by Max Brand
“Of course, to be wakened by that fiend...”
“A poor weak devil!” scoffed the girl. “Our great Guadalmo takes him by the throat and makes the devil beg!”
“You do not believe?”
“Of course I believe,” said Lucia, yawning a little. “I believe anything that is amusing! There is little enough, at that!”
She could not be moved from this position. Guadalmo finished his recital in the midst of a silence which was a greater tribute than applause. He promised, however, that when he had a little spare time on his hands, he would hunt down this wretched road-haunter, this Black Rider, and cut him to shreds the very next time they encountered.
Here Lucia spoke aloud: “The next time, señor “ she said, “will surely be the last. It will be the seventh. And that number is surely fatal, is it not?”
To the surprise of everyone, Señor Guadalmo turned white and his face was glistening with perspiration.
“I pray heaven, señorita,” he said in a shaken voice, “that you are not a prophet.”
“Ah, ah!” cried Lucia. “I mean, of course, that the meeting will be fatal for him... for the Black Rider!”
It was too late to give the thought that turn in the mind of Guadalmo. He seemed stricken. He sat bowed in his chair, his head in his hand.
He said over and over: “There is a sort of fate in it, is there not? I meet him again and again... I alone. Six times he has encountered me... six times the breath of the devil has fanned my cheek. But all this is only a warning. The seventh time the devil will gather me in!”
He removed from the table presently and went from the room. All remained in an uneasy silence for a moment behind him, and at length Torreño himself murmured: “Who would have believed this of the great Guadalmo?”
His steward came in at that moment. He was full of excitement. He reported that, in a shallow bed of leaves in the forest, not far from the very spot where Señor Guadalmo had been found in close fight with the marauder, one of the peons had stumbled into a hidden sword and got a shrewd cut in the leg for his discovery. It was given to the steward, who instantly gave it, of course, to the master of the house. Could it be, by any chance, the weapon of the Black Rider, which had fallen from his hand? Torreño took the rapier and held it at arm’s length.
“That is a rapier worthy of a gentleman, not a brigand,” he said.
“I’ll swear that the Black Rider would rather have parted with so much flesh nearest his heart than to have lost this weapon. At least, we have one of the feathers of the crow, which is more than all the other hunters for him can say. But what if he comes back for it?”
Here there followed an impressive little silence, and into it ran the sound of a far-off flute:
“Ye highlands and ye lowlands,
Oh, where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl of Murray
And hae laid him on the green.
“Now wae be to thee, Huntly,
And wharefore did ye sae?
I bade ye bring him wi you
And forbade ye him to slay.”
Then Señor Torreño stood up. He sent for Guadalmo. He sent for half a dozen other of his most trusted men — and then changed his mind and took with him the same number of Guadalmo’s practiced fighters.
“This hand to hand fighting and this dueling,” he said, “is all very well. But I prefer a net which is sure of catching the bird.”
The wounded servant limped along to show them the way; it was a perfect place. Low shrubbery enclosed a little hollow, and in that pool of leaves, stirred by only the strongest winds, the rapier had been found. Guadalmo and the rest instantly took cover among the shrubs. In the meantime orders were sent back for the rest of the train to be busy preparing the coach and packing up for the journey.
If the Black Rider were nearby, watching, he might venture down even now to secure his lost weapon!
But nothing came near them except the sound of the flute of Taki, the Navajo, as he wandered casually among the trees. He appeared, presently, from among them. He came to the pool of the dead leaves and scuffed through it. He turned, still with the flute at his lips, and went shuffling through the leaves again.
Then he stopped, lowered the flute, and frowned. Presently he leaned over and slipped his hand among the leaves. It seemed, indeed, as though he were searching for something. And what he wanted was not there! He dropped to his knees, then, and pocketing the flute, he was busy with both hands.
Suddenly the voice of Guadalmo rang loudly as he started up.
“Take him, my friends! This is the man we want!”
