TO KILL A MAN
THOUGH dim night-lights burned, she moved familiarly through the bigrooms and wide halls, seeking vainly the half-finished book of verse shehad mislaid and only now remembered. When she turned on the lights inthe drawing-room, she disclosed herself clad in a sweeping negligee gownof soft rose-colored stuff, throat and shoulders smothered in lace. Herrings were still on her fingers, her massed yellow hair had not yet beentaken down. She was delicately, gracefully beautiful, with slender,oval face, red lips, a faint color in the cheeks, and blue eyes of thechameleon sort that at will stare wide with the innocence of childhood,go hard and gray and brilliantly cold, or flame up in hot wilfulness andmastery.
She turned the lights off and passed out and down the hall toward themorning room. At the entrance she paused and listened. From farther onhad come, not a noise, but an impression of movement. She could havesworn she had not heard anything, yet something had been different.The atmosphere of night quietude had been disturbed. She wondered whatservant could be prowling about. Not the butler, who was notoriousfor retiring early save on special occasion. Nor could it be her maid,whom she had permitted to go that evening.
Passing on to the dining-room, she found the door closed. Why she openedit and went on in, she did not know, except for the feeling that thedisturbing factor, whatever it might be, was there. The room was indarkness, and she felt her way to the button and pressed. As the blazeof light flashed on, she stepped back and cried out. It was a mere "Oh!"and it was not loud.
Facing her, alongside the button, flat against the wall, was a man. Inhis hand, pointed toward her, was a revolver. She noticed, even inthe shock of seeing him, that the weapon was black and exceedinglylong-barreled. She knew black and exceedingly long it for what it was, aColt's. He was a medium-sized man, roughly clad, brown-eyed, and swarthywith sunburn. He seemed very cool. There was no wabble to the revolverand it was directed toward her stomach, not from an outstretched arm,but from the hip, against which the forearm rested.
"Oh," she said. "I beg your pardon. You startled me. What do you want?"
"I reckon I want to get out," he answered, with a humorous twitch tothe lips. "I've kind of lost my way in this here shebang, and if you'llkindly show me the door I'll cause no trouble and sure vamoose."
"But what are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice touched with thesharpness of one used to authority.
"Plain robbing, Miss, that's all. I came snooping around to see what Icould gather up. I thought you wan't to home, seein' as I saw you pullout with your old man in an auto. I reckon that must a ben your pa, andyou're Miss Setliffe."
Mrs. Setliffe saw his mistake, appreciated the naive compliment, anddecided not to undeceive him.
"How do you know I am Miss Setliffe?" she asked.
"This is old Setliffe's house, ain't it?"
She nodded.
"I didn't know he had a daughter, but I reckon you must be her. And now,if it ain't botherin' you too much, I'd sure be obliged if you'd show methe way out."
"But why should I? You are a robber, a burglar."
"If I wan't an ornery shorthorn at the business, I'd be accumulatin'them rings on your fingers instead of being polite," he retorted.
"I come to make a raise outa old Setliffe, and not to be robbingwomen-folks. If you get outa the way, I reckon I can find my own wayout."
Mrs. Setliffe was a keen woman, and she felt that from such a man therewas little to fear. That he was not a typical criminal, she was certain.From his speech she knew he was not of the cities, and she seemed tosense the wider, homelier air of large spaces.
"Suppose I screamed?" she queried curiously. "Suppose I made an outcryfor help? You couldn't shoot me?... a woman?"
She noted the fleeting bafflement in his brown eyes. He answered slowlyand thoughtfully, as if working out a difficult problem. "I reckon,then, I'd have to choke you and maul you some bad."
"A woman?"
"I'd sure have to," he answered, and she saw his mouth set grimly.
"You're only a soft woman, but you see, Miss, I can't afford to go tojail. No, Miss, I sure can't. There's a friend of mine waitin' forme out West. He's in a hole, and I've got to help him out." The mouthshaped even more grimly. "I guess I could choke you without hurting youmuch to speak of."
Her eyes took on a baby stare of innocent incredulity as she watchedhim.
"I never met a burglar before," she assured him, "and I can't begin totell you how interested I am."
"I'm not a burglar, Miss. Not a real one," he hastened to add as shelooked her amused unbelief. "It looks like it, me being here in yourhouse. But it's the first time I ever tackled such a job. I needed themoney bad. Besides, I kind of look on it like collecting what's comingto me."
"I don't understand," she smiled encouragingly. "You came here to rob,and to rob is to take what is not yours."
"Yes, and no, in this here particular case. But I reckon I'd better begoing now."
He started for the door of the dining-room, but she interposed, and avery beautiful obstacle she made of herself. His left hand went outas if to grip her, then hesitated. He was patently awed by her softwomanhood.
"There!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew you wouldn't."
The man was embarrassed.
"I ain't never manhandled a woman yet," he explained, "and it don't comeeasy. But I sure will, if you set to screaming."
"Won't you stay a few minutes and talk?" she urged. "I'm so interested.I should like to hear you explain how burglary is collecting what iscoming to you."
He looked at her admiringly.
"I always thought women-folks were scairt of robbers," he confessed."But you don't seem none."
She laughed gaily.
"There are robbers and robbers, you know. I am not afraid of you,because I am confident you are not the sort of creature that would harma woman. Come, talk with me a while. Nobody will disturb us. I am allalone. My--father caught the night train to New York. The servants areall asleep. I should like to give you something to eat--women alwaysprepare midnight suppers for the burglars they catch, at least theydo in the magazine stories. But I don't know where to find the food.Perhaps you will have something to drink?"
He hesitated, and did not reply; but she could see the admiration forher growing in his eyes.
"You're not afraid?" she queried. "I won't poison you, I promise. I'lldrink with you to show you it is all right."
"You sure are a surprise package of all right," he declared, for thefirst time lowering the weapon and letting it hang at his side. "No onedon't need to tell me ever again that women-folks in cities is afraid.You ain't much--just a little soft pretty thing. But you've sure got thespunk. And you're trustful on top of it. There ain't many women, or meneither, who'd treat a man with a gun the way you're treating me."
She smiled her pleasure in the compliment, and her face, was veryearnest as she said:
"That is because I like your appearance. You are too decent-looking aman to be a robber. You oughtn't to do such things. If you are in badluck you should go to work. Come, put away that nasty revolver and letus talk it over. The thing for you to do is to work."
"Not in this burg," he commented bitterly. "I've walked two inches offthe bottom of my legs trying to find a job. Honest, I was a fine largeman once... before I started looking for a job."
The merry laughter with which she greeted his sally obviously pleasedhim, and she was quick to note and take advantage of it. She moveddirectly away from the door and toward the sideboard.
"Come, you must tell me all about it while I get that drink for you.What will it be? Whisky?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, as he followed her, though he still carriedthe big revolver at his side, and though he glanced reluctantly at theunguarded open door.
She filled a glass for him at the sideboard.
"I promised to drink with you," she said hesitatingly. "But I don't likewhisky. I... I prefer sherry."
She lifted the sherry bottle tentativel
y for his consent.
"Sure," he answered, with a nod. "Whisky's a man's drink. I never liketo see women at it. Wine's more their stuff."
She raised her glass to his, her eyes meltingly sympathetic.
"Here's to finding you a good position--"
But she broke off at sight of the expression of surprised disgust on hisface. The glass, barely touched, was removed from his wry lips.
"What is the matter!" she asked anxiously. "Don't you like it? Have Imade a mistake?"
"It's sure funny whisky. Tastes like it got burned and smoked in themaking."
"Oh! How silly of me! I gave you Scotch. Of course you are accustomed torye. Let me change it."
She was almost solicitiously maternal, as she replaced the glass withanother and sought and found the proper bottle.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am. No smoke in it. It's sure the real good stuff. I ain't hada drink in a week. Kind of slick, that; oily, you know; not made in achemical factory."
"You are a drinking man?" It was half a question, half a challenge.
