Crossroads (16 page)

S
traight back to the house of
Señor
Don Porfirio Maria Oñate went Dolores. He was at the opening of the main doorway to the patio, and, as she passed, he merely lifted his glance to her and let it fall again heavily. She knew he was very angry—angrier than she had ever dreamed he could be.

She went straight back through the house and to the room that had been assigned to El Tigre, apart from the servants” quarters, for not even so great a man as
Señor
Oñate could rank El Tigre among servants. She found her father sitting on a mat, cross-legged, with his arms folded. It was the first time they had been together since the day he returned from the trail of Dix Van Dyck, and now he rose and stood, looking out the window.

The girl set her teeth in silent fury and placed her hand on the doorknob to retreat. She had actually swung the door open, in fact, when something conquered her pride. She closed it decisively, and walked up to the tall Yaqui.

“It is I, Dolores,” she said angrily.

He turned partially toward her at that, but his eyes still avoided her. “El Tigre,” he said solemnly, “is very weary. He wishes to be alone and sleep.”

“Bah!” cried the girl with sudden fury. “El Tigre has slept for many days. His honor has slept with him.”

His upper lip writhed back from his teeth, and his
hand shot across to the hilt of his knife. At that, a glint of terror came in the eyes of the girl, but she persisted with a perverse delight, like one who baits a bull, since here was one who would not charge blindly.

“The claws of El Tigre are bare,” she went on, “but they are dull. The tiger is old. His claws are blunt. His teeth have fallen out. He is fat and slow. Very soon little boys will bait him in the streets and kick his fat ribs and laugh to see him grunt. El Tigre will dare not bite but lick their hands for crusts of bread. It is true!”

Half the length of the knife blade flashed and disappeared again in the sheath, a motion as swift as a winking of light.

“Does El Tigre still show his teeth?” went on the girl, though she had retreated half a pace, ready to flee like the wind for the door. “I do not fear him. There has been a hand on my shoulder that has three times the strength of El Tigre’s paw. I felt that hand. Why should I fear El Tigre? The hand that was on my shoulder was the hand that dragged El Tigre out of the river….”

“Dolores has spoken too much,” said El Tigre, and turned upon her with eyes more deadly than his voice.

She said: “The hand drew El Tigre out of the river and threw him on the bank like a drowned cat to dry his fur. When El Tigre could stand again, he sneaked up on his white brother and bit the hand that had saved him. It is true!”

“It is true,” repeated El Tigre and gave no sign of his torture.

“And now,” said the girl, “Oñate is setting a trap for El Tigre. It may be that he will catch him and whip him and let him go…tamed.”

“Ah,” murmured El Tigre.

“Your master and mine,” said the girl, “the master of El Tigre and his daughter.”

The Indian drew himself a little more erect, if that were possible. “El Tigre has no daughter,” he said calmly. “He dreamed he had a daughter named Dolores. Now El Tigre is awake.”

“It is a lie,” said Dolores. “El Tigre is not awake. He sleeps and waits for Oñate to catch him. A sleepy tiger, fat with too much eating. The boys of the town will bait him.” She stepped a little closer, fearless, though she saw the death in the eyes of the Yaqui. “Why do you wait, El Tigre? Oñate has seen you stalk him with silent feet. He is a fool, but he knows. His eye is on you. Why do you wait? If you wish to find him, when he sleeps, I will open his door to night. But there is little time.”

“I would have killed him three times in three days,” said the Yaqui calmly, “but every time, if I had struck, his blood would have fallen on Dolores.”

She winced, as if under the whip, and her breath came sharply with a sort of stifling sob. “Now,” she said, “it is too late. You may kill Oñate, but your white brother shall die.”

For the first time he was roused past his self-restraint. “It is a lie,” he said, “the father of lies.”

“It is true,” she answered. “I have heard Oñate talk with García. Tomorrow García will raise a crowd…a crowd to take the jail and carry off your white brother to the hills. There, they will pile up mesquite wood and burn him alive.”

