Terror at Hellhole (7 page)

Tarbow reached out and shook hands with the doctor. “Thanks for filling out the Circumstances of Death Report,” he said. “He had no listed next of kin, so I'll have a detail bury him first thing tomorrow afternoon.”

The doctor raised a hand in farewell and quietly closed the door behind him. Tarbow sank back into his seat and wiped a hand across his brow.

On the last day of his life Judge Bliss Morcum awoke in a sour mood. Habitually drunk, this morning was no different from countless others. He sat with his feet over the edge of his bed contemplating the insistent rapping on his front door. White hair tousled, he gazed blearily toward the strong sunlight assailing his eyes from the window. There was no hurry. Anyone pounding on his door would stay there until he came. He belched, then arose unsteadily to his feet and began to scratch his paunchy stomach.

The knocking on his front door with renewed vigor. Clad only in long underwear, he shuffled to the closet and struggled into a faded gray robe.

Judge Morcum lived in a small five-room house just off Laguna Street, east of the blacksmith's shop. Already the leather-aproned hoof shaper was plying his trade. Morcum could hear the clanging of the hammer against the steel anvil above the thumping sound at his front door.

Moving ponderously through the living room, he opened the door in sour humor, but quickly recovered when he saw Tomasina standing there.

“Buenos días
, sir,” she said, her dark eyes staring boldly at him. The effect of that look shook him from his lethargy. “Today my mother is sick. I have come to work at you house, Senor Judge.”

His bloodshot eyes dipped to the cleavage of her tightfitting dress, down to the slim waist, then back up to her breasts stretching the thin material. Their eyes met again and a teasing smile hung on her red lips.

“Come in, Tomasina, come in,” he said quickly. “If you'll excuse me, I'll get dressed.”

Tomasina was the daughter of Manuel Lopez, who had years ago taken up residency with Concepción, a Cocopas prostitute. Lopez, considerably older than his Indian housemate, worked as a driver hauling supplies for Hooper & Hinton. Spending much time on the road moving freight, he laid no claim as the father of the comely Tomasina.

Bliss Morcum licked his lips, watching the girl sway past him when she walked into the other room to begin her work. In his more sober moments, he had watched her many times, walking along the streets of Yuma, and he had always gazed lecherously from afar. He knew that she was Concepción Lopez's daughter but he never dreamed that one day the girl would visit his house to work in place of her mother. Concepción came to Morcum's place each Friday to clean and tidy up for the next week's onslaught of sloppiness.

Good Lord, he thought, today was sure enough Friday, and seeing the girl, he vainly wished that he had been up and dressed before she arrived. He watched her move to the broom closet for dust rags before he went to the kitchen. He pumped a basin full of water, washing his face and neck and then combing the white strands of hair over the shiny places on his scalp. The feel of cool water restored some vigor to his spirits but it did nothing for the sour taste in his mouth.

Reaching under the sink he brought up an almost full bottle of Rocky Mountain Thistle Dew. Sloshing some whiskey into a glass, he downed its contents in a gulp, feeling the warm glow moving through his body. He took another long pull at the bottle before replacing the cork.

There, that was much better, he thought, a man needed something to steady him in the morning. He peered into the front room on the way to his bedroom, pausing to observe the girl's sleek movements as she dusted furniture. Damn, the way she wiggled her young body while she worked did things to a man.

Watching her stoop and bend drove him back to the kitchen and he took the cork from the bottle on the sink before he tipped it to his lips. Holding the bottle steady, he gulped until the level lowered several inches, the warm liquid filling the void in his stomach. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, breathing deeply, then he carried the bottle back to his bedroom.

Finished with her work in the living room, Tomasina came to the open bedroom door. Her eyes took in his ruddy complexion. Standing in faded red underwear, his long-waisted body, bulging stomach, and short legs created a ludicrous spectacle, and the girl laughed.

“I am ready to work in you bedroom now,” she said, her chin inclined slightly, the saucy look back on her face.

“Of course, my dear, come in,” he said, and when the girl started past him, he grasped her shoulders, drawing her hungrily against him.

