Altsheler Joseph Alexander
The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista

CHAPTER XVII
THE THREAD, THE KEY, AND THE DAGGER

When John Bedford rose the next morning he wasseveral years younger. He held himself erect,as became his youth, a little color had creptinto the pallid face, and his heart was still full of hope.He had seen the light that Catarina had promised.Surely the world was making a great change for him, andhe reasoned again that, his present state being so low, anypossible change must be for the better.

But the day passed and nothing happened. Diego, the slouching soldier, brought him his food, and, bearingin mind the vague words of Catarina, he noticed itcarefully while he ate. There was nothing unusual. It wasthe same at his supper. The rosy cloud in which hishopes swam faded somewhat, but he was still hopeful.No light had been promised for the second night, but hewatched for long hours, nevertheless, and he could notrestrain a sense of disappointment when he turned away.

A second day passed without event, and a third, andthen a fourth. John Bedford was overcome by a terribledepression. Catarina was old and foolish, or perhapsshe, too, had shown at last the cunning and trickery thathe began to ascribe to all these people. He would stayin that cell all his life, fairly buried alive. A fierce, unreasoning anger took hold of him. He would have flaredout at stolid Diego who brought the food, but he did notwant those heavy chains put back on his ankles. Hishead was now healed enough for the removal of thebandage, but a red streak would remain for some time underthe hair. Doubtless the hair had saved him from afracture of the skull. Every time he put his hand to thewound, which was often, his anger against de Armijorose. It was that cold, silent anger which is the mostterrible and lasting of all.

Although he was back in the depths, John felt thatthe brief spell of hope had been of help to him. Hiswound had healed more rapidly, and he was sure that hewas physically stronger. Yet the black depressionremained. It was even painful for him to look through theslit at his piece of the slope, which he sometimes calledhis mountain garden. He avoided it, as a place of hopethat had failed. On the sixth day, Diego brought himhis dinner a little after the dinner hour. He was sittingon the edge of his cot and he bit into a tamale. Histeeth encountered something tough and fibrous, and hewas about to throw it down in disgust. Then the wordsof Catarina, those words which he had begun to despise, came suddenly back to him. He put the tamale downand began to eat a tortilla, keeping his eye on Diego, whoslouched by the wall in the attitude of a Mexican of thelower classes, that lazy, dreaming attitude that they canmaintain, for hours.

Presently Diego glanced at the loophole, and in aninstant John whipped the tamale off the plate and thrust itunder the cover of the cot. Then he went on calmly withhis eating, and drank the usual amount of bad coffee.Diego, who had noticed nothing, took the empty tray andwent out, carefully locking the heavy door behind him.Then John Bedford did something that showed hiswonderful power of self-restraint. He did not rush to thebed, eager to read what the tamale might contain, butstrolled to the loophole and looked out for at least aquarter of an hour. He did not wish any trick to be playedupon him by a sudden return of Diego. Yet he wasquivering in every nerve with impatience.

When he felt that he was safe, he returned to the cotand took out the tamale. He carefully pulled it open, and in the middle he found the tough, fibrous substancethat his teeth had met. He had half expected a paper ofsome kind, rolled closely together, that the writing mightnot perish, and what he really did find caused adisappointment so keen that he uttered a low cry of pain.

He held it up in his hand. It was nothing more thana small package of thread, such as might have been putin a thimble. What could it mean? Of what possibleuse was a coil of fifty yards or so of thread that wouldnot sustain the weight of half a pound? Was he to escapethrough the loophole on that as a rope? He looked at theloophole four inches broad, and then at the tiny thread, and it seemed to him such a pitiful joke that he sat downon the cot and laughed, not at the joke itself, but at anyone who was foolish enough to perpetrate such a thing.

He tested the thread. It was stronger than he hadthought. Then he put it on his knee, took his head inhis two hands, and sat staring at the thread for a longtime, concentrating his thoughts and trying to evolvesomething from this riddle. It did mean something.No one would go to so much trouble to play a miserablejoke on a helpless captive like himself. Catarina certainlywould not do it, and she had given him the hint aboutthe food, a hint that had come true. He kept his mindupon the one point so steadily and with so much forcethat his brain grew hot, and the wound, so nearly cured, began to ache again. Yet he kept at it, studying outevery possible twist and turn of the riddle. At last hetested the thread again. It was undeniably strong, andthen he looked at the loophole. Only one guess savoredof possibility. He must hang the thread out of the loophole.

