Terror at Hellhole (15 page)

“You hear any sounds out of Laustina while you were up on the hill examining the ventilator hole?” he asked hesistantly.

“Not really.” A wry grin twisted the edge of Harplee's mouth. “You know how mad Jake gets, how he rants, but we didn't hear him yelling none. Anyway, I never paid any mind because I was trying to figure out who threw that stick.”

Then the gut feeling hit Tarbow hard, and he cried out in trepidation as he started to run toward the prison gate. “Call out the guards! Get to the solitary-confinement cell!”

Tarbow stood shaking his head in resignation while Allison and Frettly dragged the heavyset Laustina from the cell and laid his swollen body on the gravel. Harplee eased himself from the cell opening, carring his rifle by the barrel.

“I killed two rattlesnakes in there, sir. Small ones they were, but deadly,” he said matter-of-factly. “And we found two more larger rattlers in there, but they were already dead. Guess Jake killed them after they bit him.”

Tarbow nodded numbly. He looked down at the bloated body of the three-fingered outlaw before he started to walk trancelike across the yard toward his office, knowing that he must act quickly before this got out of hand.

“Men.” Superintendent Tarbow glared at the semicircle of guards seated in front of his desk. “I've called this meeting to inform you that we now have a Lowell Battery. The Gatling gun will stay in the east tower while the new Lowell will temporarily be assigned to the main tower.”

A tenseness showed around Tarbow's mouth while he continued: “These unexplained deaths have got to cease! Starting tonight, and until further notice, I want lanterns on the walls at hundred-foot intervals, and I want a guard walking the top of each wall every night. From now on there will be no civilians allowed inside the compound without my personal approval, and that goes for those Indian trackers, as well.”

He nodded at Botts seated in the corner of the room. “I'll account for the good doctor myself so he will not be your responsibility.”

The guards exchanged glances, knowing full well that the superintendent was angry because of his concern for his job. Their eyes followed his pacing as he walked with head tipped forward, apparently absorbed in thought. The lines of his shoulders sagged dejectedly before he stopped.

“Harplee, arrange the men's schedules to include the walls, and have a copy on my desk for approval before suppertime,” he directed the chief guard. “And have that new Lowell assembled at once. I want it loaded and manned up in the main tower before sunset, you hear? Dismissed!”

Surprised at the warden's suddenly tough stance, the guards filed silently from the office. Tarbow wiped a hand across his damp brow, then he tossed a quick look to where Botts sat complacently watching him, sensing that the doctor was wondering with tempered amusement how long it would be until his apprehensive orders resulted in unwarranted gunfire. Yet, when he reviewed past events, he was certain that he had chosen the proper course.

Botts had been summoned to the prison shortly after lunch and when he had arrived, he was promptly escorted to the solitary-confinement cell where Superintendent Tarbow and three guards stood at the open doorway of the cell, looking down at the body of Jake Laustina.

“That snake pit sure lived up to its name today,” Frank Allison had quipped. “We found two dead rattlers, and then killed two more in there.”

“Silence!” Tarbow roared, his agitated face was flushed darkly. “I want no more of that kind of talk!” His shoulders moved impatiently before he flicked tired eyes at the doctor. “Examine him, please,” he said. “You stay here, Harplee, but the rest of you go take a break elsewhere.”

Botts looked down at the bulky figure of Laustina stretched grotesquely on the ground, mouth frozen open in horror. He knelt, then carefully examined each bruised and swollen puncture mark on the lifeless outlaw. One of the huge hands still clutched a snake's head.

Botts stood up. “Looks like the snakes sent him into a frenzy of anger,” he told them. “The man's strength was superhuman in his rage. From the looks of it, he tore the chain loose from that iron ring, then apparently, he used it like a whip to lash at the other snakes.”

Tarbow nodded. “You're undoubtedly right, Doctor. If you're finished here, let's return to my office.”

Botts shrugged. “There's no doubt that the death was brought about by the snakes.”

“Did he die of snake
bites
?” Tarbow wanted to know, an uneasy feeling deep in his stomach.

