Terror at Hellhole (10 page)

Tarbow arose, then reached out and shook his friend's hand. “Thank you, Rufus. You've been a big help during this sticky business.”

Superintendent Tarbow sat down and drew a deep breath after Botts had departed. Now that he had a better idea of what he was up against, knowing that it could hardly be coincidental, he would take other precautions for security. He would explore all possibilities to prevent recurrence. A hard core of worry still dug into his vitals. He must keep his guards alert until this thing was out in the open, until he could understand the reasons behind whatever was going on. But at the same time he would watch each of his guards closely in case there was a killer among them. He'd keep the pressure on the guards and the prisoners as well.

He lit a cigar and settled back in his chair comfortably. He'd have to think this thing through carefully, stop what was happening around here before the prisoners became panicky, or them politicians in Phoenix got antsy enough to howl for his job. And he sure wanted to keep on being the superintendent of this prison.

“
Madre de Dios
!” Carugna pulled off his hat, then crossed himself with fervor. His startled eyes remained glued to the limp body of Dalton Powers swaying idly in midair, his gray-and-black-striped clothing, now blood soaked, was draped like a wet potato sack on his still form. The three awestruck convicts backed away, mouths agape.

So unexpected was the sight that when Hack looked up, he, too, froze. Seeing the convicts back away, he recognized the danger of the moment and knew that he must act at once before they panicked.

“Let's go, men, back to your cell!” he cried. “On the double!”

Using his rifle to jab at them, he hurried the unprotesting men at a trot back to their cell block. Glad to be away from the gruesome spectacle, they shuffled into their cell and stood speechless while they watched Hack slam the bar across the door hasp and snap the padlock.

The shock of Powers's death hovered over them like a shroud long after Hack ran back to the scene at the wall. They heard his cry to the guard, then heard it relayed again to the main tower where it became a chant: “Captain to the yard, on the double! Captain to the yard, on the double!”

The sound of running boots reached their ears and guards poured through the front gate, emptying the barracks next to the superintendent's office. Rifles at a port, they hurried in answer to Hack's call.

The spell broken, Print swung his perspiring body onto his bunk. “Ah jest can't understand what happened. One minute thet little monkey was comin' down the ladder, an' the next thing he hangin' by his neck, kickin' his feet with his throat cut.”

“
Madre de Dios
,” Carugna muttered again, his eyes glazed in a state of shock, sweat running down his forehead from his matted hair.

“You damn yellow greaser, stop thet mumble-jumble,” Laustina snarled viciously. “Stop it, you hear!”

“We will all die,” the Mexican groaned. “It is God's curse on us.”

Laustina slapped the back of his knuckles across the smaller man's face. “Shut yore damn mouth, I tell you, or I'll shut it for you!”

The Mexican reeled against the iron bunks, momentarily clinging to the upright for support, while blood from his lips dribbled down his chin as he stood with head bowed.

“
Madre de Dios
,” he said again weakly, staring numbly at the floor.

Eyes ablaze, lips pinched starkly in anger, Laustina took a step toward Carugna, but Print stepped between them, his hand raised to deter the three-fingered convict while he looked at the stupefied Mexican.

“Wait!” Print snapped. “Ah wanna talk to him!”

“
Madre de Dios
,” Carugna moaned again, wagging his head inanely. “God has cursed us.”

His eyes rolled back and forth as a vision returned from his past. As a small boy who had lived in a mission village, young Alexio had heard the story of the crucifixion from a priest. And the padre's vivid description of Christ's terrible suffering had so unnerved the lad that the story had stayed with him long after he had ventured deep into a life of sin.

Once, when he had been badly wounded after a bank robbery, he came upon a small church in a deserted village. Staggering from his horse he had crept inside before fainting from the excruciating pain. Feverish, he had awakened to see the stark morning sunlight beaming through a ragged hole in the roof. The bright rays, cast on the back wall, seemed to frame a wooden figure of Christ from which the cross had long since crumbled, and in his distraught brain, fear imprinted this image hanging on the wall, minus a cross.

