"I'd say the first thing we got to decide is whether we all go out at the same time, or if one of us gives it a try by himself."
"One man has a better chance than three of moving around without stirring up an alarm," Hill observed.
"Sure does," Webster agreed. "Well, I'll volunteer. I've done enough scouting so's I can get around quiet in the dark. And I talk the lingo enough so if a guard challenges me I can throw him off long enough to get close to him and shut him up."
"I was about to offer," Hill said. "I'm not what you'd call the world's best scout, but I've done my share of night fighting."
"Now, look," Longarm said, "I don't mean to put myself up to be a hero, or feel like I'm a bit better'n either one of you, but I figure it's my job to get out there and bust us all free."
"I'd like to know how you figure it," Webster said dryly.
"Yes, so would I," Hill chimed in.
"It's real simple," Longarm told them. "First off, you fellows have been in this damn place a lot longer'n I have. Nate, you been here how long? Close to three months?"
"Give or take a week or so," the Ranger agreed.
"And you been here a month or more, John." Hill nodded. Longarm went on, "All the time, you been getting more starved out, cooped up in this little cell without a chance to stretch your muscles or loosen up your joints. I'd say you're both a mite rusty; it stands to reason. My muscles are in better shape than yours are, which'd give me a little bit of an edge."
"There's nothing wrong with my muscles," Webster protested.
"Nor mine," said Hill. "Both of us have tried to keep in shape, you know. Give us credit for that, Marshal."
"Oh, sure. But there's one little thing I been thinking about that might make more difference than anything else."
"What's that?" Hill and Webster spoke almost in unison.
"Your feet. Look at them things you got on. How're you going to run in 'em? Or sneak in 'em? They go shush-shush every step you take. But I still got my boots."
"We could draw straws to see who'd wear them," Webster suggested.
"We could," Longarm nodded. "What size you wear, Nate?"
"Elevens."
"John? How about you?"
"I take size nine,"
"And I wear tens. Now, nobody can move right, whether he's sneaking or running, in boots that don't fit. Am I right?" Reluctantly, both the others nodded. "Well, then, I guess I win the job by a toe. Or maybe a heel. Anybody object?"
"As far as I'm concerned, it's settled," Webster said. "We'll be ready to back you up, Marshal."
"We damned sure will!" Hill nodded. "Now, then, how can we help you form a battle plan?"
"Well, you're getting over my head, John," Longarm replied. "I was just aiming to bull ahead by guess and by God, and hope I do the right thing."
"In the service, we'd call that setting out to look for targets of opportunity," Hill smiled. "In this case, I'd say it's about the only battle plan we can make."
"I got one ace I've been keeping in the hole," Longarm announced. He fished his watch and derringer out of his vest pocket. "Ramos got so interested in the letter he made me write that he didn't get his men to clean out my pockets. So there's two shots here that might make the difference between us getting out, or going the way Lefty did."
Webster chuckled. "You're like old Captain McNally, who used to run my outfit, Marshal. He always says some men are born lucky, some are born unlucky, but good men make their luck as they go. I don't suppose you made that piece of luck, but it's sure going to help all of us."
"Gentlemen," said Hill, "I'll make a suggestion. If I'm taking troops into an engagement, I try to give them a good rest before the battle starts. We might as well follow the same tactics."
Relaxation came hard during the day's long hours, but they somehow managed to rest and to doze a bit. When Sebastian came in to bargain over their meals, Webster went through the usual routine of dickering. He complained of the price they paid as well as of the quantity and quality of the food they'd had the evening before. The haggling didn't improve their luncheon, but for supper they got a big helping of roast cabrito. It was a bit strong, really more goat than kid, but it was a lot more substantial than the soupy chili con carne and frijoles they'd had the previous evening and at noon.
After the jailer had gone out, while they were eating, Longarm told his companions, "I been thinking about this deal off and on all day, whenever I couldn't sleep. Appears to me like I got a choice of two times to make a try. One's right now, while them bastards is eating, maybe swigging a little mescal or pulque. The other's late tonight, after they bed down."
"If you're asking for an opinion," Hill said, "I'd imagine they won't be as alert while they're eating. And we still don't know whether they keep sentries on duty at night."
"Strikes me John's right," Webster said quickly. "I'd bet they do have some kind of night patrol, but when the grub's served, all the pigs rush to the trough."
"I sorta favor now, myself," Longarm agreed. "If we move quick, I can get through that roof and be on the ground outside before they finish their supper."
To keep Longarm as fresh as possible, Hill and Webster took on the job of breaking through the jailhouse roof. The ceiling was low, but still high enough to make it necessary for one man to stand on the other's shoulders while they took turns pulling aside the saplings that had been laid across the vigas to support the layers of brush and dirt that formed the foot-thick roof. The bottom layers gave way easily, but the topmost layer had baked hard, and formed a crust four inches thick. They used the tin plates from their supper as scrapers and prods, bending them into triangles that provided pointed ends for gouging at the crust and wide sides for scraping the dislodged pieces away.
Both roof breakers were grimy from head to foot before the job was completed. Longarm estimated they'd taken less than an hour to finish the job, and the sight through the hole they'd opened, of the clear sky deepened into after-sunset blue, gave encouragement to all three of them.
"Well, let's don't lollygag," Longarm said. "Boost me up as far as you can. Once I get armpit-high through that top layer of 'dobe, I'm home free."
Webster and Hill each took hold of one of his feet and Longarm held his body stiff while they lifted him straight up. The hole wasn't as big as it looked; they'd worked fast and kept their digging to a minimum in cracking through the hard top crust. His shoulders almost stuck, but Longarm managed to raise his arms up straight above his head and scrape through the opening. For a moment, he rested on his elbows, forearms on the roof, head and shoulders protruding through the escape hatch. The adobe wall of the building was only eight or ten inches above the rooftop. Longarm pulled himself out slowly, bending forward, hauling his body ahead with his forearms and elbows, until his booted feet cleared the hole and he lay flat in the scant concealment of the wall.
For a few seconds he lay motionless and listened, trying to locate the rurales who might be on the ground by the sound of their voices. Most of the noises came from a distance. He risked raising his head above the parapet of the wall to check the evidence of his ears and saw that the men were about where he'd placed them mentally. Apparently, the rurales weren't provided with a mess hall. They were clustered around a spit suspended over a bed of coals beside what he guessed was their barracks. The almost-stripped skeleton of a young goat was suspended on the spit.
Several rurales were by the cooking fire, carving strips of meat off the cabrito and eating it where they stood. A few had taken plates to sit on the ground, leaning against the wall of the barracks. Most of the rurales had jugs or bottles; Longarm was reasonably sure these contained either pulque or mescal. He didn't think the average rurale could afford even the lowest grade of tequila or aguardiente. There were no rifles to be seen, but all the men he could see clearly still had on their pistols.