Oscar nodded, eyes glued to the scene under the flaring torches. He spoke softly from one corner of his mouth. “Even with that befeathered derby hat on and that bunch around his face I figured the same way.”
Lance moved a step nearer and spoke to Lanky. “Remember that hombre’s face, Lanky?”
Lanky’s reply just reached Lance’s ear. “It’s that Fletcher feller, ain’t it?”
There was some commotion around the altar now. A pine box had been brought out to Fletcher. Fletcher threw back the cover and thrust one arm inside the box. When his hand emerged it was clutching the writhing coils of a diamondback rattlesnake. Lance’s eyes widened. A ridge of feathers seemed to be growing from the reptile’s backbone.
The Yaquentes near the front fell back. A deathly silence fell over the big chamber. Now the dry rattling of the snake’s rapidly buzzing tail could be heard in the sudden quiet. Its heavy, sinuous body flowed up Fletcher’s right arm and around over his shoulders. Fletcher seized it to prevent escape. The rattler made no attempt to strike. The drums commenced a soft throbbing.
Even while the snake was still moving Fletcher commenced to speak in what Lance judged was the Yaquente tongue. The words came in slow, halting fashion, and there seemed to be a great deal of repetition in the delivery. Sudden wild yells shook the chamber. The drums increased their tempo and again died away.
Lanky whispered to Lance, “He don’t know much Yaquente. He’s repeating the same thing over and over again. It’s a war talk. If the Yaquentes follow him, Fletcher is saying, they’ll win a big victory. That’s about all there is to his speech.”
Now the smaller Indian who had accompanied Fletcher into the temple commenced to interpret. Fletcher would say something to him; the interpreter would turn and harangue the assembled Yaquentes at great length, stopping every so often to receive fresh instructions from Fletcher. Suddenly there came a change in the interpreter’s manner. He appeared to be explaining something.
A sudden muttering arose among the Yaquentes. Apparently they didn’t like what was being said. The interpreter consulted Fletcher. Fletcher talked steadily for nearly a minute. The interpreter repeated the words. Lance glanced around. He could see scowling faces on every side. Lanky nudged Lance. “I know that interpreter by sight,” he whispered. “He used to hang around Pozo Verde. He’s only half Yaquente—other half is ’Pache.”
The interpreter was talking again. Two of the Yaquentes in the audience stepped forward and spat a flow of deep gutturals. Lance suddenly recognized one of the Yaquentes as Horatio. Apparently some sort of argument was taking place, and Horatio was voicing a vehement protest. The chamber seethed with resentful mutterings now. The interpreter and Fletcher held a quick discussion, then the interpreter turned and harangued the Indians some more. Some of the resentment died away, though the Yaquentes were surrendering reluctantly to whatever offer Fletcher was making.
Lance felt Lanky’s hand on his arm. Lanky was drawing him toward the doorway. Lance said, “Let’s wait a minute more.”
“We better go now while we got a chance,” Lanky whispered in Lance’s ear. “Pass the word to Oscar. Those Injuns all got their eyes to the front. Now’s the time to light a shuck outa here.”
Lance nodded. The three commenced to edge back toward the doorway. Yaquentes were all around them, but so intent were the Indians on the scene at the altar that they didn’t notice Lance and his companions gradually moving away. The distance to the outside wasn’t more than ten or twelve feet, but to Lance it seemed they’d never make it. Inch by inch they moved back. At the altar the interpreter was finding new floods of oratory for which Lance and his companions were duly thankful.
Finally, one by one, they slipped around the edge of the entranceway and instantly melted into the thick brush at the side of the road without their exit being noticed. Lanky dropped limply down onto the earth, screened by a thick shelter of mesquite brush. “Mister, I’m plumb thankful that’s over! Them damn drums were getting me down. Just about one bite on a mezcal button and I’d have sloughed off seven eighths white man. I’m glad we’re shet of that snake temple. I don’t want no more!”
Now that they were outside, breathing the clean night air, Lance and Oscar were commencing to feel the same way.