The last glow of the sunset struck through the window across the face of El Tigre and made it terrible. It gleamed on the sweat of his forehead.

“But why do I tell El Tigre?” she asked scornfully. “He loves his oppressors. They burned his village. They killed his son with fire. They butchered his brother with knives. They cut the throat of his father. But El Tigre has forgotten. He eats food from the hand of a Mexican. His teeth are so dull that, if he bit that hand, he would not break
through the skin. He crouches before a master…he…El Tigre!

“Once he was wild and strong. The dark was like the day to El Tigre. His coming made no sound. It was like the plunge of the eagle through the air with wings closed. His going was as silent as the passing of a feather on the wind. When he struck, men died. His enemies feared him more than fire and bullets. His friends were tied closer to him than ropes can bind. But now El Tigre is fat and old. He would rather have a full belly than be called The Tiger. It is true. His white brother he leaves to rot in a dark place where the sun never strikes. But Oñate, who will hunt El Tigre before long, El Tigre crouches before Oñate and licks his hand. He has given Oñate the life of his white brother. He has given Oñate his daughter to keep.”

“Ah!” said the Yaqui and made a step toward her, but checked himself and folded his arms tightly.

“Men see these things and laugh,” said the girl. “Men smile at the name of El Tigre. They say that the soul of El Tigre has gone, and the soul of a coyote has come to live in his hide. He has nothing left but his growl. His teeth are fallen out, and his claws are blunt.”

Her father’s eyes, wherever they rested on her, were like the stroke of a knife, but otherwise he had endured her lashing tongue with marvelous strength. She changed her tone suddenly.

“I have been to your white brother. I have told him that I am the daughter of El Tigre, and I lied to him and told him that the heart of El Tigre bled for his sake. He is a man. He smiled on me and said that he forgave El Tigre. He made me come back to you. He made me swear to comfort my father and tell him that
Señor
Van Dyck holds him as his brother.”

“Is it true?” said El Tigre hoarsely.

“By all the blood in my heart,” she swore, “it is true. This and other things. What will you do, El Tigre?”

In place of answering, he turned his back on her again and sat down on the mat. As the girl looked at him, all the fire and fierceness went out of her face and left only the embers of her passion burning in her eyes. A little sound, no louder than the hum of a bee, came in her throat, and she stretched out her arms to the stiff, stern back of El Tigre. Then she stole back toward the door. As she opened it, she saw El Tigre raise an end of his blanket and wrap it about his head. The heart of Dolores stood still.

S
traight overhead stood the sun. The shadow of the mesquite bush before the door of the shanty had shrunk to nothingness. A time of fierce heat—white heat. The shadow of the hut was hardly a relief, for it shut off the faint touch of the breeze. Perspiration trickled down the red nose of Bill Lawton, and the face of the girl was pale. There was silence in the hut, a deep, long silence as heavy as sleep, but more ominous than the silence of a man who watches a snake coiled within striking distance of his feet.

The meaning of the silence lay in the pile that mounted on the board on either side of it and in front of Jacqueline. In that stack were gold and silver coins, a few paper bills, the golden braid from the sombrero of Noony, the sombrero and bright bandanna of Bill Lawton, two pairs of spurs, two revolvers, a great hunting knife, a silver watch of great size, a diamond ring of respectable proportions, and a score of odds and ends.

The silence held. The eyes of the losers fixed as if fascinated on the pile of loot, and the eyes of the girl went from one to the other. They were stunned, grim. When they began to think, their thoughts would be dangerous. There was no such oblivion in the mind of the girl. Her brain was working hard and fast, and the thought of the loot was certainly not in it. Suddenly she pushed the pile of winnings to the center of the board.

“Gents,” she said easily, “pick out your things.”

Noony straightened with such a jerk that it forced a grunt through his set teeth. Bill Lawton stared at her with haggard eyes. He would rather have lost his right hand than the revolver that was among that loot. He pulled at his collar and loosened it, though it was already inches too large.

