Terror at Hellhole (18 page)

From the expression on the superintendent's face, Botts knew the man was thinking out loud, so he remained silent.

“Wilkins was alone in the tower with orders to track every step of the two convicts and the cart. Keeping his gun on them required concentration, so he wouldn't be as apt to hear a stealthy man behind him until it was too late.”

“Then you think it was one of those Indians who fired the Lowell battery?”

Tarbow nodded. “Probably was Honas. He's young and moves like a wraith. And even though he concealed it well, his hate is still there.”

“Well, if that's the case, he's only got one more convict to go,” Botts said lightly. “But he'll have to catch Print, and that may not be easy.”

Tarbow was in no mood for levity. “He caught him once, and no doubt he'll catch him again.”

“Then that'll be the end of your problem.”

“No, it's another start. Honas has broken the law by committing murder. Now he must be brought to justice,” the superintendent said angrily.

“Anyway, he'll find Print a different fish to catch. He's not too long out of the jungle. He reminds me of a sleek panther,” Botts told him.

Tarbow lowered his hands to his desk, then studied them a moment. “Print's not in the jungle now, but knowing who is after him, he'll use all the cunning at his command.”

“You think Honas will go after him?”

“Yes. It just happened that when he knocked Wilkins on the head, Carugna was the only convict in the open. Honas didn't have time to wait for a shot at Print, so he just sprayed the Mexican. Print kept his head down until my men started to advance on the tower. Knowing that the gunner would be busy, Print evidently took off over the hill until he saw Carala. Somehow he killed the guard and took his rifle before he escaped.”

“This Palma, what about him?” Botts asked. “If he gave the signal from the slough, he was near enough to see what transpired. “

“True, maybe Palma's already on Print's trail,” Tarbow said. “His hate is just as great as Honas's.”

“Now what?”

“Well ... I guess I'll have to call in the sheriff because Honas was not a regular employee—a sworn-in guard. As such, I have no control over him, but because he no doubt will be after Print, I'm sending Harplee and three men, too. Whether they go with Waringer or not is immaterial, they are still going to go after our prisoner.”

Sheriff Waringer sat quietly listening to the superintendent's explanation of events surrounding Carugna's murder and Print's escape.

“I'll have a small posse ready to go within the hour,” Waringer said. “But we won't have a tracker. Neither Chato, nor any of the other Indians will go against the Quechans.”

“Harplee and two men will accompany you from here, Sheriff,” Tarbow said. “You can be in charge of the group, but I want Print brought back here. You can have the Indians if you catch them—after they are tried, they'll end up here anyway.”

“Agreed, Warden,” Waringer told him. “My men will meet your guards at the cemetery, and we'll go from there.”

Wearing moccasins, denim pants, and a brown shirt, it took Honas Good almost an hour to work his way along the bank of the Gila River. Having entered the water well before dawn, he pulled himself slowly along the river's edge, using grass and bushes for handholds to propel him. Swimming, he had decided, was too risky; it might draw someone's attention if they were looking at the river.

Where the underbrush had thinned, he slid gracefully underwater swimming slowly downstream until the brush again furnished concealment. When he drew nearer to the prison, the caliche rose from the sandy soil, forming the large expanse of Prison Hill.

He moved to the steep bank, clinging to jutting rocks while he surveyed the terrain. Just around the next clump of bushes was the small building housing the pump that forced river water up into a circular stone tank beneath the main guard tower. He knew that the guard barracks were located at the top of the bank above the pump house. Now was the time to leave the river. He crawled into the brush at the base of the caliche bank, and settled down for the long wait.

The stars were fading into the gray light of dawn when he looked eastward toward the Gila where it cut across the neck of the valley before swirling into the mighty Colorado. He knew that most of the prison's water came from the Gila, a much slower moving body of water. Water from the Colorado was heavy with sand and was brownish in color, but fortunately the pump inlet received most of its water from the Gila current before it got mixed with the darker water. Even so, the prison had to settle most of the water before it was used, due to the soil carried from the mountains. On both sides of the Gila, however, the desert was parched and dusty, and the sandy wastes were harsh and unforgiving.

