Terror at Hellhole (12 page)

“The he did pay you.”

“Yup. Took the money outa his shirt pocket,” Hobbs told him.

“Anything more you can tell us?” Waringer asked, and when the man shook his head, he added: “Care to come along with us? I can deputize you.”

But the lean cowboy wasn't the least bit interested. “Naw. I had my worthless ride last night,” he told them. “Besides, with this ten-spot I got from thet jasper, it'd be a shame fer me to git very far from the Exchange. When they opens the door of this saloon at ten o'clock, I'm gonna be standin' right at the front door.”

The sheriff wagged his head at the thought of ten o'clock whiskey, then he jerked his thumb at the horses before he spoke. “We won't learn any more around here, Honas, and that sun keeps getting higher by the minute.”

The Quechan squinted toward the east where the yellow rays where topping the Gila Mountains. Somewhere nearby a housewife was cooking breakfast, and the smell of bacon wafted on the warm morning air. But having just eaten, he nodded in agreement, his face still inscrutable.

“Then let's go, Sheriff.” He could not have said what moved him to accept this job. Maybe he needed time to think, to get away from the prison. None of the convicts there would be going anywhere; he didn't have to worry about a lapse of time before he settled his debt with the men who had killed his wife. Besides, getting at them was going to be much harder right now.

News shunted around Yuma indicated that Superintendent Tarbow had doubled his guard efforts, and he had restricted all prisoners to their cells allowing them outside only during meal times. He knew that he'd have to let things rest for the time being.

With an irritable swing of his shoulders, Honas climbed into the saddle, and when the sheriff and Palma had mounted, he sent the horse across the vacant field behind the corral. They rode down Brinley, keeping off the railroad tracks until they reached First Street, then spurring their horses into a gallop, they rode westward, leaving the outskirts of Yuma to a chorus of barking dogs lying in the early morning shade of the last house.

The road diagonaled southward through yellow flowered greasewood and stretched out toward the endless horizon. Weather-beaten cactus stemmed through the grainy soil at sparse intervals while wagon tracks and hoofprints thinned out with each passing mile. Occasionally, Palma or Honas slid from the saddle to examine horse dung, or knelt for a closer inspection of shoe prints, noting the different configurations created by wear or dents in the horseshoes.

Honas pointed at the rocky hills to the west hanging faintly above the distant haze. “If they traveled over those hills, they could pass San Luis without being seen by keeping to the river until they got to Mexico, but if they go eastward, they can also get around San Luis, only that means they would be in the desert most of the way,” he said.

“You're the tracker,” Waringer said. “Which way do you think we should go?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Honas Good's mouth. “Our way is clear. We will ride west along the river.”

Waringer was surprised. “You mean with all these stray tracks, you think you can find the ones belonging to those robbers?”

The tension pulled tighter at the Indian's lips, but the smile never came through. Taut-reining his horse, he pointed to the sky at the horizon. Numerous specks were circling over a canyon stemming into the low hills.

“I think those birds have found some of your men for us,” Honas said, nodding at the vultures floating in the distance.

Waringer swung his horse around and faced the hills. “I'll be damned. You're right. Well, let's get with it,” he growled. “I'd like to get home in time to get some sleep tonight.”

The morning drowsed on while they cantered toward the misty blue of the foothills, riding in silence. Occasionally a lizard scampered across their trail seeking a cooler place to rest. Spumes of dust hovered over their heads while they moved through the shimmering heat waves toward the hills.

While he rode, Honas kept an eye on the soaring vultures and when they finally glided down into a wash, he kicked his heels hard against the horse's flanks. The three men rode into the low cut where the greasewood flats had given way to rolling slopes and shaley cutbanks. With a loud flutter of wings, the ominous birds struggled awkwardly to become airborne above the still body. The man lay beside a mesquite bush, partially sheltering him from the sun, and judging from the hole in his forehead, it was easy to see that he was dead, even before they dismounted.

They stood looking at the body, knowing that they had arrived just before the vultures had started their pecking in earnest, for the man's eyes were open and still intact.

