by Max Brand
“Ah?”
“When I whistle, he comes. When I speak, he lifts his ears. I need no bridle to control him.”
“This fellow,” said Torreño, “talks like a man of sense…if I could only understand what he is striking at!”
This was spoken, like the rest of his asides, in French. And the Navajo instantly answered for himself, in the purest French of Paris, where alone French was pure.
“I mean that the horse is my slave, señor.”
“By the heavens!” broke out Torreño. “The fellow speaks French, also. Better French than I use myself!”
“Wait, wait!” said the girl in a hurried voice, raising her hand to stop interruptions, and staring fixedly at the Indian. “He has something more to say.”
“Aye,” said Torreño, nodding. “The horse is your slave.”
“Because he will do these things,” said the Indian, “and because he is fleeter than the horses, even, which you ride, señor
“What! That’s a broad lie, Taki!”
At this, the other stiffened a little.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “it is true! It is a fleeter horse than any of those you ride. And it is also my slave. But, señor, though I value him more than gold, it is because his speed is all for me. His strength is all mine. No other man can sit on his back! To them, he is a devil.”
“You are right, Taki. That is something I can understand!”
“If he were a horse for any man to ride, I should not care. There would be a price upon him. But me he serves for love! Therefore he is priceless.”
“Very well…very well! And what has this to do with the knife you drew on my son, the Señor Don Carlos Torreño? By the heavens, Taki, tell me that!”
“If a man were to take a whip to that horse of mine, señor, should I not be happy if he used his heels?”
Passion had been swelling in the face, in the throat of Torreño. Now it relaxed a little.
“I begin to understand! I begin to understand! You, Taki, will have only one master?”
“Señor, you have spoken!”
“Not even if I assign you to another by express command?”
“Not even then, señor”
“God!” thundered the Spaniard. “There is a hangman and a rope for disobedient slaves!”
“Señor” said Taki, “death is half a second; but every day of slavery is a century of hell!”
“Ten thousand devils!” said Torreño. “He talks like a fool.”
“Or a philosopher,” said the girl, “and still more…like a brave man!”
“But are you not,” said Torreño, “at this moment in my service?”
“For another fortnight, only.”
“What?”
“It is true.”
“Taki, are you mad?”
“No, señor”
“I employ no man except when he is bought or hired for life.”
“To me, however, you made an exception.”
“In what manner? Have I ever seen you before?”
“There was a crossing of a river,” said the other. “A dozen men were riding after one Indian. They shot his horse. He swam the river. They followed, swimming their horses. He killed the first man ashore with his knife, took his horse, and rode on. But the horse was tired. The others behind him gained. He was not ten minutes from death by fire, señor, when he saw you and your party and rode to you and
“I remember, I remember!” cried Torreño, clapping his hands together. “It is all as clear as the ringing of a bell! I remember it all! You came to us with Pedro Marva and his hired fighters raging and foaming behind you. I put in between. They were very hot, but not so hot that they did not know me. Ha?”
“They knew you, señor,” said the Indian gravely.
Don Carlos was gaping at this story; but Señorita Lucia flushed and bit her lip.
“They knew me,” went on Torreño, “and when I told them that they could not have the man…because his riding pleased me…they turned around and went off, cursing. However, I paid Marva for his dead man…and all was well!”
“It’s true…it is very true,” said the Indian.
“You paid for the life of a man? A white man?” asked the girl.
“All things have a price…in this country,” said the Spaniard.
She did not answer, but she looked around her on the bald, vast sweep of plain and mountain. She looked up, and there were tiny, circling dots which ruled the sky—the buzzards. And she shuddered a very little.
“But how,” said the Spaniard, “are you to be in my service only a fortnight longer? I remember it all. You were to serve me until you had paid for the price of the man. And twelve hundred pesos could not be worked out in ten lives of a shepherd. How have you made the money?”
