'This fella ain't no stranger,' the marshal muttered. 'Well, Nig, if he's headin' for the Border we gotta go on.'
Holding a straight line, he crossed the little desert, and after a short search picked up the trail again on the other side. Two miles brought him to a wide-banked, slow-moving river which he guessed must be Lazy Creek; the opposite bank was Mexico. At this time of the year the stream was shrunk to half its winter width and he had no difficulty in crossing. He found the familiar hoofprints on the other side only to lose them soon afterwards in a long narrow cleft, the floor of which consisted of weathered rock, detritus from the bare walls on either side.
He rode through the gully, emerging into a strip of park-like country interspersed with wooded knolls. Passing one of these, he heard a voice, harsh, speaking in Spanish.
'See if you can loosen his tongue, Lopez,' it said.
Trailing his reins, the marshal crept cautiously up under cover of the chaparral. The sight was a singular one. At the side of a little glade an Indian was standing, his wrists tied behind him to a sapling. He was a tall fellow, of indeterminate age, his body emaciated by illness or starvation. He was naked save for a ragged pair of deerskin trousers. But for the fierce eyes he might have been a statue of bronze. Facing him was a yellow-skinned Mexican of the lowest type, in a huge sombrero, dirty blue shirt, and tattered overalls. He was holding a wicked-looking quirt, passing the lash through his fingers and eyeing the Indian gloatingly.
A few yards distant was the man who had spoken, a dark, swarthy fellow of middle age and stature, whose straight black hair framed one of the cruellest faces Green had ever seen. The nose was almost flat, the eyes narrow and near, and the thick, sensual lips were drawn back in a snarl, disclosing big, stained teeth. His attire was a parody of a uniform; a slouched hat pinned up at one side with a silver brooch; a flaming red tunic loaded with gold braid; faded blue pants tucked into high boots garnished with huge wheel spurs. From the gaudy sash round his middle peeped the butts of two pistols and the haft of a dagger.
At a nod from this man, and before the marshal could interfere, the peon swung his quirt and lashed the Indian savagely across the chest, the thong, knotted at the end, cutting an open weal from which the blood flew. Before the force of the blow the victim staggered, but instantly drew himself up and became again an inanimate thing. Only the clamped lips and bunched jaw-muscles betrayed his agony.
'Speak, dog, where is the gold?' thundered the man in uniform.
The Indian remained silent, his face a mask of pride, hatred, and contempt. The man in uniform read the expression aright, and it goaded him to fury.
'Continue, Lopez,' he hissed. 'I'll find his tongue if I have to strip the flesh off his bones to do it.'
With an eager grin the peon swished his bloodstained lash round his shoulder, but ere he could bring it down Green's gun crashed and he dropped in a huddled heap; his torturing days were ended. At the sound of the shot, the other man's hand went to his belt but came away empty at the sight of the newcomer's blazing eyes and levelled weapon.
'Reach, yu yellow skunk,' came the terse order.
The man complied, but his expression was poisonous. 'May I point out, senor, that you are on the wrong side of the line?' he observed.
'I'm on the right side o' this gun,' Green grimly retorted. 'What are yu up to? '
The Mexican shrugged his shoulders. 'Bah! Only an Indian,' he sneered. 'He knows where there ees much gold, senor, but the dog ees obstinate.'
The marshal did not reply. Stepping up to the man he drew the pistols from his sash and flung them, one after the other, into the brush. The dagger he used to free the captive and then turned again to the Mexican.
'Take off yore coat,' he ordered.
An expression of surprise showed in the sallow face. It was not like an Americano to rob a man of his clothes, though, of course, the garment was a desirable one, and as he did not wish to lose it, the wearer ventured a protest.
'It may interest the senor to learn that I am El Diablo,' he said softly. 'He weel have heard of me?'
If the marshal was interested he did not show it; his narrowed eyes continued to regard the ridiculous figure with cold contempt. So this was the guerrilla leader whose reputation for savage cruelty was unequalled in Northern Mexico, and who, at the head of his band of so-called revolutionaries, robbed, murdered, and ravaged along the Border, even crossing it at times to raid the ranches for cattle and horses. Though Green inwardly cursed the luck that had thrown the man in his way, he was determined to punish him.
