CHAPTER VI
THE EXECUTION OF EL TIGRE
With a quick jerk, Dick snapped the rope that held him and rushed toward his comrades. He ranged himself alongside, and his revolver barked in unison with theirs.
The surprise had been complete. At the first shot, the bandits had leaped to their feet, and with wild yells scattered in every direction. Most of them had left their arms in their tents, and had nothing but their knives to defend them from attack. And these were wholly insufficient weapons, with which to meet the little band that flung themselves so recklessly upon them. For all they knew, they might be the vanguard of a force many times stronger, and they fled in wild confusion.
The guerilla chief was the only one who kept his head. He drew a revolver from his belt and returned shot for shot. He backed up slowly in the direction of his hut. With his eyes on the enemy in front, he had forgotten that the second snake was right behind him. He slipped on the slimy folds, and, the next instant, the enraged reptile struck at one of his hands as he attempted to rise. A burning pain shot through his index finger. He shook off the clinging snake, and, jumping upon it, stamped its head into pulp. Then he drew his knife and slashed his finger to the bone. The next instant he had reached his hut and slammed the door behind him.
The whole thing had happened in the twinkling of an eye. A dozen of the guerillas lay dead or wounded on the ground. The odds had been reduced with a vengeance, but they were still heavy. The attackers had played their trump card – that of the surprise. It had taken a trick, but the game was not yet over. No one knew this better than the old frontiersman. They had emptied their revolvers.
"Back to the woods," he shouted, "and reload."
Waiting only to recover his bowie and slash the bonds of the Chinaman, who lay there more dead than alive, he led the way. Soon they were under cover, and not till then did Dick throw his arms around Bert and Tom, in a hug that almost made their bones crack. Then he shook hands with Melton, with a fervor that made that hardy hero wince.
"I can never tell you," began Dick, and then he choked.
"You don't have to," returned Melton, gruffly, to conceal his own deep feeling, while Bert and Tom, in the grip of strong emotion, could only pat Dick's arms, without speaking; "It's nothing that any white man wouldn't do for another. Besides, we're not yet out of the woods. Those fellows will get their nerve back in a minute or two, and then look out for trouble. They've probably guessed by this time how few we are, and they'll be wild to get back at us. That leader of theirs is a beast all right, but he's no coward. The way he cut that poison out of his flesh shows that. Load your guns quick, and each get behind a big tree. Have your knives ready too, if it comes to close quarters."
"But you're wounded," cried Dick, as he saw a little trickle of blood from Melton's left shoulder.
"Only a scratch," laughed Melton; "the chief winged me there with his last shot. That's one I owe him and I always pay my debts. Just twist your handkerchief about it, and then we'll forget it."
It proved to be, as he said, only a graze, and they returned to their attitude of strained attention.
In the meantime, the Chinaman had come hobbling out to them, and in his hollow eyes there was a speechless gratitude that made them know that he was their slave for life. He was of no value as a reinforcement, and after having settled him in the shelter of a huge tree, they peered from behind their cover for some sign of the expected foe.
Five – ten – twenty minutes passed, and nothing happened. The waiting was more nerve racking than the actual combat. The only sound that broke the stillness was the groans of the wounded, as they crawled into and behind their tents. It would have been an easy thing to finish the work, but none of them could fire on a helpless man, even though a murderer and an outlaw. They had put them out of the running, and that was enough.
Then suddenly, just as they began to think that after all the bandits had decamped, came a volley of bullets that pattered among the leaves and thudded into the trees.
"I was sure of it," muttered Melton. "Keep close under cover," he commanded, "and make every shot tell."
Even as he spoke, his rifle cracked, and a crouching figure rose with a yell, and lurched heavily forward on his face.
"One less," he grunted, "but there's still a mighty lot of them left."
The shots that had been more or less scattered now grew into a fusillade. It was evident that the fighting was being intelligently directed, and that the bandits were regaining confidence. Melton and the boys shot coolly and carefully whenever they saw a head or an arm exposed, and the yells that followed the shot told that the bullet had found its mark. But there seemed no let up in the enemy's volleys, and what made Melton more uneasy than anything else was that the zone of fire was steadily widening. His long experience told him unerringly that the foe was trying to surround them. If his little band had to face four ways at once, it would go hard with them.
