CHAPTER XIX

HOURS OF TORTURE

The afternoon and evening wore on. In their corner, Dick and Sandy passed through an ordeal of suffering that had sapped even their rugged endurance. They lay now with closed eyes, moaning in their sleep. The lips of each were dry and cracked. Dust choked their nostrils. Ankles and wrists throbbed and pained from the constant friction and pressure of the rope with which the outlaws had bound them.

It was not until the following morning that Henderson deigned to notice them. Nor was it pity that prompted him to bellow out at the top of his voice:

“Baptiste, untie them two young swine an’ put ’em to work. We need ever’ available man. You can take charge of the outfit that’s workin’ outside on that new shaft.”

This was the sort of thing that Baptiste did well. He pounced down upon the benumbed and thirst-crazed pair with a whoop of delight. He untied their bonds and kicked them to their feet, grinning in derision as they swayed there, totally unable to stand. He shook them roughly, leering into their bloodshot eyes.

“Ah, ze pretty boys,” he crooned, “zey will wake up to come with their veree good friend, Baptiste. What you think about that, eh?”

“Stop it!” thundered Henderson, as he turned to go down through the trap. “There ain’t no time to fool. Them boys’ll be all right in a few minutes. Rub their legs. Go an’ fetch ’em some grub.”

By the time Baptiste had returned, the blood had commenced to circulate in Dick’s and Sandy’s swollen limbs, but it was nearly two hours before they were able to stagger forth to join the party of Indian workers, who were engaged at that particular moment in bailing water from the shaft situated about one hundred yards from the cabin.

In the group, very much to the boys’ surprise, was Toma. Their guide stood turning the handle of the windlass as they approached, and, except for a faint flicker in his eyes, one might have thought that the tall, lithe Indian lad looked upon the two newcomers for the first time in his life. Impassively he went on with his work when Dick and Sandy took their places with the rest and were given instructions by Baptiste.

“I’ll be here to watch you veree close,” he warned them. “Et ees a good thing for you ef you move veree quick when I say.”

Concluding this threatening speech, he pushed them roughly in the direction of two wooden buckets, and bade them commence at once. Dick was raging with suppressed anger; Sandy was furious. They picked up the buckets, nevertheless, and walked back to the shaft. Greatly pleased with himself, Baptiste sat down on a flat rock and puffed contentedly on his pipe.

In the very next moment, the boys were given their first opportunity to look directly into the eyes of Toma, and were rewarded with a sly wink. Pretending to brush the perspiration from his face, Toma’s finger stole to his lips.

Either Dick or Sandy would have given a good deal just then to have been able to speak to their guide. But they realized that this was impossible. Baptiste’s duty it was to see that the work progressed rapidly and Henderson had given strict orders that there was to be no talking. To disobey this ironclad rule would result in swift punishment, either at the hands of La Lond or some other person equally as brutal.

It did not take the boys long to discover that Baptiste was a hard taskmaster. He was continually among them, exhorting them to redouble their efforts and speed up the work, bullying and tormenting them in every way possible. On one occasion he jabbed Toma in the ribs with the muzzle of his revolver and threatened to throw him down the shaft if he didn’t step more lively.

Toma blinked, but held his peace. In a few minutes his face was as inscrutable as ever.

The work party at the new shaft consisted of four persons besides Dick, Toma and Sandy. These four were Indians recruited for the purpose from the tribe with whom Scar-Face had aligned himself. They were all tall, swarthy young men of about Dick’s own age. They had entered upon their duties with a good deal of enthusiasm, but at the end of an hour or two, the uninteresting, monotonous work palled upon them. Shortly after Dick’s and Sandy’s arrival, they had begun to regret their promises to Scar-Face and slackened down on the job.

This action on their part placed Baptiste in a rather peculiar position. Neither could he speak their language, nor dare to employ the brutal methods he did not hesitate to use in the case of the three prisoners. Time and time again, he strode forward with grim purpose in his eyes, only to check himself, growl out a burning oath and return sullenly to his seat on the rock. A climax was reached finally when Henderson, on his regular round of inspection, paused to peep down in the shaft.

His sudden, violent verbal explosive caused every member of the work party, including Baptiste, to jump.

“This water ain’t goin’ down a danged inch,” he snarled. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, monsieur——” La Lond wrung his hands in desperation. “Ah, monsieur, zer ees a veree great trouble. Ze Indians, ze Indians, monsieur!”

“Well, what about ’em?”

“Zey will not hurry one leetle bit. Zey are veree slow, veree slow, monsieur.”

Henderson flung himself away with a torrent of oaths.

“Make ’em work!” he bellowed over his shoulder. “If there ain’t more done when I come back next time—look out! I’m holdin’ yuh responsible, La Lond. Get busy!”

Baptiste proceeded to get busy with a vengeance. Smarting under the rebuke, he advanced savagely upon his unsuspecting workmen, brandishing his gun. Before his furious advance, three of the Indians scrambled back to their buckets in alarm. The fourth, Dick observed, was not so easily frightened. He stood his ground calmly, drew himself to his full height and folded his arms. Dick’s heart beat with admiration—but only for a moment; for La Lond’s hand went back, revolver clubbed, then forward with a sickening thud.

The blow had caught the Indian squarely on the side of the head, knocking him flat. At sight of such inexcusable brutality, something within Dick seemed to snap. Leaping across the space that separated him from the outlaw, he struck out with all the force of his right arm. Baptiste sat down with a grunt.

He was still sitting there when Henderson, drawn by the commotion and the loud screech from Sandy, came hurrying up.

“What’s wrong here?” he thundered.

Baptiste was too dazed just then to make a very satisfactory reply. Holding his chin in his hands, he mumbled incoherently. Dick looked up squarely into the eyes of Henderson.

“I struck Baptiste myself,” he acknowledged.

“What fer?”

“Because he clubbed the Indian with his gun.”

“I’ll settle with yuh later,” Henderson scowled, making a sudden swipe at Dick with his open hand. “Get back to work. Get back to work all o’ yuh. Hereafter, I’m runnin’ this little show.”

It was several minutes before the Indian recovered consciousness and staggered to his feet, his three comrades gathered about him. The four of them glared at Baptiste, who stood cowering in front of Henderson.

“Baptiste,” roared the outlaw, “go and fetch Scar-Face. Tell him I want to see him. Tell him that I want to see him blamed quick. Either these Indians is gonna start to work or I’ll know the reason why. Yuh shore made a pretty mess o’ things, ain’t yuh?”

“Et ees impossible, monsieur. Scar-Face has gone to ze Indian village.”

“Find some other breed then what can talk to these Nitchies. Get!”

Baptiste had no sooner slunk out of sight, than the four Indians, favoring Henderson with a few chilling glances, started off across the rugged slope toward the footpath, supporting their injured companion. In vain did Henderson call out, entreating them to return. The four figures did not hesitate, did not once look back until they had gained the more even ground on the slope beyond. Then one of them turned, waving his arms defiantly in the air.

A flood of abusive oaths broke forth from the lips of the exasperated outlaw.

“Go on! Go on!” he screeched after them. “Yuh, ain’t no good anyway. Yuh ain’t no good fer nothin’, yuh yellow scum!”

With a final livid oath, he turned quickly and strode away in the direction of the cabin.