by Max Brand
It was a glorious cavalcade, and, as they swept past, each cavalier raised his quirt most gallantly to little Catalina—all saving Don José. He bowed low above his saddle and swept his great sombrero toward the ground.
The heart of Catalina was contented. After that moment, it was plain that she had not lived in vain. When she walked out to look after them, her soul was so well within her that she even extended her hand with much graciousness toward Dick. He had followed her flying horse at his best speed, as in duty bound. But not even a greyhound could have kept pace with the matchless burst of the bay thoroughbred as it flew up the road toward the Rézan house. So Dick arrived, faithful but a little tardy, and skulked toward his mistress with head abased.
It only needed that half gesture of kindness to transform him. He passed into an ecstasy at once, frolicking around Catalina until he dared to rear and touch her with his fluffy forepaws, deeply coated with the powdery dust of the road.
“Filthy beast!” Catalina cried through her teeth as she saw her skirt disfigured. She slashed furiously at the setter.
The agile paw of Dick enabled him to escape to a safe distance, but Catalina would never rest with a blow that had missed the mark. Now she shouted: “Ricardo! Come again! At once, fool of a dirty dog!”
Dick slunk back. The hardest lesson of all was to come back for punishment, even when one was conscious of no sin. For that matter, he was never at all sure wherein his guilt lay when he was with this pretty young mistress, but he knew that the whip fell hard and often. He sneaked back to the girl and crouched upon his stomach, whining a little. There, with eyes closed and body shuddering, he accepted not one lash, but three.
“For running away like a coward, when you know that you have done wrong. I have half a mind to send you back to your stupid Ireland, where there is never sunshine!”
If that threat could have been translated so that Dick might have understood. He only knew that the mystery and cruelty of the girl seemed to increase from day to day. When he first came, there had been nothing but smothering caresses. He had been squeezed and petted from one end of the day to the other. There was a special moza appointed in the ample household of Señor Mirandos, whose duty was to do nothing save to comb and tend and brush and feed the noble dog.
After this, there was a change. Having become familiar, Dick was more than half despised. There was now only one reason why Catalina kept him with her, always—it was because the red silk of Dick’s coat and the grace of his carriage made a note of color and beauty against which she appeared to good advantage. It drew eyes toward her, and there was nothing in the world that Catalina liked better than to draw all eyes.
She mounted the bay gelding again and set off toward her home with greater content in her heart. She told herself that it would be very strange if twelve gallant warriors, who knew the whole countryside as they knew a book, could not find this formidable Sandy Sweyn. No matter how dreadful a fighter he might he, they would crush him.
Catalina looked with much complacence upon this. She felt no twinge of horror. It seemed to her that the impertinence of the half-wit in daring to raise his eyes to her deserved punishment.
She minced down the road, enjoying the picture that she presented to the eyes of others, rejoicing in the mirror of flattery that presented her to herself in every eye that she passed.
Here a cloud of dust swirled by her and with a clatter of flying hoofs. Peggy Kilmer, the sheriff’s daughter, rattled down the road in front of her, the heels of her mustang tossing up a cloud of dust that showered thickly down upon pretty little Catalina.
Catalina reined in her thoroughbred with an exclamation of supreme disgust. She brushed herself off as well as she could. That was like Peggy Kilmer—to rush about the countryside in this unmaidenly fashion, her hair done into two pigtails, and the pigtails twisted into an ungracious knot at the back of her head, her divided skirt not very much more maidenly than the trousers of an ordinary cowpuncher. Here, for instance, she was galloping off without even a saddle on the back of that ragged mustang—only a blanket strapped on it, and no spurs on her heels as she drummed them against the ribs of the mustang.
No wonder Catalina was disgusted. As she passed the house of the sheriff, presently, where Peggy was dismounting and dragging the bridle and blanket from her horse, Catalina drew rein a little.
“Hello!” yelled Peggy. “How’s things, Catalina?”
She quite missed the answer of Catalina, for she had to leap backward to escape the heels that the mustang flung at her head before he darted away toward liberty.