Botts shrugged again. “In layman's terms—yes. Although with all his apparent exertion, it probably was due to cardiac arrest caused by the toxin's constriction of blood vessels to the heart.”

Tarbow looked puzzled, so Botts added: “You see, there are two types of toxin in snakebites—neurotoxin and hemotoxin. These toxin vary from snake to snake. From the prisoner's general appearance, I'd say he was bitten a number of times where neurotoxins were predominant. Clinical effects include muscular pain, vomiting, and eventual respiratory and cardiac failure.” He spread his fingers with finality. “You know how it is—when the old heart stops, that's it. I'll put the clinical effects on the Circumstances of Death Certificate for you.”

Joshua Tarbow's eyes squinted at the sun, and the lines of his face tightened. He dabbed several times at the sweat that was on him, but the perspiration kept coming. He was a man who liked things safe—planned to the last detail. This was a measure of his professional capability—he acted, not out of fear but from a full knowledge of his job. And Tarbow had been a professional all his adult life. Not having any means of foreseeing the future, he somehow had to stop what was happening here, had to stop these mysterious deaths.

By Jupiter, he'd get to the bottom of this—no man would move in or out of this prison without his personal knowledge of it. That would bring things out into the open!

“Harplee,” he growled irritably. “Get the body over to the carpenter shop and put clean clothes on him. I want him buried right after breakfast tomorrow.”

Summer heat curled off the tamped gravel courtyard when Tarbow led the doctor back to the prison office. Yard prisoners lolled in the meager shade of the east wall while the clink of steel sounded from the blacksmith shop where convicts pounded out pick-points and sharpened shovels for the adobe crews.

Inside the office, Tarbow brought out two glasses and a bottle from a desk drawer. Normally not given to daytime drinking, he felt the need for spirits after what had transpired. Botts accepted the glass offered him and he moved to a chair.

Tarbow raised his glass for a quick gulp before he asked: “How do you think this happened, Rufus?”

The doctor shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “That's not my department, Josh. I'm hard-pressed just to know what killed him.”

Tarbow drained his glass, then proffered the bottle to Botts. When the doctor nodded, he got up and moved around the desk to pour. “Someone, perhaps even one of my guards, dropped those snakes down through the ventilator hole, knowing that sooner or later, Laustina would get bitten,” he said. “And right now, I'm beginning to suspect those two Quechans. This Honas Good seemed to resent Judge Morcum's mild sentencing of the murderers as not being severe enough.”

Botts suddenly looked interested. “Did he have any specific accusations?” he asked.

“Well... He did say that he thought Morcum was as guilty as they, and that he, too, should have been sentenced. He seemed rather irate that the judge discriminated against the dead women because they were Indians. Raping and murdering white women would have drawn the death penalty.”

“Hmmm. Then he didn't make any definite allegations or threats?”

Tarbow shook his head thoughtfully. “Not really, but he had a cold look on his face when he said: ‘They have now all been sentenced.' Them was his words, just like he was passing judgment on them,” Tarbow said. “I warned him against doing anything revengeful.”

“That isn't very conclusive, Josh,” Botts said. “You need something more tangible.”

“How about circumstantial evidence? Now that I think of it,” the warden added, “Honas was with Harplee outside the cell when Dwyer was killed.”

“Harplee vouched for him, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, but I don't think Harplee really understood that he would have had to keep his eyes on the Indian every second to be able to vouch for him honestly,” Tarbow said quickly. “He couldn't have watched Honas all the time because he was counting prisoners.”

Botts nodded before taking a long sip at his drink. Then he sat back to watch the warden continue his pacing, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.

“With the exception of the prisoner who was shot trying to lead a breakout the morning Fishel Dwyer lost his face, all the other men who died had something in common—they were all involved when those Indian trackers' women were murdered,” Tarbow said.

Botts looked out the office door, his mind selecting words carefully. Shimmering heat waves rose steadily from the graveled walkway for the late afternoon sun still blazed down unmercifully on the adobe and caliche walls.