He ate the rest of the tamale, hid the little packageunder his clothing, and at night, after supper, when thedarkness was heavy, he threw the end of the threadthrough the long slot, a cast in which he did not succeeduntil about the twelfth attempt. Then he let the threaddrop down. He knew about how many feet it was to thepavement below, and he let out enough with three or fouryards for good count. Then he found that he had severalyards left, which he tied around one of the iron bars atthe edge of the loophole. It was a black thread, and, although some one might see it by daylight, there was notone chance in a thousand that any one would see it atnight.

"Fishing," he said to himself, as he lay down on hiscot, intending to sleep awhile, but to draw in the threadbefore the day came. It might be an idle guess, he couldnot even know that the thread was not clinging to thestone wall, instead of reaching the ground, but there wasrelief in action, in trying something. He fell asleepfinally, and when he awoke he sprang in an instant to thefloor. The fear came with his waking senses that hemight have slept too long, and that it was broaddaylight. The fear was false. It was still night, with onlythe moon shining at the loophole. But he judged thatmost of the night had passed, and his impatience told himthat if anything was going to happen it had happenedalready. He went to the window. His thread was there, tied to the bar and, like a fisherman, he began to pull itin. He felt this simile himself. "Drawing in the line,"he murmured. "Now I wonder if I have got a bite."

Although he spoke lightly to himself, as if a calmman would soothe an excitable one, he felt the cold chillthat runs down one's spine in moments of intenseexcitement. The moonlight was good, and he watched theblack thread come in, inch by inch, while the hand thatdrew it trembled. But he soon saw that there was noweight at the other end, and down his heart went againinto the blackest depths of black despair. Nevertheless,he continued to pull on the thread, and, as it emergedfrom the darkness into the far end of the loophole, hethought he saw something tied on the end, althoughhe was not sure, it looked so small and dim. Here hepaused and leaned against the wall, because he suddenlyfelt weak in both mind and body. These alternationsbetween hope and despair were shattering to one who hadbeen confined so long between four walls. The verystrength of his desire for it might make him seesomething at the end of the thread when nothing was reallythere.

He recovered himself and pulled in the thread, andnow hope surged up in a full tide. Something was onthe end of the thread. It was a little piece of paper notmore than an inch long, rolled closely and tied tightlyaround the center with the thread. He drew up his stooland sat down on it by the loophole, where the moonlightfell. Then he carefully picked loose the knot andunrolled the paper. The light was good enough, and heread these amazing words:

 
"Don't give up hope.
Your brother is here.
He received your letter.
Put out the thread
Again to-morrow night.
Read and destroy this."
 

John leaned against the wall. His surprise and joywere so great that he was overpowered. He realized nowthat his hope had merely been a forlorn one, an effort ofthe will against spontaneous despair. And yet themiracle had been wrought. His letter, in some mysteriousmanner, had got through to Phil, and Phil had come.He must have friends, too, because the letter had not beenwritten by Phil. It was in a strange handwriting. Butthis could be no joke of fate. It was too powerful, tooconvincing. Everything fitted too well together. It musthave started somehow with Catarina, because all herpresages had come true. She was the cook, she had put thethread in the tamale. How had the others reached her?

But it was true. His letter had gone through, and thebrave young boy whom he had left behind had come. Hewas somewhere about the Castle of Montevideo, and sincesuch wonders had been achieved already, others could bedone. From that moment John Bedford never despaired.After reading the letter many times, he tore it intominute fragments, and, lest they should be seen below andcreate suspicion, he ate them all and with a goodappetite. Then he rolled up the thread, put it next to hisbody, and, for the first time in many nights, slept sosoundly that he did not awake until Diego brought himhis breakfast. Then he ate with a remarkable appetite, and after Diego had gone he began to walk up and downthe cell with vigorous steps. He also did many otherthings which an observer, had one been possible, wouldhave thought strange.

