"Oh yes, you do. She started for La Feria. But--did she get there? Or
did Longorio have other plans for her? You'd better tell me the truth,
for your general can't help you now." Dave did his best to read the
Mexican's expression, but failed. "Señor Ed's death means nothing to
me," he went on, "but I must know where his wife is, and I'm willing to
pay, with your liberty." In spite of himself his anxiety was plain.
José exclaimed: "Ho! I understand. He was in your way and you're glad
to be rid of him. Well, we have no business fighting with each other."
"Will you tell me--?"
"I'll tell you nothing, for I know nothing."
"Come! I must know."
José laughed insolently.
Law's face became black with sudden fury. His teeth bared themselves.
He took a step forward, crying:
"By God! You WILL tell me!" Seizing his prisoner by the throat, he
pinned him to the wall; then with his free hand he cocked Longorio's
revolver and thrust its muzzle against José's body. "Tell me!" he
repeated. His countenance was so distorted, his expression so maniacal,
that José felt his hour had come. The latter, being in all ways
Mexican, did not struggle; instead, he squared his shoulders and,
staring fearlessly into the face above him, cried:
"Shoot!"
For a moment the two men remained so; then Dave seemed to regain
control of himself and the murder light flickered out of his eyes. He
flung his prisoner aside and cast the revolver into a corner of the
room.
José picked himself up, cursing his captor eloquently. "You Gringos
don't know how to die," he said. "Death? Pah! We must die some time.
And supposing I do know something about the señora, do you think you
can force me to speak? Torture wouldn't open my lips."
Law did not trust himself to reply; and the horse-breaker went on with
growing defiance:
"I am innocent of any crime; therefore I am brave. But you--The blood
of innocent men means nothing to you--Panfilo's murder proves that--so
complete your work. Make an end of me."
"Be still!" Dave commanded, thickly.
But the fellow's hatred was out of bounds now, and by the bitterness of
his vituperation he seemed to invite death. Dave interrupted his
vitriolic curses to ask harshly:
"Will you tell me, or will you force me to wring the truth out of you?"
José answered by spitting at his captor; then he gritted an unspeakable
epithet from between his teeth.
Dave addressed him with an air of finality. "You killed that man and
your life is forfeit, so it doesn't make much difference whether I take
it or whether the State takes it. You are brave enough to die--most of
you Mexicans are--but the State can't force you to speak, and I can."
José sneered. "Oh yes, I can! I intend to know all that you know, and
it will be better for you to tell me voluntarily. I must learn where
Señora Austin is, and I must learn quickly, if I have to kill you by
inches to get the truth."
"So! Torture, eh? Good. I can believe it of you. Well, a slow fire will
not make me speak."
"No. A fire would be too easy, José."
"Eh?"
Without answer Dave strode out of the room. He was back before his
prisoner could do more than wrench at his bonds, and with him he
brought his lariat and his canteen.
"What are you going to do?" José inquired, backing away until he was
once more at bay.
"I'm going to give you a drink."
"Whisky? You think you can make me drunk?" The horse-breaker laughed
loudly but uneasily.
"Not whisky; water. I'm going to give you a drink of water."
"What capers!"
"When you've drunk enough you'll tell me why you killed your employer
and where General Longorio has taken his wife. Yes, and everything else
I want to know." Seizing the amazed Mexican, Dave flung him upon
Morales's hard board bed, and in spite of the fellow's struggles deftly
made him fast. When he had finished--and it was no easy job--José lay
"spread-eagled" upon his back, his wrists and ankles firmly bound to
the head and foot posts, his body secured by a tight loop over his
waist. The rope cut painfully and brought a curse from the prisoner
when he strained at it. Law surveyed him with a face of stone.
"I don't want to do this," he declared, "but I know your kind. I give
you one more chance. Will you tell me?"
José drew his lips back in a snarl of rage and pain, and Dave realized
that further words were useless. He felt a certain pity for his victim
and no little admiration for his courage, but such feelings were of
small consequence as against his agonizing fears for Alaire's safety.
