The Night of the Mexican Revenge

Chapter 4

The Nightmare Begins

What is now proved was once only imagined.

(William Blake)

"Do not excite yourself, Mr Gordon," Senora Dolores Diaz said, "It is probably just a concussion."

"There's no such thing as 'just' a concussion," Artie raged at her. "If he's not dead now he soon could be. Let me look after him," he pleaded.

"Carlos will see to him, after he has tied your hands behind your back so that I can be sure that you will not cause any more trouble. That would be far too dangerous," she replied, "for us," she added, as he felt Carlos drag his hands behind his back and tie his wrists securely together. Carlos then pushed him into a chair at a table and Dolores began to question him.

"Why did you come back here?" she demanded. "Where is the sheriff? Is he hiding somewhere?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," Artie replied.

"What you mean is you won't tell me anything." She smiled. "It doesn't matter. If your sheriff turns up he will meet the same fate as you and Mr West. Meanwhile, we will make sure you cannot upset our plans."

"You have plans, do you? Thank you for that piece of information."

"It will do you no good because you will not leave here alive."

"Plenty of people have said that to me but here I am, alive and well," Artie said, stretching the truth a little, aware of the painful damage to his face.

"There's a first time for everything," she replied.

"Can I see my partner now?" Artie stood up, anxious to be reunited with West and to be able to see for himself that he was all right.

ooooooooooo0ooooooooooo

Artie realised that he had been wrong. There was a dark and dingy part of the basement, a room behind the stairs, into which he was ushered by Carlos Diaz. His heart missed a beat when he caught sight of West, seated on the floor, back against the stone wall, his hands restrained behind him and his ankles tied together. He was still unconscious, his head thrown back, revealing a face that looked drained and paper-white, while a rusty red trickle of blood had dried down one side of his head and neck.

Artie didn't have to be told to sit with his partner; he went forward with alacrity and sat down beside West, with an awkwardness caused by his hands being tied behind him.

"Jim, are you okay?" he couldn't help asking, even though he knew West couldn't hear him. "You're gonna be alright," he added, more to reassure himself than anything else.

Carlos tied Artie's ankles together and then left, with a promise he would bring them something to eat later. Artie had no idea when that would be and didn't really care. He wasn't hungry and Jim was in no condition to eat anything.

Taking into consideration his constraints, Artie did the best he could to try and take a closer look at Jim. He noticed that the bleeding from his forehead had stopped but Artie was worried that it was the lesser of his injuries and wished he was free to take a better look.

With nothing more he could do for the time-being, to help his partner, Artie decided to take a look around the room. There were no windows and the light came from a lamp standing on a table. The door appeared solid but the lock looked quite flimsy. He suspected that the room had been used in the past to store provisions over the winter. In the summer, which it was then, it was cooler than outside, and Artie hoped that Jim would be warm enough. His thoughts turning back to his friend, he spent the next twenty minutes or so trying to judge his condition. He was appalled when West started to tremble and then shiver uncontrollably, followed by sweating, alternating between the two states while Artie sat helpless beside him.

In desperation, Artie began to struggle with the bindings on his wrists to see if it was possible to wriggle free of them. He had been at it for about ten minutes, without success, when he heard a groan and realised that Jim was regaining consciousness.

"Jim," he said, "it's me, Artie. Talk to me Jim!"

Jim groaned again, his features screwed up in pain. Slowly he opened his eyes, wincing at the agony it caused him. They were glazed and still slightly feverish. "What happened?" he managed to mumble.

"You lost a fight with some stone steps."

"Is that all? It feels much worse." Jim turned and looked at his partner, his sweat-glistened face showing the pain of the effort it took. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked.

"Carlos slammed a door in my face. Thankfully my nose isn't broken, just swollen."

"You're going to be sporting two lovely black eyes by tomorrow," Jim said. He tried to smile but it ended in a wince. "Ow my head hurts and I feel terrible."

"I'm pretty sure you have a concussion."

"Great! That's just what I need. Do you have a plan to get us out of here?"

"I'm not sure you should be going anywhere. You're pretty sick."

"No choice," Jim pointed out. "If we stay here we're gonna die anyway,"

"True, but I don't have a plan anyway, do you?"

"No, I can't reach any of my equipment with my hands tied behind me," Jim complained.

There was silence for a while and Artie realised that Jim had either fallen asleep or passed out. He couldn't decide whether he should rouse him or not. At least the fever seemed to have died down. Jim was a tough character and in peak physical condition so he should be better than many another man in coping with injury. After a further twenty minutes Jim awoke groggily for the second time. "Sorry Artie," he said, "I could feel myself going but couldn't do anything about it."

"Don't worry. You obviously need the rest and I wish I could give you more time. I think I've come up with something, though. If you lean forward, I might be able to extract your knife, from the back of your jacket, with my teeth," Artie said, without much conviction.