Amused, she allowed him to kiss her, even permitted him to clumsily fumble with her breasts, and when she tilted her head back, excitement lay in her looks until his whiskey-soaked breath flung into her face. Stifling, she turned up her nose, but he tried to pull her toward the bed.

Her teasing mood left her and she laughed at him in disdain. He staggered when she pulled quickly away from him, laughing all the harder, but his hand caught at the neck of her dress ripping away part of the shoulder seams. Then anger spread its dark flush on her cheeks; her eyes ablaze, she spat in his face.

“
Bastardo!
”

Incensed, Bliss Morcum slashed the back of his hand across her mouth. “You filthy little Indian whore!”

“Tonto bastardo!”
She shrieked, her breasts showing the lift and fall of her angry breathing. Spitting at him again. she ran from the house.

Red rage flushed over him as he wiped a hand across the spittle on his cheeks while he stood helplessly watching her run across the street toward the fiesta grounds. Her nubile body filled with animal magnetism had gripped him—hard! And the thought of this lush creature escaping him unsettled his drunken complacency.

Then he turned his bleary-eyed look back to the faded mirror over the worn bureau. They say that mirrors don't lie, but the man who Bliss Morcum saw hadn't been on this side of the glass for over twenty years. Earlier in his life while at Tucson, when he was still a mediocre lawyer, he had defended an Indian girl against the charge of assault on another woman over the favors of a gambling man.

Being penniless, she paid him with her body by moving into his flat, and pay him she did indeed, for her sexual talent made him deliriously happy. But just when he was falling in love with her dusky appearance and lush body, she ran away with a traveling man—a perfume drummer with a flair for charming women.

Wounded in spirit to think that any woman would prefer a salesman over an up-and-coming lawyer, he took to drinking. And all the while he nurtured a deep hatred againt Indian women, yet subconsciously he envisioned her talents to all Indian females, lusting for them, yet openly hating them, too. And still he continued his search, even though most of his sex was only in his whiskey-sotted mind. And so it was with his desire for Tomasina.

What was wrong with her anyway? he asked himself. Maybe he was a lot older than her, but by damn he was somebody! He wasn't like those callow young Mexicans or Indian scum she rolled with every night. Didn't she realize that he was a judge and far above those worthless, loud-mouthed cowboys who called suggestive things to her when she walked down the street, trying to make her blush.

Just let her wait and see, he railed to himself, just wait until she ended up in one of those whorehouses on Rincon Alley, then he'd fix her, by damn! The first time anyone complained against her, he'd see that she was sentenced to the women's yard up on the hill. Maybe he'd sentence her to six months, then she'd remember him!

Damn her—damn all Indian whores! Unexplainably, it was always so in Morcum's dealings with Indian prostitutes, nor could he understand the insatiable urge he had for Indian women. Damn them, damn them all!

He belched, then stumbled over to where the bottle stood on the dresser. By damn, he had been glad to hear that the two women murdered by those five convicts last month were Indian. Raped they were—that's what should happen to all Indian whores!

He belched again, then struck his chest lightly with his fist to help dispel the knot that always formed when he became upset. Gas in his stomach, he grimaced; damn, he better calm down. No use getting so worked up over nothing.

Calmer now, he thought how first he would have sentenced the Negro Print and the barrel-chested Laustina to hang for their part in raping and mutilating the two women. But when Sheriff Waringer had pointed out that the women were Quechan Indians, a barrier had closed in his mind, and his heart had hardened. And he was sorely tempted to dismiss the case but only the fact that he had earlier sentenced two of the men for killing a stagecoach driver had deterred him from acting so foolishly.

Savagely he pulled the cork from the bottle and began to gulp its contents, nor did he stop until the bottle was empty. He burped, spitefully rolling the empty bottle under the bed with a curse. Let that damn squaw mother of Tomasina crawl under and drag it out.

His rage subsided as he glared around the room. Better he put on his clothes and get out of here, he thought. Dressing slowly because he was having difficulty standing, Bliss Morcum finally staggered out to the kitchen sink. He splashed cool water over his face and dried himself carefully with a soiled towel hanging over the kitchen chair.

