unconscious, and Fletcher took good care not to let them get close enough to the pit to learn you weren’t there. For a few minutes Fletcher was in a tight spot. The Yaquentes got sulky and refused to go ahead with the ceremony. Two of those Indians were right stubborn and insisted that Fletcher keep his promise regarding the sacrifice.”
“So that’s what it was, eh?” Lance said. “One of the two was Horatio. He knew damn well that Fletcher couldn’t produce me. It looks to me like he was trying to put Fletcher on the spot. I wonder why?”
“Maybe he’s losing faith in Fletcher,” Lanky suggested. “That other Indian was yelling for ammunition if he couldn’t have the human sacrifice. It seems Fletcher has been giving them guns but no cartridges to shoot. Anyway, he compromised by promising to let them have ammunition and thereby wiggled himself out of a bad spot. I bet he’ll think twice and some more on top of that before he gets ’em into the temple for another promised sacrifice.”
“Listen,” Oscar said suddenly, “the drums are stopped.”
They listened intently for a few minutes. Lanky drawled, “Prayer meetin’ must be over. They’ll be coming out right quick. We’d better douse our cigarettes and lay low.”
They put out their cigarettes and crouched low in the brush. After a few minutes several white-clad forms emerged from the temple carrying pine boxes. Lance whispered to Oscar, “There goes that ammunition and powder they had stored in that small room off the big one.”
Fletcher, still wearing his long white-feathered robe, followed closely on the boxes. They could hear him urging the men to hurry. He strode along at a stiff pace beside them.
Oscar’s lips were close to Lance’s ear: “I reckon he’s got to get ahead with that bunch and change his clothes. I’d like to learn where he keeps his horse and steal it so he’d have to return to Muletero in that outfit.”
More Yaquentes were emerging from the temple now. The torches had been put out. Once more the roadway was packjammed with white-clothed figures. There was a good deal of muttering among the Yaquentes. To Lance it sounded like grumbling. The bobbing straw sombreros flowed steadily past. Finally the pro cession commenced to thin out. A few stragglers still came on behind. Now they hurried to catch up with the rest. The long packed line streamed on along the roadway, then disappeared someplace in the vicinity of the brushy ridge at the end of the road. A few voices drifted back on the night breeze, then suddenly all was quiet again.
“Wonder if they all had horses the other side of that ridge?” Oscar said.
“Probably not,” Lanky replied. “Most of ’em came afoot, I’ll bet…. Yeah, I know, it’s about fifteen miles back to their camp, but I’ll put my money on a Yaquente to outlast a horse any time. Those hombres are plenty tough.”
“It’s a wonder to me,” Lance said, “they don’t leave guards at this temple.”
“What for?” Lanky said. “They figure the Yaquentes and Fletcher are the only ones to know about it, it’s so well hidden. And they know you couldn’t escape from that pit——”
“They must be pretty dumb then?”
“Pretty full of mezcal buttons,” Lanky contradicted. “At the same time, you couldn’t have escaped without Horatio’s help, could you?”
Lance said, “I sure couldn’t have.”
Oscar heaved a long sigh. There came the rattle of a paper sack, then a sucking sound. “You hombres want any nerve tonic?”
“I wouldn’t mind some out of a bottle,” Lanky grunted.
The three remained motionless in the brush for some time longer to make sure, as Lance expressed it, “that none of those snake worshipers come back.” Finally he rose to his feet. “C’mon, waddies.”
“Ready to head back to the Three-Cross?” Oscar asked.
Lance nodded. “But first I want to give a look-see around that temple and learn if they’ve taken all the ammunition.”
They left the brush, stepped to the roadway with its double row of ancient stone slabs and entered the temple once more. There still lingered about the big chamber the odor of sweating bodies and smoking pine torches. Lance struck a match. Lanky found an extinguished torch and lighted it. The flame threw weird, uncanny shadows about the high walls. Lanky commented, “I still don’t like it here.” He looked uneasy.
