Free The Coyote Tracker by Larry D. Sweazy

like they had uniforms on, another odd twist of forethought that stood out to Josiah, as he regained his senses and tried to pay attention to what was happening.
    All of the prisoners in the cell block had recognized what was happening as Josiah had. They started shouting, banging against their metal cell doors with whatever they could find to draw attention to themselves: tin cups, pillows, shoes, their own bodies. It was an orchestra of salvation, pleas to be set free, beggars held tightly in the shackle of steel with no promise of escape, ever—until now. The voices and cries were almost as loud as the explosion.
    Where was Farnsworth?
Josiah wondered silently.
There was no way anyone within several blocks could not have heard the ruckus.
    None of the prisoners had any privacy in the construction of the fortress of the Black Hole of Calcutta, not that it mattered—they had all given up their rights when they committed whatever crime had landed them in the jail in the first place. There were no brick walls in between the cells, just bars, row after row, like cages set next to one another, and now that the dust had completely fallen to the floor, Josiah could see all of the way to the entrance.
    Every confined prisoner was one step from madness, screaming and dancing like a fire had been lit, trapping each man even further, his life at risk—though there was no immediate threat of death, not even the slightest hint of smoke now. And the smell of freedom was an unforeseen stroke of luck that none of the prisoners could ignore. They were all in a frenzy, like someone had kicked a nest of red ants, sending them scurrying for escape.
    â€œLet me out!” came a scream.
    â€œTake me!” said another man.
    â€œI’m next!” another voice shouted, rising over the rest.
    The only man, it seemed, who was not excited about the break was the sweaty, mousy-looking man that Josiah had noticed as he and Jones passed by.
    That man stood in the center of his cell, his head slightly down, his hands clasped in front of his waist, almost like he was looking down on a grave, praying. He was completely unaffected by the chaos around him, other than that he was sweating more profusely now. He did not share in the enthusiasm that was so palpable in the jail that it could be tasted.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on, Wolfe?” Scrap whispered.
    Josiah was stuffed as far back in the corner of the alcove as he could get. He held his index finger to his dry lips, hoping to avoid notice by the men conducting the jailbreak.
    Scrap kicked at the ground, groaned, eyed Josiah angrily, then turned his attention back to the horses and the men standing in the blast hole.
    â€œPull!” came a command, and the horses danced backward with all their might, the rope on the cell wall tightening immediately.
    After a quick tussle, the door popped off with a hard-fought and unifying tug from all three horses. Only after the metal fell to the ground, creating an immediate cloud of dust, did one of the horses begin to protest more strenuously than any of them had previously. Something had spooked the solid gray gelding. Fear and frustration boiled in the horse’s eyes. If there was any identifiable creature among the outlaws, it was this horse.
    The rider, who sat tall in the saddle, tried to calm the horse, but didn’t seem to be able to get it to settle down.
    â€œExplosion set it off,” Scrap mumbled. “Damn fool’s gonna let that horse hurt itself if he don’t get it out of there fast.”
    Josiah said nothing. Just watched and kept an eye on Scrap. The boy knew horses and their behavior better than any man he knew, and the thought of one in trouble made the boy visibly nervous, agitated.
    Scrap started pacing, pushing at the bars that separated him from his freedom, and from helping the horse. “You gotta get me out of here, Wolfe.”
    Josiah shook his head no.
    â€œUntie the damn