'El Diablo, huh?' he sneered. 'Well, if yu don't shuck that coat, I'll send yu home so fast yu'll get singed on the way.'
That the guerrilla leader understood the grim witticism is doubtful, but the menacing movement of the speaker's gun could not be mistaken and he obeyed the order. The marshal turned to the Indian, impassively waiting, and pointed to the quirt lying beside the body of Lopez. A gleam of fire shone in the black eyes as the redskin realized the white man's intention. El Diablo also understood, and his dark face grew first pale with fear and then red with shame. His voice shrilled out as the Indian picked up the whip and came towards him.
'Senor, theenk what you do,' he cried desperately. 'I am a white man like yourself. I am not a peon, as he'--with a gesture towards Lopez--'but a caballero, a descendant of Old Spain.'
'If yu don't keep them paws up yu won't be a descendant a-tall, yu'll be an ancestor.'
Jocular as the voice was, no humour showed in the granite-hard features of the speaker, and the Mexican knew he might just as well hope for mercy from his late victim, who now stood before him, whip in hand, bitter hatred in his gaze. Reading that look, and recalling what he knew of a red man's ideas of revenge, the marshal was satisfied that the bandit was getting off somewhat lightly. He nodded to the redskin, the whip whistled through the air, and the Mexican shrieked as the knotted lash cut away the flimsy fabric of his shirt, leaving a bloody track from shoulder to hip. Again the marshal nodded, and again the whip fell, this time in the opposite direction, scoring the yellow flesh as though it had been slashed with a knife. Mad with agony, the stricken man clutched at his breast and rolled upon the ground, spitting out curses upon the man who had so shamed him. The marshal regarded him scornfully.
'Yu may be of Old Spain an' this fella on'y an Injun, but he's got yu skinned when it comes to takin' medicine,' he commented. 'Shut yore rank mouth an' keep mighty still 'less yu want some more o' yore own treatment.'
He turned just in time to see the redskin take two stumbling steps and fall prone.
'Agua,' he whispered as Green bent over him.
The marshal grabbed a canteen slung about the body of Lopez, marvelling at the enormous will-power which had enabled the Indian, though nearly dead with exhaustion, to stand' up and mete out terrible punishment to his foe.
'Damn it, I ain't got no affection for war-whoops, but they're men,' he muttered.
The water proved effective, and in a few moments the Indian was able to stand up. The marshal pointed to the guerrilla leader's horse, which, elaborately saddled and bridled, was tied to a nearby bush.
'Fork that cayuse an' we'll punch the breeze,' he said. 'This hombre will have friends not so far off, an' it'll be healthier for us if we ain't around when they arrive.'
The redskin climbed into the saddle, his set teeth showing what the effort cost him, and Green led the way to where he had left his own mount. From where he lay motionless on the ground the beady, venomous eyes of the Mexican followed them. Only when they had vanished in the thick foliage did he venture to rise and shake a vengeful fist in their direction.
'We shall meet again,' he grated. 'And then it will be the turn of El Diablo. Dios! but you shall pay.'
Meanwhile the marshal and his companion were wasting no time in covering the ground to the Border. Not until they were on the far side of the river did Green attempt to learn anything of the man he had rescued. The redskin's eyes flashed as he answered the blunt question.
'Me Black Feather--Mohave chief--one time,' he said slowly in a deep, guttural tone.
The marshal realized much of what lay behind the simple statement; he had lived with the red men. He knew that Black Feather was an outcast--willing or unwilling--from his tribe.
He had been guilty of some offence, had lost his 'medicine,' or was, perhaps, satisfying a private vengeance. Whatever the reason, for the time being, he had no lodge, no people, he was a wanderer. Further enquiry elicited that he had fallen into the clutches of the bandit and his follower by evil chance; they had shot his pony and, in common belief that the Indian always knows 'the home of the gold,' had tortured him.