Honas lay back, his head propped against a bush, and watched the yellow streaks in the eastern sky, harbingers of the sun soon to cover this land. He could see a beauty here, a land with grandeur that only an Indian could really appreciate. But this land also held a challenge, a dare against holding a place in it. A constant battle with the sun and sand was never easy; it was fight enough—man didn't need his own kind to fight against.

Honas stirred within the shade of the underbrush for the sun was now positioned near the time he anticipated. Ready for the morning's heat and dust, he reveled in the thought of the vastness of the land of his fathers, the land to which he would soon be forced to return.

Off to his left the flat-crack of a rifle sounded, the noise rolling sharply across the water. Palma's signal, the funeral party was starting down the dusty road to the cemetery.

Quickly he checked the knife in his belt, a weapon with a long, heavily weighted handle, then he parted the brush and began a rapid climb up the steep caliche bank. He knew that it was imperative that he reach the tower before the funeral procession got to the cemetery because all eyes would be following the burial cart.

Having watched numerous prison funerals, he was aware of the route and the approximate time it took to get the body to the cemetery. The rough caliche bank:, weathered by many centuries, provided easy footholds for his moccasined feet.

At the top of the bank he paused in a crouch, ears keened for sound, then he ran quickly forward along the east side of the barracks. Off to his right, nestled among several drooping trees, stood the superintendent's house. Then crouching low, he sprinted soundlessly across the open ground to a low picket fence surrounding the tower.

So far, so good, he thought. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped over the fence and mounted the low dirt bank around the partially exposed water tank. The tower floor formed a platform over the top of the masonry tank. Now hidden from view, except by the empty barracks behind him, Hanas stood up slowly.

Even with his back turned, the familiar figure of Elmo Wilkins was recognized at the Lowell gun. He knew Wilkins to be an able but slow-witted guard with many years of service. Shifting the knife to the rear in his belt, where it would be less apt to make a noise, Hanas drew himself up over the platform. Getting stealthily to his feet, he grasped the knife from his belt. Holding it so that most of the handle was exposed, he moved silently behind the unsuspecting Wilkins who was leaning forward intently, one hand on the Lowell's crank, and the other hand on the trigger. The angle of his position exposed the back of his head better than Hanas had expected.

Down crashed the weighted handle of the knife and Hanas caught the guard by his collar with his left hand, easing him to the floor. Doubling his fist, he sent a short jolt against Wilkins's jaw to insure him a little more time for his task.

He quickly returned the knife to his belt and hovered over the gun, looking at the sights. Wilkins had done a fine job of tracking the convicts, for the weapon was already pointed where the burial party stood.

He was surprised how long it had taken him to reach his objective and get ready to act, for the convicts were already at work digging the grave.

A tenseness lay over the grim scene below, like knowing that dynamite was going to explode, yet not being quite certain where. An inner sense prompted him to act. He watched while Carugna stood in front of the grave. Unfortunately only a portion of the black convict was exposed, but he knew that he must chance it; hopefully he would get them both.

The handle turned and gravel spat within thirty feet of the grave. He raised the gun slightly—saw the bullets hammer Carugna backward into the grave on top of Print. He kept turning the crank, keeping the bullets chewing up dirt and gravel at the edge of the grave until the clip was empty.

Chips of wood splintering from a corner post brought him back to reality. The guards were firing at him while they advanced. With a running leap he sailed from the platform down to the bank, and with another jump cleared the picket fence. Crouching low he raced across the open ground and sailed down the bank in two jumps, landing in the bushes. Quickly, he crawled through the underbrush and eased himself into the water. Taking a deep breath, he swam beneath the surface until he was forced to come up for air. Then he gulped another breath and again swam underwater for another hundred feet before surfacing.

