Man with No Name- Sonoran Ant Torture

He felt brown hands pawing at him. He was stripped of his clothes—his boots were yanked off, not gently. He was too stunned to resist.

He was lifted, swung low over the ground, carried over to the church. The yard was filled with dried weeds, the only place in the plaza not tramped bare by naked feet. He felt the prickle of the weeds as he was dropped. Then they were at his hands again, at his ankles. He was being bound, staked to the ground, spreadeagled face up to the dying sun. He had an inkling of what was happening before the first sharp pain burned in his back.

The Indians had found an anthill. He was staked across it.

He looked up into the gunman’s grinning face, heard the albino’s taunting voice.

“Now, friend. You haven’t been doing so much to entertain us, have you? I expect we’ll hear a little singing pretty soon. You sing real nice and maybe I might even cut you loose before Tuco and me ride out. But that won’t be for a while yet. Enjoy yourself.”

The Man With No Name merely stared at his tormentor. Not a muscle of his face twitched. Beneath him he felt the crawling of tiny legs. Ants were coming up out of their underground community, angry at being disturbed.

The hunter lay absolutely still. The small feet ran across his back, up and across his body. The sensation was one of pictures being drawn on his skin with burning sticks.

Panic touched him. He put it down. The insects were not yet really attacking. They were surveying. The burning was not caused by biting but by his expectation. He clung to the thought. He felt an occasional bite to show him the difference. Deep, stinging nips that tore at his flesh. When they really went to work they would strip him down to his bones.

He thought ahead, trying to judge his time. Pinky had lost face before the Apaches when he had fallen off the horse. He heard them baiting him now, laughing at him. He would not tolerate that for long. He would have to begin his celebration soon to turn their interest away from his disgrace.

The Man With No Name did not dare to turn his head to look but he thought he heard the cantina door open and slam. He closed his eyes against the sun and counted the minutes. A long while passed before the next sound.
...

The Man With No Name forced himself not to quiver as the rapacious
ants covered his chest, his neck, climbed into his hair. They were biting
more regularly now. He still made no sound, no move. He listened intently
to noises beyond his vision.
...

Pinky leaned down, braced his hands on his knees.

“You had about enough of the little fellows?”

“More than enough. What shape did they leave Tuco in?”

“Tuco? My best buddy and guide? Why, he’s having a nice sleep. Getting himself in condition for a little trip we’ll be taking. Are you anxious for me to cut the strings?”

“I can stand it.”

“I wonder—I’ve had something to drink, you know. Maybe my hand isn’t real steady. It might slip and cut off your hand or foot. Maybe I’d better not risk it. I’d hate to maim a hand so it couldn’t swing a gun quite so fast again—what do you think?”

The hunter gave the albino what he was prying for. He could not help it.

A quick jerking of his head, a quick flare of his eyes. This was a threat he couldn’t counter. Even if he managed some signal, De Cabronet could not get here soon enough to prevent the gunman from slashing a knife across his wrists.

The hunter’s face went still again.

Pinky reared back, slapping his thigh, guffawing.

“That gets to you, don’t it? Just a little idea that came out of nowhere. Might be a good one. The other side of the coin is—I wouldn’t want you bleeding to death too soon. I’d rather be on my way and remember you lying here with the ants. They’ll lose their patience and settle down to getting rid of your carcass piece by piece. You’ll last a lot longer that way. Maybe even until morning. You won’t know that though. You’ll go crazy with the pain before you finally die. Well, keep a sharp lookout while you can. After the ants find your eyes you won’t be able to see so well. So long, friend. I’ll remember you to Tuco when we collect the gold.”

The red-eyed man scooped up a handful of gravel and tossed it on the hunter’s chest to stir the ants to more feverish activity. He straightened and sauntered out of sight.

The hunter kept himself inert, breathing the shallowest of breaths. He heard the albino struggling with Tuco, slapping at his face, talking to him, trying to rouse him out of his stupor. A period of grunting followed. Then silence.
...

The hunter lay still. He counted again—until he was sure the man he had captured earlier must be well out on the trail.

Only then did he lift his head, flatten his lips against his teeth and give a short, sharp whistle.
...

Only when he had finished his survey did he go to the spreadeagled man. What he saw wrenched a curse from him.

“Blood of God, man. They’re eating you alive—”

The hunter spat an ant from his lips.

“You going to stand there gawking or are you going to cut me loose?”

The words galvanized the count. His sword sang through the air four times. The hunter could hardly follow the speed of the action. The ropes let go their hold.

The hunter rolled, leaped to his feet, beat at his body, sweeping the insects from him in handfuls. It was a losing game. There were too many and now they reacted in terror, driving their tough pincers furiously into his flesh.

The hunter ran, racing for the well, dropped into the chill water. He sank over his head, held his breath, stayed down as long as his breath lasted. The burning bites lessened as the ants let go. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, scratching them from his scalp. Then he surfaced, splashing the water away from him, trying to drive back the insects that floated toward him. His yell rose hollowly up the cistern wall.

“Throw down that bucket rope. Hang on to the winch.”

De Cabronet was already leaning over, peering down in horror. He jumped to the rim, kicked the bucket down, caught the handle that turned the crude drum around which the rope wound, put his full weight against it.

The hunter came up hand over hand as if the devil pursued him. And many devils did. The ants clung to his body, his legs, as he came out of the water. The surface of the water was covered with the wriggling mass. He stood on the rim, stripping the diehards away. He turned his back to the Count and De Cabronet slapped at the creatures there.

- A Dollar to Die For, chapters 9, 10