"Yu don't get the hoss," he said to Moraga. "He's too good for a Greaser."
The Mexican's face flamed at the epithet, but he said nothing. Two men removed the marshal's guns and directed him to mount a pony; his wrists were then secured and his ankles roped beneath the animal's belly. At a word from its leader, the party set out at a fast lope, headed for Mexico, one man remaining behind. They had covered several miles when two horses, one bearing a double burden, caught them up; Nigger had evidently got away.
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.