“I hear your pa bought the Gregory Ranch,” Peggy said, dropping her hands upon her hips and turning her freckled face toward the Mexican girl.
“He has bought it, yes,” Catalina said. “You must come to see it soon.”
“Can’t do it today. Got the washing to turn out. So long, Catalina. Come in and have a cup of coffee with me some afternoon.”
Catalina could barely force a smile. She was shuddering with disgust as she rode on up the way. It seemed to her that the entire female sex was disgraced by the existence of such a creature as Peggy Kilmer.
Dick seemed to be of a different opinion. He stood with his head pressed against the gate, and wagged his tail as he looked toward the little shack of the sheriff.
Thirty-Four
Like hunting wolves sweeping forward in a swift line, the men of José Rézan rode rapidly across the hills. As they rode, they scattered until there was a great gap between man and man, but never a gap so great that the sound of a rifle shot would not have alarmed companions to right or to left. There was only one way by which Sandy Sweyn could make his approach to the dwelling of Señor Mirandos. Along that way, which was a deep, broad valley through the mountains, the riders of Rézan were combing every inch of the ground.
While they searched diligently, through the pines before them a slender white mare trotted to the first break in the woods, and, seeing a single horseman in view, she whirled and raced back. Making a short detour, she came to another gap, and here again she saw a rider closing slowly upon the trees.
At that, she whirled and galloped straight back through the trees, until she came upon a great blue roan, a monster mare hardly distinguishable from the shadows of the woods through which she was passing. In the saddle was the lumpish form and the impassive face of Sandy Sweyn, with dull, sand-colored eyes and forehead perpetually wrinkled as in doubt. From that rider Elena Blanca did not sheer away as she had from the two she had sighted before. She pressed in close to the side of the blue roan.
That was sufficient warning for Sandy. He dismounted, and with a word he turned the blue roan into a statue, while he went forward in person to the edge of the wood. There he saw an armed rider coming slowly down the valley, looking often from left to right, scanning all before him with the unmistakable air of the hunter.
Sandy smiled and would have drawn back. As he started to move, he saw horse and rider suddenly go down heavily in the dust. At that he paused, very curious. It was not for the welfare of the man that he cared, but for that of the animal, since every beast was to him as one human is to another.
Apparently the horse had stepped into a hole in the ground, for it rose almost at once and hobbled a little. When the rider mounted the saddle once more, his mount cantered a stride or two and then paused, shaking its head.
The rider had little patience to expend on his horse. He urged it once or twice with his voice—the quirt rose and fell and the spurs thrust deep. Thus stimulated, the pony bounded forward for a stride or two, and then came to a resolute stop and refused to budge.
There is nothing in the world that will madden a cowpuncher more than a balky horse. This rider fell into a fury at once. His spurs were quickly reddening the sides of his mount when he heard a rushing of hoofs down the slope, and, looking up, he saw above him a blue roan mare, moving with gigantic s
trides. In the saddle was a man who answered in every respect to the description that had been given of Sandy Sweyn.
More than that, in the background ran that delicate beauty among horses—Elena Blanca. There could be no mistaking. That cowpuncher had seen the famous little mare once before, when pretty Catalina Mirandos was in the saddle upon her back, and he had never forgotten. What he thought of first was to reach for his rifle and try a flying shot at the stranger, but he remembered in that crisis the last warning of José Rézan—that this fellow was a desperate and sure fighter. No one should attempt to handle him without help.
Moreover, the stranger did not seem to be approaching with any hostile intent. He called out in a friendly manner as he came, and he waved his hand. So the vaquero twisted the end of his mustache and waited, trembling with excitement.
When Sandy Sweyn came up, he dismounted at once and went to the cowpuncher with a smile. “You’ll never get that horse forward like that,” he said. “Never in the world. It ain’t the whip and the spur that he needs. It’s a little talking and a little rubbing.”