"No, ma'am, not to speak of. I HAVE rared up and ripsnorted at spells,but most unfrequent. But there is times when a good stiff jolt lands onthe right spot kerchunk, and this is sure one of them. And now, thankingyou for your kindness, ma'am, I'll just be a pulling along."
But Mrs. Setliffe did not want to lose her burglar. She was too poised awoman to possess much romance, but there was a thrill about the presentsituation that delighted her. Besides, she knew there was no danger. Theman, despite his jaw and the steady brown eyes, was eminently tractable.Also, farther back in her consciousness glimmered the thought of anaudience of admiring friends. It was too bad not to have that audience.
"You haven't explained how burglary, in your case, is merely collectingwhat is your own," she said. "Come, sit down, and tell me about it hereat the table."
She maneuvered for her own seat, and placed him across the corner fromher. His alertness had not deserted him, as she noted, and his eyesroved sharply about, returning always with smoldering admiration tohers, but never resting long. And she noted likewise that while shespoke he was intent on listening for other sounds than those of hervoice. Nor had he relinquished the revolver, which lay at the corner ofthe table between them, the butt close to his right hand.
But he was in a new habitat which he did not know. This man from theWest, cunning in woodcraft and plainscraft, with eyes and ears open,tense and suspicious, did not know that under the table, close to herfoot, was the push button of an electric bell. He had never heard ofsuch a contrivance, and his keenness and wariness went for naught.
"It's like this, Miss," he began, in response to her urging. "OldSetliffe done me up in a little deal once. It was raw, but it worked.Anything will work full and legal when it's got few hundred millionbehind it. I'm not squealin', and I ain't taking a slam at your pa.He don't know me from Adam, and I reckon he don't know he done me outaanything. He's too big, thinking and dealing in millions, to ever hearof a small potato like me. He's an operator. He's got all kinds ofexperts thinking and planning and working for him, some of them, I hear,getting more cash salary than the President of the United States. I'monly one of thousands that have been done up by your pa, that's all.
"You see, ma'am, I had a little hole in the ground--a dinky, hydraulic,one-horse outfit of a mine. And when the Setliffe crowd shook downIdaho, and reorganized the smelter trust, and roped in the rest of thelandscape, and put through the big hydraulic scheme at Twin Pines, whyI sure got squeezed. I never had a run for my money. I was scratchedoff the card before the first heat. And so, to-night, being broke and myfriend needing me bad, I just dropped around to make a raise outa yourpa. Seeing as I needed it, it kinda was coming to me."
"Granting all that you say is so," she said, "nevertheless it does notmake house-breaking any the less house-breaking. You couldn't make sucha defense in a court of law."
"I know that," he confessed meekly. "What's right ain't always legal.And that's why I am so uncomfortable a-settin' here and talking withyou. Not that I ain't enjoying your company--I sure do enjoy it--but Ijust can't afford to be caught. I know what they'd do to me in this herecity. There was a young fellow that got fifty years only last week forholding a man up on the street for two dollars and eighty-five cents. Iread about it in the paper. When times is hard and they ain't no work,men get desperate. And then the other men who've got something to berobbed of get desperate, too, and they just sure soak it to the otherfellows. If I got caught, I reckon I wouldn't get a mite less than tenyears. That's why I'm hankering to be on my way."
"No; wait." She lifted a detaining hand, at the same time removing herfoot from the bell, which she had been pressing intermittently. "Youhaven't told me your name yet."
He hesitated.
"Call me Dave."
"Then... Dave," she laughed with pretty confusion. "Something must bedone for you. You are a young man, and you are just at the beginningof a bad start. If you begin by attempting to collect what you think iscoming to you, later on you will be collecting what you are perfectlysure isn't coming to you. And you know what the end will be. Instead ofthis, we must find something honorable for you to do."
"I need the money, and I need it now," he replied doggedly. "It's notfor myself, but for that friend I told you about. He's in a peck oftrouble, and he's got to get his lift now or not at all."
"I can find you a position," she said quickly. "And--yes, the verything!--I'll lend you the money you want to send to your friend. Thisyou can pay back out of your salary."
"About three hundred would do," he said slowly. "Three hundred wouldpull him through. I'd work my fingers off for a year for that, and mykeep, and a few cents to buy Bull Durham with."
"Ah! You smoke! I never thought of it."
Her hand went out over the revolver toward his hand, as she pointed tothe tell-tale yellow stain on his fingers. At the same time her eyesmeasured the nearness of her own hand and of his to the weapon. Sheached to grip it in one swift movement. She was sure she could doit, and yet she was not sure; and so it was that she refrained as shewithdrew her hand.
"Won't you smoke?" she invited.
"I'm 'most dying to."
"Then do so. I don't mind. I really like it--cigarettes, I mean."
With his left band he dipped into his side pocket, brought out aloose wheat-straw paper and shifted it to his right hand close by therevolver. Again he dipped, transferring to the paper a pinch of brown,flaky tobacco. Then he proceeded, both hands just over the revolver, toroll the cigarette.
"From the way you hover close to that nasty weapon, you seem to beafraid of me," she challenged.
"Not exactly afraid of you, ma'am, but, under the circumstances, just amite timid."
"But I've not been afraid of you."
"You've got nothing to lose."
"My life," she retorted.
"That's right," he acknowledged promptly, "and you ain't been scairt ofme. Mebbe I am over anxious."
"I wouldn't cause you any harm."
Even as she spoke, her slipper felt for the bell and pressed it. At thesame time her eyes were earnest with a plea of honesty.
"You are a judge of men. I know it. And of women. Surely, when I amtrying to persuade you from a criminal life and to get you honest workto do....?"
He was immediately contrite.
"I sure beg your pardon, ma'am," he said. "I reckon my nervousness ain'tcomplimentary."
As he spoke, he drew his right hand from the table, and after lightingthe cigarette, dropped it by his side.
"Thank you for your confidence," she breathed softly, resolutely keepingher eyes from measuring the distance to the revolver, and keeping herfoot pressed firmly on the bell.
"About that three hundred," he began. "I can telegraph it West to-night.And I'll agree to work a year for it and my keep."
"You will earn more than that. I can promise seventy-five dollars amonth at the least. Do you know horses?"
/>
His face lighted up and his eyes sparkled.
"Then go to work for me--or for my father, rather, though I engage allthe servants. I need a second coachman--"
"And wear a uniform?" he interrupted sharply, the sneer of the free-bornWest in his voice and on his lips.
She smiled tolerantly.
"Evidently that won't do. Let me think. Yes. Can you break and handlecolts?"
He nodded.
"We have a stock farm, and there's room for just such a man as you. Willyou take it?"
"Will I, ma'am?" His voice was rich with gratitude and enthusiasm. "Showme to it. I'll dig right in to-morrow. And I can sure promise you onething, ma'am. You'll never be sorry for lending Hughie Luke a hand inhis trouble--"
"I thought you said to call you Dave," she chided forgivingly.
"I did, ma'am. I did. And I sure beg your pardon. It was just plainbluff. My real name is Hughie Luke. And if you'll give me the addressof that stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, I head for it firstthing in the morning."
Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts on thebell. She had pressed it in every alarming way--three shorts and a long,two and a long, and five. She had tried long series of shorts, and,once, she had held the button down for a solid three minutes. And shehad been divided between objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleepingbutler and doubt if the bell were in order.
"I am so glad," she said; "so glad that you are willing. There won't bemuch to arrange. But you will first have to trust me while I go upstairsfor my purse."
She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added hastily,"But you see I am trusting you with the three hundred dollars."
"I believe you, ma'am," he came back gallantly. "Though I just can'thelp this nervousness."
"Shall I go and get it?"
But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from thedistance came to her ear. She knew it for the swing-door of the butler'spantry. But so slight was it--more a faint vibration than a sound--thatshe would not have heard had not her ears been keyed and listening forit. Yet the man had heard. He was startled in his composed way.
"What was that?" he demanded.
