SENTENCED TO DEATH
When Engineer’s Mate Daniel Wason, abandoned in front of the general’s
headquarters by his companions, strolled off down the street he had a
very definite purpose in mind even though to all appearance his only
desire was to kill time. He stopped presently in front of the little
church and, rolling himself a cigarette almost as deftly as Captain
Fosdes would do it, gazed interestedly at the big “organ cactus” at
one side of the arched doorway. It started out at the ground, that
cactus, modestly enough, and just as any other cactus would. And up to
the height of two or three feet it was contented with its one fleshy,
prickly stalk. Then, evidently, ambition had assailed it and it had
decided to branch out in the world. So it threw out a second stalk
parallel to the first. And that effort being successful, it tried the
same thing again on the other side and a little higher. After that, Dan
could see, success had gone to its head. It had become quite crazy on
the subject of branching. It had branched everywhere until it was so
top-heavy that the priest had had to prop it with poles and tie it with
cords to keep it from falling of its own weight. And there wasn’t a
blossom in sight. Dan shook his head disapprovingly.
“So full of itself,” he murmured, “it ain’t had time to do anything for
any one else. Mr. Cactus, you’re sure one selfish old bloke. If you was
mine I’d take an ax to you!”
Then Dan threw away his cigarette and entered the church.
A quarter of an hour later he was back on the blue-shadowed street. A
seller of little squares of chocolate parted him from a few American
cents and, a dozen yards further on, he acted as mediator in a verbal
and fistic argument between two nearly naked boys. The prize was the
head of a defunct rooster. Dan himself couldn’t see the value of the
article, but the youngsters evidently thought a very great deal of it,
and when, having listened to the evidence of each side with a grave
countenance and total incomprehension, he awarded the rooster’s head to
the boy with the fewest clothes, he assuaged the other’s disappointment
with two copper pennies. After that, for an hour, he just merely loafed
and smoked and looked as sleepy and unambitious――almost――as any of his
neighbors along the way.
By then it was nearly eleven o’clock, and, with a yawn, the mate thrust
his hands further into the pockets of his jacket and lolled carelessly
around the side of a mud hut and ambled back from Perdero’s Main Street
past little corrals and tumbledown sheds and over cactus-strewn sand.
A few minutes’ walk brought him near the canvas hangar wherein, a few
days before, he had held converse with the flyer. He did not, however,
immediately proceed toward it. He doubted that he would be welcome.
Instead, he seated himself on the ground, first making certain that
there were no cactus needles on the territory he meant to occupy,
and leaned his broad back comfortably against the wall of a combined
pig-pen and poultry yard wherein, behind defenses of board and barbed
wire, three lean shoats and a dozen or so stringy hens viewed him
suspiciously. From this post of observation he could see the hangar
perfectly without being himself in the public eye to any extent. He
rolled a cigarette, smoked and waited. Here in the shelter of the
nondescript wall the wind failed to reach him and the sun was agreeably
warm. Once he reassured himself as to the working condition of his
automatic and once he whistled a tune softly. For the rest, he just
waited.
Suddenly, from the other end of the village, came a faint clamor above
the ordinary sounds of the sleepy town, and Dan sat up straight and
listened, his eyes on the hangar. From where he sat he could look
in at the front of the tent, since the canvas there was lifted and
thrown back, and see four or five mechanics moving slowly about around
the two airplanes. Following the clamor came the report of a rifle,
then others, then a fusillade. From the hangar emerged the workmen:
there were four of them: and gazed interestedly in the direction of
the shooting. Dan could see them discussing the unusual sounds with
animation, but for a long moment it seemed that their natural indolence
would prevent them from investigating them. Finally, though, two of the
four set off across the sand, and after an instant of indecision the
other two followed. When they had passed beyond the first hut Dan arose
and made his way quickly to the hangar.
Inside was silence and a litter of idle tools. A glance told him that
the airplane at the left was incapable of flight, for its cylinder
heads were off and valves were strewn about. But the second plane was,
so far as he could determine, in working condition. He lost no time.
