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.