“The senor understands? He will remain here, where nothing can live—long. It is the fate of those who cross El Diablo.”
“Shucks! I didn’t cross yu; it was the Injun did that,” Green retorted. “How them scars healin’ up?”
The reminder of his humiliation—one that nothing could ever wipe out—shattered the Mexican’s self-control.
The unmoved demeanour of the man before him brought on another short spate of rage.
“You Gringo dog!” he stormed. “You shall die by inches, slowly, horribly, with life a few paces away and yet out of reach.” Again his voice dropped into a low, hateful purr, and the marshal was reminded of a cat playing with a mouse: “The senor has seen a man die of thirst—yes? He know how the tongue go black and swell up teel it too beeg for the mouth; how the body burn like—”
“Them scars on yore chest,” the marshal suggested.
This time the gibe produced no outward effect. Moraga went on: “Like fire; the eyes lose their light; and the brain—melts. It is not nice, senor, as you weel learn—presently.”
“Yu got me plumb scared,” the prisoner replied, and if he was telling the truth his bearing did not show it.
At an order from the leader, Green’s wrists were first freed and re-tied with a lariat, which was then fastened securely to one of the smaller horizontal stones. He was too near to the weight to turn round, but he could sit down, and did so, watching the rest of the preparations with a face of iron. Moraga, dismounting, inspected the bonds, and then stepped back a few paces to gloatingly survey his victim.
“I might wheep you, senor,” he said, “but I want that you have all your strengt’; you weel suffer longer.”
With a harsh laugh he turned away, and as he did so a knife slipped from his sash and dropped soundlessly upon the soft sand. To the marshal’s surprise no one appeared to have noticed it. Moraga croaked another command, and one of the men unslung his gourd canteen and placed it in the shadow of a stone about ten paces from the bound man, who caught the swish of water as he put it down. The guerrilla leader waved to it.
“There is life, senor, if you can reach it,” he jeered. “But the stone is a leetle heavy, I fear. Adios!”
With a snarling grin, he bowed to the man he was condemning to a cruel death, and leaping on the back of his horse, signed to his troop and followed them on the journey out of the desert. The marshal watched the riders vanish over a distant swell and then gazed around; he could see nothing but sand, ridges, humps, and flat levels, reaching unendingly to the horizon.
His position appeared to be desperate; even if he got free, the task of making his way on foot out of this grim wilderness would be well-nigh hopeless.
The stillness of the desert wrapped him like a shroud. The sun, a ball of white flame, blazed out of a cloudless dome of pale blue. There was no movement in the air, no bird, reptile, or insect. Nature seemed to have called a halt in this desolate spot. With the departure of his captors, their low guttural voices and jingle of accoutrements, sound seemed to have gone also, leaving a silence which was that of a tomb. An instinctive desire to break this menacing, nerve-shattering quiet made him speak aloud:
“Wonder what kind o’ hombres fetched these rocks? Sorta temple, looks like: been here a few thousand years too, I reckon. This fella I’m roped to might be an Aztec stone o’ sacrifice. Well, it’ll shore have another offering if I don’t get busy.”
The sound of his own voice amazed him: he hardly recognized it. He found a difficulty in forming the words; his throat was parched and his tongue already swollen. The scorching rays of the sun had sucked every atom of moisture from his body, and the desire to drink was becoming unbearable. Anxiously he peered through the dancing, quivering heat, but the surrounding desert was empty.
“Damnation! I’ll beat the game yet,” he said, and the fact that the words were a whisper only warned him that he had no time to lose.
Twisting his fingers round the lariat, he dug his heels into the sand and flung his weight forward. There seemed to be a slight movement, but whether it was the stone or a mere stretching of the rawhide he could not determine. Again he tried, and this time felt sure that the weight behind him rocked. It gave him an’ idea. Turning as far as he could, with the toe of his boot he scraped the sand from under the stone, forming a hollow for it to fall into. This helped, but it was slow work, and at the end of an hour’s digging and pulling he had advanced little more than a yard.
Panting for breath in that oven-like atmosphere, with every muscle aching and a throat which seemed to be on fire, he sat on the stone and gazed at the blade which meant freedom gleaming in the sunlight only a few feet away.
