Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 03 - The Marshal of Lawless(1933) (20 page)

 
          
The
satisfaction the marshal derived from this did not make him unduly optimistic.
The chance of deliverance was slim indeed, and he had little hope of seeing
another day dawn. Some time must necessarily elapse before a rescue party could
be organized, and the country on either side of the line was of the wildest
description, making the following of a trail a slow and arduous affair. Still,
it was not in the man’s nature to despair, and he rode along with an air of
sardonic indifference. This attitude palpably amazed his captors; in his
predicament they would have been shivering with dread, for they knew that El
Diablo was not so named without reason.

 
          
They
crossed Lazy Creek at a point lower than the marshal had done and then plunged
into a mass of low, flat-topped hills, through which they made their way by
threading long narrow ravines, twisting and turning snake-like about the bases
of the mesas.

 
          
On
the far side of the hills they found a desert confronting them, stretching out
in every direction save that from which they had come. Across this arid waste
Moraga unhesitatingly led his men. The only break in the maddening monotony of
sand was provided by what appeared to be a group of tiny black mounds, towards
which they were heading.

 
          
Plodding
on, the horses’ feet sinking to the fetlocks in the hot, powdery sand, they at
length reached the spot, and the leader called a halt. It was a curious place.
The “mounds” resolved themselves into pieces of stone, set in a rude circle,
some upright, pointing like fingers to the sky, others lying prone. Old,
weather-scarred, they yet seemed to suggest humanity. The marshal had no
thought for them; his mind was busy with the problem of why the stop had been
made. It could not be to camp, for there was neither wood nor water; it must be
that this was where he was to die. He looked at Moraga, as two of the men
removed the rope from his feet and dragged him from the saddle, and saw that he
had guessed correctly; the guerrilla leader’s face was that of a devil. When he
spoke his voice was soft, silky, but charged with menace:

 
          
“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, another
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.