HOW MOLAS DIED
For some few minutes we rested to recover our breath, then we
started forward again. In front went the girl, Maya, our guide, whom
the señor led by the hand, while behind followed Zibalbay supported
by Molas and myself. At first these two had run as quickly as the rest
of us, but now all the fatigues and terrors that they had undergone
took hold of them, so that from time to time they were forced to stop
to rest. This was little to be wondered at, indeed, seeing that during
five days they had eaten no solid food, for it had been Don Pedro’s
purpose to starve their secret out of them. Doubtless he would have
succeeded in this design, or in doing them to death, had it not been
for a quantity of a certain preparation of the _cuca_ leaf, mixed with
pounded meat and other ingredients, which they carried with them.
Zibalbay had the secret of this Indian food, and by the help of it he
and his daughter had journeyed far across unpeopled wastes, for so
wonderful are its properties that a piece no larger than a bullet will
serve to stay a man’s stomach for twenty-four hours, even when his
power is taxed by work or travel. On this nutriment they had sustained
themselves to the amazement of their captor, who could not discover
whence they drew their strength; still it is a stimulant rather than a
food, and so great was their craving to fill themselves, that as they
ran they plucked cobs of the Indian corn and devoured them.
Our path lay through a tropical forest so dense that, even when the
sun shone, the gloom was that of twilight. Many sorts of huge and
uncouth trees grew in it, whereof the boughs were starred with orchids
and hung with trailing ferns, or in places with long festoons of grey
Spanish moss that gave them a very strange and unnatural appearance.
Up these trees climbed creepers, some of them thicker than a man’s
thigh, and beneath them the ground was clothed with soft-wooded bush,
or with vast brakes of a plant that in Mexico attains a height of from
ten to twelve feet, which the señor told me is cultivated in English
gardens under the name of Indian Shot. Slowly and with much toil we
forced a path through this mass of vegetation. Now we were creeping
over the rotten trunks of fallen and fern-encumbered trees, now foot
by foot we must make our way between the stout stems of the Indian
Shot, and now our clothes were caught and our flesh was torn by the
hook-like thorns and brambles, or our feet tripped in the roots of
climbing plants. No breath of air penetrated that measureless thicket,
whereof the stagnant atmosphere, laden with the decay of ages, choked
and almost overpowered us, causing the sweat to start from every pore.
Above us, hiding the sky, hung masses of deep green foliage, beneath
which we struggled on in the solemn gloom and the silence that was
broken only from time to time by the grunting of an ape, or by a
distant crash, as some great tree, after centuries of life, fell with
a noise like thunder to the earth from whence it sprang.
This forest that seemed so destitute of life was peopled by millions
of insects, all of them venomous. _Garrapatas_, tiny grey flies,
wood-wasps, and ants black and red, tormented us with their bites and
stings till we groaned aloud in misery, then, remembering our danger,
pushed on again.
Thus two hours and more passed, till, reaching a little stream that
ran through a ravine in the forest, we paused to drink and to cool our
fevered feet and hands. Zibalbay sank exhausted upon the bank, where I
brought him water in my sombrero, while his daughter sat herself down
on a stone in the stream, suffering it to flow over her feet and
ankles, that by now were swollen with ant-bites and bleeding from the
cuts of thorns and grasses. Presently she looked up, and, seeing the
señor, who stood upon the bank talking to me, she invited him with a
motion of her hand to seat himself beside her.
“What is your name, white man?” she asked.
“James Strickland, lady.”
“James Strickland,” she repeated with some difficulty, “I thank you,
James Strickland, for rescuing my father from torment and me from
insult; and because of that deed, I, Maya of the Heart, whom many have
served, am your servant for ever.”
“You should thank my friend, Don Ignatio,” he said, pointing to me.
For a few moments she looked at me searchingly, then replied, “I thank
him also, but you I thank the most, for your hand rid me of that
hateful man and saved us.”
“It is early to return thanks, lady,” he said; “we are not out of
danger yet.”
“I have little fear now that we have escaped from that dreadful
house,” she answered almost indifferently, “since our hiding-place is
at hand. Also how can they find us in this forest? Hark! what was
that?”
As she spoke a faint and distant sound fell upon our ears,--such a
sound as might have been made by a bell struck far away at night.