Had he in the least doubted José's guilty knowledge of Longorio's
intentions, Dave would have hesitated before employing the barbarous
measures he had in mind, but--there was nothing else for it. He pulled
the canteen cork and jammed the mouthpiece firmly to José's lips.
Closing the fellow's nostrils with his free hand, he forced him to
drink.
José clenched his teeth, he tried to roll his head, he held his breath
until his face grew purple and his eyes bulged. He strained like a man
upon the rack. The bed creaked to his muscular contortions; the rope
tightened. It was terribly cruel, this crushing of a strong will bent
on resistance to the uttermost; but never was an executioner more
pitiless, never did a prisoner's agony receive less consideration. The
warm water spilled over José's face, it drenched his neck and chest;
his joints cracked as he strove for freedom and tried to twist his head
out of Law's iron grasp. The seconds dragged, until finally Nature
asserted herself. The imprisoned breath burst forth; there sounded a
loud gurgling cry and a choking inhalation. José's body writhed with
the convulsions of drowning as the water and air were sucked into his
lungs. Law was kneeling over his victim now, his weight and strength so
applied that José had no liberty of action and could only drink,
coughing and fighting for air. Somehow he managed to revive himself
briefly and again shut his teeth; but a moment more and he was again
retched with the furious battle for air, more desperate now than
before. After a while Law freed his victim's nostrils and allowed him a
partial breath, then once more crushed the mouthpiece against his lips.
By and by, to relieve his torture, José began to drink in great noisy
gulps, striving to empty the vessel.
But the stomach's capacity is limited. In time José felt himself
bursting; the liquid began to regurgitate. This was not mere pain that
he suffered, but the ultimate nightmare horror of a death more awful
than anything he had ever imagined. José would have met a bullet, a
knife, a lash, without flinching; flames would not have served to
weaken his resolve; but this slow drowning was infinitely worse than
the worst he had thought possible; he was suffocating by long, black,
agonizing minutes. Every nerve and muscle of his body, every cell in
his bursting lungs, fought against the outrage in a purely physical
frenzy over which his will power had no control. Nor would
insensibility come to his relief--Law watched him too carefully for
that. He could not even voice his sufferings by shrieks; he could only
writhe and retch and gurgle while the ropes bit into his flesh and his
captor knelt upon him like a monstrous stone weight.
But José had made a better fight than he knew. The canteen ran dry at
last, and Law was forced to release his hold.
"Will you speak?" he demanded.
Thinking that he had come safely through the ordeal, José shook his
head; he rolled his bulging, bloodshot eyes and vomited, then managed
to call God to witness his innocence.
Dave went into the next room and refilled the canteen. When he
reappeared with the dripping vessel in his hand, José tried to scream.
But his throat was torn and strained; the sound of his own voice
frightened him.
Once more the torment began. The tortured man was weaker now, and in
consequence he resisted more feebly; but not until he was less than
half conscious did Law spare him time to recover.
José lay sick, frightened, inert. Dave watched him without pity. The
fellow's wrists were black and swollen, his lips were bleeding; he was
stretched like a dumb animal upon the vivisectionist's table, and no
surgeon with lance and scalpel could have shown less emotion than did
his inquisitor. Having no intention of defeating his own ends, Dave
allowed his victim ample time in which to regain his ability to suffer.
Alaire Austin had been right when she said that Dave might be ruthless;
and yet the man was by no means incapable of compassion. At the present
moment, however, he considered himself simply as the instrument by
which Alaire was to be saved. His own feelings had nothing to do with
the matter; neither had the sufferings of this Mexican. Therefore he
steeled himself to prolong the agony until the murderer's stubborn
spirit was worn down. Once again he put his question, and, again
receiving defiance, jammed the canteen between José's teeth.
But human nature is weak. For the first time in his life José Sanchez
felt terror--a terror too awful to be endured--and he made the sign.
He was no longer the insolent defier, the challenger, but an imploring
wretch, whose last powers of resistance had been completely shattered.
His frightened eyes were glued to that devilish vessel in which his
manhood had dissolved, the fear of it made a woman of him.