For answer, her left hand flashed out to the revolver and brought itback. She had had the start of him, and she needed it, for the nextinstant his hand leaped up from his side, clutching emptiness where therevolver had been.
"Sit down!" she commanded sharply, in a voice new to him. "Don't move.Keep your hands on the table."
She had taken a lesson from him. Instead of holding the heavy weaponextended, the butt of it and her forearm rested on the table, the muzzlepointed, not at his head, but his chest. And he, looking coolly andobeying her commands, knew there was no chance of the kick-up of therecoil producing a miss. Also, he saw that the revolver did not wabble,nor the hand shake, and he was thoroughly conversant with the size ofhole the soft-nosed bullets could make. He had eyes, not for her, butfor the hammer, which had risen under the pressure of her forefinger onthe trigger.
"I reckon I'd best warn you that that there trigger-pull is fileddreadful fine. Don't press too hard, or I'll have a hole in me the sizeof a walnut."
She slacked the hammer partly down.
"That's better," he commented. "You'd best put it down all the way. Yousee how easy it works. If you want to, a quick light pull will jiffy herup and back and make a pretty mess all over your nice floor."
A door opened behind him, and he heard somebody enter the room. But hedid not turn his bead. He was looking at her, and he found it the faceof another woman--hard, cold, pitiless yet brilliant in its beauty. Theeyes, too, were hard, though blazing with a cold light.
"Thomas," she commanded, "go to the telephone and call the police. Whywere you so long in answering?"
"I came as soon as I heard the bell, madam," was the answer.
The robber never took his eyes from hers, nor did she from his, butat mention of the bell she noticed that his eyes were puzzled for themoment.
"Beg your pardon," said the butler from behind, "but wouldn't it bebetter for me to get a weapon and arouse the servants?"
"No; ring for the police. I can hold this man. Go and do it--quickly."
The butler slippered out of the room, and the man and the woman sat on,gazing into each other's eyes. To her it was an experience keen withenjoyment, and in her mind was the gossip of her crowd, and she sawnotes in the society weeklies of the beautiful young Mrs. Setliffecapturing an armed robber single-handed. It would create a sensation,she was sure.
"When you get that sentence you mentioned," she said coldly, "you willhave time to meditate upon what a fool you have been, taking otherpersons' property and threatening women with revolvers. You will havetime to learn your lesson thoroughly. Now tell the truth. You haven'tany friend in trouble. All that you told me was lies."
He did not reply. Though his eyes were upon her, they seemed blank. Intruth, for the instant she was veiled to him, and what he saw was thewide sunwashed spaces of the West, where men and women were bigger thanthe rotten denizens, as he had encountered them, of the thrice rottencities of the East.
"Go on. Why don't you speak? Why don't you lie some more? Why don't youbeg to be let off?"
"I might," he answered, licking his dry lips. "I might ask to be let offif..."
"If what?" she demanded peremptorily, as he paused.
"I was trying to think of a word you reminded me of. As I was saying, Imight if you was a decent woman."
Her face paled.
"Be careful," she warned.
"You don't dast kill me," he sneered. "The world's a pretty low downplace to have a thing like you prowling around in it, but it ain't soplumb low down, I reckon, as to let you put a hole in me. You're surebad, but the trouble with you is that you're weak in your badness. Itain't much to kill a man, but you ain't got it in you. There's where youlose out."
"Be careful of what you say," she repeated. "Or else, I warn you, itwill go hard with you. It can be seen to whether your sentence is lightor heavy."
"Something's the matter with God," he remarked irrelevantly, "to beletting you around loose. It's clean beyond me what he's up to, playingsuch-like tricks on poor humanity. Now if I was God--"
His further opinion was interrupted by the entrance of the butler.
"Something is wrong with the telephone, madam," he announced. "The wiresare crossed or something, because I can't get Central."
"Go and call one of the servants," she ordered. "Send him out for anofficer, and then return here."
Again the pair was left alone.
"Will you kindly answer one question, ma'am?" the man said. "Thatservant fellow said something about a bell. I watched you like a cat,and you sure rung no bell."
"It was under the table, you poor fool. I pressed it with my foot."
"Thank you, ma'am. I reckoned I'd seen your kind before, and now I sureknow I have. I spoke to you true and trusting, and all the time you waslying like hell to me."
She laughed mockingly.
"Go on. Say what you wish. It is very interesting."
"You made eyes at me, looking soft and kind, playing up all the time thefact that you wore skirts instead of pants--and all the time with yourfoot on the bell under the table. Well, there's some consolation. I'dsooner be poor Hughie Luke, doing his ten years, than be in your skin.Ma'am, hell is full of women like you."
There was silence for a space, in which the man, never taking his eyesfrom her, studying her, was making up his mind.
"Go on," she urged. "Say something."
"Yes, ma'am, I'll say something. I'll sure say something. Do you knowwhat I'm going to do? I'm going to get right up from this chair and walkout that door. I'd take the gun from you, only you might turn foolishand let it go off. You can have the gun. It's a good one. As I wassaying, I am going right out that door. And you ain't going to pull thatgun off either. It takes guts to shoot a man, and you sure ain't gotthem. Now get ready and see if you c
an pull that trigger. I ain't goingto harm you. I'm going out that door, and I'm starting."
Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pushed back the chair and slowly stooderect. The hammer rose halfway. She watched it. So did he.
"Pull harder," he advised. "It ain't half up yet. Go on and pull it andkill a man. That's what I said, kill a man, spatter his brains out onthe floor, or slap a hole into him the size of your fist. That's whatkilling a man means."
The hammer lowered jerkily but gently. The man turned his back andwalked slowly to the door. She swung the revolver around so that it boreon his back. Twice again the hammer came up halfway and was reluctantlyeased down.
At the door the man turned for a moment before passing on. A sneer wason his lips. He spoke to her in a low voice, almost drawling, but init was the quintessence of all loathing, as he called her a nameunspeakable and vile.
THE MEXICAN
NOBODY knew his history--they of the Junta least of all. He was their"little mystery," their "big patriot," and in his way he worked ashard for the coming Mexican Revolution as did they. They were tardy inrecognizing this, for not one of the Junta liked him. The day he firstdrifted into their crowded, busy rooms, they all suspected him of beinga spy--one of the bought tools of the Diaz secret service. Too many ofthe comrades were in civil an military prisons scattered over the UnitedStates, and others of them, in irons, were even then being taken acrossthe border to be lined up against adobe walls and shot.
At the first sight the boy did not impress them favorably. Boy he was,not more than eighteen and not over large for his years. He announcedthat he was Felipe Rivera, and that it was his wish to work for theRevolution. That was all--not a wasted word, no further explanation. Hestood waiting. There was no smile on his lips, no geniality in his eyes.Big dashing Paulino Vera felt an inward shudder. Here was somethingforbidding, terrible, inscrutable. There was something venomous andsnakelike in the boy's black eyes. They burned like cold fire, as witha vast, concentrated bitterness. He flashed them from the faces ofthe conspirators to the typewriter which little Mrs. Sethby wasindustriously operating. His eyes rested on hers but an instant--shehad chanced to look up--and she, too, sensed the nameless something thatmade her pause. She was compelled to read back in order to regain theswing of the letter she was writing.
Paulino Vera looked questioningly at Arrellano and Ramos, andquestioningly they looked back and to each other. The indecision ofdoubt brooded in their eyes. This slender boy was the Unknown, vestedwith all the menace of the Unknown. He was unrecognizable, somethingquite beyond the ken of honest, ordinary revolutionists whose fiercesthatred for Diaz and his tyranny after all was only that of honest andordinary patriots. Here was something else, they knew not what. ButVera, always the most impulsive, the quickest to act, stepped into thebreach.
"Very well," he said coldly. "You say you want to work for theRevolution. Take off your coat. Hang it over there. I will show you,come--where are the buckets and cloths. The floor is dirty. You willbegin by scrubbing it, and by scrubbing the floors of the other rooms.The spittoons need to be cleaned. Then there are the windows."
