South, West and North/Part 3/Chapter 2
II
EVENING drew down upon the Valley of Mercy, and Dick Hampton, after bathing in the lower creek, found himself entering into the life of the damned under the guardianship of the brother he had come so far to seek—El Bobo, the fool.
The first shock of anguish and horror past, he steeled himself to accept the inevitable and to endure in silence, as he followed his brother and the squeaking carts from the creek along the rude cañon trail toward the rows of adobe buildings. It was growing dark now, here in the valley, and work was over for the day. The overseer's whip cracked, one unfortunate wretch howled aloud, and the others hastened to unhitch the mules.
From different directions men came toward the adobe bunk-houses—weary, ragged, sodden men, with here and there the crack of a whip to hasten some unfinished labor. They came from the fields, from the lower valley toward the sea, from the upper cañon; here and there rifle-armed guards were in evidence, though these had separate quarters higher along the valley wall. The slave-quarters were not all large. Some were small adobe shacks, with women and children in sight, and the smoke of cooking fires went up into the late afternoon coolness.
As he dragged himself along after the shambling figure of his brother, Hampton scrutinized these other figures coming in from all sides. Here and there he discerned a bowed American, shaggy and ragged like the others yet marked by a certain surly defiance that still lingered in their hopeless and scarred features; he knew none of them. There were a few Chinamen, sleek and mud-spattered figures from the fields, who bunked apart by themselves, and in the buzz of voices that arose Hampton caught a few oaths in German or French, and heard one little cockney whining over a gashed arm. The great majority of these slaves, however, were Mexicans of Spanish strain. Very few of them showed any Indian blood, while on the contrary all the guards and overseers were either pure Indians or mestizos.
Hampton followed his brother to where a pot was slung over a fire, and crowded in among the mass of men. A stumpy little Mexican woman handed out bowls of stew, with tortillas. As Hampton got his share and turned away, he found at his elbow a red-bearded American, stooped and broken, who greeted him with weary recognition.
“Hello, another Yank, eh? You're a new one, ain't you? Didn't know a ship was in. Where you from, and who roped you in?”
“My name's Hampton. I came up from Panama.”
“To see the country, hey?” The other grinned and wolfed his tortilla. “I'm Pap Hoskins, from Car-lina; started to dig gold, and got hooked. If I wasn't tougher'n most, I'd be gone now. We done buried the last o' that Massachusetts crowd day 'fore yesterday. Softies.”
“What crowd?” asked Hampton, with a flicker of interest.
“Bunch come up with Dias. Got hooked, I reckon. Sho', though, lots of 'em ain't hooked. Them chinks are here on contract—work so long, then get sent to 'Frisco. Well, better not talk. Lot o' spies in this gang of greasers. See ye later, Yank. Anytime ye need a drink o' cactus licker, go down to the mill. All ye want free. Helps recruit the greasers, too.”
The red-bearded man from Carolina sauntered away, following a steady stream of men that was headed for the creek, where a small pulque mill was in full blast. Hampton was not slow to comprehend the diabolic ingenuity of Dias in thus furnishing the deadly juice of the big cactus leaves. It was a potent factor in breaking down such men as Pap Hoskins, who might otherwise be dangerous, and it served to keep the Mexicans in a more or less continual state of drunken stupor.
Watching the men around him, Hampton swiftly realized that his brother Eli occupied a position far above the average; and this favored lot was undoubtedly due to his mental state. El Bobo replenished his own bowl thrice, while those who begged a second helping were repulsed angrily by the women cooks; he could talk or jest among the guards with impunity, a liberty denied to the others. Yet with his fellow-slaves he was obviously popular enough, and he could chatter Spanish like a native.
Hampton's heart ached for the haggard, witless creature, so terribly changed from the sturdy young fellow whom he had left at home. Not a spark of recognition had awakened in that dull and vacuous countenance, even the mention of Hampton's name had evoked no response. The savage cruelty of Dias must have been satisfied to the full in that moment of meeting.