“Pick out your stuff,” she said. “I been playing this game to kill time, not to pick up your coin. That’s straight.”

The hand of Bill Lawton flashed out for his gun, but he checked the hand halfway to the pile. For his heart was deeply troubled. “It can’t be done,” he said at last huskily. “Partner, I can see you’re square, but I ain’t never taken a gamblin’ debt as a gift before, and I don’t intend to do it now. That’s final.” To strengthen himself against temptation, he rose and turned his back on the pile of loot and stood at the door with his hands clenched behind his back.

“Well,” said the girl, as if a new idea had suddenly come to her, “there’s one thing left to play for. I’ll stake everything here against a chance for me to break away and get to Double Bend before sunset.”

Bill Lawton whirled, as if he were pulling a gun, and started to speak, Noony all the time begging him with his eyes to accept the chance, but the gunman shook his head.

“You being square,” he said at last. “I can’t make that play. Lady, you ain’t got no ghost of a show to get to Double Bend before sunset. Dix Van Dyck is done. You can lay to that. They ain’t no hoss in these parts can make that trip in that time.”

“All I want is the chance,” she said. “I don’t ask for a sure thing. All I want is a sporting chance.”

“A sporting chance?” repeated Bill Lawton.

“After all,” she urged, “all the dope is against me to win this bet. I’ve won the last five straight. It’s too much to expect. It’s simply an easy way for you to win back your coin and things…. I’ll have to stay here till sunset.”

“Noony?” queried Lawton.

“Draw!” said the half-breed eagerly.

“Well,” said Lawton, arguing with himself, “this is a sort of a compromise. You can’t reach Double Bend before sunset. That’s sure. All the big boss asks is to keep you away from there until that time. Am I right, Noony?”

“Sure,” said the enthusiastic half-breed.

“Draw?” snapped Lawton, and dropped to his position.

“Two to one,” said the girl, turning even paler than before. “I’ll give you every chance. We draw for the first black ace. If either of you get it, you win. Draw, Noony!”

He drew, pulling the card out with a faltering hand. It was the seven of clubs. Lawton drew the five of hearts. They leaned forward with hushed breath to watch the girl. Her hand, as usual, was tightly clutched under the neck of her shirt. She drew the deuce of diamonds and groaned with disappointment. For the first time in the game, except at the very start, her nerve seemed to be breaking.

“Draw!” she urged.

She sat with her eyes half closed, seeing the cards as if through a mist, and her lips moved rapidly.

“What’s she doin’?” whispered Noony to Lawton.

“Prayin’” answered Lawton. “I’ll be damned!”

He drew an ace—the ace of hearts. Noony drew the king of spades. The girl rested her hand on the top of the deck, and it lay there for a long moment. It seemed to be trembling so much that she could not manage the cards.

“Draw for me,” she said at last to Lawton. “I feel sort of sick.”

She was a deadly white and Lawton, after a rather worried glance at her, turned up the card. It was the ace of spades. All three sat in a stunned silence. Then Lawton rose, removed his hat, and swept the dusty floor with it in his elaborate bow.

“Lady,” he said, “I’ve played most all over this range,
but, when I meet a dead-game sport, I take off my hat. Take my saddlebag to help stow the loot. Your own ain’t big enough.”

But she rose in turn without a word and caught up her saddle. At the door of the hut she whistled, and the white stallion, with pricking ears, trotted up to her like a dog coming at the master’s call. The two men leaned in the doorway and with gloomy eyes watched her saddle. But she gave them not a glance, working with feverish eagerness at the cinches. When they were taut, she leaped into the saddle, waved to them, and spurred in silence down the steep slope of the ravine. A tall boulder appeared before her. The white stallion rose like a hunting horse and sailed easily over it. It buried her from view on the other side.

“By God!” said Noony, pointing back at the winnings of the girl. “She forgot it.”

