By Hunter Perez

My first night as Zeb’s cellmate was not the most serene experience. We had a none-too-large bed to share, and Zeb’s muscular body took up a surplus amount of space. I also discovered he snored ferociously while twisting and turning in his sleep. After being pummeled aurally and physically, I got out of bed and stood by the cell door, looking out into the dark corridor with the vain belief that I could be rescued. A dim lantern appeared at the far end of the corridor – it was Sergeant Patterson on night patrol, pausing to take a quick look into each cell. When he came to mine, he was initially surprised to see me awake, then looked behind me to the snoring Zeb spread out across most of the bedspace.

“Sorry it had to happen to you, son,” Patterson commiserated. “He’s a great guy when he’s awake, but when he’s asleep it’s another matter.”

“There wouldn’t happen to be a vacant cell where I could spend the night?” I asked. “I’d even be willing to sleep in the stables.”

“Sorry, son, but I can’t let you out,” Patterson replied. “I am sure you can figure something out – you’re a smart one.”

Patterson went on his way and I glanced over at Zeb. After a while, his thrashing calmed and his snoring became intermittent. I tried to position myself into the one-quarter of the bedspace that he didn’t occupy. I was able to lay on my back while he curled on his side with his back to me. The snoring picked up again with gusto, but at least he kept himself still.

I didn’t enjoy a sound sleep – I kept waking during the night – but the periods when I could snag shuteye felt good. But while in the midst of much-needed rest, I suddenly felt a great weight pinning my body down. I anxiously awoke and found Zeb on top of me with his large arms folded across my chest and his face perched atop his arms.

“Good morning, Jesse James,” he said with a smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Terribly,” I answered, gasping at the pressure Zeb created. “Why are you on top of me?”

“I had a funny dream last night,” Zeb said. “I was back in Phoenix being chased through the streets by a bear. He was within inches of biting me when Abraham Lincoln came out of a saloon and hit the bear on its head with a banjo. Then he played a banjo song – Lincoln, that is, not the bear.”

“Zeb, you are crushing my lungs,” I coughed. “Please get off me.”

“Nah, I like it here, Jesse James,” he responded, resting his head down on his arms. “You’re more comfortable than the bed. Wake me if Mustache Man comes here.”

I kept repeating for Zeb to remove himself, but within a minute he was asleep and snoring again. I tried to squirm and leverage my way out from under him, but he was a mass of dead weight. About 10 minutes passed before he started to roll over slightly – only then was I able to dislodge him.

This would become the first of what became a pattern of strength games that Zeb liked to play. Sometimes they would occur abruptly – he would suddenly announce “Hey, Jesse James, can you get out of this?” and I would find myself trapped in a headlock, a half-Nelson or whatever wrestling move he concocted. Other times, there would be a formal challenge to arm wrestling. He never injured me and never enacted this tomfoolery with any sense of seriousness, which led me to believe he was just behaving like an incredibly overgrown kid eager for fun rather than an alpha male staking his dominance. Also, he never seemed to mind if I got the best of him – especially on the second morning we had together when he tried to use me as a mattress again. That time, I was able to move my arms and poked my fingers into his armpits, wiggling my fingers in a tickling motion. That was his Achilles’ heel – this large guy with a deep growly voice suddenly started to quiver and giggle like an infant, and he never tried to stop me once I began to curl him into submission. Go figure.

When he wasn’t behaving like a kook, Zeb was a sweet guy and perhaps something of a sad soul. He loved to talk about his time working with the circus and his prizefighting stints – the bare knuckle variety of fisticuffs. He was evasive about discussing his childhood and the only time he genuinely became angry was recalling his father – while the genesis of his wrath was vague, he claimed he was happier in prison than in his father’s home. While I felt terrible for the emotional burden he carried, I also felt flummoxed because I supposed to teach him to read and write at the request of his father – how would he react if he learned his father was behind this sudden burst of educational activity?