Slowly, in sighs and whimpers, in agonies of reluctance, his story
came; his words were rendered almost incomprehensible by his abysmal
fright. When he had purged himself of his secret Dave promptly unbound
him; then leaving him more than half dead, he went to the telephone
which connected the pumping station with Las Palmas and called up the
ranch.
He was surprised when Blaze Jones answered. Blaze, it seemed, had just
arrived, summoned by news of the tragedy. The countryside had been
alarmed and a search for Ed Austin's slayer was being organized.
"Call it off," Dave told him. "I've got your man." Blaze stuttered his
surprise and incredulity. "I mean it. It's José Sanchez, and he has
confessed. I want you to come here, quick; and come alone, if you don't
mind. I need your help."
Inside of ten minutes Jones piloted his automobile into the clearing
beside the river, and, leaving his motor running, leaped from the car.
Dave met him at the door of the Morales house and briefly told him the
story of José's capture.
"Say! That's quick work," the rancher cried, admiringly. "Why, Ed ain't
cold yet! You gave him the 'water-cure,' eh? Now I reckoned it would
take more than water to make a Mexican talk."
"José was hired for the work; he laid for Ed Austin in the pecan grove
and shot him as he passed."
"Hired! Why this hombre needs quick hangin', don't he? I told 'em at
Las Palmas that you'd rounded up the guilty party, so I reckon they'll
be here in a few minutes. We'll just stretch this horse-wrangler, and
save the county some expense." Law shrugged. "Do what you like with
him, but--it isn't necessary. He'll confess in regulation form, I'm
sure. I had to work fast to learn what became of Mrs. Austin."
"Miz Austin? What's happened to her?"
Dave's voice changed; there was a sudden quickening of his words.
"They've got her, Blaze. They waited until they had her safe before
they killed Ed."
"'They?' Who the hell are you talkin' about?"
"I mean Longorio and his outfit. He's got her over yonder." Dave flung
out a trembling hand toward the river. Seeing that his hearer failed to
comprehend, he explained, swiftly: "He's crazy about her--got one of
those Mexican infatuations--and you know what that means. He couldn't
steal her from Las Palmas--she wouldn't have anything to do with
him--so he used that old cattle deal as an excuse to get her across the
border. Then he put Ed out of the way. She went of her own accord, and
she didn't tell Austin, because they were having trouble. She's gone to
La Feria, Blaze."
"La Feria! Then she's in for it."
Dave nodded his agreement; for the first time Blaze noted how white and
set was his friend's face.
"Longorio must have foreseen what was coming," Dave went on. "That
country's aflame; Americans aren't safe over there. If war is declared,
a good many of them will never be heard from. He knows that. He's got
her safe. She can't get out."
Blaze was very grave when next he spoke. "Dave, this is bad--bad. I
can't understand what made her go. Why, she must have been out of her
head. But we've got to do something. We've got to burn the wires to
Washington--yes, and to Mexico City. We must get the government to send
soldiers after her. God! What have we got 'em for, anyhow?"
"Washington won't do anything. What can be done when there are
thousands of American women in the same danger? What steps can the
government take, with the fleet on its way to Vera Cruz, with the army
mobilizing, and with diplomatic relations suspended? Those Greasers are
filling their jails with our people--rounding 'em up for the day of the
big break--and the State Department knows it. No, Longorio saw it all
coming--he's no fool. He's got her; she's in there--trapped."
Blaze took the speaker by the shoulder and faced him about. "Look
here," said he, "I'm beginnin' to get wise to you. I believe
you're--the man in the case." When Dave nodded, he vented his amazement
in a long whistle. After a moment he asked, "Well, why did you want me
to come here alone, ahead of the others?"
"Because I want you to know the whole inside of this thing so that you
can get busy when I'm gone; because I want to borrow what money you
have--"
"What you aimin' to pull off?" Blaze inquired, suspiciously.
"I'm going to find her and bring her out."
"You? Why, Dave, you can't get through. This is a job for the soldiers."
