The Crimson Conquest 27

The Crimson Conquest 27

"Prisoner!" squeaked the _veedor_.

 

"Cook!" roared Pedro, savagely.

 

"Oh, in the devil’s name, let him have his way!" Almagro broke in.

"Call him cook—anything—but begin, Rogelio!"

 

"Well—cook," said Rogelio, wiping his forehead, "thou art charged with

having guilty knowledge of the means whereby the late prisoner,

Cristoval de Peralta, hath effected his escape."

 

Pedro nodded gloomily. "So I have!" he assented. "’T is, alas, true!

Unhappily I have such knowledge, _Veedor_. I know that he effected his

escape on three legs, as I have said. May the third help him into hell!

It was mine, I tell thee, and I want it back. What! Am I a centipede,

thinkest thou, to go sloughing legs here and yon, all my days on earth?

I’ve lost three, already—one of them mine inheritance of flesh and bone,

the other twain hewn from good oak of Aragon. All gone! Stew me, I

sicken of losing legs!"

 

The response produced a new tangle in Rogelio’s thread, and before he

had it straightened Riquelme growled and took up the questioning.

 

"Here, Pedro," he said sternly, "Peralta had a file wherewith he filed

his fetters. Thou wast the only man save the guard and the artificers

who had access to him. How came he by it?"

 

"Ah, a file had he!" returned Pedro, with irritation. "Well, curse it!

let him have his file—or files, or rasps, or grindstones! May he chew

them! But he filed not my leg off, I tell thee that, Señor Treasurer!

He took it all—peg, socket, straps, and buckles. May it stick in his

gullet! But look at me, thou who hast two good legs! Am I in a

condition of mind or legs to sing to thee of files? Am I a newsmonger of

files? A murrain on all files and filers! I want my leg!"

 

Riquelme grew red, and Almagro grinned maliciously; but Pizarro was

angry. "Answer the question, thou eternal babbler!" he commanded. "How

came Peralta by that file? Thou knowest, and we’ll have it out of thee.

Answer!"

 

Pedro turned from him. "Oh, a curse upon Peralta and his file! What

care I who gave him his file? Have I not mine own peculiar grief? And

is it not grief enough but that I must be assailed with scare-devil

bellowings by madmen who have lost a file? A surceasance of it! Ye

have talked enough to grow me another leg. Ye rasp my nerves with your

bully-ragging about a file. I’ve lost a leg!"

 

Pizarro stamped with fury and ordered the screws. Almagro protested, and

was ignored. The instrument was brought forward, and the general

demanded: "Once more, cook, and finally—wilt give information?"

 

Pedro had braced himself for what he had known was inevitable, though he

had hoped that delay might bring De Soto. No word escaped him. He took

the torture, a hero, with hardly a groan. Thrice he fainted, and at the

end of an atrocious hour, Almagro interfered.

 

"Faugh, Pizarro! Enough! Enough! For the sake of Heaven, give over!

It groweth sickening. Pass him and take another. Curse me! he is

entitled to be let go for his fortitude, whether he knoweth aught or

naught! Put it to the drunken sentinel. He is the man to be squeezed,

if any—and the two artificers. If thou canst narrow the matter down to

this crackle-pated cook, then come back to him and rack him, or hang him

if ’t is worth thy while. But now, have done. Off with those screws,

men! I’m a thief if I’ll see more of it! Off with them!"

 

Pedro had fainted for the third time. The soldiers looked to Pizarro.

He glanced surlily at his partner, whose single eye met his own with an

__EXPRESSION__ which he had seen it wear before. It promised a quarrel.

Father Valverde joined Almagro’s protest. The _veedor_ alone yelped an

objection, and it decided the question in Pedro’s favor. Pizarro

hesitated and said coldly:—

 

"_Bien_! So be it! Release him, soldiers. We can come to him again;

and by the Eternal, do we find him guilty I’ll draw-and-quarter him in

the square! Take off the screws."

 

Within the hour the sentinel was haled before the court, followed by the

two artificers and several of the guard. All swore willingly against

Pedro,—too willingly, said Almagro, with vehemence; but for the cook the

affair looked grave.

 

He was left in prison, horribly sick from the ordeal, but determined not

to betray the man who had sent the file,—the rack, fire itself, could

not have forced it from him.

 

De Soto returned late in the afternoon. José sought him while he was

disarming, and shocked him with the news that Pedro had been tortured,

and was in danger of worse. The captain had taken off his helmet, but

he replaced it, buckled on his sword, and started toward the door. The

old Morisco halted him with a hand upon his arm.

