“I’m with you, of course,” Lanky said courageously. “My seven eighths white blood says stay here, but the one eighth Yaquente says take a chance. But, hell, Lance, we couldn’t just walk in on their church meetin’. We’ll have to fix up like Yaquentes. And how in hell do you figure to disguise that red hair of yours? And that straw- colored mop of Oscar’s? I can get by, of course.”
“Axle grease and black powder and dirt,”—Lance smiled—“can disguise a man’s features pretty effectually.”
Lanky forced a wan smile. “Sounds like you’d had experience.”
Oscar put in, “Down in the bunk house I saw some of them baggy cotton garments like Mex peons and Yaquentes wear. And there’s some of them big straw sombreros. I reckon they were left here by the hired hands back in the days when this ranch was a going concern. It’s sure gone to hell lately. Hardly any cows left that I can see.”
“Probably the hired hands you mention,” Lance commented, “ran off the cows and bought new clothes with the proceeds. Katherine thought she had a ranch here. From all I understand it was deserted except for Malcolm Fletcher when you folks arrived last night. C’mon, let’s go get those togs in the bunk house. Then we’ll saddle up and ride. No use telling those in the house where we’re headed. We’d just waste time with explanations.”
“I’m ready when you and Oscar are,” Lanky said. “What the hell! I can’t lose more than one life and I always did have a hankerin’ to know just what my ancestors did with their religion. Let’s go. We’ll never die any younger!”
XIX War Drums
There wasn’t much moon. What there was was partially obscured by drifting clouds. It was past midnight. Only a pale light filtered down on the great stone slabs that flanked the roadway leading to the Temple of the Plumed Serpent. The doorway of the temple stood black and forbidding. In the brush along the roadway only insects of the night made the faintest sounds. The place seemed deserted.
And then from the brushy ridge north of the temple two forms in white cotton garments appeared. Three more appeared. Then another and another. More followed, all walking silently in the direction of the temple. Occasionally one would break into a high-pitched chant. Two or three more would join in the weird sounds, then the song would die away and there ’d be silence again. The road was filling rapidly with white-clothed forms now. All wore six-shooters at their waists; some carried Winchester repeaters.
More and more appeared until the whole roadway leading to the temple was filled from side to side with a vast undulating sea of straw sombreros. Now lights appeared in the temple as the first to arrive filed inside. The roadway was a packed mass of jostling Yaquentes, many of them swaying unsteadily as they progressed toward the Temple of the Plumed Serpent from which now came the muffled, steady beating of drums. The Yaquentes quickened step to crowd through the temple doorway.
From the thick brush at one side of the roadway emerged three forms clad like the Yaquentes. They mingled quickly with the moving throng without being noticed. In that faint light there was little to distinguish the three from genuine Yaquentes. One of them even took up a few notes of the high-pitched, weird chant. Indians near the singer joined in the haunted, uncanny song which suddenly died away as abruptly as it had been started. The white- clothed pro cession moved nearer the temple doorway.
Lance was wondering now as, accompanied by Lanky and Oscar, he pushed along with the Yaquentes if any sort of password would be necessary to gain entrance to the ceremonies. If so they’d have to do some fast thinking—and perhaps shooting. He felt a trifle more assured at thought of the six-shooter at his waist. He pulled the big straw sombrero lower on his face and noticed Oscar was acting likewise.
There was a momentary pause at the entrance, the crush increased, then Lance and his companions were inside the temple. The place was filling fast. Lanky took Lance’s arm and led him and Oscar to a position at one side within easy reach of the doorway. “Just in case we have to try for a quick getaway,” Lanky whispered. His voice sounded shaky.
At the opposite far end of the big chamber pine torches burned in the stifling air, casting a flickering, unreal light over the bloodstained altar and throwing into hazy relief the faded frescoes on the walls. The temple was filling rapidly with humanity. A strong sweaty odor filled the big room. Lance and his pardners stood in the shadow of one of the great stone pillars. All around was a milling mass of Yaquentes, every eye intent on the altar beneath the flaring torches. Lance glanced at the Yaquente who stood nearest him. The man was muttering rather crazily to himself. His eyes had a strange gleam in them. He looked to be either drunk or under the influence of some powerful narcotic. Now Lance noticed other Indians with the same expression on their faces. Lanky whispered to Lance, “Most of this gang are hopped up on mezcal buttons. That’s lucky for us; they ain’t so li’ble to notice anything out of the way.”
The drums near the altar throbbed continually. They weren’t loud at first, but their steady insistent beat seemed to permeate Lance’s blood and pulse through his whole body. The tempo lifted gradually, growing faster and faster. A harsh, dry, rattling sound augmented the accelerated rhythm now. Lance understood when he saw two Yaquentes manipulating gourd rattles.
The drums came louder now and still louder, the sounds beating with monotonous intensity against Lance’s ears. Suddenly a pair of Yaquentes leaped to the center of the stone floor before the altar and, side by side, commenced a queer shuffling dance. Round and round they went, incorporating at regular intervals a jerky hippety- hop step. Other Indians joined in until a large circle of shuffling, hopping Yaquentes was revolving before the altar, keeping time to the beaten drums: shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, hippety-hop, shuffle, shuffle, hop, shuffle…. Their arms flopped loosely at their sides as though strung on wire. They threw their heads high, emitting a few notes of the weird chant they’d sung along the roadway, then dropped them again.
Round and round they went. The drums beat faster and faster. Here and there a Yaquente dropped out of the dance. Others leaped quickly in to take their places. The flaring torches cast gigantic moving shadows on the walls. By this time the whole chamber seemed to reverberate with the insidious throbbing of the Yaquente drums. Even Lance felt his blood moving faster and faster. He glanced at Lanky. The man’s forehead was dotted with tiny beads of perspiration. His swarthy features had a strained look. For a moment Lance half expected him to leap in and take a part with the revolving, shuffling dancers. The strong odor of human bodies increased in the heavy atmosphere. Occasionally now a wild yell left the throat of one of the Indians. They were fast working themselves up to fever pitch.
Oscar said suddenly in a lowered tone, “Cripes! Look at that.”
A tall figure in a long robe of feathers had passed just a few feet away. On his head was a sort of helmet- shaped crown decorated with more feathers, both black and white. He had entered from the back and was making his way toward the altar. Accompanying him was a smaller man in the customary cotton clothing and straw sombrero.
“There’s your big white chief,” Lanky whispered to Lance.
As the man in the feathered robe neared the altar the dance stopped. The drums faded away to a dim monotonous beat that could be barely heard. Gradually the Yaquentes fell silent before the spell of the newcomer. They eyed him with something of awe in their gazes and watched closely while he leaped lightly to the altar stone and stretched forth both arms.
Lance looked narrowly at the man. Something familiar about him all right, though it was impossible to make out his features. His face was entirely framed, saving the eyes and nose, with a circle of buzzard feathers. His crown was trimmed with more feathers, one of which, standing erect in front, was dyed a brilliant crimson. He threw back the robe to display a magnificently muscled torso bare to the waist. A sort of half-skirt of white ea gle feathers hung to his knees. On each sinewy arm was a wide silver armlet. Again Lance was reminded of the armlet Katherine’s father had sent her.
A great cry arose from the assembled Yaquentes: “Quetzalcoatl-l-l!”
The man with the helmet spoke three brief words. Instantly the Yaquentes fell silent. Lance hadn’t understood the words but he recognized the intonations.
“By God,” he whispered to Oscar; “that’s Fletcher.”
