Crossroads by Max Brand Page A

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 speedof 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 greatestday 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