Suddenly he felt a touch on his arm. He looked up and saw the Chinaman.
The latter pointed down the road.
"Men coming," he said. "Blig lots of men. Horses too."
Melton sprang to his feet. Sure enough, there were horsemen coming up the road. Was it a detachment of the guerilla band returning? Were they to be taken by fresh forces in the rear? He grabbed Bert by the shoulder.
"Here," he said, "face around with me. You other fellows stay as you are."
They crouched low with their eyes on the road. The tramp of hoofs became louder and the jingle of spurs and accoutrements fell upon their ears. Then their hearts leaped, as round the curve, riding hard, swept a squad of Mexican cavalry, fully a hundred in number, their brilliant uniforms glittering in the sunlight. With a wild hurrah and waving their hands, they rushed forward to meet them.
There was a hasty movement among the front ranks, as though to repel an assault, but as they saw how few they were and realized the absence of hostile intentions, their carbines were lowered and the captain in command swung himself to the ground.
He was a young, well set up, soldierly looking man, and it took only a
moment for him to grasp the situation, as it was rapidly sketched out by
Melton. He had been educated in the Mexican military school and spoke
English fluently.
"How large a force have you?" he asked.
"Here they are," replied Melton, with a wave of his hand.
"What!" the officer gasped in amazement. "You don't mean to say that with only four men, you attacked El Tigre and his band. It was suicide."
"Well," laughed Melton, "it hasn't come to that yet, but I'm not denying that things are getting too warm for comfort. The rascals would have had us surrounded in a little while, and I'm mighty glad you've come."
"You've done wonders," rejoined the captain, "but now you can rest on your arms, while I clear out this nest of hornets."
"Not a bit of it," replied Melton. "We're going to be in at the death."
"You stubborn Americanos," laughed the captain. "So be it then. You've certainly earned the right to have your way in this."
His dispositions were quickly taken. At the word of command, his troopers dismounted and tethered their horses. Then they deployed in a long line across the woods. A bugle blew the charge, and with a rousing cheer they rushed up the slope and across the clearing. A volley of bullets met them and several of them went down, but the rest kept on without a pause. Their carbines cracked without cessation, and one outlaw after the other fell, until not more than fifteen were left. These last were gathered in a corner of the camp, where under the leadership of El Tigre, who fought with a fury worthy of his name, they made their last despairing stand.
But their hour had come. The blood of their victims was at last to be avenged. One final charge, and the troops swept over them. The guerilla chief, seeing that all was lost, lifted his revolver with the last bullet left, and put it to his head to blow out his brains. He had always boasted that he would never be taken alive. But just as his finger was on the trigger, Dick, who, with his friends, had been in the forefront of the fight, knocked his hand aside and bore him to the ground. In another second, he was tightly bound and the fight was over. With four of his band, the only survivors, he was put under guard, and left to await the pleasure of his captors.
Then at last, they drew breath. The work was done and well done. Dick was with them, safe and sound, and none the worse for his terrible experience. The band which had been the scourge of that distracted country had been practically wiped out, and the leader, who for so long had defied God and man, was a prisoner, awaiting his fate. What that fate would be no one could doubt, who knew how richly he merited death.
"I suppose," said Dick, as they sat a little apart from the others taking lunch with the captain of the troop, at his invitation, "that he'll be taken to Montillo for trial."
"Guess again," chuckled Melton, who knew something of the methods of the
Mexican Government in dealing with guerillas.
"My orders were to take no prisoners," smiled the captain, and there was a meaning in his smile that boded ill for the remnant of the bandit crew.
"And, of course, I must obey my orders," he added drily. "The more readily," he went on, as his face grew dark, "because there is a private score that I have to settle with this scoundrel. The blood of my younger brother is on his hands. You can guess then, senors, whether I was glad, when I was trusted on this mission."
"Are they to be shot, then?" ventured Bert.
"All but the leader," answered the captain. "He must hang. And yet he shall not die by hanging."
Before they could ask an explanation, he rose and excused himself, as he had to give some orders to the soldiers, and they were left to ponder in vain for his meaning.