“I reckon I know just how you feel,” Lance said soberly.
Oscar called Lanky to hold the torch where he could see the altar better. Next they glanced down into the pit where Lance had been held prisoner. “Sufferin’ hawse thieves!” Lanky exclaimed. “That hole looks like it’s a hundred feet deep. You can’t even see to the bottom——”
“It feels deeper than that when you’re down there.” Lance smiled thinly. “Let’s give a look at this other room.”
He led the way through the doorway back of the altar into the smaller chamber. Except in size it looked much like the big room they’d just left. Neither was there an altar nor pit. There weren’t so many stone pillars. Lanky held the torch high. Frescoes and sculptured reliefs ran around the walls, with the plumed serpent furnishing the subject for the majority of the decorations. Lance glanced toward the spot where he had last seen the boxes of ammunition and powder stacked against the wall. The boxes were gone.
“Well,” Lance observed, “the Yaquentes will have something to shoot in their guns now anyway.”
“And I don’t like that, either,” Lanky stated. “Supposin’ they got right keen for a human sacrifice? The Three-Cross ain’t very far from their village.”
“They left one box, anyway,” Oscar noticed, pointing across the room. The three men crossed the floor and looked down at the pine box against the wall. There were small holes bored in the cover.
“That’s the box the snake was in,” Lanky said. “I wonder if——”
“I’m aiming to find out,” Lance said. He stooped and flung back the box cover. “You’d better watch yourself!”
He leaped back from the box, as did Oscar and Lanky. All three men had their hands on gun butts now. Lanky held the torch high. For a moment nothing happened within the box, then from the dark interior there came a movement—a dry, scaly rustling. An evil triangular-shaped head appeared above the edge of the box. In the light from the torch its beady eyes burned with a strange yellow light. The ovate head of the reptile moved about inquiringly, then its long scaly length flowed over the edge of the box and to the floor.
“It’s that feathered snake!” Oscar yelled. He started to draw his six-shooter.
“Don’t shoot!” Lance exclaimed. “I want it alive. I still don’t believe in those feathers.”
The snake didn’t appear to want to put up a fight. It moved rapidly across the stone floor, leaving a channeled path in the dusty surface, until it reached the far wall. Then it turned and slithered along close to the wall in the direction of the doorway, closely followed by the three men. Lance was moving along at its side, in a crouching position, examining it as closely as the movements would permit. Oscar and Lanky were more wary and stayed back farther, gazing in some awe at the feathered length.
“Bring that torch closer,” Lance said.
Lanky moved cautiously nearer with the torch. Lance put out one booted foot to impede the reptile’s progress. The snake rattled viciously but seemed reluctant to coil for striking. Then in a sort of halfhearted fashion it drew itself to an S shape. Suddenly with the speed of lightning the triangular head darted forward, striking Lance’s boot. Then the snake fell back and once more tried to escape.
Lance looked at his boot. There should have been a few drops of venom there or some sort of mark showing where the rattler had struck. Only there wasn’t. Lance frowned, then again shoved his foot in front of the snake. The rattler came to a stop. Lance suddenly reached down, seizing the rattler just back of the head, and lifted the writhing, twisting coils from the floor. The feathers along its back seemed to vibrate with futile rage.
Oscar yelled, “Look out, Lance. Don’t be a damn fool!”
“I reckon if Fletcher can do it so can I.” Lance smiled. “Look here.”
Oscar and Lanky came closer while Lance held the snake firmly in both hands. Lance went on, “Take a good look, pards. This poor ol’ diamondback couldn’t do any more than bump his nose against my boot.”
Lanky said suddenly, “Hell’s bells! His mouth is sewed shut!”
It was true. The snake’s jaws had been firmly drawn together with stout linen thread. Lance swore softly under his breath. “I’m damned if I like rattlers,” he said grimly, “but only a fiend would do a thing like this. I wonder how long since it’s had water or food. Damn that Fletcher!”
“Those feathers are fake,” Oscar said suddenly.
