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Murrieta had similarly given Slocum and Valenzuela the gift of escape by diverting the guards chasing them.
    He wondered about the son of California’s most famous outlaw. It hardly seemed possible Procipio Murrieta was guilty of anything, but Slocum had known some cold-blooded killers in his day who were sweet as brown sugar until someone crossed them. The little contact he’d had with Murrieta hinted that this wasn’t the way the man was, but he had been sent to San Quentin for a reason.
    Slocum snorted, wiped dirt from his eyes, and went back to digging. Hell, he had been inside the prison, and he hadn’t committed any crime. A slow smile came to his lips. He had done his share of thieving and robbing and even killing when necessary, but nothing that would have qualified him for such a grim penitentiary. The smile faded when he realized he might have been hanged if the law caught up with him and twigged to the fact he was a judge killer.
    After the war, he had returned to Slocum’s Stand in Calhoun, Georgia, wanting nothing more than to recuperate from his wounds and begin farming again. His ma and pa were long dead, and his brother Robert had died at Pickett’s Charge. He had lost himself in work until a carpetbagger judge had trumped up a phony tax lien and had ridden out with a gunman to seize the property.
    He had gotten the property—a grave down by the springhouse. His gun slick had been buried a few feet lower on the hill, and John Slocum had ridden out, followed by a warrant for his arrest. Killing a judge, even a Reconstruction thief of a judge, was a federal crime.
    But Slocum doubted any lawman in the San Francisco area had seen that wanted poster. All anyone inside San Quentin knew was that he was Jasper Jarvis.
    His fingers closed on the buried package. He tugged, got the parcel out, and quickly opened it. His clothes and Colt Navy were safely inside. He shucked off his canvas uniform, wanting to get rid of the striped outfit as quick as he could.
    â€œThere, she chose well,” Valenzuela said, reaching over Slocum’s shoulder to hold up a fancy embroidered shirt. It was gaudy and would attract attention. Slocum started to say something, then stopped. Perhaps this was for the best. Let José mouth off and make a spectacle of himself. That might be the last person a marshal would look at.
    He quickly pulled on his jeans and stood brushing off dirt that speckled his shirt and Stetson. Only when he was sure he was clean enough to pass casual muster did he strap on the cross-draw holster and settle his six-gun in it.
    Valenzuela looked at him, his eyes went wide, then narrowed.
    â€œYou wear that like a man accustomed to using it,” he said, pointing at Slocum’s ebony-handled pistol.
    â€œThere wasn’t any way I could leave horses. We’ve still got a posse on our trail.”
    â€œA posse?” Valenzuela laughed. “You sound like an outlaw. Inside, I thought you to be . . .”
    â€œWhat?” Slocum turned and squared off.
    Valenzuela shrugged and said, a smile curling his lips, “ Un pata cojo . I was wrong. I must commend Conchita on her choice in men when we see her. She has told you where to meet?”
    â€œI have no idea where to find her other than in your house where your pa’s dying,” Slocum said. The pitch black hid Valenzuela’s reaction, but Slocum thought the man recoiled at this. “You know how we can get horses?”
    â€œWe are across the Bay from San Francisco,” Valenzuela said. “We must cross the Golden Gate. Or we could go north, circle until we get to Oakland, and take that ferry. They did not place San Quentin where it was convenient for any who dared escape.”
    Slocum listened hard for the sound of pursuit but heard only the sounds of night and the distant lapping of waves.
    â€œTo the Bay,” he said. “We can find a boat that’ll take us across.” He didn’t