They started out of the shrubbery like six bloodhounds. Instantly they closed around the tall form of the Indian. He was still a head above the tallest man. He made no resistance. He merely looked about him in a bewildered fashion as they laid hands upon him. Torreño came storming from his place. The Black Rider was a man of wit and invention, a dashing, clever fellow. This was no more than a red Indian and could not be the man.
“He has come here to hunt... for what?” asked Guadalmo. “For his lost sword, of course. Besides, I have heard his voice; I have seen his height and his form. It is the man, Torreño. My life on it! Another thing... give me hot water and a little scrubbing and you will see some of the red come from that skin! None but a white man could handle a sword as he handles his! I’ll go a step farther, my friends. I’ll give him a name... which is Gidden!”
So much surety turned the scales at once.
“Bring him instantly to the house,” said Torreño. “We’ll have a try with water at his hide.”
“There is no need, señor,” said the prisoner calmly. “I freely confess that I am Richard Gidden!”
Señor Guadalmo began to laugh. The lines of trouble disappeared from his face. Years of age seemed to have been stripped from him.
“Taki,” he said, “would have given the hounds a run, but Richard Gidden will be found worthy of hanging. Is it not so, Torreño?”
XI. THE CHASE
TO THIS QUESTION, the master of those lands did not immediately return an answer. He looked about him with a vacant eye of thought over the brown hills and the dark patches of oak groves here and there, studded with a scattering of cattle. Then he turned to Guadalmo.
“This man is worthy of death,” he said at length. “That is clear. He confesses it himself. Now, my friend, when I see a white man I am ready to give him a white man’s death. But when I see a redskin, an Indian’s death is a better thing for him. His skin is red. He calls himself Richard Gidden. It is an odd name. He is known to me only as Taki. And as Taki I swear he shall die!”
“And how?” asked Guadalmo, falling in readily enough with the viewpoint of the other. “For my part, I say, tie his hands behind his back and send a few ounce bullets through his head. That will make an end of him. However, there may be better ways. What way, Señor Torreño?”
“The dogs!” said Torreño. “I have traveled without them for this time only. But you have them with you constantly. The dogs, Guadalmo, and a fifty-pace start for him!”
“Señor Guadalmo,” broke in Richard Gidden, “your life has been in my hands, and I have spared it. Remember!”
“My life in your hands?” snarled out the Spaniard. “You lie, you rat! Besides, my pack need a blooding. They have grown dull on the trail! The dogs, Torreño, the dogs! An Indian’s death for a redskin.”
And the first man to echo that cry among the followers of Señor Guadalmo was none other than Giovanni of Naples, with a bruised patch at the base of his jaw and a fury of rage in his heart. It was taken up; it swept to the house; it reached the ears even of the lady, Lucia. She could not understand, at first, but when she did, she went straight to Don Carlos. He was about to hurry to the manhunt, with gaiety in his face.
“Carlos,” she said with a sort of stern eagerness, “if you wish my love and my respect, stop this hideous thing. He is a man, Carlos, not a beast. And they tell me he is a white man. God i
n heaven knows that I guessed that before I had heard him speak three words. For the sake of your soul... for my sake, Carlos, stop this hunt! And if...”
Her voice was broken short by a loud clamor of deep-voiced hounds. She beckoned him away and turned to the house with her head bowed, her hands pressed over her ears. Don Carlos left her like a frightened boy who has seen a mystery. It had never occurred to him that it was wrong to hunt Indians with dogs. He had done it. His father had enjoyed that same wild sport. What there was in it of sin he could not see. And for the fact that the man was white, it was obvious that since he had chosen the disguise of a redskin, an Indian’s death was only ironically proper to him. And yet, seeing the horror in the face of the girl, he comprehended dimly that there was both a crime and a sin here. Most of all, he was afraid of her. He would have faced anything rather than incur her displeasure. He would have faced his very father. And, a moment later, he did so.
