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Page 8
"Buck McKee!" he gasped. "This is certainly white of you
considering the circumstances of our last meeting. Did you come
with the Rurales?"
"Hell, no! I come ahead of 'em. In fact, Dick Lane, you air jist
a leetle bit off in your idees about which party I belong to.
When you damned me fer a thievin' half-breed, and run me off the
range, an' tole me to go to the Injun's, whar I belonged, I tuk
yer advice. I'm what you might call the rear-guard of the outfit
you've jist been havin' your shootin'-match with. Or I was the
rear-guard, for you've wiped out the whole dam' battalion, so fur
as I can see. Served 'em right fur detailin' me, the only decent
shooter in the bunch, to watch the horses. I got one shot in as
it wuz. Well, as the last of the outfit, I own a string of ten
ponies. All I need now to set up in business is to have some
prospector who hain't long to live, leave me his little pile uv
dust an' nuggets, an' the claims he's located back in the
mountains. You look a leetle mite like the man. It'll save
vallible time if you make yer dear friend, Buck McKee,
administrater uv yer estate without too much persuadin'. You had
some objection oncet to my slittin' a calf's tongue. Well, you
needn't be scared just yet. That's the last thing I'll do to
you. Come, where's your cache? I know you've got one
hereabouts, fer I foun' signs of the dust in your pack."
Lane set his teeth in a firm resolutions not to say a word. The
taunts of his captor were harder to bear in silence than the
prospects of torture.
"Stubborn, hey? Well, we'll try a little 'Pache persuadin'." And
the renegade dragged his helpless captive up to the thorny
sahuaro, and bound his back against it with the dead horse's
bridle. McKee searched through Lane's pockets until he found a
match.
"Last one, hey? Kinder 'propriate. Las' drink from the old
canteen, las' ca'tridge, last look at the scenery, and las' will
an' testyment. Oh, time's precious, but I'll spare you enough to
map out in yer mind jes' where them claims is located. The
Rurales won't be along fer an hour yet, if they hain't turned
back after our other party."
McKee pulled off Lane's boots. "It 'ain't decent fer a man to
die with 'em on," he said. He then kindled a fire on the stone,
beneath which, if he but knew it, lay the treasure he sought. He
returned with a burning brand to the captive. For the first time
he observed the snake impaled on the sahuaro, writhing but
feebly. "Hullo, ole rattler," he exclaimed; "here's somethin' to
stir you up;" and he tossed the brand upon the top of the cactus.
Taking another burning stick from the fire, he applied it to the
soles of his victim's feet. Lane writhed and groaned under the
excruciating torture, but uttered no word or cry. McKee brought
other brands, and began piling them about his captive's feet.
In the meantime the sahuaro had caught fire at the top, and was
burning down through the interior. A thin column of smoke rose
straight above it in the still air. The Rurales in the valley
below, who had reached the beginning of the ascending trail, and
were on the point of giving up the pursuit, saw the smoke, and,
inferred that the Apaches, either through overconfidence or
because of their superstitious fear of the mountains, which they
supposed inhabited by spirits, had camped on the edge of the
valley, and were signaling to their other party. Accordingly the
Mexicans renewed the chase with increased vigor.
As McKee bent over his captive's feet, piling against them the
burning ends of the sticks, the rattlesnake on the sahuaro,
incited by the fire above, struggled free from the impaling
thorns by a desperate effort, and dropped on the back of the
half-breed. It struck its fangs into his neck. McKee, springing
up with an energy that scattered the sticks he was piling, tore
the reptile loose, hurled it upon the ground, and stamped it into
the earth. Then he picked up one of the brands and with it
cauterized the wound. All the while he was cursing volubly--the
snake, himself, and even Dick Lane, who was now lying in a dead
faint caused by the torture.
"Damn such a prospector! Not a drop of whisky in his outfit! I'd
slit his tongue fer him if he wasn't already done fer. I must
keep movin'--movin', or I'm a dead man. I must hustle along to
the mountains, leadin' my horse. Up there I'll find yarbs to
cure snake-bite that my Cherokee grandmother showed me. The
Rurales will have to get the other ponies but some day I'll come
back after Lane's cache."
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