The vaquero—in the nick of time to keep himself from bursting into heartiest laughter—remembered that this was a half-wit with whom he had to deal. He nodded gravely.
“Talking and rubbing,” he said. “I have seen many strange things done with horses, señor, but when they balk I have never seen them persuaded with rubbing and talking. I have heard some grand cursing of them, too, but never anything in the way of language that would get them to move. Nothing but whips…or even a fire built under them.”
“You’ll have a chance to see,” Sandy said. “I may be wrong. Will you get off the horse?”
The cowpuncher was glad to oblige, for it chanced that, at this moment, he saw two riders heaving into view, one far to his left and one far to his right. He knew that the men of his master would soon be gathering thickly around them. There was the flashing beauty of the white mare to apprise them, even at a distance, of what was there. If only they could send a signal on to the others, in the distance, and so let them know and gather them in a silent circle, it would go very hard, should Sandy Sweyn escape.
As soon as Sandy had dismounted, he stepped toward the mustang. The latter was now frantic with the pain of whip and spur, and backed off snorting.
“Come to him, Cleo,” Sandy said. “Come talk to him, girl. He needs quieting down.”
The vaquero gaped. He was not a superstitious man. He believed that sundry of the saints had been capable of miracles, but he had never seen one that could not be explained by sleight of hand. This, however, was a very different matter, for he could swear that Sandy made no sign to the great blue mare. Yet, as though she actually understood every word that had been spoken to her, she went instantly to the balking, trembling pony and stood beside it. The mustang leaned heavily against her as if to say: “Stand by me, comrade, and we may yet prove too much for these devils…these terrible men.”
The blue roan touched noses with that frightened mustang. Whatever message it was that she conveyed to him, Pedro, the vaquero, could vow that his bad-headed cutting horse grew calm. He allowed the stranger to approach with open hand. Pedro would take his oath before any jury in the land that this was a matter without precedence in the history of that bronco.
In another moment the mustang allowed the saddle to be stripped from it. It was turning its head and pricking its ears as it skeptically eyed the stranger.
“Magic,” Pedro whispered, and he crossed himself.
After that, the hands of the half-wit began to roam swiftly over the body of the bronco. Another moment—and there was a sharp squeal of pain from the horse.
“Here it is!” Sandy said in triumph. “I knew that it was something near the hocks.”
“¡Señor!” young Pedro cried. “Have a care! That demon of a horse has already put my brother in the hands of the doctor for a full six months. Beware of his heels!”
“His heels?” Sandy said, standing up with a blank eye directly to the rear of the bronco. “Oh, he’ll do me no harm. He’s feeling happier now.” With that, he leaned over and began to massage the great tendons and knotted muscles in the back of the pony’s right hind leg. So deeply did his fingertips work that the horse fairly groaned with the pain. Its other heel lifted tentatively from the ground half a dozen times, while Pedro looked on in an agony of half-joyous expectation.
There was no kicking. As Pedro declared afterward, even in its pain the mustang attempted to raise its ears from time to time—sure sign that it knew good was being done in its behalf.
Still Sandy Sweyn talked gently: “He gave that leg a wrench when he went down. If I were you, I tell you that I should not ride him home. I should simply walk, and let him walk behind you. Better still…camp out here, tonight, and rub his leg down half a dozen times before morning.”
“Walk home…camp out all night…stay awake to rub him down. Ha, señor, do you think that I am taking care of an old mother? This is only a horse, and not a very good one. No, not a very good one at all. He’ll take me home tonight or I’ll know why, and I’ll ask him the question with my spurs. They are sharp enough, if I care to make them talk.” He laughed rather savagely.
Sandy Sweyn bowed his head and seemed to be lost in thought. He was so deeply lost in it, indeed, that he did not notice beautiful little Elena Blanca come running from the distance to press close to him, her head thrown high, trembling in every limb. He was so lost in thought that he did not hear the creaking of saddle leather as other riders approached him. If he heard, the sounds passed into his subconscious mind and did not affect his consciousness.