The next two hours were spent in clearing up the camp and burying the dead. The bodies of the guerillas were thrown hastily into a narrow trench, but those of the soldiers received full military honors, the bugler playing taps, and a salvo of musketry being fired over the graves. In the meantime the boys had wandered over the camp, now shorn of the terror that had so long been connected with it. On the upper end, it terminated at the very brink of a precipice. All of Mexico seemed to be stretched out before them. The abyss fell sheer down for a thousand feet to the rocks below. They shuddered as they stood on the edge and looked through the empty space. On the brink stood a mighty oak tree, with one of its limbs overhanging the chasm.
A sudden recollection struck Melton.
"This must be the place the consul told me about, in one of his stories," he ejaculated. "He told me that one of the Tiger's favorite amusements was to bring a prisoner here and prod him with bayonets over the brink. I guess," he scowled, "we don't need to waste much sympathy on that fellow, no matter what the captain does to him."
And the boys, with a lively recollection of the snake and the buckskin thong, agreed with him.
But now the bugle blew and they hurried back to the clearing. The troop stood at attention. Routine work connected with the raid had been despatched, and the time had come for the military execution. Martial law is brief and stern, and, under his instructions, the captain had the power of life or death without appeal. His face was set and solemn, as befitted one on whom weighed so heavy a responsibility, but there was no relenting in his voice, as he bade a sergeant to bring out the prisoners.
The four came out, sullen and apathetic. He looked them over for a moment, and then gave a sign. A trench was hastily dug and the prisoners placed with their backs to it. Their eyes were bandaged. A firing squad of a dozen men advanced to within ten feet and leveled their rifles. A moment's pause, then a sharp word of command, and death leaped from the guns. When the smoke cleared away, four motionless forms lay in the trench, and justice had been done.
"Don't bury them yet," commanded the captain. "Bring out El Tigre."
There was a stir among the soldiers, as the dreaded chief, whose evil fame was known all over Mexico, was brought before the captain. He was harmless enough now. All his power had been stripped away, and all that remained to him was his one redeeming quality of courage. He had heard the firing, and, as he came from the tent, he passed close by the bodies of his former followers. Doubtless the same fate awaited him, but he did not waver, and his hideous face expressed only the bitterest venom and malignity. If hate could kill, it would have blasted Dick, as for a moment the bandit caught sight of him, in passing. Then he faced his judge, who was also to be his executioner.
"Do you know me, El Tigre?" asked the Captain.
The outlaw glared at him.
"No," he snarled.
"Do you remember the boy you captured on that raid in the San Joaquin valley, three months ago?"
"What of him?"
"He was my brother."
The guerilla shot a swift glance at him.
"Carramba," he muttered. Then after an instant's silence. "Yes, I remember. He was great sport. He died hard. It was very amusing. Yes, he died hard."
If his object was to provoke instant death, he almost succeeded. The captain's eyes flamed and he snatched a revolver from his belt. But he saw the stratagem in time and by a great effort held himself in check. The flush faded from his face, to be succeeded by a deadly pallor.
"El Tigre," he said slowly, "the earth is weary of you and the devil is waiting for you. I shall not keep him waiting long. Take him up to the oak," he commanded, pointing to the great tree on the edge of the precipice.
The soldiers fell into line and the procession started.
When they halted under its branches, the hands and feet of the outlaw were securely tied. Then a soldier climbed into the tree, and far out on the branch that overhung the chasm. At a distance of twenty feet, he fastened a stout rope. Then he crept back, and, making a noose in the other end, took his stand beside the prisoner and waited for orders.
The ghastly preparations were telling on the nerve of the guerilla, and he broke into a string of the wildest blasphemies. Without paying any attention to his ravings, the soldier at a signal, slipped the noose over his head. But instead of tightening it about the neck, as most of the lookers on, as well as the prisoner himself, expected, he adroitly drew it down to the waist, and thence up under the outlaw's arms. Then he pulled it tight. Four men took hold of El Tigre's arms and legs, bore him to the edge of the precipice, and pushed him off into space.