When Eli now approached him, Hampton took a desperate mental brace, faced the unhappy man, took him in his arms.
“Eli, Eli!” he cried frantically, tears leaping on his sun-blackened cheeks. “Don't you know me, boy? Speak to me—one word of English”
Men crowded in around them, staring curiously at the new gringo, nudging one another and grinning over his emotion. El Bobo twisted clear of Hampton's grip, with a grimace.
“El señor gringo uses strange words,” he whimpered, and the crowd guffawed.
Hampton whirled upon them in a gust of anger—then conquered himself and turned away. He felt himself broken, hopeless, at the end of everything. Without a word he followed the beckoning Bobo into an adobe bunk-house, was shown to a shelf furnished with tattered blankets, and slumped down on it. The witless one departed into the gathering twilight.
There Hampton was at his lowest ebb, and knew it. He sat for a long while motionless, head in hands, gripped by a measureless despair. Around him the night gathered. Other men came drifting into the place, sleeping two by two on their shelves which ranged the walls in two tiers. They stank of vile mescal, of tobacco, of dirt. Tobacco smoke filled the unlighted place. From the quarters of the Chinese, adjoining, drifted a faint, sweetish reek of opium.
What hope for escape from this hell? None. Hampton saw himself caught in the same net that had seared all these other men, that had brought his brother to idiocy; the lash, hard labor under a bitter sun—labor that alone would kill any white man—and worse than the sharp tooth of slavery, the poison-fang of depraved and vicious surroundings.
“No way out,” thought Hampton, “except one. I was a fool to jump at Dias today; now they'll know that I'm not broken yet. The only possible thing I can do now is to wait, endure everything silently, and then get that when the chance offers. They may kill me first, but if they try it I'll go down fighting. No—it won't do to give up hope. Besides, Nellie Barnes is here somewhere! If I can find her, it would be better to die a clean death out in the desert than to perish miserably here in this vile place. No wonder El Hambre came here and went away again without doing anything! Well, I mustn't let them beat me down—my game is to strike a blow, and lie low until the time comes. For the old man back home, and for the poor boy here—and perhaps for Nellie Barnes. We'll see.”
Through his thoughts there pierced a sound that aroused everything in him, that brought back before him that scene in the farmhouse with his father, while the woodpecker tap-tapped, somewhere above. Over the odorous air of the adobe shack, sharp through the dark growl of sodden voices, came the rasping clat—clat—clat of palm-fronds overhead, like the flicker of reef-points against a wind-bellied main course. That sound drew a long breath from Hampton, roused up the man in him; he quietly stretched out, rolled over against the wall, and lay motionless, fighting down the torrential anguish of his soul. Like that scene in the farmhouse with his father, where a certain self-mastery had come to him, this night marked another and a greater fixation of his character.
“The world's a good place—so hurray!” he quoted softly to himself, and managed a wry smile at thought of Job Warlock.
As he lay, he heard voices at the door, and the whining peon drawl brought him sharper comprehension of the situation. The guards were there and had checked off each slave upon entering; none could now leave the place until morning came. Impressed by this evidence of caution on the part of Dias, Hampton rolled over against the wall—and his elbow rapping the adobe gave a distinctly hollow sound. Curious, he leaned aside, reached out and raked away the matted tatters of blankets there, and his fingers groped into a long and ragged hole scraped in the adobe. Then they fell upon a long knife or machete esconced in the hole.
He lay wondering, startled by his discovery. Was there some instinct of escape still dormant in the enfeebled brain of poor Eli? Or was this the token left by some former occupant of the double bunk? It was hard to say; none the less, Hampton's fingers thrilled to the touch of the blade. It meant a weapon.
There came a new altercation at the door, and the sound of his brother's vapid laugh; it went through him like a knife. Then the shambling step across the trodden earth floor, and presently a figure crept in beside him and straightened out in the bunk. His brother—here at his side in the darkness, yet unknowing! The thought was agony. The realization of that blinded intellect
A hand reached out, touched his arm, came down to his wrist; fingers caught at his in a wild grip—a frantic and terrible convulsion of the muscles.
