Bandit's Trail Page 15

  “I was riding on the trail of El Tigre’s crew,” Dupont said smoothly enough.

  “Ha?” cried the other, more astonished than ever. “You rode alone behind those demons?”

  “No, no. For every one of them there were four of us.”

  “Even those odds are dangerous against such wolves,” said the veteran. “I once had a son … ah, amigo, I once had a son …” He broke off, his voice falling gradually away, and his eyes, misted with age and the thought of this old sorrow, looking far off toward a happier time. He added: “But you were riding with the men of Nabor?”

  “Yes. We followed them. But they scattered like the leaves before a wind.”

  “I have heard how they use that old trick.”

  “First there would be a dozen men before us. Then they would fan out … one here, another to this side, another to that, and still a group of four or five left flying in one direction, and most of the pursuit centered on them … do you see?”

  “It is a very old story. El Tigre teaches his men the tricks of foxes.”

  “The fastest horses were kept straight ahead, drawing the others after them, while the men on the slower horses ducked off on each side.”

  “Of course.”

  “So we began to find that where we had started to chase some four dozen …”

  “Four dozen? Señor, señor! I have heard honest men swear that there were between two and three hundred of the rascals.”

  “I tell you how many I saw when we were riding behind them. There may have been others who made off in other directions. Of that I know nothing.”

  “That is true, of course. And yet I understood that they all rode out of the town together.”

  “But as I was saying, I saw them thinning out before us. So at last I decided to take after a rascal on a small horse that turned off to the right. But apparently he did not turn off because his mount was slow. I sent my horse hard after him. You may see that my horse had good looks, and he is as fine as he is handsome. However, he was tired by a long day of work. I worked him hard, but this villain managed to keep well ahead of me. At last, when the dawn began to come, both my horse and I were tired out. I came to this place, and here I went to sleep.” This concluded his tale.

  “Then you can tell me all that happened in Nabor?” asked the old fellow, his eyes beginning to shine like diamonds in the greed for news.

  “I can tell you what I heard and saw and did,” said Dupont. “I had just come to the fonda, and was dismounting from the saddle … because I had had a late start yesterday … when I heard a blast of guns, and then a scream, and then there was shouting. ‘El Tigre.’ You can imagine that I was in the saddle again at once, and that I rode out to find out what was the matter. Everywhere men were saddling and mounting. Everywhere they were yelling and waving weapons. I followed in one current of hard riders. It took me out into the fields beyond the town. There I could see a crowd of riders. And we followed them as hard as we could, every man hoping that he might have the luck to help capture El Tigre. That is the story …” He stopped.

  The old man was rubbing his hands together impatiently. “That is all you know?” he asked.

  “No, one thing more. As we were riding, I heard that El Tigre had tried to rob the bank.”

  The old fellow waved such slight news into the thinnest air with a gesture of disdain. “Then you have not heard what really happened?” he shouted. “I shall make your heart warm. If you have ridden after El Tigre, this will make your blood as warm as wine.” He nodded to himself for an instant, still rubbing his hands, and smiling, while the delight in his narrative began to rise in his eyes like water brimming in a pitcher under the faucet. “This is what I heard from my cousin,” he said. “My cousin came out from Nabor early this morning. Fifty of us sat about and listened while he told the story. All of it must have been true. Who would dare, do you think, to lie to fifty men? No, that would be too dangerous, amigo.”

  “Very dangerous,” Dupont assented, and began to manufacture a cigarette.

  “First keep in mind,” rambled on the storyteller, “that there was a man named Roca. You will not forget that?”

  “I shall not forget that, my friend.” But he started a little in spite of himself, for what had Roca to do with the success or the failure of this expedition?

  “This Roca,” went on the old man, “had worked under El Tigre before, and he was called on to help when they rode for Nabor. But he did not like the thing. He had a wife who was sick, you see?”

  “Ah?” murmured Dupont, remembering the sullen face of Roca in the fonda.

  “When he wished to get out of the task, he was threatened, so that he saw he must go or else have a knife stuck between his ribs as a traitor.”

  “One can understand how that would be.”

  “He went home to his sick wife. But he dared not speak a word to her. One never can tell. Even the air has ears when one speaks of El Tigre. Is it not so?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “But this Roca was not a fool. He wrote on the wall … ‘El Tigre hunts tonight down the east road … I think toward Nabor.’ That was all, and that was enough. His wife could not read, poor woman, but, after her husband was gone, she called in a neighbor who was a wise man, and he saw the writing. This wise neighbor went to the police, and they telegraphed to Nabor. There were soldiers camped five miles from Nabor, and, when the telegram came, they were sent for and hidden away in houses near the bank, for it was guessed that at the bank El Tigre would strike. When he leaps, it is at a bull. Is it true?”

  “That is very true, of course.”

  “In the middle of the night, horsemen began to steal into the town. Some guarded the plaza. Others went into the bank. They had keys for the door. Someone in the bank had been bought, it is said. But when all was ready, the word was given. The colonel of the soldiers himself gave the word … by stabbing with his sword one of the bandits. His scream was the signal for the others. The soldiers ran out into the street, shooting as they went, and rushed for the bank. And what do you think they found there?”

