by L. D. Henry
Joshua Tarbow’s eyes squinted at the sun, and the lines of his face tightened. He dabbed several times at the sweat that was on him, but the perspiration kept coming. He was a man who liked things safe—planned to the last detail. This was a measure of his professional capability—he acted, not out of fear but from a full knowledge of his job. And Tarbow had been a professional all his adult life. Not having any means of foreseeing the future, he somehow had to stop what was happening here, had to stop these mysterious deaths.
By Jupiter, he’d get to the bottom of this—no man would move in or out of this prison without his personal knowledge of it. That would bring things out into the open!
“Harplee,” he growled irritably. “Get the body over to the carpenter shop and put clean clothes on him. I want him buried right after breakfast tomorrow.”
Summer heat curled off the tamped gravel courtyard when Tarbow led the doctor back to the prison office. Yard prisoners lolled in the meager shade of the east wall while the clink of steel sounded from the blacksmith shop where convicts pounded out pick-points and sharpened shovels for the adobe crews.
Inside the office, Tarbow brought out two glasses and a bottle from a desk drawer. Normally not given to daytime drinking, he felt the need for spirits after what had transpired. Botts accepted the glass offered him and he moved to a chair.
Tarbow raised his glass for a quick gulp before he asked: “How do you think this happened, Rufus?”
The doctor shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “That’s not my department, Josh. I’m hard-pressed just to know what killed him.”
Tarbow drained his glass, then proffered the bottle to Botts. When the doctor nodded, he got up and moved around the desk to pour. “Someone, perhaps even one of my guards, dropped those snakes down through the ventilator hole, knowing that sooner or later, Laustina would get bitten,” he said. “And right now, I’m beginning to suspect those two Quechans. This Honas Good seemed to resent Judge Morcum’s mild sentencing of the murderers as not being severe enough.”
Botts suddenly looked interested. “Did he have any specific accusations?” he asked.
“Well... He did say that he thought Morcum was as guilty as they, and that he, too, should have been sentenced. He seemed rather irate that the judge discriminated against the dead women because they were Indians. Raping and murdering white women would have drawn the death penalty.”
“Hmmm. Then he didn’t make any definite allegations or threats?”
Tarbow shook his head thoughtfully. “Not really, but he had a cold look on his face when he said: ‘They have now all been sentenced.’ Them was his words, just like he was passing judgment on them,” Tarbow said. “I warned him against doing anything revengeful.”
“That isn’t very conclusive, Josh,” Botts said. “You need something more tangible.”
“How about circumstantial evidence? Now that I think of it,” the warden added, “Honas was with Harplee outside the cell when Dwyer was killed.”
“Harplee vouched for him, if I recall correctly.”
“Yes, but I don’t think Harplee really understood that he would have had to keep his eyes on the Indian every second to be able to vouch for him honestly,” Tarbow said quickly. “He couldn’t have watched Honas all the time because he was counting prisoners.”
Botts nodded before taking a long sip at his drink. Then he sat back to watch the warden continue his pacing, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.
“With the exception of the prisoner who was shot trying to lead a breakout the morning Fishel Dwyer lost his face, all the other men who died had something in common—they were all involved when those Indian trackers’ women were murdered,” Tarbow said.
Botts looked out the office door, his mind selecting words carefully. Shimmering heat waves rose steadily from the graveled walkway for the late afternoon sun still blazed down unmercifully on the adobe and caliche walls.
He nodded. “That’s the conclusion I came to shortly after they found Judge Morcum in that empty grave with a broken neck. Bliss had a similar look of terror frozen on his face. I didn’t mention it before because I thought that you were on top of it, and I didn’t want to interfere. Maybe what this Honas said was a threat after all!”
Tarbow’s face changed, and a sudden light flared in his eyes with Botts’s disclosure. He stopped pacing and a fur-row creased his brow. He had lived too long by intangibles not to be willing to accept all things into this mystery, regardless of possible insignificance.
“You know, not being a townsman, I didn’t give any consideration to Morcum’s death,” he said, now awakened to greater possibilities of murder. “I thought the drunken old fool just broke his neck stumbling around in an alcoholic stupor.”
Botts shook his head thoughtfully. “You know that grave had been dug earlier the same day, for another man, but I believe Bliss Morcum would have ended up in that very grave, one way or another. Falling in just simplified matters,” he exclaimed.
“Then there has to be a tie-in with what is happening here!”
“I think so, too,” Botts said. “I think that Morcum was herded into that cemetery like a calf driven into a corral.” He shrugged casually. “Naturally, the townspeople didn’t have any reason to suspect a connection between his death and those of your convicts.”
“But there certainly must be a connection now,” Tarbow growled. Anger formed a flush on his cheeks. He didn’t care to be taken for a fool by a couple of Indians, regardless of how valid their complaints. “Dwyer, Powers, Morcum, and now Laustina,” he began to enumerate the deaths. “That means there are only two prinicipals left who were involved in that heinous drama.”
“Carugna and Print.” Botts said, supplying the names Tarbow was thinking. “Right?”
“Right!” Tarbow snapped. He paced back and forth in front of his desk while his thoughts began to jell and the self-righteous anger ebbed quickly from his face. He needed to sort things out in his mind. Then a satisfied smile wrinkled the corners of his mouth before he circled his desk and sat down.
“Thanks for your help, Rufus. I’ll keep you informed of our progress in this matter,” he said. He lowered his eyes and began shuffling papers on his desk as a means of dismissing the doctor.
“You do that, Josh,” Botts said. He got to his feet and placed his glass on the desk. “I feel like I’ve got a stake in this matter since I’m the one who has examined all of the victims and signed those death certificates.”
Tarbow nodded, smiling affably without speaking, not wanting to start a conversation that might encourage the doctor to stay. And after Botts had taken his leave, Tarbow poured another drink. God, it was hot, he mused. He raised his arm from the desk and several letters stuck to the perspiration on his wrist. Angrily, he shook the papers free with a flick of his arm. Now the damn heat was gluing things to him.
He leaned back in the chair—somehow, he had to plan a trap using the assumption that the Quechans were behind these senseless deaths. If he could solve the killings, or expose the Indians and their motives, the prison commissioners would overlook what had transpired.
That was it—he had to take the chance of catching the culprits somehow. If the Indians were after the other two convicts, why not use them as bait in a trap?
Partially satisfied with the idea, Tarbow went home to supper, knowing that after the evening meal, he must return to his office so that he could concentrate on a plan....
Chapter Twelve
A cool breeze moving over the caliche riverbank behind the building swept warm air into the rear door of his office. Tarbow rested both elbows on the top of his worn oak desk and steepled his fingertips together, his mind in deep concentration. Print and Carugna, he thought, they were the last two actors in this grim drama staged here at the prison. Somehow, he needed to fashion his plan around them, a plan that used them as bait without their knowledge.
His mind stumbled ponderously over many ideas, but he discarded each
as being too intricate. What he needed was something simple, something that exposed his bait in a seemingly routine manner, yet provided him with a backup for an ambush. Why not use the pending funeral? What would be more natural than two convicts burying their dead cell mate?
The more he tossed the idea around, the better he liked it. Print and Carugna could bury Laustina as a seemingly routine job. Other than the doctor, the prison didn’t use Yuma facilities. Let the dead bury the dead.
But first he needed to go over the plan in his mind, needed to work out the details, then he needed some time for the word of the burial to get around.
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 Palm
a 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.”