Prisoners and Loot
Phil never forgot those next few days of his imprisonment. Monotonously
the hours dragged by while the prisoner paced the tiny cell, grinding
his teeth in rage at his predicament.
If it had not been for the occasional visits of the friendly Mexican
girl, Juanita, and the strong, though silent, sympathy of Tony Gomez,
his imprisonment would have been altogether intolerable. But the thought
that he had two good, though probably helpless, friends in the enemy
camp, helped to buoy him up with the hope that, sooner or later, there
might come the chance for his escape.
Tony Gomez was not so much Phil’s friend—though in his heart was a
sincere admiration for the Americano’s courage—as he was Espato’s enemy.
Phil, trying to draw the Mexican out, one day as to the cause of this
enemy, finally drove Gomez to a pitch of excitement where he momentarily
forgot caution.
“Why I hate this man, this dog, this devil,” he cried, turning upon
Phil, his lips pulled back from his strong, white teeth like a snarling
animal, “You ask that, Americano? Then I, Antonio Gomez, son of the
great Pedro Gomez, I will tell you why it is I hate. Listen, Americano.”
He came closer to Phil, his strong hands clenched fiercely and Phil
experienced something of the same thrill he would have felt if, when
baiting a wild animal, he had succeeded in rousing it to the height of
its jungle fury. For Antonio Gomez was roused.
“You ask me why I hate Espato,” he repeated, his voice tense, “Then,
thees is why. My father Pedro Gomez, one of the mos’ great man ever
live, he serve’ under Espato for many year’. My father, he love the
chase, he love get much rich loot, he love to feast and drink and make
merry. My father, he great man, he love the life of the woods, the so
great excitement. But my father he also have the great heart. He love
not the torture.”
Antonio paused and Phil saw that there were tears in his eyes. Were they
tears of rage?
“He make the big talk with Espato, sometimes,” the man continued, half
turned from Phil, his hands still clenched fiercely. “He tell him no
murder, no torture prisoners. He say, take prisoners, yes, demand the
ransom, yes—that is fair, that is just, my father say. But when the
ransom come, then let go the prisoner. That, also is fair. So my father
say.”
“Do you mean to say,” Phil demanded excitedly, “that Espato will not
release the prisoner once he has received the ransom?”
Tony Gomez turned upon him a look full of scorn for his innocence.
“Sometime he do,” he said, “and sometime he do not. When he have for the
prisoner great hatred, when the prisoner have been so unfortunate as to
have angered the so great Espato, then he keep the ransom and the
prisoner, also.”
Phil whistled his surprise. It was hard to believe that such despicable
conduct was possible even on the part of a Mexican bandit. Tony went on,
speaking rapidly, as though he had not noticed the interruption.
“Ah yes,” he was saying bitterly, “An’ because my father did not agree
with him Espato he began to hate him secretly, planning to let him go on
until he should be betrayed into doing something for which Espato could
have his revenge.”
Phil was listening, eagerly now.
“Yes?” he queried breathlessly as Gomez paused.
“My father was lieutenant to Espato then and all the band loved him. He
had almost more power than Espato himself. Espato knew this and so he
feared, while hating him. He dare’ not kill my father without
something—what you call?—a good excuse. There was danger that the men
might turn upon him, Espato, himself.
“An’ so he waited. An’ while he wait he bait my father. He torture
prisoners so vilely that my father would walk off into the woods
striving to deafen himself to their cries of agony. Then Espato, he
laugh an’ scoff, calling my father a coward, a weak woman who can not
stand an evening of fun.”
Tony paused again but this time Phil made no comment. He was afraid that
he might break the spell.
“An’ so,” Tony continued, quivering with emotion as he hurried to the
climax of his story, “One night they brought in a prisoner, a mos’
distinguish man an’ even while Espato dispatch a messenger for ransom,
he plan to torture this one.
“In vain did my father, the great Pedro, plead with him—the prisoner had
done to my father a favor, once an’ my father, the great Pedro, he never
forget the one who do him a favor. So my father, he plead with Espato.