Like a giant pendulum, he swung out in a great arc, and then, returning, almost reached the brink. Gradually the arc grew shorter, until he swayed perpendicularly from the branch. Below, he could see the rocks at the foot of the cliff. The bones of many of his victims already reposed there. How long before he would join them? Was he to be left hanging there as a feast for the carrion birds? Wherever he looked was torture. Below, the rocks. Above, the vultures. In front, the enemies whom he hated with all the passion of his soul.
Ah! A firing squad was coming forward. They were going to shoot him then, after all. Good! Death would be welcome. He heard the roar of the guns, and still he was alive. Could they have missed him? Then another volley rang out. Still he lived. He could not understand. His glance went aloft. The rope was sagging. He could feel it give. A broken strand brushed against his face. And then he understood.
They were firing at the rope!
A panic terror seized him. He had reached the limit of human endurance. Again the shots, and a trembling that told him that the rope was hit. He tried to struggle upward. If he could only ease his weight. He stretched his bound hands aloft in a hopeless effort to climb up to the branch. He no longer dared to look below. Another volley and a sound of tearing. He drew in a long breath as though it would buoy him up. His feet felt about for something to rest on and relieve the strain. And still he could hear the crackling and feel the yielding and once more the guns rang out and the rope broke. With curses on his lips and delirium in his heart, he fell. Once he turned over in his awful flight. Then, a mere atom in that immensity of space, he shot like a plummet to the rocks below.
CHAPTER VII
OFF FOR PANAMA
It had been a day of tremendous strain from start to finish, and there was a general sigh of relief, as they gathered up their traps and prepared to leave the camp. Not since their fight with the pirates, had the boys had a closer "shave." It had been a case of touch and go, and they had barely escaped with their lives. But they had won out, after all, and, as Tom said, "a miss was as good as a mile." And their hearts warmed at the sense of comradeship, that had once again been tested to the limit and proved equal to the emergency. They had risked their lives for each other, and the "fortune that favors the brave" had not deserted them.
For Melton, their feeling was too deep for words. His was a heart of gold. Without the slightest personal end to be served, and prompted solely by his great, big, generous soul, he had come to their aid in the moment of deepest need, and fought shoulder to shoulder, in their effort to save their friend. Again and again they sought to voice their thanks, but the hardy old frontiersman would have none of it.
"Cut it out, boys," he laughed. "I didn't do a thing that you wouldn't have done for me, if you knew that an American was in trouble. Some day perhaps, you can pay me back, if you insist on considering it a debt. I only hope, if I ever do get in a scrape, I'll have some young fellows of your brand behind me."
As none of them could read the future, they did not know that there was a touch of prophecy in his words, and that the time was coming, when, in his own native Rockies, the boys would pay the debt with interest.
From the loot found in the hut of the bandit chief, Dick had recovered his watch and money and clothes, and declared that he felt like a human being again for the first time since he had been trapped by the guerilla band on the morning before.
They shuddered, as, on their way through the camp, they passed the bodies of the snakes, still tethered to the posts. They lay, quiet enough now, like the human fiend whose venom had been as dangerous as their own.
"The snakes and the Tiger," mused Bert. "They both lost out."
But now the cavalry were mounted and ready for the start. The horses of the guerillas had been released from their hobbles, and were led by ropes behind a number of the soldiers. One was assigned to Dick, while Melton and the boys mounted three, that they were to use temporarily, until they had recovered their own that had been left further down the trail.
As they were gathering up the reins, Bert felt a touch on his leg. He looked down and saw the Chinaman, who in the hurry of preparation had been overlooked.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "The Chink! We forgot all about him."
The poor fellow's eyes were full of dread at the thought of being left alone in the wilderness.
"Of course we'll take you along, John," Bert continued, "though I don't know what on earth we'll do with you. But we'll settle that later on."
Dismounting, he gave the Chinaman a leg up on one of the led horses. The Oriental had never been on a horse in his life, and he made a comical figure, as he bobbed up and down. After threatening to fall off at any moment, he finally abandoned all effort to sit upright, and, leaning forward, threw he arms around the horse's neck and held on for his life.
"It's rather hard lines," laughed Dick. "But when he thinks of what he's getting away from, I guess he won't worry much about getting shaken up a little."
