by Max Brand
Early in the evening, when she developed a dreadful headache, it was only because she wished to go upstairs and lie there in the semi-dark, with only one lamp lighted and the flame turned low. There on her couch, with a mantilla gathered around her flashing shoulders, she lay and brooded and dreamed and smiled, because this was a figure of a man such as the world had never seen before. For its very oddity Catalina could almost have loved him. She loved novelties for their own sake. With eyes half closed, she pondered over this figure, who lay more in a world of dreams than in the world of reality—a half-wit with the strength of a giant and with a craft in fighting that turned even such sturdy vaqueros into mere puppets and children.
What roused her from her ponderings was a mere whisper of sound at the farther casement, on the other side of the room. Catalina looked up in time to see the figure of a man swinging through the open window and dropping lightly to the floor—so lightly that, in spite of his bulk, his feet made no sound whatever as they struck.
It brought Catalina instantly to her feet. It was characteristic of her that in ordinary times she chose to be excessively feminine, while in a crisis she was as cool as a young tigress. She sprang back toward the door, and she laid a hand upon the knob of it, ready to flash away to safety at the first movement of the stranger. She lingered for an instant, and from her dress she plucked forth a little Italian stiletto, delicate and deadly, shaped to a long needle point. In spite of her soft beauty, this Catalina was a true daughter of the desert, practiced in its ways.
She knew him instantly by the descriptions that others had given to her of him. She knew him by the deceptive appearance of softness and the real power that underlay it. She knew him by the deft quiet in which he had climbed the smooth side of the house and swung into her room. No leopard could have been more dexterous in the hunting of his prey. She knew him, above all, by the dull and handsome features—that unlighted eye, the color of sand—that seemed blurred and lost under lashes of the same tone.
Staring at her beauty, the eyes of Sandy opened a trifle, and there began slowly in their deeps a tremor of golden fire that waxed and waxed until, at last, it was flaming at her.
It seemed to Catalina Mirandos that he stood straighter, his head raised, and a faint smile of joy stirred his mouth. What a fire was this she had lit in him. The beautiful form of Dick slipped in from the outer room, sensing trouble though there had been no sound even to reach his sensitive ears. He sprang in front of his mistress like a true hero, ready to do his duty. When he faced the stranger, a little tremor ran through Dick, and presently he crouched on the floor and was staring up with wonder at Sandy Sweyn, beginning to brush the floor with his silken tail.
Danger in this man? Catalina was no fool, and she knew that where her Ricardo could love so quickly there must indeed be something lovable. She, looking wide-eyed upon the stranger, began to see what those qualities might be—endless strength, endless simplicity, endless trust, endless power to worship. She knew that as she was, at this moment, seeing Sandy Sweyn, no other person had ever seen him. She had been able to strike a great fire that hitherto had never flamed, and that might never go out. It was an exquisite flattery, so subtle that it was beyond words.
When he spoke it was as directly as a child. “I came to bring back Elena Blanca, but they stole her from me. Then I wanted to see you, so I came here. You are not afraid of me?”
“I am not afraid,” Catalina said.
She saw the silken softness of her voice send a tremor through him. He passed across his eyes that hand that had beaten down so many men this day.
“I’ve been walking in a dream,” Sandy said. “But now I’m awake. I never knew that a woman could be like you, Catalina. May I come closer?”
She was too excited to answer. Perhaps it looked like fear to Sandy; to the girl it was really only the thrilling joy of her power that moved her, and wonder at this strange creature that had come to her hand. She saw him move a step nearer, and another. He stood just before her, and now his eyes plunged deep in her great black eyes.
Dick stood up, but the stranger had no eye for him. He made a vague gesture toward her, and Catalina shrank a little. Yet she did not step back. All that he touched was her hand, and he raised it to his cheek, to his lips.
Then he stood straight before her again, and her hand had fallen away. It was unlike all that other men had ever done in her presence. It was a strange mixture of the worship of a child and the love of a man. There was such joy in him that he was almost laughing.
“I listened at the window below,” he said. “I know that Don José is to marry you tomorrow. Tell me, Catalina, do you love him?”
She had no words. A sort of trembling weakness spread through her body and rose to her throat and closed it.
“Ah,” Sandy said, “I knew that you did not. Forget him, then, because he does not exist.”
He stepped back to the window. One gesture swung him out. He turned to give himself a last look of her, with the expression of one drinking the wine of the gods. Then he was gone. Only then Catalina realized that she had not spoken a word since his entrance, except: “I am not afraid.”
It was not much to say, yet she felt that she had conquered a new world. She ran hastily to the window to stare after him, but he was gone in the blackness beneath. Not so much as a whisper came back to her.
Dick, standing at the casement, also, with his paws resting on the edge of it, looked down, too, and whined as though his heart were breaking to be out.
Forty
Those who listened through opened doors and windows heard a man ride, singing, down the valley that night. There was never a voice so great and so ringing, they thought. They hurried outdoors, but all that they saw was a vague figure, under the dim moon, riding down the road. Even when they stood in the open, they could not distinguish the words of that song or the language of the singing. The tune itself seemed to be a merely inarticulate overflowing of joy.
