Crossroads (8 page)

H
e said aloud: “Nevertheless, I’m true to my promise. Let the girl go free and I’ll follow you and make no attempt to escape.”

“It is good,” said El Tigre.

He cut the bonds of Jacqueline Boone and removed the gag from her mouth. She darted past him and ran to the side of Dix Van Dyck, resting her hands against his breast.

“I heard you,” she said, speaking rapidly and in a low voice, “but take back your promise. There are only six of ’em, and we’ve got a fighting chance.”

“Take back my promise,” he repeated slowly, “and let the Indians take you along? I ain’t that kind of a skunk, Jack.”

“I know,” she urged desperately, “but they can do me no harm.”

“I know Indians,” said Van Dyck. “Jack, take your hoss and ride out of my life. Forget me. From the time I was a kid, I was cut out for a wind-up like this. Now it’s come, and I won’t whine unless I get you mixed up in the tangle. Beat it, Jack, and forget me.”

He turned sternly to the Indians, for one of them was approaching.

“Keep back, there, while I say good bye to the lady. El Tigre, call off your man.”

El Tigre grunted acquiescence and summoned his
follower to fall back. He had no desire to press matters to a crisis. The honor of bringing in this desperado alive would make him the most dreaded Yaqui north of the Rio Grande. Already he basked in the sunshine of fame.

“Dix,” said the girl faintly, “I’m sick inside. I thought I was leadin’ you away from trouble, and instead I carried you right into a trap.”

“It don’t mean nothing,” he assured her. “I’ve forgot it already. All I’m sorry about is we didn’t get a chance to team it together. Seems to me, Jack, we was cut out for partners.”

“Me, too,” she answered, “but this is the end of it, Dix?”

“Yep. There ain’t nothing more. Seems like it was a cold trail, eh?”

“A cold trail,” she echoed miserably, “but I’ll tell you this, Dix Van Dyck. All the time I was running away from you, I was wishing you’d catch me…sort of half wishing it. Understand?”

“Don’t I!” grinned the big man, and his lean, ugly face softened almost to tenderness. “Honey, didn’t I know that white hoss of yours could walk away from my plow hoss any time you give him his head? Didn’t I know you was just sort of tantalizing me along? It was like a game of hide-and-seek, Jack, and I knew all the time that finally you’d let me find you.”

“Did you know all that?” she asked, almost coldly. But she changed again, as swiftly. “There’s ways out of the tightest holes in the world, Dix. I’ve come through some of ’em. You’re going to get out of this. Partners can do a pile more’n any one man workin’ alone.”

“Partners?” said Dix Van Dyck.

“Partners,” she asserted firmly. She was very grave. Her eyes were steady upon his.

Life had never been so dear to Dix Van Dyck as it was now when he must relinquish all hope of it. He held out
his hand, saying: “No matter where this trail wound up, I’m glad I followed it.”

And she, meeting his hand, answered: “Dix, I got an idea that this trail ain’t ended yet.”

“Good bye,” he said.

“So long,” answered Jack and turned toward the white horse. A moment later she was riding at a steady trot up the cañon.

The Indians, with Dix Van Dyck riding in their midst, took the opposite direction. Straight as a coyote running on a fresh scent, they cut across country for the town of Double Bend, a three-day journey. They had disarmed Van Dyck, but otherwise they treated him as if he were entirely free.

Even four centuries of pseudo-civilization had not entirely destroyed the Indian’s faculty for reading character. He gained it during the thousands of years while he roamed the deserts and the forests of America, seldom meeting those of his kind, and on the occasions of those rare meetings he had to learn in seconds what the white man learns in years—or never at all. He had to discern whether the stranger was true friend or covert enemy. He had to know where he could trust blindly and where he must never close both eyes. As to El Tigre, he had centered one long glance on Dix Van Dyck when the tall man gave him the promise to attempt no escape. Thereafter, he gave his captive no further thought.