"That could work," Jim said, clutching at straws. "You could drop it into my hands and I could cut through my ropes," he suggested.

"Alright, here we go," Artie said, getting ready to lean over in Jim's direction.

The first time Jim leaned forward and lowered his head he felt woozy, and had to lift his head up again.

"Wait a minute and take it more slowly next time," Artie advised.

Jim leaned back, head raised, trying to regain his equilibrium. About five minutes passed before he felt like making another attempt. Then he slowly lowered his head, breathing deeply as he did so. Artie lost no time in trying to extract the knife, realising that Jim couldn't hold his position for long. He ended up mauling the neck of the jacket quite badly with his mouth, before he could expose the handle of the blade and manage to grip it between his teeth. He delivered it, quite by accident, perfectly into Jim's hand.

"Great job Artie," he gasped, and closed his eyes to prepare himself before struggling to turn the blade so that it rested against the ropes around his wrists.

Artie could only guess at the amount of pain and discomfort all this was costing Jim.

After a couple of minutes Jim suddenly let out a howl.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I cut my hand with the knife," Jim admitted.

"Well, it was bound to happen one day," was Artie's unsympathetic reply. "Hey, you didn't drop it did you?"

"Don't worry about me being in pain, will you?"

"I'm trying not to but you're not making it easy by slicing yourself up."

"There, I'm through. Turn around and I'll cut you free."

Artie presented his back to Jim so that he could cut him free of the ropes, and then they both began to untie the bindings around their ankles. Jim made such a meal of it, because of the cut on his hand and his dizziness that Artie finally had to take over from him. Once they were both free and standing up, Artie saw Jim wobble and made him sit down again.

"You sit still while I take a look at that hand," Artie said. He knelt down and took Jim's hand in his.

"If anyone comes in now they'll think you're proposing to me," Jim joked.

"Hmm, all I'm proposing is that you let me bind this up; you need to keep that cut clean," Artie said. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the wound, making sure it was secure. "There you are," he said.

"Thanks Artie."

"Now let me take a look at your head."

"There's no need," Jim said, attempting to stand up again.

"You stay right where you are," Artie ordered, pushing him back down. He placed his hands on Jim's head and felt for the wound he expected to find. His fingers touched a large lump on the right side of his skull and Jim winced as he probed it. He went to fetch the lamp from the table and held it aloft so that he could take a better look.

"That's quite a crack you took to your head but, thankfully there's no break in the skin, and the swelling is hard, not soft."

"Great, now let's get out of here."

"Don't you dare get up again," Artie said. "I'll take care of the door."

"There's explosive in my left heel," Jim said.

Artie removed it and helped himself to a length of fuse as well. He took them over to the only entrance to the room, placed the explosive in the lock, and stuck the fuse in it. He looked over at his partner before striking the match. "Are you ready to run?" Artie asked.

"Yeah, go for it."

"I don't know why I bothered to ask; you're so foolhardy you'd say the same thing on your death bed."

"Artie, quit clucking like a mother hen, huh?"

"On your own head be it, if you'll excuse the pun."

"Artie!"

"Alright, alright," he replied, striking the match and lighting the end of the fuse.

"Hold on a minute!" Jim said.

"What?"

There was a small bang and the door swung open.

"I was going to say we should have waited until it was dark," Jim said in a loud whisper.

Artie peered through the open doorway. "There's no one around," he said. "Can you stand up?"

"Of course I can. I keep telling you."

"Yes, and I have to take your word for it," Artie replied, "because we have to go before they come back."

"Then why bother to ask?" Jim queried. He eased himself up off the floor, trying hard to disguise the pain and dizziness that assailed him. He must have done a good job because Artie just nodded and helped him out of the room.

ooooooooooo0ooooooooooo

Carlos and his mother were in a room at the other end of the basement, which had once been Charles Day's laboratory.

"We are very nearly ready, my darling," Dolores said.

"Good, I am keen to return home."

"We can't leave until we've dealt with the problem of Mr West and Mr Gordon," Dolores reminded him.

"Don't worry," Carlos replied," I have something in mind for them and it will also remove any evidence." He laughed.

"If only we had captured the sheriff as well," his mother said.

"Without evidence there is nothing he can do."

"I hope you are right."

"Anyway, we will be across the border and out of American jurisdiction," Carlos pointed out. "Why do you think the two federal agents returned?" he asked.

"They must have suspected I poisoned Liston."

"Why did you kill him?" Carlos had known, from childhood, whom his real father was so he felt nothing for his mother's husband.

"I couldn't risk him saying anything to make them doubt his guilt."

"He probably would have died in a few days anyway," Carlos pointed out.

"Well, it doesn't matter now. What's done is done. Do you think it's time you took our guests some food?"

"I will do it later. The younger one is probably still unconscious."

"Do as you wish. Now pass me that test tube, please. I have almost perfected the poison."

ooooooooooo0ooooooooooo