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. 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."