One benefit of being teamed with Zeb was joining him in rock breaking work in the prison’s quarry. I realize that sounds a bit strange because it was intended as punishment, but it gave me an opportunity to move beyond endless cell confinement and to interact with other men instead of Holmgren and the limited circle he kept me in.

Each morning, a few guards who I never saw before would escort Zeb and me to the quarry. An elderly guard would check off our names from a list and then lock a ball and chain to our ankles. The device had a heavy shackle attached to a chain with four long links, and that was attached to a metal ball weighing about 15 pounds. Mobility was difficult but not impossible. We were given sledgehammers and on most days we were joined by five other prisoners during our labors. These were the first prisoners I was able to meet outside of Merrifield and Zeb since my arrival – although my introduction was on the strange side when Zeb announced me as Jesse James, which created a mix of confusion, consternation and laughing among my new comrades.

There was Paco, a short barrel-chested Mexican who would repeatedly cite how he killed Davy Crockett at the Alamo – I suspected he was much of a Crockett killer as I was Jesse James. There was also O’Dwyer, a white-haired gent who endlessly recounted how he murdered his wife’s lover; Rain, an enigmatic Apache who spoke in brief bursts of monosyllables and eyed me with wariness; Rumson, a wobbly man always laughed when he spoke; and McKimson, a strange little guy who was constantly mumbling to himself and who would occasionally pull small pages from his pocket and study them intently. My curiosity got the best of me and I tried to get close to McKimson to hear what he was saying and spy on what he was reading. I eventually discovered he took it upon himself to memorize the entire Gospel According to John and would recite it each time he was breaking rocks – the pages were torn from his Bible and he would glance over them to confirm he wasn’t misquoting the sacred text.

Beyond the elderly guard who locked us into the ball and chain devices, there were two scrawny young guards with rifles who were supposed to be supervising our labors but who mostly spent their day conversing among themselves without ever acknowledging us. They both had the same dull, blank expression and indolent body language, and I was informed by O’Dwyer they were the twin brothers Ted and Fred Jones while the elder guard was their grandfather Ned Jones.

Zeb loved these labors and would smack the sledgehammer with gusto. The other men were more leisurely in their approach, and I quickly adapted their work habits. This combination of new conversation with new voices, fresh air, some degree of physical exertion and a lack of stress (except for what was around my ankle) made this endeavor enjoyable.

One day, however, things took a strange turn when Rumson looked off in the distance, began laughing loudly and declared, “Hey, boys, there’s going to be another flogging.”

Roughly 100 yards from where we broke rocks came a small procession. I recognized Patterson leading this troupe, followed by two other guards who were followed by a scraggly prisoner with restraints around his hands and ankles – the clanking of his chains could be heard too clearly. Another guard followed the prisoner, and about five paces back was a very large guard carrying a huge whip.

“That is a damn scary man,” O’Dwyer said as he pointed quickly to the final member of the procession.

“It’s Monster Man,” declared Zeb joyfully. “He whips them to the edge of dying.”

Rain eyed Zeb, shook his head and muttered “Dunce” before turning his back on the procession and resuming his rock breaking.

“Our loud young friend isn’t half wrong,” O’Dwyer confided. “One of the men in the adjoining cell was flogged last week by him. He is just now able to walk after what happened.”

While the others were unhappy with the sight before us, Zeb was weirdly excited by the whip-bearing guard’s hulking presence. He held up his sledgehammer and waved it while yelling out, “Hey, Monster Man. Crack that whip! Crack that whip!”

The object of Zeb’s messaging glanced over in our direction for a quick moment and kept walking, but abruptly stopped and stared at us for about 30 seconds. Zeb starting waving his hand at him and repeated his “Crack that whip!” call while the rest of us turned around and quickly went back to our rock breaking duties.

No one said anything for a few minutes while we banged out sledgehammers into the rocks. Then, there was a hideous snapping sound come from the far side of the quarry followed by a low muffled cry.

“That’s where they do their dirty work,” O’Dwyer lamented. “They chain the man to a stake and flog him until he can barely stand. And it’s all just out of sight from us, but close enough for us to hear them.”