When the rider came to the house of Sheriff Kilmer, the wind blew tidings of food to him. The sheriff had returned late this night from a long ride, and his daughter had barely set the meal before him on the table. An instant later there was a knock at the kitchen door, and Peggy Kilmer opened that door on a man with wild yellow eyes and long, thick sandy hair.
“I’m hungry,” said the stranger. “Will you feed me?”
The black cat leaped up from the warmth behind the stove and ran into a far corner of the room, where it cowered in the sheltering blackness.
Peggy Kilmer had never been afraid of men, any more than had little Catalina Mirandos, but from a different reason by far. Catalina knew that they were helpless in the power of her smile. Peggy Kilmer considered that they were all her brothers.
Nevertheless, she was afraid now. Never had the night showed to her such a person as this. Yet her duty was clear before her. In the mountains, when food is asked for, it must be given even by a miser. She was very glad that her father was here with her, sitting at the kitchen table with his supper spread before him. She cast at him a single glance that was enough to show him that here was something extraordinary. The sheriff leaned forward a little and loosened the revolver in his holster.
What he saw, as the stranger stepped through the doorway, made him come to his feet. “You’re Sandy Sweyn,” Kilmer said.
The stranger turned on him with such a sudden lightness of body that the sheriff started again. When he met the yellow light in those eyes, he caught his breath.
“I’m Sandy Sweyn,” said the stranger. “Who are you?”
“Kilmer is my name. I’m the sheriff of the county, Sweyn.”
“Good,” Sandy said. “Have you got chuck here for an extra hand, partner? I’ve never ate with a man-size sheriff before.”
He laughed in an odd, joyous way that made Sheriff Kilmer, for an instant, suspect that his guest had been drinking.
“Sit down,” he said, “but before you sit down, I have to say that I have an idea that I ought to put you under arrest, Sweyn. You’re accused of having attacked four men today. And one of them is badly hurt. There’s no charge against you, and that’s why I’m a little in doubt.”
“We’ll talk it over while I eat,” Sandy said.
The sheriff nodded. “Put on another steak in the frying pan, honey,” he said to his daughter. “Excuse me a moment, Sweyn. I have to telephone.”
As he passed from the room, he heard Sandy Sweyn saying: “Never mind the new steak. I smelled beans as I came in.” The stranger went to the stove, and, taking from it the great, blackened bean pot at the back of the fire, he sat down contentedly with a huge iron spoon.
At the telephone, behind closed doors, the sheriff was speaking rapidly and softly. “Is this you, Rézan? I have news for you. Sandy Sweyn is in my house. He stopped to ask for his dinner. Now, Rézan, never mind exclaiming. What I want to know is if you are preferring any charge against this man?”
“No,” Rézan said instantly. “He’s more likely to prefer a charge against me. You understand, don’t you, Sheriff?”
“I understand,” the sheriff said. “You stole a horse from him, and he raised the devil with four of your men. One of them is still out of his wits, and another is dangerously hurt. I don’t know where the balance lies, but I suspect that it lies against Sweyn. You don’t want to do anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then I make one suggestion.”
“What’s that, Sheriff?”
“Keep a gun under your pillow when you sleep tonight. I’ve never seen such a queer-acting fellow, and he may be up to mischief.”
“I’ll take your advice, Sheriff, and thank you.”
“One thing more. Can you tell me why people call this man a half-wit?”
“Why, Sheriff, there was never any doubt as to the reason for that. He’s different from other people. And his dull eye, if nothing else….”
“Dull eye?” the sheriff repeated. “I’ve never seen a bright one, then. But I’ve sent you a warning, Rézan.”
“A thousand thanks. I’ll be on my guard. But I wish nothing but good luck to this fellow. Has he made a charge against me?”
“Not a word, but it may come later.”
The sheriff returned to his kitchen, and there he found Sandy Sweyn deep in the contents of the bean pot, talking to Peggy Kilmer at the same time. As for his Peggy, he had never seen her so flushed or so pretty, sitting in the window, swinging her heels. In the instant that her father had been away, she seemed to have pocketed all of her fear of this stranger.
“Look, Dad,” she said. “Old Tabby has found a friend. Never knew her to look at a man before.”
The sheriff could hardly believe his eves. Black Tabby sat upon the broad shoulder of Sandy Sweyn, her tail wrapped around her forepaws, purring in blissful content. Every movement of the spoon she regarded with much interest, as though this were a sort of food that even she could enjoy.
The sheriff was in awe when he sat down. In years of effort he had never secured the confidence of that mysterious cat. No wonder, then, that the heart of his daughter had been touched.
“But,” Peggy went on, as though her father were not there at all, “if you live all alone in the woods most of the time, what do you do for company? I should think that you would die of loneliness.”
“Oh,” Sandy Sweyn said, “I never lack for company. You see?” He whistled, and instantly, through the open kitchen door, the head of a magnificent blue roan was thrust. She whinnied no louder than a whisper and pricked her ears at her master. “You see,” Sandy said, “that I have company.”
“I see. But very queer company, most people would call it. And only your horse?”
