"A Work In Progress"
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Mescalaros' protesting—and more than a little petrified—prisoners were dragged, kicking and squirming, out into the middle of a little moonlit clearing, about a quarter of a mile from the Comanche camp.
Gage kept up his desperate struggle to pull free.
DeSoto stopped all motion and just stood there, pinned between his brawny captors, staring solemnly down at the sandy soil beneath his feet.
John noticed that his partner had ceased fighting. He stopped his thrashing, too and followed his frozen friend's solemn gaze to the ground. "What's the matter?" he breathlessly inquired. "You know…what they're…gonna do…to us?"
Roy nodded and didn't take his eyes off the sand for an instant. "They're...going to…stake us out," he softly answered, sounding equally winded.
Gage glanced anxiously around and then back at his partner. "A-and…?"
"They're just…going to…stake us out," Roy solemnly assured him.
"That's it?" John joyously exclaimed. "Man!…What a relief!…You wouldn't believe…some of the thi—"
"—on an anthill," Roy reluctantly added and finally raised his troubled gaze from the ground.
Their eyes met and the two friends exchanged looks of abject horror.
Gage gritted his teeth and started struggling harder than ever. "NO-O!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "YOU CAN'T…DO THIS…TO US!"
But the Mescalaro braves obviously didn't believe him, because they just went right on about their nasty business.
John watched helplessly, as eight 4' wooden stakes were driven 3' into the sandy soil of the clearing. Three ridiculously strong men gripped each of his arms, and the leather bonds on his wrists and elbows were cut.
The arm-grippers dragged him, kicking and thrashing, over to the center of four of those buried stakes.
John grunted in pain as he was thrown down onto the ground and then forced to lie—spread-eagled—on his back. He felt a wet, rawhide noose being slipped over each of his hands and feet. His arms and legs were stretched out, as far as they possibly could be, and yet still remain attached to his body. The captive emitted another involuntary groan as the wet rawhide straps were then pulled up—snugly—and securely fastened to those four buried stakes. Gage gasped in frustration, at his inability to do anything about it.
His sadistic captors finished with him and went over to give their companions a hand with his partner.
Speaking of his partner…
Roy saw John jerking on his bonds. "Relax," he numbly advised.
Gage noticed that DeSoto's voice sounded sort a' drained and hollow, like he'd already given up any hope of them surviving their ordeal. He did have to admit, their current situation did seem rather dire. 'No!' he told himself. 'As long as we're alive, there's hope!' "YOU CAN'T…DO THIS…TO US!" he angrily repeated, and kept right on jerking at his wet rawhide bonds.
The Mescalaro braves finished securing his buddy to the remaining buried stakes and then began taking their leave.
"WAIT!…COME BACK!…YOU CAN'T JUST…LEAVE US HERE…LIKE THIS!"
The departing braves disappeared into the shadows on the edge of the clearing.
Their shouting captive shut up and started squirming around, in an attempt to get comfortable. Gage gasped again, as he suddenly realized the futility of his efforts. There was no way he was ever going to 'get comfortable' while he was staked out on an anthill. So he gave up trying and resigned himself to the feeling of being terribly uncomfortable.
"Don't worry," his friend further advised. "They'll be back…around sunup…to watch."
"To watch…what?" John nervously inquired, and lay there, positively dreading Roy's reply.
"Never mind," Roy told him. "Look…just forget I said that."
But John couldn't forget. "To watch wha-at?" he anxiously repeated.
"Forget about it. Will yah?" his buddy requested. "And just try to relax. This wet rawhide is gonna start drying out. And, when it does, it's gonna start shrinking…and pull—" He cut himself short and attempted to shift the subject again. "It won't hurt so much, if you unten—" DeSoto determined that he should probably shut up—entirely.
Gage exhaled another exasperated gasp and then lay there, gazing glumly up at the moon. "This can't be happening! Nobody really does things like this to anybody!" His hands and feet were already starting to tingle.
Those four wet rawhide straps were acting as four tourniquets.
The four tourniquets were obstructing the arterial and venous blood supply to his tingling appendages. The infarction was causing cellular necrosis to occur.
'Lack of perfusion results in anoxia…which leads to the need for surgical amputation of the affected—' the paramedic paused, right in mid morbid thought.
No wonder his partner had already given up hope.
'Maybe the Colonel and the Major didn't leave us behind, after all? What if they stuck around to help us?'
They could sure use some help!
"HELP!" John shouted, into the cold night air. "SOMEBODY—ANYBODY—HELP US!…PLEA-EASE!"
"Save your breath," Roy gently urged.
John raised his head and aimed his anguished gaze in his staked out friend's direction. "I gotta do something! I can't just lie here…and do nothing!"
"Go on then. Shout until you can't shout anymore. That's what THEY want…for us to 'put on a good show' for them. Well…I'm not gonna give them the satisfaction."
John swallowed hard and let his head drop back. "I'm…sorry, Roy. I'm really really sorry…"
"So am I," Roy softly assured him. "Believe me, so am I…"
John spent the next two tortuous hours dreaming up some new lyrics for an old song…about marching ants.
He'd managed to remake it all the way up to the number nine. But, occasionally, he went back to the beginning, to keep what he'd already come up with from being forgotten.
'The ants go marching one by one…to breakfast today,' he began again. 'The ants go marching one by one…to breakfast today. The ants go marching one by one. They'll be here with the rising sun. And the ants go marching…round and round…and down in the ground…and out in the rain—' he halted in mid chorus. 'Man! And I thought the medical stuff was morbid!' He determined that his new lyrics were waaaaay too depressing.
With the ants out of the way, the first thing that entered his mind was pain—horrendous, excruciating pain, and it suddenly became clear why he had been concentrating so hard on the damn ants.
His tortured body felt like it was being torn in four different directions at once.
It was!
His hands and feet were swollen now, and had gone completely numb—a fact about which he had mixed emotions. While he was relieved that the horrific pain had subsided, he was also mortified, knowing that—if he survived the torture—they would undoubtedly need to be amputated.
'Uhg! Too morbid! Too morbid!' John shuddered and shoved the whole amputation business out of his mind, too. The very next thought he had, concerned his breathing. His inability to draw a deep breath had caused his respirations to become rapid and shallow—and labored. "It's…shrinking," he realized aloud. "And…I'm not…gonna…be able…to…stand this."
"Sure…you will," Roy assured him, sounding equally breathless. "When…the pain…becomes…unbearable…We'll…pass out."
John found very little comfort in his pal's prediction. "When…will that…be?" he breathlessly wondered. "Before…or after…I go…stark raving…mad?"
"Hopefully," his hurting friend told him, "before…the ants…get here."
John grimaced and groaned.
He'd forgotten about the damn ants.
TBC