Terror at Hellhole (13 page)

Waringer nodded. Both men arose, then moved away from the paralyzed bandit. “No doubt he's got a lot more bites on his body that we can't see. God, what a way to die, but there's nothing we can do for him. If the poor bastard was a horse, I'd shoot him.”

The sheriff walked back to where the robbers had left their three horses before taking cover when the shooting began. Unbuckling the saddlebag from a horse, he peered inside.

“Here's the payroll, all right,” he said. Catching up the three horses' reins, he led them back to where the dead men lay. “Money's here, evidently these two, and the man we buried, robbed the Clip Mine paymaster. Maybe they had a falling out, or that other man tried to take off with the loot all by himself.”

Waringer looked at the swollen body and waggled his head sympathetically. “Imagine, dying in a hole full of snakes,” he said. “At least the so-called ‘Snake Pit' up at, our prison don't kill a man.” Then he remembered something. “Speaking of snake pits, Superintendent Tarbow put that wild Three-fingered Jake Laustina in the pit for trying to kill a cell mate during a squabble at the prison.”

“When?” Honas asked quickly.

“Yesterday,” Waringer said. “Gave him three days to cool off. He was trying to strangle that Mex who was with him when they killed your...” He clamped his jaws shut, not wanting to open old wounds, and when the Quechan didn't answer, he quickly changed the subject and began to sum up their situation.

“Guess the man over there is Osmond, at least that's what this one called him while them snakes was gnawing on him down in the hole,” he said, pointing to the outlaw Honas had shot earlier. “These two must have caught up with that other jasper in the saloon and took their saddlebags back. After they left, he paid Hobbs and Zeb to go with him to help follow them.”

Honas agreed. “When Hobbs and Zeb deserted him, he followed alone and when he caught up with them, they killed him and stole his horse,” he said, then nodded his head at the fallen outlaws. “What do you intend to do with them?”

The lawman looked skyward, judging the time. “I want you and Palma to load them on their horses and pack them back to Yuma. And pick up that man we shallow-buried, 'cause I want him, too. Meanwhile, I'll run that payroll back to the mine. With any luck, I'll be back in Yuma by midnight.”

Palma opened his mouth to protest, but clamped his jaws when he caught the sharp look Honas threw him. Why, he thought, did the white lawman want to bring an enemy back? Why even bother to have buried them at all? But he would abide by what his son-in-law wanted to do, thus he nodded in agreement.

“We'll do it, Sheriff,” Honas said. “Then we'll drop them off at the undertaker's and tell him to hold them for you.”

Waringer's eyes studied the tall Quechan, knowing his views against the showing of any consideration to an outlaw. He nodded, then shouldering the saddlebags, he picked his way up the steep slope to where Palma had earlier tethered their horses.

Honas stood looking down into the pit, watching the agitated snakes scurry back and forth, still alarmed from the unexpected scare of the outlaw falling into their midst.

He motioned to Palma to help him, and they loaded Osmond's body over the saddle, tying it tightly in place; but when the snake-bitten robber moaned incoherently, his eye swollen blue and grotesquely closed, Honas drew his six-gun, and reversing his grip to the barrel, he struck down sharply, knocking the man unconscious. He knew that the man would be dead from venom before he woke up from the force of the blow. They draped the stunned body over the saddle and fastened it tightly.

Then Honas did a strange thing. He emptied the contents of the canvas food sack on the ground, then he took a thin leather thong from around his waist and formed a noose at one end. Searching among the bushes until he found two long branches that suited him, he cut them off. Then he trimmed them, leaving a fork at the end of each stick.

Handing a pole to Palma, he explained his plan quickly, using their native tongue. Laying on his stomach at the edge of the pit with a forked stick in one hand and the looped thong in the other, he told Palma to lie with his stick beside him. Then the older Quechan began jiggling his stick, catching a snake's attention, while Honas moved his pole into striking distance.

Cat-quick, Honas's stick forked the snake's head, pinning it to the sandy pit bottom. Keeping the snake pinned with one hand, he dangled the thong carefully until the noose slipped over the rattler's head. Slowly, he pulled it taut, then he dragged the writhing, fighting snake up the side of the pit.