Soon they reached their own horses, and were proceeding to make the exchange, when they remembered the sentry who had been captured on that spot. They looked at each other with a little touch of perplexity.
"We can't leave him there to starve," said Tom. "On the other hand, if we remind the captain, he'll simply send one of his troopers to put a bullet in him."
"He's our captive," said Bert, "and I guess we'd better tend to this on our own account. We didn't actually promise him his life, and no doubt he's deserved death many times over. We got some valuable information out of him, though, even if it was at the point of a bowie, and I think we ought to untie him and let him go."
As there was no dissent from this, they went to the tree where they had left the sentry. They found him nearly dead from terror. He had heard the sounds of the fight and the cheers of the soldiers, and knew pretty well how the struggle had ended. Now, as the boys approached, he tried to read their purpose in their eyes. He knew how he would have acted, had the case been reversed, and he did not dare to hope for mercy. But, to his astonishment, they took the gag from his mouth, untied his hands and told him he was free. He shook himself and then staggered away in the underbrush, trying to get out of sight before his deliverers should change their minds. They watched him till he vanished, and then retraced their steps to where Melton was waiting.
"You did right, boys," he said. "Although," he added, "a good many might think it was a case of misplaced sympathy. While I was waiting, I was reminded of the story of the little girl, looking at a picture of the early Christians attacked by lions in the arena. Her mother saw that she was crying, and was pleased to see that she was so tender-hearted. 'It is sad, isn't it?' she asked. 'Yes,' sobbed the child, 'look at this poor thin little lion, that hasn't any Christian.'"
The boys laughed, as they sprang into the saddle.
"Of course," concluded Melton, "it's rough on any lion to compare him to a fellow like this. Perhaps we'd better say a hyena, and let it go at that."
With hearts light as air, they cantered down the trail. Once more, life was smiling. They passed in quick succession the various land marks they had such good reason to remember. Here was the place where they had passed the night, and where Melton had come upon them, bringing cheer and hope. There was the stream, in which the outlaws had walked their horses. Most memorable of all was the curve in the road, where Dick had come upon the guerillas. Nothing in nature had changed since yesterday. But what a gulf lay between their tortured sensations of the day before and the joyous elation of the present!
It was long after dark, when they rode into Montillo – too late to see the consul and the mayor that night. They bade a cordial good night to the captain, and, with a gay wave of the hand to the troopers, went to the leading hotel of the place. Here they found their baggage, which, thanks again to the thoughtfulness of Melton, had been taken from the train and sent there to await their coming – that coming which had been so doubtful a little while before. They saw to it that the Chinaman had food and drink and a place to sleep. Then a good supper, a hot bath, and they piled between sheets, to await the coming of the morrow.
It was long after sunrise the next morning, when they awoke. They had slept soundly, and, if any haunting recollection of their experience had taken form in a dream, there was no trace of anything but jubilation, as they dressed and breakfasted to an accompaniment of jest and laughter. Melton, who had risen earlier and was smoking on the veranda, rose and threw away his cigar, and after a hearty handshake, went with them to the office of the consul.
"Thank God, you're back," he cried fervently, as he shook hands with Melton. "And these, I suppose," he went on, as he turned toward the boys and greeted them warmly, "are the young rascals who have given me so many anxious moments lately. By Jove, I can't tell you how glad I am to know that you got out of that scrape all right. There aren't many who have fallen into the hands of El Tigre that ever came back to tell the story. Sit down now and tell me all about it."
He was a fine example of Uncle Sam's representatives abroad, keen, strong, determined, and the boys warmed toward him at once. He listened intently, while Melton told all that had happened, and his eyes lighted up, as he learned how they had rushed the camp.
"It was splendid," he exclaimed. "It's almost a miracle and I wonder that you pulled through alive."
"It was a narrow squeak," admitted Melton, "and, at that, I'm afraid we wouldn't have got away with it, if the troopers hadn't come up just when they did. The bandits had got over their surprise and were surrounding us. I tell you, that squad of soldiers looked mighty good to me."