John not only walked back and forth in his cell, buthe went through as many exercises as his lack ofgymnastic equipment permitted, and he continued his work atleast an hour. He wished to get back his strength asmuch as possible for some great test that he felt sure wascoming. If he were to escape with the help of Phil andunknown others, he must be strong and active. Aweakling would have a poor chance, no matter how numeroushis friends. He had maintained this form of exercise fora long period after his imprisonment, but lately he hadbecome so much depressed that he had discontinued it.

He felt so good that he chaffed Diego when he cameback with his food at dinner and supper. Diego hadlong been a source of wonder to John. It was evidentthat he breathed and walked, because John had seen himdo both, and he could speak, because at rare intervalsJohn had heard him utter a word or two, but this powerof speech seemed to be merely spasmodic. Now, whileJohn bantered him, he was as stolid as any woodenimage of Aztecs or Toltecs, although John spoke in Spanish, which, bad as it was, Diego could understand.

He devoted the last hours of the afternoon to watchinghis distant garden. It had always been a pleasantlandscape to him, but now it was friendlier than ever.That was a fine cactus, and it was a noble forest of dwarfpine or cedar-he wished he did know which. An hourafter the dark had fully come he let the thread out again.

"This beats any other fishing I ever did," he murmured."Well, it ought to. It's fishing for one's life."

He was calmer than on the night before, and fellasleep earlier, but he had fixed his mind so resolutely ona waking time at least an hour before daylight that heawoke almost at the appointed minute. Then he tiptoedacross the cold floor to the thread. Nobody could haveheard him through those solid walls, but the desire forsecrecy was so strong that he unconsciously tiptoed, nevertheless. He pulled the thread, and he felt at oncethat something heavy had been fastened to the other end.Then he pulled more slowly. The thread was veryslender, and the weight seemed great for so slight a line. Ifit were to break, the tragedy would be genuinely terrible.He had heard of the sword suspended by a single hair, and it seemed to him that he was in some such case.But the thread was stronger than John realized-it hadbeen chosen so on purpose-and it did not break.

As the far end of the thread approached the loophole,he was conscious of a slight metallic ring against thestone wall. His interest grew in intensity. Phil andthese unknown friends of his were sending him somethingmore than a note. He pulled with exceeding slownessand care now, lest the metallic object hook against thefar edge of the loophole. But it came in safely, slidacross the stone, and reached his hand. It was a largeiron key, with a small piece of paper tied around it. Hetore off the paper, and read, in a handwriting the same asthat on the first one:

"This is the key to your cell, No. 37, but do not useit. Do not even put it in the lock until the fourth nightfrom to-night. Then at midnight, as nearly as you canjudge, unlock and go out. Let out the thread for the lasttime to-morrow night."

John looked at the key and glanced longingly at thelock. He had no doubt that it would fit. But he obeyedorders and did not try it. Instead he thrust it into theold ragged mattress of his cot. He resumed his physicalexercises the next day, giving an hour to them in themorning and another hour in the afternoon. They helped, but the breath of hope was doing more for him, bothmind and body, than anything else. He felt so strongand active that he did not chaff Diego any more lest theMexican, stolid and wooden though he was, might suspectsomething.

He let out the thread according to orders, and, at theusual time, drew in a dagger, slender and very light, butlong and keen as a razor. He read readily the purpose ofthis. There would be much danger when he opened thedoor to go out, and he must have a weapon. He ran hisfinger along the keen edge and saw that it would be trulyformidable at close quarters. Then he hid it in hismattress with the key, wound up the thread, and put it inthe same place. All had now come to pass as promised, and he felt that the remainder would depend greatly uponhimself. So he settled down as best he could to threedays and nights of almost intolerable waiting. Dull andheavy as the time was, and surely every second was aminute, many fears also came with it. They might takeit into their heads to change that ragged old mattress ofhis, and then the knife, the thread, and the key would befound. He would dismiss such apprehensions with thepower of reason, but the power of fear would bring themback again. Too much now depended upon his freedomfrom examination and search to allow of a calm mind.

Yet time passed, no matter how slow, and he washelped greatly by his physical exercises, which gave himoccupation, besides preparing him for an expected ordeal.Hope, too, was doing its great work. He could fairly feelthe strength flowing back into his veins, and his nervesbecoming tougher and more supple. Every night helooked out at the mountain slope and itemized his littlegarden there that he had never touched, shrub by shrub, stone by stone, not forgetting the great cactus. He toldhimself that he did not expect to see any light there again, because the unknown sender of messages had not spokenof another, but, deep down at the bottom of his heart, hewas hoping to behold the torch once more, and he feltdisappointment when it did not appear.