"Is it for the Revolution?" the boy asked.
"It is for the Revolution," Vera answered.
Rivera looked cold suspicion at all of them, then proceeded to take offhis coat.
"It is well," he said.
And nothing more. Day after day he came to his work--sweeping,scrubbing, cleaning. He emptied the ashes from the stoves, brought upthe coal and kindling, and lighted the fires before the most energeticone of them was at his desk.
"Can I sleep here?" he asked once.
Ah, ha! So that was it--the hand of Diaz showing through! To sleep inthe rooms of the Junta meant access to their secrets, to the lists ofnames, to the addresses of comrades down on Mexican soil. The requestwas denied, and Rivera never spoke of it again. He slept they knew notwhere, and ate they knew not where nor how. Once, Arrellano offered hima couple of dollars. Rivera declined the money with a shake of the head.When Vera joined in and tried to press it upon him, he said:
"I am working for the Revolution."
It takes money to raise a modern revolution, and always the Junta waspressed. The members starved and toiled, and the longest day was nonetoo long, and yet there were times when it appeared as if the Revolutionstood or fell on no more than the matter of a few dollars. Once, thefirst time, when the rent of the house was two months behind and thelandlord was threatening dispossession, it was Felipe Rivera, thescrub-boy in the poor, cheap clothes, worn and threadbare, who laidsixty dollars in gold on May Sethby's desk. There were other times.Three hundred letters, clicked out on the busy typewriters (appeals forassistance, for sanctions from the organized labor groups, requests forsquare news deals to the editors of newspapers, protests against thehigh-handed treatment of revolutionists by the United States courts),lay unmailed, awaiting postage. Vera's watch had disappeared--theold-fashioned gold repeater that had been his father's. Likewise hadgone the plain gold band from May Setbby's third finger. Things weredesperate. Ramos and Arrellano pulled their long mustaches in despair.The letters must go off, and the Post Office allowed no credit topurchasers of stamps. Then it was that Rivera put on his hat andwent out. When he came back he laid a thousand two-cent stamps on MaySethby's desk.
"I wonder if it is the cursed gold of Diaz?" said Vera to the comrades.
They elevated their brows and could not decide. And Felipe Rivera, thescrubber for the Revolution, continued, as occasion arose, to lay downgold and silver for the Junta's use.
And still they could not bring themselves to like him. They did not knowhim. His ways were not theirs. He gave no confidences. He repelled allprobing. Youth that he was, they could never nerve themselves to dare toquestion him.
"A great and lonely spirit, perhaps, I do not know, I do not know,"Arrellano said helplessly.
"He is not human," said Ramos.
"His soul has been seared," said May Sethby. "Light and laughter havebeen burned out of him. He is like one dead, and yet he is fearfullyalive."
"He has been through hell," said Vera. "No man could look like that whohas not been through hell--and he is only a boy."
Yet they could not like him. He never talked, never inquired, neversuggested. He would stand listening, expressionless, a thing dead, savefor his eyes, coldly burning, while their talk of the Revolution ranhigh and warm. From face to face and speaker to speaker his eyeswould turn, boring like gimlets of incandescent ice, disconcerting andperturbing.
"He is no spy," Vera confided to May Sethby. "He is a patriot--mark me,the greatest patriot of us all. I know it, I feel it, here in my heartand head I feel it. But him I know not at all."
"He has a bad temper," said May Sethby.
"I know," said Vera, with a shudder. "He has looked at me with thoseeyes of his. They do not love; they threaten; they are savage as a wildtiger's. I know, if I should prove unfaithful to the Cause, that hewould kill me. He has no heart. He is pitiless as steel, keen and coldas frost. He is like moonshine in a winter night when a man freezes todeath on some lonely mountain top. I am not afraid of Diaz and all hiskillers; but this boy, of him am I afraid. I tell you true. I am afraid.He is the breath of death."
Yet Vera it was who persuaded the others to give the first trustto Rivera. The line of communication between Los Angeles and LowerCalifornia had broken down. Three of the comrades had dug their owngraves and been shot into them. Two more were United States prisonersin Los Angeles. Juan Alvarado, the Federal commander, was a monster. Alltheir plans did he checkmate. They could no longer gain access to theactive revolutionists, and the incipient ones, in Lower California.
Young Rivera was given his instructions and dispatched south. When hereturned, the line of communication was reestablished, and Juan Alvaradowas dead. He had been found in bed, a knife hilt-deep in his breast.This had exceeded Rivera's instructions, but they of the Junta knew thetimes of his movements. They did not ask him. He said nothing. But theylooked
at one another and conjectured.
"I have told you," said Vera. "Diaz has more to fear from this youththan from any man. He is implacable. He is the hand of God."
The bad temper, mentioned by May Sethby, and sensed by them all,was evidenced by physical proofs. Now he appeared with a cut lip,a blackened cheek, or a swollen ear. It was patent that he brawled,somewhere in that outside world where he ate and slept, gained money,and moved in ways unknown to them. As the time passed, he had come toset type for the little revolutionary sheet they published weekly. Therewere occasions when he was unable to set type, when his knuckles werebruised and battered, when his thumbs were injured and helpless, whenone arm or the other hung wearily at his side while his face was drawnwith unspoken pain.
"A wastrel," said Arrellano.
"A frequenter of low places," said Ramos.
"But where does he get the money?" Vera demanded. "Only to-day, justnow, have I learned that he paid the bill for white paper--one hundredand forty dollars."
"There are his absences," said May Sethby. "He never explains them."
"We should set a spy upon him," Ramos propounded.
"I should not care to be that spy," said Vera. "I fear you would neversee me again, save to bury me. He has a terrible passion. Not even Godwould he permit to stand between him and the way of his passion."
"I feel like a child before him," Ramos confessed.
"To me he is power--he is the primitive, the wild wolf, the strikingrattlesnake, the stinging centipede," said Arrellano.
"He is the Revolution incarnate," said Vera. "He is the flame and thespirit of it, the insatiable cry for vengeance that makes no cry butthat slays noiselessly. He is a destroying angel in moving through thestill watches of the night."
"I could weep over him," said May Sethby. "He knows nobody. He hatesall people. Us he tolerates, for we are the way of his desire. He isalone.... lonely." Her voice broke in a half sob and there was dimnessin her eyes.
Rivera's ways and times were truly mysterious. There were periods whenthey did not see him for a week at a time. Once, he was away a month.These occasions were always capped by his return, when, withoutadvertisement or speech, he laid gold coins on May Sethby's desk. Again,for days and weeks, he spent all his time with the Junta. And yet again,for irregular periods, he would disappear through the heart of each day,from early morning until late afternoon. At such times he came early andremained late. Arrellano had found him at midnight, setting type withfresh swollen knuckles, or mayhap it was his lip, new-split, that stillbled.
II
The time of the crisis approached. Whether or not the Revolution wouldbe depended upon the Junta, and the Junta was hard-pressed. The needfor money was greater than ever before, while money was harder to get.Patriots had given their last cent and now could give no more. Sectiongang laborers-fugitive peons from Mexico--were contributing halftheir scanty wages. But more than that was needed. The heart-breaking,conspiring, undermining toil of years approached fruition. The timewas ripe. The Revolution hung on the balance. One shove more, one lastheroic effort, and it would tremble across the scales to victory. Theyknew their Mexico. Once started, the Revolution would take care ofitself. The whole Diaz machine would go down like a house of cards. Theborder was ready to rise. One Yankee, with a hundred I.W.W. men, waitedthe word to cross over the border and begin the conquest of LowerCalifornia. But he needed guns. And clear across to the Atlantic,the Junta in touch with them all and all of them needing guns, mereadventurers, soldiers of fortune, bandits, disgruntled American unionmen, socialists, anarchists, rough-necks, Mexican exiles, peons escapedfrom bondage, whipped miners from the bull-pens of Coeur d'Alene andColorado who desired only the more vindictively to fight--all theflotsam and jetsam of wild spirits from the madly complicated modernworld. And it was guns and ammunition, ammunition and guns--theunceasing and eternal cry.