Close to his hand lay a wrench with a four-inch head and a handle a
foot and a half long. Armed with this and his clasp-knife, to say
nothing of the automatic in its holster, he swung himself up into the
body. He climbed in at the nose, rather than go around the wings,
meaning to clamber from the observer’s cockpit back to the engine
housing. As he stood erect in the amber light that came through the
khaki canvas overhead his eyes fell on the Lewis gun mounted in front
of the cockpit. But his business lay with the engine, and he turned
and laid a hand on the edge preparatory to climbing back. Then he
straightened again suddenly, his grasp on the big wrench tightened and
his heart jumped. For a sharp voice shattered the silence.
Ten feet away the gleaming muzzle of a rifle was aimed straight at his
breast. Behind it, aroused from his siesta in the rear cockpit, was a
ragged but grim-faced _soldado_. What he had said, and now repeated,
was, so far as the words were concerned, beyond Dan’s comprehension,
but the meaning was very plain, the more so when emphasized with that
business-like rifle. Dan’s heart went into his big boots. He had
failed! And all because of his own carelessness. He might have known,
he reflected bitterly, that somewhere about there would be a sleeping
Mexican! To reach the engine was no longer possible in the face of
that weapon. Very slowly his hands began to raise, the right still
holding the big wrench, and as slowly the soldier lowered the butt of
the rifle and elevated the muzzle, keeping, nevertheless, a careful
eye on the _Americano_. He had been set there to guard against the
depredations and bloodthirstiness of this very gringo, and it wouldn’t
do at all to fail in his duty. General Tito Roza was notably _no
simpático_ toward failure!
As his hands went up Dan did much thinking in a brief moment. Behind
him, a stride away, was the machine-gun. In his right hand was the
wrench. The rifle pointed well above his head now. There was a
chance――――
Wheeling suddenly, he brought the head of the giant wrench crashing
down on the breech of the gun. There was a sharp sound of yielding
metal and Dan, dropping to the floor of the cockpit, abandoned wrench
for automatic just as the guard fired. Taking blind aim, since he did
not dare to put his head above the rim, Dan pressed the trigger. There
was a yelp of pain from the after cockpit and the unmistakable sound of
a falling rifle, and Dan leaped to his feet. The soldier had dropped to
cover. Automatic advanced, Dan began to clamber cautiously aft, every
instant expecting to see the muzzle of the Mexican’s gun appear over
the edge of the after cockpit. But what he found when he at last peered
down was a very badly frightened young soldier of the Army of Liberty
nursing a wounded arm. His eyes were round with alarm and pain as he
sat huddled against the side and his rifle no longer interested him. At
sight of Dan he babbled fluently for mercy.
“Huh,” said the mate, as he dropped over the side of the cockpit, “I
guess you ain’t much hurt, Jack. Let’s see! Oh, that won’t kill you.
That’s just――――”
But it appeared that the boy, for he was scarcely more, knew one word
at least of English, for he raised his hands imploringly, and “No kill!
No kill, señor!” he cried.
“Well, that’s what I’m telling you, ain’t I?” said Dan. “That
scratch――――”
“No kill, señor! No kill――――”
“Say, what’s eating you?” Dan raised his voice exasperatedly. “Didn’t
I just say――Oh, that’s it? Think I’m going to kill you, eh? Nothing
doing, sonny!” He patted the boy’s arm reassuringly and grinned his
amiable grin. “No kill, no kill! You’re all right! Just the same, I’ll
sort of remove temptation, Mex.” He picked up the abandoned rifle
and laid it out of reach. Then he hastily made a tourniquet of his
handkerchief above the wound. “There, now you beat it to the doctor,
sonny. I’m off. What’s this you say? Adios? Is that it?”
“_Si! Si! Gracias, gracias, señor!_”
“Same to you, kid, and many of them!” Dan, rifle in hand, climbed
forward to the front cockpit, hastily viewed the machine-gun and then
swung himself to the ground. A stealthy look showed him the workmen
returning along the edge of the village. As they came they gazed at
intervals into the air, and Dan, following their gaze, saw the _F 8_
floating majestically away into the west, hundreds of feet aloft.