“That is how they will find us,” he said, springing to his feet. “Do
you hear, Ignatio? The dogs have hit our trail. Which way does our
road run now, lady?”
“Along the banks of the stream.”
“Then we must go forward in the water,” said the señor, “it is our
only chance, for the hounds cannot track us there.”
Now we began to scramble down the bed of the stream as fast as the
boulders and the weariness of Zibalbay would allow. Fortunately it was
not a broad river, nor very deep, still sometimes we could scarcely
stand in the rapids, and twice, not daring to set foot upon the bank,
we were forced to swim the length of the pools, which we did in terror
fearing lest they should be haunted by alligators. For something over
an hour we followed the stream thus, till suddenly Maya halted, saying
that if we would gain the building where they had dwelt, we must leave
the water and plunge into the forest. By now we were
exhausted,--indeed, unless he were carried, the old Indian, Zibalbay,
could not have gone another mile; so, notwithstanding the danger of
setting foot upon the land, on learning that the place was near and
that food was to be found in it, we hesitated no longer, but once more
began to thread the bush. Not more than three hundred paces from the
banks of the river we came upon a high mound densely overgrown with
trees, between the boles of which appeared masses of cut stone.
“This is the place,” gasped Zibalbay. “Look, yonder above us are the
walls of the temple, and here is the stairway that led to it,” and he
pointed to a long flight of crumbling stone steps, almost hidden in
ferns and bushes, which stretched from the base of the pyramid to the
ancient Indian fane on its crest. Up these steps we went with caution,
for the climb was dangerous, Molas carrying Zibalbay upon his broad
back, since so weary was he that the old Indian could mount them in no
other fashion.
This staircase was built in three flights, the top flight, now almost
entirely broken away, emerging on what once had been a broad and
splendid terrace, but to-day was a chaos of stonework, in the crevices
of which grew bushes and even large trees. Over the head of the
stairway still stood a colossal arch sculptured with the figures of
gods and beasts. This arch was in the last stage of decay,--indeed the
crown of it, a mass of masonry that must have weighed between one and
two hundred tons, had been nearly separated from its supports by the
action of time and rain, aided perhaps by a shock of earthquake, and
hung threateningly over the top steps of the stair. In truth so slight
were the attachments which remained between it and its supporting side
columns and buttresses, that at first sight it seemed as though it
must fall at once. A closer examination showed, however, that it was
held in place by three or four great roots, which, springing from
trees that grew upon the crown of the arch, in the course of years had
thrust themselves deep into the crevices of the masonry of the massive
pillars, and through their foundations into the soil beneath. Beyond
the arch, on the further side of the terrace, rose the ruined temple,
a long single-storied building with a flat roof whereon grew many
shrubs and palms.
Passing through the central doorway of this temple, Maya led us into a
chamber decorated everywhere with serpents carved in stone, which had
been occupied, and recently, for it was clean, and upon the floor were
ashes and bits of burnt wood. In the corner also lay a little pile of
articles covered over with a _serape_ that Maya hastened to remove,
revealing amongst other things an earthen cooking-pot, a copper axe of
similar workmanship to the _machete_ with which the señor had killed
Don José, two curiously fashioned blow-pipes with a supply of
poisoned darts, and, lastly, bags containing dried flesh, beans, and
_cuca_ paste.
“All is safe,” she said; “now let us eat that we may be strong to meet
danger.”
While we were filling ourselves thankfully with the dried meat, the
señor spoke to me, saying he hoped that our pursuit had been
abandoned.
“You can know little of these men to speak thus,” I answered; “they
must hunt us down for their own sakes, also Don Pedro will certainly
seek to avenge the blood of his son. Our only hope is that the water
will baffle the hounds, or that, if they strike the place where we
left it, the heat of the day may have killed our scent. But I fear
that this will not be so, since the ground is damp beneath the trees.”
“Then what do you propose to do?” he asked. “Start on again, or stop
here?”
“Señor, we must stop here because we cannot travel farther, unless
you would abandon the old man and his daughter. Moreover in the forest
it would be easy to overwhelm us, but this place is hard to climb, and
here at least we may die fighting. Let us make ready for the worst,
señor.”
