Free Black Ransom by Stone Wallace

individual who sported a thick mustache, which crawled down both sides of his face, Watson was an intimidating presence with an undeniable military bearing, though in fact he had never served in the army. He was a former lawyer turned prosecutor whose enmity for felons ran deep. As a young, idealistic defense attorney, he’d used his ambitious legal tactics to free an alleged murderer named Billy Burkett, who was later found to be guilty of the crime, but only after he and his gang had slaughtered a young pioneer family, including three children. While some of the gang were subsequently apprehended and hanged, Burkett himself had never been caught, and it continued to trouble Watson’s conscience as he contemplated the further carnage that might result from his own fancy courtroom maneuverings. From that point onward, Watson relentlessly focused his skills on punishing, not protecting, accused felons. He was proud of his many convictions that had sent criminals to the gallows. No murderer who had ever been prosecuted by him had escaped the noose.
    It was his impressive record and his determination to see lawbreakers properly punished that had earned him his appointment at Rockmound Prison. It was a job he relished.
    As was his custom, Superintendent Watson was standing out on the grounds to meet the new inmate when the wagon finally rolled into the forbidding walls of the prison. The driver handed Watson the necessary papers and then brought Ehron Lee from the back of the wagon. His shackles were removed and tossed back into the wagon to await the next unfortunate prisoner to be transported to Hell’s Doorway.
    Ehron Lee’s muscles were stiff and sore from spending so much time in a crouched or sitting position. He was achy and bruised from being jostled about on the rough canyon trails. It was difficult for him to obey Watson’s order to stand erect, though with effort he did manage to straighten his posture in the man’s presence. Adding to his discomfort, Ehron Lee was exhausted from the intense, near-claustrophobic heat he had been forced to endure during the long ride. He was lightheaded and nearly faint from dehydration. Only his defiance kept him from collapsing.
    The driver and the guard were invited inside the superintendent’s quarters for some refreshments before starting on the long ride back, but the driver declined for both of them. The prison gave him the willies, and he was eager to be away from there. He knew he’d be returning soon enough with more human cargo.
    Sucking on the long, thin stem of a pipe, Watson looked Ehron Lee over with a trained, critical eye, determining what type of prisoner he would be. He prided himself on his ability to instantly reach into a man’s soul; it had come from years of practice dealing with criminals. And once he spoke, Watson made it clear to Ehron Lee that the conditions the new prisoner was about to experience would not be pleasant regardless of his attitude—for on introduction he referred to the prison not by its official title, but by one of its feared nicknames:
    â€œBurrows, welcome to Cartridge Hill,” he said, forming the words around his pipe.
    He elaborated—with emphasis, “Reckon you know why we call it that. But in case you don’t . . .” He pivoted and pointed to all four corners of the surrounding walls. Armed prison guards patrolled the catwalks, keeping a vigilant eye on activities both inside and beyond the compound.
    â€œThat’s all they do all day, every day, them and those that relieve ’em,” Watson said, a note of pride in his voice. “Just stand up there waitin’ for a prisoner to make a break. They get mighty antsy doin’ the same thing over and over, so when they see somethin’ amiss . . . well, they take full advantage of the diversion. And just so you should be knowin’, each of ’em is a crack shot. Target practice is pretty