Terror at Hellhole Read Online Free

captives.
    Demoralized, the scattered Quechans were never again able to mount an effective fighting force and had to content themselves with small groups of warriors who made limited raids on the settlers, or even their enemies, the Cocopas. While these warrior groups were not large enough for concentrated battles they were able to strike their foes by stealth, then flee before the enemy could recover.
    Tall and blocky, Palma fought in most of these battles. Never a leader, he was, however, a strong warrior for his hatred against the enemies of his people was great. Then one day he realized that the Quechans’ fighting days were numbered, and when a young warrior named Ho-Nas Good began to court his daughter Avita, he stopped fighting entirely.
    Quechan marriage ceremonies were simple in those days and when Ho-Nas constructed a mud and brush house nearby, Palma did not object for he had already looked favorably on the young man. Soon Avita had spent four nights in Ho-Nas’s bed, during which time he did not touch her, and then, because he had no family for her to prepare a meal, which was normally required to complete a marriage ceremony, she brought him home.
    A deep mutual respect developed between Palma and his young son-in-law, and together they would forage the desert for food while his wife and newly married daughter planted melon and pumpkin crops in a swale south of Gila Slough. Spring floods overflowing their land provided irrigation so that their crops flourished in the rich soil.
    â€œMy father,” Honas had said one day while they were out setting rabbit snares. “Last night I had a strong dream—a dream wherein we earned much money tracking down escaped prisoners for the superintendent of the walled prison on the hill, and for the sheriff in Yuma City.”
    Palma stared at Honas hard, not liking what he had heard but knowing that dreams formed strong powers. “I would never work for the white people,” he snapped. “It would be unthinkable to work for our enemies.”
    â€œThen would you work for me?” Honas had asked. “I could deal with them so that you would only need to assist me. Because I have been educated by the padres of San Sebastian, I understand the white man and his foolish ways. And because we are Quechans, we are superior to them in ability to seek and capture the escaping prisoners.”
    Disturbed, Palma studied the hawk-eyed young man while he pondered the idea. What Honas said had much merit and he considered it. “But, if I do go with you, I will never seek another Indian even if he is a prisoner,” he had said. “And I will always try to kill the white escapees whenever I can.”
    Doubt crossed his son-in-Iaw’s face. “It is better, my father, if we do not kill them unless it is necessary to protect ourselves, for the white man foolishly still has regards for convicts even though they have committed evil deeds. It is the way of their religion.”
    â€œWhy is this so?” Palma asked, puzzled by what Honas had said.
    The younger man shook his head. “This I do not know, but it is so. Our Gods are not like their God, therefore we do not have to spare our enemies. But if we do not kill the prisoners, our services will be in greater demand than for other trackers.”
    â€œDoes not Chato often kill the men he seeks?” Palma asked, clearing his throat gruffly. “I have heard it said so many times in Yuma City.”
    â€œBut he is an Apache with an inborn hate,” Honas had answered, knowing the direction Palma’s thoughts would lead him.
    â€œI, too, have a deep hatred,” the older man muttered angrily, sifting back through memories burned deep into his mind.
    â€œYou and our people have suffered much at the hands of the white man,” Honas told the older Indian. “More so than the Apache because we were never as well organized, nor were we so cruel as they. Moreover, Chato hates