and, with the other hand, slipped the seventy dollars from the youthâs shirt pocket and laid the bills side by side on the counterâs wooden top. He signaled to a pair of policemen standing near a corner, and they came over to support Virgil. The brute stepped aside, relinquishing his burden. Virgilâs weight came down on his legs for an instant, and white-hot pain drove straight up his spine. He winced in agony.
âYouâre in a lot of trouble, son,â said the old man almost paternally. âA bartender in Southwest City has filed a charge that you held him up and took the money from his cash register.â He indicated the bills spread out before him. âAn armed robbery charge like this will get you sent up, you know that?â
Virgil remembered the bartender, with his 150 jugs of Oklahoma White Lightning, bought at a bargain, not to mention the truck that Virgil had given him. He shook his head, and, despite his pain, smiled ruefully. It was all so beautiful.
The old policeman read this reaction as belligerence on Virgilâs part. âYou neednât smile, son. Donât think your age is going to make any difference with the authorities here in Joplin. Youâre under arrest.â He signaled once more to the policemen at Virgilâs sides, who supported him between them and headed for the door at the back of the station. It was open, and Virgil could see a row of jail cells beyond the opening. He shook his head again, and smiled in spite of himself. The colonel must have been hell on the battlefield.
The powerful locomotive charged down the narrow track at a breakneck pace, its huge pistons chuffing and clanging like a dozen piledrivers. Three cars back, Virgil Ballard shifted his weight on the hot leather seat and turned to stare morosely out the discolored window. He watched the lush vegetation of the bluffs along the Missouri River hurtle past, studied the murky water as it meandered in the direction of Jefferson City. He fingered the rubber pads on the tops of his crutches, considering the possible merits of laying one of them across the skull of the slack-faced detective in the next seat. It would be a simple matter to obtain the key to the handcuff on his right wrist once the cop was out. But his plans were shattered when his eyes fell on the ugly plaster casts that encased his legs. The thought of jumping the train and vaulting across the open fields on crutches sickened him. Things just werenât breakmg right.
Missouri State Penitentiary. According to the senile old bastard of a judge who had presided over his case in Joplin, that was to be his home for the next five years. Three, with good behavior. What did he know about prison? Bars. Walls. Guards. Everything else was a mystery to him. Certainly it was going to be a big change from the broad expanses of wilderness heâd been accustomed to wandering all his life. And what of Hazel?
Pretty, black-haired Hazel. Heâd known her since they were both toddlers, but how much did he really know about her? It had always been assumed between them that one day theyâd be married. How would prison affect those plans? Would she still be waiting for him when he got out? And even if she were, would he still want her? His mind was a jumble of questions, and every one of them had something to do with Hazel.
He turned his head away from the window and studied the dusty floor between his stiffened legs. Five years. On a lousy bum rap. He would just have to make the best of it.
Chapter Three
âVirgil Ballard! Well, Iâll be damned!â The short, broad-shouldered con held out a callused hand as Virgil entered the cell. âHow are ya, kid?â
Virgil transferred the wooden cane to his left hand and grasped the one extended him. The cell door clanged shut behind him. âRalph!â he exclaimed happily. âRalph Moss! I havenât seen you since we ran moonshine together.â
âTwo