“How are we to make ready,” he asked, “when we have nothing to fight
with except _machetes_ and Indian blow-pipes? The powder in the pistol
flasks is damp and the caps will miss fire, so that if we are attacked
our death is certain.”
“It seems so,” I answered, “yet if it pleases God we may live. Yonder
lie stones in plenty; let us pile them up beneath the archway, perhaps
we can kill some of our foes by rolling them down the steps.”
This we did, then, while Maya watched us. At length the task was
finished, and as we turned to leave the heaps of stones, of a sudden
we heard a dog baying down by the river, followed by a sound of men
and horses forcing a path through the bush. For a while we stared at
each other in silence, then Molas said, “They are coming.”
“If so I wish they would come quickly,” answered the señor.
“Why, White Man? Are you afraid?” asked Maya.
“Yes, very much,” he answered, with a little laugh, “for the odds are
heavy, and probably we shall soon be killed, that is, all the men
among us will be killed. Does not the prospect frighten you?”
“Why should it,” she answered, with a shrug and a smile, “seeing that
if it comes to the worst, I shall be killed also and spared a long
journey home?”
“How can you be sure of that, Lady?”
“So,” she answered, holding a tiny blow-pipe dart before his eyes. “If
I prick myself with this here--” and she touched the large vein in her
neck, “in one minute I shall be asleep, and in two I shall be dead.”
“I understand; but you talk of death very easily for one so young and
beautiful.”
“If so, señor, it is because I have not found life too soft,
nor”--she added with a sigh--“do I know what destiny awaits me in the
future; but I do know that when we sleep upon the Heart of Heaven, we
shall find peace if nothing more.”
“I hope so,” said the señor. “Look, here they come,” and as he spoke
a party of seven or eight men, three of them riding on mules, appeared
at the foot of the mound, and, dismounting, picketed their animals to
trees.
“Now for it,” said the señor, rising and shaking himself like a dog
that leaves the water. “I wonder how many of us will be left alive
when this sun sets.”
As he spoke one of the men reached the foot of the stairway holding a
great hound in a leash. For a moment the dog sniffed the stones, then,
lifting his head, he bayed aloud, whereat the band shouted, for they
knew that they had trapped us. Still for a while they did not advance,
but, gathering themselves in a knot, they consulted together
earnestly. We looked at each other in despair, for truly our case was
desperate. Fly we could not, and we had no arms wherewith to fight,
therefore it seemed certain that within some few minutes we must lose
our lives at the hands of these murderers, if indeed they chose to
kill us outright in mercy. The señor hid his face in his hands for
awhile, then he looked up and said,
“Can we bargain with them, Ignatio?”
“Impossible,” I answered, “what have we to give that they cannot
take?”
“Then there is nothing for it except to die as bravely as we may,” he
answered. “This is the end of our search for the Golden City. The
quest has not been a lucky one, Ignatio.”
Now the old Indian, Zibalbay, who was crouched upon the ground beside
us, spoke for the first time, saying,
“Friends, why do you not fly? Doubtless you can find a path down the
further side of the pyramid, and in the forest you may hide from these
men.”
“How can we fly,” answered the señor, “when you have no strength to
walk a step?”
“I am old and ready to die,” he answered; “leave me here, and be sure
that when the time comes I shall know how to slip through the grasp of
these villains. My daughter, go you with them. You have the holy
symbol, and should you escape and prove this stranger to be the man
whom we seek, lead him to our home that things may befall as they are
fated.”
“Peace, my father,” said Maya, throwing her arms about his neck,
“together we will live or perish. These señors may go if it pleases
them, but here I stay with you.”
“And so do I,” said Molas, “for I weary of flying from the death that
dogs me. Also it is too late to talk of flight, for look, they are
coming up the stair, the eight of them with Don Pedro and the
_Americano_ at their head.”
I looked; it was true. Already they had climbed half the steps of the
first flight.
“Oh for some rifles!” groaned the señor.
“It is useless to cry for what we have not,” I answered. “God can help
us if He wishes, and if He does not, we must bow us to His will.”
Then there was silence, broken only by the voice of Zibalbay, who,
standing behind us, lifted his hands to heaven and prayed aloud to his
gods to bring a vengeance upon our foes. Now we could see through the
trees and bushes that the men were beginning to climb the second
flight.
