WORSHIPPERS OF THE SNAKE.
About a deep pit, filled to the brim with red-hot, glowing coals, swayed
a long line of naked, copper-colored bodies. The glow of the flaming
torches illuminated weirdly the surroundings. Steep, rocky walls, bare
of timber or vegetation, and the flat, basin-like floor of the deep
depression in the mountains formed the secret valley of the Moqui snake
dancers.
In lines behind the braves, who were swaying their lithe bodies so
rhythmically above the red-hot pit, were grouped scores of stolid-faced
Indians. By not the twitch of a single muscle did they display the
frenzy that was already at work within them, but their beady, dark eyes
glittered as they watched the weird gyrations of the swaying line above
the fire.
All at once a low chant arose from the line. Its regular rhythm and
booming inflection marked it as being of religious character. Steadily
it grew in volume, till half the Indians in that rock-bound basin in the
hills were intoning it.
As the line of chief chanters swayed back and forth, from time to time
the firelight gleamed on a row of earthen vessels, quaintly illuminated,
which stood behind them.
Suddenly one of the dancers turned, and while the shrieks of his fellows
grew more and more frenzied, he plunged his hand into the mouth of one
of the vessels. He drew his arm forth again, embellished by a hideous
ornament--a writhing, struggling diamond-back rattler!
The creature's flat head darted at the man's face, and its fangs seemed
to bury themselves in his arm, but his bronze form danced more furiously
than ever, and the singing grew louder and more frenzied. The Moqui had
reached a pitch of exaltation in which the venom of the serpent was
harmless to him.
As the other Indians witnessed the sight their expression of stoicism
changed as if by magic. The excitement of the dance was upon them.
Suddenly a blood-curdling yell echoed against the rock-bound walls.
A young brave, one of those who had been seated in the front row of the
onlookers, sprang to his feet. He cast off his blanket with a shout,
standing upright in the firelight, a nude figure of bronze. The play of
his muscles showed plain as day in the glare of the glowing pit.
Straight up to the earthen jars he gyrated, chanting the refrain of the
weird ritual.
Uttering a wild screech, he plunged his arm up to the elbow into its
wriggling, deadly contents, and drew forth a vicious-looking sidewinder,
or desert rattlesnake--a distinct species from the big diamond-back--and
even more deadly.
Without the slightest hesitation, he thrust the monster's spade-shaped
head into his mouth, and with one clean bite severed it. He then spat it
forth into the glowing pit, where it fell hissing.
[Illustration: Uttering a wild screech, he drew forth a vicious-looking
desert rattlesnake.]
This was the signal for yet wilder frenzies on the part of the Indians.
One after another the young braves cast off their blankets and rushed
forward to repeat the nauseous performance of the snake eater. The
ground at the feet of the chanters of the ritual was littered with limp
reptiles' bodies. An overpowering, musky stench arose on the air, the
odor of scores of burnt envenomed heads.
In the midst of that maddened throng there was but one quiet, unmoved
countenance, and that was that of a bearded man, who stood back some
distance in the shadows. He eyed the ceremonies with a look that was
half contempt and half pity. But he made no motion to interfere, nor did
he, in fact, move at all. And for a very good reason. He was bound hand
and foot to a post.
His face was white as ashes under its deep bronze, but not from fear,
for not a tremor crossed his features. Perhaps a deep wound on the back
of his head accounted for it. But Jeffries Mayberry--for our readers
must have already recognized the Indian agent--never knew less fear than
he experienced as he stood at that moment, captive among a dangerous
tribe, rendered doubly formidable as they were by copious doses of
cheap liquor and religious frenzy. The Indian agent knew well that the
rattlers which the young braves were beheading were far less harmful
than the human beings, of whom he was, perhaps, the only self-possessed
one in that rocky bowl.
But if Jeffries Mayberry gazed on the ceremonies with contempt, mingled
with pity, there was another in the valley who regarded them with almost
similar feelings. That person was Black Cloud. The old chieftain had
made as stiff a fight as he dared for Jeffries Mayberry's liberation,
but had been hooted and jeered down. Diamond Snake was now in full
control of the passions and adulation of the tribe, and Black Cloud, the
only friend Jeffries Mayberry had within it, at that moment gazed
powerlessly on the snake dance. One friendly turn, however, he had been
able to do for his white friend, and that was to dispatch the messenger
to the ranch of Mr. Harkness. But as Black Cloud, not daring to raise a
voice of protest, gazed on the dance, his mind was busy with intense
speculation. Even in the event of Mr. Harkness having been reached, it
was doubtful if the rancher would arrive in time. The old Indian
recognized the symptoms of an approaching climax in the ceremonies, and
what that climax was to be he guessed only too well. No white man had
ever seen the snake dance of the Moquis and lived to tell of it, if his
presence were known. That Jeffries Mayberry was to share the fate of
many another unfortunate victim in the tribe's past history, was what
Black Cloud feared. That his fears were well grounded we shall presently
see.
