Bare Hands

“No,” said Shaffer in a dry, harsh voice. “They didn’t mention.”

The voices outside rose in a burst of confused noise. There came the sound of a cry, a shot.

The guard set down his half-emptied pan of frijoles, and made swiftly for the door.

Harder gave a lurch, rolled to the floor. As soon as the figure of the guard was swallowed in the darkness, he rolled over and over, swiftly, silently, rolling toward the growling embers of the fire.

He upset the frijoles, rolled directly upon the glowing coals.

The odor of singing hair filled the room. Then came the unforgetable smell of burning flesh. Harder lay with expressionless face, staring up at the ceiling.

Shaffer coughed and winced.

“Those are the hands that made the girl sick of me,” said Harder in a level voice. “Hope your dainty stomach doesn’t get turned with the smell of burning hair and skin.”

Shaffer tried to speak, but failed. His face drained of color. He slumped down, weak, sick.

Something bent over him. The odor of burnt flesh became stronger.

“All over now,” said Harder’s voice, and the great fingers busied themselves with the knots of the ropes about his wrists.

A moment more and Shaffer’s hands were free.

“Untie your ankles yourself,”^- said Harder. “I’ll watch the door. We want that rifle if we can get it.”

Shaffer’s trembling hands groped for the knot in the rope, found it and fluttered about it helplessly.

“It’s too tight,” he stammered. “C-c-can’t we get a knife? Oh, hurry!”

Harder returned to him.

“What t’ell?” he muttered.

His great hands dropped to the rope. The fingers twisted at the knot and the rope came loose.

A shadow blotted out the faint light which came through the doorway. The embers of the fire were stirred by some vagrant bit of wind and flared up.

“Ah-h-h,” muttered the man in the doorway, and rustled into stealthy motion. There sounded the crisp click of a rifle lock.

Harder’s outstretched hand, groping swiftly along the floor, caught the man by the ankle. His feet jerked out from under him. The crash of his body shook the ground.

The soldier turned like a snake. His hand flashed the bayonet from its scabbard, whipped it upward.

Harder’s great hand closed over the wrist. His other hand compressed the neck.

Shaffer ran around in futile circles, watching the swift pulsations of shadowy struggle upon the floor.

After a few moments the shadows became still.

Harder arose.

“You take the gun and the cartridges. You won’t be worth a damn without ’em. I’ve got my bare hands.”

Shaffer felt the welcome coolness of the rifle barrel. His eager hands clasped the cartridge belt around him.

“Let’s go,” said Harder.

They slipped out into the calm silence of the semitropic night. The soldier had quelled the disturbance of the remaining troops. They were grouped about a fire some eighty yards away. After Ayala’s departure they had uncovered the cache of liquors which had been buried under the floor of the cook shack. They drank frenziedly, seeking to consume it all before Ayala’s return.

The two worked their cautious way down the starlit slope, keeping their groping feet in the trail lest the rattle of a loose rock should warn the others. At length they reached the floor of the canon.

Shaffer turned toward the mountain pass.

“Wrong direction,” muttered Harder.

Shaffer stood his ground. “You’re... you’re not going in the other direction? Not toward the camp of troops!”

Harder looked at him curiously, his wide eyes seeking to find the expression upon the blur of the white face.

“Sure, where’d yuh think we was goin’?”

Shaffer drew back as though Harder’s great hands were reaching for him. “That’s plain foolishness, suicide. By traveling all night we can get to the settlement through the pass. We can wire the consul at Mexico City. They’ll dispatch fresh troops, close the pass, bring re-enforcements to the others. The Wolf will be trapped between the two forces, captured, executed.”

Harder’s voice cut like a knife:

“Yeah? And in the meantime?”

Shaffer shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t be a fool! It’s the only way. It’s suicide the other way. Two men against an army? You must be crazy.” Harder moved toward him.

“Gimme the rifle then.”

Shaffer jumped backward.

“No, no. Don’t be foolish. This is our only chance. Think of what it means. Come with me. They’ll kill us or capture us and that means death by torture.”

“I don’t want you with me,” patiently explained Harder. “Gimme the rifle.”

Shaffer continued to draw back in a panic.

“No, no. That would leave me unarmed. You’ve got your strength, your hands. I’m helpless.”

He turned swiftly, ran clattering up the canon.

From the flat above came a yell. The soldiers about the fire had heard the running steps.

A hail sounded from the darkness above.

Rattling stones marked the sound of Shaffer’s flight. A rifle vomited forth a stabbing spurt of ruddy fire. Another and another. The stones continued to rattle.

Dan Harder slipped in the shadows of a bush, stood perfectly still.