Phil’s heart gave a tremendous leap. The airplane! That hum came from the motor of the Arrow. And the silence that had followed meant that the engine had been shut off and that Dick and Tom had made a landing. And if the airplane was there, the Rangers were there too, for Phil knew that they would keep pace with each other.
He glanced toward the chief and his followers. Had they heard anything? A moment and he was reassured. They were too absorbed in their drunken revelry to notice anything, and as for Espato, he was too deep in his schemes of torture to think of anything else.
Perhaps half an hour dragged by while Phil listened intensely for any sound that might come from the surrounding forest. But not a rustle broke the silence.
At last the bandit chief arose and came toward his prisoner, knife in hand. Within a foot of him he paused, his eyes glowing with the baleful ferocity of a wild beast.
His followers had risen and stood at a respectful distance behind him, intent on the new and devilish entertainment which they felt sure was coming.
“Now,” hissed Espato, as he fondled the haft of his knife caressingly, “listen to the screams of the Americano as I carve my name on his forehead in payment for the gash he dared to cut in mine. Six letters—E-S-P-A-T-O. It will take a long time to do the carving, for the letters will be wide and the cutting will be deep.”
He raised his knife.
A rifle cracked and from the shattered wrist of the bandit chief the knife clattered to the ground.
Then came the shrill sound of a bugle, and out of the woods and into the clearing the Texas Rangers came charging in a wild rush that swept everything before them!