A Gleam of Hope
The bandits had spent the greater part of the night in wild revelry, and
it was late the next morning before there was any noticeable stir of
life about the camp.
Toward noon however there was an activity which indicated that there was
something important on foot. Phil could hear the tread of many feet
coming and going, and it was evident that most of the band had remained
in camp for some purpose instead of going out on some foray. There was
laughter and jesting and a general air of festivity prevalent, and Phil
wondered what was in prospect.
It was not long before he found out. His door was flung open by a surly
Mexican, who told him that he was to come with him into the presence of
Espato.
“Is this the end, I wonder,” Phil said to himself as he followed the man
out into the open air. He had steeled himself to the thought of death,
which he knew might come to him at any moment. Was this the moment?
What he saw after his dazzled eyes had become accustomed to the
brilliant sunlight was not calculated to reassure him.
Espato was seated on a rough box in the center of the clearing. About
him in a semicircle, some standing, others squatting on the ground, were
his followers, all with an air of expectancy on their faces.
A group of four prisoners who had been brought in on the recent raid had
been brought out and ranged before the bandit chief. Their hands were
tied behind their backs but the bonds had been removed from their feet.
Two hundred feet from where Espato was sitting, the plateau terminated
abruptly at the edge of a precipice. This ran down a sheer seven hundred
feet with jagged rocks at its foot.
An evil sneering smile was on the face of the bandit leader as Phil was
brought before him.
“So here is the Americano,” he said and made a mocking bow. “It ees good
of him to be present at our leetle merry-making. Perhaps he will even
take part in it.”
The significance of the last phrase was not lost on Phil, but his blue
eyes had the coldness of ice and the hardness of steel as he gazed
unflinchingly at the man who had him so completely in his power.
The bandit glared back at him, but in the duel of eyes his own were the
first to fall. He turned to one of his henchmen.
“Put him with the rest,” he commanded.
Phil was pulled roughly away and stationed at one end of the line of
prisoners.
Espato whispered to Arigo. The latter gave an order, and a squad of men
selected one of the prisoners and ordered him to march toward the
precipice.
The wretched man hung back, but was urged on by the pricking of knives
and bayonets to the edge of the precipice. Phil shut his eyes. There was
a piercing scream and a chorus of jeers and laughter from the crowd.
When Phil opened his eyes the prisoner had disappeared, and the guards
were marching back for another victim. And way off in the sky was a
black spot that rapidly grew larger and was joined by others. They were
vultures already gathering for the feast.
Again and again the terrible drama was enacted, until Phil was the only
prisoner left standing. With each one massacred he himself felt the
bitterness of death.
The vultures were no longer visible. They had swooped down to the rocks
at the foot of the cliff. Phil knew only too well what they were doing.
He thought that he knew why Espato had reserved him for the last. It was
to spin out his agony, to multiply his sufferings many times. He found
himself almost longing to have the thing over.
What was his surprise therefore to see Espato rise and signify by a wave
of his hand that the horrid treat that he had given his bloodthirsty
followers was over. The crowd dispersed, reluctantly, Phil thought, as
though they were not yet sated, and this impression was confirmed by the
many malignant looks cast at him as the throng gradually drifted away,
leaving the solitary prisoner alone with Espato and his lieutenant.
The bandit chief sauntered down to where Phil was standing.
“Eet was a long time waiting for your time to come, eh Americano?” he
said with a mocking grin. “But no. That would have been too e—eezy. When
ze time come for you to die, eet must be hard and slow and long. Yes,”
he repeated, “hard and slow and long. Take him away, Arigo.”
Phil followed the lieutenant, hardly able to believe that he had a
reprieve. But what a reprieve and with what unimaginable horror at the
end!
Still he was alive, while had he met the fate of the others, he would
already have been food for the vultures. The hope that springs eternal
still buoyed him up.
Almost exhausted by the terrific strain he had undergone, he was
dragging himself over to the stone bench in his cell when he stumbled
and would have fallen had he not reached out his hand against the wall
and steadied himself. In the dim light he saw that he had knocked
against a box that, with a number of other articles of loot, had been
piled in his room during his absence.