Chuckling, he tossed the rifle into a litter of rubbish and, keeping
the hangar between him and the mechanics as best he might, made off
toward the parade ground. Perhaps they saw him eventually, but by that
time he was well away, and presently he had regained the quarters,
there to await whatever might befall him. That the wounded boy in the
airplane cockpit would readily divulge the identity of his assailant
he didn’t doubt for an instant. And so, he argued, it wouldn’t be
long before a squad would arrive to march him off to headquarters or
jail or, for all he knew, a nice, whitewashed wall. But he wasn’t
downhearted. He had done his job fairly well. He hadn’t put the
airplane out of commission, to be sure, but he had effectually disabled
that gun, and when it came to automatics he held no brief for the
Mexican flyers.
“If the Old Man and the young fellows can’t outshoot them guys I’ll
eat my hat!” he chuckled.
So he rolled himself another cigarette and waited. He would have gone
through town to see if he could be of any help to his companions, had
Mr. Weeks not given him his orders. He hoped that such of them as had
been left behind would show up before the soldiers, for he wanted to
report his success ere they marched him off to jail or the firing
squad. And, he reflected, he would feel a bit more cheerful when his
back was to the wall if he had had a few words with his friends.
More than an hour passed, however, and three cigarettes, before the
suspense ended. Then they rushed in on him, more than a dozen of them,
with lowered bayonets and much jabbering, and he was hustled out into
the sunlit street and down it, between approving citizens in rags and
tatters, and across it and so eventually into the little _cárcel_. And
when he heard the door close behind him and looked around he grinned
joyously. For, lo, he was back with his own crowd again; with his
Old Man and the ship’s Old Man and “Gandy” and Mr. Traine! And Dan’s
delight was so obvious that the others, in spite of a natural lowness
of mind following their visit to headquarters, laughed in sympathy.
But later he agreed with the others that it was not exactly a laughing
matter. The general had for once forgotten his suavity and manners and
had fairly frothed at the mouth, they told him. And to-morrow morning a
military court was to consider their cases!
“And,” said Mr. Traine dryly, “they might just as well tell us the
verdict now, for they know it, and so do we. It’s ‘Guilty’!”
They were fed on stale bread and water that evening, which, considering
that they had no dinner in the middle of the day, sadly failed to
satisfy. Lieutenant Jordan remarked jocularly that it was Roza’s
merciful way of reconciling them to being shot. “After a day or two of
this sort of chow, death’s a kindly release!”
They speculated a good deal as to the fate of the dirigible. Every one
pretended to be quite certain that the youngsters would somehow manage
to sail her back to American soil and safety, but actually they were
all rather hopeless about it. When they weren’t discussing the _F 8_
they amused themselves hazarding guesses as to the sentence that the
court would decide on. Although they granted the possibility that Roza
would have them executed, none seriously believed that the general
would dare go to that extreme. “More likely,” said Mr. Jordan, “he’ll
increase our ransoms and keep us here in this filthy hole until some
one comes across with the money――or Uncle Sam comes across with the
cavalry! He’s likely to get over his anger by morning, I guess.”
“Mighty good thing he didn’t decide our fate to-day,” commented Mr.
Traine. “We’d been burned alive, what? Don’t think I ever saw any one
much madder.”
“The little rat!” growled Mr. Jordan. “Getting away with the _Fate_
certainly fetched his goat!”
“I sort of wish we’d made a fight for it then and there,” reflected Mr.
Gandell sadly. “There were four of us, and we had our guns. Now we’re
helpless. And I guess his promise of decent treatment won’t last long
after his fake court gets through with us! We never should have given
up our side arms, Bob.”
“Didn’t have much choice, did we?” asked Mr. Weeks wearily.
“We could have got Roza himself and three or four others,” answered Mr.
Gandell. “If I’ve got to go I’d like to know that I’ve paid my way.”
“Stow it, Pete,” said Mr. Jordan. “Bob did what was best, and you
know it. If we’d tried your game we’d all be lying under the cactus
to-night. As it is, we’re alive and still kicking, like the frog in the
churn. Maybe if we keep on kicking we’ll kick ourselves out.”
