A Blow in the Dark
Perhaps, the thought leaped into his head, lending speed to his retreat,
if he hurried, he might even now get back to camp and summon help in
time to apprehend the rascals.
And always as he crept along he had the sensation that someone was
following him, keeping step with him. Once he could almost have sworn
that he detected a footstep other than his own. Yet, when he stopped,
nothing but deep silence greeted him. There was no sign of a human
presence.
He had begun to fear that, in the darkness he had mistaken his path
again when a soft whinning right ahead of him, made his heart jump with
gladness. A few steps more and he could see the bulk of his bay horse
looming against the dusk. The animal was straining a little at the leash
and stamping impatiently.
“Getting hungry, poor old boy,” thought Phil, adding, with a grin, as he
stepped out into the open. “And he isn’t the only one. Say, won’t the
fellows open their eyes when I spin my yarn to them? They’ll be green
with envy to think they weren’t in on it. Hi, old boy,” this last softly
to the big horse, as he began to unfasten the tethering rope, “it’s us
for camp now as hard as you can gallop.”
He was about to swing into the saddle when again the suspicion,
amounting, this time, to certainty that someone was following him,
caused him to turn sharply about.
A rustling of underbrush, the swift vision of a villainous club upraised
to strike, then—a terrific pain in his head, a drifting off into
illimitable space, then—nothingness!
It was a long time before Phil awoke to the consciousness of anything.
And then, the pain in his head was so unbearable that he almost wished
he might go back to sleep again.
He was lying on something that bumped horribly and it was several
minutes before he summoned interest enough in life to find out what it
was. There was a terrible pain in his wrists and his whole body felt
numb and dead.
At last he was able to prop his swollen eyelids open far enough to find
that he was bound fast to his horse and that a villainous-looking
person, mounted on a rangy Mexican pony was urging the big bay on at a
pace that was almost a gallop. No wonder his head ached, bound as he
was, face down to the loping animal.
There were other horsemen in the party, a considerable number, Phil
thought, judging from the noise they made. They were evidently quite
hilarious, gutturally shouting coarse jokes back and forth.
Because the pain in his head was so great, Phil closed his eyes. He
tried to think. These were Mexicans who had captured him, without a
doubt, in all probability a band of the dreaded outlaws. If they were
some of Espato’s men, then indeed was he in a tight fix. Espato had
sworn to have the lives of his chums and himself. Well, here was his
chance to have a hack at one of them anyway. It is characteristic of
Phil that, even in this moment of danger, he could spare a thought for
his chums. He was glad that Captain Bradley had been firm in his refusal
to allow them to accompany him on this adventure. At least they were
safe at camp.
At thought of camp Phil shivered a little, a wave of intense longing
engulfing him. Would he ever see camp again? Then, because it made his
head ache worse than ever, he tried not to think. It was no use. The
horrible thoughts whirled about in his aching brain maddeningly.
Espato! Those tales they had heard in camp of his cruelty to prisoners.
Such hideous things had been done in that remote camp of his in the
mountains. Phil shuddered again and the slight motion caused the bonds
about his wrists to cut deeper into the flesh. They sure had trussed him
up neatly, he thought with a grimace of pain as he crouched closer to
the neck of his horse.
The Mexican who was riding next to him noticed the motion and laughed
hoarsely.
“Aha, young feller,” he cried in his broken English. “You have decide to
come back to this cold world, eh? I theenk you will find it one verry
cold world—yess.” Again he laughed and the laughter was taken up by the
others, sneering, mocking, making the blood run cold in Phil’s veins.
The next moment he was on fire with rage. Cowards—to taunt a fellow when
they knew he was helpless to strike back. Just let them loose those
cruel bonds from his hand and feet and he’d show ’em.
But in his heart he knew there would be no loosening of those bonds and
he had to grit his teeth to bear the pain of them. The Mexicans
continued to laugh and jeer at him and he tried his best to close his
ears to their taunts. If only he could manage to keep quiet! If only he
could make them think that he did not hear!
He knew the hopelessness, under the circumstances, of answering them. It
would only be giving them the chance they were looking for, to hurl
further insult upon him.
Those bonds, those bonds—if only he might have them loosened for half a
moment, just long enough to allow the blood to flow into his numbed
fingers. A groan found its way to his tightly pressed lips, but he
managed, somehow, to stifle it. He would not make an outcry. He would
die before he would let them know how he was suffering! Doggedly, he set
his teeth still harder.
He tried to think back to that moment when he had been struck. He
remembered thinking in that second of time before the uplifted cudgel
had crashed down on his head that he had been discovered by some of
Murray’s gang. That was the natural supposition. Having caught him in
the act of eavesdropping and fearing that he knew too much of their
plans, the thieves would want nothing so much as to put him out of the
way.
But it had not been one of Murray’s gang who had struck that murderous
blow. That was moderately certain since he was now riding over the
desert, a captive of Mexican bandits. It had almost surely been a
Mexican who had attacked him.
Then, like a flash, came the recollection, of his strange certainty that
someone had been dogging his steps back there in the woods. He had
thought it only his imagination, when, in reality it had been fact.
Followed as a cat follows a mouse, silently, relentlessly, awaiting the
right moment to spring. At the thought, a creepy sensation traveled up
and down his spine. It was horrible to think of himself being followed
like that.
And now, that the cat had caught the mouse, he supposed that the cat
would proceed to play with it, in the playful little manner that is
common to cats.
Phil’s heart misgave him. It was not a pleasant thought, being played
with by Espato! The old scoundrel seldom killed his victims outright. He
took plenty of time about it so that he might enjoy the execution to the
full. Espato was even longer on torture than the cat. Having come this
far in his reflections, Phil refused to think further. It wouldn’t do to
think very much about such things.
Then he thought of Murray and his gang of thieves going scot free and he
was forced to smother another groan. If only he might have managed to
get his message through to camp before his capture. It would have been
such a great thing, to have apprehended the thieves and perhaps have
restored the entire amount of money stolen from the Castleton bank. And
now they in all probability would be allowed to get away without any
punishment at all.
He had little time to think about this however, for the sinister little
group of horsemen soon deserted the desert for the woods and there began
a slow and tortuous climb up a steep, rocky, mountain path, that seemed
to Phil a never-ending horror.
The little Mexican ponies made easy work of it, but Phil’s big horse,
urged on relentlessly by the Mexican who rode close to them, stumbled
several times and once almost fell, wrenching Phil’s tortured wrists so
horribly that in spite of all he could do a little whispered cry of pain
escaped him.
“Aha,” cried the Mexican delightedly. “The Americano suffers. Good. But
it ees nothing to what he will suffer. Be prepared, Americano. Espato,
he wait for you!”