Driving straight through the mountains, they came at length to the banks of the stream known as the Blood River, not named because of any conflict near it but because the shallow waters seem to take on the color of the red earth over which they flow. Ordinarily a petty creek twisting a zigzag way through the mountains and fading away on the white desert below, the Blood River had been lately swelled by rains in the higher mountains and
by melting snow. Now it belied its name and went, rushing and foaming along its course, a white streak among the burned, brown hills. A hundred yards below the point at which they struck the banks, it pitched over a cliff, and the roar of the cataract filled the air with mingling crash and booming.

It would have been the better part of caution either to camp on the bank of the stream until the waters fell—which they were sure to do within the space of thirty-six hours or less—or else detour to the left and follow the river for a half day’s march when they were sure to come to waters so shallow that they could easily ford the stream. Alvarado advised this, but El Tigre carried in his mind the picture of the face of
Señor
Oñate, suffused with joy by the news of the capture. It was the payment of an ancient debt, and debts weigh heavily on the soul of a Yaqui. He could not delay. On his command they prepared to ford the river.

Dix Van Dyck, whose horse gave him a great advantage, entered the stream at the side of El Tigre. The others waited on the bank to watch the success or failure of the attempt. As for the rider, he was confident of his horse, for it was not the first time that they had forded a difficult water. He headed the charger almost straight upstream and drove home the spurs. Up to a point half way across Blood River the progress was swift and easy, but here the full current struck them suddenly and with vicious force. It spun horse and rider around and around, like a top, and, if chance had not aided them, they might have been swept in an arrow-like course toward the cataract below. But the feet of the horse struck a providential sand bank. From this point he straightened out and managed to reach the farther bank. He had scarcely gained the top when a cry of lament rose from the opposite shore.

He looked back and saw El Tigre, swimming for dear life in the very center of the current, borne rapidly along its course. Strong as the current was at the point where they attempted the fording, the banks of the stream narrowed just below and the water, compacting as if it entered the mouth of a chute, drove on foaming and raging with redoubled force. The cry from the Indians on the opposite shore announced the moment when El Tigre was borne down into the mouth of this deadly current. Fifty yards below him was a white ribbon of water—the edge of the cataract.

If it had been white men to whom he had given his promise to attempt no escape, perhaps temptation would not have entered the mind of Dix Van Dyck. As he sat his horse, he saw the foaming width of Blood River between him and all danger of pursuit. Before him stretched an easy, downward slope. In thirty seconds he could be beyond danger of rifle-fire. The urge for freedom came up in the throat of Van Dyck as the desire for flight comes in the heart of the young bird peering over the edge of the nest. Another moment and he would have been gone, bending low over his saddle horn to escape the following fire and driving his spurs home at every stride of the horse. But, even as he gathered the reins taut, he heard a sharp, keen cry over the roar of the falls. He knew well enough what that cry meant. It was the yell of a man who knows that his death is upon him. Turning in his saddle, he saw El Tigre throw up his arms and go whirling down the current. The edge of the falls was not thirty yards away.

It was the nearness of the danger and the horror of such a death that moved Dix Van Dyck to action. He spurred his horse, indeed—but it was toward the doomed man. As the horse plunged and floundered into the stream, Van Dyck threw himself headlong into the water. It caught at him with a thousand invisible hands and swung
both him and the horse around in the current, until they faced shore again. The horse struck out furiously for land, only his head above water. The fear of death was on him, for he felt the grip and suction of the water. Not a dozen yards below was the edge of the cataract, and just above them, whirling around and around in his descent, came the body of El Tigre. Van Dyck worked himself back along the horse, caught the streaming tail, and flung himself as far as he could reach into the center of the current.

It was chance as much as skill, but his hand entangled in the long hair of the Indian. The weight of that double burden jerked back the horse himself. With only Van Dyck he might have regained the shore easily enough, but the burden of the two was like a dragnet behind. He fought hard, but where he gained a foot toward the shore, the water bore him a yard downstream.