“There are more than eleven hundred pesos,” said the Navajo, “already in the hands of your treasurer. He has kept the account. I have the rest to pay in soon.”
“Rascal!” said the Spaniard. “You have not been in my service for six months.”
“Señor, there are ways of making money, even for a poor shepherd.”
“Who leaves his sheep?”
“Only at night, when a friend will come to watch them.”
“Ah? Ah? You are a worker by night, Taki? And what do you find at night?”
“There was a great rider of the roads. There was a Captain Sandoval….”
“He was killed three months ago. What of him? I was away.”
“There was a reward on his head.”
“Of five hundred pesos. Yes.”
“The reward was paid to me, señor!”
“The devil fly off with me! The terrible Sandoval…and one Indian killed him? How in the name of heaven?”
The Indian turned. His hand flashed back and forward. A line of light left it and went out in the trunk of a narrow sapling, which shivered with the shock. There stood the knife, buried to the hilt in the hard wood.
“Name of heaven!” whispered Don Carlos, and touched his heart, as though just there he felt the resistless death slide in.
“Ah?” said Torreño. “It was in that way?”
“It was in that way.”
“And he did not touch you?”
“His pistol bullet just touched my hair, señor!”
“That accounts for five hundred pesos only.”
“There was another…a friend of Sandoval. Some said it was his younger brother, and he was a greater man; there were six hundred pesos on his head. That money became mine.”
“Now I remember that it was said an Indian killed poor Juan Sandoval. But it was you, Taki? I am growing old…things happen on this place and I do not know of them! Still, Taki, that leaves a hundred pieces of silver. How have you saved them?”
“There are the dice, señor.”
“A head hunter, a gambler…,” began Don Carlos.
“And a musician,” said the girl. “In what way did you learn to play the flute, Taki?”
“Señor Arreto, a great Spaniard, came to fight against my people. I was wounded and captured. But in the fighting he watched me and thought I was worth keeping…as a slave. He took me back to Europe with him. It was amusing, señorita, to see the poor Indian learn to dance, to play the flute, to bow and to talk like a real man. So I was taught. I went with him among fine people. When people talked of his journeys, he pointed to me. It proved that he was a great hunter. Imagine, señorita, a hunter come back from India with a tamed tiger in his company to follow at his heels like a dog!”
This ironical speech was so delivered that neither Torreño nor his rather dull son quite caught the point of it, but the girl smiled faintly.
“And so you learned to play the flute?”
“Yes, señorita. My day was divided in three parts. There was the fencing master, the dancing master, the music master. In the afternoons I was taken forth and shown to the people. Everyone wished to hear me play the flute. Now and then a brave lady who was not too proud, permitted me to dance with her.
And twice bravos were hired to fight with me and prove what I had learned from the fencing masters.”
“And…?”
“I killed them both, señorita.”
“Then what followed?”
“When Señor Arreto died, he gave me my liberty. I took my little money and bought a certain fine horse which I had seen. The price was low, because the horse was a tiger and would not be tamed. But I, who had been tamed, understood how to manage him. With that horse I returned to this country.”
“One instant, Taki,” broke in Don Carlos, raising his hand and delighted to make a point. “If you are a master of the sword, why would you hunt your head…with a knife?”
“The teeth which God gives us,” said the Indian, bowing, “are better than false ones for eating, señor.”
“What do you think of him?” asked Torreño of the girl.
“He is enchanting!” she whispered back.
“An enchanting liar!” he said. “There never was an Indian in the world who could manage a weapon so formal as a sword. Shall I prove it?”
“If it can be done!”
“Ride back,” said Torreño to his son, “and bring two foils. Quickly.”
There was no need for the last word. All commands of Torreño implied the necessity for speed, and Don Carlos was instantly rushing back at the full flight of his horse toward that waiting caravan.
The girl drew closer to Torreño.
“For the little time that remains for him to serve you,” she said, “let me have this man for a servant!”