Lawton stood with his hat off and stared down the ravine. “Forget it,” he said slowly at length. “Noony, you was always mostly a fool, and you get worse the older you get. Me, speakin’ personal, I guess I been a fool most of my life, too. I’m going to take a longer look at the next girl I meet.”

He would not come back into the hut but stood bareheaded under the full blaze of the sun, staring into a vacuous distance lined with wavering streaks of heat.

Into that distance the girl rode at a desperate speed, swerving back and forth among the boulders. Yet, when the first rush of her eagerness had passed, she checked the stallion to a more even pace. She knew him as a student knows a well-conned book, every page by heart. The distance to Double Bend was vague in her mind, but she gauged it as well as she could and planned the use of the stallion’s strength to fill that measured distance. There was no distant range around Double Bend by which she could test the length of her course. It was all by guess.

The rest at the shanty had freshened her horse. She felt the spring and drive of his stride, swinging onward tirelessly. It seemed as if no distance and no speed could exhaust that mount. Now and then, anxiously, she turned her head and glanced at the sun as it rolled westward. It had never seemed to move so rapidly. As if it lunged down the incline of the sky toward the sunset horizon, it sped faster and faster, and at every glance upward her heart beat faster, and the sickness came in her throat.

At sunset she knew something would happen to Dix Van Dyck. What it might be, she could not dream, but the very uncertainty increased her terror. Between those sudden and fearful glances at the course of the sun, she gave all her care to picking out the best possible course for the stallion. If it had been the new trail, the one that passed through Godfrey, she would have been able to ride it on a dark night, but every stone of this old trail was new to her.

She had reduced the pace of the stallion to a long, swinging gallop on the level stretches and to a sharp trot up the slighter inclines. But now and then they struck rough places that would have winded the horse if she had not let him take them at a walk. All the time she had the burden of caring for the stallion’s strength. He was not like the average cattle pony that gauges a distance and strikes a pace that it can maintain all day. What that the great white horse wished for was freedom to take the bit between his teeth and race at full speed.

The sun rolled lower. Jack saw shadows growing deeper along the cañons and rising higher and higher up the slopes—shadows of death, she thought, and she knew now why death was so often likened to the oncoming of night. Still there was no sign of the approach to Double Bend, and the sun stood only an hour’s distance above the western hills. Here she stopped the horse, dismounted. Forcing him to raise his head, she poured the last water
from her canteen down his throat. His breathing frightened her. It came with a great gasp and wheeze, with a rattle toward the end, like the breath of a dying man.

When she leaped into the saddle again, the white stallion started ahead, not with his usual spring but breaking into a trot before he could reach a gallop. The lilt and spring were passing from his stride. His feet struck the earth as fast and as hard as ever, but there was none of that easy resiliency that tells of a resource of power. His ears were flattened now along his neck. His head stretched forth in a straight line from the shoulders. She knew all at once that the last strength of the gallant horse was going into his work. And, as if to break their hearts, the ground swept up into a long, steeply rising slope. She struck her hand across her eyes and groaned.

To the west the red sun, settling and bulging at the sides, was resting on the top of a peak and glaring at her like a great crimson eye of hate and mockery. She had ridden a course against it, and she had been beaten. She drove the spurs home, and the stallion, with sharpening panting, swept up the slope at a staggering gallop. His life was in every stride, but the life of Dix Van Dyck might be in them as well, so she rode cruelly, with a breaking heart. As the sun settled slowly, slowly behind that hill, she knew that Van Dyck was lost, and began to repeat aloud to herself, over and over again: “The cross! It is the cross!”

It would bring luck to her but never to Van Dyck.

The sun was down. The shadows swept with sudden dimness across the mountains; there was a deeper dark of hopelessness in the heart of Jacqueline. Then it was that she topped the slope. At the same time that a fresh cool breeze struck her face, she saw far below her the faint, uncertain lights of Double Bend.