Bert Wilson at Panama
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At a glance from Melton, they retreated as noiselessly as they had advanced, and not until they had gotten beyond earshot, did they stop for consultation as to their next move.
Bert and Tom felt their hearts beating high with excitement, but Melton was as cool and impassive as though he were seated on the veranda of his ranch.
While they waited for him to speak, he drew from its sheath a long double-edged bowie knife and fingered it thoughtfully.
"It's a long time since I've done it," he mused. "I wonder if I can do it now. I'll try it out first."
Rising, he went over to a tree about fifty feet away. At a height of six feet from the ground, he cut out a circle of bark, about the size of a saucer. The white patch stood out in strong contrast to the rest of the tree. Returning to the boys, who had looked on puzzled at his action, he planted himself solidly and took the bowie by the blade. A moment he stood thus, measuring the distance. Then he raised the weapon and hurled it at the bark. It whizzed through the air in a gleam of light, and struck two inches inside the circle, where it hung quivering. It was a marvelous bit of knife play, and Bert and Tom could hardly repress an exclamation.
"That's all I wanted to know," muttered Melton, as he came back, after pulling the knife from the tree and restoring it to its sheath. "It's a little trick that has saved my life once or twice before on the plains, and I wanted to make sure that I hadn't forgotten. I guess if I could hit that circle, I could do for the Mexican.
"For as you boys may imagine," he went on, "I wasn't doing this thing for pastime. We've got to get that sentinel out of the way. Of course, it would be an easy thing to wing him with a bullet. But that makes a noise and probably the camp is not far off. Our only chance lies in taking them by surprise. If they once get wind of our coming we'll have as much chance as a celluloid dog chasing an asbestos cat through Hades. I'd rather take this fellow alive if we could, for we might be able to get some valuable information from him. But I'm afraid he'd let out a yell or shoot off his gun before we could get to him. I guess we'll have to depend on this little persuader," he concluded, as he put his hand on the shaft of the knife.
Bert had been thinking rapidly.
"Couldn't we save that as a last resort?" he ventured. "I think that perhaps I might creep up on that fellow without his seeing me."
"But how?" asked Melton in surprise. "You'd have to be as quick as a coyote and as light as a cat to do it. What's your idea?"
"Why," replied Bert, "I figure that we might go back to the place where we first saw him. You can see from the listless way he looked around that he isn't really on the alert. Then too, he's drinking. If we find that he's facing our way, I'll make a circuit and get back of him. Then at the right second I'll make my dash. He probably won't hear me until I get close to him, and then he'll be so paralyzed, what with the surprise and the drink, that I'll have my hands on his throat before he can make a sound. In the meantime, you keep him covered with your knife, and if he sees me too soon you can let fly."
Melton, a man used to quick decisions, spent only a moment weighing the pros and cons, looking keenly at Bert the while. What he saw seemed to satisfy him.
"It's a plucky stunt," he said, "but you're the lad to do it if any one can. I'd sure like to make that fellow talk before he goes over the great divide. Come along."
Noiselessly, they reached their former point of observation. The sentinel still sat there facing their way. The flask was in his hand and they could see from the way he tilted it that it was nearly empty. His carbine stood with its butt on the ground and the muzzle resting against the stump. Crouching low in the thicket, Melton drew his knife from its sheath, his eye gauging the distance. Bert, who had shed his coat and shoes, with a parting pat from Tom, made a wide circuit to the left, creeping along with his body close to the ground and scarcely daring to breathe. Once a twig cracked beneath his hand and his heart seemed to stop beating. But no sound came from the unsuspecting sentry, and after a moment's pause he went on. Soon he reached a point about a hundred feet in the rear of the Mexican, and behind the shelter of a huge tree rose slowly to his feet.
For forty feet the undergrowth was thick enough to conceal him. But then came the little clearing where for sixty feet no concealment was possible. He did not dare to tiptoe over it, because, if he were seen he could not get under way fast enough to reach his quarry. It must be a lightning dash. Once he had run a hundred yards – three hundred feet – in ten seconds flat. That would give him three seconds or less to cross the clearing. But a bullet could travel faster still. He drew a long breath and then, as lightly and swiftly as a panther, he leaped over the intervening space.