Chance again rescued them. At the very crest of the waterfall the depth of the stream suddenly decreased at that side, where a number of boulders projected from the bed. The last swirl of the water had already caught Dix Van Dyck, and the tug of El Tigre’s weight was almost more than he could bear. Sand had filled his eyes; his lungs were choked with water. Only an instinct made him persevere in the crisis. It was then that the feet of the horse struck against the rocks. He floundered, snorting and terror-stricken, to the shore. As he was dragged onto dry land, the head of Van Dyck struck a rock. Blackness swept across his brain.

When his senses returned, the Indians were grouped about him, working his arms to pump the water from his lungs. El Tigre had thrown them a rope, and they had crossed safely in that manner. Nearby stood the horse, his head hanging low from exhaustion.

T
he primary purpose of man, unquestionably, was to kill his enemies in order that he might live himself. Though this necessity has largely vanished, the instinct for killing remains. A man will dull the edge of his appetite watching a prize fight or the slaughter of a bull, but he is really never satisfied until he has brought down one of his own species—until he has attached a human scalp, in other words, to his belt. The Romans killed human beings in an arena; the Aztecs made it a religious ceremony. To
Señor
Oñate the killing of a man partook of both elements. It was a sport, and it was also a religious exercise. It filled his brain with a deep contentment. It exalted his soul with satisfaction and brought him, doubtless, nearest to his conception of his Maker.

On this day, therefore, he sat in his office swathed with manifold complacency. The day preceding a Negro, drunk, had resisted arrest, had broken from his captors, and had been shot through the back as he fled by
Señor
Oñate. So the sheriff was content. He sat in the sun with his heels cocked up on the ledge of the window. The yellow sunlight was hot and good. It made him thirsty. He saved his thirst. He let it accumulate like a spendthrift who saves his money for a year in order to throw it all away in one golden hour. In this way
Señor
Oñate allowed the flame-less fire to eat deeper and deeper into his vitals, knowing that he could stop it at any moment, but preferring to let
it prey on his vitals until, late in the afternoon, he should sit again on his verandah with green things in prospect, with house servants ever present, and with ice chiming melodiously against the side of his glass whenever he touched it.

In matters of the senses
Señor
Oñate was an artist. He demanded perfection—or nothing at all. He had been known to go hungry for thirty-six hours before a great banquet and then do justice to twenty courses. He had ridden for twelve hours over a burning desert in order to appreciate the cool, clear waters of a spring. In his earlier career he had no heart for the semi-comfort of the middle class. He lived in a rude adobe hut while his thousands accumulated. Then he stepped at a single stride into his mansion with its wide patio, its flowers, its pleasant rugs, its sense of much service and many silks that it carried like a woman of social position.

On this day, between his pleasant self-torture of thirst on the one hand and his memories of how the bullet had crunched its way through the back of the Negro exactly twenty-four hours before, the mental state of
Señor
Oñate may be described, without exaggeration, as closely approximating the ideal. It was hard for him to imagine any improvement, and yet such an improvement was at hand.

The Mexican door boy slipped noiselessly into his office and stood, as was his custom, with the door slightly ajar and one hand clutching the knob tightly. He had fallen into the habit of making his entrance in this manner, for it sometimes happened that
Señor
Oñate was displeased by the name that was announced, and on such occasions he was apt to seize the nearest book or paperweight and fling it at the face of the boy, round and as bright as polished copper. At times like these the boy could jerk himself back through the door with the speed
of a snapping whiplash. He had one scar above his eye, but the other indentations were all on the door.

It was only habit, however, that made him retain a firm grip on the door today. He was sure of himself and his reception as he announced: “The Indian, El Tigre.”

Joy illumined the face of the sheriff like a murky sunrise. He slipped from his chair, rubbing his fat palms together. “Quick!” said
Señor
Oñate.

The boy, with a grin, disappeared, and a moment later the door opened noiselessly. The tall form of El Tigre slipped through the opening. The interval, however, had been sufficient for
Señor
Oñate to wipe the last of his expectant smile from his face. He eyed the Yaqui as solemnly as an image of the great Buddha.

El Tigre, following the habits of his race, substituted action for words. He stepped to the desk and placed upon it a canvas bag. It jingled as he set it down. A small bag but it was plumply filled. It was almost as full as the overflowing heart of
Señor
Oñate. Then El Tigre stepped back toward the door.