  “Some of El Tigre’s bloodhounds, I suppose.”

  “Yes, yes. Some they killed, others they wounded, and a dozen of them threw themselves at one big man … and they took him alive. Who was it, señor?” The old gaucho was rolling himself from side to side in the height of his excitement.

  “I cannot guess, of course.”

  “Señor, it was El Tigre!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was news that at first seemed to Dupont so great that the blood rushed into his face. Here was the major half of his work already done for him. El Tigre was taken. But a moment of reflection altered his views a good deal. With El Tigre gone, his daughter would disappear. Perhaps she would flee into the mountains with one of the lieutenants of the outlaw chieftain, and, having married the man, her life would be ruined and ended as perfectly as though a bullet had struck her down.

  It had been hard enough to come on the traces of even so notorious a figure as El Tigre. It would be a thousandfold more difficult to reach Francesca. Indeed, if he hoped to find the girl, he could not reasonably retain that hope if her father were removed behind the walls of a prison awaiting his death, which would surely follow soon.

  “Is it not a great deliverance, señor?” the old gaucho asked.

  “People will not forget last night,” agreed Dupont gloomily.

  “We are coming to better days, señor. The great El Tigre is taken. Soon we may hope that the other pest … the other murderer will be taken.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Can you ask? Can you ask, señor? I mean that man who is more wicked than El Tigre. For El Tigre, if he stole money, gave much to those who were poor. He was a man who might have been a good, peaceful fellow if he had had better luck. But this other is a devil who murders sleeping men …
El Crisco!”

  “So?” Dupont declared, stung by the horror and the anger in the voice of his ancient companion. “Well, this El Crisco has done many bad things, I hear. What manner of man is he?”

  “A young man and a big man,” said the other. “With … why, señor, much such a man as you are. But he is to be chiefly known by his horse … Twilight.”

  “I have heard of his horse, too.”

  “A very great and wonderful stallion, señor. There are some who say that there is magic in that horse and his rider. I, however, believe no such tales. Some will tell you that bullets cannot strike either the horse or the man.”

  “Well,” Dupont murmured, anxious to turn the subject as soon as possible, “that is an odd name for a horse.”

  “It is because he is of an odd coloring. A black chestnut, señor, like … like …” He looked about him while his mind fumbled for a striking comparison, and, so doing, his glance passed out through the door and fell upon the splendid figure of the stallion, with the sunshine glimmering along his silken flanks. “Why, señor, his horse is of a color exactly like your own horse.”

  Here the truth, it seemed, burst suddenly upon him. His hand remained frozen in its position in midair as though fixed in a solid substance, and, while the blood ran out of his cheeks and left them a sickly sallow color, he stared with bulging eyes at his companion. It was as though he were beholding a bodiless ghost in the terror of the midnight.

  There was small chance to outface such conviction as that which he heard in the voice of the gaucho, but Dupont made his best effort to succeed. “What is wrong, amigo?” he asked.

  “El Crisco!” gasped out the old gaucho, and at the same time his shaking right hand reached behind the small of his back, while he set his teeth with the white lips strained back from them. He was like an old dog that meets a mighty timber wolf in the forest and, seeing no hope for escape, prepares with a growl to sell his life as dearly as he may.

  The heart of Dupont was touched. Suddenly he said: “Take your hand from your knife, my old friend. Do you think that is any use against this?” And he touched the butt of his revolver hanging loosely in the holster.

  The glance of the gaucho wavered down to the gun, and he shuddered. “Señor El Crisco,” he said huskily, “I am an old man, and there are many sins upon my shoulders. Give me only enough time to pray that God may receive my miserable soul into his mercy and …”

  Dupont shrugged his thick, strong young shoulders. “What is your name, old man?” he asked.

  The other called back his dim eyes from the contemplation of the wickedness of his long life. “Perez,” he said faintly. “My name is Perez.”

  “My good Perez, listen to me. There are many lies floating in the air about El Crisco. Among others, they have called me a murderer. I swear to you, señor, that I have never taken the life of any man in the whole of the Argentine. Shall I begin murder with you?”

  “I pray God that you will not, señor.”

  “But if I let you go, Perez, you will fly to the nearest town and give the alarm.”

  “I?” The thin arms of the gaucho were thrown wide in a protestation of innocence. “God strike me with his lightning if I could do such a thing to my benefactor …”

  “Hush,” Dupont said sternly. “Do not lie. However, you are free to go your way.”

  “Señor El Crisco …” He choked and could say no more.

  “Adiós, Perez.”

  Perez rose to his feet, trembling so that he could hardly stand, and, walking from the shack, he crossed the space toward his horse slowly, shaken now and again with strong convulsions of terror and glancing back over his shoulder as though he expected to see a leveled rifle behind him. So he gained the saddle and turned the head of his weary horse down the road. For a hundred yards he jogged slowly. Then, looking back and seeing that El Crisco had made no motion toward saddling the black chestnut, he clapped the spurs to the sides of his ancient horse and brought that steed into a rickety gallop.

