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Standing over the threshold, Major Norton took the "wanted" poster from Sergeant Crawford and brought it up close to his pale blue eyes. "Light's wretched in this place."
"They don't do much reading here," said Crawford, watching Robinson from the doorway of the stockade cell.
The major raised his eyes from the sketch and narrowed them at the tall, slender figure standing before him. "Mr. Robinson," he uttered, his voice deliberate. With a gloved finger, he tapped the poster displaying Robinson's likeness, complete with a distinctive topknot hairstyle. "This individual is being pursued for the heinous crime of murdering Colonel Orville Wright, a valiant United States Marine who fell during our recent mission to Korea. I must ask you directly, do you refute any connection to the person depicted in this wanted notice?"
"No," answered Robinson.
With a nod and a throat-clearing, the major delivered the unwelcome news, "Regrettably, I must inform you that you are now under arrest. You will be detained in this facility until the Department of State and the Commandant of the Marine Corps have been duly notified."
Robinson bowed his head for a second in acknowledgment.
The major folded the "wanted" circular carefully. "Sergeant Crawford."
"Sir?"
"This man is to be treated like any other civilian prisoner.
"Yes, sir!"
Norton took a few steps toward Robison. "I'm curious, Mr. Robinson," he said. "You're a wanted man, yet you came boldly into a place like this. Why?"
The lanky man replied. "It was necessary."
Crawford then entered the shadowy cell and strode directly up to the chained Morrison. "You won't, asked the sergeant, "hurt him, will you? Will you?"
Morisson grunted, backed against the wall.
Major Norton returned to the stockade corridor. "I'll hold you responsible for this man's well-being, sergeant." Then he was gone.
"Yes, sir." The thin smile was again on Crawford's lips.458Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaX3pgH1cYT
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The post blacksmith was a broad sandy-haired man of 35. He made a faint whistling sound, with his tongue pressed up against the back of his front teeth as he worked. "There we are." He moved clear of the two prisoners.
The huge Morrison had been unchained from the wall. He and Robinson were in the center of the stockade cell, chained together at the wrist and ankles by a heavy 3-foot-long chain.
The blacksmith, still quietly whistling, gathered all his tools and shuffled to the door. "That be all, sir?"
Crawford gave the chain a big tug, which caused Morrison to stumble into Robinson. "Feels sturdy enough." To Morrison, he added, "If you touch this man, Morrison, I'll see to it that you're skinned alive with a bullwhip. Do you understand?"
The big man made a growling sound, baring his teeth in a wolflike snarl.
"I said, do you understand?" Crawford's voice was ominous.
"Yeah," muttered Morrison.
"As for you, Robinson, you are now a federal prisoner. The rules here at Fort Lonestar are simple. Do what you're told when you're told. Remember that and you'll get along quite well with me." He walked out of the cell.
The thick door slammed shut and was locked.
Then Crawford's lean face showed at the small barred window to the door. "A final reminder, Morrison," he said into the cell. "Any trouble and you'll go back to the wall. After discipline."
When the last booted footstep faded, the huge man muttered, "Disa----discipline----bullwhip!" Manipulating the chain which now linked them, he turned his broad back to Robinson. "Look, see."
His faded shirt was ripped and stained. Through the rents in the thin cloth, fresh scars showed. "Why were you beaten?"
Morrison turned to face him blankly. "What are you doing in here anyway? Is it true that you killed somebody?"
"Yes."
"Stupid to come around here, then."
"I came to talk to you."
"Talk? Nobody ever came anyplace to talk with me," said Morrison. "They never listen either. I tried to tell them about Logan, about what happened to him, and they never listened."
"I am here to talk to you," Robinson assured him, "and to listen."
Morrison scowled. "I know. You're after the gold. Ain't you?"
"I do not care about gold."
"Everybody cares about gold," said the huge man. "You can have it for all I care. I want Ollie Potts. I want Jonny, too." His big head lowered and bobbed nearer to Robinson's. "If you're Jonny Robinson's son, why shouldn't I kill you?"
"I have done nothing to you."
"Jonny's son, huh?"
Robinson asked, "Did John Robinson and Ollie Potts murder Logan Brock?"
"Jonny was always on Ollie's side," said Morrison. "When Ollie killed Logan, and took that ax to him, Jonny wasn't around. But when he came back he said I did it. I never would have killed Logan, though. He was all right to me." He put his face close to Robinson's and added savagely, "But I've killed other guys, lots of them."
"Why?"
The big shoulders shrugged. "'Cause I felt like it."
"Had you no other reason?"
"Didn't no no reason. I killed 'em, stole from 'em, beat 'em up, all with just my bare hands."
"Did you?" Robinson asked gently, detecting the childlike fear behind the boast. "No, I do not think you are a killer."
Morrison exploded with rage. "I kill anybody who laughs at me. I kill them just like that, with my hands," he shouted, grabbing Robinson. "You laugh at me and you'll get the same."
"I have no reason to laugh at you," said Robinson, detaching himself. "Can you show me the place where Ollie Potts was killed, the place you all worked?"
"You gotta go up to the mountains for that."
"But you can show me?"
"Sure, I can show you," Morisson laughed. "All ya gotta do is get us out of here."
"I will get us out," Robinson told him.
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