Suddenly the frenzy died down with the same rapidity with which it had
arisen. Above the rim of the rocky basin the silvery edge of the new
moon had shown. The height of the excitement was at hand.
Diamond Snake stepped forward from his place in the row of chanters and
began to address the tribe in a high, not unmusical voice. As Jeffries
Mayberry gazed at his almost faultless form, gleaming like polished
bronze in the glare of the fiery pit, he realized what an influence
this fine-looking, fiery young Indian must sway among his people. His
talk was listened to with deep attention, and seemed to be impassioned
and fervid to the last degree.
Although Diamond Snake spoke fast in his excitement, the Indian agent
managed to pick out enough of the sense here and there to make out that,
as he had suspected, he himself was the subject of the chief's address.
Had he been in any doubt of this, his uncertainty would soon have been
dissipated, for all at once every eye in that assemblage was turned on
him with a baleful, malignant glare. If Jeffries Mayberry had ever felt
one ray of hope, it died out of even his brave heart in that instant.
"Well, I guess Indians are all they say they are, after all," he thought
to himself. "Just to think that, after all I've done for those rascals,
they've no more gratitude for me than that! Go on, stare away!"
Jeffries Mayberry fairly shouted these last words.
"I wish, though," he continued to himself, while the young chief's voice
went on addressing his people, "I wish, though, that they'd turned
Ranger loose. I kind of hate to think of him ever being an Indian's
horse, for of all maltreaters of horse flesh, they are the worst."
He turned his head--the only portion of his body which was free to
move--and gazed back into the shadows where he knew Ranger was tied. For
hours after his capture the splendid horse had fretted and raged, but
now he had grown quiet.
"Poor old fellow, they've broken his spirit!" thought Jeffries Mayberry.
Which goes to show--in the light of what was to come--that a man can get
"pretty close," as the saying is, to a horse and yet not know him.
Mayberry could not forbear winking back a little moisture that arose in
his eyes as he saw the well-known form of his horse dimly outlined in
the darkness behind him. Ranger's head was abjectly hanging down. His
whole attitude spoke dejection. As Jeffries Mayberry had said, the
horse indeed seemed to be spirit-broken.
All at once, while Mayberry's mind was busy with these thoughts, the
young chief ceased his oratory, and the moment for action appeared at
last to have arrived. With a concerted yell, the band of naked warriors
who had chanted the solemn ritual of the snake dance rushed at the
Indian agent. Even in that trying moment he did not flinch. He gazed at
them unmoved, as they cast him loose from the post, and then instantly
rebound his hands. His legs, however, they left free.
Strange to say, the dominant feeling in Jeffries Mayberry's mind at that
moment was one of curiosity. He wondered what they were going to do with
him. For one instant a shudder passed through his frame. The fiery pit!
Could they mean to thrust him into that?
Such, however, was evidently not their intention, for they led him round
to the farther side of the glowing coals, past the rows of seated
Indians and squaws, who growled and spat at him as he passed.
"You ungrateful bunch of dogs!" shouted Mayberry, fairly stung into
speech. "I hope after I'm gone you'll get what is coming to you!"
If only the soldiers would come, he thought; but realized that without
him to guide them it would take the troopers hours, perhaps days, to
find the secret valley. No, there was no hope from that quarter. It
should be explained here that, although Mr. Mayberry knew about the
Indian messenger, he had little faith in the ultimate arrival of Mr.
Harkness and the Boy Scouts. They _might_ come, but it would be too
late. However, any one would judge Jeffries Mayberry's character very
much awry who should conclude that there was any bitterness in his soul.
He accepted his fate as a brave man should, without complaint.
"Now what are they going to do?" he thought, as the young braves, having
led him past the hissing, spitting ranks of the squaws, arraigned him
close to the edge of the pit, which now lay between him and the crowd
of cruel faces beyond. His eyes pierced the darkness keenly, but the
glare thrown up at his feet prevented him seeing whether or not Ranger
still occupied his same position.
Jeffries Mayberry was not to be left long in doubt as to what his fate
was to be. A shudder ran through even his strong soul as he saw what the
inhuman ingenuity of the Moquis had contrived for his execution.
His legs, which had remained free, were rapidly bound, and he was
forcibly thrown upon his face. As he measured his length, the chanting
began once more, and the hand of Diamond Snake himself dived into the
biggest of the earthen snake jars. He withdrew it, clasping the largest
rattler that Jeffries Mayberry had ever seen,--an immense creature of
the diamond-back species, fully eight feet long.
As Mayberry's eyes encountered the leaden glint of the deadly rattler's
dull orbs, he felt that this was the beginning of the end.