Terror at Hellhole (16 page)

Originally, he had proposed to bury the snake-bitten outlaw the first thing in the morning, but now he would have to change that. He'd tell Harplee to hold the body another day—that'd give the killers a chance to try something.

A hint of a smile touched his lips when he thought of the new Lowell Battery in the high main tower. It would be a real surprise because the gunner could cover all the ground along Penitentiary Road if trouble came that way, and no one would expect such firepower from that direction, even when most of the action, if the trap was successful, would be near the cemetery.

All the lines of his face pulled into a wry grin with the thought. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. First he needed to stop the proposed funeral, then he would spread the words for the Indians' benefit.

He put on his hat and stepped outside. Trapped heat on the low ceiling of the front porch almost stifled him and quickened his breathing while he walked to the guard's quarters in the gathering gloom of evening.

Harplee arose from a wicker chair in the off-duty day-room when Tarbow entered. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked quickly, for seldom did the superintendent come here except for an inspection.

Tarbow motioned the chief guard back to his seat, then he glanced around to see if they were alone. “I'm going to revise your schedule. I don't want Laustina buried until nine o'clock the day after tomorrow.”

Harplee's brow wrinkled slightly, but he remained silent. Used to changes in orders, he knew that generally there was a good reason for the change.

“I have cause to believe that Honas Good and Palma are behind these odd deaths, and that they will try to kill Print and Carugna,” Tarbow said seriously, his eyes searching for a reaction in the big guard's face. Finding none, he continued: “I want you to have two guards with Print and Carugna when they bury Laustina. I want two more guards under a tarpaulin between those stacks of adobe blocks you've got drying along the east road. Have another man down in the swine yard, and one on the east side of Cemetery Hill. Have them in place by six o'clock in the morning, and they will remain hidden with their rifles until trouble starts or they are relieved.”

Harplee nodded his understanding. “Where do you want me?”

“You and I will be in the southeast tower so we can observe the action.”

“May I ask, sir, what you expect?” Harplee asked.

Tarbow ran a thumb along his jaw before he answered. “I look for Honas and Palma to try to kill Print and Carugna. Give your men orders to shoot to kill if the Indians attack our convicts.”

Emotion set the lines of the superintendent's face. “I suspect those two Indians of killing Dwyer, Powers, and Laustina. Doctor Botts feels that they caused Judge Morcum to break his neck in the dark,” he said evenly. “We've got to stop them before they kill any more people over the murder of their wives.”

“They can hardly be blamed for that, sir.”

Tarbow eyed the guard coldly. “True, but look at it this way. The prison commissioners aren't interested in the motive, they will see it only as lax security if more convicts die. Both our jobs could be in jeopardy, you know.”

Harplee thought that Tarbow's words sounded like an unwarranted threat; he had always been faithful, and had ever done his best. Yet he knew that Tarbow was quite worried about his own position, and he also knew that his job as chief guard really depended upon the superintendent's whims. If Tarbow feared for his job, then by gosh, he, too, better be concerned.

“By putting Print and Carugna out digging a grave, then burying Laustina, we make them highly visible and tempting targets. And the two Indians might think this was as good a time as any to finish the job,” Tarbow explained. “But sooner or later, they have got to make their play, and because this is a routine duty, they won't suspect it is a trap.”

“But if they don't attack, don't go for it,” Harplee asked, “what then?”

Tarbow shrugged casually. “Well, we get Laustina buried. That's something he'll need by tomorrow anyway. After that, we'll just keep working on other traps.”

Harplee nodded. “But knowing Honas, even if he thinks it's a trap, he won't be able to ignore such tempting bait. A chance to get at both men at once outside of the walls is a lot easier than breaking into prison to get only one at a time.”

Tarbow was pleased to hear the big guard's answer, knowing he was a fearless man, and a crack shot with a 44—40 rifle. Harplee would take care of all the details in setting up the trap and briefing the other guards selected to take a part in the grim drama.

