South, West and North/Part 3/Chapter 3

FTER that first recognition, Hampton dared not look again at the white face of the girl; she took a step forward, then paused and glanced at Doña Hermana. Deadly fear lay in her eyes. She wore the same simple blue dress in which Hampton had last seen her. This vision of her, standing here in the patio, brought a swift heart-stab to him. He looked at Dias, and in those glassy, arrogant eyes he read death. He felt suddenly afraid; it came to him that there must be no delay, no hesitation. That very night he and Eli must act, must make their desperate at tempt—if he lived until tonight.

It was then, in this minute of silence, that the whole thing flashed across Hampton's brain—the terribly simple outline of the night's work. As Eli had said, escape was out of the question, for the mere idea of reaching the schooner and getting away in her was too absurd to consider, while the desert spelled death; this death, however, was better than the Valley of Mercy. There remained only to get Nelly Barnes out of this hell, strike a last blow, and go. Provided, of course, that Hampton lived until night; for in the eyes of Dias, in the slow smile of Doña Hermana, he read terrible things.

“Welcome, Señor Hampton,” said Dias, leaning back in his chair and puffing his cigaret. “I believe that you came in search of a man named Winslow or Dias. Well, you have found him! You have also found the lost brother, who is one of my most valued friends. What, then, have you to say to me?”

Hampton stood silent. A thin smile curved the lipp of Dias.

“What! Have you no word even for this fair señorita from your own country? Speak to her, my dear señor! Assure her of my benevolence, and congratulate her upon having found as a friend and protector my most charming señora! Indeed, Señora Dias has even arranged a marriage for her with a man of high position and much wealth, so that her future is assured.”

Hampton caught a slight shrinking movement on the part of Nelly Barnes, but he remained silent, his eyes watching Dias in dulled apathy. Dias turned to the girl, smiling.

“Come, señorita! Have you no word of greeting for this caballero?” He repeated the words in English. Doña Hermana leaned forward and spoke brokenly.

“Si! Look at zem, señorita—one is a fool, and I haf peek you a fine señor, no?”

Less from the uttered words than from the glances that were cast, Hampton comprehended with a thrill of horror that the speakers were referring to the tall, dark Yaqui, who stood to one side rolling a cigarito. As he understood, Hampton felt a hot wave of blood rise into his face—yet he forced himself to remain silent. Suddenly Nelly Barnes plunged down on her knees beside the chair of Doña Hermana, caught the hand of the señora, and poured forth a passionate, agonized entreaty.

“You're a woman—you'll know all it means, you have a heart!” she cried desperately. “You can't be as bitterly cruel as this monster—I know it's not your doing! Don't let them do this, señora; he can have my money, anything at all, and I'll never say a word”

Doña Hermana drew her hand from the girl's frenzied grasp—a slow and deliberate movement which spoke far more than her coolly amused laugh or disdainful words.

“Peace, niña! Go to your man, but leaf me alone.”

Nelly Barnes slowly drew back, then rose. Before she could speak, Dias broke in:

“Tut, tut, young lady! There before you is the man who murdered your father”

Hampton spoke for the first time, and his voice leaped out with a cold and deadly emphasis that seemed to startle Dias.

“You lie! Nelly, that man is your father's murderer. The fact has been proven beyond all doubt. Adam Johnson and others know of it and have cleared me absolutely.”

Dias leaped to his feet, with an expression of such savage ferocity that even Doña Hermana leaned aside, watching him with wide eyes.

“So you're not broken yet, gringo!” he cried, then flung out his hand to the Yaqui. “Take him, Ramon—his scalp is yours”

Ramon lighted his cigaret, then slipped hand to waist and steel glittered. Hampton swiftly weighed his chances and found none—the two rifle-armed guards were close on either side. Then, suddenly, Nelly Barnes leaped forward, flung her arm across his chest protectingly, and gasped out swift words:

“No, no! I will do anything you want—I will agree to anything—let him go”

Ramon grinned. Doña Hermana uttered a low, musical laugh. Dias stared at the girl, then shrugged his shoulders and resumed his seat.

“As you will, señorita,” he said in English. Then, to Ramon, repeating his words in Spanish that both the Yaqui and Nelly Barnes might understand, he continued: “Let this man go free. Give him food and water and a mule. His life has been purchased, and the woman is yours.”

Ramon put up his knife, a swift gleam in his eye, and spoke a few words in a patois that Hampton did not understand. But Hampton, knowing well enough that this action on the part of Dias was only a delusion and a snare, had seized his chance for a word. Nelly Barnes stood close against him, her brown hair brushing his cheek—and though he longed to touch her, to grasp her hand if only for an instant, he refrained, lest the motion draw attention to him. Instead, he breathed low words which could reach her ear alone.

“Tonight, midnight. Be ready. Get outside if you can.”

A tremor of her arm as it lay across his chest told him that she understood—then Ramon turned to them, doffed his sombrero ironically, and swept Hampton a bow.

