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.
17
The Gifts of Oñate
S traight from the home of Señor Oñate to his own adobe hut went El Tigre with a swift, cat-like stride. Not the gait of the white man, who strikes heavily with his heels, but a movement that left him poised at every instant so that he could have leaped back or to the side without the loss of a fraction of a second. No white man can learn that gait. It is the heritage of some thousands of years of a hunting ancestry. In El Tigre it was peculiarly accentuated so that he seemed always stalking. This, as much as his fighting propensities, had earned him his name.
At the door of his hut he was aware of Dolores, standing at the window in the full glare of the sun. She was dressed in a Chinese kimono of dark green, flowered with gold. She
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.
17
The Gifts of Oñate
S traight from the home of Señor Oñate to his own adobe hut went El Tigre with a swift, cat-like stride. Not the gait of the white man, who strikes heavily with his heels, but a movement that left him poised at every instant so that he could have leaped back or to the side without the loss of a fraction of a second. No white man can learn that gait. It is the heritage of some thousands of years of a hunting ancestry. In El Tigre it was peculiarly accentuated so that he seemed always stalking. This, as much as his fighting propensities, had earned him his name.
At the door of his hut he was aware of Dolores, standing at the window in the full glare of the sun. She was dressed in a Chinese kimono of dark green, flowered with gold. She
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