Fling this heterogeneous, bankrupt, vindictive mass across the border,and the Revolution was on. The custom house, the northern ports ofentry, would be captured. Diaz could not resist. He dared not throwthe weight of his armies against them, for he must hold the south. Andthrough the south the flame would spread despite. The people would rise.The defenses of city after city would crumple up. State after statewould totter down. And at last, from every side, the victorious armiesof the Revolution would close in on the City of Mexico itself, Diaz'slast stronghold.
But the money. They had the men, impatient and urgent, who would use theguns. They knew the traders who would sell and deliver the guns. But toculture the Revolution thus far had exhausted the Junta. The last dollarhad been spent, the last resource and the last starving patriot milkeddry, and the great adventure still trembled on the scales. Guns andammunition! The ragged battalions must be armed. But how? Ramos lamentedhis confiscated estates. Arrellano wailed the spendthriftness of hisyouth. May Sethby wondered if it would have been different had they ofthe Junta been more economical in the past.
"To think that the freedom of Mexico should stand or fall on a fewpaltry thousands of dollars," said Paulino Vera.
Despair was in all their faces. Jose Amarillo, their last hope, a recentconvert, who had promised money, had been apprehended at his hacienda inChihuahua and shot against his own stable wall. The news had just comethrough.
Rivera, on his knees, scrubbing, looked up, with suspended brush, hisbare arms flecked with soapy, dirty water.
"Will five thousand do it?" he asked.
They looked their amazement. Vera nodded and swallowed. He could notspeak, but he was on the instant invested with a vast faith.
"Order the guns," Rivera said, and thereupon was guilty of the longestflow of words they had ever heard him utter. "The time is short. Inthree weeks I shall bring you the five thousand. It is well. The weatherwill be warmer for those who fight. Also, it is the best I can do."
Vera fought his faith. It was incredible. Too many fond hopes had beenshattered since he had begun to play the revolution game. He believedthis threadbare scrubber of the Revolution, and yet he dared notbelieve.
"You are crazy," he said.
"In three weeks," said Rivera. "Order the guns."
He got up, rolled down his sleeves, and put on his coat.
"Order the guns," he said.
"I am going now."
III
After hurrying and scurrying, much telephoning and bad language, a nightsession was held in Kelly's office. Kelly was rushed with business;also, he was unlucky. He had brought Danny Ward out from New York,arranged the fight for him with Billy Carthey, the date was threeweeks away, and for two days now, carefully concealed from the sportingwriters, Carthey had been lying up, badly injured. There was no one totake his place. Kelly had been burning the wires East to every eligiblelightweight, but they were tied up with dates and contracts. And nowhope had revived, though faintly.
"You've got a hell of a nerve," Kelly addressed Rivera, after one look,as soon as they got together.
Hate that was malignant was in Rivera's eyes, but his face remainedimpassive.
"I can lick Ward," was all he said.
"How do you know? Ever see him fight?"
Rivera shook his head.
"He can beat you up with one hand and both eyes closed."
Rivera shrugged his shoulders.
"Haven't you got anything to say?" the fight promoter snarled.
"I can lick him."
"Who'd you ever fight, anyway!" Michael Kelly demanded. Michael was thepromotor's brother, and ran the Yellowstone pool rooms where he madegoodly sums on the fight game.
Rivera favored him with a bitter, unanswering stare.
The promoter's secretary, a distinctively sporty young man, sneeredaudibly.
"Well, you know Roberts," Kelly broke the hostile silence. "He ought tobe here. I've sent for him. Sit down and wait, though f rom the looks ofyou, you haven't got a chance. I can't throw the public down with a bumfight. Ringside seats are selling at fifteen dollars, you know that."
When Roberts arrived, it was patent that he was mildly drunk. He was atall, lean, slack-jointed individual, and his walk, like his talk, was asmooth and languid drawl.
Kelly went straight to the point.
"Look here, Roberts, you've been bragging you discovered this littleMexican. You know Carthey's broke his arm. Well, this little yellowstreak has the gall to blow in to-day and say he'll take Carthey'splace. What about it?"
"It's all right, Kelly," came the slow response. "He can put up afight."
"I suppose you'll be sayin' next that he can lick Ward," Kelly snapped.
Roberts considered judicially.
"No, I won't say that. Ward's a top-notcher and a ring general. But hecan't hashhouse Rivera in short order. I know Rivera. Nobody can gethis goat. He ain't got a goat that I could ever discover. And he's atwo-handed fighter. He can throw in the sleep-makers from any position."
"Never mind that. What kind of a show can he put up? You've beenconditioning and training fighters all your life. I take off my hat toyour judgment. Can he give the public a run for its money?"
"He sure can, and he'll worry Ward a mighty heap on top of it. Youdon't know that boy. I do. I discovered him. He ain't got a goat. He's adevil. He's a wizzy-wooz if anybody should ask you. He'll make Ward situp with a show of local talent that'll make the rest of you sit up. Iwon't say he'll lick Ward, but he'll put up such a show that you'll allknow he's a comer."
"All right." Kelly turned to his secretary. "Ring up Ward. I warnedhim to show up if I thought it worth while. He's right across at theYellowstone, throwin' chests and doing the popular."
Kelly turned back to the conditioner. "Have a drink?"
Roberts sipped his highball and unburdened himself.
"Never told you how I discovered the little cuss. It was a couple ofyears ago he showed up out at the quarters. I was getting Prayne readyfor his fight with Delaney. Prayne's wicked. He ain't got a tickle ofmercy in his make-up. I chopped up his pardner's something cruel, andI couldn't find a willing boy that'd work with him. I'd noticed thislittle starved Mexican kid hanging around, and I was desperate. SoI grabbed him, shoved on the gloves and put him in. He was tougher'nrawhide, but weak. And he didn't know the first letter in the alphabetof boxing. Prayne chopped him to ribbons. But he hung on for twosickening rounds, when he fainted. Starvation, that was all. Battered!You couldn't have recognized him. I gave him half a dollar and a squaremeal. You oughta seen him wolf it down. He hadn't had the end of a bitefor a couple of days. That's the end of him, thinks I. But next day heshowed up, stiff an' sore, ready for another half and a square meal. Andhe done better as time went by. Just a born fighter, and tough beyondbelief. He hasn't a heart. He's a piece of ice. And he never talkedeleven words in a string since I know him. He saws wood and does hiswork."
"I've seen 'm," the secretary said. "He's worked a lot for you."
"All the big little fellows has tried out on him," Roberts answered."And he's learned from 'em. I've seen some of them he could lick. Buthis heart wasn't in it. I reckoned he never liked the game. He seemed toact that way."
"He's been fighting some before the little clubs the last few months,"Kelly said.
"Sure. But I don't know what struck 'm. All of a sudden his heart gotinto it. He just went out like a streak and cleaned up all the littlelocal fellows. Seemed to want the money, and he's won a bit, though hisclothes don't look it. He's peculiar. Nobody knows his business. Nobodyknows how he spends his time. Even when he's on the job, he plumb up anddisappears most of each day soon as his work is done. Sometimes he justblows away for weeks at a time. But he don't take advice. There's afortune in it for the fellow that gets the job of managin' him, only hewon't consider it. And you watch him hold out for the cash money whenyou get down to terms."
It was at this stage that Danny Ward arrived. Quite a party it was.His manager and trainer were with him, and he breezed in like a gustydraught of geniality, good-nature, and all-conqueringness. Greetingsflew about, a joke here, a retort there, a smile or a laugh foreverybody. Yet it was his way, and only partly sincere. He was a goodactor, and he had found geniality a most valuable asset in the gameof getting on in the world. But down underneath he was the deliberate,cold-blooded fighter and business man. The rest was a mask. Those whoknew him or trafficked with him said that when it came to brass tackshe was Danny-on-the-Spot. He was invariably present at all businessdiscussions, and it was urged by some that his manager was a blind whoseonly function was to serve as Danny's mouth-piece.
