Jacob Raines was lying on a rough pallet of grass some six feet from him. His boots stuck out of the shadows where the light from the window fell short of the bedding. The manservant was either better at sleeping than the ranger or he was faking it, because Seward knew from experience that a mule wouldn’t sleep on that bunk...
...let alone a man in his 60s.
At best he was resting his bones. To the ranger’s recollection the black man had been a snorer back at the Quarrie ranch, and here there hadn’t been a peep.
“I smell rum, Jacob!” Seward growled, nosing the air. “I could do with a taste right now, I can tell you.”
“I’d be open to that, Captain,” Jacob agreed, rising to his knees and arranging his sweat-streaked and dirty clothing before getting up and crossing to lean by the opposite side of the window. He winced. “Must be what they’re drinking at the party.”
“They’re poor hosts...” Seward said. The truth was he had never missed his tequila as much as he did at that moment. Rum would do, but the last two days had left bruises and cuts that only his favorite drink would mend.
As the old ranger thought of that, he thought of his gun, too. The big Peacemaker had been taken from him when the savages had beaten him senseless. He’d since seen it with his Bowie knife stuck through the rawhide belt of a masked devil. Another savage had claimed his holster and bullets.
Seward was pleased to think that their captors did not know how the gun and bullets went together, and he grinned at the thought of them making that connection.
All hell could break loose.
Jacob’s axe had been passed among savages on the trail as if it now belonged to the whole gang of thieves, or they had some way of sorting their booty out later on.
Seward had yet to see any sign of his Stetson, and the loss tore at his pride something awful. A man could lose his gun or his knife but never both, and there wasn’t a Texan born who wouldn’t mourn the loss of a fine hat.
But as the din their captors were making continued unabated, his thoughts kept drifting to both. The liquor would numb his pain and prime his soul with fury. Locked in the belly of a “jungle ship” with only a gentle manservant in the way of comrade-in-arms—well, making a final charge in such a setting deserved a drink.
That’s why the smell of rum had enlivened his senses, and to some small degree rekindled his optimism. He’d managed to get his troop out of scrapes along the Mexican border in times long past with no more than tequila and a few bullets as a plan.
Looking at the degenerate savages capering past his window now, he couldn’t help but think that such a simple combination might buy his freedom, or at least let him send some wild men to Hell before he was dragged down.
“We are in a predicament,” Seward grumbled.
After the rotten ape head had been taken off to lead the parade, Seward and Jacob were marched around a line of huts that ran the length of the village before they were brought near the “bow” and taken down a short set of stairs that led to a heavy door beneath the huts.
This space opened onto a vaulted hallway of stone blocks that seemed incomplete or disintegrated like the ruins of some ancient temple. The left wall was crumbling and poorly repaired. Timbers were braced against sagging brick, and black earth showed through the gaps.
The right wall appeared intact. Torches ensconced upon it showed a series of doors made of rough planks with a small peephole window cut in each. Farther along, stony alcoves held sacks of grain and food, and barrels that indicated the subterranean spaces were used for things other than housing prisoners.
They were put in the cell closest to the stairs with walls high enough for their barred window that looked out at the “port” side of the village opposite the main palisade gate.
Seward found he could see the great open space at the “bow” if he pushed his left cheek between the bars. The wall in which it was set was angled a few degrees that way, so he could steal a glance at the fire pit and what was the village’s kitchen, butcher shop and communal dining area.
He’d been motivated to take a second look, since he’d seen on the way into his cell that a grisly feast was being prepared.
Several masked men were pounding drums on the port side of a fire pit that was ringed with big flat stones of uniform size. The stones circled until they reached the other side of the pit where larger rocks were set in line to match up with others placed among the coals.
These stones were used to support three large iron grills that could be accessed from that side with oversized cooking utensils.
Three tall blood-stained stakes were set in the ground behind the grills, and by these a big, fat savage with a scarlet skull-mask cut at something on a great wooden butcher block colored brown with old blood.
He used a cleaver to lop pieces of red meat into big wooden bowls that young black slaves then carried to the grill where another savage in a red skull-mask used a long iron fork to put the flesh upon the flame.
A short distance from the “kitchen” was a large rectangular cage aligned with the palisade wall. It was eight feet in height, ten in width and 20 feet long, made of bare poles lashed together.
As the day and then evening had progressed, Seward was horrified to see silent, shadowy shapes cowering in one corner of the cage. It wasn’t until the fire had
