Jake literally bent over in pain. He moved back to his cot and sat down, putting his head in his hands.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Harkner. You asked.”
“It’s all right.” Jake coughed again. “I’ve got to find him,” he said then. “I’ve got to get out of here somehow and find him, stop him from throwing his life away.”
“You ain’t gonna get out of this place except by some miracle, mister. Do you know how fast they’d shoot you down if you tried to escape? Besides, you don’t look in any shape to be tryin’ to break out of here and run. Fact is, you don’t look too good at all.”
Lloyd! Jake hardly heard what the man was saying. Lloyd was out there somewhere, asking to get himself shot or hanged or thrown in prison just like himself. What was he going to do with Jess dead? Who was there to go and find Lloyd? He didn’t dare tell Miranda what he knew. The damned, stubborn woman would be crazy enough to try to find Lloyd by herself. It would be just like her to take that Winchester and that stupid little pistol and ride into outlaw country to find her son. She was brave enough and he knew she’d do anything to find the boy.
Boy. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was twenty-two years old and asking to die young. Things were different now than when he was Lloyd’s age. There was more law now. Men didn’t get away with things like they used to. If some gunslinger didn’t get Lloyd, some lawman would, if he wasn’t stopped.
What the hell was he going to do? God, how he missed Jess! Jess would have gone after the kid if he could have. There was no other man he knew who could have gone into outlaw country and knew how to handle himself. Jess had lived in those places before, knew how to handle those kind of men. He sure couldn’t expect that Eastern doctor husband of Evie’s to go after Lloyd. Brian wouldn’t last two days in country like that, around men like that.
He lay back on the cot, wishing his chest didn’t hurt so much, wishing he didn’t feel so dizzy all the time. He needed to be stronger, needed to get out of this place and find Lloyd. It had been hard enough keeping insanity away, penned up in this place, but now, knowing where Lloyd was, what he was doing, he really would go crazy being stuck here and unable to do anything about it. The hell of it was, he couldn’t even tell Randy.
“Damn!” he groaned. He sat up again, and Peterson backed into a corner at the dark look in Jake’s eyes. Jake walked over and picked up the short stool Peterson had sat on earlier. He slammed it against the cell door, busting it into several pieces. “Guard!” he screamed. He turned and ripped the mattress off the top bunk, threw it down. He lifted the frame, springs and all, and threw it at the bars. “Get me out of here!” he roared.
Two men came in to see what the commotion was about. “What the hell—”
“Get me the hell out of here!” Jake yelled. “I’ve got to go find my son!” He grasped the bars, his eyes wild and menacing.
“Hey, do somethin’ with this maniac before he turns on me,” Peterson hollered.
“Calm down, Harkner! You’ve got four years to go before you get out of here! Pick up that bunk and put it back where it belongs!”
Jake reached out and grabbed the man’s shirt, slamming him up to the bars. “You get me out of here—now!”
One of the other guards slammed a nightstick down over Jake’s wrist, bringing new pain to the already partly crippled hand. He cried out and let go of the first guard’s shirt. He turned then, picking up the slop bucket and throwing it at the guards, showering them with urine and excrement.
“Goddamn sonofabitch!” one of them cursed. He unlocked the cell door, and the second guard called for help, then joined the first man in trying to wrestle Jake to the floor to get handcuffs on him. Other men in the prison began rooting for Jake as he fought the men wildly. Peterson moved out of the cell and backed away as more guards rushed in. Jake held his own for the first few seconds, getting in some solid blows with a fierce strength few thought he had for being so sick; but there were too many guards and he was too weak to hold up for long.
Jake was quickly showered with fists, feet and nightsticks until he lay groaning in a pool of his own blood. The prison warden hurried into the wing where he’d heard there was trouble, and he winced at the sight and smell. “What the hell happened here?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” one of the original guards answered, his mouth bleeding badly. He wiped at the blood and turned to Peterson. “What the hell did you say to him when we put you in here?”