“Come, let us do something,” said the señor, and, running to the
piles of stones which we had prepared, he called to us to help him
roll the heaviest of them upon the enemy. This we did for awhile, but
without effect, for the tree-trunks turned our missiles; moreover
those against whom they were directed, taking cover at the sides of
the stairway, opened so sharp a fire on us with their rifles, that in
a few minutes we were driven from the stone heaps and forced to
retreat behind the shelter of the arch.
Now they came on again, till presently they reached the foot of the
third flight, and paused to take breath. Then it was that Molas,
seizing one of the Indian blow-pipes, ran out on to the terrace,
followed by the señor, though why the latter went I do not know, for
he could not use this weapon. Before the men beneath were aware of
their presence, Molas had set the blow-pipe to his lips and discharged
the poisoned dart among them. As it chanced it struck the Texan Smith
full in the throat. Watching round the corner of the arch, I saw him
lift his hand to pull out the dart, then of a sudden he fell to the
ground, and at that instant a storm of bullets swept through the
archway, aimed at Molas and the señor as they fled back for refuge. I
saw Molas fall and the señor stop to lift him to his feet, and, as he
was in the very act, a patch of red appear upon his face. Another
moment and they were under cover.
“Are you hurt?” I asked of the señor.
“No, no,” he answered; “my cheek was grazed by a bullet, that is all.
Look to Molas, he is shot in the side.”
“Leave me,” said Molas, “it is nothing.”
Then we were silent, only Maya sobbed a little as she strove to
staunch the blood that flowed from the señor’s wound with cobwebs
which she gathered from among the stones.
“Do not trouble, lady,” he said, with a sad smile, “for soon there
will be other wounds that cannot be dressed. What shall you do?”
By way of answer she showed him the poisoned dart which she held in
the hollow of her hand.
“I cannot advise you otherwise,” he said. “Farewell, I am glad to have
met you and I hope that we may meet again yonder,” and he glanced
towards the sky. “Now you had best say good-bye to your father, for
our time is short.” She nodded, went to the old man, Zibalbay, who
stood silent, stroking his grey beard, and, putting her arms about his
neck, she kissed him tenderly.
Looking out carefully we saw that the men had dragged Don Smith to the
side of the stairway, where some of them supported him while he died
of the poison, and others watched for a chance to shoot us should we
show ourselves upon the terrace. Presently he was dead, and, cursing
us aloud, his companions commenced to mount the third flight with
great caution, for they feared a snare.
“Is there nothing to be done to save our lives?” asked the señor, in
a heavy voice.
There was no answer, but of a sudden Molas, who was standing with one
hand pressed upon the wound in his side and the other before his eyes,
turned and ran into the chamber behind us, whence he reappeared
carrying the copper axe. Then, without speaking, he climbed the
masonry of the archway with great swiftness, till he stood with his
feet in the crack beneath the crown of the arch, which you will
remember was held in place only by the tough tree-roots, that grew
from it into the stonework of the buttresses. Supporting himself by a
creeper with his left hand, with his right he struck blow after blow
at the biggest of these roots, severing them one by one. Now we saw
his purpose--to send two hundred tons of stonework thundering down the
stairway upon the heads of the murderers.
“By heaven! that is an answer to my question,” said the señor; then
he paused and added, “Come down, Molas; if the arch falls, you will
fall with it and be crushed.”
“It matters little,” he answered; “this is my doom day, that bullet
has cut me inside and I bleed to death, and on this spot, as I have
long feared, it is fated that I should die. Pray for my soul, and
farewell.”
“Fare you well, you gallant man,” said the señor. “I have no axe or I
would come with you.”
“Farewell, Molas, my brother, true servant of the Heart,” I echoed;
“of this I am sure, that you shall not lose your reward.”
Now three of the roots were severed, but the fourth and largest, which
was thicker than a man’s leg, remained, and at this Molas began to hew
despairingly.
“Are they near?” he gasped, as the white chips flew.
We peeped round the corner of the arch and saw that some seventy feet
below us the band had halted on the slippery face of the pyramid,
fearing they knew not what, for they heard the dull sound of the axe
blows, but could not guess what it portended. One of their number was
talking to Don Pedro, apparently urging something upon him to which he
did not agree, and in this way they wasted two minutes before at last
the order was given to rush up the remaining steps and take the temple
by storm.
