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

killing anyone who angered them. Their kind would even kill a comrade over anything that might benefit them in the least. And it had always been so with the low caliber of men he had known.
    Years ago, while he was growing up, he had discovered that he would have a tough row to hoe because of his size, his jockey’s body. Through each of his tormented years, he’d had to fight off every bully in town. And as he grew older, the bullies seemed to get bigger and stronger until he had became so bruised and pounded that he gave up fighting, and decided to stay healthy by his wits alone. One thing he had learned for sure was to keep away from the toughs, and when that wasn’t possible, he made it a point always to agree with them. This often ran him afoul with the law, but at least he took less bumps and bruises by doing so.
    But this fact had also been the cause of his recent trouble because he hadn’t wanted to join the escape, at least not with killers like Print and Laustina. From the very start, right after Print had smashed the adobe block over Homer Sheaves’s head, he had sensed that Fish Dwyer had been an unwilling victim like himself and had been too frightened object. He meant to side with Dwyer whenever he could safely do so, but the chances had been infrequent.
    The other man in the group, Alexio Carugna, had turned out to be just another foul-mouthed devil, and Powers had decided to stay clear of him as well as the others. He shuddered, thinking back to the blood-spattered adobe hovel, and the bloody orgy the outlaws had enjoyed, the raping and mutilating of the Quechan women.
    He brushed a hand across his chest. The striped prison clothes were now sticking to his perspiring body and he stopped walking to lean against the wall, pale and trembling, paralyzed with the effort it took to keep from screaming. And through his present fright, he remembered that Dwyer, too, had recoiled from taking part in the grisly affair. He swallowed uncomfortably, using the flat of his hands to push away from the corridor wall he had unwittingly been leaning against to keep from sagging.
    Stark reality primed his mind; was this why Dwyer had killed himself—was it remorse or disgust? A tense grayness settled over his features and he tried to shake off this sordid feeling. Then putting all thoughts aside, he forced his feet to move, hurrying to the mess hall before the door was closed against latecomers.
    At work call after breakfast, the four men were ordered to assemble at the tool room. Then, armed with shovels, sledges, and drillbits, a mustached guard known only as Hack, marched them to the southeast corner of the yard where several holes had been blasted into the caliche wall.
    â€œAll right, you men,” Hack informed them. “Today you’re gonna dig out another cell in this wall.” He pointed with his rifle barrel toward the corner of the yard. “You’re also gonna dig a gateway alongside that east wall.”
    â€œA gateway?” Laustina snorted. “Ha! You mean we get tuh dig outa here with you watchin’. That’ll be the day!” Sneering he gave the guard his three-fingered nose salute.
    â€œHell no, you ninny,” Hack growled. “You birds is gonna dig a gateway into that hill, then you’re gonna dig out a whole damn new yard over the next year, and I’m gonna be right here to see that you do it, every rock-smashing inch of it!”
    Then he called attention to the guard tower where the east and south walls joined. “Just ’cause that tower ain’t manned, don’t go getting no ideas. The Super figured it’d be too dangerous having a guard up there while they was blasting holes, but remember, I’ll be standing right here among you with this.” Hack tapped the 44–40 rifle cradled in his left arm.
    Powers looked up at the square guard structure in question. Its four sidewalls were boarded almost waist-high, then opened