“Wait,” whispered Oñate, for he could not speak aloud at that moment. “Wait. You have him, El Tigre? But you have! This is the price! Ah-h-h!” The sigh came from the depths of his heart. “Wait,” he repeated again, “you have done well. You have done very well, El Tigre…you and your men. Your father remembers you. So!”

He was anxious to be alone with the gold. Now he opened the bag and drew out a dozen pieces. They were newly minted; they seemed to speak of a new death. “Was it the knife or the gun, El Tigre?” He gripped the gold hard and waited, his breathing harsh and quick.

“He is alive,” said El Tigre.

It was too much for the impassivity of
Señor
Oñate. He threw his short, fat arms above his head and shouted with joy. Now the revenge was perfect. It was the greatest
day in his life. He could go to the prison at Double Bend. He could see his victim behind the bars. He could deride and taunt him. Torture is sweeter than death. “How?” he cried, and, remembering sundry tales of the prowess of Dix Van Dyck, he looked upon El Tigre with wide eyes of awe.

“It is much talk,” said El Tigre, and fell silent.

Señor
Oñate felt a pain in the palm of his right hand. He was gripping the gold too hard. Now he released his taut fingers. “I will not pay my son with money,” said Oñate wisely, “but I will give a broad piece of gold to El Tigre and to each of his men in order that they may know I am their father. A piece of gold for each man”—he counted out five coins into the hand of El Tigre—“and two pieces for El Tigre. So!”

He held forth the last two pieces, but El Tigre glided a pace away.

“For my friends,” he explained, “the money is clean. But it is wet with blood for El Tigre.”

“What?” snarled Oñate. “Blood money? Who’s talked this foolishness to you, El Tigre?”

“For the cost of one man’s life it is not much,” said El Tigre, “but for the cost of two men’s lives it is very little.”

“Two?” grinned Oñate. “Did you kill two, El Tigre?”

“I killed none,” said El Tigre, “but I gave my life and my white brother returned it to me.”

“Your white brother?” growled Oñate.

“
Señor
Van Dyck,” explained the Yaqui.

“He? Your brother?” echoed Oñate, his voice shrill with anxiety.

“My life,” said El Tigre, “it was in his hand like the shell of an egg. But he did not close his fingers. So El Tigre is here. But he cannot take the money. It is payment for the life of my white brother and payment for the life of El Tigre.”

“Speak again, my son, slowly,” demanded Oñate, “my head whirls.”

“We put a promise on
Señor
Van Dyck and not a rope,” said El Tigre.

“That,” said Oñate, “was the way of fools. You trusted to his word?”

“I did,” said El Tigre. “We came to a river. It was very swift. We should have waited till it went slower and smaller, but the heart of El Tigre was big to see the face of
Señor
Oñate and pay the gold into his hand. He tried to swim the river, and the river took him, as the wind takes a little piece of straw, and made him go around and around and carried him quickly…very quickly…to a great noise in the water and a great falling.”

“Blood River Falls!” cried Oñate.

“It is the place,” went on El Tigre. “I thought of my fathers. I was ready to die, though I am not old. Then my white brother was made sad in his heart to see a strong man die before the time. So he rode into the water and caught El Tigre by the hair of the head. And they came to the falls, and my white brother dragged El Tigre to the shore, and El Tigre lay there like a rag that is wet. When El Tigre was awake again out of a great sleep, he was sick inside and cold in the stomach. For he owed his life two times, once to my father,
Señor
Oñate, and once to my white brother. But he owed it first to
Señor
Oñate, so he paid that debt first, and he paid it with the life of his white brother.”

The voice of El Tigre faltered and died away. At length he raised his head and concluded: “So El Tigre will go by himself into the hills where there is silence. He will go with his daughter. He will build a fire and speak with the spirit of his white brother and ask his forgiveness.”

“Your daughter also?” asked Oñate anxiously. “Take Dolores with you? Why…?” But he stopped, and the blood rose up and darkened his copper skin.