XX Revolution
They sat deep in the brush talking in hushed tones and smoking cigarettes, the glowing ends of which they kept well shielded within their cupped hands. From the temple came the steady beating of drums, but they sounded faint and far away now. The cool night wind filtered through the brush, sweeping away the cigarette smoke.
Oscar spoke, low toned. “I wonder how much longer that ceremony in there is going to last.
Lanky said scornfully, “That wa’n’t no real ceremony like I’ve heard they have. That was just the start. You know—that dance and the drums and all—that wasn’t really getting down to business. That was just the start, like a young cow hand feelin’ his oats on a Saturday night. Come Saturday he likes to go out and get liquored up and do some dancing. Human nature is pretty much the same, red or white. Them Yaquentes just use mezcal buttons instead of liquor.”
“If you hadn’t insisted on us leaving,” Lance said disappointedly, “I would have stayed. I was plumb eager to see how Fletcher would act when it was discovered I wasn’t down in that pit back of the altar.”
“Hell’s bells,” Lanky said. “He knew you’d escaped—leastwise I figure he did. I took note, none of those Yaquentes got very near the altar. There may have been a few in the know, but——”
“Just a minute.” Lance frowned. “You say Fletcher knew I’d escaped from the pit—before he got here?”
“I figure he must have,” Lanky replied. “Leastwise—why did he have that interpreter announce there wouldn’t be any human sacrifice tonight?—‘sacrifice of the bleeding heart,’ they called it. That’s what all the row was about. The Yaquentes didn’t like him breaking a promise he’d made ’em. Lance, they were all set to do a job of carving on you until Fletcher told ’em the time wasn’t right. He handed ’em a lot of superstitious bosh about waiting until the moon was ten days nearer the full. He was just stalling for time, of course——”
“Hold on a second,” Lance interrupted. “I want to get this straight. How many people knew I’d escaped from the pit? Us three, the folks at the ranch and Horatio. How did Fletcher know I’d escaped?”
“Horatio wouldn’t tell him,” Lanky said quickly. “He wouldn’t dare for fear the rest of the tribe would learn about it—and that would mean the end of Horatio.”
Oscar said, “That leaves Miss Gregory, the professor, Trunk-Strap Kelly, Tom Piper, Hub Owen, Cal Braun and Luke Homer. Take your choice, Lance, but remember, I’m betting those hands I hired are on the level.”
“I’ll swear to that part myself,” Lanky agreed.
Lance stared in silence at the darkness surrounding them. Finally he changed the subject. “Start at the beginning,” he said wearily, “and give us the whole story, Lanky. Just what was said in that temple?”
“To cut a long story short,” Lanky said, “Fletcher is working the Yaquentes up to start a revolution in Mexico and overthrow the present government. He’s getting at them on the standpoint of their religion—the ancient Aztec religion that called for worshiping a snake with feathers on and had mezcal buttons as part of their ceremonial feasts. Fletcher has been furnishing the peyotes——”
Oscar cut in, “That rattler Fletcher had was feathered.”
“I’ve been thinking about that”—Lance nodded—“and wondering where Fletcher got the nerve to handle that diamondback. Me, I wouldn’t crave to do it. But the snake acted like it was afraid of
Lanky continued, “Like I say, Fletcher is working on their religion, telling them all Mexico must be made to return to the old beliefs. The poor ignorant suckers drink it in. The plan is to make war on the small towns first and gain supplies and converts. It’ll be a case of being converted or killed. Gradually the movement will gather strength, Fletcher claims, and eventually they’ll be strong enough to capture Chihuahua City. Once the state of Chihuahua is in their hands, Fletcher told ’em, the rest of Mexico will come easy. And the Yaquentes take it all as gospel truth, thinking he’s a sort of direct voice from Quetzalcoatl, the snake god.”
“So that’s Fletcher’s game,” Lance mused. “I’ll admit that such things have worked before.”
Lanky went on, “There was to be a big ceremony to night, until your body couldn’t be produced for sacrifice, Lance. That gummed matters up plenty. The Yaquentes didn’t like it. They thought you were still down in the pit,