Two minutes--it was but a short time, yet it meant much, for only a
third of the root remained unsevered, and the bark cracking and
peeling showed how great was the strain upon it.
“Quick,” whispered the señor, “they come,”--and as he spoke the
handle of the axe broke and its head fell to the ground.
“Now if the root holds we are lost,” I said.
But it was not to be, for Molas still had his heavy hunting-knife, and
with this he hewed frantically at the wood. At the third cut it began
to part, torn slowly asunder as though by the strength of a giant, and
while it gave, the vast superincumbent mass of masonry, which it had
helped to support for so many years, shifted a little with a grinding
sound, then hung again.
“Come down, Molas, come down!” cried the señor.
But Molas would not. He struck one more blow, severing the root, then
with a shout of farewell, either through faintness or by design, he
cast himself forward with outstretched arms against the face of the
wall. His weight was little indeed, yet it seemed that it sufficed to
turn the balance as dust turns a scale, for again the trembling mass
moved perceptibly and the tall trees upon the top of it began to nod
as though beneath the sudden pressure of wind. Now it slid forward
faster and faster, while sharp sounds like pistol-shots came from the
heart of it, and the trees above bent like a rod beneath the rush of a
fish. Now also for the first time the villains on the slope below
perceived the doom that threatened them, and uttered such a yell as I
had never heard. Some stood still and some flung themselves down the
stair, one only, Don Pedro himself, rushed forward. It was too late;
the mass of stonework, sixty feet long by twenty in breadth, was
falling. It was falling--it fell, taking Molas with it. With a roar
like that of thunder it struck upon the stairway, and, bursting into
fragments, swept it from end to end. No discharge of grape-shot could
have been so terrible in its effects as this hurricane of stones that
nothing could withstand, for even the big trees which stood in its
path were snapped like sticks and borne away upon its crest, as the
carved masonry that had been carried up the pyramid by the long labour
of the Indians of a bygone age, rushed downward to its foot.
[image: img_145.jpg
caption: The mass of stonework fell, ... taking Molas with it.]
In less than a minute it was done, the sounds had died away, and
nothing was left to tell of what had happened except a little dust and
some remains that had been men. Of all those who stood upon the
stairway only one survived, Don Pedro, who had run forward in the hope
of escaping the fall of the arch. As it chanced he was too late, for
though the mass had missed him, a single stone struck him across the
middle, breaking his bones and sweeping him to the foot of the first
flight, but leaving him alive.
When all was finished, and the dust had fallen to the earth again, the
señor spoke, saying, “Let us go and search for the body of our
deliverer.”
So we went, the three of us, leaving Zibalbay in the temple, but we
could not find it; doubtless to this day Molas lies buried beneath
some of the larger blocks of masonry. There were other bodies indeed,
from which we did not scruple to take the rifles and whatever else was
likely to be of value to us. Better still, tied among some trees near
the foot of the pyramid, we found four good mules, one of them laden
with ammunition and provisions, for Don Pedro had come out determined
to hunt us down, even if he must follow us for days.
Having picketed the mules where they could graze, we returned to the
temple, bearing with us food and drink, of which we stood in sore
need. On our way up the steps, Don Pedro called to us from where he
lay broken and bleeding against an uprooted tree.
“Water,” he cried, “give me water.”
The señor gave him some mixed with brandy that we had found upon the
sumpter mule.
“Your heart is merciful,” said Maya gravely; “I am not cruel, yet I
think that I should suffer that dog to die untended.”
“We all of us have sins to pay for, Lady, and the thought of them
should teach us charity, especially now when it has pleased God to
spare us,” answered the señor.
“I am dying,” moaned the wretch; “my presentiment has come true, and
death finds me amongst ruins. How dare I die who have been a murderer
and a thief from my boyhood?”
The señor shrugged his shoulders, for he could not answer this
question.
“Give me absolution,” he went on, “for the love of Christ, give me
absolution.”
“I cannot,” said the señor; “I have no authority. Pray to Heaven to
shrive you, for your time is short.”
Then he turned and went, but for a long time we were troubled by the
last cries and blasphemies of this most evil man; indeed they did not
cease till sunset, when the devil came to claim his own.