He had covered half the distance when the sentry heard him and sprang to his feet. For the fraction of a second he stood, petrified with surprise and fright. Then he reached for his carbine, but as though realizing that he could not level it in time, he abandoned that idea and snatched at his knife. And just then Bert launched himself on him like a thunderbolt.
Down they went fighting like wildcats. They rolled over and over. Bert's hands were on the rascal's throat and he could not utter a cry. But his knife was out and upraised to strike, when Tom, who with Melton had rushed from the bushes the moment the clash had come, grasped the uplifted hand and wrenched it until the knife fell to the ground. Another instant, and the scoundrel, bound with his own belt and gagged with a portion of the serape torn from his shoulders, was sitting huddled up on the ground, with his back against the stump, while baffled rage and hate glowed from his wicked eyes.
"Good work, my boy, good work," said Melton, as he grasped Bert's hand warmly. "You tackled that fellow like a ton of brick. I never saw a prettier rough house than that was for a minute. Now get your breath back while I try to get this fellow to listen to reason. I know this breed of cattle pretty well and I have a hunch that it won't be long before we understand each other."
He drew out his bowie knife and felt its edge, while the prisoner looked on with a growing terror in his eyes.
Melton reached down and grabbing the fellow by the collar jerked him to his feet.
"Now, listen," he said, in the mongrel blending of English and Mexican that is understood on both sides of the border. "You're going to be a dead man in one minute if you don't tell me the truth. Sabe?"
Melton's eyes were like two lambent flames, and as the fellow looked into them, he wilted like a rag. He nodded his head eagerly as a sign that he would tell all he knew.
"I guessed as much," said Melton, grimly, as he turned to the boys. "These dogs would betray their own brother to save their miserable carcass. Untie that gag, and I'll turn him inside out until I get from him all he knows."
He placed the point of his bowie at the brigand's throat, and held it there while the boys removed the gag.
"One yip from you, and this knife goes in up to the hilt," said Melton.
"Now tell me how far away your camp is from here."
"About a mile," replied the man, sullenly.
"What is the name of your captain?"
"El Tigre," was the answer, and the fellow shivered as he mentioned that redoubtable flame.
"How many men has he with him?" was the next question.
The bandit did not know exactly. There had been fifty or more, but a dozen or so had been sent on an expedition late last night. Maybe there were thirty or forty there now. He could not tell for sure.
The knife pricked sharply, and the fellow went down on his knees in an agony of terror, and swore by all his saints that he was telling all he knew. Why should he lie to the senor? The senor might kill him, but what he was saying was the truth.
"Get up," said Melton, disgustedly, for the cowardice of the cringing creature sickened him. "Now tell me what captives were in the camp and what your chief intends to do with them."
There were two captives there just now. One of them was a Chinaman, who had been taken in a raid on a hacienda, down in the valley. The other was an Americano, who had been surprised yesterday, when he came upon the band, just as they were getting ready to go away into the mountains. Three days ago there had been seven prisoners, but now – . The rascal made an expressive gesture that told only too clearly what had become of the miserable seven, and Melton had need of all his self-control not to end his prisoner's worthless life then and there, while Bert and Tom grew pale as they thought of Dick.
By an effort they restrained themselves, and the questioning went on. The bandit did not know what his chief intended to do. He rather thought that very morning the Chinaman would be put out of the way. But the young Americano, so cool, so brave – he did not know. El Tigre had seemed to be puzzled about him. The chief had been drinking hard and was very ugly. Yes, that was all he knew, and if the senor were to kill him, he swore on the head of his father that he had told nothing but the truth.
At a sign from Melton, the boys replaced the gag. They had drained him dry of information, and now they knew the work that was cut out for them. They dragged him into the thick underbrush and tied him to a tree. Then with a parting prick from the bowie, and a threat of instant death, if he sought to release himself before their return, they braced themselves for the task before them.