“Come with me, señor, and the order of our master shall be obeyed. Until later, señorita.”

Nelly Barnes stood aside, gave Hampton one lightning glance of perplexity, alarm, startled wonder—then he turned and followed the Yaqui. The two guards closed in behind him, and he was escorted through the house again, gaining a breath of its coolness before stepping out into the blinding white sunlight of the valley.

Then, as the door of the building was closed, the two guards put down their rifles and seized Hampton. Swiftly, efficiently, his arms were twisted behind his back and lashed tight; he was given no chance to resist, even had he so desired. Ramon gave the guards a guttural order, then strode away toward the corrals, which were gained by a small bridge over the creek.

“Walk to the barracks, gringo,” commanded one of the guards.

Hampton strode along in grim silence, careless what might await him if only he were allowed to live until night. Thoroughly as he had plumbed the depths of the deliberate and diabolic cruelty of Dias, this last evidence of the man's deviltry had scored him sharply and left a deep and ineradicable hatred which was beyond expression, filling his whole spirit, burning in his tortured brain like a white flame.

Other guards assembled, and stolid half-Indian women. Then, near his own sleeping-quarters, Hampton was suddenly tripped and flung to the ground, and four men sat on him. Others drove stakes in the sun-baked earth, and in ten minutes he was being spreadeagled and lashed by wrist and ankle to the four stakes. Ramon came up with some thongs of green hide, which were eagerly seized and applied to the work. Then the tall Yaqui commanded that a fire be built up, and at once a storm of questions arose.

“No,” said Ramon. “The gringo is not to be killed—yet. This is by the master's order; it is only a little thing.”

So Hampton guessed, rightly enough, that he was now to pay for that blindly furious attack on Dias the previous afternoon.

Pegged out in the hot sunlight, unable to endure the brazen sky overhead, he closed his eyes and lay silent, oblivious to the remarks and jests of those around. Time passed; what was preparing, he did not know or care. Between blistering sun above and scorching ground below, he was in a burning heat, but scarce felt it. The green rawhide thongs that tied him down were gradually evaporated in that flooding sun, until they shrank tight and ever more tightly cut into his skin, dragging out feet and hands toward the stakes. He remembered having heard of such Indian tortures—given a few more thongs to each extremity, his limbs might well be pulled from their sockets.

A sudden burst of laughter and a storm of jeering exclamations went up. Half opening his eyes, Hampton saw, bending over him, one of the silk-clad Chinese servants from the house of Dias—a wrinkled, saturnine fellow, whose very grin bore anticipations of torture. In one hand he held a brush, in the other a small pot of paint or ink. He made some remark to the crowd in Spanish which drew another outburst of mirth.

Ramon leaned over the pegged-out figure and tore away the front of Hampton's shirt. In this act, the eyes of the two men met—Hampton putting into one swift look all the things he dared not utter. The Yaqui started violently, half-whipped out his knife, then rose and turned away with a shrug; none the less, Hampton smiled a little, knowing that his message of hatred had been understood. Then he gave a sudden grunt, and found the Chinaman calmly seated upon him, brush in hand, drawing a diagram on his naked chest. Hampton had no need to ask what it was—those same two characters were embroidered on the silken blouse before his eyes. A cackle of mirth broke from the celestial, and he looked at the staring crowd who had gathered close.



“Look!” he exclaimed in very good Spanish. “Observe the beauty of this writing, which you do not understand! But I will show you what it means. Here above is the character tan, which shows the sun just above the horizon; it means the morning, or what you call dias—it is our word for the name of the master. Now below it you see me writing the character named i, which in the ancient writing of my country shows an arrow fixed in a target. It means that something has been done or finished, and the two characters together mean that our master has approved or done this thing—it is a seal made for our master by the eminent Yu Szu Lo of Canton.”

The yellow man concluded his writing and his exposition at the same moment, and then rose. Hampton was vaguely astonished by this explanation of the mysterious insignia used by Dias; but he quite comprehended that his astonishment would not last long.

Nor did it. He had closed his eyes again, when a keen breath of anticipation, a rustle and low mutter of words, apprized him that the next step in the program was at hand. He peered up as a shadow barred the hot sunlight from his face, and beheld the tall shape of Ramon standing above him.

“Look and enjoy, señor!” said the Yaqui, grinning, and stooped. In his hand was a white-hot iron from the fire, specked with scintillating particles.

Hampton threw back his head; at the touch of the iron he quivered, but made no sound. For an instant he thought that iron was about to be plunged into his throat—then he felt the caress of a burning finger touch his breast, and realized the truth. He was being branded with the seal of Dias.

“Deep, Ramon, deep!” went up the fierce cry from those crowding around, but the Yaqui did not heed. He had certain specific orders from Dias, which forbade him to work any real injury or to put the prisoner beyond ability to labor and endure the deadly sun-torture in the surrounding desert; so, that the gringo might be able to set forth with a wood-gathering party in the morning, grubbing out mesquite and juniper from the blazing desolation, Ramon touched lightly with the iron, little more than searing the skin.

