Held For Ransom
And while Phil was eating his meal, a conversation was taking place
between Espato and Juan Arigo, his lieutenant, which affected the
captive very closely.
Directly after Phil had been locked up in his prison again, Arigo had
drawn his chief apart from the others and had begun to talk earnestly
with him, hands and arms gesticulating wildly.
At first Espato had not appeared particularly pleased with the
suggestions of his lieutenant, but gradually his face had cleared and
into his eyes had crept a covetous gleam.
“Perhaps you are right, Arigo,” he said at last and fell to stroking his
chin thoughtfully.
“I know I am right,” retorted the lieutenant with a mixture of deference
and boldness. Next to the bandit chief he was the worst feared man in
all the Mexican country. “Loot has been scarce. Our larders are nearly
empty. Someway we must fill them. This young Americano is a chance sent
from heaven.”
The chief nodded slowly.
“His friends will pay one grand ransom,” he said, rubbing his hands
together as though he already felt the good American gold between them.
“They think much of this Americano—and with reason. He is dangerous to
the Mexicans—ver-ry dangerous. He rob us of prisoners, of money, he make
of me a marked man, this scar upon my forehead so that everyone may know
me. He is most desperate. He iss dangerous to Mexicans. He should die.”
It was plain that he was working himself into a passion and Arigo
shrugged indifferently.
“Kill the Americano—no loot,” he said, adding slyly, “The money of the
Americanos buys many things.”
Espato hesitated, the scowl on his scarred forehead deepening.
“It is true that we need gold,” he said, “But to let that scoundrel go
free, to fly in his accursed bird machine over the Mexican camp,
dropping bombs, to laugh as the Mexicans die. No, it is too much you
ask. Not even for the sake of gold—much gold—will I relinquish my
vengeance.”
Then it was that Arigo leaned over to whisper slyly into the ear of his
chief. Whatever his message, it had an instantaneous and most happy
effect upon Espato. He smiled, he beamed, he clapped Arigo heartily upon
the back.
“Aha, you are of good counsel, my frien’,” he said, beamingly. “It is
queer that I did not think of the thing myself. It is so ver-ry simple.
We get the money from the stupid Americano—lots money, yess—an’ we still
have the young Americano in our power for which they pay this gold. We
shall still have our vengeance. A joke, Arigo. How we shall laugh!”
Together they roared with laughter and then went jovially back to join
their comrades about the fire.
Meanwhile, Phil, finishing the last crumb on the tray, was feeling
distinctly more hopeful. In spite of the fact that there still seemed no
possibility of finding a convenient radio set anywhere, he had begun to
believe, against reason, perhaps, that some way or other, his chums
would find out his whereabouts and come to his rescue.
The taunts of Espato and his threats of torture began to seem
impossible, fantastic. In these days such things didn’t happen. And yet,
despite all his hopefulness he knew beyond a shadow of reasonable doubt,
that such things did happen, in Espato’s camp, at least.
When he had finished, the Mexican who, all this time, had remained at
his side, grunted something and Phil glanced up at him inquiringly.
The Mexican was holding out the rope which he had removed from Phil’s
wrists so that he might eat. Phil understood. The fellow was going to
bind him up again.
He looked at his wrists, red and swollen from the pressure of the ropes
and then glanced up at the sullen Mexican with a disarming smile.
“I couldn’t get out of this place,” he said, waving his hands at the
blank walls, “not if I had twenty arms and legs and all of them free, at
that. It would be lots more comfortable if you didn’t truss me up
again.”
The Mexican hesitated, and in his eyes was again that strange, softened
look. If the fellow was not actively sympathetic, then neither was he
actively unfriendly.
Phil sensed something of all this and he thrilled with hope. If he could
make a friend at camp—but again he laughed at himself for being an
idiot. Imagining the impossible again!
The Mexican was slowly shaking his head.
“No can do,” he said in laborious English. “Espato say ‘Tie up
Americano.’ Ver’ well, Tony Gomez he do so. Espato word—law, senor.”
Something about the way he uttered Espato’s name made Phil glance at him
sharply. He was dreaming again—or had there really been a cold dislike
in the man’s voice?
But no, the Mexican’s dark, sullen face was as impassive as ever. He was
still holding out the bonds with a resigned patience. With a sigh Phil
rose and clasped his hands behind his back. There was no use fighting.
He might just as well submit.
But the Mexican grunted again and again Phil looked at him inquiringly.
The man was motioning him to put his hands in front.
“No tie ’em behind back,” he said. “Americano no can sleep. Tie ’em in
front.”
Phil was duly grateful for this small kindness and told the Mexican
so—although, as a matter of fact, he couldn’t imagine himself sleeping
in that rat-infested place, especially with a hard pallet as his only
bed.
Tony Gomez left him soon after that, taking with him the empty tray and
the candle. Not another word had passed between Phil and the young
Mexican, and yet, foolish as he told himself it was, he had been
strangely reassured by the other’s manner.
“That fellow isn’t very much in sympathy with old Espato,” he thought
as, stretched out on his hard bed, he thought over the harrowing events
of the night. “There was something in his voice when he spoke of him a
while ago, that sounded as if he had it in for the old scoundrel, I
suppose that isn’t unusual though,” he added, thoughtfully. “Probably
there are lots of his men who aren’t in sympathy with all the things
their chief does. They simply obey him because they’re afraid to do
anything else. But there you are again,” he told himself, once more
yielding to utter discouragement. “Even if this Antonio Gomez, or
whatever his name is, really wanted to help me out—which of course, he
doesn’t—he wouldn’t dare. I suppose that old scoundrel Espato would hack
him into little pieces if he should find him out. He seems to enjoy
doing that sort of thing.” And he shivered as he thought of the various
kinds of torture Espato had promised him.
Outside there rose the sound of loud laughter. Evidently Espato and his
followers were making merry—celebrating his capture, perhaps and the
enjoyment they expected to have in torturing him, later on.
It was maddening to lie there so near the outside world and freedom and
yet to feel himself bound, a captive, utterly at the mercy of a
scoundrel who was notoriously known to show no mercy.
Phil ground his teeth and tried to shift to another position which might
prove a little less uncomfortable.
“If ever I get out of this alive,” he thought, miserably, “Make believe
I won’t appreciate a good bed again. It’s funny how you never do half
appreciate those things until you have to do without them. But I guess I
won’t have to worry about beds or anything else very much longer,” he
added, bitterly. “I guess Espato was right. I’ve pretty near fought my
last fight.”
Toward morning, just as dawn was breaking over the hills, he fell
asleep.