The Round-Up | Page 8

the circumstances of our last meeting. Did you come with the Rurales?"
"Hell, no! I come ahead of 'em. In fact, Dick Lane, you air jist a leetle
bit off in your idees about which party I belong to. When you damned
me fer a thievin' half-breed, and run me off the range, an' tole me to go
to the Injun's, whar I belonged, I tuk yer advice. I'm what you might
call the rear-guard of the outfit you've jist been havin' your
shootin'-match with. Or I was the rear-guard, for you've wiped out the
whole dam' battalion, so fur as I can see. Served 'em right fur detailin'
me, the only decent shooter in the bunch, to watch the horses. I got one

shot in as it wuz. Well, as the last of the outfit, I own a string of ten
ponies. All I need now to set up in business is to have some prospector
who hain't long to live, leave me his little pile uv dust an' nuggets, an'
the claims he's located back in the mountains. You look a leetle mite
like the man. It'll save vallible time if you make yer dear friend, Buck
McKee, administrater uv yer estate without too much persuadin'. You
had some objection oncet to my slittin' a calf's tongue. Well, you
needn't be scared just yet. That's the last thing I'll do to you. Come,
where's your cache? I know you've got one hereabouts, fer I foun' signs
of the dust in your pack."
Lane set his teeth in a firm resolutions not to say a word. The taunts of
his captor were harder to bear in silence than the prospects of torture.
"Stubborn, hey? Well, we'll try a little 'Pache persuadin'." And the
renegade dragged his helpless captive up to the thorny sahuaro, and
bound his back against it with the dead horse's bridle. McKee searched
through Lane's pockets until he found a match.
"Last one, hey? Kinder 'propriate. Las' drink from the old canteen, las'
ca'tridge, last look at the scenery, and las' will an' testyment. Oh, time's
precious, but I'll spare you enough to map out in yer mind jes' where
them claims is located. The Rurales won't be along fer an hour yet, if
they hain't turned back after our other party."
McKee pulled off Lane's boots. "It 'ain't decent fer a man to die with
'em on," he said. He then kindled a fire on the stone, beneath which, if
he but knew it, lay the treasure he sought. He returned with a burning
brand to the captive. For the first time he observed the snake impaled
on the sahuaro, writhing but feebly. "Hullo, ole rattler," he exclaimed;
"here's somethin' to stir you up;" and he tossed the brand upon the top
of the cactus.
Taking another burning stick from the fire, he applied it to the soles of
his victim's feet. Lane writhed and groaned under the excruciating
torture, but uttered no word or cry. McKee brought other brands, and
began piling them about his captive's feet.

In the meantime the sahuaro had caught fire at the top, and was burning
down through the interior. A thin column of smoke rose straight above
it in the still air. The Rurales in the valley below, who had reached the
beginning of the ascending trail, and were on the point of giving up the
pursuit, saw the smoke, and, inferred that the Apaches, either through
overconfidence or because of their superstitious fear of the mountains,
which they supposed inhabited by spirits, had camped on the edge of
the valley, and were signaling to their other party. Accordingly the
Mexicans renewed the chase with increased vigor.
As McKee bent over his captive's feet, piling against them the burning
ends of the sticks, the rattlesnake on the sahuaro, incited by the fire
above, struggled free from the impaling thorns by a desperate effort,
and dropped on the back of the half-breed. It struck its fangs into his
neck. McKee, springing up with an energy that scattered the sticks he
was piling, tore the reptile loose, hurled it upon the ground, and
stamped it into the earth. Then he picked up one of the brands and with
it cauterized the wound. All the while he was cursing volubly--the
snake, himself, and even Dick Lane, who was now lying in a dead faint
caused by the torture.
"Damn such a prospector! Not a drop of whisky in his outfit! I'd slit his
tongue fer him if he wasn't already done fer. I must keep
movin'--movin', or I'm a dead man. I must hustle along to the
mountains, leadin' my horse. Up there I'll find yarbs to cure snake-bite
that my Cherokee grandmother showed me. The Rurales will have to
get the other