Noonday heat struck him like a furnace when he stepped out into the yard. He walked to the comer of Gila Street and stood for a moment, his frowning glance roving back and forth across the fiesta grounds toward the Chinese gardens, then he walked westward along Third Street until he reached the courthouse.

Inside the quiet interior, he loosened his collar and sat back in his chair to wait. At one o'clock, Sheriff Waringer stuck his head in the door; seeing the judge, he entered and approached the bench.

“Nothing's on the court agenda today, Judge,” Waringer said. There was obviously no love lost between them but the lawman always kept his words polite.

“By damn, we can't keep this town going unless you arrest more people,” Morcum growled irascibly. “Fines is what pays for things around here!”

“Fines pay for your drinks, you mean,” Waringer said, a tenseness showing around his mouth, but he held his temper. “I'm trying to keep this town quiet, Judge, not trying to keep you in whiskey.”

Morcum glared at the tall lawman, stifling words forming in his throat. No use making Waringer too mad, he thought. Might need him for a favor one of these days. And he had to admit that the sheriff was a reliable man.

“If there's nothing further, I'll be leaving,” Waringer told him. “I've got my rounds to make.”

Morcum threw him a poisonous glance, then tilted his head back against his chair, staring at the ceiling. Stuffy damn sheriff, who did he think he was?

Heat and the still air pressed against his listless mind and he soon began to doze, his sonorous breathing vied with the drowning flies winging aimlessly around the gloomy courtroom while he slept.

Stark sunlight burning through the west windows penetrated his befuddled mind, awakening him. He sat up, painfully aware of a crimp in his neck from the long nap in such an awkward position. He arose and stamped stiffly around his bench, shaking the kinks from his sedentary body. God, his mouth was dry and his tongue felt as furry as a caterpillar!

The sun was an orange ball balanced above the distant hills when he walked outside. Shirt wet with perspiration under his black coat, he plodded two blocks northward on Main Street, eyes straight ahead, not deigning to notice anyone. Turning east on First Street he could see the Colorado Hotel at the end of the block. Carriages and buggies were already lined up in front of the hotel for the hour of the evening meal was at hand.

The Colorado Hotel was really more elegant than his finances would allow, yet just being there made him feel important, and ofttimes he was able to cozen drinks from visitors and newcomers by overstating his importance. Whiskey drummers and salesmen were his designated marks, and he unhesitatingly milked them at every opportunity.

The barroom was crowded when he entered, and hat in hand he made his way toward a corner table when he noted three men preparing to leave. Hesitating briefly until the men moved from the table, he quickly slid into one of the seats, dropping his hat on one of the other chairs to discourage company. He reached for the almost full bottle of whiskey still on the table and possessively poured himself a drink, using the nearest glass left by the men. Then he poured whiskey in each of the other two glasses in front of the vacant chairs. Settling back comfortably in his seat, he sipped deeply from his drink.

A waiter, dressed in a white jacket, arrived at the table and Morcum quickly drew himself up, assuming his most dignified air.

“Leave the bottle, my good man, the other gentlemen had to step out on business but they'll return shortly,” he said. With a flourish, he placed a half-dollar on the waiter's tray. “We'll call if we need anything else.”

And the unsuspecting waiter, remembering only that there had been three men at the table, nodded, then strode away to attend to other customers.

A self-satisfied smile formed on Morcum's flushed face while he refilled his glass, and not wanting to leave the bottle of expensive whiskey he was preparing to usurp, he decided to forgo eating. He helped himself generously from the liquor as the evening wore on, and by eleven o'clock the bottle was empty and Bliss Morcum was drunk.

The crowd was beginning to thin out so he prepared to leave because it was imperative that he depart while there were still customers milling around or he'd end up paying for the bottle of whiskey. Picking up his hat, he quickly drank the other two glasses of whiskey he had poured earlier, then he wobbled his way toward the lobby.

The waiter intercepted him, check in hand. “The whiskey, sir?” he asked politely.

Morcum screwed an eye back toward the barroom where a man had stopped at a table to converse with some friends. He pointed boldly at the stranger. “Ah, yes, my good man,” he said congenially. “My friend there will pay for the drinks and your excellent service, sir. I'm sure there will be a fine tip for you as well.”