“From the description given by the Exchange bartender, this is the same man who had come into the saloon with the saddlebags,” Waringer said. He knelt at the man's side. “See, his eye is cocked off to the left, and this ear's half gone.”

Then he stood up, his eyes drifting among the thin bushes. “Probably got his ear bitten off during a fight years ago. Looks like they took his horse, too.”

Honas said something in his native tongue to his father-in-law. Palma nodded, and disappeared into the bushes. Honas strode behind a clump of mesquite, then he crawled slowly across the rocky soil on hands and knees scanning the ground as he moved. After a time, he got up and came to where the lawman stood. He held out two .30-caliber cartridge cases.

“They knew he was following so one of them waited for him behind those bushes,” Honas said, “and he rode right into their ambush.”

“That figures,” the sheriff said. “He was hit twice—once in the chest, then again in the forehead up real close. Probably to finish him off while he lay helpless.”

Honas nodded, then said: “I sent Palma back up the ravine to see where they hid their horses while they waited for this one to fall into their trap.”

“Figure they both shot at him?”

The tracker shook his head. “No, there are tracks of only one man waiting in the brush. The other man stayed with the horses farther back so they wouldn't whinny and give away the ambush.”

Palma's knee-length moccasins scuffed sand when he slid down the bank. He spoke rapidly in his native tongue, gesturing with his hands as he spoke, and Honas interpreted for Waringer.

“He said this ravine takes a bend farther up, that's where the man waited with the horses. Judging from the manure it is not over two hours ago,” he told the lawman before pointing up the incline. “Then those men took this one's horse before they started over the hill toward the river.”

“Well then, let's start after them,” Waringer said.

But the Quechan shook his head, and when the sheriff raised quizzical eyebrows, he said: “These men don't know we are so close. Why not ride hard on this side until this afternoon, then cross over the hill. By then we can be in front and wait for them to come to us.”

Waringer mulled that over for a moment, thinking the idea had merit. “It just might work, especially if we're that close to them now, but in the meantime, let's shallow-bury this one. We can pick him up on the way back,” he said. “If not, at least the vultures won't get him.”

The two Quechans exchanged glances, not understanding the white man's weakness in burying an enemy. “This man was a robber, maybe worse,” asked. “Why do you do this?”

“If you two won't help me, I'll do it myself,” Waringer growled. “I can't let a man lay while them vultures shred him to pieces before the coyotes get his bones.”

Knowing that the sheriff was a stubborn man who wouldn't leave until the body was protected, the two Quechans helped scoop out a shallow hole, then cover the body with a mound of sand.

“If things go right, we just could be digging him back up before long,” Waringer said, mopping a red bandana across his damp brow before settling his hat.

“Then now is the time to eat,” Palma said. “Since we have stopped, a little more time taken will not matter.”

Honas untied the canvas bag fastened behind his saddle. Opening the sack, he handed the sheriff a thick slice of dried meat and a small round loaf of hard bread, traditionally made by the Quechans from ground-up, dried mesquite beans. Taking similar portions from the canvas sack, the two Indians swung into the saddle. The three men ate as they rode, munching on the dry but nourishing food, washing it down with water from their canteens.

The sun was directly overhead when Honas decided their pace must be quickened. “Better we ride hard for a time,” he directed, and when Waringer agreed, he kicked his heels to the horse's flanks, and they rode at a fast clip, staying as near to the low hills as the terrain permitted.

It was midafternoon, when the tracker signaled a stop. He pointed to a craggy opening in the rocks. “We can go through here and come out well above the river on the other side,” he told Waringer. “Maybe we're ahead of them, but we better be careful just in case we're not. Follow me.”

The trail up the rocky pass became a shaley bank too steep for the sliding horses, and they were forced to dismount and pull the horses by their bridles. Tugging and puffing, they clattered up the slope to solid ground, then in single file they followed Honas over the ridge.

While the animals rested, the young Quechan scanned the terrain, his dark eyes moving slowly back and forth until he found what he sought. Then his eyes lingered on a movement several hundred yards north of them.

“They come,” he announced simply. “Palma, you keep the horses quiet, while we crawl down and intercept them. If we need help, you can cover us from here.”

