THE CAPTAIN’S STORY.
“I soon found that I had entered on a chase that was to prove more than
I had bargained for. Not that I had any difficulty in picking up the
trail of the stolen cattle—that part was easy enough. I followed it
all day, and at night found myself not far from the river, in a country
creased and criss–crossed by dry gulches and arroyos. It was a gloomy,
desolate–looking place enough, but, as it was growing dark, I had no
choice but to camp there.
“At the bottom of one of the arroyos I found a muddy, ill–smelling pool
of seepage water. It did not taste good, so I fell back on what I had
in my canteen and let the pinto drink it. The sun sank in a red ball of
fire and there was a peculiar sulphury sort of smell in the air. But I
was thinking of other things than the weather and sat up late under the
stars figuring out the situation.
“The result of my mental activities was that I decided to rest till
midnight, when the moon was high, and then plug on again. I knew the
moon would be full, and figured that I could follow the trail all right
by its light. I’ve always been pretty well broken in to the habit of
waking up at the time I want to, and so it was within a few minutes of
twelve o’clock when I was ready to start off once more.
“With my pony saddled, I mounted and was off on the path of adventure
again. All that night I followed the trail, and by morning found myself
over the Border and in Mexico. It was here that I decided to execute
a bit of strategy. In my kit I had, in accordance with a half–formed
scheme which had come into my mind before I set out, placed some
Mexican–looking garments. As I spoke the language well and was dark
enough to be taken for a Mexican anyhow, I didn’t think I’d have much
difficulty in making myself out a native of the country in which I then
was.
“You can readily see why I adopted this precaution. Mexicans always
have, and always will, hate the Gringoes. They can’t help it any
more than they can help their skins being dark. It’s bred in them, I
suppose. So ‘into the enemy’s country’ as it were, I proceeded, feeling
much more secure in my disguise.
“I soon had a chance to learn how nearly I approached to the character
I had assumed. About noon that same day, after crossing a rather barren
stretch of country covered with giant yuccas and stunted trees, I came
in sight of a clump of willows, amidst which smoke was rising. At first
my heart gave a bound. I knew I was still on Alvarez’s trail and for an
instant I thought that he and his band were right ahead of me.
“But I was speedily undeceived. As I drew closer I saw that there
was an adobe hut amidst the willows, and leaning on a gate in a
tumble–down barb wire fence was a wild, unkempt figure, evidently that
of the proprietor of the small, lonely ranch. Beards are rare among
Mexicans, therefore I was somewhat surprised to see that the man I was
approaching had one that almost reached his waist.
“On his face it reached his eyes, forming a little mask of hair, from
amid which a pair of cunning, deep–set eyes scrutinized me closely. I
bid the fellow good–day in Mexican and asked if I could rest and eat
there, as well as obtain hay and water for my pony. He appeared to
hesitate an instant, but then came to a sudden resolution. He swung the
gate open with surly hospitality, and with a wave of his hand invited
me to come in.
“I was not slow to accept the invitation. While he led the pony to
an adobe barn in the rear of the place I entered the house. It was
just like any other Mexican residence. Dark, cool and bare, except for
chairs and a rough table. On the porch, roofed with willow boughs, was
the inevitable water–cooler, or ‘olla,’ of porous earthenware. My host
soon returned from his task of stabling the horse and informed me that
he was keeping bachelor’s hall. His wife, he said, was away visiting
friends in another part of the province.
“It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he had seen anything of
Alvarez, but I refrained, urged to that decision by some mysterious
instinct. While the man prepared a meal of corn paste, dried beef and
frijoles, I caught him eying me curiously once or twice. I had told him
I was a native of another province, on my way to Santa Rosalia, a town
about twenty miles distant. I flattered myself that my disguise was so
good that the fellow had not penetrated it. But in this, as you will
hear, I was grievously wrong.
“The rough meal being cooked, we sat down and ate together. The man
seemed a taciturn, ugly sort of chap, and replied to my questions in a
sullen manner. Moreover, I didn’t half like the way he kept sizing me
up, as it were. But I determined not to meet trouble half way, and made
a good meal with as stout a heart as I could.