He tried to imagine how Phil looked. He knew thathe must be a great, strong boy, as big as a man. Heknew that his spirit was bold and enterprising, yet hemust have had uncommon skill and fortune to havepenetrated so deep into Mexico, and to preserve a hiding-placeso near to the great Castle of Montevideo. And thefriends with him must be molded of the finest steel.Who were they? He recalled daring and adventurousspirits among his own comrades in the fatal expedition, but as he ran over every one in his mind he shook hishead. It could not be.

It is the truth that, during all this period, inflictingsuch a tremendous strain upon the captive, John neveronce tried the key in the door. It was the supreme testof his character, of his restraint, of his power of will, and he passed it successfully. The thread, the dagger, and the key lay together untouched in the bottom of theold mattress, and he waited in all the outward seeming ofpatience.

The first night was very clear, on the second it rainedfor six or seven hours. The entire mountainside wasveiled in sheets of water or vapor, and John saw nothingbeyond his window but the black blur. The third nightwas clear, but when the morning of the fourth daydawned, John thought, from the clouds that were floatingalong the mountain slope, it would be rainy again. Hehoped that the promise would come true. Darkness andrain favor an escaping prisoner.

The last day was the most terrible of all. Now andthen he found his heart pounding as if it would rack itselfto pieces. It was difficult to go through with the exercises, and it was still more difficult to preserve calmness ofmanner in the presence of Diego. Yet he did both.Moreover, his natural steadiness seemed to come back tohim as the hour drew near. His was one of those rareand fortunate natures which may be nervous andapprehensive some time before the event, but which becomehard and firm when it is at hand. Now John foundhimself singularly calm. The eternity of waiting had passed, and he was strong and ready.

Diego brought him his supper early, and then, through his loophole, he watched the twilight deepen intothe night. And with the night came the rain that themorning and afternoon clouds had predicted. It was acold rain, driven by a wind that shrieked down thevalley, and drops of it, hurled like shot the full width of theslit, struck John in the face. But he liked the cool sharptouch, and he felt sure that the rain would continue allthrough the night. So much the better.

John's clothing was old and ragged, and he wore apair of heelless Mexican shoes. He had no hat or cap.But a prisoner of three lonely years seeking to escape wasnot likely to think of such things.

He waited patiently through these last hours. Hewas compelled to judge for himself when midnight hadcome, but he believed that he had made a closecalculation. Then he took a final look through the loophole.The wind, with a mighty groaning and shrieking, wasstill driving the rain down the slopes, and nothing wasvisible. Then, with a firm hand, he took from the bedthe thread, the knife, and the key. It was not likelythat he would have any further use for the thread, but forthe sake of precaution he put it in his pocket. He alsoslipped the dagger into the back of his coat at the neck, after a southwestern fashion which allowed a man todraw and strike with a single motion.

Then, key in hand, he boldly approached the door.Some throbbings of doubt appeared, but he sternlyrepressed them. Giving himself no time for hesitation, heput the key in the lock and turned his hand toward theright. The key, without any creaking or scraping, turned with it. His heart gave a great leap. He didnot know until now that he had really doubted. His joyat the fact showed it. But the miracles were comingtrue, one after another.

He turned the key around the proper distance, and heheard the heavy bolt slide back. He knew that he wouldhave nothing to do now but pull on the door, yet hepaused a few moments as one lingers over a great pleasure,in order to make it greater. He pulled, and the doorcame back with the same familiar slight creak that hehad heard it make so often when Diego entered or left.With an involuntary gesture of one hand, he badefarewell to his cell and stepped into the long, dark corridorupon which the row of cells opened. But for the sake ofprecaution he locked the cell door again and put the keyin his pocket.

Then he drew the slender dagger, clutched it firmly inhis right hand, and stepped softly back against the wall, which was in heavy shadow, no light entering it from thenarrow barred window at either end. John's heart beatpainfully, but he did not believe that the miracles whichwere being done in his behalf had yet ended. With hisback still toward the wall, and his hand on the hilt of thedagger, he slipped soundlessly along for a few feet. Hiseyes, growing used to the darkness, made out the posts atthe head of a stairway.

