The Thirty Gang/Chapter 13

WAS in ambush on the river-bank when my luck failed.

It was late in the day, and Paco and the rest of his gang might possibly be nearing the place. I did not really expect them so soon, for the river between Quencua and Oso is so bad that it would take hard, fast work for those up-bound men to reach him and bring him back in so short a time. Still, it was possible. So, having nothing else to do, I was watching the river from a little bushy point at the entrance of my caño, up which was the landing-place for canoes.

Before me stood a big mora tree, which would give me cover from bullets. Around me stood a few bushes, and on two of these, in crotches hip-high from the ground, lay a dozen ready arrows. By trimming branches with my knife I had made those bushes into a rack for the shafts, easier to reach than any back-quiver,

The deadly heads all pointed forward, and when the time should come I could snatch the cane shafts rapidly enough to drive them in a stream at the canoe-men. Meanwhile I leaned against the tree, giving all my attention to the river. The three dead men in the clearing behind me were not likely to do me any harm, and I knew of no other men.

Across the river a couple of areguatos were howling at each other, making the horrible noise those monkeys always make. If it had not been for their roaring I might have turned in time to make a better fight. As it was, I heard nothing near me until several quiet clicks struck my ears. Then I whirled—too late.

Five rifles covered me. Behind them stood men of San Fernando. And farther back, along the path, I saw more men holding guns ready to throw to an aim.

For a few seconds I stood dumb. And the more I stared, the more amazed I grew. These men did not belong to the gang of the Butcher. "Caramba!" I said when my breath came back. "What is this? What are you doing here?"

"We are catching a león asleep," one of them mocked. "Come forward—with your hands up."

I stood still, looking at faces. Like Paco, these men were of the army of Funes; and they were no better than the brutes of the Butcher. I suspected—and soon found it true—that they were another pack sent out from San Fernando to get me; but I wanted to know why.

"Does the Coronel order this?" I demanded.

"Come here!" was the snarling answer. "Lift those hands!"

I knew then that this was not the work of Funes. If it had been, they would have said so; for an army party usually made a formal "arrest" in the name of the Coronel—though it often executed its prisoner immediately afterward. Not that I should have meekly surrendered if they had used Funes' name. I asked only because I was amazed and puzzled.

I took a slow step forward as if obeying, and I raised my hands. But I did not raise them far or keep them empty. Letting my bow drop, I snatched my revolver, fired, and fell, all in the same movement.

The rifles roared almost in my face. But the bullets smashed my hat instead of my head. I kept shooting as fast as I could shift my aim from man to man—and that was very fast indeed. At that short range I could not miss. Every man of those five staggered. Two of them fell.

My gun empty, I sprang up and jumped toward the river, intending to dive off, swim down-stream under water, and try to get into the bush. But I had hardly turned and begun to move outward when a terrible blow struck my right leg. With the blow came another gun-shot. I tumbled sprawling on my face.

Before I could drag myself forward, men were on me. I fought, squirmed over, drew my poniard, struck at somebody. My arm was caught and twisted. A rifle-barrel crashed on my head. Everything went black.

When I could see again, a ring of men stood around me. One was squatting beside me and tying up my hurt leg with a strip cut from my trousers. My revolver and poniard were gone.

Much surprised to find myself still alive, and still more astonished to see that some care was being given my wound, I lay still and stared around. I was in the same place where I had fallen, and felt that I had not been long unconscious.

Scanning faces, I now saw that one was that of Jaime Pecoro, a corporal under Funes and a gang leader on his own account. He was as merciless as Paco the Butcher, except that he was not so cruel: a killer, but not a torturer.

"Well, Jaime," I said, "it seems that you are the winner. But since when have you let your men do your work while you skulked behind? You were not here when I fought."

"I was at the clearing beyond," he growled. "We were looking in all directions for you, and these men found you. You, you have killed two of them."

"Only two?" I mocked. "My cartridges must be bad. What of the other three?"

Jaime smiled sourly. Several others chuckled in a grim way.

"They are hit, but they are tough," he said. "The fools should have shot first and talked afterward. But you are not so clever as men say, if you let them walk so near to you."

"I was watching for a dear friend of mine—El Carnicero," I retorted. "He may come at any moment. You had best be careful."

"The roast him!" Jaime snorted. "He is nothing, that Paco. You are slow, or you would have killed him before now. El Carnicero? Bah! El Rebuznador!"