  Dupont, gazing after him, could not help breaking into laughter, but his mirth was short-lived. Before long Perez would have spread the tale of what he had seen and heard, doubtless embroidered with many miraculous details. And some scores of swift, keen-eyed riders would swarm out onto the Pampas to hunt for the outlawed man.

  So, gloomily enough, he saddled Twilight and rode on his way. That way was straight back toward the town of Nabor, for, at the very moment when he was drawing the cinches tight, he had formed a reckless resolution. It was sufficiently wild to have made even the fabulous El Crisco, who haunted the dreams of honest men, tremble and grow pale.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There was no work in Nabor on this day. It was a holiday that had to be observed with as much religious zeal as the day of the birth of the republic. For on this day had occurred an event that would lift Nabor forever out of oblivion. Never again would a citizen of that prosperous little municipality, visiting Buenos Aires, have to explain to those he met where the town of Nabor was situated and what was its population and what were its industries. No, it would be known henceforth as the place where El Tigre was, at length, taken a prisoner, and removed from his wild and dangerous life.

  Wherever they went, the men of Nabor would be welcome guests, for it would everywhere be hoped that they could give new tidings about that famous event. Accordingly the shops were closed and the bars were opened and the town of Nabor—male and female, girl and boy—busied itself with the important affair of learning all that was to be known of the history of that great night, and all that was not known about it.

  No one hunted for truth. Everyone was interested in the picturesque only. All was put under a microscope and the result was then painted in the wildest colors. And the wine circulated. What is more inspiring to the inquisitive brain than a touch of alcohol? The good men of Nabor used it plentifully, and they found that it indeed made their wits fertile. There were times when the numbers of El Tigre’s handful of followers reached the magnificent proportions of five and six hundred men—a stout army that had only been vanquished by the brilliant genius and the stout sword and the gallant discipline of Colonel Alfonso Ramírez.

  Nothing could have been better to the purpose of Charles Dupont than the festival spirit that now lived and breathed in the air of the town of Nabor. The eyes of men and women were dimmed to all but one topic. Looking in the air for stars, one cannot see the danger at one’s feet. And rejoicing for the glory of a recent victory, how many armies have been suddenly routed by the surprise attack of a new and unexpected foeman?

  So it was with the town of Nabor, which, while it swung its united hat and cheered for Alfonso Ramírez—long might his name be glorious throughout the land—was so blinded with the tears of joy that it did not see stalking through the streets a monster hardly less known to fame—El Crisco himself.

  El Crisco, and walking through the streets of the town in the light of the sun. Certainly it was madness. But El Crisco was a calm-brained Anglo-Saxon, willing to take desperate chances like others of the cold Northern races, but first counting up those chances deliberately and finding some hope for a success. The very madness was what he hoped might blind others around him.

  In addition, he had done what he could to hide his distinctive features. Some days before, he had secured some dye and stain, yet he had hesitated before this to use it. And the thought of staining his blond hair black, for some reason, angered him. However, he could not neglect a precaution so important on this day of days.

  In the first place, he did not enter the town with Twilight. That was, of course, a madness a little too great even for an Anglo-Saxon gone berserk. But in a shed on the outskirts of the town, a shed that stood behind an abandoned house, he had placed the great black chestnut and smoothed his dappled hide like the sleek skin of a jaguar. Who could tell how dearly he would need the stallion on that night—or
whether he would ever so much as see him again?

  And so, running his hand lovingly down the arched neck of Twilight, he whispered in the quivering ear: “Old-timer, it’s you who dragged me south to this country. It’s you that dragged me into all this trouble. How the devil will you ever pay me back, you rascal, when I’m salted away with cold lead?”

  With this farewell he went into another part of the shed and continued his work. It was a laborious process, but he performed it with some neatness and at the expense of a good hour of his time. At the end of that period there issued from the shed, instead of the blond, fair-skinned fellow who had entered it, one with shining, coal-black hair, and with a skin as dark as walnut juice would turn it. Even the eyelids were darkened, and the very eyelashes had been carefully blackened. And the arms and neck of this transformed adventurer were as dusky as the skin of a Malay.

  About his neck there flamed a crimson bandanna of immense proportions, spotted with splashes of blue and of yellow. It caught the eye blocks away, like fire in the dark of the night. But it was the theory of Charles Dupont, on this occasion, that the bolder his attire the greater his chances of success. They would not be apt to think of another outlaw now that El Tigre was in the prison. And after the downfall of that great leader, surely they would expect to have their town shunned by every other bandit as long as Nabor stood under the sun or the eternal stars.

  Such was the opinion of Charles Dupont, but as he swaggered down the street, his heart was cold and small in him, and every eye that fell upon him seemed to be prying at his soul, and as every person passed, it seemed to Dupont that they were turning and glancing back over their shoulders at him.

  However, having entered upon his task, he would not draw back. He went straight to the center of town and entered the plaza. There he found the reason for the fairly deserted streets through which he had just been passing. For the entire population of Nabor, very nearly, had gathered here where all might see and be seen, talk and listen, and taste the new delightful rumors and reports as swiftly as they were born.