“It ain’t possible, but I’m a-goin’ to do it,” he tried to say, but the sounds which issued from his tortured, puffed lips were unintelligible.
Doggedly he resumed his labours, a slight slope in the sand helping a little, but the terrific exertion, the hammering heat, and lack of liquid were taking their toll, and the next hour found his strength almost spent, with the goal still two yards distant. Grey with dust, speechless, staggering weakly, he fought on, creeping inch by inch towards the coveted bit of steel. His body was one huge throb of pain, but he battled with it, tensing his teeth and tugging until it seemed to him that his arms must leave their sockets.
He was still some five feet from the knife when he again sank gasping upon the stone, unable to move the monstrous burden another inch. It seemed to be the end; even the magnificent muscles and amazing vitality with which clean living and the great open spaces had endowed the puncher failed at a task which would have killed an ox. Glaring with haggard eyes, a sudden possibility occurred to him; it was his last hope. Resting all his weight on his hands, he arched his body and reached for the knife with one heel. The strain on his pulsing sinews was agonizing, but after one or two attempts he hooked his spur over the glittering blade and brought it nearer.
Pausing for long moments between each effort, he at last had the thing at his feet, but tied as he was, could not get his hands to it. Kneeling in the sand, he contrived to grip the haft between his knees and stand up again; then his groping fingers touched the blade, and a moment later he was free. Staggering like a drunken man he lunged forward and snatched up the canteen, only to fling it down; it was empty!
A croak of mingled disappointment, rage, and despair broke from his strangled throat as the devilish cruelty of the trick seeped into his tortured brain. The knife left apparently by accident; the canteen of water, deliberately punctured when the man set it down, to deal a crushing blow to the reason of one already dying from thirst and the exhaustion of a punishing fight for freedom. And, in truth, the marshal was near to madness. Dimly he remembered stories of the ghastly tortures by the Holy Inquisition in the old days, and a grim thought saved his reason: Moraga had proved his boast that he was of Old Spain.
Instinctively he glanced round, almost expecting to hear mocking laughter, but there was no living thing in sight. The Mexican and his men had not waited—there was no need to put themselves to that discomfort. Even if the prisoner succeeded in getting free and retained his sanity, he would not have the strength to escape from the desert without water, food, and a horse.
Faint and wracked with pain, the American was not yet beaten. Picking up the knife, which he had dropped directly he had cut himself loose, he turned his face to the north. The sun’s rays were no longer vertical, but the heat was still terrific. Nightfall would bring a bitter cold air, and though this would mean some relief, he knew that unless he found water he must die.
Lurching from side to side he floundered on through the burning sand. Then his glazed, bloodshot eyes rested on a welcome sight, a grassy glade, trees waving in the breeze, and, leaping down from the rock-side into a little pool, a silver streak of crystal-clear water. So real did it seem that he fancied he could hear the gurgle and plash of the tiny cascade.
The marshal knew it was not real, that it was only a desert mirage, anot
her trick—perpetrated by Nature, this time—to steal the last vestige of his sanity. He set his jaw savagely, and soon—as he had known it would—the vision vanished, leaving only the old desolation. He staggered on, frequently falling from sheer weakness, but always, after a time, rising to continue the fight. A great stain of crimson on the western horizon told him that the sun was sinking, and the air was already cooler. In the effort to retain his reason, he tried to keep his mind from the one thing his whole body cried out for. It was in vain; pictures of cool running streams into which he plunged insistently presented themselves, and the sound of the waterfall he had seen in the mirage was perpetually in his ears. With leaden feet he stumbled on and fell, a sharp pain stabbing his wrist. In the gathering gloom he saw that he had dropped close to a queer green growth, shaped like a cask, and defended by fierce spikes. It was a bisnaga, or barrel cactus.