“Mustache Man let me see it once,” Zeb said with a broad smile. “You can’t believe it.”

A second snap, louder than the first, punctured the air followed by a louder yet still muffled cry. We stopped our work and focused in the direction of the noises. McKimson shut his eyes and recited his Bible verses at a louder tone and a faster speed. A third harsh snap and another muffled followed.

“They put a bit in the man’s mouth, like he was a horse,” Paco told me. “Otherwise, he could bite off his tongue while being whipped.”

More whip snapping and muffled cries followed and I began to feel nauseous. Rather than become ill among my new comrades, I picked up the heavy ball and shuffled to a far side of the quarry. I picked a spot to drop the ball and began to inhale and exhale heavily. Mercifully, the sounds stopped and the wave of nausea quickly abated. I picked up my sledgehammer and slowly tapped at the rocks, hoping the monotony of the labor would calm me. However, Zeb was anything but calm and I heard him cheering, “Hey, Monster Man. You show them who is the big man in this prison. Crack that whip! They won’t be bad guys again.”

I cringed listening to Zeb’s exultation and wondered how many bare knuckled punches to his head he received in order to create such warped behavior.

“Hey, Jesse James,” Zeb yelled out. “Monster Man is coming to see you.”

“What?” I gasped. I turned around and saw this giant guard lumbering in my direction.

I clutched the handle of the sledgehammer, uncertain why this large and fearsome person would suddenly fancy my acquaintance.

As he approached, I couldn’t make out his face. His cap was down tight and the brim obscured his eyes. His jaw was strong and framed by a reddish-brown beard that made him look more sinister. He held his whip in his right hand, and after staring at me for about 10 seconds he gave it a crack into the air above his head, causing me to shudder. He kept staring at me, but I had no idea how to react. He cracked the whip over his head again and laughed – but his laugh disconcerted me further.

“Merrifield?” I said in a tone just above a whisper.

He moved closer to me and held up his head, jutting his chin in my direction while his eyes finally became visible.

“Merrifield, I didn’t recognize you,” I said.

“I didn’t recognize you, Sir,” he said softly.

His response puzzled me. “I don’t understand.”

“When addressing an officer, you either refer to him as ‘Sir’ or by his name and rank,” he corrected.

I was still puzzled by him. “So, that’s how I have to speak to you?”

Merrifield sighed and shook his head. “Have to speak to you, Sir. You still don’t remember to do that? How are you?”

“I’m here,” I said. “I mean, Sir, I’m here.”

He nodded. “I know what happened. I tried to get my uncle and the lieutenant not to go back on their word, but they didn’t listen. Sorry that you’re still stuck in here. Not to be gloomy, but I suspect the lieutenant will keep you here as long as he can.”

“That’s not the most optimistic forecast,” I said, adding a belated “Sir” after a few seconds.

We looked at each other for a minute – I felt perplexed and his demeanor began to turn slightly contemptuous.

“Well, this is awkward,” I finally said. “After all the time we were together, it feels a bit strange to be speaking to you like I was speaking to Patterson or Holmgren.”

“Sergeant Patterson or Lieutenant Holmgren, Sir,” he answered, exhaling in annoyance.

“Sir, sorry, Sir,” I said. “So, what’s with the whip? Do you like whipping prisoners?”

Merrifield began to roll the whip into a loop. “Of course I don’t like it. But if the prisoners need to be disciplined, I’m tasked to mete it out.” He held the whip in front of my face and gave a lopsided grin, adding, “Hey, do something stupid and you can see me at work. My colleagues will get you on the stake and then I can take of you.”

Merrifield turned and began to walk off, pausing to look back at me and added, “And that should have been ‘Do you like whipping prisoners, Sir?’” He lumbered off, ignoring Zeb’s rooting for him and his whip.

When Merrifield was out of sight, I picked up my metal ball and sledgehammer and went back to my comrades. Zeb greeted me with awe. “Jesse James, do you know Monster Man?”

I shook my head with sorrow. “I used to know someone else who was him.”

To be continued…