“There’s a bear,” Sandy said, “that drops in on me in the summer. And we often hunt together. There is more fun in going fishing with a bear than with a dozen men, I suppose.”
She started to laugh, but when she saw that he was in earnest, it did not occur to her to doubt. The sheriff himself felt no question in his mind. To the man with those blazing eyes and that inward joy all things seemed possible.
“But tonight,” Sandy said, “I’ve got a different slant on things. I’ve waked up to the fact that there’s something besides animals in the world. Girls, for instance. I never really saw them before.” He looked straight at Peggy Kilmer and laughed—not an insulting laugh, but as though he were flooded with such happiness that it had to find some expression. A flare of color went up the cheeks of Peggy—and she looked rather guiltily and impatiently at her father, for all the world she wished him out of the way. The sheriff was amazed. It was not in the cards for his daughter to pay more than the most casual attention to young gentlemen—except to include them as sort of second-hand brothers.
Sandy was enlarging on the point. “Look at her,” he said. “I’ve tried out men and found that most of them are hounds. But the girls are different. There’s something in her that no man could ever have. Will you see the color in her cheeks, Sheriff, and how her eyes sparkle? Why, I tell you that it makes me happy only to look at her.”
The sheriff started to frown. Suddenly it dawned upon him that this was not brazen boldness, but merely a true naïveté such as no other man in the world possessed. Peggy herself seemed to know the honesty of the stranger—certainly her blush was not one of displeasure.
The iron spoon grated on the bottom of the iron pot. The steaming cup of coffee was poured at a single gulp down the capable throat of Sandy. He stood up and laid Tabby on the floor.
“¡Adiós!” Sandy said then, standing at the doorway and smiling back at them. He turned to the girl. “I’d like a lot to come back, sometime, and talk to you again, if I can.”
“Sure,” Peggy Kilmer answered. “There’s nothing to keep you from it, I suppose.”
“Because,” Sandy said, “if I was to talk to you a little longer, I think that I might be able to find out why it is you make me so happy. You understand? ¡Adiós!”
He was gone into the night.
The sheriff stared after him in complete bewilderment. “Look at that confounded cat,” he said. “It’s following Sweyn, or trying to.”
There was no answer from his daughter. When he stared at her, he saw that she was peering far off at things that he could not see and that, he guessed, he never could entirely understand. The dream was in her eyes. Her fingers twisted idly together. A faint smile touched her lips.
“I never saw another fellow like him,” said the sheriff.
“Nor I,” Peggy said.
“Fresh talking, but not really brassy. No manners, either, and yet he didn’t seem to need ’em.”
“Manners?” Peggy said. “What was wrong with them?”
“What was wrong?” gasped out the sheriff. “Why, honey, he didn’t take his hat off for a minute while he was in the house.”
“I didn’t notice,” she admitted.
“And how much did he thank us as he left?”
It seemed that Peggy was slipping back into her dream again, and she made no answer. Presently she stood up from the low window sill and left the kitchen, and the sheriff, frowning into his cup as he stirred the sugar into the coffee, realized that Peggy was a woman, after all. Soon she must leave him.
It was a lonely supper for him. When he went into the front of the house to smoke his pipe and read his paper—a week old—a glance through the door of his daughter’s room, which was a little ajar, showed her sitting in front of her mirror, untwisting the stiff pigtails of her hair. With busy comb and brush she was transforming them into a soft and shining fluff of brown.
The sheriff sat down to his pipe, but he forgot to light it. There was a day not far hence when his life must be lived in a boarding house, while Peggy went elsewhere to shed happi
ness like a light.
Forty-One
In the house of José Rézan, he was as good as his promise to the sheriff. He searched his mind to pick out the men best qualified to serve him. First, he selected two stout and watchful vaqueros and bade them keep constantly roving about his house. To sharpen their watchfulness, he murmured one word only: “Sweyn.” That was enough.
Then he remembered two men who were both dreaded and despised by his vaqueros, two surly giants, black of brow and dark of face, who had recently come down from the mountains and taken employment with him, tending his flocks of sheep. He had sold his sheep. Now they waited for the purchase of his new flock; they waited in sullen silence, speaking to no man, communicating even to one another by signs only, most of the time.
Vicente and Lorenzo stood, thick of neck and with crooked wrists from much hard labor that they had done in their lives. In such hands as these, gun or knife would be out of place. Such hands were not meant for adroitness and agility, but to crush with the seizure. Such hands were made to break and to rend. They were like the paws of bears.
He put a stout cudgel in the hand of either man. “Now,” Rézan said, “here is the corridor in front of my room. The window of my room is barred, and no man can come through it. I expect that an attempt may be made upon my life tonight. Tomorrow I am to be married, and such great happiness, my friends, seems almost too much for me to look forward to. Therefore, I put my life in your hands, and I give you a great trust.”
They heard him without a sound, and they went to the end of the halls, where they were concealed in the thickness of the dropping shadows. Rézan knew that there would be no danger; eyes that watched over his flocks by day and night would not close in this greater time of need. He went to his bed and slept like a child, secure that all would be well.