Terror at Hellhole (5 page)

Gasping for a deep breath to steady himself, he leaned back against the open gate with a mild curse—if only he and Powers had not been assigned to that work group that disastrous day a long month ago. That was it, the work detail had been when his troubles had started!

Memory was a torrid thing bringing back that fateful day when he and Powers had been ordered to work in a group with Print, Laustina, and the demented Mexican named Carugna, to make adobe bricks just outside the east wall on the hill overlooking the cemetery.

He gritted short yellow teeth, thinking way back to that first moment when Hedgemon Print and Jake Laustina had been marched into the prison by Yuma Sheriff Waringer and his deputy. Standing in the hot sun, the other prisoners had looked in awe at the two men. Huge and hairless, Print, who stood four inches over six feet, carried his two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle like an angry, sleek panther, while Laustina, a half foot shorter, was as broad chested and stocky as a rampant bull.

Buzzing whispers among the convicts soon spread the word that the two outlaws had robbed the Yuma–Gila Bend stagecoach, and that the driver had been inconsiderate enough to die from the encounter.

A day of shoveling clay into a trough of water to be mixed into adobe blocks was backbreaking for a man of Dwyer's wan physique. His cellmate, Dalton Powers, although smaller, was wiry and much stronger, but the grueling labor under the hot sun took its toll in weariness on him, too, as they tried to keep up with the husky Laustina and the powerful Hedgemon Print.

Only Alexio Carugna, the swarthy Mexican, seemed to be unaffected by the brutal toil in the searing heat of the Arizona sun as the mixed mud was shoveled and tamped into wooden forms, then set aside to dry. Blocks that had been formed the day before, were now dry enough to move after they were taken out of their frames and stacked' on edge to dry further. The five convicts had kept repeating the process from morning until night so that enough blocks would be available to extend the wall under an ever-expanding prison enlargement program.

The two o'clock afternoon guard relief had brought Homer Sheaves on duty with his rifle and the short leather whip he kept coiled and concealed under his shirt. A surly man with a deformed foot, Sheaves had limped back and forth while he kept up a scathing tirade at the five convicts, demanding greater effort from them. From time to time, he had snapped the whip, the leather strip biting into their backs unless they were able to dodge. And a fiery hatred was forming in their minds, a hatred that was bound to flare with violence before the day was over.

Shortly before sunset, the superintendent had visited the job to inspect the day's work before the prisoners would be lined up and marched back for the evening meal.

“They're dogging it, chief,” Sheaves had reported. “I'd like to work these five troublemakers all night.”

The superintendent had nodded. “If you say. I'll send down a relief guard for you,” he said sternly.

“That won't be necessary, just send down some food an' coffee fer me, an' two lanterns,” Sheaves had answered, jerking a thumb at the perspiring men. “Only some bread an' water fer them.”

Later, the lanterns had been lit while night closed in on the sweaty, tired convicts. Sheaves took great delight in snapping the whip at the men as he limped about cursing them almost fanatically. Now that it was dark enough so that the men couldn't always avoid his whip, Sheaves aimed his snaps at the heads, laughing brutally at their cries of pain.

The moon had not yet risen when Print had worked his way silently behind the surly guard who was now heckling Carugna. Suddenly, he turned, and with an adobe block raised high in his hands, he crashed it down hard on Sheaves's skull.

Quickly, Jake Laustina had grabbed the rifle from the fallen guard's hand, and using it like a club, he smashed two blows against Sheaves's head and he fell backward into the shadows.

Then Print had raised a finger to his lips for silence while the five men listened for sounds from the prison to indicate that the attack on Sheaves had been seen.

“All right, men,” Print said, “Ain't no one seed us.” He quickly pointed at the two smaller convicts and had ordered in a tone that allowed no refusal: “You two ain't got no chains. We'll travel faster if you do the carryin'. Powers, you carry Jake an' my chains—Fish, you carry Alex's ball. Let's go!”