Palma held the canvas sack open while Honas guided the tail into the bag, then lowered the snake. The older Indian quickly set the sack on the ground, pinning it with his stick. Honas jiggled the thong back and forth in the bag opening until the snake managed to squirm free of the noose, then he jerked the thong from the sack.

Selecting only the smaller snakes in the pit, they were able to pull up three more from the agitated, squirming mass, then gingerly they transferred them to the bag. Honas tied the sack shut, then bound it to the end of Palma's stick. With his knife, he cut the stick down to a three-foot length before he stopped to wipe the perspiration from his brow.

Observing his actions, his father-in-law laughed raucously at his discomfort until Honas responded with a tight grin. Then Palma took the end of the stick and carried the bag of snakes to Osmond's horse, where he tied the deadly cargo to the saddle horn on the nervous animal. Snakes in a sack wouldn't have room to strike, he thought, but even if they did, the outlaw Osmond was beyond caring.

“We better hurry,” Honas said. “Catching these snakes has moved the sun more than an hour. We must pick up the other dead man like the sheriff asked us.”

The older Quechan nodded. “Never fear, we will be in Yuma by dark,” he said, squinting up at the sun standing above the hills on the Mexican side of the Colorado River.

“Then we must hurry.” Honas's face had tightened, his eyes were again cold. “You will take the dead men to the coffin maker while I hide the snakes in the old burial ground below the smelter, to wait until the prison sleeps.”

“It is good, my son,” Palma said, “and I know that you will do what is necessary.”

Honas was touched, for seldom did his father-in-law show affection as he did today. “Yes, my father,” he said evenly, his dark eyes touching the older man's seamy face, for Palma, too, had sorrowed deeply over the loss of his wife and daughter. “I will see that these snakes bite again before the moon sets this day.”

And Palma nodded his head, knowing that his son-in-law always spoke the truth.

On the last day of his life, Three-fingered Jake Laustina greeted the dawn with a curse. He lay on the cool concrete floor trying to gather his wits for his head ached and his throat was rasped dry. The wild surge of anger that had seized him two days earlier had subsided to a smoldering hatred toward his Mexican cell mate, Carugna. The lump above his right temple where Frank Allison had struck him with the leathered weight still throbbed, and the pulsing made it difficult to focus on past events. When he had awakened to find himself in this darkened cell remembrance brought the red fog of anger suddenly sweeping over him, causing him to shout and curse at the top of his lungs again. Ranting and raving, he had spent the first day raging violently until he had collapsed, sweating and sobbing in a pitiful heap.

Faintly, he recalled the reason that he was in this damned cell, remembering how he had smashed his fists against Carugna's face before the unexpected strength of Print's huge arms had encircled his chest, squeezing him like giant pincers. He didn't realize that Print was that strong, and it was something he would remember when they met again. He would never again let that bastard get an advantage on him. By damn, he had a score to settle up with both of them, the stinking Mex and that big black bastard.

Memory eased his anger momentarily when he thought of the encounter. Hell, he would have battered himself free if them guards hadn't come when they did. By damn, he had been pounding Print into them iron bunks hard, hurting him, until that damn Allison caught him on the temple with that lead-weighted roll. And now, by damn, that was another score he would settle one day. Christ, how he hated Frank Allison, and all the other guards for that matter; anger became a sour bile rising in his throat, prodding him to action.

He rose to his knees, and pounding both fists down on the concrete floor, felt the thud ripple upward along the muscles of his arms until it reached the pulsing in his temples. Then he yelled deeply, cursing aloud until the caliche walls rang with the rasping hoarseness in his throat. But after a time he was forced to stop when the futility of the act sobered him.

Resting on his knees, he thought how he had ranted and raged at the top of his voice during the last two days, cursing the guards and his cell mates as well. A thin shaft of pale light drew his attention and he looked up at the round ventilator hole in the high ceiling. This cell never became light and it was only when the sun was directly overhead that any rays were able to filter down for a few minutes before the cell again returned to darkness.

