splashed near me. Six. He’s got three more, and he’s wild.

I crawled directly toward the car, tearing my sleeves, bruising my knees. I was ten feet away, too close for Drumright to fire the automatic again because of the windshield. I heard the gears grind and looked up to see the car bearing down on me.

I waited until the last moment, just before the wheels reached me, and I rolled. Drumright swerved to get me, but he was too late. I heard a voice inside the car. “Did you hit him?”

“I missed.”

“Let’s get out of this rat hole,” somebody shouted fearfully. The sirens were all going now. The break was folding, but I knew that Drumright would either drive out or be carried out. Either way I knew the Warden’s chances of remaining alive were slim.

The gears growled and the car shot into reverse. I grabbed the rear axle and felt my body dragging. My back became hot. I felt my shirt rip, felt the flesh being rolled from my shoulders.

“I don’t see ’im.”

“I’ll get him,” Drumright said. The car jerked to a stop. He had three shots. I scooted under the car as I saw Drumright’s foot hit the pavement. I grabbed it, pressing my legs against the bottom of the car, twisting his foot with all my strength. He went down, turning. He fired as he hit the concrete, but he had fired too soon. Two left. I pulled him toward me, trying to make my mind function over the terrible scream of the sirens. Then suddenly he wasn’t fighting. He was giving in, he was coming under.

“Give it up, Drumright,” I said. “You can’t make it.”

I heard him laugh, a crazed, desperate laugh, because he knew that probably I was right. It was the laugh of a man ready to die, but who wanted you to go with him.

He shoved his face under the car and rammed his hand toward me. I hit it as it came under and the gun exploded with a deafening roar, the bullet smashing into the bottom of the car.

I grabbed for the gun. He had one slug. Just one more, and if I could beat that one, the tiger was dead. I had his arm with both my hands. He jerked frantically. I tried to keep the muzzle out of my face, but Drumright could count. He knew! This one was going to be good; it had to be.

He was half under the car, when he pressed his leg against the outside of the car and I felt his arm slipping away, felt the sleeve tear, the sweaty flesh slip from my grasp. I stared in horror as he eased back, his face insanely wild. I rolled for the far side of the car. I made one turn and when I faced him again I heard the shot. I felt the hot, burning sensation in my stomach. Drumright got to his knees.