Terror at Hellhole by L. D. Henry Page A

I’ll see you get an easier work detail later.”
    Powers put down his shovel, casting an eye to the top of the cavelike cell they had carved into the hill. He moved over to the ladder and began a slow climb. Near the top of the wall, he looked over the side of the empty tower banister, noting the small chinks of rocks hurled there by the blast explosions from the preceding day. He walked along the edge away from the ladder until he stood above the cell they were working on.
    â€œHeads up, Powers! I’m having your tools tossed up,” Hack called.
    Powers stood aside while Print, swinging the sledge side-armed, heaved it up to him. Seconds later, two chisels clanged on the sunbaked caliche near his feet.
    â€œTake four paces back from this edge, then start hammering,” Hack called to him. “And get a move on so we can finish before dark.”
    Powers held the shorter chisel in his left hand and began hammering with the other, rotating the steel drill between strokes of the hammer. Although the sun was still hot he felt better here where a listless breeze was moving up from the river below, nor was it so oppressive from dust. Exposed to the elements for centuries longer, the gray caliche crust disintegrated easily under his hammer blows until the drill dug in half its length. From then on the pounding became work again, harder and harder as the drill slowly ate its way down into the rock.
    Like a swooping bird, a singular shadow caught the corner of his eye, and magic like, he swiveled his head toward the guard tower, his hammer missing the stroke, striking the cementlike rock. He stared at the empty tower now framed in the stark light of the lowering sun.
    Queer, he thought, and an odd felling crept over him. He looked hard at the ominous tower, but nothing moved, save swirls of dust occasionally floating upward from the work below. He began his hammering again, striking the drill harder in his anxiety to complete the job. Yet an eerie feeling lurked in his mind and the hint of unseen eyes prickled his skin. But never when he looked at the tower could he see anything. An unexplained fear pervaded his reason. Mouth dry, he gritted his teeth, hammering the longer drill stem faster and faster, knowing that it was almost through the domed ceiling beneath.
    He struck a blow, and in his haste still another, then the steel tool broke through the rock roof, and sailing from his hand, fell into the cell below him.
    â€œAll right, Powers,” Hack called up at him. “Throw your tools down, you can finish up in the morning. Let’s go eat.”
    Relieved, Powers tossed the hammer over the side after he had thrown the drill. He stood a moment looking westward where the dying sun had dropped below the wall. A haze was beginning to form across Yuma, and he could faintly hear cantina music as Rincon Alley inhabitants were slowly coming to life.
    His glance pulled back at the tower where forty steps separated him from the ladder leaning against the wall at its base. He lingered another moment, looking eastward across the swine yard, down toward the Gila Slough. A quiet was settling over the haze of the desert.
    â€œDammit, Powers, you coming down or do I have to fetch you?” Hack yelled angrily, his patience worn thin after the long hot day.
    â€œComing,” Powers answered. Fascinated, he walked trancelike toward the tower, a strange sensation raising the hackles along his spine like a cold wind blowing over his sweaty back. Staring his eyes swept the tower again, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but neither did he care to stop and peer inside the enclosed railings.
    He quickly put a foot on the top rung and took a hesitant step downward. Abruptly, a presentiment like a finger of ice touched his spine but he dared not stop now. He took another step hastily down before he heard the strange swish sounding over his head, then something cold touched his neck.
    Horror strickened, he reached with