He suddenly realized that it was noon again, starting the third day, and if he behaved, he would be freed at noon tomorrow. Rubbing a hand over his two-day stubble of beard, a calm, relaxed feeling swept over him. Better behave he thought. He had had his fill of solitary confinement and he wanted to get out of here. And all he had to do was sit quietly for the rest of this day and he would be out in time for the noon meal tomorrow.

He sat back and straightened his legs to ease the shackles fastened to the large iron ring embedded in the floor. Damn, this place smelled, he groused, no toilet facilities, not even a bucket. Hell, when a man had to go, he just used a corner of the cell with nothing to cover it up. No wonder the heavy odor seemed to be a permanent part of the cell.

Well, he wouldn't be in here much longer, not old Three-fingered Jake, by damn. He'd be patient and wait out the rest of the day in silence. Yelling didn't help, 'cause nobody could hear any sounds from here, and even if they did, they wouldn't pay no mind. And with this decision, a great weight seemed to lift from him, and being mentally and physically tired, he dozed fitfully.

At noon, the rattle of the small metal flap in the door signaled that bread and water containers were being pushed through the slot into the cell. After eating the small loaf of bread and washing it down with the tin cup of water, he stretched out and slept soundly for the first time in two days.

How little or how long he had been asleep, he didn't know, nor did he know what had awakened him. The long deep breath he drew was filled with the odor of human waste from the corner where he had last defecated. When he moved his hand along the chain that secured him to the ring in the floor, he felt a strange sensation, a sensation of fine dirt falling from above on his bare arm.

Looking upward, he tried to see the ventilator hole in the high ceiling, but the darkness prevailed. He drew back when a scratching noise came from the ceiling and more dirt cascaded downward. Someone was up there, and he caught his breath. Instinctively he crawled backward from the floor ring as far as his leg chains would permit. He lay quietly on his side, listening intently.

An involuntary gasp slipped from his lips when a soft plop sounded on the floor, then three more sounds followed in quick succession when other objects hit the floor. The gloom suddenly seemed to curdle in his face; a chilling darkness hung around him like a shroud. Then a slither sounded, and although he could not see in the darkness, his eyes followed the faint swish moving across the floor.

Strange things were in the cell with him, and his body tensed. Cold sweat oozed from the pores of his skin, and he tried to see shapes in the darkness, conjuring movements where none were visible

Jaws clamped, he heard a creeping stealth near his feet and he caught his breath sharply, for this time there was no doubt in his mind what was in the black cell with him. A buzzing whir goose-pimpled his flesh when the writhing stopped, and he froze, horrified.

Good Christ, a rattlesnake! Terror parched his throat while his eyes focused toward his feet, trying to penetrate the Stygian blackness. His straining ears heard the whisper of another slithering sound near his head before the angry rattle sounded. Every nerve in his body twisted and jerked, his wildly dilated eyes stabbed desperately at the darkness.

Two more buzzings sounded near the iron ring in the floor, signaling more snakes, and blind panic coursed through his veins.

“Halp! They's snakes in here!” he cried out in terror, knowing that no one would hear him or even care if they did. Throat sandy and parched, he pinched his lips, cutting off the scream building in his chest, and he gained control of himself with rising anger that recognized this for what it was: someone was trying to kill him!

Hell, it had to be one of the guards. Didn't they all hate him? Hadn't he lost two of his fingers because Homer Sheaves had smashed them with his rifle butt the last time he had been in this cell, smashed fingers that were later amputated because gangrene had set in.

Then he remembered that Sheaves was dead, remembered how he had crushed the hated guard's head with the rifle butt while he lay stunned after Print had struck him with the heavy adobe block. His mind spun, seeking to pin a name on who might have dropped these snakes down the ventilator hole. Was it Allison? Frettly?

Somehow they didn't fit the deed. Was it Carugna's God, or even worse, one of those damn Indians? Maybe that was it, maybe the Indians were behind these deaths.

He listened again but heard no further sound from the snakes. If he didn't panic, if he lay perfectly still, the snakes might not bite him, he thought, striving to get his mind functioning. But how long could he lay motionless? The answer came ironically back to him—all night, by damn, if he had to! Then he cursed the thought away.