CHAPTER XX

In Bitter Bondage

At the sound of the dreaded Espato’s name, uttered by the little Mexican, Phil had a fleeting instant of despair. He had guessed into whose hands he had fallen but he had not been sure. While there had been a shadow of uncertainty, there had been also, hope. But now—.

Up, up, climbed the straggling party till it seemed that they must reach the top of the world. Twice again Phil’s horse stumbled and almost fell, only to be lashed viciously to his feet. And each time Phil struggled with the desire to cry aloud in his agony. How much further? How much further?

And yet, even while he longed for the end of this nightmare ride, Phil shuddered away from the thought of what would really happen to him when they reached the end of it. Torture—death—if only they would put death first!

There might be a chance of escape, but that chance would be slight, to say the least. Espato’s mountain strongholds were famous because they were well nigh impregnable. Once within one of those dungeons—again Phil stopped thinking.

There was Dick and Steve and good old Tom, and for a moment, the thought of them brought hope. But the next moment his heart sank again. He knew how slight the chance of rescue was. Why the fellows had no clue to work on. To them it would seem that he had disappeared just as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up.

Then, the relief of traveling on even ground again, the glare of an immense camp fire in his eyes and the mingled shouts and commands and greetings uttered in the guttural Mexican tongue.

The little Mexican who had ridden close to Phil, now leaned over with a leer on his evil face.

“We have arrive, Americano,” he announced. “Awake so that you may meet the great Espato with all the humility which ees due so great a man. Arouse yourself, Americano.” And with the words he kicked the captive scornfully.

Phil’s helpless fingers gripped themselves together, causing the bonds to bite deeper into the raw flesh. Phil never felt the sudden increase in pain. He was too hot with rage.

“The dog,” he fumed helplessly. “If I ever get out of this, I’ll show him.”

Amid a confused impression of innumerable horses and men, a babble of coarse jests and laughter and the sullen flickering of the fire, Phil was dragged from his horse and was half led, half pushed, half carried, along by a couple of ruffians who spat upon him and called him vile names. Then he was flung unceremoniously into a dark apartment, a final kick administered by way of good measure and he was left alone. A padlock clicked ominously and Phil could hear the voices of his captors dying away as they went to join their comrades.

For a moment he lay as they had left him, face lown on the dank stone floor, too utterly exhausted to move a muscle.

His body was bruised with the kicks and cuffs of his captors, the pain in his wrists and ankles was almost unendurable, his head throbbed dully. And yet there was a great relief in lying upon a surface that did not rock and jolt, upon which one might lie quiet, conscious of each aching muscle—.

After awhile he started to roll over slowly, painfully, upon his back. It was an almost impossible feat, considering that his hands were bound behind him and his ankles tied together so that every motion caused him almost unendurable agony.

But after an age of dogged trying, he accomplished it at last and lay on his back, straining his eyes in the attempt to distinguish the outlines of this prison.

There was a slit about big enough to allow a man’s hand to pass through, evidently a crevice in the rock. Phil figured that if he were standing the slit would be about on a level with his head. Through this make-believe window there flickered a faint red glow, probably a reflection of the glare from the fire without.

As Phil’s eyes became more accustomed to the darkness he distinguished a bulky object running along one side of the dungeon—probably belonging to that type of prison furniture which serves as a bench in the day time and a bed at night.

There was a damp, musty smell about the place, intolerably close and stifling and there was a scuffling over in one corner suggestive of rats.

If he could only get his feet free for a moment, thought Phil desperately. There must be some way out of the place if he could only find it.

For a moment he thought furiously of breaking his bonds by sheer strength, but his tortured flesh cried out so in protest that he was forced to give up the attempt.

Anyway, if he should break his bonds, what good would it do him? Here he was in what seemed to be a cavern hollowed out from the heart of the rock. There was one little aperture about big enough for his hand to go through. The only other exit was the door and that was bolted and padlocked securely.

“I’m caught and I might as well make up my mind to it,” he thought bitterly. Then, because it hurt his wrists still more to lie on his back, he began the slow and painful process of turning on his face again.

He was conscious suddenly of a new and overwhelming discomfort. He was hungry—ravenously hungry. For an hour, whose every minute seemed an age, he lay there, motionless while his feet and hands lost all sense of feeling. He wondered miserably if part of Espato’s plan of torture included starving him to death.

At last came the sound of a bolt being withdrawn, a key clicked in the lock and two men entered his prison. Looking up, he saw that one of them was the little Mexican who had ridden close to him on that nightmare journey.

“Take the rope off hees feet, Pedro,” he directed his companion. “It is necessary that he walk into the great Espato’s presence.”

The rope was being removed from about his feet—none too gently, at that. Then the two men lifting him up, forcing him to stand upon what seemed like two flabby pincushions, into which the pins were beginning to stick agonizingly.

Phil never forgot that awful march into the presence of the bandit chief, his two captors driving him on relentlessly with blows and kicks, his feet aching with a pain that is like nothing else in all the world, the pain of blood rushing into a part of the body from which it had been cut off.

Then he had been pushed into the glare of the fire, swaying on his tortured feet while innumerable swarthy faces leered at him mockingly. Summoning all his strength he gave them back glare for glare dauntlessly.

There was a murmuring in the crowd of men, a deferential giving way as a swart, stocky man, pushed his way through. Instantly Phil forgot all the others as he gazed at this man. For there was a long, ugly gash across his forehead and in that startled moment Phil recognized the man as the one whom he had struck with his revolver upon that memorable day when the Mexicans had tried to surround the plane and he and his chums had made their spectacular escape.

And by the gleam in the other’s eye it could be seen that he also recognized Phil.

“So,” said the Mexican in a soft, drawling voice—Phil was later to learn that when this man spoke in his gentlest accents, the danger was greatest, “You have come to me, Americano, like a little lamb to the slaughter. You fight well, senor,” with a slight motion of his hand toward the scar on his forehead. “But something, perhaps it is a little bird, whispers to me, the great Espato, that you have fought your last fight, Americano.”

Then the great truth dawned upon Phil. It had been no other than the bandit Chief himself who had been knocked out in such a masterly manner by the blow of his—Phil’s—own revolver. At memory of that beautiful scrimmage Phil momentarily forgot his great danger. He even grinned.

“Well, Espato,” he said, “perhaps you’re right about my having scrapped my last scrap, but at least,” his mocking eyes on the ugly scar which adorned the man’s forehead, “I gave you something to remember me by.”