Later, when he had recovered sufficient strength to ride away, the sun's rays on the damaged icon remained hidden in the subconscious recesses of his mind.

“What's this God's curse you talkin' about?” Print asked, catching Carugna by the hair and raising his face up so he could look at him.

Carugna lifted wide eyes to Print. “I see His sign on the wall,” he moaned. “We will all die.”

“What's this sign you bin handin' us.” Print rolled his eyes over at Laustina, warning him to silence. “Ah ain't seed no such sign.”

“He hung on the wall held only by the Hand of God,” the terrified Mexican whispered hoarsely. “Like Christ himself.”

“Shee-it!” Laustina was no longer able to contain himself in spite of Print's warning. “I don't want tuh hear no more about it! Thet damn midget jest got tangled up in some guy wires bracin' thet tower!”

“You think so?” Print asked, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “Then why we didn't see no wire when we first put the ladder agin thet tower wall?”

“How the hell would I know,” the burly man cried. “You act like someone maybe hung him on purpose!”

“The Curse of God,” Carugna said again, his face twitching. “First Dwyer, now this man Powers, we will all die!”

“Why, man?” Print asked. “Why do you think thet?”

“For killing those two women, cutting them like you did!” Carugna blurted out. “Now it is God's will that we die.”

“Shee-it,” Laustina snorted, stabbing a thumb at his chest. “You think they is the only women I ever cut or killed? An' I ain't dead yet.”

It was fuzzy, but Print could understand some of what the Mexican was saying for he was only two generations out of the West Indies—where witchcraft and voodoo prevailed, and spells could be cast on one's enemies. Carugna's God—a God he was not very familiar with—could have been angered.

“Think this is you God's doin'?” he asked, and when Carugna didn't answer, he looked at the other convict.

“Shee-it,” Laustina growled again. “He ain't got no God, an' if he did, do you think this God would be meddlin' around avengin' some Injun whores?”

“Those women were no whores,” the Mexican whined. “They was wives of them two Quechan trackers.”

“You mean them Injun bastids what found us?” Laustina cried angrily. “I'm glad their women is dead, an' I don't wanna hear no more about it!”

But the big Negro wasn't at all satisfied, perspiration hung on the flat sides of his jaws. “Maybe they's somethin' to what he say,” Print said. “Them two daid men was along when we lit out.”

“But, dammit, they didn't do nothin',” the burly man sneered, waggling a thick finger at Carugna for emphasis. “Remember, we was the ones who cut them squaws, an' we was the ones who rode them. Hell, even Alexio got blood on his belly dinkin' them, too, but neither of them dead men touched them squaws. An' by damn, ain't nothin' happened to none of us!”

Print mulled this over in his mind; spells usually didn't work this way. Maybe Laustina was right, maybe it was foolish to worry about the things Carguna inferred. Hell, not even the superintendent nor any of the guards seemed very disturbed at what had happened to the little shit.

Wordlessly, he climbed to the top bunk and lay with eyes wide open long after the fretful Carugna and Laustina began to snore. He strained his ears to catch the sound of boot steps moving with the lantern light around the other side of the mess hall. Evidently Superintendent Tarbow had finished examining Powers's body and was now having the the guards move him. The prison cell doors faced east and west, but by the position of the lantern lights shining down the corridor, the guards had halted at one of the shops near the main gate.

After a time the lanterns, too, faded away and Print heard no more movement. He stared up at the faintly visible high-domed ceiling, trying to recall the past. First it had been Fish Dwyer with his face blown away, then Dalton Powers mysteriously hung by a wire too thin to be seen from below.

What was it Carugna had said about the two Quechan women—that they weren't whores? By Quechan standards these women were wives, same as any white man's, but he had heard that their wedding ceremonies sure as hell were different. All it took for a Quechan to get married was for the man to spend four nights alongside a woman without touching her, then she had to prepare a meal for his family, and that was it—they were then considered hitched.

