of an enemy’s house or the death of an enemy.
It was, however, one thing to determine that Dix Van Dyck should fall by his direct power. It was quite another to accomplish this feat. He might, of course, hire a posse of noted gunmen to take the trail of the outlaw from Double Bend where he had been last seen. But the noted gunmen were mostly gringos , and they would have little enthusiasm for trailing one of their kind.
There was another alternative. It came to Señor Oñate that night while he sat on his verandah, sipping his tequila and letting the white-hot poison trickle, drop by drop, down his grateful throat. His house sat on the outskirts of Guadalupe, and, while the sheriff sat there on the verandah, he saw a tall figure of a man swing up the slope of the nearest hill, pause beside a great Spanish dagger, and then plunge into the gloom on the farther side. He knew by the gait of the runner, even at that distance, that it was El Tigre. At that the inspiration came to him. He stamped violently on the floor of the verandah. Instantly a house servant stood respectfully behind his chair.
“Bring one of the Indians to me,” commanded Oñate, “and quickly.”
The house servant disappeared as silently as he had come, and within a short time a second figure trotted up outside the verandah, jerked off his sombrero, and stood in an attitude something like that of a soldier at attention. A tall, somber figure, the sun in profile struck him and painted in black the cavernous hollows of the cheeks and the deep-sunken eyes. A hungry leanness in the eyes in the half light were like cavities of darkness touched with sparks of fire.
“Alvarado,” said Oñate, his voice losing most of that terseness with which he had addressed the house servantand taking on a tone of mingled awe and fear, “find me El Tigre. I saw him run over the top of that hill.”
The Indian, in place of answering, replaced the sombrero on his head, whirled, and swept up the slope of the hill with the long stride of the tireless runner. Oñate remained still and straight in his chair until Alvarado dipped out of sight over the crest of the hill. Then he slumped back in his chair.
Now the house holds of ricos are always numerous, but there needs some explanation for the fact that Oñate’s establishment included Yaqui Indians. The Yaqui is to the Mexican what in the Middle Ages the Arab was to the Gentile. A Yaqui will walk many hungry miles to get one shot at a Mexican; and a Mexican will walk as many miles to avoid a Yaqui. The railroads in the Southwest had employed Yaquis and Mexican peons at the same time, but always the Yaqui had to be lodged and fed apart from the peon. In the eating hall a peon would rather storm the gates of hell than take a seat he knows is reserved for a Yaqui.
The conflict between Yaqui and Mexican was not new. It had been warmed and cherished by four centuries of hatred and murder. It goes back to the time when grim Cortez conquered most of the tribes but did not conquer them all. Neither did his successors. For four hundred years the war continued. Both sides used rope and fire and bullet and knife. Still the issue had not been decided. The mutual hatred had become an instinct; it is almost a religion. As the Algonquians, Mohicans, and Hurons once feared the Iroquois, so the Mexicans feared the Yaquis. Give a Yaqui a knife and he will trail two Mexicans armed with guns, and probably he will come back with his knife-blade reddened by something besides rust.
A Yaqui is made by nature to be the conqueror of the Southwest. He will put salt and tobacco in his pouch, slinga short-barreled rifle over his shoulder, and strike into the burning heart of the desert at a dog-trot that he maintains from morning to night, stopping only long enough to kill and eat raw meat. What that meat is he does not care. He will devour a prairie rat. He has been known to tear the flesh of a coyote, newly slain and warm. A fire is a luxury to him
It was, however, one thing to determine that Dix Van Dyck should fall by his direct power. It was quite another to accomplish this feat. He might, of course, hire a posse of noted gunmen to take the trail of the outlaw from Double Bend where he had been last seen. But the noted gunmen were mostly gringos , and they would have little enthusiasm for trailing one of their kind.
There was another alternative. It came to Señor Oñate that night while he sat on his verandah, sipping his tequila and letting the white-hot poison trickle, drop by drop, down his grateful throat. His house sat on the outskirts of Guadalupe, and, while the sheriff sat there on the verandah, he saw a tall figure of a man swing up the slope of the nearest hill, pause beside a great Spanish dagger, and then plunge into the gloom on the farther side. He knew by the gait of the runner, even at that distance, that it was El Tigre. At that the inspiration came to him. He stamped violently on the floor of the verandah. Instantly a house servant stood respectfully behind his chair.
“Bring one of the Indians to me,” commanded Oñate, “and quickly.”
The house servant disappeared as silently as he had come, and within a short time a second figure trotted up outside the verandah, jerked off his sombrero, and stood in an attitude something like that of a soldier at attention. A tall, somber figure, the sun in profile struck him and painted in black the cavernous hollows of the cheeks and the deep-sunken eyes. A hungry leanness in the eyes in the half light were like cavities of darkness touched with sparks of fire.
“Alvarado,” said Oñate, his voice losing most of that terseness with which he had addressed the house servantand taking on a tone of mingled awe and fear, “find me El Tigre. I saw him run over the top of that hill.”
The Indian, in place of answering, replaced the sombrero on his head, whirled, and swept up the slope of the hill with the long stride of the tireless runner. Oñate remained still and straight in his chair until Alvarado dipped out of sight over the crest of the hill. Then he slumped back in his chair.
Now the house holds of ricos are always numerous, but there needs some explanation for the fact that Oñate’s establishment included Yaqui Indians. The Yaqui is to the Mexican what in the Middle Ages the Arab was to the Gentile. A Yaqui will walk many hungry miles to get one shot at a Mexican; and a Mexican will walk as many miles to avoid a Yaqui. The railroads in the Southwest had employed Yaquis and Mexican peons at the same time, but always the Yaqui had to be lodged and fed apart from the peon. In the eating hall a peon would rather storm the gates of hell than take a seat he knows is reserved for a Yaqui.
The conflict between Yaqui and Mexican was not new. It had been warmed and cherished by four centuries of hatred and murder. It goes back to the time when grim Cortez conquered most of the tribes but did not conquer them all. Neither did his successors. For four hundred years the war continued. Both sides used rope and fire and bullet and knife. Still the issue had not been decided. The mutual hatred had become an instinct; it is almost a religion. As the Algonquians, Mohicans, and Hurons once feared the Iroquois, so the Mexicans feared the Yaquis. Give a Yaqui a knife and he will trail two Mexicans armed with guns, and probably he will come back with his knife-blade reddened by something besides rust.
A Yaqui is made by nature to be the conqueror of the Southwest. He will put salt and tobacco in his pouch, slinga short-barreled rifle over his shoulder, and strike into the burning heart of the desert at a dog-trot that he maintains from morning to night, stopping only long enough to kill and eat raw meat. What that meat is he does not care. He will devour a prairie rat. He has been known to tear the flesh of a coyote, newly slain and warm. A fire is a luxury to him
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