Free The Seven Serpents Trilogy by Scott O’Dell Page B

arrived on the caravel and found Captain Roa bound hand and foot.
    At that moment, Barrios, who was not dull witted, would say that the captain had tried to seize the caravel and sail off with her, but that he, Barrios, had stood staunchly against it. Captain Roa would deny this, but Barrios would be backed up promptly by the crew and by me.
    As events turned out, as the true story unfolded piece by piece, I was proved wrong. Don Luis and his men did march out of the jungle while the crew was busy loading gold. But they came with thirty Indians—twenty-seven men and three women, one of them carrying a child—captured after a bloody fight in a canyon at the head of the stream. They had captured more, but five of the Indians died of wounds on the march back to the lagoon.
    Barrios and the crew were surprised, but instead of acting as I thought they would, several members of the crew took fright and bolted into the jungle, choosing to take their chances with the Indians rather than with Guzmán. The rest meekly submitted, all except Barrios, who told the story I imagined he might tell. It was re ceived with a howl of laughter by Don Luis and by Guzmán, who felled him with one thrust of his sword.
    The first I knew of this was about an hour later, while I stood peering out of the cabin window. The caravel had shifted with the tide, which was now running seaward, so I had only a partial view of the island.
    Six mules plodded along the beach, followed by sol diers and members of the crew. Next came a long, straggling line of naked Indians, then a band of musket men. Mounted on horses, Don Luis and Guzmán brought up the rear.
    The line looked like a big ungainly snake, winding its way down the narrow strip of sand between the jungle and the sea. The Indians slowly walked along, one after the other, bound together, the man in front bound to the man behind by a single length of ship’s rope that en circled the neck of each. One man couldn’t flee unless all fled. If one man stumbled or stopped, it caused trouble everywhere along the line.
    Just such trouble took place as the Indians ap proached the longboat.
    My view wasn’t good, but I saw the line suddenly buckle, buckle and stop, then move forward, then stop again. Somewhere in the middle of the line an Indian, a man with gray hair, had been overcome by exhaustion, or perhaps by fear, as he saw the caravel riding at an chor and fully realized his fate. In any event, he fell to his knees, struggled to get up, but failed.
    Guzmán, who had ridden forward as soon as the line came to a halt, sat above the fallen man, looking down at him in contempt. He must have shouted some com mand, for the Indian grasped at the air and strained to get to his feet, but again fell to his knees. With one hand on the peak of his saddle, Guzmán reached down and swung his saber. The rope severed, the old man’s head flew off and rolled into the surf. Thus freed of the en cumbering body, the Indians moved on.
    I noticed two gaps along the length of rope where men had stood with their necks encircled, so I con cluded that Guzmán had dealt with them in the same manner.
    As the line reached the boat waiting on the beach, cries went up that clearly reached me above the noise of the surf. The Indians looked wildly about, and for a mo ment I thought that surely they would try to break their bonds and flee. But the soldiers stood with weapons ready, while Don Luis rode around the huddled group, making gestures that were meant to calm them.
    I watched in disbelief.
    I had heard Las Casas speak of horrors dealt to the gentle people of the Indies, but his words, forceful as they were, had not prepared me for what was taking place at this very moment, for what had taken place in the past—men and women forced to labor until they sickened, the cacique Ayo mangled to death by a vi cious dog, men and women pursued, captured, and led into captivity by a rope around their necks,