While the older Quechan gathered the horse's reins, Waringer, rifle in hand, followed Honas's lead, crouching and moving silently down the rocky slope. Creeping from boulder to boulder, they took advantage of every bit of cover until they were in a line to intercept the two outlaws. Halting behind a rocky outcropping, they waited quietly while their quarry rode toward them.

Still sixty yards away, the two men suddenly halted, strangely suspicious. With a cry, one of the men threw himself from the saddle, scrambling for cover behind a towering rock.

Waringer fired, the flat crack of his rifle knocking the other man from his saddle, before his frightened horse spun, raising on hind feet in panic.

“Damn it!” Waringer cursed. “Wonder what spooked them?”

Two shots cracked and chips flew from the rock they were hiding behind. Angrily, the sheriff stood up, pumping four rounds in succession in the direction of the outlaw's shots. The bandits were now hiding behind rocks separated by a narrow defile, and they fired alternately, first one, then the other would lean out to shoot.

“Damn,” Waringer muttered to Honas. “Evidently I only wounded the one I hit.”

Timing the alternating fire, Honas stood quickly, and drew a bead where the next man would appear, shooting when he stepped out. An answering yelp brought a grin to Waringer's face when the man spun from sight.

“By damn,” he cried. “You nicked one of them that time.”

Then the other outlaw, crouching low, ran from cover toward his wounded partner and Honas snapped another shot, the bullet catching the man just below the knee, stumbling him behind the protective rocks. But a loud clatter of sliding shale from behind the rocks spelled more trouble for the bandits, and a piercing scream rent the air. Another clatter of rocks signaled the outlaw's slide backward into a deep hole.

“Help me, Osmond, they's snakes down here! Aaaah!” the terrified voice pleaded. “Help me, I'm bit!”

The young Quechan drew a bead where he thought the pit was in relation to the other man behind the rock, and when the bandit stepped into the open, he fired. The bullet slammed the man against the boulders, staggering him before he fell, and his rifle clattered down the bank.

“Aaaah! Dammit, help me,” the pitiful scream came again, echoing in the cavern, and Honas stood up, rifle ready, but Osmond never moved.

He motioned Waringer toward the upper side of the outlaw's shelter while he crouched and ran forward, expecting momentarily to hear the thunder of a rifle. Behind the rocky shelter, he reached the outlaw lying facedown in the shale. Turning the man over with the toe of his boot, he saw that he was dead.

“Sheriff, come on in, it's all over,” he called. Then he shouted louder: “Palma, bring a rope. There's a man down here in a hole full of rattlesnakes.”

The older Quechan came sliding down the bank on a run, lariat in hand, in answer to Honas's call. Waringer inspected the dead man, then walked over to the pit to look down on the man crouched fearfully at the bottom of a ten-foot hole.

“Help me, geez, they're killin' me,” the outlaw pleaded, his stark eyes white against the shadows in the pit. “Help me.”

Honas twirled the rope loop into the hole, circling the man's shoulders. “Slide it under your arms. We'll pull you up.”

“Hurry,” the man wailed, “I'm dyin'.”

Honas and the sheriff began to draw the man up, hand over hand, and when the outlaw's body bumped a side rock, he screamed again: “Aaaah! One got me!”

Dragging the writhing man over the edge of the pit, they stretched him on the ground. Wounded, frightened, and full of snake venom, the bandit was reduced to slobbering babble.

“Crissake, help me,” he moaned, head shaking like a dog with ague. “Help me.”

Waringer held the man's shoulders while Honas drew his knife, not knowing where to start cutting first to drain poison. Raw fang wounds dribbled blood from a bump on the man's forehead at the hairline, while two more fresh puncture marks below the swollen left eye were turning a hideous blue. Twin trickles of blood flowed from a huge lump at the base of the man's right ear.

Honas's eyes met Waringer's, and he shook his head signaling hopelessness. Spittle dribbled from the comers of the man's mouth and he feebly tried to brush a hand across it. Before the swollen hand dropped away, Honas pointed to another set of puncture marks behind the bruised thumb.