"It's up to us, my lads," said Melton, as he carefully examined his weapons to see that they were in prime condition, while Bert and Tom followed his example. "The next half hour will probably tell the story. We're in for a lovely scrap, and we'll have that friend of yours with us when we come back, or we'll never come back at all."
A keen sense of elation thrilled Bert and Tom, as they fell in behind the old frontiersman, and followed him in Indian file up the path. The sickening suspense was over. The storm was about to break. Waiting was to be replaced by action. A few minutes more and they were to be battling for Dick's life and their own. The primeval man had broken through the veneer of civilization, and their nerves were tingling with longing for the fight.
For ten minutes they went on at a rapid pace. Then the sounds of the camp fell upon their ears, and they crept on with caution. They could hear oaths, interspersed with drunken laughter, and the stamping of horses. Abandoning the path, they vanished into, the thick undergrowth, and now on hands and knees drew near the clearing. Reaching its edge, they peered through the bushes, and saw a sight that froze the blood in their veins.
CHAPTER V
A FIENDISH TORTURE
It was long after dark on the day of Dick's capture, when the guerillas reached their camp. Familiar as they were with every inch of the way, they had gone on as rapidly after sunset as before, and only drew rein when they had reached the clearing. Dick was lifted from the broncho, and the bonds removed from his hands and feet. He suffered torments as the blood rushed back into his cramped members, but at least he was comparatively free to move about, and before long he had recovered from the physical effects of his long and exhausting ride.
His mind also had regained its serenity and poise. He was cool and calm to a degree that surprised even himself. The first shock was over. He had already tasted of the bitterness of death. In those long hours, he had fought the battle in his own heart and conquered. Now he was ready for whatever might befall. From this time on, no chance either of life or death could disturb him. He was prepared for either. But his keen eyes and trained senses were on the alert to take advantage of any slip on the part of his captors, and he was determined to sell his life dearly. If they took it, they should at least pay for it.
Pedro, who seemed to be the captain's righthand man, led the way to a ragged tent, of which there were perhaps a dozen in the clearing. Inside was a rude bed of boughs covered by an old saddle blanket. A wooden bench was the only other item of furniture, while a smoky pine torch, thrust into the cleft of a stump, gave a dismal light. Three of the bandits were stationed as a guard at the door of the tent, while two others were placed at the back. It was evident that the chief was taking no chances. They left his hands unbound, while he ate the meal of frijoles and tortillas that was presently brought to him, but when he had finished, his hands were again tied, though not so tightly as before, while his feet were secured to a stake, driven into the ground at the foot of the bed. Thus fastened, he could sit or lie on the bed, but could not move about. This done, they left him for a while to his reflections.
Outside, the camp was given up to boisterous hilarity. The bandits had ridden hard and far that day, and they were enjoying the sense of rest and relaxation that comes after a day in the saddle. Their horses were picketed in rows on the edge of the clearing, while their masters sat around a huge fire and sought diversion after the manner of their kind. Games of cards and dice were in progress, and bottles of mescal passed from hand to hand. The growing drunkenness led rapidly to quarrels, and, in one of the groups, a stabbing affray was only averted by the coming of El Tigre on the scene. The noise ceased like magic and the knives were replaced in their sheaths, while the revelers tried to slink out of the sight of their dreaded master. He glared at the brawlers for a moment, but his mind was on something else just then, and, lifting the flap of Dick's tent, he stepped inside.
He had expected to find an anxious, excited, agonized prisoner. He stopped, nonplussed. Stretched out on his bed, Dick was sleeping as peacefully as a baby. Not a trace of fear or worry was visible on the strong, handsome face. It was a novel experience – this sort of disdainful defiance – to the monster whose name was a Synonym of terror over all that district.
"These cursed Americanos," he muttered. "Where do they get their courage? And those eyes – the first that ever looked into mine without falling. I swore to myself this morning that I'd pluck them out of his head. But I've thought of something better since," he mused, while a devilish grin spread over his face, "and I'll let him keep them until he sees what I'll have ready for him in the morning."
He was about to rouse the sleeper with a vicious kick, but thought better of it.
"No," he growled, "let him sleep. He'll be in better condition in the morning, and it will make his dying harder and longer." And with a last venomous look, he left the tent and its sleeping occupant, and went to his own quarters.
