The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales

by Zane Grey

  “No, no! As God is my judge!” Benito declared, “I didn’t know they were going until the very last, and even then Dolores would tell me nothing. We were having bad times here at Las Palmas; there were stormy scenes yonder in the house. Señor Ed was drinking again, you understand? The señora had reason to go.”

  “You think she ran away to escape him?”

  “Exactly.”

  Dave breathed more easily, for this seemed to settle Strange’s theory. The next instant, however, his apprehensions were doubled, for Benito added:

  “No doubt she went to La Feria.”

  Law uttered an incredulous exclamation. “Not there! Surely she wouldn’t go to La Feria at such a time. Why, that country is ablaze. Americans are fleeing from Mexico.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Benito confessed. “But if she didn’t go there, where did she go? Saints above! It is a fine condition of affairs when a wife keeps secrets from her husband, eh? I suppose Dolores feared I would tell Don Eduardo, God rest his soul! This much I do know, however: not long ago there came a letter from General Longorio, offering settlement for those cattle he stole in his government’s name. Dolores told me the señora was highly pleased and was going to Mexico for her money. It was a mark of Longorio’s favor, you understand me? He’s a great—friend, an ardent admirer.” Benito winked. “Dolores told me all about that, too. No, I think they went to La Feria.”

  Dave remembered his first conversation with Phil Strange and the fortune-teller’s insistence that some powerful person was behind José Sanchez. More than three weeks ago Strange had forecast something very like murder of Ed Austin. Dave felt as if he were the victim of an hysterical imagination. Nevertheless, he forced himself to ask, quietly:

  “Is José Sanchez anywhere about?”

  The range boss shrugged. “I sent him to the east pasture this morning.”

  “Did he go?”

  “Eh? So! You suspect José of this. God in heaven! José is a wild boy—But wait! I’ll ask Juan if he saw him; yes, and Victoria, too. That is Victoria you hear squalling in the kitchen. Wait here.”

  Benito hurried away, leaving Dave a prey to perplexity; but he was back again in a few moments. His face was grave.

  “José did not go to the east pasture,” he said.

  “Where is he now?”

  “No one seems to know.”

  Law walked to his horse, mounted, and galloped away. Benito, who watched him, saw that he turned toward the river road which led to the Las Palmas pumping-plant.

  The more Dave thought about Ed Austin’s death, the more certain he became that it was in some way connected with Alaire’s disappearance; and the loose end by which the tangle might be unraveled, it seemed to him, lay in the hands of Rosa Morales, José’s sweetheart. That Sanchez was the murderer Dave now had little doubt; but since the chance of apprehending him was small, he turned his attention to the girl. He would make Rosa speak, he told himself, if he had to use force—this was no time for gentle methods. If she knew aught of Alaire’s whereabouts or the mystery of her departure from Las Palmas, he would find a way to wring the truth from her. Dave’s face, a trifle too somber at all times, took on a grimmer aspect now; he felt a slow fury kindling in his breast.

  Years of experience had taught him to be always alert even during his moments of deepest preoccupation, and so, from force of habit, when he came to the pump-house road he carefully scanned it. In the dust were fresh hoof-prints leading toward the river. Now he knew this road to be seldom used, and therefore he wondered who could be riding it at a gallop in this blistering midday heat. A few rods farther on and his quick eye detected something else—something that brought him from his saddle. Out of the rut he picked a cigarette butt, the fire of which was cold but the paper of which was still wet from the smoker’s lips. He examined it carefully; then he remounted and rode on, pondering its significance.

  Dave loped out of the thicket and straight across the clearing to the Morales house. Leaving Montrosa’s reins hanging, he opened the door and entered without knocking. Rosa appeared in the opening to another room, her eyes wide with fright at this apparition, and Dave saw that she was dressed in her finest, as if for a holiday or for a journey.

  “Where’s your father?” he demanded.