“Dick! Dick!” The low-breathed word reached his ear and stunned him with its import. “Are you awake, Dick!”
“In heaven's name”
That hand shifted rapidly, clamped down over Hampton's lips, cut short his astounded ejaculation. The low whisper vibrated again at his ear.
“Careful, careful! Spies all around. Oh, Dick, it was so hard to do! But I had to do it. We don't know who the spies are—ever since I got a bad clip over the head I've played the fool—it's the only thing that has saved me! Don't spoil it now, Dick—don't spoil it! Oh, I'm so glad you've come—and so sorry”
The words died out in a low, inchoate sob. With that, Hampton gave way; the furious back-swing of his emotion caught him up in its rush, and gathering the tattered figure in his arms he lay with sobs tearing at his throat and tears blinding him.
Weariness was forgotten—torture and mental horror, despair, wounds, all were swept aside by this overwhelming discovery. So tremendous was the revulsion that Hampton lay for a long while unable to speak, unable to trust himself; until at length he put lips to ear and broke silence with shaken accents. So in the darkness of the slave-pen came to be delivered the message from father to son. Then, after a little, Hampton mentioned that hole in the wall.
“A night's work will finish it,” said Eli, little more than forming the words with his lips. “But it's no good, Dick. Can't get away. No hope on earth. Pap Hoskins is in the game with me, and so is that big Frenchman with the blue-black beard. All we wanted was a chance to strike a blow—hopeless to think of escape.”
“Nelly Barnes—have you seen her?”
“Yes,” uttered Eli, and in the word were volumes. “She's all right—so far. No chance to talk with her. Things are quieting down now—be careful! Wait until morning. Act a part. Make them think you're broken—or they'll use the whips. The others who came with Dias and Nellie are gone. They couldn't last long. Dias sent them out into the desert gathering wood for the fires; it killed them quickly. Now wait until tomorrow.”
Hampton obeyed. Presently he fell asleep, tears on his cheeks.
Daylight came, sharply cold. Dick Hampton wakened to find his brother's lips at his ear, and felt something thrust into his hand. It was a razor, or what remained of one.
“Use it if you want, then hide it in the hole. Come down to the creek.”
Hampton hesitated. Badly as he wanted to be rid of his beard, which had regrown on the voyage north, to do so would make him a marked man; and now he had a game to play. Besides, it was no light task to secretly hack at a stiff beard, without soap or water—and he thrust the razor into the hollowed-out adobe, then pulled the matted blankets over the opening and left the bunk.
Slight attention was paid to him as he made his way down to the creek and washed. He saw nothing of his brother at first, but presently El Bobo appeared, carrying tortillas and a bowl of chocolate. They were alone for the time being, as whips were cracking and slave-gangs being formed up by the overseers.
“Safe to talk,” said Eli, depositing his burden and flinging himself down. “We have to snatch the right time, Dick. I'm a privileged character—they found I could get out stone blocks and could carve them a bit. Besides, you're in my charge just now, until we go and see Dias. Here's breakfast, so pitch in. Did you hide the razor?”
Hampton nodded. “Can we get away at night, get a couple of mules, and hit across the desert, Eli? Is that your plan?”
The other laughed hopelessly.
“Impossible, Dick; you might as well dismiss the notion. They'd let you go in the daytime, but they'd see to it that you went afoot and empty-handed. The only way out is by that patch up the side, or else by the lower end of the cañon to the sea. Both ways are guarded, and those guards are Yaqui Indians from Sonora. How did you get here? I heard about the Beverly company and all that from the poor who got here with Dias—Ezra Howe was with 'em. His wife died on the way up from Panama. Dias shot him two days after they got here.”
Hampton briefly recounted, while breaking his fast, an outline of his story. He had barely finished when Eli leaped to his feet and was instantly transformed into El Bobo, and flung a swift word at his brother.