Evidently this was the way he should go, and hepaused again. Then his blood slowly chilled withinhim. A human figure was standing beside one of theposts. He saw it distinctly. It was the figure of a tallman in a long black serape, with a dark handkerchieftied around mouth and chin after the frequent Mexicanfashion, and a great sombrero which nearly met thehandkerchief. He could see nothing but the narroweststrip of dark face, and in the dusk the man rose to thesize of a giant. He was truly a formidable figure to onewho had been three years a captive, to one who wasarmed only with a slender knife.

But the crisis in John Bedford's life was so great thathe advanced straight toward the ominous presence in hispath. The man said nothing, but John felt as heapproached that the stranger was regarding him steadily.Moreover, he made no motion to draw a weapon. Johnsaw now that one of his hands rested on the post at thestairhead, and the other hung straight down by his side.Surely this was not the attitude of a foe! Perhaps herewas merely another in the chain of miracles that hadbegun to work in his behalf. He advanced a step or twonearer, and the stranger was yet motionless. Anotherstep, and the man spoke in a sharp whisper:

"I am," replied John.

"I've been waiting for you. Come. But first take this."

He drew a double-barreled pistol from his pocket andhanded it to John, who did as he was told. The strangerthen produced from under his capacious serape anotherserape and a Mexican hat, which John, acting under hisinstructions, also put on.

"Now," said the man, "follow me, and do what I door what I tell you.

 
"It is the midnight hour,
They wait us at the gate.
May Heaven its favors pour,
Then easy is our fate.
 

You seem to be a brave fellow like your brother; thennow is the time to show your courage, and remember, also, that I can do all the talking for both of us.Talking is my great specialty."

It seemed to John that the stranger spoke in an oddmanner, but he liked the sound of his voice, which wasat once strong and kind. Why should he not like a manwho had come through every imaginable danger to savehim from a living death!

"My brother?" whispered John in his eagerness."Is he still near?"

"I told you I was to do all the talking," replied theman. "You just follow and step as lightly as you can."

John obeyed, and, after a descent of a few steps, theycame to one of the heavy wooden doors, twelve feet high, but the stranger unlocked it with a key taken from thefolds of that invaluable Mexican garment, the serape.

"You didn't think I'd come on such a trip as thiswithout making full preparations?" said the man with aslight humorous inflection. Then he added: "You'rejust a plain, common Mexican, some servant or other, employed about the castle, and you continue to slouchalong behind me, who may be an officer for all one knowsin this darkness. But first push with me on this door.Push hard and push slowly."

The heavy door moved back a foot or two, but thatwas all the stranger wanted. He slipped through theopening, and John came after him. Then the man closedand locked the door again.

"A wise burglar leaves no trail behind him," he said,"and, although it is too dark for me to see you very well,I want to tell you, Sir John of the Cell, that your figureand walk remind me a great deal of your brother, SirPhilip of the Mountain, the River, and the Plain, asgallant a lad as one may meet in many a long day."

A question, a half dozen of them leaped to John'slips, but, remembering his orders, he checked them allthere.

"Ah, I see," said the stranger. "That would certainlytempt any man to ask questions, but, rememberingwhat I told you, you did not ask them. You are ofthe true metal.

 
"Though in prison he lay,
His spirit was strong,
He sought a better day,
And now it's come along.
 

At least it's a better night, which, for the uses ofpoetry, is the same as day. This stairway, John, leadsinto the great inner court, and then our troubles begin, although we ought to return thanks all the rest of ourdays for the rain and the heavy darkness. The Mexicanofficers will see no reason why they shouldn't remainunder shelter, and the Mexican soldiers, in this case, willbe glad enough to do as their officers do."

John now followed his guide with absolute faith. Theman spoke more queerly than anybody else that he hadever heard, but everything that he did or said inspiredconfidence.

They came to the bottom of the stairway and reachedthe great paved central court, with the buildings of theofficers scattered here and there. They stepped into thecourt, and John fairly shrank within himself when thecold rain lashed into his face. He did not know untilthen how three years within massive walls had softenedand weakened him. But he held himself erect andtautened his nerves, resolved that his comrade should notsee that he had shivered.

