In Bitter Bondage
At the sound of the dreaded Espato’s name, uttered by the little
Mexican, Phil had a fleeting instant of despair. He had guessed into
whose hands he had fallen but he had not been sure. While there had been
a shadow of uncertainty, there had been also, hope. But now—.
Up, up, climbed the straggling party till it seemed that they must reach
the top of the world. Twice again Phil’s horse stumbled and almost fell,
only to be lashed viciously to his feet. And each time Phil struggled
with the desire to cry aloud in his agony. How much further? How much
further?
And yet, even while he longed for the end of this nightmare ride, Phil
shuddered away from the thought of what would really happen to him when
they reached the end of it. Torture—death—if only they would put death
first!
There might be a chance of escape, but that chance would be slight, to
say the least. Espato’s mountain strongholds were famous because they
were well nigh impregnable. Once within one of those dungeons—again Phil
stopped thinking.
There was Dick and Steve and good old Tom, and for a moment, the thought
of them brought hope. But the next moment his heart sank again. He knew
how slight the chance of rescue was. Why the fellows had no clue to work
on. To them it would seem that he had disappeared just as completely as
though the earth had opened and swallowed him up.
Then, the relief of traveling on even ground again, the glare of an
immense camp fire in his eyes and the mingled shouts and commands and
greetings uttered in the guttural Mexican tongue.
The little Mexican who had ridden close to Phil, now leaned over with a
leer on his evil face.
“We have arrive, Americano,” he announced. “Awake so that you may meet
the great Espato with all the humility which ees due so great a man.
Arouse yourself, Americano.” And with the words he kicked the captive
scornfully.
Phil’s helpless fingers gripped themselves together, causing the bonds
to bite deeper into the raw flesh. Phil never felt the sudden increase
in pain. He was too hot with rage.
“The dog,” he fumed helplessly. “If I ever get out of this, I’ll show
him.”
Amid a confused impression of innumerable horses and men, a babble of
coarse jests and laughter and the sullen flickering of the fire, Phil
was dragged from his horse and was half led, half pushed, half carried,
along by a couple of ruffians who spat upon him and called him vile
names. Then he was flung unceremoniously into a dark apartment, a final
kick administered by way of good measure and he was left alone. A
padlock clicked ominously and Phil could hear the voices of his captors
dying away as they went to join their comrades.
For a moment he lay as they had left him, face lown on the dank stone
floor, too utterly exhausted to move a muscle.
His body was bruised with the kicks and cuffs of his captors, the pain
in his wrists and ankles was almost unendurable, his head throbbed
dully. And yet there was a great relief in lying upon a surface that did
not rock and jolt, upon which one might lie quiet, conscious of each
aching muscle—.
After awhile he started to roll over slowly, painfully, upon his back.
It was an almost impossible feat, considering that his hands were bound
behind him and his ankles tied together so that every motion caused him
almost unendurable agony.
But after an age of dogged trying, he accomplished it at last and lay on
his back, straining his eyes in the attempt to distinguish the outlines
of this prison.
There was a slit about big enough to allow a man’s hand to pass through,
evidently a crevice in the rock. Phil figured that if he were standing
the slit would be about on a level with his head. Through this
make-believe window there flickered a faint red glow, probably a
reflection of the glare from the fire without.
As Phil’s eyes became more accustomed to the darkness he distinguished a
bulky object running along one side of the dungeon—probably belonging to
that type of prison furniture which serves as a bench in the day time
and a bed at night.
There was a damp, musty smell about the place, intolerably close and
stifling and there was a scuffling over in one corner suggestive of
rats.
If he could only get his feet free for a moment, thought Phil
desperately. There must be some way out of the place if he could only
find it.
For a moment he thought furiously of breaking his bonds by sheer
strength, but his tortured flesh cried out so in protest that he was
forced to give up the attempt.
Anyway, if he should break his bonds, what good would it do him? Here he
was in what seemed to be a cavern hollowed out from the heart of the
rock. There was one little aperture about big enough for his hand to go
through. The only other exit was the door and that was bolted and
padlocked securely.
“I’m caught and I might as well make up my mind to it,” he thought
bitterly. Then, because it hurt his wrists still more to lie on his
back, he began the slow and painful process of turning on his face
again.
He was conscious suddenly of a new and overwhelming discomfort. He was
hungry—ravenously hungry. For an hour, whose every minute seemed an age,
he lay there, motionless while his feet and hands lost all sense of
feeling. He wondered miserably if part of Espato’s plan of torture
included starving him to death.
At last came the sound of a bolt being withdrawn, a key clicked in the
lock and two men entered his prison. Looking up, he saw that one of them
was the little Mexican who had ridden close to him on that nightmare
journey.
“Take the rope off hees feet, Pedro,” he directed his companion. “It is
necessary that he walk into the great Espato’s presence.”
The rope was being removed from about his feet—none too gently, at that.
Then the two men lifting him up, forcing him to stand upon what seemed
like two flabby pincushions, into which the pins were beginning to stick
agonizingly.
Phil never forgot that awful march into the presence of the bandit
chief, his two captors driving him on relentlessly with blows and kicks,
his feet aching with a pain that is like nothing else in all the world,
the pain of blood rushing into a part of the body from which it had been
cut off.
Then he had been pushed into the glare of the fire, swaying on his
tortured feet while innumerable swarthy faces leered at him mockingly.
Summoning all his strength he gave them back glare for glare
dauntlessly.
There was a murmuring in the crowd of men, a deferential giving way as a
swart, stocky man, pushed his way through. Instantly Phil forgot all the
others as he gazed at this man. For there was a long, ugly gash across
his forehead and in that startled moment Phil recognized the man as the
one whom he had struck with his revolver upon that memorable day when
the Mexicans had tried to surround the plane and he and his chums had
made their spectacular escape.
And by the gleam in the other’s eye it could be seen that he also
recognized Phil.
“So,” said the Mexican in a soft, drawling voice—Phil was later to learn
that when this man spoke in his gentlest accents, the danger was
greatest, “You have come to me, Americano, like a little lamb to the
slaughter. You fight well, senor,” with a slight motion of his hand
toward the scar on his forehead. “But something, perhaps it is a little
bird, whispers to me, the great Espato, that you have fought your last
fight, Americano.”
Then the great truth dawned upon Phil. It had been no other than the
bandit Chief himself who had been knocked out in such a masterly manner
by the blow of his—Phil’s—own revolver. At memory of that beautiful
scrimmage Phil momentarily forgot his great danger. He even grinned.
“Well, Espato,” he said, “perhaps you’re right about my having scrapped
my last scrap, but at least,” his mocking eyes on the ugly scar which
adorned the man’s forehead, “I gave you something to remember me by.”