There wasn’t much moon. What there was was partially obscured by drifting clouds. It was past midnight. Only a pale light filtered down on the great stone slabs that flanked the roadway leading to the Temple of the Plumed Serpent. The doorway of the temple stood black and forbidding. In the brush along the roadway only insects of the night made the faintest sounds. The place seemed deserted.
And then from the brushy ridge north of the temple two forms in white cotton garments appeared. Three more appeared. Then another and another. More followed, all walking silently in the direction of the temple. Occasionally one would break into a high-pitched chant. Two or three more would join in the weird sounds, then the song would die away and there ’d be silence again. The road was filling rapidly with white-clothed forms now. All wore six-shooters at their waists; some carried Winchester repeaters.
More and more appeared until the whole roadway leading to the temple was filled from side to side with a vast undulating sea of straw sombreros. Now lights appeared in the temple as the first to arrive filed inside. The roadway was a packed mass of jostling Yaquentes, many of them swaying unsteadily as they progressed toward the Temple of the Plumed Serpent from which now came the muffled, steady beating of drums. The Yaquentes quickened step to crowd through the temple doorway.
From the thick brush at one side of the roadway emerged three forms clad like the Yaquentes. They mingled quickly with the moving throng without being noticed. In that faint light there was little to distinguish the three from genuine Yaquentes. One of them even took up a few notes of the high-pitched, weird chant. Indians near the singer joined in the haunted, uncanny song which suddenly died away as abruptly as it had been started. The white-clothed pro cession moved nearer the temple doorway.
Lance was wondering now as, accompanied by Lanky and Oscar, he pushed along with the Yaquentes if any sort of password would be necessary to gain entrance to the ceremonies. If so they’d have to do some fast thinking—and perhaps shooting. He felt a trifle more assured at thought of the six-shooter at his waist. He pulled the big straw sombrero lower on his face and noticed Oscar was acting likewise.
There was a momentary pause at the entrance, the crush increased, then Lance and his companions were inside the temple. The place was filling fast. Lanky took Lance’s arm and led him and Oscar to a position at one side within easy reach of the doorway. “Just in case we have to try for a quick getaway,” Lanky whispered. His voice sounded shaky.
At the opposite far end of the big chamber pine torches burned in the stifling air, casting a flickering, unreal light over the bloodstained altar and throwing into hazy relief the faded frescoes on the walls. The temple was filling rapidly with humanity. A strong sweaty odor filled the big room. Lance and his pardners stood in the shadow of one of the great stone pillars. All around was a milling mass of Yaquentes, every eye intent on the altar beneath the flaring torches. Lance glanced at the Yaquente who stood nearest him. The man was muttering rather crazily to himself. His eyes had a strange gleam in them. He looked to be either drunk or under the influence of some powerful narcotic. Now Lance noticed other Indians with the same expression on their faces. Lanky whispered to Lance, “Most of this gang are hopped up on mezcal buttons. That’s lucky for us; they ain’t so li’ble to notice anything out of the way.”
The drums near the altar throbbed continually. They weren’t loud at first, but their steady insistent beat seemed to permeate Lance’s blood and pulse through his whole body. The tempo lifted gradually, growing faster and faster. A harsh, dry, rattling sound augmented the accelerated rhythm now. Lance understood when he saw two Yaquentes manipulating gourd rattles.
The drums came louder now and still louder, the sounds beating with monotonous intensity against Lance’s ears. Suddenly a pair of Yaquentes leaped to the center of the stone floor before the altar and, side by side, commenced a queer shuffling dance. Round and round they went, incorporating at regular intervals a jerky hippety-hop step. Other Indians joined in until a large circle of shuffling, hopping Yaquentes was revolving before the altar, keeping time to the beaten drums: shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, hippety-hop, shuffle, shuffle, hop, shuffle…. Their arms flopped loosely at their sides as though strung on wire. They threw their heads high, emitting a few notes of the weird chant they’d sung along the roadway, then dropped them again.
Round and round they went. The drums beat faster and faster. Here and there a Yaquente dropped out of the dance. Others leaped quickly in to take their places. The flaring torches cast gigantic moving shadows on the walls. By this time the whole chamber seemed to reverberate with the insidious throbbing of the Yaquente drums. Even Lance felt his blood moving faster and faster. He glanced at Lanky. The man’s forehead was dotted with tiny beads of perspiration. His swarthy features had a strained look. For a moment Lance half expected him to leap in and take a part with the revolving, shuffling dancers. The strong odor of human bodies increased in the heavy atmosphere. Occasionally now a wild yell left the throat of one of the Indians. They were fast working themselves up to fever pitch.
Oscar said suddenly in a lowered tone, “Cripes! Look at that.”
A tall figure in a long robe of feathers had passed just a few feet away. On his head was a sort of helmet-shaped crown decorated with more feathers, both black and white. He had entered from the back and was making his way toward the altar. Accompanying him was a smaller man in the customary cotton clothing and straw sombrero.
“There’s your big white chief,” Lanky whispered to Lance.
