Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

The guard captain’s flash-light swung jerkily, and reflections showed a lean body and a hard bony face with a flat nose and a loose mouth.

“Baxter,” came a faint whisper.

“Here,” Baxter whispered back. “Got something this time, McCall.”

“Yeah?” There was eagerness in the muffled voice, and Baxter could see the man straining forward. “What is it?”

“They’ve got some loaded revolvers planted in the ventilating shaft on this level.”

“My Gawd, man! Are you sure?”

“No,” admitted Baxter. “I want you to find out. If they’re there, check their caliber and get some blanks for them. But, for Gawd’s sake, get the loaded cartridges out!”

“I’ll get rid of the guns, if I find ’em.”

“No,” snapped Baxter testily. “I want this break to come, so I can find out who’s involved.”

“The governor gave you full charge here,” said McCall. “So I’ll follow orders. But if it was me working this out, I’d get rid of the guns.”

“Get started,” ordered Baxter, “before somebody hears us.”

McCall nodded and went down the corridor. The ventilating shaft was out of Baxter’s line of vision, but he could hear McCall’s heels clump away. A moment later muted sounds, like those of a man walking on his toes, passed through the sheet-metal wall, which felt refreshingly cool against Baxter’s hot cheek.

McCall padded back to Baxter’s cell and whispered through the bars; “I found ’em, all six. Thirty-two’s. Should I report to the warden?”

“No. He might even be the man we want. We don’t know. Protect yourself by notifying the governor. You can send a registered letter.” Baxter paused, then added tensely: “Get those blanks in, pronto!”

Baxter himself was hardly prepared when, at cell line-up next evening, a ratty little man stumbled on Tier B and went down with a cry. Glancing quickly at the guard, who was watching the little con, Baxter broke away from the end and raced to the ventilator shaft.

He got two fingers into the plate and wiggled it. Then it was free, and the shaft yawned. His hand darted into it and his fingernails scraped rough cardboard beyond the bend. A box without a cover slid down.

There was a grunt behind him, and hot breath struck his turned cheek. A hard forearm closed on his neck, choking off his air supply. Blood pounded in his temples as he kicked back to break the stranglehold. A knotty fist ground into the hollow behind his ear and he began falling to the left, his eyes giving him a blurred picture of stamping, chanting cons and fear-crazed guards.

His shoulder broke his fall, and he immediately curled upward. Standing above him, the box under one arm, was Steward. His face was a tight mask, and there was revolver in his right hand.

“Dirty copper!” he snarled. “You’re getting it, right now, just like your brother did.”

A gun roared from another balcony, and lead screamed on steel a foot from Steward’s head. Steward ripped out a full-throated curse and whipped the revolver muzzle toward a guard on a Tier B runway. Baxter kicked at Steward just as the revolver crashed.

The revolver wasn’t loaded with blanks! Baxter, incredulous in spite of what he’d learned, saw the guard spin and fall.

Five more convicts, gray faces full of desperate hope, were clamoring for guns — and getting them. Steward, apparently forgetting Baxter, began running.

Baxter was dimly conscious of the high-pitched wail of the prison siren, the occasional smash of a bullet, the uneasy shuffling of the men not taking part, and the groans of the wounded guard. Looking over the railing, he saw Steward and the others coming out of the spiral staircase, twelve feet down. With a prayer in his throat he vaulted the rail and dived.

His legs went over the shoulders of the fourth man. There was a loud snap, and Baxter, hurtling clear, knew he had broken the man’s neck. He snatched up the revolver and fired at Steward, who was fumbling with a dead guard’s keys.

Steward snapped back the bolt, paused to return a shot. But his aim was hurried, and the bullet brought a scream from somebody at the far end of the cell house.

Baxter raced after Steward and a dozen others, most of them unarmed. Giant search-lights traced weird patterns across the prison yard, and a machine-gun on a wall began vomiting sudden death. Three convicts went down screaming.

Then Baxter saw something else on the wall — a rifle barrel glinting in a stray beam of light. It was aimed, not at the cons scattered in the yard, but at the guard with the machine-gun.

Flame leaped from its muzzle and the vicious slap of a bullet merged with other sounds. The machine-gunner flung his hands upward as if for an invisible support, and his gun fell outside the wall. He pitched forward, lost a hold on a spike, dropped twenty feet.

A dim, thick figure lumbered toward a watch tower. With a harsh sob of rage, Baxter lifted his revolver and fired twice. The rifleman stopped short, sagging awkwardly.

“Why in hell did you do that?” grunted a huge man beside Baxter. “He saved us.”