He reached the bench and threw himself down on it. The tension under
which he had been made him feel bruised and sore all over.
For a long time he lay there, resting and brooding over his plight. The
entry of the man who brought his midday meal aroused him. He ate
heartily and his spirits revived in some measure.
The box over which he had stumbled met his eye. He glanced at it
indifferently, and then something familiar in it aroused his curiosity.
Then suddenly with a great leap of his heart he realized what it was.
A radio set! Gathered in with the other loot by the ignorant bandits who
had not the slightest idea of its use, but, struck by its aggregation of
wires and tubes, thought it might have some value and had brought it
along with the rest.
With fingers that trembled with excitement, Phil went over the set and
established that it was complete, batteries and all. The aerial had been
cut away to permit of the set being removed as had the wire that
constituted the ground connection, but with these exceptions it seemed
to be in perfect shape, although the box bore evidence of rough and
careless handling.
Hardly convinced that he was not dreaming, Phil buried his head in his
hands and tried to think. He must have an aerial and a ground
connection. But how could he get them?
Feverishly he went through the other bundles and packages that littered
the room. All sorts of plunder gathered up hastily and indiscriminately
were in them, and among them to his joy he found a coil of copper wire.
A little later his fingers closed upon a metal disk about three inches
in diameter. Here then were the materials for his aerial and ground
connection.
But his first elation was followed by a sinking of the heart. Of what
avail were these, he thought bitterly, to a prisoner. If but for an
hour, one little hour, he might have his freedom!
Then suddenly a thought struck him and brought new hope. There was Tony,
the one man in the whole band who had not been brutal to him, the man
who he felt sure hated Espato. Would he help him? Could he help him?
It was his only hope. If that failed him he was doomed.
He knew that Tony would soon come bringing his supper, as was his custom
every night. In the meantime, he attached the wire to the metal plate
which he intended to use as his ground, and also fastened one end of the
coil of wire to the connection for the aerial. Then he waited, with his
heart beating so fast that it seemed as though it would leap from his
body.
At last the door opened and Tony came in with his supper. But Phil had
no desire to eat just then. The moment the door was closed, he laid his
plan before the Mexican in the broken combination of Spanish and English
that was common on the border and enabled him to make himself easily
understood.
Would Tony do one little thing for him? It was a very little thing. This
metal disk that Phil held in his hand. He would throw it out through the
slit in the wall. Would Tony dig a little hole in the damp ground and
bury it? A work only of one, two, or three minutes. Surely a little
thing. And this long wire. Phil would put one end through the slit in
the wall and when it was dark, if Tony would climb the big tree growing
close to the wall and fasten the wire to the trunk of the tree high up.
That would be a little harder, but still it would be only a little thing
to do for a poor prisoner. Would he do this? Phil would reward him. God
would reward him. Would he do it?
As he poured out his very soul in this entreaty, Phil studied Tony’s
face. There was sympathy there—yes, but also fear. The shadow of the
dreaded Espato hovered over him. He shook his head.
“I dare not,” he said. “Espato—he keel.”
Again Phil renewed his pleading but apparently to no effect. Then he
played his last card.
“Ask Juanita what you shall do,” he urged. “Ask Juanita.”
Tony nodded in assent.
“Maybe I come back,” he said, and gathering up the dishes with the
untasted food left the room.
An hour passed and then another, while Phil paced the narrow room like a
caged tiger. It was entirely dark when the door opened softly and Tony
glided into the room.
“Juanita say yes,” he whispered. “Tell me now what I do.”
Phil gave him the most careful directions and Tony slipped out of the
room. Perhaps half an hour had elapsed when he again opened the door.
“Eet is done,” he whispered, and vanished like a shadow.
Two hours more Phil waited, until he was sure that the camp was sunk in
slumber. Convinced of this, he turned on his batteries and saw the light
spring into the filament.
Then Phil touched the key!