“Wait,” he urged. “The messenger ought to be back tomorrow. If he has the money, well and good. Then you can work your will on the prisoner. But perhaps there will be conditions. It may be that we can do more with a live body than with a dead one. Revenge is sweet but money—ten thousand dollars in American money—ah, it is much.”
“Fool,” snarled the chief, “I shall not kill him—not yet. That would be too quick and easy. Tonight I shall play with him as the cat plays with the mouse. I shall make him want to die, but I will not let him die. I shall make him scream. I shall make him beg. I shall break his courage. I shall teach him that it is not good to stare into the eyes of Espato.”
When Phil came before the bandit leader, he saw at once the drunken rage that looked through his reddened eyes, and drew from it the conclusion that at last his hour had come. But he braced himself to meet the ordeal, and there was no sign of blenching in the look he turned on his captor.
Once more Espato glared into Phil’s eyes, and once more, after an interval, his own wavered before the indomitable light in the eyes of his captive.
“Take him to that tree,” he ordered, his face congested and the veins standing out turgidly on his forehead, “and tie him fast. I do not want him to squirm too much when I get busy with him,” he added, drawing his knife from his belt and testing its edge with his thumb.
Phil was dragged roughly away and tied to the tree indicated, which stood just at the edge of the zone of light cast by the fire about which the bandits were sprawled, drinking and waiting with keen zest for the next move of their chief.
The latter sat brooding, his brows drawn into a heavy scowl, enjoying his vengeance in anticipation and planning how he might inflict the most exquisite torture on the prisoner. There was no hurry, as he wanted Phil to suffer the agony of suspense while he awaited the will of his captor.
Phil’s hands had been drawn back by a rope that was fastened on the further side of the tree. His feet were fastened in similar fashion. The cords cut into him cruelly, but his physical pain was as nothing to his mental anguish.
If only one more day had intervened! Already the Rangers must be nearing the mountain stronghold. But hours might elapse before they got there and in those hours—
What was that? The wind soughing through the trees? No, there was not a breath of air stirring. Still that hum, that soft steady hum that persisted for a while and then died away into silence.