Had he been able to utter a sound it would have been one of joy, for this fortunate find might mean life. Raising himself to his knees, he cut off the top of the cactus, and slicing out a portion of the pithy interior crushed it greedily against his swollen lips and tongue. The liquid so obtained was pure and slightly sweet. Repeating the operation until the plant was exhausted, he felt new energy stealing into his veins. Unfortunately, the cactus was a very small one, and though he searched diligently he could not discover another. Reinvigorated in some degree by this relief to his torture he pursued his way. Though there was no wind, it was now intensely cold. The moon came up and threw a softening silver radiance over the harshness of the desert.
To the desperately worn man plodding through it, the sand seemed a malignant devil which clutched his ankles and held them. Each step was now an achievement, for his strength was gone.
During twelve hours he had drunk less than half a pint of cactus-juice, and this in a land where a man needed two gallons of water per day. Moreover, for a great part of that time he had taxed his body to the uttermost. Weaving blindly onwards he fell again, made a last attempt to rise, and then lay supine…
CHAPTER XVI
The marshal awoke to a pleasant feeling of warmth and found that he was covered with a blanket and lying beside a fire of dead mesquite branches. Pete, with an anxious face, was kneeling over him, a canteen in his hands. Green made a feeble grab at it.
“No, yu don’t,” the deputy grinned. “That stuff’s wuss’n whisky for yu just now, an’ a damn sight more precious in this corner o’ hell. Yu gotta be spoon-fed, fella, yet awhile.”
Though he would have sold his soul for one deep drink, the sufferer submitted, knowing that the other was right. At the end of an hour he could sit up and use his tongue again, but he was still utterly played out. From behind a hummock of sand Black Feather now appeared and flung an armful of twigs on the fire.
“How’d yu find me?” the invalid enquired.
“Yu gotta thank the Injun for that,” Pete told him. “Fact is, we didn’t do no searchin’ for rustled cattle; I played a hunch an’ we followed yu ‘bout an hour after; when we met yore hoss I knowed somethin’ was wrong. We picked up the trail at the Old Mine. How the hell that copper-coloured cuss followed it I dunno, but he did, an’ I’m bettin’ we come just in time.”
“That’s whatever,” the marshal agreed, and held out his hand to the redskin. “I’m mighty obliged to yu,” he added.
Black Feather took the hand timidly. “White man my brother,” he said in his low, husky tone. “My fault he here.”
“Shucks!” Green said disgustedly. “My own damn stupidity. They played me for a sucker an’ won—this time. Black Feather big chief; he trail bird in the air an’ fish in river, huh?”
The Indian smiled at this extravagant tribute to his powers.
Water, warmth, and food gradually restored the marshal’s strength, but the red rim of the sun was rising above the horizon before he was able to stand. Helped by the others, he mounted the Indian’s horse, its owner electing to walk, and they set out. By this time he had managed to tell the full story; on the redskin it produced no visible effect, but the deputy was furious.
“By God!” he said. “If I find the fella that wrote that invite I’ll make him curse his mother for bringin’ him into the world. Who d’yu reckon it might be?”
“Ain’t a notion,” the marshal admitted. “Moraga sprung the trap, but I’m figurin’ he didn’t bait it. He speaks our lingo pretty good, but that don’t mean he can write it.”
“Leeson?” Barsay suggested.
Green shook his head. “Them mistakes was made a-purpose,” he said. “Good writin’ an’ bad spellin’ don’t usually go together.”
After a short silence, Barsay spoke again: “See here, Jim, I got an idea. I’ll get back to town an’ not let on yu’ve been found. Mebbe somebody’ll give us a pointer.”
“It’s certainly a chance,” Green allowed. “Yu see, nobody in town oughta know what’s become o’ me.”
So when they had got clear of the desert and over the Border, the marshal and Black Feather struck out for the Box B ranch, and the deputy took the trail for Lawless. The evening found him in the bar of the Red Ace. He had already decided on his plan of action. Remembering his friend’s dictum that a man in liquor may learn more than a sober one, he had resolved to try it out. Draping himself against the bar, he swallowed several drinks in rapid succession and then turned a scowling face on the company.
“‘Lo, Pete, how they treatin’ yu?” asked the store-keeper jovially.
“Mighty seldom—yu’ll never have a better chanct,” the deputy told him.