When he deemed that he was a safe distance beyond the prison property, he came out of the river. Emptying water from his moccasins, he drew them back on. Unharmed, except for scratches and minor bruises, he began to trot along the river for his meeting with Palma.

And on the last day of their lives two men awoke under different circumstances. Hedgemon Print, the huge son of a West Indies slave, rolled over on his bunk when Carugna called for him to awake. He was tired of the Mexican's whining and mumble-jumble, and so he was glad when the man had receded into a witless stupor. Several times Print had been almost driven the assailing his cell mate, but he had managed to hold himself in, not wanting to end up in the solitary confinement pit—especially after what had happened to Laustina.

Snakes in that cell meant only one thing—someone was eliminating each of the men who had been a party to the rape and murder of the Quechan women. That was it—the two Indian trackers were getting their revenge, not this God Carugna was always mouthing about. Spirits and hexes were beyond him, but men—even Indians trying to kill him—were something he could understand, something he could get his teeth into. When the damn mystery was stripped away—it was man to man, and he was unafraid.

When Harplee ordered him and Carugna to report to the carpenter shop to bury Laustina, he was noncommittal. When the gateman, later, had asked Allison if there was going to be trouble, the guard's answer confirmed what he had already suspected.

Damn, if there was going to be an attempt on his life, he would welcome the chance to meet it out in the open. The Mexican, too, suspected something was amiss and began to whine. He had shrugged off all his cell mate's questions, however, pushing the cart boldy forward with a measured cadence.

The crack of a rifle further affirmed that there was a plot brewing, but he moved resolutely forward in spite of Carugna's begging. After twenty minutes of digging the feeling grew stronger within him, and he started to become apprehensive, the tense waiting grinding an edge to his nerves.

Better he get into the pit and dig, he thought, not wanting the guards to see his increasing nervousness. No sooner had he exchanged places with Carugna, then he heard the pop-pop of bullets stitching across the gravel and he sank quickly down into the grave.

He felt Carugna's body fall across his back, felt the warm blood running across his sweaty form while dirt and gravel rained down on him. He heard the guard's boot steps running toward the embankment when the Lowell Battery stopped chattering its song of death.

He pushed Carugna's body away, then he peered cautiously over the rim of the grave. Both guards were running toward the tower, firing their rifles as they ran.

He grabbed the pick, and holding it by the head, stamped the handle into the ground until the head slid free. Carrying the handle like a club, he scrambled out of the grave, and began an awkward run up the slope, the lead weight curtailing his stride.

Suddenly he saw a guard known as Carala rise from behind a mesquite bush, his back half turned. Print swung the pick handle in a vicious arc, catching the guard on the skull. Down went the surprised man who had been trying to watch Gila Slough, and the footsteps behind him.

Quickly Print swung the club again and again until the guard was dead, then he dropped the handle and grabbed the rifle. Still crouching, he saw the movement in the bushes off to his right, then he sank to one knee, leveling the 44—40 at the brush.

From the profile he recognized the Indian as one the trackers called Palma. He's the big-titted squaw's man, he thought. Print squeezed the trigger and saw him pitch forward. Now maybe he and his woman would be together in whatever heaven these people had. He walked quickly over to the fallen Quechan and nudged him with the toe of his boot.

The bullet had ripped a ragged hole through Palma's side under his armpit, the slug passing through his heart. Print looked at the dead Quechan's older model rifle and rejected it. Returning to the dead guard, he stooped and unfastened Carala's leather cartridge canister from his belt, then bounded awkwardly into the brush, striving to put distance between him and the prison.

A half hour later Print cautiously approached the same prospector's shack where he and the other three escapees had visited to chisel off their chains so long ago. Through the shimmering heat waves, he saw that the door to the shack still hung askew from one hinge when he broke it. Evidently the prospector had never returned.

Boldly he trotted to the deserted shed where he found a broken and rusted saw blade. Hell, he thought, even a wood-saw will cut lead. Ten minutes later he had cut the weight thin enough so that he was able to twist it loose using a ragged chisel and a bent screwdriver.