The hounds were out, and Torreño was discussing their merits rather than the merits of the work which was before them. The admirable Señor Guadalmo had in person brought this pack from Germany. The base of their blood was the boar hound. But having been trained by the skillful hand of Guadalmo, they were soon accustomed to course far nobler game. Huge of shoulder and quarter, with great, square, muzzled heads and brows wrinkled with lion-like sagacity and fierceness, they possessed, in addition, long limbs and the tucked-up bellies of greyhounds which were token of their speed. There were a dozen in the original pack. Seven remained, but they were like seven tigers in ferocity and cunning. Already they sensed work to their liking, and raged on the leashes. Two servants held each dog — and each dog was worth the price of two peons! The entire household was gathered to watch the chase. It was now that Don Carlos encountered his father.
“Señor,” he said, “for the grace of heaven, do not hunt this man with the dogs!”
His father turned slowly upon him. He had been touched to the very core of the heart with rage by the invasion of his house the night before. Now he saw some chance to let loose the gathering thunder of his anger.
“The grace of heaven? The grace of heaven?” he echoed. “What do you know of the grace of heaven, boy?”
Don Carlos was stricken. He retreated a pace. His voice trembled a little as he added: “It is not I who ask, Father,” he said. “It is Lucia!”
“It is Lucia!” mocked Torreño, putting a semi-awe into his own tones. “It is the peerless lady, Lucia. Now, boy, hear me and understand me. I have paid a price for that girl. And may my soul roast if the price was not high! There is one way she may make me a return for my money... and that is to be an obedient daughter. But as for what she wishes... damnation, Carlos, am I to be ruled by the whims of a girl and a fool? Am I to be ruled? I?”
His voice had raised at the end. Don Carlos was fairly quaking with fear.
Yet still he remembered the face of Lucia and so he persisted for a moment.
“Alas, sir,” he said. “If you had seen her as I saw her, when she begged me to...”
“Begged?” said Torreño, breaking strongly in. “That is good! Teach her to beg. She is too apt to demand. As for this business, she knows nothing about it. A woman’s gentleness would fill this land with red devils in a month. It is one of my servants, Carlos, who dared to enter my house and raised a hand against a guest of Francisco Torreño! I will see him torn to shreds! Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” said Don Carlos submissively.
“As for the girl, your wife to be,” continued Torreño, a little appeased by the frightened face of his son, “she may weep today, frown tomorrow, and sulk the next day. Then give her a ring... a horse... or some other trinket. And she will forget. Here is time to learn a great thing in the management of women, my lad. Let them feel the whip now and then... the whip, Carlos!”
He rubbed his hands together and laughed loudly.
“Now, friends!” he called to the others. “Is all prepared? Look to the cinches of my saddle, Juan. Mind his heels, fool! Señor Guadalmo, this will be sport!”
“Unless he runs away from the dogs,” said Guadalmo with a discontented face. “The surest way is a bullet through the head. Let the dogs have him afterward, if you choose!”
He added in thunder: “Bring out Taki! Bring him out! Place him here!”
Fifty not over-long strides he advanced before the leashed pack and marked the spot by driving his heel into the ground. To that place they led out Richard Gidden, half naked. There was no doubt about the true color of his skin now. All his body had been dyed copper, but only about the face and hands had the stain been carefully renewed. The rest of him was many a shade lighter, and across his shoulders the white seemed fairly shining through.
He came forth with a firm step. He regarded the beasts who were to hunt him. He watched the mounting of the riders. Then he turned his glance before him, as though selecting the best course for his race. He was rather like an athlete contending for a great prize than one about to struggle hopelessly for life.
“Cast him loose!” commanded Torreño. “Stand fast, Taki, until you hear the word. Stand fast, or we send a dozen bullets through you. Now, lads, with the dogs...”
The guards, who had surrounded the prisoner, now gave back in haste to open a channel through which the dogs might run at their prey. But by this time they were in a frenzy of eagerness. They reared to a man’s height as they strained at the leashes.
“Unleash!” cried Torreño. “Halloo! Away!”
A horn blew; the dogs leaped off, giving tongue; and Richard Gidden whirled to flee. But, as he whirled, he whistled once, a long, shrill note that cut through the air like the scream of a bagpipe. Then he fled down the slope toward the nearest hollow.