“If they try anything, we'll get them,” Harplee said, then asked: “Have you discussed this with Sheriff Waringer yet?”

Tarbow shook his head. “No, and I don't intend to. I want to keep this plan and its execution strictly a prison affair. I will, however, mention to him about the change in burial plans. It would be well if tomorrow we spread the word in as many places as possible so them Indians will hear about it.”

The conversation done, both men got to their feet, and at the door, Tarbow turned to express an idea that had just occurred to him. “When that ruffian, French Frankie, delivers our brandy supply, you make it a special point to see that he hears about the burial. He spends most of his time with the town's lower element, and he frequents many of the places where the Indians go.”

Harplee touched two fingers to the brim of his cap. “I understand, sir.”

“Good.” Tarbow nodded. “I'll go over the plan more in detail with you tomorrow.”

The big guard watched the superintendent move out into the moonless night before he resumed reading his newspaper.

“Aren't you afraid that the sheriff will arrest you for harboring two criminals?” Honas asked. The sputtering lamp was turned quite low and barely illuminated the back room of Coneaut's store.

“Non
. He is not looking for you.” French Frankie's swarthy face glistened in the dim light of the tepid room. “Neither of you. It is up to the superintendent to make the charges.”

“And up to now he hasn't done so,” Honas said, looking at Palma for his understanding. “But now you bring word that the man Laustina will be buried at nine o'clock tomorrow morning?”

“Qui
, it was told to me by Harplee this morning,” Coneaut said. “An' all day I hear this very same thing ever' place I go. But the rumors I hear are that the warden is looking for you.”

The two Quechans exchanged glances. “I, too, have heard this spoken today,” Palma said.

Honas took a small sip from the bottle of warm beer Coneaut had supplied earlier. “I'm sure that the warden now suspects us, my father,” he said. “But he chooses not to involve the sheriff. According to law, he has jurisdiction over the prison and its grounds, so evidently he intends to catch us himself.”

“Qui
, that is so, but if Frankie can help, just let me know.”

Honas shook his head. “That will not be necessary, my friend. Palma and I will take care of things.” He tipped the bottle and drained his drink in a short gulp, then he arose. He offered his hand to the half-breed. “We go now.”

“An' if the sheriff, he comes around tomorrow an' ask where you are?” Coneaut asked, a smile on his face after shaking Honas's hand.

A wry grin twitched the corners of Honas's lips as he stood in the darkened doorway. “Tell him that Honas and Palma went to a funeral.”

“Or caused one,” Coneaut whispered to himself after the door had closed.

Superintendent Tarbow yawned as he looked down toward the cemetery on the low slopes just east of the apiary. The swine yard lay just north of the burial grounds. He glanced at the stacks of adobe blocks drying just below the tower in which he and Harplee stood.

“Are all your men in place?” he asked.

The guard nodded. “Two of them are under that tarp between the second and third row of blocks. Got another man behind that hog trough in the corner of the pig pen. Jose Carala's in the scrub bushes on the low side of the cemetery.”

Tarbow's eyes followed each of Harplee's directions but the men were so well concealed he failed to detect any of them.

“Wilkins is on the Lowell in the main tower. He's got the gun facing the cemetery road so he won't waste time turning it,” the big guard explained. “The two men under the tarp are facing in opposite directions so they cover the road.”

“Good, good.” Tarbow nodded, pleased with Harplee's preparations. “Think we should have put two men up there?”

“Well, sir, with all that night patrol you ordered, we're pretty thin right now with available men. Wilkins is a good man, he can handle that gun alone. At nine o'clock sharp, Allison and Frettly will escort Print and Carugna out the sally port with Laustina's body in a pine box on a two-wheeled pushcart. Their pick and shovels will be on the cart with the body,” Harplee explained. “The prisoners each will be wearing a leg weight in case they have to dodge around if there's fighting. Both Allison and Frettly will keep alert so that the prisoners don't escape.”

Tarbow's lips pinched slightly. This was the only part of the plan he hadn't liked, not wanting to chance losing a prisoner by death or escape if something went awry.