  “He’s gone to Sangre de Cristo. What do you want?”

  “When did he go?”

  “This morning, early. He—”

  “Who’s been here since he left?”

  Rosa was recovering from her first surprise, and now her black brows drew together in anger. “No one has come. You are the first. And have you no manners to stride into a respectable house—?”

  Dave broke in harshly: “Rosa, you’re lying. José Sanchez has been here within an hour. Where is he?” When the girl only grew whiter and raised a hand to her breast, he stepped toward her, crying, “Answer me!”

  Rosa recoiled, and the breath caught in her throat like a sob. “I’ll tell you nothing,” she said in a thin voice. Then she began to tremble. “Why do you want José?”

  “You know why. He killed Don Eduardo, and then he rode here. Come! I know everything.”

  “Lies! Lies!” Rosa’s voice grew shrill. “Out of this house! I know you. It was you who betrayed Panfilo, and his blood is on your hands, assassin!” With the last word she made as if to retreat, but Dave was too quick; he seized her, and for an instant they struggled breathlessly.

  Dave had reasoned beforehand that his only chance of discovering anything from this girl lay in utterly terrorizing her and in profiting by her first panic; therefore he pressed his advantage. He succeeded better than he had dared to hope.

  “You know who killed Señor Ed,” he cried, fiercely. “The fortune-teller read your plans, and there is no use to deny it.”

  Rosa screamed again; she writhed; she tried to sink her teeth into her captor’s flesh. In her body was the strength of a full-grown man, and Dave could hardly hold her. But suddenly, as the two scuffled, from the back room of the house came a sound which caused Dave to release the girl as abruptly as he had seized her—it was the clink and tinkle of Mexican spurs upon a wooden floor.

  XXVI

  THE WATER-CURE

  Without an instant’s hesitation Dave flung himself past Rosa and through the inner door.

  José Sanchez met him with a shout; the shock of their collision overbore the lighter man, and the two went down together, arms and legs intertwined. The horse-breaker fired his revolver blindly—a deafening explosion inside those four walls—but he was powerless against his antagonist’s strength and ferocity. It required but a moment for Law to master him, to wrench the weapon from his grasp, and then, with the aid of José’s silk neck-scarf, to bind his wrists tightly.

  From the front of the little house came the crash of a door violently slammed as Rosa profited by the diversion to save herself.

  When finally José stood, panting and snarling, his back to the wall, Dave regarded him with a sinister contraction of the lips that was almost a grin.

  “Well,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “I see you didn’t go to the east pasture this morning.”

  “What do you want of me?” José managed to gasp.

  There was a somewhat prolonged silence, during which Dave continued to stare at his prisoner with that same disquieting expression. “Why did you kill Don Eduardo?” he asked.

  “I? Bah! Who says I killed him?” José glared defiance. “Why are you looking at me? Come! Take me to jail, if you think that will do any good.”

  “It’s lucky I rode to Las Palmas this morning. In another hour you would have been across the Rio Grande—with Rosa and all her fine clothes, eh? Now you will be hanged. Well, that is how fortune goes.”

  The horse-breaker tossed his head and shrugged with a brave assumption o
f indifference; he laughed shortly. “You can prove nothing.”

  “Yes,” continued Dave, “and Rosa will go to prison, too. Now—suppose I should let you go? Would you help me? In ten minutes you could be safe.” He inclined his head toward the muddy, silent river outside. “Would you be willing to help me?”

  José’s brows lifted. “What’s this you are saying?” he inquired, eagerly.

  “I would only ask you a few questions.”

  “What questions?”

  “Where is Señora Austin?”

  José’s face became blank. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh yes, you do. She started for La Feria. But—did she get there? Or did Longorio have other plans for her? You’d better tell me the truth, for your general can’t help you now.” Dave did his best to read the Mexican’s expression, but failed. “Señor Ed’s death means nothing to me,” he went on, “but I must know where his wife is, and I’m willing to pay, with your liberty.” In spite of himself his anxiety was plain.

