Terror at Hellhole (11 page)

Tarbow sat down behind the desk and watched the men file out. He remained seated long after the guards had departed. He was tired and much concerned over this latest death, for prison commissioners dido't take kindly to superintendents who permitted prisoners to be killed right under their noses. And he wasn't ready to give up this job just yet. By God, he would see that something was done about it!

Confined to such close quarters, the men became morose, and even the guards growled at each other. Tarbow, on the other hand, watched the drama unfold, taking note of everyone's reactions to the tension, and he was pleased. Someone or something would crack soon.

After the third day, Carugna stopped exhorting the Mother of God for mercy. He sat on a middle bunk, arms hanging down between his legs dejectedly, while his vacant eyes transfixed the concrete floor.

Now that Carugna no longer intoned his muttered pleas for mercy, the three-fingered convict had stopped cursing, but all was not tranquil, for Laustina's restlessness drove him to pacing. The nine-by-eight-foot cell had a tier of three bunks on each side; this did not leave much room for restlessness pacing in the center aisle.

Hedgemon Print had elected to use a top berth, and he spent most of their restricted time lying there staring at the ceiling, patiently biding the time when they would again be allowed yard privileges. His hooded eyes kept an annoyed stare riveted on the burly Laustina since he had started pacing the four-step pathway between the barred door and the back wall of the cell.

Print considered how remarkably the wild-eyed Laustina resembled a stalking shaggy bear. A patient man he was, but now this bear stomping back and forth was getting on his nerves. Sweat oozed through the pores of his skin and a wicked impulse surged through him to leap on Laustina and pound him into the floor.

He took a deep breath, knowing that such a move wouldn't help matters for them because the superintendent had warned that the slightest infraction would mean at least three days in the pit. That would increase the stress they were all under and conditions would become worse. He was sure that Tarbow wouldn't quit until he had flushed out the killer, if there really was one. It was evident that the superintendent meant to break someone by keeping the pressure on.

His high cheekbones moved when his jaw muscles tensed and a frustrated anger began working through him, rising in tempo while the burly man's boots shuffled the length of the cell. Print's muscles itched to move and his teeth sat on edge, but he held himself reined. He saw Carugna lift his eyes, his head swiveling like a puppet on a string, following the outlaw's pacing.

Suddenly Laustina stopped, then his hand shot out, grabbing a handful of Carugna's hair. “You dirty greaser, you're mockin' me!” he cried.

“
Madre de Dios
,” the astonished Mexican squealed. “I don' do nothing!”

“There you go again with thet
Dios
thing!” Laustina shouted, slapping the back of his hand across Carugna's face, then slashing the knuckles back over the other cheek. “Damn you, I told you to stop thet kind of mumble-jumble!”

A red fog of rage surged through Laustina and he started to belabor the Mexican with hamlike fists. Unable to defend himself, Carugna wrapped his arms around his head, crying out in fear.

Cat-quick, Print rolled off the high bunk onto Laustina's back, his strong arms encircling the surprised outlaw. His weight drove the burly outlaw's head against the steel bunk with a thud.

“You black sonovabitch,” Laustina shrieked. “I'm gonna kill you, too!”

Above the grunts and curses, the sounds of running boots thudded in the corridor, but Print held fast to the bucking, squirming man, knowing that in his furor the burly man wouldn't stop after the guards arrived. Laustina raged against Print's powerful clutch. Twisting and turning, he tried to smash the big man against the iron uprights supporting the bunks, but Print's grip never loosened.

Keys rattled and the grated doors screeched open while two guards crowded in. “Let go of him, Print!” Harplee cried. “Break it up, you hear?”

“Ah cain't rightly do thet, Mister Harplee,” Print growled through tight lips. “Old Jake here jest gone wild. He ain't gonna stop iffen ah let's go!”

Slobbering and cursing, Laustina kept threshing around; driving his powerful legs, he lunged Print against the bunks with a crash.

Carugna came to life, clutching at the chief guard's sleeve. “It is true, senor. This hombre tried to kill me, he is
tonto
!”