 

"Hold, Soto!" he said. "What dost intend?"

 

"To have Pedro released. I promised to protect him, and by my soul, I

will do so! Pizarro hath gotten ahead of me, but he shall go no

farther, or I’ll—"

 

"Wait!" urged José, detaining him. "Be not rash, young man, or thou’lt

draw suspicion upon thyself. Hear me! I will claim the blame if need

be, and flee into the mountains. But first, do thou see Almagro. He

did not favor the torture, and together you may be able to prevent by

persuasion what thou canst easily precipitate by heat and defiance. If

you fail, then accuse me, who sent the file."

 

"No sooner thee than myself, who am equally involved, José!" responded

De Soto, stoutly. "I’ll make no accusation."

 

"Then see Almagro, and keep me informed."

 

"Very well. I will do so." De Soto hurried out. He found the bluff

Almagro a ready ally. Pedro had won his soldierly admiration, and he

swore that the cook was far too good a man to be sacrificed for a matter

largely personal with the commander. He went straightway with De Soto

to Pizarro.

 

The interview was prolonged. At times it grew stormy, even threatened

the division in the army which the general dreaded more than external

foes; but in the end he permitted the cook’s release on De Soto’s

responsibility, with the latter’s promise to produce him for trial when

called upon. Pedro was removed at once to De Soto’s quarters to be

nursed back to himself and guarded against Pizarro until, in the

preparations for the march to Cuzco, his suspected offence was

overlooked. But the General was fairly satisfied of the cook’s guilt,

and only the resolute and avowed interest of Almagro and De Soto

prevented summary vengeance. Pizarro raged under the necessity of

biding his time.

 

The day following Cristoval’s flight had passed without discovery of his

trail, though every soldier not on other duty joined the search,

stimulated by the offered reward. It was exhilarating sport, this

man-hunt with so much in store for the captor, and the zest was

heightened by bets whether he would be taken; if so, whether alive; or

whether he would be compelled by hunger or native hostility to

surrender. The sole trace of the escape was with the sentinel run

through by Cristoval’s sword. Brought in unconscious, he was still too

weak to impart such information as he might possess. Rain had

obliterated every footprint, and the flight was as clean as if made on

wings. The Ñusta Rava’s absence had not been discovered. The report

that a woman’s scream had been heard when the sentinel was assaulted

received no attention.

 

Early in the evening, however, it was recalled, and the excitement

freshened. Pizarro sat with Almagro, Riquelme, and others, receiving

officers as they straggled in from the day’s ineffectual hunt. Mendoza,

most indefatigable of all and last to give it up, had just been talking.

He was leaning against the table, weary, rain-soaked, mud-spattered from

head to foot, his corselet streaked with rust, and his face begrimed and

surly. He had just finished when the door flung open abruptly, and the

_veedor_, blowing as if from a run, his face purple and perspiring,

burst into the room. He halted, gasped, strove to speak, and choked,

stared wildly about, bolted to a chair, and sat down. Riquelme rose,

aghast at his colleague’s grotesque symptoms of distress.

 

"What the devil is the matter with the man?" he cried. "Holy Mother, he

hath a fit coming! Bleed him, somebody!"

 

Rogelio rolled his eyes at him and raised his hand, shaking his head in

violent negation. Twice he gasped again, then managed to pipe faintly,

"Oh—my stars!—the Ñusta!"

 

"The Ñusta!" repeated Riquelme. "Well, what of the Ñusta? Speak, thou

puffing symbol of calamities unknown! What of her?"

 

"Flown!" whispered the _veedor_, grasping the arms of his chair in the

effort to catch breath.

 

"What sayst thou? Hath flown!" shouted Mendoza, jerking him backward to

see his face. "The Ñusta hath flown! Whither? Whither, I say!" and

Mendoza shook out of him his little remaining breath.

 

"Come, Mendoza, unhand him," said Almagro. "Let him have his wind or

he’ll perish undelivered of his information."

 

Mendoza scowled about the room and dashed out, leaving Rogelio with his

eyes rolled to the rafters, swinging his head slowly from side to side

and waving his arms, apparently in the last stage of asphyxiation.

Pizarro ordered his secretary to investigate. Xerez soon returned with

confirmation. Shortly Mendoza strode in, his black looks leaving no

doubt. The Ñusta had vanished.

 

"Hath the garden been searched?" asked Pizarro.

 

"The guard hath hunted every nook of grounds and buildings," replied the