As the man in the feathered robe neared the altar the dance stopped. The drums faded away to a dim monotonous beat that could be barely heard. Gradually the Yaquentes fell silent before the spell of the newcomer. They eyed him with something of awe in their gazes and watched closely while he leaped lightly to the altar stone and stretched forth both arms.
Lance looked narrowly at the man. Something familiar about him all right, though it was impossible to make out his features. His face was entirely framed, saving the eyes and nose, with a circle of buzzard feathers. His crown was trimmed with more feathers, one of which, standing erect in front, was dyed a brilliant crimson. He threw back the robe to display a magnificently muscled torso bare to the waist. A sort of half-skirt of white ea gle feathers hung to his knees. On each sinewy arm was a wide silver armlet. Again Lance was reminded of the armlet Katherine’s father had sent her.
A great cry arose from the assembled Yaquentes: “Quetzalcoatl-l-l!”
The man with the helmet spoke three brief words. Instantly the Yaquentes fell silent. Lance hadn’t understood the words but he recognized the intonations.
“By God,” he whispered to Oscar; “that’s Fletcher.”
Oscar nodded, eyes glued to the scene under the flaring torches. He spoke softly from one corner of his mouth. “Even with that befeathered derby hat on and that bunch around his face I figured the same way.”
Lance moved a step nearer and spoke to Lanky. “Remember that hombre’s face, Lanky?”
Lanky’s reply just reached Lance’s ear. “It’s that Fletcher feller, ain’t it?”
There was some commotion around the altar now. A pine box had been brought out to Fletcher. Fletcher threw back the cover and thrust one arm inside the box. When his hand emerged it was clutching the writhing coils of a diamondback rattlesnake. Lance’s eyes widened. A ridge of feathers seemed to be growing from the reptile’s backbone.
The Yaquentes near the front fell back. A deathly silence fell over the big chamber. Now the dry rattling of the snake’s rapidly buzzing tail could be heard in the sudden quiet. Its heavy, sinuous body flowed up Fletcher’s right arm and around over his shoulders. Fletcher seized it to prevent escape. The rattler made no attempt to strike. The drums commenced a soft throbbing.
Even while the snake was still moving Fletcher commenced to speak in what Lance judged was the Yaquente tongue. The words came in slow, halting fashion, and there seemed to be a great deal of repetition in the delivery. Sudden wild yells shook the chamber. The drums increased their tempo and again died away.
Lanky whispered to Lance, “He don’t know much Yaquente. He’s repeating the same thing over and over again. It’s a war talk. If the Yaquentes follow him, Fletcher is saying, they’ll win a big victory. That’s about all there is to his speech.”
Now the smaller Indian who had accompanied Fletcher into the temple commenced to interpret. Fletcher would say something to him; the interpreter would turn and harangue the assembled Yaquentes at great length, stopping every so often to receive fresh instructions from Fletcher. Suddenly there came a change in the interpreter’s manner. He appeared to be explaining something.
A sudden muttering arose among the Yaquentes. Apparently they didn’t like what was being said. The interpreter consulted Fletcher. Fletcher talked steadily for nearly a minute. The interpreter repeated the words. Lance glanced around. He could see scowling faces on every side. Lanky nudged Lance. “I know that interpreter by sight,” he whispered. “He used to hang around Pozo Verde. He’s only half Yaquente—other half is ’Pache.”
The interpreter was talking again. Two of the Yaquentes in the audience stepped forward and spat a flow of deep gutturals. Lance suddenly recognized one of the Yaquentes as Horatio. Apparently some sort of argument was taking place, and Horatio was voicing a vehement protest. The chamber seethed with resentful mutterings now. The interpreter and Fletcher held a quick discussion, then the interpreter turned and harangued the Indians some more. Some of the resentment died away, though the Yaquentes were surrendering reluctantly to whatever offer Fletcher was making.
Lance felt Lanky’s hand on his arm. Lanky was drawing him toward the doorway. Lance said, “Let’s wait a minute more.”
“We better go now while we got a chance,” Lanky whispered in Lance’s ear. “Pass the word to Oscar. Those Injuns all got their eyes to the front. Now’s the time to light a shuck outa here.”
Lance nodded. The three commenced to edge back toward the doorway. Yaquentes were all around them, but so intent were the Indians on the scene at the altar that they didn’t notice Lance and his companions gradually moving away. The distance to the outside wasn’t more than ten or twelve feet, but to Lance it seemed they’d never make it. Inch by inch they moved back. At the altar the interpreter was finding new floods of oratory for which Lance and his companions were duly thankful.
Finally, one by one, they slipped around the edge of the entranceway and instantly melted into the thick brush at the side of the road without their exit being noticed. Lanky dropped limply down onto the earth, screened by a thick shelter of mesquite brush. “Mister, I’m plumb thankful that’s over! Them damn drums were getting me down. Just about one bite on a mezcal button and I’d have sloughed off seven eighths white man. I’m glad we’re shet of that snake temple. I don’t want no more!”
Now that they were outside, breathing the clean night air, Lance and Oscar were commencing to feel the same way.