He ask that he be content with a so fat ransom an’ spare the man’s
life.
“But Espato would not listen. He taunt, he insult my father until, in a
rage, he fling off into the woods. I see him go, my father, the great
Pedro and timidly I follow him. I am only twelve year old then but I
remember all that happen’ that night as though it had been burn’ into my
brain.
“I follow’ my father for a long way before he notice’ me. Then he turn
an’ smile’ through his black wrath at me.
“‘Tony,’ he say, an’ put his big han’ so gentle on my head, ‘Tony, it is
not right that one man torture another. That way is not greatness won.
Remember that, my son.’
“An’ then,” there was almost a sob in Tony’s voice and Phil, greatly
moved, leaned closer so that he might not miss a word, “my father, the
great Pedro, he go back an’ he watch his chance an’ he try to rescue the
prisoner, this one who was kind to him.
“Espato he caught him, my father, an’ the prisoner also. He call’ my
father, the great Pedro, traitor, declare’ that he too, then, should
suffer the fate of the man he had try to save.”
Tony’s voice broke and he stood silent for a moment. Phil realized now
the meaning of the tears that had been in his eyes.
“They keel him, my father the great Pedro,” cried Tony, turning upon him
in a sort of fury. “They tie him to a tree beside the man he had try to
help an’ they torture him—torture him till his great heart break an’ he
die. You hear—he die, my father, the great Pedro, there in the shadow of
the fire, without a moan to tell of his agony. An’ I—I try to reach him
an’ they thrust me back with vile words. An’ then I rush into the fores’
an’ I lie on my face an’ I think I die too. I hope I die. I pray I die.
I think no one can bear such pain an’ live. My father what I love, the
great Pedro. An’ there they fin’ me an’ drag me back an’ make me
live....”
A deep silence, during which Phil’s throat felt constricted and dry. He
wanted to say something, felt the need of saying something, but didn’t
know what to say.
“Tony,” he said, finally, his voice husky with sympathy. “He was a great
man, Pedro, your father.”
“Si, senor,” said Tony quietly and without another word, picked up a
tray from the table and went out.
For a long time after he was left alone Phil could think of nothing but
Tony’s tragic story. He forgot temporarily his own desperate plight in
contemplation of the other’s problem.
At the time, it seemed to him about the most important thing in the
world that Tony should be given his revenge upon Espato.
But he was a fine one, thought Phil bitterly, as he began once more to
pace up and down, up and down his cell, to help anyone get even with
Espato!
Juanita had told him of the messenger who had been sent for his ransom
and while the impudence of it had made him rage, as it had his chums,
still it had given him some hope of release.
But Tony had given him to understand that Espato did not always release
his prisoners, even upon receipt of a ransom, especially if Espato bore
the prisoner a grudge. And surely Espato bore him a grudge and a half!
Things certainly looked bad for him, thought Phil, as he stared up at
the little slit in the wall just above his head. If he could only get a
message through to the fellows, if he only could. Soon it would be too
late.
Juanita had told him that Espato seldom was away more than a week on a
raid and several days had already passed. He might be back any time
now—ready for his entertainment!
Phil stared up at that patch of blue sky and once more his bound hands
clenched in impotent fury. In imagination he was in the _Arrow_, flying
through those fleecy white clouds, fleet as the birds themselves and
just as free. Free——!
Again, as he had done so often in the nightmare of the last few days, he
wondered what the boys were saying and doing, dear old Dick and Steve
and Tom. He knew they must have been appalled by the demand for ransom
and he wondered how they were meeting the problem.
Poor fellows, they sure were up against it. But then, no more so than
he! he added grimly.
That very afternoon Espato and his roystering band came back. Phil knew
that the raid had been successful by the noise they made. They had made
a rich haul of loot and had brought in several prisoners. Since Tony had
told his story, he hated these men more furiously than ever.
Just give him a gun and let him loose among them. He would die gladly
for the privilege of “getting” a couple of them first.
But he wouldn’t be given a gun, he thought, raging. He would be taken
out and tied to a tree. He wondered how long Espato would be in getting
around to his “entertainment.”