The agony was exquisite, as the hot iron followed the painted lines, bringing out in a whitish blister the shape of the Chinese characters traced there. Even more exquisite and frightful was the pain when at last the Yaqui grunted and rose to his feet, and the sunlight struck down to scorch the seared skin. Yet those who watched so eagerly saw nothing, beyond a slight convulsive tremor of Hampton's body; then that body relaxed and lay without further movement. The captive had fainted.

When Hampton opened his eyes again, blinded and dazzled by the sun, it was to feel the keen anguish of a hand upon his burned chest. Then he saw the ginger whiskers of Pap Hoskins outstretched above him, and heard the voice of the man from Carolina in his ear.

“Everybody's eatin'—reckon I can spread this grease 'thout bein' caught. Your brother's fair wild and we're keepin' him away”

“Tell him—get loose tonight!” croaked Hampton, and groaned. “Water, water!”

“I got some right handy, son. Lucky you been layin' out in the sun after all-done took out the fire. I'll lay some more grease in your bunk. Reckon they'll cut you loose right soon. Tonight, eh? All right. Here come two o' the devils now, so shet up.”

While he spoke, Hoskins was deftly spreading some sort of grease across Hampton's inflamed skin. Then he lifted an olla and let some water drip into the open, swollen mouth. Several of the guards and other prisoners came up, but made no comment, and after a moment Hampton found himself alone again. He realized that it was past noon, and that many of the slaves had gathered around. By this time the rawhide thongs were so tightly stretched that he had lost all feeling in hands and feet, which were swollen and purpled.

Presently whips cracked, orders were shouted, and the labor of the day was taken up afresh. When silence had settled down, Hampton was dully aware that some one was close beside him, and with the torture of thirst again upon him, he spoke:

“Agua! Water!”

An ironic laugh made answer, and he peered up to see Dias gazing down at him.

“Water, eh?” Dias chuckled. “He asks water—get him some, querida mia!”

“Indeed! Get it yourself,” made answer another voice, and Hampton knew that Doña Hermana was behind his head. “You are a fool to treat him so lightly; I tell you the dog will make trouble yet if he is not killed.”

“Why kill him quickly?” responded Dias. “Three days in our charming desert, and then the symbol burned into his back—and in four days more Ramon will have a scalp to wave before his new woman. You hear, Hampton? Tomorrow we celebrate the marriage of my faithful Yaqui. You shall be the guest of honor, and El Bobo shall give away the bride.”

Hampton did not open his eyes again or make any response. Presently the two moved away, and it was a little later that he felt a sudden relaxation of his tortured flesh. When he looked around, he found that one of the guards was cutting him loose.

“Go to your kennel, gringo dog,” said the guard, and sauntered away.

For a long while Hampton lay helpless. At last he managed to sit up, and despite the burning anguish that enveloped him, began to chafe his wrists and ankles, which were cut and bleeding from the thongs. With the restored circulation, his head was whirling with the access of pain, when he looked up to see two figures passing by. They were Dias and Ramon; both men were too occupied to notice him, and halted a short distance away. To them came running a half-naked Indian. Dias flung a question at him:

“You are from the harbor? What is it?”

Hampton comprehended that they had been signaled the arrival of this messenger, and had come forth to meet him. The panting Indian made answer.

“Si, mi señor amo! We have sighted the schooner, that of Señora Dias, which was left behind. The wind is very light, however, and she cannot get in before sometime tonight.”

“Good,” exclaimed Dias heartily. “No sign of the other schooner, my own?”

“No sign, señor amo.”

Dias waved his hand. “Bueno! Return and tell your comrades that they may come in at sunset; there will be no need of keeping watch at the harbor tonight.”

Dias and the tall Yaqui turned and strode back up the cañon, but Hampton sat in absolute dismay. Unconsciously, despite its impossibility, he had cherished a faint hope of escape by way of the sea, for he knew that the schooner which had brought him must be still lying in the hidden harbor. Now this tenuous hope was completely dashed. This second schooner, which had taken the devilish señora south and which she had left to follow her, had arrived in time to block even the faintest chance of escape.

After a little Hampton gained his feet with some difficulty and staggered down to the creek. There, standing in the cool water, he laved his hurts and drank his fill, unhindered; and gradually returning to a sanely balanced mind, found himself not vitally hurt—the strain of the torture itself had worn him down more than the actual suffering. He made his way back to the barracks, now deserted. Finding his own shelf-bunk, he discovered in it a bundle of rags and an earthen bowl containing some grease.

Mentally blessing Pap Hoskins, he daubed the grease on his wounds, wound the rags about his body, and then crawled into his bunk. He was asleep almost instantly—his last conscious thought a memory of the dark features of Ramon the Yaqui.