CHAPTER XXI

Threats of Torture

This remark of Phil’s came near to being the last one that he would ever make. With a snarl like some ferocious animal, Espato leaped forward and struck him full in the face. Phil reeled at the blow, stumbled and would have fallen save that he came into dizzying contact with a great tree directly behind him.

Against this support he leaned, praying for strength to meet whatever horrors might be in store for him. He had angered the villainous Espato. Now he must pay the price.

The chief of the Mexicans came close to him, his lips drawn back from his strong white teeth in a snarl. His face was convulsed with fury.

“Dog, fool of an Americano,” he shouted, shaking his fist beneath Phil’s nose. “You think to taunt Espato in his stronghold, eh? Dios, you shall taste of his vengeance. Yess.”

He struck Phil again and the latter ground his teeth in impotent fury. If he could only get his hands free. Just for one little moment!

Espato must have read his thoughts, for he laughed softly, gloatingly.

“Ah,” he said, his voice once more gentle and drawling. “The Americano wish to have his bonds cut, eh, so that he may fight Espato? No. That is not Espato’s way.”

“No, you blackguard,” cried Phil, furiously. “I know well it isn’t your way to give a fellow a fighting chance. Take these ropes off my hands and I’ll fight you unarmed.”

“Is he not courageous, the Americano,” sneered Espato while the grins deepened on the faces of his followers. “But you will need all of your courage, little one, never fear. Before we get through with you my game cock, you will be crying aloud for mercy. Where will your fine courage be then, Americano?”

“You lie,” muttered Phil, between clenched teeth. “You can kill me, of course. I’m helpless. But you won’t get a sound out of me.”

“We will kill you, oh, yess, we will kill you,” said Espato, and the voice of the bandit sounded to Phil like the hiss of some poisonous snake. “But we will not kill you at once. Oh, no. That would be too good for one who has defied the great Espato. We will hang you up by your thumbs, my little friend, until they have been pulled from the sockets. Then, if you faint, we will take you down and revive you. Ah, yess, it iss no part of our plan that you should faint.”

A hoarse chuckle from someone in the shadows and over Phil there passed a deathly nausea. He was sick and dizzy from the blow on his head and he was weak from lack of food. If the villains intended to torture him why didn’t they hurry up and get to it, he thought, miserably. Anything would be better than this!

“And after we have revive you,” Espato was saying in his maddening drawl, “then we will perhaps open up a vein or two and into your hot blood, my friend, we will pour a little boiling lead. That is to cure you of hot temper, my Americano.”

“I should think,” said Phil, with defiance in his tone, “I should think that would cure anybody.”

“Ah, you see fit to joke, my frien’,” remarked Espato with an evil smile. “Good, it will give me great pleasure to erase the smiles from your face. Ten minutes in the torture dungeon an’ you will not smile. Ah, no, they do not smile then. You will look like this then, my friend.” He distorted his face into a horrible grimace of agony and Phil turned away, sickened.

“Ah,” cried the rascal, delightedly, turning Phil’s face about roughly, so that he was forced to look at him. “You are not, perhaps, quite so happy as you were, eh? Good. We have already begun to erase the smiles from your face. You look sick, my frien’. Ah, I remember,” he added, in the apologetic tones of a host who has forgotten his duty toward a guest. “You are hungry. Ah, yess, you mus’ be famish’. Tony, Tony Gomez,” he called and from the shadows there stepped forth a young Mexican, who stood sullenly awaiting further orders from his chief. “You will take this so distinguish visitor of ours,” with a mocking sweep of his hand toward Phil, “back to the guest chamber. An’ then you will take to him food, the best what we have. It is not our intention, senor,” he swept Phil a low bow, “to starve you to death. Ah, no. We wish that you be in the best of good spirits, so that you may the better enjoy the entertainment which we bring to you later. Ah, yess. You must be strong an’ well, my game cock, so that we may the better enjoy your enjoyment. Good night, an’ the mos’ pleasant of dreams, Americano.”

The young Mexican, Tony Gomez, seized Phil roughly by the arm and hurried him past the group of sneering faces about the fire and thrust him again into the damp, evil-smelling dungeon which he had occupied before.

Gloomy and forbidding as the place was it was a relief after his recent ordeal for here at least, he could be alone. He sank wearily down upon the stone bench at the farther end of his prison while Tony Gomez with a muttered word or two about bringing some food, went out, closing and barring the door behind him.

The prison was absolutely dark, save for that little slit far up in the wall. The flickering of the firelight through this aperture seemed only to emphasize the gloom.

But dark as was his prison, Phil’s thoughts were darker and gloomier still. To him, at that moment there seemed no possible way out of his horrible predicament.

If he had only his radio outfit. His face brightened at the mere thought, then clouded again. What was the use of thinking of the impossible, he asked himself bitterly. He had no radio outfit and there was about as much chance of getting one as there was that Espato might relent and let him go free.

But in spite of all he could do, he could not get rid of the idea. Radio—and the solution of his desperate problem! By this time of course, the Radio Boys had missed him, in all probability were at this moment searching frantically for him. If he had a radio set, even the smallest and most primitive of sets, he might get a message through to them—a message which would bring the Rangers galloping to his rescue.

At the thought a thrill shot through his veins, a light came in his eyes—the light of battle. Then he pulled himself together, calling himself all sorts of names for being such an idiot.

“I might just as well say,” he mused, relaxing wearily on the unyielding stone of the bench, “that if I could find a million dollars, I’d be a millionaire. If I could find a radio set, I’d be a free man. There’s about as much chance one way as the other.”

In a few moments the man called Gomez returned, bearing with him a steaming tray of eatables. Now, when Espato had devilishly promised to give him plenty to eat so that he would be in shape to suffer longer the torture that was in store for him, Phil had made a resolution then and there, to eat nothing, no matter how much he might be tempted.

But now, when Gomez laid the tray upon a stone table which, in the darkness, Phil had not seen, the temptation was more than he could bear. He was famished, he was young and, in spite of the trap into which he had fallen, life was still mighty sweet to him.

Gomez lighted a candle which he had brought in with him and set it upon the table. By the flickering light Phil could see that besides bread and butter, there was a steaming dish of some Mexican concoction, that under other circumstances might have seemed villainous but just now appealed to him as most savory and appetizing.

Gomez removed the bonds from his numbed hands and as soon as he had regained the use of them at all, Phil set to with a will. When he was finished there was not enough left on that tray to feed a hungry kitten.

And through it all the young Mexican called Tony Gomez stood immovable beside the captive, watching him. And was it possible that in his sullen black eyes there was just a trace of sympathy?