Loder laughed and ordered liquor. “What’s come o’ the marshal—ain’t seen him all day?” he went on.
In a voice that could be heard all over the room Barsay related his own version of the mysterious missive, adding that, becoming uneasy, he had followed the marshal to the appointed spot only to discover the ample evidence of an ambush. The story gained him the attention of most present. Suddenly he darted a finger at Leeson.
“Ask that fella,” he said. “Mebbe he can tell yu somethin’.”
He watched the man closely as he spoke and noted the look of blank amazement. “What yu gittin’ at?” Leeson protested. “How should I know anythin’ of it?”
Pete, in fact, saw that he did not, but he had to justify his charge. “Huh! Yu tried to bump him off two-three days ago,” he growled.
“I told yu it was a mistake,” the 88 man explained quickly, for the statement produced a murmur from several.
“Shore was, an’ one more o’ the same’ll be yore last,” Pete threatened.
He poured himself another drink, took a mouthful, spat it out and turned wrathfully on the bartender: “Ain’t yu never goin’ to get some decent liquor?” he asked belligerently. “That stuff would poison a hawg.”
“What’s the trouble, Jude?” The saloonkeeper’s spare, stooping figure injected itself into the group.
“Barsay’s on the prod ‘bout the nose-dye,” the bartender explained.
Raven’s sneering gaze swept the deputy. “Too strong for him, seemin’ly,” he said.
The deputy cackled. “That’s an insult to me an’ a compliment to the dope yu call whisky,” he said, with a slight stagger. “What I wanna know is what yu done with the marshal?”
The saloonkeeper’s face was wooden. “Yo’re either drunk or loco,” he replied, and appealed to one of the bystanders: “What: the hell’s he mean?” He heard the story with apparent indifference, but Pete, lolling against the bar, saw an expression in the narrowed eyes which might have been satisfaction.
“Looks like he’s met up with Moraga,” he commented. “I warned him the Mexican was bad medicine, but yu can’t tell the marshal anythin’. I guess we won’t see him no more.”
Bar say nodded his head stupidly and fumbled with his glass.
“How’d yu know it was the Mexican?” he queried.
“I don’t—I’m guessin’,” Raven replied. “Green has twisted his tail two-three times, an
’
Greasers ain’t a forgivin’ sort.” His’ lips suddenly split in a feline grin: “Anyways, what yu belly-achin’ about? Don’t yu want his job?”
Pete blinked at him owlishly. “Hell’s bells! I hadn’t thought o’ that.”
So ludicrous was his expression that the onlookers laughed aloud, and Raven was quick to seize the opportunity. “Set ‘em up, Jude,” he cried. “We’ll drink to the marshal.”
“The new one?” someone questioned.
“There ain’t a new one—yet,” Raven told him, and lifting his glass added, “The marshal.”
Pete grinned foolishly as he raised his glass with the rest, and said thickly, “Here’s hopin’”—he paused a second and a man guffawed—“he comes back.”
“O’ course, we’re all wishin’ that,” the saloonkeeper agreed, and smiled understandingly at the deputy.
The smile confirmed the little man’s suspicions, and sent him back to his quarters in an unusually thoughtful frame of mind.
The marshal received an enthusiastic welcome at the Box B; in the eyes of its owner nothing was too good for the man who had rescued Tonia and punished her assailant. He had heard the details from the girl’s own lips, and only her urgent entreaties had kept him from rounding up his outfit and going in search of the offender. He listened with amazement and growing anger to the marshal’s account of Moraga’s attempted vengeance.
“That Greaser’s gettin’ too brash whatever,” he said. ” ‘Bout time he was abolished. Yu got that paper with yu? Mebbe I know the writin’.”
When the marshal produced it the young man stared in puzzled bewilderment.
“If it didn’t seem ridic’lous I’d have said Potter wrote that,” he pronounced. “But he wouldn’t be agin yu or for the Greaser.”
“It ain’t Raven’s fist, I s’pose, or Leeson’s?”
“Dunno ‘bout Leeson—shouldn’t think he could write so good, but it certainly ain’t Raven. What’s put them in yore mind?”
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) Page 12