“He will not be alive in ten minutes,” said Torreño. “You will see that he handles the sword like a fool. And when that happens, I intend to shoot that liar down like the dog that he is. No Indian can kill a white, even a villainous white, and remain a good Indian!”
She grew pale, started to speak; then changed her mind and said simply: “But if he fences well?” “That is impossible!” “But?” “Then he is yours, but give the dog a muzzle!”
IV “A Wager that Taki Wins”
Don Carlos came back at full speed, as he had gone, and he brought with him two foils in their scab-’bards, with leather covers over the hilts. Torreño took them, unbuckled the flaps which secured the hilts, and drew forth the blades. One by one, he whipped them through the air until they sang.
“Most people,” he said to the girl, “use for their foils dull iron things, or poor steel that bends to nothing after a strong touch or two. But these are of the finest old Spanish steel, specially made for my boy in order that he might have exercise.”
Her face lighted a little. “You love to fence, then, señor!”
“I? Love it? The devil take it. One good broad sword is worth a dozen such great darning needles, I say, or a saber at least. I have seen a Pole use a saber that it would have done your eyes good to watch him, but this stamping and parading and retreating and advancing and sweating, and bowing and scraping…bah! It makes me laugh to see it! When one good pistol bullet would put an end to it all!”
The light which had flickered into her eyes went out again.
“Here, Carlos,” he said to his son. “Take one of these.”
“For what, sir?” asked the son.
“Taki says that he’s a fencer. If he can touch you…well, he is! If he cannot…he is a dead Indian!”
He drew out a huge horse pistol as he spoke and flourished it.
“Do you hear me, Taki?”
“Yes.”
“Do you agree?”
“It is to see if I have lied about the fencing lessons,” said the Navajo. “It is very just!”
“Señoñ” cried the girl. “You do not mean it!”
“Peace, Lucia,” said Torreño, bending his brows upon her. “Peace, child. Do not question the workings of my mind. You are a bright little thing, Lucia. But do not trot your wits over the same trail that I follow. For that is dangerous, and I would not abide it. I live alone, my girl. I live alone, I promise you. I open my purposes to whom I please. And to those who do not please me, I keep them closed. And so…for that!”
The girl had turned white. But she kept her eyes on the ground, while poor Don Carlos looked upon her in an agony, aching to comfort her or to speak a word to her, but not daring to move or to speak. He merely accepted the foil from the hand of his father and automatically stood on guard.
“Now, let me see,” said Torreño, with a serene brow, as if he had already forgotten the manner in which he had trod roughshod over the girl, “let me see you work for your life, Taki, for your life. Liars are usually interesting people…but not when they’re Indians. A truthful Indian or a dead one is my motto. Come! Engage!”
The blades crossed as he spoke, and Don Carlos, impatient to have the dirty work over with, with a curl of fine disdain on his lip as he faced his humble opponent, put the other’s blade sharply aside and, continuing his point in the same motion, lunged full home. That is to say, he drove straight at the heart of the Indian, and the latter opposed no guard, yet managed to escape the button of the Spaniard by a supple bending of his body.
“You see?” said Torreño to the girl. “The fool knows nothing of the sword. The knife is as far as his brute heart can aspire.”
“He is a musician, señor,” said the girl. “This ring you have given me against…his service to me…that he wins!”
The other gaped at her. “Win, Lucia? Win? Are you mad? No, he is as good as dead already!”
“Nevertheless,” she said, “though I ask your pardon for denying you, he is a fine fencer. See!”
Don Carlos, angered by the first lack of fortune, pressed hotly in, following lunge with thrust and thrust with lunge. But the Indian, still parrying only a little, escaped the point still by constantly retreating and by the deftness of his footwork.
“Any fool can run away from trouble,” said Don Francisco. “Taki, Taki, I wish to see fencing, not a foot race. Stand to him
He had not finished off his oath at his leisure when Taki stopped, indeed seemed to flick aside the blade of Don Carlos, and instantly dipped his own blade at Don Carlos. Then he leaped back and lowered his foil.