“Look out! Here's Ramon, Dias' chief lieutenant, coming. Pure Yaqui and a ”
Approaching them was the tall, splendid figure of an Indian, garbed in all the gold-laced finery of a Mexican, about his shoulders a handsome scarlet serape. He came close to them, his glittering eyes fastened upon Hampton; his features were intelligent, darkly proud, stamped with a bitter ferocity. El Bobo capered up and demanded his cigaret, which Ramon accorded, then the Yaqui began to roll himself another.
“Well, gringo!” he said curtly. “Today your scalp is mine. Come.”
El Bobo fluttered in with some question, and Ramon whirled on him with imperative gesture.
“Be off! The master has ordered me to bring this man. Go to your work, fool.”
So poor Eli went shambling away, while Hampton rose and followed the tall Yaqui, in silence.
He was led up the valley, and knew that he was going to face Dias. He did not fail to observe that at sight of Ramon the other guards became very ostensibly alert, and the slaves at work shrank hastily aside; even the Chinese, who shared but slightly in the hardships of their companions, avoided the tall Yaqui with extreme care. Hampton needed no explanations to realize that this chief lieutenant of Dias was a devil rather than a man. So much was patent in the very face of the redskin.
They passed the slave barracks and the scattered houses of the guards, whose half-breed families were in full evidence, and so came to the bend of the creek. There, masked by the fruit orchard and the huge foliage of ancient fig trees, was revealed the hub of this entire place—the new house of Doña Hermana.
It was a palace rather than a house, built beside the tumbling waters of the little creek; here the towering walls of the cañon drew in on either side, dwarfing all things. The building itself was of stone, not of adobe—long and low, the roof furnished with a parapet where Hampton caught the gleam of several small brass cannon. Just across the creek was a corral, with some small adobe buildings used by the Chinese servants of Dias.
Ramon strode straight to the entrance of the house, a low doorway on either side of which were prominently displayed the same two Chinese characters which Hampton had seen on the silver knife and at the entrance of Doña Hermana's residence in Panama. The Yaqui struck a large bell, and the door was opened by a silk-clad Chinaman.
“Follow,” said Ramon, and stalked in.
Hampton obeyed, keenly alert and noting every detail. Since the previous day he had become a new man—himself again, the seaman, the man of action. Outwardly he was the same sullen, silent person beaten down by the whips of misfortune; inwardly, the deathly despair was gone. He could have laughed aloud as he entered the house of Dias. True, there was no escape in sight, but there was at least the prospect of striking a blow and going down like a man instead of as a beast.
Inside the house, he was astounded beyond words by what met his eye. As in all Mexican houses, the heavy ceiling and roof were formed of logs painted in bright hues, covered over with tules or rushes, interlaced and plastered with adobe, and these in turn with the upper surface of stone-worked adobe. Aside from the logs, however, Hampton might have imagined himself in any splendid mansion of a great city, for the interior finish of the place was admirable. Aside from this, its sheer luxury was incredible. The rooms were filled, crowded with all manner of objects which spoke eloquently of loot and piracy—carpets of Spain and Turkey, jeweled and bedizened images of saints, oil paintings, furniture of all descriptions.
This brief vision past, Hampton found the patio opening out ahead, another Chinaman holding the door ajar for the commanding Yaqui. Two of the rifle-armed guards appeared; awnings were stretched, and bubbling acequias conducted water from the creek to irrigate the flower-beds whose gaudy splotches of color softened the blinding white morning sunshine. Across the patio was working a slave-gang, building up the far wall of the enclosure and working on a small structure which was nearing completion.
It was not at these things that Hampton looked, however. After the first glance around, his gaze came to rest on the little group of people beneath the awning. There was Dias, smoking and laughing heartily at some jest of the guard at his elbow; there was Doña Hermana, picking delicately at a dish of fruit—and, standing beside the señora, staring at Hampton with eyes wide and incredulous, was Nelly Barnes.
“Here is the gringo dog, señor,” said the tall Yaqui, who deigned to call no man master.