For fifty yards, with the fear of death winging his feet, he gained on the flying dogs, for the boar hound, after all, is a stout but clumsy runner.
For a hundred yards he held them even. Then they began to gain steadily and surely. They crossed the hollow. They sped up the slope beyond with the hillside giving back their deep voices in thunder. They topped the first hill and lunged down into the gentle valley beyond. And now they were straining forward closer and closer to his heels. The leaders began to slaver. The note of the baying rose sharper and shorter as toward the kill. And the horsemen who swept at an easy canter in the rear shouted encouragement. Torreño was strangled with laughter; Señor Guadalmo, like a madman in his joy, yelled to the hounds and brandished his fist above his head.
By the time they reached the next hollow they would pull down the fugitive, beyond doubt. The morning sun shone on his limbs, burnished with perspiration; his body swayed, now, with the agony of his labor, and his head was flagging back with exhaustion.
And then a red flash left the thicket to the left, and a red bay stallion flaunted across the open straight at the fugitive. It was Guadalmo who first understood the meaning of the thing.
“Torreño!” he screamed. “Look! Look! His horse! Once on the back of that red devil, he is gone like the wind! Ride down the hounds. Get to him! Pistols and swords, my friends, if you love me! If he escapes today, we are but murdered men tomorrow!”
They heard him with a shout of rage, gave their horses the spur, and instantly they were among the pack and rushing fast upon the runner. But though they rode hard and recklessly down that slope like true cavaliers, their speed was nothing compared with the unburdened stallion. He came like a loose lightning flash, down the slope and into the hollow. Straight beside Taki he rushed, and swerving there, with hardly abated gallop, they saw the fugitive fling himself at the bay, grapple the mane with one hand, take a long, winged leap as he was jerked forward by the running horse, and then rebound upward to his back.
But he was not yet free. The pursuit came hot behind him, and now their guns were out. But heavy horse pistols fired from the backs of running horses strike a target by chance rather than by skill. A dozen bullets combed the air about him as he lay flat on the back of the hors
e. But he guided the stallion by the touch of his hand to the left. Twenty paces before the pursuit he reached the next grove of oaks. And the voice of Guadalmo was a moan of desperation.
Through the open grove they pushed, bringing blood with every stroke of their spurs. The pack of boar hounds strained far, far to the rear now, setting up what seemed a foolish clamor. As well might they try to catch the wind as to overtake this fugitive. He was work for their masters. Too much work, indeed, even for them. For when they gained the open again, the red bay was racing over the next hilltop, and when they reached the next hilltop, he was entering a broken copse of oak in the hollow.
For another ten minutes they labored with curses and whip and spurs; but at the end of that time Richard Gidden had vanished from among the hills! The chase halted. All were silent. Torreño’s brow was black as a thundercloud. The lips of Guadalmo were twitching in a passion which he dared not release in words for fear lest words alone would not suffice him. But the eye which he turned upon Torreño was the very soul of eloquence.
So they came back toward the house. The dogs followed on through the hills unregarded. Later, servants would pursue them a weary distance and bring them in once more. But they would bring no consolation to Torreño or to Guadalmo. Those captains rode with faces averted from one another and so regained their quarters. And the view of them as they came in with failure printed on their brows brought joy to one person only — and that was the Señorita Lucia. Anna d’Arquista had come running to her and found her in prayer at the foot of the altar in her little private chapel — passionate prayer, with her face pressed against the cold stone. She rose and ran to the window, and looking out, she cried: “God has heard me! God has heard me!”
XII. LUCIA FACES THE MASTER
THE SON, SEÑOR Don Carlos Torreño, had enjoyed the race after Taki — or Richard Gidden, to give him his true name — as much as any man. But when the red stallion appeared and swept the fugitive away to safety, he was the dreariest of all the party who turned back toward the house — with the single exception of Señor Guadalmo. The duelist was thinking of death; Don Carlos was thinking of his lady; it would have been hard to say which of the two had the colder heart.