They saw lights shining from the windows of some ofthe low buildings, but no human being was visible withinthe square.

"They've all sought cover," said his rescuer, "andnow is our best chance to get through one of the gates.After that there are other walls and ditches to be passed, but, Sir John of the Night, the Wall, the Rain, and theMoat, we'll pass them. This little plan of ours has beentoo well laid to go astray. Just the same, you keep thatpistol handy."

John drew the serape about his thin body. It wasuseful for other things than disguise. Without it thecold would have struck him to the bone. His rescuerled the way across the court until they came to one of thegreat gates in the wall. The sentinel then was pacingback and forth, his musket on his shoulder, and atintervals he called: "Sentinela alerte!" that his comrades atother gates might hear, and out of the wind and raincame at intervals, though faintly, the responding cry,"Sentinela alerte!" John and the stranger were almostupon this man when the cry "Sentinela alerte!" camefrom the next gate. He turned quickly as the two darkfigures emerged from the darker gloom, but the stranger, with extraordinary dexterity, threw his serape over hisface, checking any cry, while his powerful hands chokedhim into insensibility. At the same time the strangeruttered the answering cry, "Sentinela alerte!"

"You haven't killed him?" exclaimed John, aghast,as his rescuer let the Mexican slide to the wet earth.

"Not at all," replied this resourceful man. "Thecold rain will bring him back to his senses in fiveminutes and in ten minutes he will be as well as ever, but in ten minutes we should play our hand, if we everplay it."

He drew an enormous key from the pocket of theMexican, unlocked the gate, and, after they had passedout, locked it behind them. Then they stood on the edgeof the great moat, two hundred feet wide, twenty feetdeep and bank full. The man dropped the key into thewater.

"Now, Sir John of the Escape," he said, "the drawbridgeis up, and if it were down it would be too wellguarded for us to pass. We must swim. I don't knowhow strong you are after a long life in prison, but swimyou must. Life is dear, and I think you'll swim. We'lltake off most of our clothes and tie them with our weaponson our heads. What a wild night! But how good it isfor us!"

Crouching in the shadow of the wall they took offmost of their clothes, and then each tied them in apackage containing his weapons, also, on his head. Theywere secured with strips torn from John's rags.Meanwhile, the night was increasing in wildness. John wouldhave viewed it with awe, had not his escape absorbedevery thought. The wind groaned through the gorges ofthe great Sierra, and the cold rain lashed like a whip.The rumblings of thunder came from far and deepvalleys between the ridges.

"Now," said the man, "we'll drop into the moattogether. But let yourself down by your hands as gentlyas you can, and make no splash when you strike. Now, over we go!"

The two dropped into the water, taking care not to gounder, and then began to swim toward the far edge of themoat. John had been a good swimmer, but the waterwas very cold to his thin body. Nevertheless, he swamwith a fairly steady stroke, until they were abouthalf-way across, when he felt cramps creeping over him. Butthe stranger, who kept close by his side, had beenwatching, and he put one hand under John's body. In waterthe light support became a strong one, and now Johnswam easily.

They reached the far edge and climbed up on the wall.Here John lay a little while, gasping, while the stranger, who now seemed a very god to him, rubbed his cold bodyto bring back the warmth. From a point down the bankcame the cry "Sentinela alerte!" and from a point in theother direction came the answering cry, "Sentinelaalerte!"

"Lie flat," whispered his rescuer to John, "and we'llwriggle across fifty feet of ground here until we come to awooden wall. We're lost if we stand up, because I thinklightning is coming with that thunder."

He spoke with knowledge, as the thunder suddenlygrew louder and the air around them was tinted withphosphorescent light. It was not a flare of lightning, merely its distant reflection, but it was enough to havedisclosed them, if they had been standing, to any one tenpaces distant. The danger itself gave them new strength, and they quickly crossed the ground to the chevaux defrise, where they crouched against the tall cedar posts.They lay almost flat upon the ground, and they were veryglad of the shelter, because the lightning was comingnearer. Now, when the lightning flashed along themountain slopes, they saw not far away the dim figure ofa soldier, and they heard distinctly his cry: "Sentinelaalerte!"

"Wait until he goes back," whispered the stranger."Then we must climb the wall and climb it quickly.It's fastened with cross timbers which will give us holdfor both hand and foot."