“The food despatched, I decided to push on, and informed the man of my
intention. He said he would get my pony for me and left the place. I
was helping myself to a drink from the olla in a gourd cup when my host
reappeared. He looked much distressed, and, on my inquiring what was
the matter, he informed me that my pony was ‘mucho malo’ meaning that
the animal was sick.
“I wasted no words, but hastened to the stable. There, sure enough, was
my poor pinto in a sad state of distress. His eyes were glassy, his
coat wet with sweat, and he was shaking in every limb. One look at the
animal was enough. I saw in a flash that he had been poisoned.
“With what motive it was easy enough to guess. The fellow had only too
clearly seen through my disguise, and, being in sympathy with Alvarez,
had determined to prevent me from following him further.
“My position was about as bad as it could well be. I was several miles
from the Border and in a part of the country entirely strange to me.
My first impulse was to attack the bearded man and seize one of his
ponies in exchange for the one he had poisoned. But on second thoughts
I decided to move more slowly in the matter. I guess I was aided in
this determination by the fact that while I was examining the pony the
bearded man had come stealthily into the stable, and, looking round
suddenly, I caught him eying me intently.
“’What’s the matter with the pony?’ I asked in as easy a tone as I
could assume.
“’Quien sabe?’ rejoined the man with a shrug of his shoulders. He went
on to say that he thought the beast was locoed, meaning that he had
eaten ‘loco’ weed, which possesses the peculiarity of driving horses
crazy if it doesn’t kill them.
“It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I knew a great deal
better, but I held myself in check and appeared to agree with him.
“’Well,’ said I, ‘since the pony is not fit to use, perhaps I can
borrow one from you to continue my journey?’
“But, not much to my surprise, he shook his head. All his ponies, he
said, were in a distant pasture, and till his wife returned he would
not have one. He had hardly said this when there came a shrill whinny
from some nearby point. Had the animal that uttered it meant to give
the lie to his words, it could not have done so more effectually.
“As it was useless to affect not to have heard the whinny, I asked
him how it was that the noise could have been heard so plainly from a
distant pasture. He eyed me narrowly as he rejoined that the wind must
have carried the sound.
“I kept my composure and merely nodded.
“’How far is it to the pasture?’ I asked.
“’Oh, quite some distance; too far to walk,’ he said.
“’Nevertheless, I’ll try to walk it,’ rejoined I, ‘for I must have a
pony to continue my journey with.’
“At this he seemed to have arrived at a bold determination to cast all
disguise aside.
“’Your journey stops here, beast of a Gringo!’ he shouted, and sprang
at me like a tiger.
“Now I am of a pretty husky build, but what with the suddenness of the
attack and the really remarkable strength of the man, I was completely
taken off my guard. The fellow had me by the throat and was shaking the
life out of me before I knew what had happened. What defense I could
make I did. Whether I could have bested him or not I do not know, for
in the height of our struggling I was thrown against the heels of my
pony and the little brute lashed out viciously. One of its hoofs struck
me, and I felt my senses go out under the blow.
“When I came to, I was lying in pitch darkness. As you can imagine, it
was some little time before I could recollect just what had happened.
When remembrance rushed back I pulled myself together and took stock.
I found that I had received a blow on the side of the head, which,
although painful, did not appear to be so bad as might have been
expected.
“My next step was naturally to ascertain where I was. Groping about, I
found that I was in a room, and there was little doubt in my mind that
the room was in the house of the Mexican. As I had not been bound, the
inference was plain that he had not thought it worth while to do so
because there was no way of escape from the room.
“Fumbling in my pockets, I was rather surprised to find their contents
intact. My knife, matches and money all were there. Perhaps the bearded
man had intended to rifle me at his leisure, or perhaps he had not
thought it worth while. However that may be, I was rejoiced beyond
measure to find that at least I had the means of making a light.
“I struck a match and as its yellow light flickered up I saw that my
prison place was a bare room with whitewashed walls, one small window
high up, and a heavy door with formidable–looking iron hinges and lock.
I was approaching the door with the intention of trying if it was
possible to effect an escape that way when a key grated in the keyhole.
“At the same instant the match burned my fingers and went out.”