“A touch!” cried the girl. “He has won!”
“Seven thousand devils!” groaned Torreño. “Carlos…idiot…have you allowed him…?”
“I hardly felt it…I am sure it was not a touch,” panted Don Carlos. “It could not have been a touch!”
“I saw his foil bend as the button touched you, Carlos,” said the girl coldly.
“He did not feel it…I did not see it!” exclaimed the tyrant. “It was not a touch! Engage!”
Don Carlos made a strange gesture to the girl, as though disclaiming this lack of sportsmanship. Then he hurried to cross swords with Taki. The latter showed not the slightest disappointment or excitement. But he was a little more gravely watchful as he engaged. Neither was Don Carlos so impetuous. He had been foolishly hasty before. He summoned all of his care at this moment, and he was not only the product of the finest teaching in the world, but he was a credit to that teaching.
But to the amazement of them all, Taki now stood his ground without flinching, putting aside the lunges and the thrusts of Don Carlos with the most consummate ease and at the same time, so fluid were his own movements, that he was able to talk, slowly, but without panting.
“I am forbidden to retreat, señor,” he said to Don Carlos. “Therefore you will forgive me if I stand my ground for an instant before you. As for the last touch, it was upon your belt, and it was for that reason that you did not feel it, I have no doubt. The next time, with ten thousand pardons, I shall try to lodge the button against your throat…against the hollow of your throat, señor, if I can be so fortunate, for the sake of making that touch an unmistakable one! You will forgive me for it, señor?”
“Why, curse you,” said Don Carlos through his teeth as he worked, “that time will never come!”
“Look!” said the girl. “Look!”
It was, indeed, a str
ange sight to watch the Indian. A slight wind had come up and blew his long hair back from his head, showing that lean face to greater advantage. And there was still the same quiet, thoughtful expression in his eyes. His head canted a little to one side, as though his opponent were at a distance. His look was rather that of a gunner than a swordsman. Only, from time to time, his foil was a wall of the most solid steel against which the assaults of Don Carlos clashed noisily but could not break through.
Then: “Señor, a thousand, ten thousand pardons, as they say in Paris. But…there is a necessity.”
And he attacked. For an instant Don Carlos bore up against the attack like a swimmer against a turning tide. Then he was borne back while his father shouted in a rage.
“Is this the result of the money I have spent on you? Oh, fool! Oh, dolt! I wish to heaven that the Indian’s point was unbated! I wish it were through your heart! I have a lump, a clod for a son! Oh, what a shame this is to me! It is an Indian, not a gentleman who stands before you, Carlos! Are you sleeping? And if.…”
His voice broke off short. The button of the Navajo at that instant lodged against the throat of Carlos with such force that the strong blade of the foil doubled up like a supple switch in his hand. Carlos dropped his sword, caught at his throat, and then sank gasping to the ground.
It was Taki who raised him first. But he received across the body a slashing stroke from the riding whip of Torreño, who instantly flung himself from his horse and caught his son in his arms.
“Carlos!” he cried. “Is it well with you? You are not hurt? I shall kill him if your skin is so much as broken! If….”
Carlos recovered speech with a groan.
“He is the finest fencer in the world. Father, this is no Indian. Or else he is a devil disguised!” He added: “Let him alone. Don’t harm him. I had rather know that last trick than have a million pesos!”
“You have had the finest blades in Milan and Paris to teach you. You come home to me to take lessons from a Navajo? You have my flesh and my blood in you. Otherwise, Carlos, I should call you a fool outright. Lucia, that man is yours!”
He mounted his horse and rode furiously away.
“He will never forgive me!” said Don Carlos sadly, still fingering his throat. “As for you, Taki,” he said, turning a black scowl upon the Indian, “I’ll teach you to curse this day!”