door of his cell and unlocked it. The guard stepped aside to let a middle-aged convict walk past him into the cell.
The door clanged shut as the prisoner stopped just inside the cell and looked at The Kid.
He was at least fifty, probably older. His gray hair had quite a bit of white in it, as did his mustache. His face was weathered to a permanent tan, which told The Kid that he worked outside quite a bit. The man didn’t have the pallor people usually associated with convicts. He reminded The Kid of old cowboys he had seen, men who had punched cows their entire life until they were too stove up to do it anymore.
After a few seconds, the man said, “Nobody told me I was getting a new cellmate today, but I’m glad to meet you anyway, son.” He held out his hand. “I’m John Schofield.”
The Kid stood up and gripped Schofield’s hand. “Waco Keene,” he introduced himself.
Schofield’s rather bushy gray eyebrows rose. “The train robber I’ve been hearing all the talk about?”
The Kid put a cocky grin on his face. “Word got around the place that I was coming, eh?”
“You could say that,” Schofield replied with a nod.
His voice held a note of education and culture The Kid hadn’t expected. He revised his opinion of Schofield. Instead of a cowpuncher, he wondered if the convict had been a businessman or a professor of some sort.
The Kid also wondered if Jennings had assigned him to that cell so he wouldn’t be in with someone who might prove to be a threat. The whole plan hatched by the Rangers would fall apart if The Kid was killed or even badly injured by a brutal cellmate.
“I’ve heard that you’re quite a train robber,” Schofield went on.
The Kid took the same tack he had earlier. He shrugged. “The railroads and the express companies have plenty of good reasons not to like me.”
Schofield chuckled. “I can imagine. I also imagine you’re curious about me.”
“I don’t believe in pryin’ into a man’s personal business,” The Kid said.
“Oh, it’s perfectly all right, and understandable as well. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Of course you’d like to know what sort of man I am. I used to be a Baptist minister.”
The Kid was a little surprised by that information. “Is that so?”
“Yes, but I had a crisis of faith. I suppose you could say the Lord and I had a falling-out.” Schofield cleared his throat. “It was prompted by a woman, of course, as such things all too often are. The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is weak, so weak.”
“I didn’t know they put preachers in jail for backsliding,” The Kid said.
“They don’t. They do, however, put preachers in jail who burn down their own churches ... with the congregation still inside.”
“Good Lord!” The Kid couldn’t stop the startled exclamation that came from him. He caught himself and went on. “Sorry, Reverend, I didn’t mean—” He stopped short when he realized he was apologizing for maybe offending a man who’d just admitted to carrying out mass murder.
“It’s all right, Waco,” Schofield said. “Can I call you Waco? I understand how people feel about what I did. It’s shocking, especially when you consider I never committed any other act of violence before or since that day. But I was tormented, you see, absolutely tormented, and I thought I might be able to cleanse my soul with fire. I fully intended to die right along with the others. I locked all the doors, set the fire in a back room, and climbed to the pulpit to confess my sins before the end.”
Schofield shook his head sadly as he paused.
“When the congregation smelled the smoke and realized what I had done,” he resumed a moment later, “some sidewinder in the choir shot me. I didn’t know he was carrying a gun under that robe. The men were able to break out some windows and most of the congregation escaped. Only ten people died. I’m sorry to say they dragged me outside instead of
The door clanged shut as the prisoner stopped just inside the cell and looked at The Kid.
He was at least fifty, probably older. His gray hair had quite a bit of white in it, as did his mustache. His face was weathered to a permanent tan, which told The Kid that he worked outside quite a bit. The man didn’t have the pallor people usually associated with convicts. He reminded The Kid of old cowboys he had seen, men who had punched cows their entire life until they were too stove up to do it anymore.
After a few seconds, the man said, “Nobody told me I was getting a new cellmate today, but I’m glad to meet you anyway, son.” He held out his hand. “I’m John Schofield.”
The Kid stood up and gripped Schofield’s hand. “Waco Keene,” he introduced himself.
Schofield’s rather bushy gray eyebrows rose. “The train robber I’ve been hearing all the talk about?”
The Kid put a cocky grin on his face. “Word got around the place that I was coming, eh?”
“You could say that,” Schofield replied with a nod.
His voice held a note of education and culture The Kid hadn’t expected. He revised his opinion of Schofield. Instead of a cowpuncher, he wondered if the convict had been a businessman or a professor of some sort.
The Kid also wondered if Jennings had assigned him to that cell so he wouldn’t be in with someone who might prove to be a threat. The whole plan hatched by the Rangers would fall apart if The Kid was killed or even badly injured by a brutal cellmate.
“I’ve heard that you’re quite a train robber,” Schofield went on.
The Kid took the same tack he had earlier. He shrugged. “The railroads and the express companies have plenty of good reasons not to like me.”
Schofield chuckled. “I can imagine. I also imagine you’re curious about me.”
“I don’t believe in pryin’ into a man’s personal business,” The Kid said.
“Oh, it’s perfectly all right, and understandable as well. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Of course you’d like to know what sort of man I am. I used to be a Baptist minister.”
The Kid was a little surprised by that information. “Is that so?”
“Yes, but I had a crisis of faith. I suppose you could say the Lord and I had a falling-out.” Schofield cleared his throat. “It was prompted by a woman, of course, as such things all too often are. The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is weak, so weak.”
“I didn’t know they put preachers in jail for backsliding,” The Kid said.
“They don’t. They do, however, put preachers in jail who burn down their own churches ... with the congregation still inside.”
“Good Lord!” The Kid couldn’t stop the startled exclamation that came from him. He caught himself and went on. “Sorry, Reverend, I didn’t mean—” He stopped short when he realized he was apologizing for maybe offending a man who’d just admitted to carrying out mass murder.
“It’s all right, Waco,” Schofield said. “Can I call you Waco? I understand how people feel about what I did. It’s shocking, especially when you consider I never committed any other act of violence before or since that day. But I was tormented, you see, absolutely tormented, and I thought I might be able to cleanse my soul with fire. I fully intended to die right along with the others. I locked all the doors, set the fire in a back room, and climbed to the pulpit to confess my sins before the end.”
Schofield shook his head sadly as he paused.
“When the congregation smelled the smoke and realized what I had done,” he resumed a moment later, “some sidewinder in the choir shot me. I didn’t know he was carrying a gun under that robe. The men were able to break out some windows and most of the congregation escaped. Only ten people died. I’m sorry to say they dragged me outside instead of
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