Jake Laustina, rifle in hand, with Print just behind him, had led off down the path toward the cemetery, Powers struggling to keep pace under the weight of the two heavy chained balls. Carugna, with Dwyer trotting along behind carrying the chains, followed in their footsteps. Beyond the cemetery, Laustina had circled the swine yard, walking wide around the slough, before coming back to the river. They made good time before the moon had risen.

Laustina signaled a halt, then in a low voice said: “They's a small place up ahead owned by an old prospector. Maybe we kin git a file or chisel for these shackles.”

“Fish, you an' Powers sneak up there an' see what you kin find,” Print ordered the two men without chains. “An' don't take all night.”

Thoroughly frightened, they had crept forward, expecting momentarily to be challenged by man or dog, but nothing happened and they reached the open door of the shed. Fumbling around with shaking hands, Dwyer knocked a pail from a bench, the clanging sound rattling loudly as it bounced on the metal, scrap-littered floor. The two men had stood there with bated breath waiting for someone to come from the house.

“Must not be anyone home,” Powers said. “That rattle you made would have woke the dead.”

Evidently Print had arrived at the same conclusion because he ran across the open yard carrying the ball and chain, charging his bulk against the door, smashing it inward while Laustina followed him in carrying the rifle in one hand and his chains in the other.

Dwyer stood in the doorway of the shed, undecided whether to flee or join the fight if Print and Laustina ran into trouble. But before he could act, Carugna joined them, carrying the ball and chain over his shoulder. Then to Dwyer's relief, a lamp was lit in the house, casting a yellow glow through the blue-black of early morning.

His big band shielding the lamp, Print came shuffling across the sandy yard to the shed where they stood. The light from the lamp shadowed tools on a crude bench; apparently the owner did repair work when the urge of desert gold wasn't tugging at him, for Laustina had mentioned that the man was a prospector. They found a chisel, several files, and a hammer.

Holding his shackle against the metal hub of a wagon wheel, Print told Dwyer to hold the chisel. It took Print only four blows to snap the bolt holding the leg band on his ankle; then calling for Laustina and Carugna, he chiseled the bands from their legs as well, using powerful strokes.

Ransacking the house, they filled a burlap sack with what food they could find, then carrying bottles filled with water, they set out in a southeasterly direction, heading slowly for Mexico in a roundabout route, determined to stay clear of water-hole trails.

The first rays of sun were probing the Gila Mountain recesses when the five convicts came upon the mud hovel nestled beneath some trees that encircled the small well known only to a few desert dwellers. Boldly entering the adobe shack they came upon the young wife of Honas Good and her mother asleep in their own beds separated by a small kitchen area.

Awakened, the two women stood together in a comer, their fear-filled dark eyes watching the escaped convicts. Carugna wiped a dirty hand across his stubbly face, a smirk building on his wide mouth before he waved a gnarled forefinger, pointing at the young woman with colorful yellow ribbins braided into her black hair.

“I have seen these women before,” he told Print. “They belong to those two Quechan trackers. This one with the yellow ribbons is Honas Good's wife, an' the other one is Palma's woman.”

Laustina's head jerked up sharply at the words, and he exchanged surprised glances with Print. Revenge angled on Jake Laustina's heavy features.

“Well, well, ain't this gonna be a pleasure,” he sneered, then he carefully stood the rifle in a back comer before he moved toward the women.

Print's eyes lighted and a white-toothed smile spread across his shiny black face. He reached for the young woman with the bright hair ribbons now cringing against the wall in front of him, ripping the gingham dress from her lithe body in one jerk, her nubile breasts quivering as she tried covering them with her arm while his hands sought the nest of black hair at her loins. Scratching with her free hand, she tried to pull away from Print as he lunged at her.

With a cry of anger, the older woman snatched a long knife from the table and rushed at the big man, mouthing curses as she came. Catlike, Jake Laustina reached out and seized her around the waist with one arm, gripping her knife hand with the other, then suddenly shifting his grip, with both hands he snapped the woman's wrist across his knee and the knife dropped to the floor. His coarse laughter followed her cry of pain from her broken wrist, then his huge hands disrobed her, ripping her single petticoat to tatters. Lustful eyes swept over her large breasts down to the hairy bush below the rounded stomach, and with a throaty cry, Laustina moved forward. Throwing her onto the bed, he mounted her savagely.

