The captain stood on top of the wooded hill, studying with much concern the face of the sky. Before dawn he must make the attack—go through the pass to surprise the enemy troops. This was a maneuver requiring only about a dozen men. One by one he was thinking of the names of those men he was sure he could count on. His heart sank within him. Oh, if only he had those men who had once fought with him through these jungles, if only they could have been with him now for this greatest time of testing for his company! Sadly, he turned back, his gray head bowed, his face lined with concern. He returned slowly to the place where he had left the few untried soldiers who remained with him, cut off from supplies, and cut off from all contact with army headquarters.
All that remained were twelve inexperienced men, sufficient ammunition for the job, and each had his rifle—that was all. As he came close to the spot where the men had stopped to rest and build a campfire, he felt a premonition. Then he came closer and discovered that the worst of his fears were justified.
The men had deserted.
Something must have happened to scare them off because they had not even taken their arms. There were the rifles stacked. There was the ammunition. There were the smoldering ashes of the campfire. A look of disgust spread across his face. Soldiers? No, they were not soldiers—they were cowards. Now he was alone. There remained that last charge to be made. A surprise attack on the enemy stronghold could succeed and with just a few men. There would be reinforcements then, but everything depended on him, and now he was alone!
The captain looked out over the valley. There he could see the stalwart Indians trudging homeward through the evening twilight to their pueblo, a typical village of the Andes. These were stalwart, strong, silent men. He turned back, studied again the gray ashes and the wisp of smoke rising from what once had been a campfire.
The setting sun stretched long, crimson figures all across the sky and disappeared into the distant blue waters of the Pacific. Laborers from the dry, parched fields walked slowly home to the Indian village. There was a restlessness among the people—deep concern because there had been no rain. There was apprehension and fear among the people. Enemy forays were raiding villages in all that part of the country. But word of hope had come. It was rumored that El Capitan, a strong champion of the people, hovered near with a band of picked soldiers. He was the great hope and legend of the people. Robbers had molested one village for years until one dark night when El Capitan had appeared as from nowhere with a tiny band of men. From that night on the village had enjoyed peace and quiet.
Kidnappers had carried off the little daughter of the chief of another pueblo and had thrown all the people into consternation. Then one night El Capitan had ridden through the village at midnight and the child was back with her parents telling of an incoherent tale of incredible bravery on the part of her rescuers. The kidnappers had never returned.
A fierce mountain lion had long raided the flocks of another mountain village. El Capitan had passed through, and the great, tawny beast was found next morning—slain in the plaza of the village.
Such was the power and valor of El Capitan, but now his legendary form had not been seen for many days. The soldiers that marched with him, who so often had turned back the bandits, seemed to have lost their power.
Two old men were among those who left their fields that restless night at the hour of sunset and started back to the village. The walked more slowly and had farther to go than the rest and so were separated from the crowd. Suddenly they saw a masked form dressed in a dark robe, coming down from the mountain. He approached them.
“I come in peace,” rumbled the dark-robed one.
“Who are you?” quavered the fear-stricken old men.
“It is El Capitan,” came the deep-voiced reply. The two hurried toward him. Night fell. The elders of the village sent the word around for all to meet in the plaza. The men and women of the village gathered. Suddenly a mysterious form appeared among them. He was dressed in a dark cloak, on his head the traditional witch doctor’s headpiece with the horns of a bull. Speaking in a strange, sonorous tone, he addressed the people.
“Men of the village, today is a day of great danger. The enemy comes through the shadows, the drought is attacking our fields. The god of the village requires a sacrifice.”
There was silence. Two more dark-robed figures appeared and stretched a great veil between two trees. Standing before the great veil, the tall one continued to speak. “From among the bravest of the men of his village, the god of the village calls for ten men to give themselves in sacrifice.”
It was very dark. Only a glaring, winking oil lamp lit the group. Strained faces peered into the eyes of the tall one. Ten men must shed their blood to save the village. As he waited, fear froze the hearts of the people. There was perfect silence.
Silence. At last a young man stood. Trembling, pale, he stepped forward and stood beside the tall one.
The two disappeared behind the great veil—there was a sound of a knife against flesh. The people saw blood flow out from beneath the curtain.
The robed one returned, his knife blade bathed in crimson blood of the sacrifice.
“Who will be next? Nine more must die.” A moment of silence. A father stood with one last lingering glance of affection at his wife and son, and then out of love for them, he strode forward, head held high, though trembling.
He too disappeared behind the veil with the tall one. The knife was drawn, blood flowed, the “priest” returned alone and stood staring out at the people.
An old man, grizzled with the work of many years, stood and moved behind the curtain, the stroke of the knife, the flow of blood.
Again, the robed figure appeared alone. “Come, strong ones,” he shouted. A young lad stepped forward, barely the age to do the work of a village life and to suffer the hardships of manhood. Again, they disappeared, and the “priest” returned alone, his knife bathed in blood. And also, with the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth.
“And now,” said the mysterious visitor, “the sacrifice is received. The village will be delivered.” Again, he disappeared behind the curtain.
The people of the village waited—would he again appear?
A long time they waited, and then one of the men reached forward, took hold of the veil, pulled it aside fearfully, and stood in consternation. Another came and together they removed the veil. The people stared. The “priest” was gone. The ten who had gone forward to sacrifice themselves to save the village were nowhere to be seen. Instead, they saw only the slaughtered remains of ten sheep lying in their blood. Mystified and trembling with fear, the people of the village returned to their huts.
Late that night, as the moon rose over the mountain, the silent forms of eleven armed men crept silently over the pass.
The legendary El Capitan made the surprise attack on the enemy stronghold, united the liberation forces, and the scourge of the hills was defeated and put to route.