He nodded. “That's the conclusion I came to shortly after they found Judge Morcum in that empty grave with a broken neck. Bliss had a similar look of terror frozen on his face. I didn't mention it before because I thought that you were on top of it, and I didn't want to interfere. Maybe what this Honas said was a threat after all!”

Tarbow's face changed, and a sudden light flared in his eyes with Botts's disclosure. He stopped pacing and a fur-row creased his brow. He had lived too long by intangibles not to be willing to accept all things into this mystery, regardless of possible insignificance.

“You know, not being a townsman, I didn't give any consideration to Morcum's death,” he said, now awakened to greater possibilities of murder. “I thought the drunken old fool just broke his neck stumbling around in an alcoholic stupor.”

Botts shook his head thoughtfully. “You know that grave had been dug earlier the same day, for another man, but I believe Bliss Morcum would have ended up in that very grave, one way or another. Falling in just simplified matters,” he exclaimed.

“Then there has to be a tie-in with what is happening here!”

“I think so, too,” Botts said. “I think that Morcum was herded into that cemetery like a calf driven into a corral.” He shrugged casually. “Naturally, the townspeople didn't have any reason to suspect a connection between his death and those of your convicts.”

“But there certainly must be a connection now,” Tarbow growled. Anger formed a flush on his cheeks. He didn't care to be taken for a fool by a couple of Indians, regardless of how valid their complaints. “Dwyer, Powers, Morcum, and now Laustina,” he began to enumerate the deaths. “That means there are only two prinicipals left who were involved in that heinous drama.”

“Carugna and Print.” Botts said, supplying the names Tarbow was thinking. “Right?”

“Right!” Tarbow snapped. He paced back and forth in front of his desk while his thoughts began to jell and the self-righteous anger ebbed quickly from his face. He needed to sort things out in his mind. Then a satisfied smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth before he circled his desk and sat down.

“Thanks for your help, Rufus. I'll keep you informed of our progress in this matter,” he said. He lowered his eyes and began shuffling papers on his desk as a means of dismissing the doctor.

“You do that, Josh,” Botts said. He got to his feet and placed his glass on the desk. “I feel like I've got a stake in this matter since I'm the one who has examined all of the victims and signed those death certificates.”

Tarbow nodded, smiling affably without speaking, not wanting to start a conversation that might encourage the doctor to stay. And after Botts had taken his leave, Tarbow poured another drink. God, it was hot, he mused. He raised his arm from the desk and several letters stuck to the perspiration on his wrist. Angrily, he shook the papers free with a flick of his arm. Now the damn heat was gluing things to him.

He leaned back in the chair—somehow, he had to plan a trap using the assumption that the Quechans were behind these senseless deaths. If he could solve the killings, or expose the Indians and their motives, the prison commissioners would overlook what had transpired.

That was it—he had to take the chance of catching the culprits somehow. If the Indians were after the other two convicts, why not use them as bait in a trap?

Partially satisfied with the idea, Tarbow went home to supper, knowing that after the evening meal, he must return to his office so that he could concentrate on a plan....

A cool breeze moving over the caliche riverbank behind the building swept warm air into the rear door of his office. Tarbow rested both elbows on the top of his worn oak desk and steepled his fingertips together, his mind in deep concentration. Print and Carugna, he thought, they were the last two actors in this grim drama staged here at the prison. Somehow, he needed to fashion his plan around them, a plan that used them as bait without their knowledge.

His mind stumbled ponderously over many ideas, but he discarded each as being too intricate. What he needed was something simple, something that exposed his bait in a seemingly routine manner, yet provided him with a backup for an ambush. Why not use the pending funeral? What would be more natural than two convicts burying their dead cell mate?

The more he tossed the idea around, the better he liked it. Print and Carugna could bury Laustina as a seemingly routine job. Other than the doctor, the prison didn't use Yuma facilities. Let the dead bury the dead.

But first he needed to go over the plan in his mind, needed to work out the details, then he needed some time for the word of the burial to get around.