The camp wore a festal air the next morning. There was a general atmosphere of eager expectation. It was evident that something unusual was afoot. The fellow that brought in Dick's breakfast looked at him with a covert interest, as though he were to be an important actor in a drama for which the stage was being set. Had Dick known as much as Melton had learned of the hideous fame of his captor, he might have divined sooner the nature of these preparations. He had slept soundly, and the freshness and brightness of the morning had given him new hopes. The food served him was very good and abundant, and he did not know why, just as he was finishing it, the thought came to him of the especially good breakfast served to condemned men on the morning of their execution. He brushed the thought away from him, and just then Pedro appeared at the door of the ten, accompanied by a half dozen of his mates.
He untied the prisoner's feet, and Dick arose and stretched himself.
"Come," growled Pedro, and they went out into the open space between the tents.
The fresh air fanned his forehead gratefully and he breathed it in in great draughts. On a morning like this, it was good just to be alive.
He cast a glance around, and saw at once that something out of the ordinary was about to take place. The entire population of the camp was on the scene. Instead of sprawling in haphazard fashion on the ground, the bandits were in an attitude of alert attention. The dreaded leader sat in the center of the clearing, his eyes alight with an unholy flame. He rose, as Dick approached, with a guard holding his arm on either side, and made him a sweeping bow of mock politeness.
"It is good of the senor to honor us with his presence, this morning," he said in fairly good English – in his early years he had been a cattle rustler in Arizona – "but I fear we can offer little for his amusement. In fact, we shall have to depend on the senor himself to entertain us. Is the senor, by any chance, a snake charmer?"
"Look here," said Dick, fiercely, "what's your game, anyway? You've got my money and watch and clothes. Now, what more do you want?"
"What more?" echoed El Tigre, softly. "Why, only a very little thing. I want your life."
The last words were fairly hissed. All the mock courtesy dropped away, and he stood revealed in his true character as a gloating fiend, his hideous features working with hate.
That face maddened Dick. With a sudden movement, he threw off the guard on either side, took one leap forward, and his fist shot out like a catapult. It caught the sneering face square between the eyes, and the chief went down with a crash. In an instant, Dick's sinewy hands were on his throat and choking out his life.
But now the bandit crew, roused from their stupefaction, rushed forward, and overpowered him by sheer force of numbers. They dragged him from the prostrate form of the guerilla, and tied him to a tree close to the bushes, on the very edge of the clearing. The Tiger's face was bleeding from the smashing blow, when his followers raised him to his feet, and his rage was fearful to behold. He drew his knife and was about to rush on Dick, when the sight of two of his men, coming into the clearing with a bag between them, reminded him of his original purpose. By a mighty effort he restrained himself, but the ferocity of his face was appalling.
Dick, too, looked at the bag, as the men laid it on the ground. It was moving. Moving not sharply or briskly, as it might, had it held fowls or rabbits, but with a horrid, crawling, sinuous motion. A cold sweat broke out all over him. Now he knew what the Tiger had meant, when he asked him if he were by any chance a snake charmer.
A word from the chief, and two men came forward, holding forked sticks. A third slit the bag with his knife from top to bottom. From the gaping rent, two monster rattlesnakes rolled out. But before they could coil to strike, each was pinned to the ground by the forked stick, pressed down close behind the head. They writhed and twisted frantically, but to no purpose. Then another man bent down and drove his knife through the tail of each, just above the rattles. Through the wound he passed a thong of buckskin and looped it on the under side. Then, in each case, the other end of the thong was fastened securely to a stake, driven into the ground. When the work was done, a distance of ten yards separated the two stakes, and before each was a twisting reptile, wild with rage and pain. A man stood in front at a safe distance and held out a stick, teasingly. The snake flung itself to its full length, and the distance it could reach was carefully measured. Then, some inches beyond this furthest point, other stakes were drawn in rude outline of the form of a man. Near the buckskin thongs, men were stationed, with gourds full of water.
And now the stage was fully set for the tragedy. The audience was waiting. It was time for the actors to appear and the play begin.