"I fear that you do not like the gentleman," I said, "it is a pity. But why do you come here and interrupt my plan to receive him?"

He grinned again, but his eyes were cold as those of a snake.

"Why? Because he is not good enough for his work. He has been given time enough to do a dozen such jobs."

"I see. And now you have been given the work instead, yes? I thought so. Then why do you not finish it now?"

"There is no hurry," he said, with a careless wave of the hand. "You will not run with that leg, and you will not shoot again, with no gun. I will attend to you when I am ready. Until then we shall talk and be comfortable."

I studied him and then laughed, though I did not feel at all merry. He meant just what he said. When he was ready he would chop off my head with no more feeling than if he were cutting a bush. But while I lived I intended to seem as cool as he was.

"That is quite agreeable," I said. "I wish you had kept away until I had seen Paco—I have a personal account to settle with him. But that can not be helped now. I am sorry also that I can not receive you in my casa, but you must blame Paco for that. He burned it while I was away."

He nodded shortly.

"Where are your Indios?" he demanded.

"I have no Indios," I denied.

"That is a lie! Every one knows you have the Maquiritares in your hand. You and they killed Coronel Bayona. We met on the river a canoe with three bodies—phew!—and arrows. We find more bodies and more arrows here. Where are those Indios?"

I held my tongue a minute. He did not know those arrows had been shot by Loco León. It would do me no good to tell him so, or to let him know of those other arrows so near us. I might yet find some chance to save myself.

"They are not here—" I was about to say, when every man jumped. From the entrance of the caño, just beyond the mora tree, sounded the bump of a paddle against the side of a canoe.

"Hola!" Jaime called sharply. "Who comes?"

"Paco Peldóm!" growled an answering voice. "Who are you?"

Jaime grinned once more. His teeth looked like the bared fangs of a tigre.

"Paco Peldóm?" he sneered. "You are too slow and too late, Paco. Your game is trapped by Jaime Pecoro. Travel onward."

A savage curse sounded from the water. The ring of men around me swung back and became a line, facing the caño and holding their guns half-raised. I turned over on an elbow and looked, but saw only the bush between me and the edge of the bank.

"What game do you mean?" yelled the Butcher. "How come you here, you"

"The game you were not good enough to catch!" Pecoro taunted him. "You have been away for weeks and done nothing. Now Jaime Pecoro comes here and catches your león in less than an hour after going ashore. Go on down the river to San Fernando, Peldóm, and ask the Coronel for a place as grave-digger. You are growing too old for this work."

The men standing behind me laughed jeeringly. The Butcher roared a string of foul names which only made Jaime grin wider than ever.

"You lie!" Paco raved. "You catch León? You? You could not catch a sick monkey! And I am old, am I? You son of a ! Get off this river before I show you how old I am! You will come here to steal my meat, will you? You crawling snake"

I looked at Jaime. His eyes were glittering, but he still grinned that cold grin. He was enjoying Paco's rage too much to shoot. I sat up.

"Give me a gun, Jaime—a revolver—anything," I asked. "Let me settle my score with that filthy brute. After that"

"Si, after that you will shoot me also, León," he jeered. "You are not to be trusted with a gun. Lie down again before I kick you down!"

But I did not lie down. I started to crawl toward my arrows, which nobody had noticed. I was determined to kill the Butcher before I should die in my turn.

Somebody fell on me and forced me flat on the ground. Then came another roar from the caño.

"Diablo! It is the truth? You have León there? Then, por Dios, you shall give him to me! He is mine, and I will have him!"

Water splashed and paddles bumped. Jaime's rifle clicked. But he was not yet through with talking.

"Si, he is here, but he belongs to a better man than you," he called. "Go back to San Fernando with your tail between your legs, if you know what is best for you—or you will never return there at all."

A snarl was the only answer. A scrambling sound on the bank—then the ugly face of Paco arose beside the mora tree. Gripping his rifle, glowering like a mad dog, he came lunging savagely toward me. The man holding me jumped up. More gun-clicks sounded behind me. In one more second there would have been shooting.

But in that one second something else happened. Paco gave a sudden grunt, grabbed at his stomach, halted as if struck, looked down. For the space of three breaths he stood like a block of wood. Then he jumped back as if from a snake.

His rifle dropped. His face lifted, and it was gray-white. His mouth worked; his tongue made a horrid sound without words. And down the front of his dirty shirt and breeches showed a row of black spots surrounded by red.

He had run straight upon the points of my waiting arrows.