Harplee nodded at Allison, and the tall guard quickly slid a lead-weighted leather roll from his belt. With a quick blow, he caught Laustina just above the right temple and the outlaw went limp in Print's arms. Print eased the unconscious man to the floor, then stepped back from his exertion.

Carugna pointed a shaky finger down at Laustina. “He began hitting me for no reason,” he cried. “He try to kill me!
Tonto bastardo
!”

Harplee's cold eyes covered the big Negro. “What's your story?”

Print shrugged, not wanting to say anything that would get him an invite into the snake pit, too. “It's like he said, suh,” Print told them, nodding at the Mexican convict. “Jake started hitting him an' he wouldn't stop when ah told him to. He was tryin' to smash this man, so ah grabbed hold of him, but then he jest went plumb wild tryin' to stomp me agin them bunks.”

Experienced from many years of such troubles, Harplee's gray eyes regarded both deeply. Satisfied of their truth, he brushed a hand down his beard, then nodded before he stepped over the fallen outlaw and edged his way through the doorway. He motioned another guard to enter the cell.

“Frettly, you and Allison drag Laustina down to the pit. Make sure that he's chained good before you lock the door. Maybe three days in that hole will take some of the piss and vinegar out of him.”

He stood aside while the two guards, each supporting an arm and shoulder, dragged the bull-like convict from the cell. Then Harplee led the way down the corridor to unlock the gate at the south end of the cell block. The two guards followed him across the dirt yard, dragging their unconscious burden.

The snake pit was carved into the solid wall, which also served as the south wall of the prison. A short tunnel-like corridor, about eight feet long, led into the dark cell. The inside door was made of sheet-iron, with a small rectangular cutout near the bottom so that food and drink could be placed into the cell without opening the door. The outer door was made of bars. The cell was large, about fifteen by fifteen feet, with a small hole in the twenty-foot ceiling to provide some ventilation. A thin stream of light sometimes found its way down through the hole when the sun was directly overhead, otherwise the room was dark.

With the sheet-iron door open, as it now was, an iron ring set in the middle of the concrete floor could be seen. Frettly dragged a chain and two large padlocks from a back corner, and he quickly wrapped the chain end around Laustina's ankle and snapped the lock. Then, threading the other end of the chain through the ring set in the floor, he clenched the other lock.

“That oughta hold him for a spell,” Frettly said. “At least he ain't gonna take no walk.”

Allison chuckled. “That's for sure,” he said, and when a groan was heard from the convict on the floor, he added: “Old Three-fingers is startin' to wake up. We better get out of here before we have to fight our way clear, Fred.”

The two guards carefully closed the iron door and bolted it, knowing that the inside of the pit would be almost pitch black now. Slamming the outer door and snapping the lock, Frettly dusted his hands. “That, by God, is that!”

“Tuesday noon through Friday noon.” Allison counted the days on his fingers. “I'll report that to the Super, so he can arrange to turn Laustina loose on Friday.”

“Sure hope them three days soften him up,” Frettly said dryly. “I don't care to be draggin' that heavy bastard back an' forth anymore.”

“Amen,” Frank Allison echoed.

Honas Good watched Sheriff Waringer wipe the back of his hand across the stubble on his chin. The sun was just creeping above the Yuma Exchange Saloon, casting a shadow over the corral fence where he and Palma stood facing the lawman.

“Evidently them two followed him into the saloon,” Waringer said. “Anyway, the bartender told that two men came into the bar about eight o'clock last night. They pulled guns and held everyone at bay. They didn't bother the cash register none even though there were only five other men in the room. All they took was a saddlebag away from a gent who had come in earlier. When they left in a hurry, all the men in the saloon took off after them, following the footsteps of the man who had just been robbed.”

The lawman moved away from the corral fence and pointed a gnarled finger across the empty lot. “The barman said the two robbers had horses tied to this fence. When they came out of the saloon, they forked their broncs and took off across that field down to First Street, then west out of town.”

