“Mebby you no sabe what I’m goin’ to do to you. Mebby you think I got you here on this rock just for a bluff. Not much, I ain’t. If you don’t come across an’ show me that mine, I’m goin’ to put ’bout a hatful of them red coals right here.” With his open hand he slapped Natachee’s naked chest. “You do what I say or I burn the red heart out of you, an’ I ain’t hurryin’ the job neither. You ain’t the first mule-head hombre I’ve made loosen up.”
Hugh Edwards drew back from the edge of the cliff. For a single instant he was sick with horror. Then the blood of his race surged through his veins with tingling strength. In that moment it meant nothing to him that the man bound to the rock down there was an Indian. It made no difference that the red man, with cunning cruelty, had for weeks ingeniously tortured him to gratify a savage thirst for revenge against all white people. He did not, at the moment, even remember Marta and his need of Natachee’s help. It mattered nothing that there were three of those fiends down there and that he was alone. He was conscious of but one thing: a thing that was born of his white man’s soul. That deed of unspeakable brutality must not—should not—be accomplished.
Swiftly he made his way along the rim of the cañon toward the upper end of the semicircle. He felt as if he were acting in a dream, or as if some spirit over which he had no control dominated him. But even as he moved, a plan flashed before him, and he saw clearly every detail of the only part he could play with the slightest hope of success. The narrow passage through which the creek entered the amphitheater was hidden from the men by the deep shadows of the trees. Their rifles were on that side of the fire.
A short distance above the scene of the impending tragedy he found a place where he could descend, half sliding, half falling, to the creek, while the noise of the stream covered any sound from that direction. A moment more and he had let himself down over the rocks and bowlders, around which the waters roared, and stood behind the trunk of one of the giant cottonwoods, not a hundred feet from the outlaw and his companions. With sheer strength of will he restrained his impulse to rush forward and throw himself upon those fiends in human form as they bent over their fire.
He must wait. He must watch for the exact moment.
It was not long.
Sonora Jack, from the Indian’s side, called to his companions:
“Ya chito tray la lumbre—bring the fire.”
To Natachee, the outlaw said:
“One more time I ask you, Indio, are you goin’ to take me to the mine?”