At last he said: “If you ride this here horse, stranger, you’re gonna ruin him. If you ride him before tomorrow morning, you will ruin him, sure.”
“Put back the saddle on him, then,” Pedro said, growing more confidently insolent as he saw the others pressing nearer to him in a thickening circle. “You’ve done your part and wasted plenty of my time.”
“I’ll put back the saddle,” Sandy said, “but you can’t have this horse to ride until tomorrow morning.”
“Can’t?” cried Pedro. “Can’t? Are you threatening me?” He reached for his gun with great speed, but he did not make the draw.
Light winked at the right hip of Sandy, and the long, black body of a Colt glimmered wickedly in the sun as it pointed straight at young Pedro. “You watch yourself, stranger,” Sandy said. “I don’t aim at no trouble with you, but….” His voice trailed away; he had looked up and found a circle of enemies had been thrown around him.
Thirty-Five
Sometimes, when more than one gun has secured the drop on him, a desperado, to whom surrender means eventual death at the hands of the law, has been known to risk a move and even to win away to freedom, by diving at the table that supports the lamp, or some other trick that throws the others into confusion. There was never a man since the beginning of time, who could boast that he had defied and escaped from five leveled rifles, twenty or thirty yards away, all with a careful bead drawn upon his heart and head.
Sandy Sweyn stared feebly at these apparitions.
“Where did they come up from, Elena?” he said. “Dog-gone me if it don’t look like they had growed up out of the ground in the last couple of minutes.”
Elena Blanca sidled closer to him as she heard her name. She had had no doubt, for her part, from the first moment when she saw these strangers approaching. She had distrusted them with all of her heart. To her thinking, there was only one human being who was really worthy of sublime submission and love. That was Sandy Sweyn. All of the rest were traitors and devils, to be avoided like poison.
“All right, Sweyn,” José Rézan said. “Just put up your hands, my friend. I want the guns that you carry, and I want your knife. Move fast, Sweyn.”
A smile rose to the lips and the vague eyes of Sandy. He lifted his hands above
his head.
“If you want money,” he said, smiling still, “you’ll find that I ain’t got none. Money is a thing that I get along without pretty well. But you use a pile of men in your hold-up game, don’t you, stranger?”
He looked on with admiration. Half a dozen other riders were now swarming over the edges of the hills, coming at full gallop toward him.
José Rézan saw fit to overlook this speech. “Get to him, Pedro,” he said. “And go through him for guns. Be quick, man.”
Pedro obeyed with alacrity. The clothes of Sandy were swiftly searched. One revolver and an old hunting knife were all that were found in his possession.
“And now,” Rézan said, “back up, Sandy Sweyn, and keep clear of us. Valentino, take the blue mare. Get a rope on Elena Blanca, some of you.”
Elena Blanca, too late, seemed to realize that protection for her was not in the power of her companion at this moment. She bolted like a white flash for freedom, but swifter than any horse could dash was the leap of the lariats in the hands of three or four of the vaqueros. In a moment she was plunging blindly in a tangle of lariats.
Valentino, making for the blue roan, had a different problem on his hands. A shrill, sharp whistle from Sandy made the big mare leap away, and Valentino lunged hopelessly after her. There she stood, dancing in the distance.
“Watch Sweyn!” Rézan called. “Three of you keep an eye on him. The rest of you…except the first two ropes on Elena Blanca…scatter and get the blue roan. We have to have her unless we want Sweyn trailing right at our heels. Get your ropes ready.”
They scattered obediently, forming rapidly into a great semicircle, whose horns began to stretch out toward a complete encircling of the big mare. Another whistle came from Sweyn, thin and high as the whistle of a kite and repeated with a rapid tremor.
“Stop that fellow’s whistling,” called Rézan, “or put a bullet through him! Cut in, lads!”
They went at the blue roan with a willful rush, but the whistle had been like a precious warning to her. She wheeled away and flaunted off across the valley at a speed that left the horsemen of José Rézan hopelessly to the rear. In a moment or two she was obviously safe from all pursuit.