Chapter 1

THE YUMA DESERT, east of the Colorado River mouth, was like the floor of a furnace; but of the four riders, three were Yaqui Indians and accustomed to the heat, as were the buzzards swinging in lazy circles above them. The fourth rider did not mind the heat. He was dead.

The part of the desert they were now crossing was hard sand. Before them and on their right were sand dunes. Four days earlier the dead man had ridden his horse to death in those dunes. Obsessed by the desire to escape, to reach the boat awaiting him on Adair Bay, he had not realized until too late how hard he had ridden the animal.

To attempt the escape across the desert, dotted here and there by low-growing creosote or burro bush, was madness if he traveled by day. Yet there was no time to stop. It was the Yaquis, hungry for the fifty dollars his carcass would bring, who arranged his schedule. It was run or die, and so he ran…and died anyway, for they caught up with him short of his goal.

Nobody escaped across the Yuma Desert. The Yaqui in the battered cavalry hat could have told him that, for he had collected bounty on seventeen bodies, and it made a nice living. The Yaquis knew nothing about the boat on Adair Bay, and cared less.

At Yuma Prison, Tom Badger did know about the boat. He had been the escaped prisoner's only confident, had known of the plans, and had known that the boat was to appear at a certain place on the shore each evening for two weeks. The men handling the boat were well paid, and they knew only that one man, perhaps two or more, would appear out of the desert. They were to pick those men up, ask no questions, and sail them to Mazatlan.

Tom Badger had intended to make the break with Isacher, but Isacher was alone when the chance came and he accepted the chance. Badger had been left behind, but he did not blame his cell mate. In his place he would have done the same thing. Now he waited.…Had Isacher made it?

Suddenly he heard the bell toll. One…two…three…four!

The prison gate had opened and closed. Badger sat up, scratching. Somebody had come in, and at this hour? It was not quite six in the morning.

Outside he heard a voice, some distance off and near the gate. It was plain enough, even at the distance, for in this clear air sounds carry. "They brought in another one."

"Who is it?"

"Who d'you think? Only one man's escaped from here in six months."

Isacher!

Tom Badger held himself very still, his mind suddenly clear. Isacher was dead, and there were days to go before the boat would leave Adair Bay. Isacher had been clear about that, and had planned to arrive on the first of the fourteen days the boat would spend in the bay. Those other thirteen days were simply insurance against any delay or mistake in timing.

Whoever was in that boat could know nothing of Isacher's failure. Therefore if one or more men should arrive at Adair Bay, the boat would pick them up and take them to Mazatlan. Isacher had failed, but his death left the door open.

Badger's thoughts were interrupted by a jangle of keys and tramping feet. Doors opened and he heard the guards turning the convicts out for the day's work.

Miller came in with the day man and began unlocking the leg-irons that chained them to the floor.

Gopher looked up, whining, "I just can't make it today. I—"

"Shut up!" Tom Badger looked down irritably. Joe Harbin was all right, but Gopher could do nothing but whine.

"Get your boots on!" The jailer was impatient. He was a hard man who allowed no leeway for any of them. Miller, on the other hand, was a good guard and a fair one. If a con did not make it hard for Miller, he was inclined to give him any breaks the rules would allow.

"I can't—"

The jailer nudged Gopher with a boot. "On your feet!"

"Please!"

The jailer raised the keys to strike, but Miller interposed. "Lay off him. He took ten lashes yesterday."

Copyright © 1966 by Louis & Katherine L'Amour Trust