Rivera's way was different. Indian blood, as well as Spanish, was inhis veins, and he sat back in a corner, silent, immobile, only his blackeyes passing from face to face and noting everything.
"So that's the guy," Danny said, running an appraising eye over hisproposed antagonist. "How de do, old chap."
Rivera's eyes burned venomously, but he made no sign of acknowledgment.He disliked all Gringos, but this Gringo he hated with an immediacy thatwas unusual even in him.
"Gawd!" Danny protested facetiously to the promoter. "You ain'texpectin' me to fight a deef mute." When the laughter subsided, he madeanother hit. "Los Angeles must be on the dink when this is the best youcan scare up. What kindergarten did you get 'm from?"
"He's a good little boy, Danny, take it from me," Roberts defended. "Notas easy as he looks."
"And half the house is sold already," Kelly pleaded. "You'll have totake 'm on, Danny. It is the best we can do."
Danny ran another careless and unflattering glance over Rivera andsighed.
"I gotta be easy with 'm, I guess. If only he don't blow up."
Roberts snorted.
"You gotta be careful," Danny's manager warned. "No taking chances witha dub that's likely to sneak a lucky one across."
"Oh, I'll be careful all right, all right," Danny smiled. "I'll get inat the start an' nurse 'im along for the dear public's sake. What d' yesay to fifteen rounds, Kelly--an' then the hay for him?"
"That'll do," was the answer. "As long as you make it realistic."
"Then let's get down to biz." Danny paused and calculated. "Of course,sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts, same as with Carthey. Butthe split'll be different. Eighty will just about suit me." And to hismanager, "That right?"
The manager nodded.
"Here, you, did you get that?" Kelly asked Rivera.
Rivera shook his head.
"Well, it is this way," Kelly exposited. "The purse'll be sixty-five percent of the gate receipts. You're a dub, and an unknown. You and Dannysplit, twenty per cent goin' to you, an' eighty to Danny. That's fair,isn't it, Roberts?"
"Very fair, Rivera," Roberts agreed.
"You see, you ain't got a reputation yet."
"What will sixty-five per cent of the gate receipts be?" Riverademanded.
"Oh, maybe five thousand, maybe as high as eight thousand," Danny brokein to explain. "Something like that. Your share'll come to somethinglike a thousand or sixteen hundred. Pretty good for takin' a lickingfrom a guy with my reputation. What d' ye say?"
Then Rivera took their breaths away. "Winner takes all," he said withfinality.
A dead silence prevailed.
"It's like candy from a baby," Danny's manager proclaimed.
Danny shook his head.
"I've been in the game too long," he explained.
"I'm not casting reflections on the referee, or the present company.I'm not sayin' nothing about book-makers an' frame-ups that sometimeshappen. But what I do say is that it's poor business for a fighter likeme. I play safe. There's no tellin'. Mebbe I break my arm, eh? Or someguy slips me a bunch of dope?" He shook his head solemnly. "Win or lose,eighty is my split. What d' ye say, Mexican?"
Rivera shook his head.
Danny exploded. He was getting down to brass tacks now.
"Why, you dirty little greaser! I've a mind to knock your block offright now."
Roberts drawled his body to interposition between hostilities.
"Winner takes all," Rivera repeated
sullenly.
"Why do you stand out that way?" Danny asked.
"I can lick you," was the straight answer.
Danny half started to take off his coat. But, as his manager knew, itwas a grand stand play. The coat did not come off, and Danny allowedhimself to be placated by the group. Everybody sympathized with him.Rivera stood alone.
"Look here, you little fool," Kelly took up the argument. "You'renobody. We know what you've been doing the last few months--putting awaylittle local fighters. But Danny is class. His next fight after thiswill be for the championship. And you're unknown. Nobody ever heard ofyou out of Los Angeles."
"They will," Rivera answered with a shrug, "after this fight."
"You think for a second you can lick me?" Danny blurted in.
Rivera nodded.
"Oh, come; listen to reason," Kelly pleaded. "Think of the advertising."
"I want the money," was Rivera's answer.
"You couldn't win from me in a thousand years," Danny assured him.
"Then what are you holdin' out for?" Rivera countered. "If the money'sthat easy, why don't you go after it?"
"I will, so help me!" Danny cried with abrupt conviction. "I'll beat youto death in the ring, my boy--you monkeyin' with me this way. Makeout the articles, Kelly. Winner take all. Play it up in the sportin'columns. Tell 'em it's a grudge fight. I'll show this fresh kid a few."
Kelly's secretary had begun to write, when Danny interrupted.
"Hold on!" He turned to Rivera.
"Weights?"
"Ringside," came the answer.
"Not on your life, Fresh Kid. If winner takes all, we weigh in at tenA.M."
"And winner takes all?" Rivera queried.
Danny nodded. That settled it. He would enter the ring in his fullripeness of strength.
"Weigh in at ten," Rivera said.
The secretary's pen went on scratching.
"It means five pounds," Roberts complained to Rivera.
"You've given too much away. You've thrown the fight right there.Danny'll lick you sure. He'll be as strong as a bull. You're a fool. Youain't got the chance of a dewdrop in hell."
Rivera's answer was a calculated look of hatred. Even this Gringo hedespised, and him had he found the whitest Gringo of them all.
IV
Barely noticed was Rivera as he entered the ring. Only a very slight andvery scattering ripple of half-hearted hand-clapping greeted him. Thehouse did not believe in him. He was the lamb led to slaughter at thehands of the great Danny. Besides, the house was disappointed. It hadexpected a rushing battle between Danny Ward and Billy Carthey, andhere it must put up with this poor little tyro. Still further, it hadmanifested its disapproval of the change by betting two, and even three,to one on Danny. And where a betting audience's money is, there is itsheart.
The Mexican boy sat down in his corner and waited. The slow minuteslagged by. Danny was making him wait. It was an old trick, but ever itworked on the young, new fighters. They grew frightened, sitting thusand facing their own apprehensions and a callous, tobacco-smokingaudience. But for once the trick failed. Roberts was right. Rivera hadno goat. He, who was more delicately coordinated, more finely nerved andstrung than any of them, had no nerves of this sort. The atmosphere offoredoomed defeat in his own corner had no effect on him. His handlerswere Gringos and strangers. Also they were scrubs--the dirty driftageof the fight game, without honor, without efficiency. And they werechilled, as well, with certitude that theirs was the losing corner.
"Now you gotta be careful," Spider Hagerty warned him. Spider was hischief second. "Make it last as long as you can--them's my instructionsfrom Kelly. If you don't, the papers'll call it another bum fight andgive the game a bigger black eye in Los Angeles."
All of which was not encouraging. But Rivera took no notice. He despisedprize fighting. It was the hated game of the hated Gringo. He had takenup with it, as a chopping block for others in the training quarters,solely because he was starving. The fact that he was marvelously madefor it had meant nothing. He hated it. Not until he had come in to theJunta, had he fought for money, and he had found the money easy. Notfirst among the sons of men had he been to find himself successful at adespised vocation.
He did not analyze. He merely knew that he must win this fight. Therecould be no other outcome. For behind him, nerving him to this belief,were profounder forces than any the crowded house dreamed. Danny Wardfought for money, and for the easy ways of life that money would bring.But the things Rivera fought for burned in his brain--blazing andterrible visions, that, with eyes wide open, sitting lonely in thecorner of the ring and waiting for his tricky antagonist, he saw asclearly as he had lived them.
