WEARY CAPTIVES
"Rosemary, are you able to stand it?" Floyd put this question to his
sister as the weary captives were urged along the trail by the Yaquis.
"We've just _got_ to stand it, Floyd," was the brave answer. "Help
must come to us, and we must bear up until it does come."
"Oh, I can stand it all right--I really don't mind. But for you--it
must be terrible! And the worst of it is I can't do a thing to help
you."
"Not now, no, Floyd," Rosemary answered, with a brave attempt at a
smile. "But we must watch our chance. These Mexican Indians aren't
like our own--or like our own used to be. They aren't half as smart.
We ought to be able to escape from them if we get half a chance."
"Well, maybe, Rosemary. But they're bad enough if they aren't smart."
Floyd spoke with all the evidence on his side. For a more
disreputable, unsavory, desperate and wicked band of men it would be
almost impossible to find. Repulsive in face, dirty, tattered and
torn, wearing all sorts of cast off garments, a few in blankets,
astride bony and broken horses, most of them, but each one armed with
gun, revolver or knife, it was a crew of pirates, cut-throats,
highwaymen to be carefully shunned.
"Well, I'm glad to see you keeping your courage up, Rosemary," remarked
her brother, trying to ease himself in the saddle. It was not very
feasible, as the captives were partly tied to prevent their escape, and
they could not shift about as they pleased.
"Oh, we have to make the best of it, Floyd," his sister told him.
"They haven't treated us roughly yet."
"No, and I wonder at it."
"It's because they have taken us for a ransom, I'm sure. They know if
they don't hand us over in good shape there will be no ransom money for
them."
"Who do you think they count on getting it from?"
"Our relatives, of course. Or maybe they think Uncle Sam will
intervene on our behalf."
"I wish to goodness he would--that he'd send a band of U.S. regulars
after this bunch of pirates. Golly! How the Yaquis would scatter; eh,
Rosemary?"
"Maybe we'll see that soon, Floyd. And maybe the boys from the Diamond
X will come to our rescue. You know Bud's mother wrote that he and his
two eastern cousins had a ranch of their own now. My message ought to
reach some one."
"I hope it does, Rosemary. But who's this coming up?"
The talk of brother and sister had attracted the attention of the
Indians, and there had been muttered comments. Following this one of
the knot of guards around the two captives had spurred ahead to where
Paz rode. Then back with the messenger came riding an Indian better
mounted and equipped than most of the members of the band.
He forced his horse between the steeds of Rosemary and Floyd, and gave
each of them a grin he may have intended to be friendly.
"What's the idea--Mike?" asked Floyd.
"Mike? Why do you call him that?" asked Rosemary.
"Because he looks friendly enough to be an Irishman," was the answer.
"See, he has a turned up nose, I verily believe he has Irish blood in
him. Let's call him Mike."
"Mike" grinned, though doubtless he understood nothing of what was said.
"He does look Irish," agreed Rosemary. "But I don't see how."
The explanation probably was that some wandering, adventuring Irishman
had married an Indian woman. The Yaquis, like many other Indian or
native tribes often intermarried. In fact it was this that in a
measure led to their downfall. For they lost the ideals of their race,
disease crept in and to-day many a band of what was once a noble people
is but a dragged-out remnant, steeped in crime.
The Yaquis were once among the best of the Mexican Indian tribes.
Though not large in numbers they were clean-living and of high
character. The Spanish conquest of Mexico marked the beginning of the
end for them, as it did many another Mexican race.
There was once a great civilization existing in the narrow strip of
land connecting North and South America. Now only the faintest traces
remain.
Once the Indian tribes flourished, they may even have had a written
language, of which now only a few idiograms remain. The men and women
were skilled in basketry, pottery and the making of gold and silver
ornaments.
But they fell upon evil days, or evil days came to them, it matters
little which, and they began to go down. Today there are only a few
thousands of the Yaquis left, and they have degenerated into train
robbers along the Southern Pacific line. They live like beasts, they
have mingled with negroes, degenerate Spaniards and Mexicans until it
is almost an insult to apply the name "Indian" to them.
And it was a band of such natives as this that had captured Rosemary
and Floyd. Kept as much as possible to the confines of what might be
termed, unofficially, a reservation, the Yaquis occasionally broke
through the line of Mexican soldier guards and went on a rampage, often
crossing the border into Arizona, as happened in the spring of 1921,
when several Americans were killed in a border town.
It was an uprising of this same nature which had spelled trouble for
Rosemary and her brother. They had happened along at the wrong time,
as it were.
Tired and weary, in body and spirit, the captives were urged forward.
"Mike" as our friends had dubbed him, seemed good natured enough, for
he kept a perpetual grin on his face. His mission seemed to be to ride
between Rosemary and Floyd, and prevent any collusion to escape.
However there was no time or chance to think of that now. The
cavalcade filed along a narrow, rocky gorge, from which there was no
side trail. Paz and some of his more intimate followers rode in the
van, and the rear guard was made up of ragged Indians--with apologies
for using the name.
Rosemary and Floyd would not have had a chance had they been able to
turn their horses and make a bolt for it. So they must ride on. They
were too weary to talk now, they could only hope for the best. When
would the rescuers come?
A halt was made at noon, and some coarse food was passed to the
captives. Rosemary shuddered at it and turned away.
"You must eat," Floyd told her. "Got to keep up your strength you
know."
And she managed to choke down a few mouthfuls.
The afternoon passed wearily. They were going deeper into the
mountains it seemed. There appeared to be some dispute between Paz on
one side and a few of his followers on the other. And it seemed to
have to do with a place to camp for the night. The men wanted to stop
while the sun was yet in sight, but Paz insisted on going on until it
was below the jagged peaks. Then he indicated a place where camp was
to be made.
Mike slid off his horse, and, loosening the ropes, indicated that
Rosemary and Floyd were to do the same. So cramped and stiff was
Rosemary that she fell in a heap as she slid from the saddle. With a
cry Floyd sprang to her aid, only to be thrust back by Mike.
"What do you mean?" yelled the boy. "I want to help my
sister--you--you--"
He was spluttering with rage as he raised his hand, and looked about
for a rock with which to attack the Indian.
"Don't--Floyd!" called Rosemary calmly. "I am all right--just numb,
that's all! Don't get into a fight. They may separate us!"
Indeed that did seem to be the orders given by Paz, who rode up a
moment later. For Mike took Rosemary by the arm, and was leading her
away, while another Indian, dirty, greasy and with an evil grin on his
fat face, thrust Floyd to one side.
"Stop!" suddenly cried Rosemary. She swung free of Mike's grasp, and
in an instant that individual was looking straight into the muzzle of a
small but very serviceable automatic.