But Dave hardly seemed to hear him. "You must start things moving at
once," he said, urgently. "Spread the news, get the story into the
papers, notify the authorities. Get every influence at work, from here
to headquarters; get your Senator and the Governor of the state at
work. Ellsworth will help you. And now give me your last dollar."
Blaze emptied his pockets, shaking his shaggy head the while. "La Feria
is a hundred and fifty miles in," he remonstrated.
"By rail from Pueblo, yes. But it's barely a hundred, straight from
here."
"You 'ain't got a chance, single-handed. You're crazy to try it."
The effect of these words was startling, for Dave laughed harshly.
"'Crazy' is the word," he agreed. "It's a job for a lunatic, and that's
me. Yes, I've got bad blood in me, Blaze--bad blood--and I'm taking it
back where I got it. But listen!" He turned a sick, colorless face to
his friend. "They'll whittle a cross for Longorio if I do get through."
He called to Montrosa, and the mare came to him, holding her head to
one side so as not to tread upon her dragging reins.
"I'm 'most tempted to go with you," Blaze stammered, uncertainly.
"No. Somebody has to stay here and stir things up, If we had twenty men
like you we might cut our way in and out, but there's no time to
organize, and, anyhow, the government would probably stop us. I've got
a hunch that I'll make it. If I don't--why, it's all right."
The two men shook hands lingeringly, awkwardly; then Blaze managed to
wish his friend luck. "If you don't come back," he said, with a
peculiar catch in his voice, "I reckon there's enough good Texans left
to follow your trail. I'll sure look forward to it."
Dave took the river-bank to Sangre de Cristo, where, by means of the
dilapidated ferry, he gained the Mexican side. Once across, he rode
straight up toward the village of Romero. When challenged by an
under-sized soldier he merely spurred Montrosa forward, eyeing the
sentry so grimly that the man did no more than finger his rifle
uncertainly, cursing under his breath the overbearing airs of all
Gringos. Nor did the rider trouble to make the slightest detour, but
cantered the full length of Romero's dusty street, the target of more
than one pair of hostile eyes. To those who saw him, soldiers and
civilians alike, it was evident that this stranger had business, and no
one felt called upon to question its nature. There are men who carry an
air more potent than a bodyguard, and Dave Law was one of these. Before
the village had thoroughly awakened to his coming he was gone, without
a glance to the right or left, without a word to anyone.
When Romero was at his back he rode for a mile or two through a region
of tiny scattered farms and neglected garden patches, after which he
came out into the mesquite. For all the signs he saw, he might then
have been in the heart of a foreign country. Mexico had swallowed him.
As the afternoon heat subsided, Montrosa let herself out into a freer
gait and began to cover the distance rapidly, heading due west through
a land of cactus and dagger, of thorn and barb and bramble.
The roads were unfenced, the meadows desolate; the huts were frequently
untenanted. Ahead the sky burned splendidly, and the sunset grew more
brilliant, more dazzling, until it glorified the whole mean, thirsty,
cruel countryside.
Dave's eyes were set upon that riot of blazing colors, but for the time
it failed to thrill him. In that welter of changing hues and tints he
saw only red. Red! That was the color of blood; it stood for passion,
lust, violence; and it was a fitting badge of color for this land of
revolutions and alarms. At first he saw little else--except the hint of
black despair to follow. But there was gold in the sunset, too--the
yellow gold of ransom! That was Mexico--red and yellow, blood and gold,
lust and license. Once the rider's fancy began to work in this fashion,
it would not rest, and as the sunset grew in splendor he found in it
richer meanings. Red was the color of a woman's lips--yes, and a
woman's hair. The deepening blue of the high sky overhead was the hue
of a certain woman's eyes. A warm, soft breeze out of the west beat
into his face, and he remembered how warm and soft Alaire's breath had
been upon his cheek.
The woman of his desires was yonder, where those colors warred, and she
was mantled in red and gold and purple for his coming. The thought
aroused him; the sense of his unworthiness vanished, the blight fell
from him; he felt only a throbbing eagerness to see her and to take her
in his arms once more before the end.
With his head high and his face agleam, he rode into the west, into the
heart of the sunset.