Terror at Hellhole Read Online Free Page B

desert, a brown drabness created by centuries of sun and dust, and the eternal shimmering heat. There was nothing but sun-parched sand and cactus.
    He raised a hand for silence, straining to hear the faint sound of the prison siren floating through the windless air. “Another escape,” he said, looking at Allison. “If we’re lucky they may come down this way, maybe even run right into us. Otherwise, Chato and Ben Harplee will have to do without us unless you want to give up on Ayala.”
    â€œNo, by God.” Allison held up his hand in reproach, his eyes straight ahead. “We’ll keep after Franco Ayala. I don’t want the little bastard getting away. After we find him, we can help them if we get back in time.”
    Honas exchanged glances with Palma, seeking his concurrence, then he agreed with a nod. “We’ll find him soon.”
    The two Quechan trackers moved forward rapidly, stepping up their pace now that their quarry was near at hand. Desperate, because he had left the cover of the river brush, the fleeing convict’s tracks were more visible for the ground had turned to sand.
    Fear lent speed to frightened feet, but within that very fear, panic was beginning to enervate the escapee in this harsh desert land. Not the soft sand of an ocean beach, but rather an unyielding reflector of the scorching heat stifling his lungs. The specter of death hooded this inhospitable terrain that supported only scrub growth and deadly creatures; snakes and scorpions, lizards and spiders were rampant among the greasewood bushes, and always the irritating swarms of insects hovered over him.
    Water was difficult to locate in this desolate region where a feeling of loneliness and frustration would gradually unbalance a man’s mind. Fearful of towns, yet even more fearful of the desert with its mirages and afflictions, an escapee could, and often did, become a babbling, deranged thing beyond any sense of direction. High in the distant sky, three buzzards began to float serenely, occasionally circling as they were wont to do in their age-old waiting game as harbingers of death.
    It was near the evening of the third day that the pursuers came upon Franco Ayala lying in a ragged heap, a slobbering, beaten hulk of what once had been a feisty man, a man who in his incoherent bewilderment had been drifting in great circles, staggering short of his goal of reaching the Mexican border.
    Allison gave him water and some food in a slow feeding process. Then he placed handcuffs on him before allowing him a few hours rest. The four men moved their prisoner in a direct route back to the prison, arriving there in time for breakfast on the morning of the sixth day.
    And it was a day long to be remembered for its anger and sadness.

Chapter Three
    â€œI’m sorry, Honas,” Superintendent Joshua Tarbow said. “Because you and Palma were gone so long, I thought it best to have your wife and her mother buried at once.” He stopped his pacing to look at the two trackers before clearing his throat. “I thought it best because the women had been—er, assaulted, then badly disfigured.”
    â€œAssaulted, disfigured?” Honas exchanged glances with stern-faced Palma, waiting for the warden to continue his explanation of the five escapees’ sordid rampage at the Quechan’s cabin,
    â€œRaped,” he said nervously. “And both women had been cut many times with a knife.” Tarbow looked pained, forcing himself to go on. “Your wife...they were both slashed beyond recognition, according to Chato.”
    â€œWho were the men who did this terrible thing?” Honas asked, his ashen face still impassive.
    â€œThe five prisoners who escaped were responsible. They got away by killing Guard Sheaves, shortly after you and Palma went with Allison to get Ayala,” Tarbow said. “Harplee and four guards took Chato and went after them but didn’t catch up until