He supposed that was the way it had been with that young, firm-bodied, little wench and the Quechan tracker called Ho-Nas Good. Too bad he had cut her up so bad, but it had irked him to be tracked down by an Indian acting like a bloodhound. Not that he had any remorse over the killings, but she had been a good lay in spite of her crying in pain and terror. His thick lips spread slowly in a satisfied grin when he thought of the fight the older woman had put up while he was mounting her. Man, that had really been something, just like a wildcat. Hell, she had fought fiercely all the way, and that had made it all the more enjoyable for him.

But when she had spat in his face, all the pent-up anger had flared in him—that's when he had hacked off one of her huge breasts. Rolling away from her arched body, he had laughed coarsely at her high-pitched scream when the shocked pain reached her brain. With aroused delight, he had even watched Carugna glorying on her bloody body.

And then Print suddenly was aware that he was breathing deeply and a dryness rasped his throat. This would never do, he thought, knowing that he shouldn't go on reliving the past. He lay quietly until his breathing had subsided and his ears picked up the faint sounds of revelry floating up from Rincon Alley, just west of the prison, sounds barely discernible above the raucous snores sounding from the cells off the corridor. But tonight, the sounds of joy were not for him, as his mind moved back over Carugna's warning. Somewhere in the jungle of his instincts as a hunted man, he felt a tinge of fear.

What if this God did have a hex on them? Or what if someone was trying to kill them one by one? Shouldn't that person's anger be directed first toward the men who had actually taken part in the bloody, raping orgy, and whose hands had wielded the mutilating knife? Or was killing off the two weakest members of the gang a buildup to create fear as part of the punishment to be forthcoming for the rest?

Hell, he had fought and killed many times, never fearing any man. So why start now. Maybe that was part of his trouble, he thought, he'd already spent too much time dwelling on Carugna's fetish—that this was a curse placed on them, instead of the work of some vengeful person.

Better he forget all this nonsense and be glad that he was still alive simply because that drunken judge had no use for Indians or their squaws. Alive, that's what he was, and by damn, that was how he was going to stay. He rolled over on the straw mattress, but sleep was slow in coming for him.

Superintendent Tarbow's eyes ranged irritably over the guards assembled in a semicircle on chairs around his desk. When the last man had entered he stood up to address them.

“Men, we've had three deaths, two of them covert deaths, very close together and without apparent motives. The shooting outside the mess hall will be easily accepted by the prison commissioners, because there was an attempted escape, but the deaths of Dwyer and Powers won't set well as there are no motives. We're not even sure that they are connected in any way, but this is something was must consider. In case these events are related, we have two possibilities to pursue. One, that some organized plan is being carried out by someone inside this prison with a grudge. Or, two, by someone from the outside, who is seeking retribution against some of our inmates,” Tarbow said, holding up two fingers to illustrate his point.

He folded down one finger, then said: “Let's work from the first assumption that the problem is internal. We need to keep the pressure on the prisoners to disrupt any plans in being, to make them break. Now, here's how we'll do that: I want a maximum of guards watching the lines in the mess hall. The men will not be allowed outside their cells, excepting for meals, until further notice. During meal assemblies, guards will stand at each end of the corridors while the men are going to the hall, and they will stay in the cell area until the prisoners are safely locked in. While the men are in line, or eating, there will be no talking, and they will be strictly supervised. At the conclusion of the meal, the men will be searched at the door before they leave the hall. I don't want a single knife, fork, or spoon to be taken out, not even a toothpick! Nothing that can be used for a weapon will be permitted on them at anytime. Understand?”

He paused, his eyes sweeping intensely over the group, then he clenched a fist for emphasis. “Don't take any guff nor allow any horseplay from the prisoners anywhere. First convict who sounds off will be escorted to the snake pit for three days regardless of how minor the infraction is,” he said firmly, smashing his fist into the open palm of his other hand. “I don't want to let anything start that might provoke trouble between the men.”

His hard eyes raked the room, touching each guard. “And I want prompt action at all times! You are dismissed!”