He saw the white-walled, water-power factories of Rio Blanco. He saw thesix thousand workers, starved and wan, and the little children, sevenand eight years of age, who toiled long shifts for ten cents a day.He saw the perambulating corpses, the ghastly death's heads of men wholabored in the dye-rooms. He remembered that he had heard his fathercall the dye-rooms the "suicide-holes," where a year was death. Hesaw the little patio, and his mother cooking and moiling at crudehousekeeping and finding time to caress and love him. And his father hesaw, large, big-moustached and deep-chested, kindly above all men,who loved all men and whose heart was so large that there was love tooverflowing still left for the mother and the little muchacho playingin the corner of the patio. In those days his name had not been FelipeRivera. It had been Fernandez, his father's and mother's name. Him hadthey called Juan. Later, he had changed it himself, for he had foundthe name of Fernandez hated by prefects of police, jefes politicos, andrurales.
Big, hearty Joaquin Fernandez! A large place he occupied in Rivera'svisions. He had not understood at the time, but looking back he couldunderstand. He could see him setting type in the little printery, orscribbling endless hasty, nervous lines on the much-cluttered desk. Andhe could see the strange evenings, when workmen, coming secretly in thedark like men who did ill deeds, met with his father and talked longhours where he, the muchacho, lay not always asleep in the corner.
As from a remote distance he could hear Spider Hagerty saying to him:"No layin' down at the start. Them's instructions. Take a beatin' andearn your dough."
Ten minutes had passed, and he still sat in his corner. There were nosigns of Danny, who was evidently playing the trick to the limit.
But more visions burned before the eye of Rivera's memory. The strike,or, rather, the lockout, because the workers of Rio Blanco had helpedtheir striking brothers of Puebla. The hunger, the expeditions in thehills for berries, the roots and herbs that all ate and that twisted andpained the stomachs of all of them. And then, the nightmare; the wasteof ground before the company's store; the thousands of starving workers;General Rosalio Martinez and the soldiers of Porfirio Diaz, and thedeath-spitting rifles that seemed never to cease spitting, while theworkers' wrongs were washed and washed again in their own blood. Andthat night! He saw the flat cars, piled high with the bodies of theslain, consigned to Vera Cruz, food for the sharks of the bay. Againhe crawled over the grisly heaps, seeking and finding, strippedand mangled, his father and his mother. His mother he especiallyremembered--only her face projecting, her body burdened by the weightof dozens of bodies. Again the rifles of the soldiers of Porfirio Diazcracked, and again he dropped to the ground and slunk away like somehunted coyote of the hills.
To his ears came a great roar, as of the sea, and he saw Danny Ward,leading his retinue of trainers and seconds, coming down the centeraisle. The house was in wild uproar for the popular hero who was boundto win. Everybody proclaimed him. Everybody was for him. Even Rivera'sown seconds warmed to something akin to cheerfulness when Danny duckedjauntily through the ropes and entered the ring. His face continuallyspread to an unending succession of smiles, and when Danny smiled hesmiled in every feature, even to the laughter-wrinkles of the corners ofthe eyes and into the depths of the eyes themselves. Never was there sogenial a fighter. His face was a running advertisemen
t of good feeling,of good fellowship. He knew everybody. He joked, and laughed, andgreeted his friends through the ropes. Those farther away, unable tosuppress their admiration, cried loudly: "Oh, you Danny!" It was ajoyous ovation of affection that lasted a full five minutes.
Rivera was disregarded. For all that the audience noticed, he did notexist. Spider Lagerty's bloated face bent down close to his.
"No gettin' scared," the Spider warned.
"An' remember instructions. You gotta last. No layin' down. If you laydown, we got instructions to beat you up in the dressing rooms. Savve?You just gotta fight."
The house began to applaud. Danny was crossing the ring to him. Dannybent over, caught Rivera's right hand in both his own and shook it withimpulsive heartiness. Danny's smile-wreathed face was close to his. Theaudience yelled its appreciation of Danny's display of sporting spirit.He was greeting his opponent with the fondness of a brother. Danny'slips moved, and the audience, interpreting the unheard words to bethose of a kindly-natured sport, yelled again. Only Rivera heard the lowwords.
"You little Mexican rat," hissed from between Danny's gaily smilinglips, "I'll fetch the yellow outa you."
Rivera made no move. He did not rise. He merely hated with his eyes.
"Get up, you dog!" some man yelled through the ropes from behind.
The crowd began to hiss and boo him for his unsportsmanlike conduct,but he sat unmoved. Another great outburst of applause was Danny's as hewalked back across the ring.
When Danny stripped, there was ohs! and ahs! of delight. His body wasperfect, alive with easy suppleness and health and strength. The skinwas white as a woman's, and as smooth. All grace, and resilience,and power resided therein. He had proved it in scores of battles. Hisphotographs were in all the physical culture magazines.
A groan went up as Spider Hagerty peeled Rivera's sweater over his head.His body seemed leaner, because of the swarthiness of the skin. He hadmuscles, but they made no display like his opponent's. What the audienceneglected to see was the deep chest. Nor could it guess the toughness ofthe fiber of the flesh, the instantaneousness of the cell explosionsof the muscles, the fineness of the nerves that wired every part ofhim into a splendid fighting mechanism. All the audience saw was abrown-skinned boy of eighteen with what seemed the body of a boy. WithDanny it was different. Danny was a man of twenty-four, and his bodywas a man's body. The contrast was still more striking as they stoodtogether in the center of the ring receiving the referee's lastinstructions.
Rivera noticed Roberts sitting directly behind the newspaper men. He wasdrunker than usual, and his speech was correspondingly slower.
"Take it easy, Rivera," Roberts drawled.
"He can't kill you, remember that. He'll rush you at the go-off, butdon't get rattled. You just and stall, and clinch. He can't hurt coverup, much. Just make believe to yourself that he's choppin' out on you atthe trainin' quarters."
Rivera made no sign that he had heard.
"Sullen little devil," Roberts muttered to the man next to him. "Healways was that way."
But Rivera forgot to look his usual hatred. A vision of countless riflesblinded his eyes. Every face in the audience, far as he could see, tothe high dollar-seats, was transformed into a rifle. And he saw the longMexican border arid and sun-washed and aching, and along it he saw theragged bands that delayed only for the guns.
Back in his corner he waited, standing up. His seconds had crawled outthrough the ropes, taking the canvas stool with them. Diagonally acrossthe squared ring, Danny faced him. The gong struck, and the battle wason. The audience howled its delight. Never had it seen a battle openmore convincingly. The papers were right. It was a grudge fight.Three-quarters of the distance Danny covered in the rush to gettogether, his intention to eat up the Mexican lad plainly advertised. Heassailed with not one blow, nor two, nor a dozen. He was a gyroscopeof blows, a whirlwind of destruction. Rivera was nowhere. He wasoverwhelmed, buried beneath avalanches of punches delivered from everyangle and position by a past master in the art. He was overborne, sweptback against the ropes, separated by the referee, and swept back againstthe ropes again.
It was not a fight. It was a slaughter, a massacre. Any audience, savea prize fighting one, would have exhausted its emotions in that firstminute. Danny was certainly showing what he could do--a splendidexhibition. Such was the certainty of the audience, as well as itsexcitement and favoritism, that it failed to take notice that theMexican still stayed on his feet. It forgot Rivera. It rarely saw him,so closely was he enveloped in Danny's man-eating attack. A minute ofthis went by, and two minutes. Then, in a separation, it caught a clearglimpse of the Mexican. His lip was cut, his nose was bleeding. As heturned and staggered into a clinch, the welts of oozing blood, from hiscontacts with the ropes, showed in red bars across his back. But whatthe audience did not notice was that his chest was not heaving and thathis eyes were coldly burning as ever. Too many aspiring champions, inthe cruel welter of the training camps, had practiced this man-eatingattack on him. He had learned to live through for a compensation of fromhalf a dollar a go up to fifteen dollars a week--a hard school, and hewas schooled hard.
Then happened the amazing thing. The whirling, blurring mix-up ceasedsuddenly. Rivera stood alone. Danny, the redoubtable Danny, lay on hisback. His body quivered as consciousness strove to return to it. He hadnot staggered and sunk down, nor had he gone over in a long slumpingfall. The right hook of Rivera had dropped him in midair with theabruptness of death. The referee shoved Rivera back with one hand, andstood over the fallen gladiator counting the seconds. It is the customof prize-fighting audiences to cheer a clean knock-down blow. But thisaudience did not cheer. The thing had been too unexpected. It watchedthe toll of the seconds in tense silence, and through this silence thevoice of Roberts rose exultantly:
"I told you he was a two-handed fighter!"