He pointed a finger at the ground. “Every damn fool in the barroom took off after them fellows, and as you can see by all these tracks, they came from every which way. Guess they chased them robbers out beyond the town lights, but lost them in the dark of the desert,” he told them. “I didn't get back to Yuma until just before midnight, so when I was told what had happened, I decided I'd get you and Palma first thing this morning so we could start out fresh. Dark as it was last night I couldn't see much use wandering around in the dark, what with all them tracks botched up by them would-be pursuers.”

Honas nodded. “We can follow First Street out of town a ways, then quarter back and forth until we weed out their tracks,” he said. “Then we can go to work.”

Waringer nodded sagely. “Them robbers wouldn't stay on the road very long once they got away from Yuma. They wouldn't want to risk anyone seeing them.”

“What happened to the man who was robbed?” Honas asked.

The lawman shook his head. “Don't know. He seems to have disappeared, which makes this kinda touchy. What appears to be an armed robbery may turn out to be nothing without a person to file a complaint. Neither barman nor any of the other customers was robbed,” Waringer said dejectedly. “But, I figure we oughta scout around out there for another reason. You see, a man rode in from the Clip Mine last night shortly after I got to bed. He said that three men had robbed their paymaster of a three-thousand-dollar payroll. He couldn't give much of a description of the robbers because one of them had lamped the paymaster with the butt end of his six-shooter before they stole the saddlebags with the payroll money.”

“So now you think the man who was robbed of the saddlebags in the saloon was one of them?” Honas asked. “And maybe the bags held the payroll money?”

Waringer shrugged, “Well, it might have been all three of them. Could be that some double crossing had been going on.”

“But if it isn't the same saddlebag,” Honas said, “then we don't really know if a robbery occurred in the saloon.”

“I think that we would have probable cause,” Waringer said. “The barkeeper saw a saddlebag taken at gunpoint even though no one else was bothered.”

“That's probable cause, all right,” Honas agreed. “They've got a pretty good headstart, so we better take out.”

“And when we catch them jiggers, they can explain their little game with the saddlebags to the paymaster back at the Clip Mine. It's only about thirty miles north of here.”

Palma led the three horses from the corral, holding out two sets of reins.

Waringer took his reins before he said: “I don't want any gunplay until we know for sure that those are the men we want.”

Boots crunched on gravel and they turned their attention to a slim man approaching. “Yore deputy said yuh was lookin' fer me, sheriff,” the man said, sunlight slanting from the angle of his thin face.

“Yeh, Hobbs,” the lawman said. “I heard you rode with that bunch last night when they went chasing after them holdup men.”

“Yup. When them jaspers threw down on us, we thought it was a stickup, for sure,” Hobbs said, “but all they taken was them saddlebags off thet queer-lookin' gent standin' by hisself at the bar.”

“Queer-looking?” Waringer asked.

“Well, his one eye didn't track jest like the other one did.” The man used his hands to describe his words. “An' one ear wasn't all there. Hit was all raggety like some one'd been chewin' on hit.”

“What about the chase you went on?”

“Well, soon's them two lit out,” Hobbs said, “we run fer our horses an' peeled out after them. They headed 'cross Brinley, then west out on First Street. We could tell their direction by the way old man Neahr's dogs was carryin' on, but once they got away from the lights, we lost track of them.”

Waringer massaged the bristles on his square chin again. “That when you boys decided to come back?”

Hobbs nodded slowly. “Well, no. Old Jake an' his boys didn't want to be wastin' valuable drinkin' time stumbling around in the dark. This jasper offered me an' Zeb ten dollars each to ride with him. Bein' almost broke, we roweled spurs with him 'bout another hour without catchin' sight nor sound of them two robbers. Zeb finally told thet jasper we had enough. We took our money an' come back.”

“That fellow ever manage to say what was in them saddlebags?” the sheriff asked.

“Naw. He wasn't talkative worth a damn until it came to cussin' us fer wantin' to leave him.”

Waringer smiled weakly. “Reckon he put up a fuss over payin' you.”

“Yer damn right,” Hobbs growled, “but Zeb offered to straighten out his other eye iffen he didn't pay up, an' yuh know how persuasive Zeb kin be!”