El Tigre looked curiously at Dick. The latter's heart was beating tumultuously, but he met the scoundrel's gaze with calm defiance. He even smiled scornfully, as he stared at the battered lace, bleeding yet from his blow of a few minutes before. The significance of that smile lashed the bandit's soul into fury.
"I'll break him yet," he swore to himself. "He shall beg for mercy before he dies."
Then he said, aloud: "I was going to let the senor go first, but I have changed my mind. He is smiling now, and he shall have a longer time to enjoy himself."
He turned and spoke to some of his followers, and they went to a nearby tent, from which they emerged a moment later, bringing with them a Chinaman, whose yellow face was ghastly with fear. As the poor wretch looked around at the awful preparations, and realized that he was doomed, he threw himself down before the chief and tried to embrace his knees. El Tigre spurned him with his foot.
"Tie him down," he commanded, briefly.
They bore the unhappy man to the stakes, threw him down and bound him so tightly to them that he could not move. He was fastened in such a way that his face lay on one side, looking toward the snake a few feet away. The reptile coiled and sprang for the face, missing it by a few inches. Several times this was repeated. The horror of that wicked head and those dripping fangs darting towards one's face was insupportable, and shriek followed shriek from the tortured victim. Still, the snake could not actually reach him, and if the thong held – But now the man with the gourd poured a little water on the thong.
And the thong began to stretch.
The whole hideous deviltry of it struck Dick like a blow. Already he could see that the snake's head went a trifle nearer with every spring. And still the water kept dripping. In a few minutes more, the fangs would meet in the victim's face.
And it was his turn next. He, too, must face that grisly horror. Death in its most loathsome form was beckoning. His brain reeled, but, by a tremendous effort, he steeled himself to meet his fate. He would —
"Dick!"
What was that?
"Dick!"
Was that Bert's voice, or was he going insane? "Don't move, old man," came a whisper from behind the tree. "It's Bert. I've cut the rope that holds you until it hangs by a thread. The least movement will snap it. Let your hand hang down, and I'll slip you a revolver. Jump, when you get the word. We're going to rush the camp."
The reaction from despair to hope was so violent, that Dick could scarcely hold the weapon that was thrust into his hand. But as he felt the cold steel, his grip tightened on the stock, and he was himself again. Now at least he had a chance to fight for his life.
The snake was getting nearer to its victim's face. The last spring had all but grazed it. All eyes were fixed upon it, as it coiled again. Its waving head stood high above its folds, as it prepared to launch itself. And just then a bowie knife whizzed through the air and sliced its head from its body. The next instant, a rain of bullets swept the clearing, and Melton, Bert, and Tom burst from the woods, firing as they came.
CHAPTER VI
THE EXECUTION OF EL TIGRE
With a quick jerk, Dick snapped the rope that held him and rushed toward his comrades. He ranged himself alongside, and his revolver barked in unison with theirs.
The surprise had been complete. At the first shot, the bandits had leaped to their feet, and with wild yells scattered in every direction. Most of them had left their arms in their tents, and had nothing but their knives to defend them from attack. And these were wholly insufficient weapons, with which to meet the little band that flung themselves so recklessly upon them. For all they knew, they might be the vanguard of a force many times stronger, and they fled in wild confusion.
The guerilla chief was the only one who kept his head. He drew a revolver from his belt and returned shot for shot. He backed up slowly in the direction of his hut. With his eyes on the enemy in front, he had forgotten that the second snake was right behind him. He slipped on the slimy folds, and, the next instant, the enraged reptile struck at one of his hands as he attempted to rise. A burning pain shot through his index finger. He shook off the clinging snake, and, jumping upon it, stamped its head into pulp. Then he drew his knife and slashed his finger to the bone. The next instant he had reached his hut and slammed the door behind him.
The whole thing had happened in the twinkling of an eye. A dozen of the guerillas lay dead or wounded on the ground. The odds had been reduced with a vengeance, but they were still heavy. The attackers had played their trump card – that of the surprise. It had taken a trick, but the game was not yet over. No one knew this better than the old frontiersman. They had emptied their revolvers.