Free Terror at Hellhole by L. D. Henry Page A

among the wooden markers in his haste.
    With his breath coming in great wheezing gulps, his body completely enervated, he was forced to stop. He heard the gravel crunch on both sides of him, felt dark fingers snatching lightly at his clothing, weapons prodding him to move. And then it suddenly came to him that these devils were purposely herding him toward some specific place; in stark terror to escape, he began to run backward.
    Suddenly the ground beneath his feet was gone, and he dashed headlong, six feet down into the rectangular pit. His backward thrust and the force of gravity combined to drive his paunchy body downward and he landed on the back of his head. His neck snapped with an audible sound and dust rose from the grave as sand trickled in on the body that once was Bliss Morcum.
    And the cemetery was silent save for the shuffling whisper of Quechan moccasins moving quickly down the hill toward Rincon Alley.

Chapter Seven
    On the last day of his life Dalton Powers was already awake before the guard came walking down the corridor clanging his keys against the cell doors. All night long visions of Dwyer’s faceless body had moved sickeningly through his dreams, disturbing his rest.
    Built like a jockey, his scant four inches over a five-foot frame carried a slim one hundred and eighteen pounds, but recent fear and worry had peaked his weasel face. His cell mates began stirring. Now wide awake from the rattling of the keys, he watched Three-fingered Jake Laustina rise up to needle the guard.
    â€œHey, Allison, one of these days I’m gonna jam them damn keys down yore throat so hard they’ll stick out yore ass everytime you open yore mouth,” he jibed.
    Easygoing, the brown-uniformed guard, Frank Allison, snorted. “Better you say ‘Sir’ before you try it because you’re gonna need someone to help pick you out of the mud.”
    â€œShee-it,” Laustina smirked, reaching for his pants hanging from a peg on the wall. “You’ll never...”
    â€œHold it, Jake!” Print cried, then he admonished the three-fingered convict. “Don’t be gittin’ them guards riled. We got us enough troubles without thet, an’ smart-assin’ will do it!” Carugna glared through the bars but agreed with Hedgemon.
    The four men finished dressing in silence while the guard made his run up the other side of the stone-walled corridor. But it was Hedgemon Print who broke the silence. He scowled deeply before questioning Powers.
    â€œHow you think thet damn Fish git his hands on somethin’ to kill hisself like thet?” he growled, awaiting an answer from the little convict.
    Powers shook his head. “I never saw nothin’—just heard the explosion.”
    â€œThet junker must’a gotten a blastin’ cap from one of the workmen in the yard,” Laustina said.
    â€œNaw, none of the prisoners was allowed to git near them civilians who done the blastin’,” Print told them. “But maybe he did find one thet got lost out there.”
    Laustina shook his head. “Them caps is too dangerous, they don’t jest git lost,” he said, shrugging his burly shoulders, and adding: “Hell, what’s the difference—thet junker jest blew his damn fool head off, is all!”
    Print wrinkled his brow speculatively. “Think maybe he did it on purpose? Maybe he was out to git one of us an’ somethin’ went wrong. You know we was always ridin’ him perty hard.”
    â€œWho the hell knows,” Laustina snapped, “or even gives a shit what thet silly bastid done. Let’s git in the chow line.” He slid from his bunk and strode to the door.
    Powers followed his three cell mates through the short archway to the corridor after watching them squeeze through the double gates. Content to follow them, he didn’t much care to be in their company, knowing that each was hair-triggered and highly capable of