"So I imagine," rejoined the consul. "And that reminds me that we ought to go round and see the mayor. You can thank your friend here," he went on, turning to the boys, "that the mayor got busy at all in this matter. It was that 'hand on the hip pocket' idea that did the trick. It scared him stiff. He thinks a good deal of that precious skin of his, and he didn't like the idea of having it shot full of holes. I don't believe he ever hustled so much before in his life. No doubt by this time he has had a report of the affair from the captain of the squad, and he'll be strutting around like a turkey-cock."
The consul's prediction was confirmed, when, a few minutes later, they were ushered into the mayor's office. He was fairly bursting with self importance. He greeted them with ineffable politeness, strongly dashed with condescension.
He was delighted beyond measure to see his dear Americano friends again. But there – it was a foregone conclusion. Nothing could withstand his soldiers. He had already telegraphed to Mexico City, of the rescue, and of the complete destruction of the band of El Tigre. What no other mayor had been able to accomplish, he had done in one fell swoop. It would probably mean – ahem – a decoration, possibly – ahem – political promotion. He trusted that his good Americano friends would report the matter at Washington. It would show how sternly the Mexican government protected the lives of foreigners in its borders.
And so he went on, in a steady stream of self laudation, that so strongly stirred the risibles of the boys that they did not dare to look at each other, for fear that they would laugh outright. But they were, after all, deeply indebted to him, no matter what his motives, and they maintained their gravity and thanked him heartily for the aid he had rendered. Only after they had reached the street, did their features relax.
"Hates himself, doesn't he?" laughed Tom.
"He sure does," responded Bert. "He ought to be nothing less than president, if you should ask him."
"He's certainly throwing himself away to stay here as mayor," added Dick. "But, considering all that's happened, I don't mind if he does pat himself on the back. But here comes the man to whom we owe an awful lot, too. I like him clear down to the ground."
It was the young captain who approached, and they greeted him heartily. He also had reason for elation, both in having avenged his brother and in having accomplished a military feat that would surely add to his reputation. But he was modest, and stoutly disclaimed that the boys owed him anything. He had simply done his duty and it was all in the day's work.
"He's the right stuff," said Tom, as they separated, after mutual expressions of esteem. "He ought to be an American." Which from patriotic, if somewhat prejudiced Tom, was the highest praise.
And now, after warmest farewells had been taken of the consul, there was nothing to keep them in Montillo. Yes, there was one thing, as Dick suddenly remembered.
"The Chink," he said. "What about him?"
"Oh, give him a little money and let him stay here," suggested Tom. "He can easily get something to do."
The matter thus disposed of, they sauntered on, but as they neared the hotel, they saw the Celestial evidently waiting for them.
"Hello, John," said Bert, pleasantly.
"Hello, slelf," was the smiling answer. Then he went on calmly: "Me glo with you."
"What's that?" cried Bert, startled. "But we're going to Panama."
"Me glo too. Me glot flends, Panama."
"But have you got any money to take you there?"
"No. You glot money. Me play back," and he beamed on them blandly.
The boys looked helplessly at each other.
"How nice," murmured Tom.
"Well, of all the nerve," exclaimed Dick.
"Me glo with you," reiterated the Chinaman, kindly but firmly; and the benevolence of his smile was beautiful to see.
The bewilderment in Bert's face was too much for the others, and they burst into a roar of laughter.
"No use, Bert," said Dick, as soon as he could speak. "He's got the
Indian sign on us, and we might as well give in."
"No," echoed Tom, "there's no getting away from that smile. If I had it,
I could borrow money from the Bank of England."
"I throw up my hands," responded Bert. "He's adopted us, and that's all there is about it. We'll take him along as handy man, till he gets to his 'flends in Panama.'"
They put him to work at once, getting ready the baggage, and when this was completed, they sought out Melton to say good-bye. They wrung his hand until he laughingly protested that they wanted to cripple him.
"We'll never forget you, never," they declared with fervent sincerity.
"Same here," he replied with equal warmth, "and some day I hope to see you on my ranch. I'd like to show you what is meant by a Western welcome."
"Will we? You bet. Just watch us," came in chorus, and then they reluctantly tore themselves away from the great hearted specimen of Nature's noblemen, whose place in their hearts was secure for all time.
"Panama, after all," exulted Dick, as they stood on the station platform.