Dwyer passed a shaky hand over his sweaty face. Then he looked down at his trembling fingers while his other hand kept a white-knuckled grip on the iron gate. God, he had to stop thinking about things like that, terrible things that had followed during their short escape. Raping women, then slaughtering them in cold blood like cattle was not for him, even if they were Indians. His vivid mind still revolted at Print and the bullish Laustina having their way with both terrified Quechan women before disfiguring them with the butcher knife the older woman had dropped when her wrist had been broken. And his ears still rang from her screams when the brutal Laustina had lopped off one pendulous breast, or even when Print had slashed open her daughter's belly!

Callously, Carugna had insisted on his tum with both women in spite of their bloody mutilation, and he had laughed throatily because Dwyer and Powers had declined to join in their bloody orgy. Dwyer's stomach had churned and he gave a dry heave, glad that his nausea had forced him from the hovel before the real carnage had begun. Powers, too, had left the hut not caring for the bloody ordeal.

Then Laustina had hacked the two braids of hair from the younger woman and had thrown them out the door. “Maybe you two yellow bastids would rather play with them ribbons!” he called raucously.

Dwyer had looked at the blood smeared yellow ribbons before vomiting again.

Just then sudden fright brought Dwyer back to reality and he chilled when two shots sounded within the mess hall. Momentarily paralyzed, he stood still, pressing against the iron-grilled gate for support, his bulgy eyes following three convicts now dashing from the doorway, charging toward the main gate. Their leader clutched a rifle in both hands while the other two men held long kitchen knives in their fists.

Near the front gate, a guard shouted for them to halt, then he slammed the heavy portal shut before rifle shots were exchanged. The Lowell Battery quickly turned by an alert guard in the east tower began to chatter into the yard, bullets stitching the ground ahead of them like a giant sewing machine. Gravel spitting in their faces, the prisoners halted; now fearful, they changed direction and ran toward the prison shops off to their left before the guard in the northwest tower opened fire with his 44–40 Winchester repeater.

Mesmerized by the action, fright drew Dwyer's lips into a straight line. Detesting all violence, he sickened. When vomit began dribbling from his mouth, he ran for the safety of his cell. There he huddled on his folded mattress while the steam whistle mounted above the boiler room signaled a prison break attempt. Nerves grated, he covered his head with his arms, hoping to stifle the ear-shrilling whistle piercing the morning air. God, how he hated that sound; how much like the mind-curdling screams of the disfigured Quechan women!

More gunfire crackled during what seemed like an eternity but was in fact only a few minutes before the rifle-bearing leader lay dead with the other two wounded prisoners on the ground.

Calling on off-duty guards and trusted Indian trackers quartered at the prison, the superintendent entered the compound with his men to supervise marching the prisoners from the mess hall back to their cells.

Dwyer looked up when Dalton Powers strode disgustedly into their cell and flopped down on his bunk.

“Dammit, I never did get to eat! Them dumb bastards should'a waited for the changing of the guard, at least there wouldn't have been anyone on that Lowell,” he grumbled. “That gun just scared the shit out of them.”

Cell doors clanged shut and locks snapped into place while four Indian trackers combed the yard to make certain that all the prisoners had returned to their bunks.

Following Powers's lead, he staggered up and unfolded his mattress, then lay huddled on his bunk, his arms wrapped over his head to await the routine cell check that always followed an attempt to break out. He prayed for the wailing siren to cease, the sound rasped every raw nerve end, and he cringed in agony for the excitement brought the pain back to his stomach. He retched, then started to cough when nothing came up, and gnawing in his gut doubled him up. Perspiration drenched his black-and-white-striped cotton jacket.

God, he felt sick. If only he had something to soothe his quivering body. His mind swirled with the shrieking siren. “Damn that noise, I can't stand it! Why, oh why, does it have to keep going?” he whined in a broken voice.

“Hell,” Powers snorted, rolling over and burrowing his face into his dingy mattress. “Don't you know that's just another sacrifice to the Great God Out.” His voice sounded caustically strained as the high-pitched shriek continued.