  José exclaimed: “Ho! I understand. He was in your way and you’re glad to be rid of him. Well, we have no business fighting with each other.”

  “Will you tell me—?”

  “I’ll tell you nothing, for I know nothing.”

  “Come! I must know.”

  José laughed insolently.

  Law’s face became black with sudden fury. His teeth bared themselves. He took a step forward, crying:

  “By God! You will tell me!” Seizing his prisoner by the throat, he pinned him to the wall; then with his free hand he cocked Longorio’s revolver and thrust its muzzle against José’s body. “Tell me!” he repeated. His countenance was so distorted, his expression so maniacal, that José felt his hour had come. The latter, being in all ways Mexican, did not struggle; instead, he squared his shoulders and, staring fearlessly into the face above him, cried:

  “Shoot!”

  For a moment the two men remained so; then Dave seemed to regain control of himself and the murder light flickered out of his eyes. He flung his prisoner aside and cast the revolver into a corner of the room.

  José picked himself up, cursing his captor eloquently. “You Gringos don’t know how to die,” he said. “Death? Pah! We must die some time. And supposing I do know something about the señora, do you think you can force me to speak? Torture wouldn’t open my lips.”

  Law did not trust himself to reply; and the horse-breaker went on with growing defiance:

  “I am innocent of any crime; therefore I am brave. But you—The blood of innocent men means nothing to you—Panfilo’s murder proves that—so complete your work. Make an end of me.”

  “Be still!” Dave commanded, thickly.

  But the fellow’s hatred was out of bounds now, and by the bitterness of his vituperation he seemed to invite death. Dave interrupted his vitriolic curses to ask harshly:

  “Will you tell me, or will you force me to wring the truth out of you?”

  José answered by spitting at his captor; then he gritted an unspeakable epithet from between his teeth.

  Dave addressed him with an air of finality. “You killed that man and your life is forfeit, so it doesn’t make much difference whether I take it or whether the State takes it. You are brave enough to die—most of you Mexicans are—but the State can’t force you to speak, and I can.” José sneered. “Oh yes, I can! I intend to know all that you know, and it will be better for you to tell me voluntarily. I must learn where Señora Austin is, and I must learn quickly, if I have to kill you by inches to get the truth.”

  “So! Torture, eh? Good. I can believe it of you. Well, a slow fire will not make me speak.”

  “No. A fire would be too easy, José.”

  “Eh?”

  Without answer Dave strode out of the room. He was back before his prisoner could do more than wrench at his bonds, and with him he brought his lariat and his canteen.

  “What are you going to do?” José inquired, backing away until he was once more at bay.

  “I’m going to give you a drink.”

  “Whisky? You think you can make me drunk?” The horse-breaker laughed loudly but uneasily.

  “Not whisky; water. I’m going to give you a drink of water.”

  “What capers!”

  “When you’ve drunk enough you’ll tell me why you killed your employer and where General Longorio has taken his wife. Yes, and everything else I want to know.” Seizing the amazed Mexican, Dave flung him upon Morales’s hard board bed, and in spite of the fellow’s struggles deftly made him fast. When he had finished—and it was no easy job—José lay “spread-eagled” upon his back, his wrists and ankles firmly bound to the head and foot posts, his body secured by a tight loop over his waist. The rope cut painfully and brought a curse from the prisoner when he strained at it. Law surveyed him with a face of stone.

  “I don’t want to do this,” he declared, “but I know your kind. I give you one more chance. Will you tell me?”

  José drew his lips back in a snarl of rage and pain, and Dave realized that further words were useless. He felt a certain pity for his victim and no little admiration for his courage, but such feelings were of small consequence as against his agonizing fears for Alaire’s safety. Had he in the least doubted José’s guilty knowledge of Longorio’s intentions, Dave would have hesitated before employing the barbarous measures he had in mind, but—there was nothing else for it. He pulled the canteen cork and jammed the mouthpiece firmly to José’s lips. Closing the fellow’s nostrils with his free hand, he forced him to drink.

