Deadfall by Stephen Lodge Read Free Book Online

rotten, lyin’, stupid, low-life pig!”
    Several other long-timers were holding Pennell securely from behind, making it impossible for the man to defend himself.
    â€œI agree with every word you just said about me, except stupid,” said Pennell. “The sucker in a con game is the stupid one, Belford, not the instigator. That means . . . you must be the stupid one,” he added.
    Another hamlike fist wiped the grin off Pennell’s face and he slumped, still in the other two jailbirds’ grasp.
    â€œNow you men hold him good,” said the convict called Belford. “I wanna make sure he never cheats another man in this crummy joint . . . ever again.”
    As Belford drew back his fist to strike Pennell one more time, a voice called out:
    â€œHey! What’s going on over there?”
    It was a guard’s voice.
    The convicts who’d been observing the one-sided exchange broke up the gathering and went their separate ways. The two men holding Pennell let go of him and he stumbled over to a wall where he leaned, huffing.
    Belford was trying his best to remove the blood spatter from his knuckles when he heard the click of a switchblade knife.
    The guard called out again:
    â€œNumber three four six eight . . . Mitchell Pennell. The warden wants to see you in his office . . . On the double!”
    Mitch Pennell’s lopsided smile, showing bloodied teeth, was one of triumph—at least for the moment. He started forward—then he stopped as he looked Belford in the eyes. The bully’s face was one of awkward surprise. Pennell reached out and pulled his switchblade knife from Belford’s chest, where his swift throw had buried the blade to its hilt.
    Belford crumbled to the ground with his heart pumping its contents into a widening pool of blood on the sandstone floor. Belford’s eyes were still locked on to Pennell’s. Pennell bent down and wiped the blade clean on the wounded prisoner’s own sleeve, then he closed the blade and returned the knife to his pocket.
    For a moment the two men stared at one another, then Pennell turned away. He stared at the other two prisoners.
    He spat a bloody glob onto the floor beside them. It splatted at their feet.

    With a prison guard on either side of him, Mitch Pennell stood facing Warden F. Q. Dobbs, who was sitting stuffily behind his oversized desk.
    â€œThat’s what I said, Pennell . . . a temporary reprieve,” Dobbs told him.
    He held up an official looking document for Pennell to peruse.
    â€œIt came all the way from Austin by special messenger,” said Dobbs. “Signed by the governor of Texas, personally.”
    He handed the document to Pennell, then he shook his head.
    â€œDo you want to know something else, Pennell?” he went on. “In all my years of experience with the Texas state prison system, this is the first one of these things I’ve ever handed out to a prisoner who’s doing ninety-nine years and a day.”
    â€œDo you wanna know somethin’, too, Warden?” said Pennell. “In all my years of experience with the Texas state prison system, this is the first and only time I ever got one of these things . . . let alone seen one.”
    Warden Dobbs leaned forward, getting to his feet.
    He ordered the two guards: “Get him out of here. There’s a government wagon out front waiting to take him to the train station.”
    The warden held another piece of paper in his hand; he passed it to Pennell.
    â€œHere’s your train ticket. It was delivered with your temporary reprieve . . . It’s to a little town out west called Juanita. I’ve been advised that someone you know will be meeting you there.”

    A two-horse U.S. Army wagon rolled into Charley Sunday’s ranch yard late that night, with two glowing oil lamps hanging from nails driven into both front corners of the wagon’s bed. Behind the reins sat the driver. The man sitting beside