“If we get the killers, I suppose I can justify any death that may happen. Escapees, we don't have to worry about very long, at least not with the desert all around us.”

“That new Lowell gun in the main tower will protect the Yuma side, sir. Too bad we don't have more of them,” Harplee said.

Tarbow snorted. “With the budget we have to operate this place, we're lucky to have the second gun. Eventually, when that new yard is completed, plans call for a women's area along the west wall, next to the insane cell. Perhaps by then we'll get another gun assigned instead of just loaned to us.”

He was silent for a moment while his eyes swept the cemtery knoll, then he pulled his watch from his vest pocket. “Ten minutes to nine. You got the range to the cemetery?” He nodded at Harplee's rifle.

The big guard patted the barrel of his shiny rifle. “I've got the sights set for a hundred yards. I also had the other man estimate firing distances earlier.”

“Good,” Tarbow said. “Now all we can do is wait for the action to begin.” He jerked a thumb eastward before adding: “I think that trouble will come from the slope around the cemetery, or from Prison Lane behind the wood yard.”

“I had Allison and Frettly inspect that area right after breakfast.”

“Good thinking,” Tarbow complimented him.

“Here they come,” Harplee interrupted the superintendent. He pointed to the pushcart rounding the east corner of the prison.

Print and Carugna walked slowly with a measured cadence, each holding the handle of the cart ladened with the large, unpainted pine box. A pick and two shovels were beside the coffin.

“Notice how Allison and Frettly keep right behind them, yet off to one side so there's little chance of making a run for it.” The chief guard pointed to his men behind the convicts. “Learned that during the war at prison camps. A man can't run through a cart, so he has to take at least two steps to the side. That gives a guard warning his prisoner's going to try to make a break.”

Tarbow was pleased with Harplee's efficiency. “You've done well, Ben. I intend to remember you in my reports to the commissioners.”

“Thank you, sir.”

A silence fell over the two men while they watched the slow movement of the funeral cortege down the dusty path leading toward the cemetery.

Suddenly the flat crack of a rifle sounded in the distance. Tarbow swiveled his head southeastward, striving to find some movement.

“What was that?” he asked nervously.

Harplee already had his weapon pointed in the direction of the shot, his keen eyes scanning Gila Slough, three hundred yards away. After several minutes, during which time both men stared at the dried slough, seeking danger in the withered reeds growing there.

Harplee straightened, relieving the tension. “Must be a kid shooting at frogs, or else it's a hunter.”

The funeral procession had reached the end of the adobe yard and was turning toward the gravelly cemetery, undisturbed by the shot.

“Whew!” Tarbow whistled softly through his teeth. “I thought for a moment them Indians were trying to sniper our bait.”

He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, for already the sun was searing the blue clay ground below their tower perch. Those two men under the tarp between the adobe brick rows must be sweltering, he thought. Well, it shouldn't be much longer if there was, in fact, going to be an attempt on the prisoner's life.

Below them, the funeral cart had reached the cemetery, and Tarbow could see Allison pointing where Laustina's grave should be dug. He glanced back at the main tower and was comforted to see that Wilkins had tracked the cortege with the Lowell, the blue steel barrels had covered the procession all the way. Although the main tower was approximately four hundred and fifty feet from the cemetery, Tarbow wasn't concerned because the gun could spray the ground, and at such close range, little or no accuracy was needed.

He watched the two convicts unload the coffin, then pick up their tools. Print began to swing a pick, gravel chips flying, sweat shining on his shaven head and black face. Carugna shoveled loose material into a pile on the other side of the grave.

Tarbow watched the work progressing slowly while he again mopped his brow with the wet handkerchief. Feeling the tension ease, he became more aware of the heat building up in the tower, yet he forced his mind back to the panorama of the swine yard, apiary, and the cemetery where the men were working. He really did not know why, but he had expected an attack when the burial detail had first reached the cemetery, and now he felt that his plan had failed.