  José clenched his teeth, he tried to roll his head, he held his breath until his face grew purple and his eyes bulged. He strained like a man upon the rack. The bed creaked to his muscular contortions; the rope tightened. It was terribly cruel, this crushing of a strong will bent on resistance to the uttermost; but never was an executioner more pitiless, never did a prisoner’s agony receive less consideration. The warm water spilled over José’s face, it drenched his neck and chest; his joints cracked as he strove for freedom and tried to twist his head out of Law’s iron grasp. The seconds dragged, until finally Nature asserted herself. The imprisoned breath burst forth; there sounded a loud gurgling cry and a choking inhalation. José’s body writhed with the convulsions of drowning as the water and air were sucked into his lungs. Law was kneeling over his victim now, his weight and strength so applied that José had no liberty of action and could only drink, coughing and fighting for air. Somehow he managed to revive himself briefly and again shut his teeth; but a moment more and he was again retched with the furious battle for air, more desperate now than before. After a while Law freed his victim’s nostrils and allowed him a partial breath, then once more crushed the mouthpiece against his lips. By and by, to relieve his torture, José began to drink in great noisy gulps, striving to empty the vessel.

  But the stomach’s capacity is limited. In time José felt himself bursting; the liquid began to regurgitate. This was not mere pain that he suffered, but the ultimate nightmare horror of a death more awful than anything he had ever imagined. José would have met a bullet, a knife, a lash, without flinching; flames would not have served to weaken his resolve; but this slow drowning was infinitely worse than the worst he had thought possible; he was suffocating by long, black, agonizing minutes. Every nerve and muscle of his body, every cell in his bursting lungs, fought against the outrage in a purely physical frenzy over which his will power had no control. Nor would insensibility come to his relief—Law watched him too carefully for that. He could not even voice his sufferings by shrieks; he could only writhe and retch and gurgle while the ropes bit into his flesh and his captor knelt upon him like a monstrous stone weight.

  But José had made a better fight than he knew. The canteen ran dry at last, and Law was forced to release his hold.

 
“Will you speak?” he demanded.

  Thinking that he had come safely through the ordeal, José shook his head; he rolled his bulging, bloodshot eyes and vomited, then managed to call God to witness his innocence.

  Dave went into the next room and refilled the canteen. When he reappeared with the dripping vessel in his hand, José tried to scream. But his throat was torn and strained; the sound of his own voice frightened him.

  Once more the torment began. The tortured man was weaker now, and in consequence he resisted more feebly; but not until he was less than half conscious did Law spare him time to recover.

  José lay sick, frightened, inert. Dave watched him without pity. The fellow’s wrists were black and swollen, his lips were bleeding; he was stretched like a dumb animal upon the vivisectionist’s table, and no surgeon with lance and scalpel could have shown less emotion than did his inquisitor. Having no intention of defeating his own ends, Dave allowed his victim ample time in which to regain his ability to suffer.

  Alaire Austin had been right when she said that Dave might be ruthless; and yet the man was by no means incapable of compassion. At the present moment, however, he considered himself simply as the instrument by which Alaire was to be saved. His own feelings had nothing to do with the matter; neither had the sufferings of this Mexican. Therefore he steeled himself to prolong the agony until the murderer’s stubborn spirit was worn down. Once again he put his question, and, again receiving defiance, jammed the canteen between José’s teeth.

  But human nature is weak. For the first time in his life José Sanchez felt terror—a terror too awful to be endured—and he made the sign.

  He was no longer the insolent defier, the challenger, but an imploring wretch, whose last powers of resistance had been completely shattered. His frightened eyes were glued to that devilish vessel in which his manhood had dissolved, the fear of it made a woman of him.