The _cárcel_ was divided into two earth-floored rooms, one on either
side of a narrow corridor. The Americans had one room to themselves.
The other was inhabited by at least twenty Mexicans, a noisy crowd who
hooted and shouted insults whenever any of the dirigible’s men showed
in sight across the corridor. The iron-grilled doors were directly
opposite, and between them, in the corridor, sat a guard with loaded
rifle. A single light shone dimly somewhere behind him.
That night was long and uncomfortable. The ground proved a hard bed,
there were no blankets and the cold got into their bones. In the
morning they were filed out by twos into an enclosed yard at the
rear of the jail and allowed ten minutes of exercise. Breakfast was
_tortillas_ and water. As the morning wore away their expectation of
learning their fate dwindled. They had had no hope of being present at
their own trial: that was evidently contrary to Coahuila law: but it
did seem that they might, in justice, expect to be told the result! At
noon, however, the long-deferred came to pass. Captain Fosdes appeared
outside the barred door. His good-looking face was set in sober lines
as he saluted punctiliously and held an official looking paper through
the grating.
“Señors,” he announced, “it is my most regretful duty to deliver to
you the finding of the military tribunal.”
“Thanks,” responded Mr. Weeks calmly as he accepted the document.
He unfolded it and then smiled, shaking his head.
“It appears to be in Spanish, Captain,” he said. “Guess you’ll have to
tell us what it says.”
“Señor, be brave! My heart bleeds for you! I did all that I could do,
I assure you, señor. But your offense was grave and my general is much
angry. Señor――――”
“In two words, Captain,” interrupted the commander, “what is the
verdict?”
“Death, señor!”
“I see.” Mr. Weeks folded the document again and returned it, bowing
courteously. “We are to be shot, Captain?”
“But certainly! With the honors, señor!”
“Thanks,” replied Mr. Weeks dryly. “And――ah――a time has been set for
this interesting event?”
“At two o’clock to-day, señor.”
“Hm. Rather sudden, isn’t it? Are we all included in the verdict,
Captain Fosdes? Wouldn’t the general feel quite as satisfied if he shot
one of us and held the others for ransom? Or, for that matter, why
shoot us at all? We are worth quite a considerable sum to our friends,
even though we may not look it. Would not the money prove convenient to
General Roza about now?”
“Señor, I am desolate! I may only say what has been decided. With all
my heart I regret it.”
“Perhaps, then, you will be so good as to say to General Roza that we
demand speech with him. Will you try to secure that for us, Captain
Fosdes?”
“Gladly, señor! But do not hope too much, for the general is very
offend. Yet I will do the best I can, señor, be assured. _Adios._”
After the captain had gone there was a long moment of silence in the
room. Finally Mr. Gandell cleared his throat and laughed shortly.
“Rot!” he grunted. “Trying to frighten us!”
“Hope so,” said Mr. Traine. “Don’t mind owning that he’s come rather
close to doing it, what?”
“I’m afraid,” said Mr. Weeks after another silence, “that I’m to blame
for this, fellows. I guess we ought to have made a fight out there on
the desert when we had a fair chance. I thought too much about the ship
and not enough about you chaps. I――――”
“Forget it, Bob,” growled Mr. Jordan. “It’s none of your doing.
Besides, hang it all, I don’t feel as if I was going to die at two
o’clock! Seems to me if I was, I’d feel I was! Something’s going to
change the luck, fellows. Maybe, as Pete says, the little rat’s trying
to scare us. Anyway, I’m for keeping on hoping.”
But the minutes went by at incredible speed and nothing happened.
Captain Fosdes did not return. No summons came from the general.
Across the corridor, the further door was crowded with staring faces.
The _Americanos_ were to be shot and consequently had developed a new
interest. At once the condemned men bought paper and envelopes from
the guard and each set about writing letters with the two pencils
available. It was shortly after the hour that the sounds from outside
which had been heard for several minutes took on meaning to those in
the _cárcel_. “_Los Americanos! Los Americanos!_” shouted a voice, and
other voices took up the cry. Mr. Weeks’s pencil dropped as he leaped
to his feet, listening.