By the fifth second, Danny was rolling over on his face, and when sevenwas counted, he rested on one knee, ready to rise after the count ofnine and before the count of ten. If his knee still touched the floorat "ten," he was considered "down," and also "out." The instant hisknee left the floor, he was considered "up," and in that instant it wasRivera's right to try and put him down again. Rivera took no chances.The moment that knee left the floor he would strike again. He circledaround, but the referee circled in between, and Rivera knew that theseconds he counted were very slow. All Gringos were against him, eventhe referee.
At "nine" the referee gave Rivera a sharp thrust back. It was unfair,but it enabled Danny to rise, the smile back on his lips. Doubled partlyover, with arms wrapped about face and abdomen, he cleverly stumbledinto a clinch. By all the rules of the game the referee should havebroken it, but he did not, and Danny clung on like a surf-batteredbarnacle and moment by moment recuperated. The last minute of the roundwas going fast. If he could live to the end, he would have a full minutein his corner to revive. And live to the end he did, smiling through alldesperateness and extremity.
"The smile that won't come off!" somebody yelled, and the audiencelaughed loudly in its relief.
"The kick that Greaser's got is something God-awful," Danny gasped inhis corner to his adviser while his handlers worked frantically overhim.
The second and third rounds were tame. Danny, a tricky and consummatering general, stalled and blocked and held on, devoting himself torecovering from that dazing first-round blow. In the fourth round he washimself again. Jarred and shaken, nevertheless his good condition hadenabled him to regain his vigor. But he tried no man-eating tactics.The Mexican had proved a tartar. Instead, he brought to bear his bestfighting powers. In tricks and skill and experience he was the master,and though he could land nothing vital, he proceeded scientifically tochop and wear down his opponent. He landed three blows to Rivera's one,but they were punishing blows only, and not deadly. It was the sum ofmany of them that constituted deadliness. He was respectful of thistwo-handed dub with the amazing short-arm kicks in both his fists.
In defens
e, Rivera developed a disconcerting straight-left. Againand again, attack after attack he straight-lefted away from him withaccumulated damage to Danny's mouth and nose. But Danny was protean.That was why he was the coming champion. He could change from style tostyle of fighting at will. He now devoted himself to infighting. Inthis he was particularly wicked, and it enabled him to avoid the other'sstraight-left. Here he set the house wild repeatedly, capping it witha marvelous lockbreak and lift of an inside upper-cut that raised theMexican in the air and dropped him to the mat. Rivera rested on oneknee, making the most of the count, and in the soul of him he knew thereferee was counting short seconds on him.
Again, in the seventh, Danny achieved the diabolical inside uppercut.He succeeded only in staggering Rivera, but, in the ensuing moment ofdefenseless helplessness, he smashed him with another blow through theropes. Rivera's body bounced on the heads of the newspaper men below,and they boosted him back to the edge of the platform outside the ropes.Here he rested on one knee, while the referee raced off the seconds.Inside the ropes, through which he must duck to enter the ring, Dannywaited for him. Nor did the referee intervene or thrust Danny back.
The house was beside itself with delight.
"Kill'm, Danny, kill'm!" was the cry.
Scores of voices took it up until it was like a war-chant of wolves.
Danny did his best, but Rivera, at the count of eight, instead of nine,came unexpectedly through the ropes and safely into a clinch. Now thereferee worked, tearing him away so that he could be hit, giving Dannyevery advantage that an unfair referee can give.
But Rivera lived, and the daze cleared from his brain. It was all of apiece. They were the hated Gringos and they were all unfair. And in theworst of it visions continued to flash and sparkle in his brain--longlines of railroad track that simmered across the desert; rurales andAmerican constables, prisons and calabooses; tramps at water tanks--allthe squalid and painful panorama of his odyssey after Rio Blanca and thestrike. And, resplendent and glorious, he saw the great, red Revolutionsweeping across his land. The guns were there before him. Every hatedface was a gun. It was for the guns he fought. He was the guns. He wasthe Revolution. He fought for all Mexico.
The audience began to grow incensed with Rivera. Why didn't he take thelicking that was appointed him? Of course he was going to be licked, butwhy should he be so obstinate about it? Very few were interested in him,and they were the certain, definite percentage of a gambling crowd thatplays long shots. Believing Danny to be the winner, nevertheless theyhad put their money on the Mexican at four to ten and one to three. Morethan a trifle was up on the point of how many rounds Rivera could last.Wild money had appeared at the ringside proclaiming that he could notlast seven rounds, or even six. The winners of this, now that their cashrisk was happily settled, had joined in cheering on the favorite.
Rivera refused to be licked. Through the eighth round his opponentstrove vainly to repeat the uppercut. In the ninth, Rivera stunned thehouse again. In the midst of a clinch he broke the lock with a quick,lithe movement, and in the narrow space between their bodies his rightlifted from the waist. Danny went to the floor and took the safety ofthe count. The crowd was appalled. He was being bested at his own game.His famous right-uppercut had been worked back on him. Rivera madeno attempt to catch him as he arose at "nine." The referee was openlyblocking that play, though he stood clear when the situation wasreversed and it was Rivera who desired to rise.
Twice in the tenth, Rivera put through the right-uppercut, lifted fromwaist to opponent's chin. Danny grew desperate. The smile never left hisface, but he went back to his man-eating rushes. Whirlwind as he would,he could not damage Rivera, while Rivera through the blur and whirl,dropped him to the mat three times in succession. Danny did notrecuperate so quickly now, and by the eleventh round he was in a seriousway. But from then till the fourteenth he put up the gamest exhibitionof his career. He stalled and blocked, fought parsimoniously, and stroveto gather strength. Also, he fought as foully as a successful fighterknows how. Every trick and device he employed, butting in the clincheswith the seeming of accident, pinioning Rivera's glove between arm andbody, heeling his glove on Rivera's mouth to clog his breathing. Often,in the clinches, through his cut and smiling lips he snarled insultsunspeakable and vile in Rivera's ear. Everybody, from the referee to thehouse, was with Danny and was helping Danny. And they knew what he hadin mind. Bested by this surprise-box of an unknown, he was pinningall on a single punch. He offered himself for punishment, fished, andfeinted, and drew, for that one opening that would enable him to whipa blow through with all his strength and turn the tide. As another andgreater fighter had done before him, he might do a right and left, tosolar plexus and across the jaw. He could do it, for he was noted forthe strength of punch that remained in his arms as long as he could keephis feet.
Rivera's seconds were not half-caring for him in the intervals betweenrounds. Their towels made a showing, but drove little air into hispanting lungs. Spider Hagerty talked advice to him, but Rivera knewit was wrong advice. Everybody was against him. He was surrounded bytreachery. In the fourteenth round he put Danny down again, and himselfstood resting, hands dropped at side, while the referee counted. Inthe other corner Rivera had been noting suspicious whisperings. He sawMichael Kelly make his way to Roberts and bend and whisper. Rivera'sears were a cat's, desert-trained, and he caught snatches of what wassaid. He wanted to hear more, and when his opponent arose he maneuveredthe fight into a clinch over against the ropes.
"Got to," he could hear Michael, while Roberts nodded. "Danny's got towin--I stand to lose a mint--I've got a ton of money covered--my own.If he lasts the fifteenth I'm bust--the boy'll mind you. Put somethingacross."
And thereafter Rivera saw no more visions. They were trying to job him.Once again he dropped Danny and stood resting, his hands at his slide.Roberts stood up.
"That settled him," he said.
"Go to your corner."
He spoke with authority, as he had often spoken to Rivera at thetraining quarters. But Rivera looked hatred at him and waited for Dannyto rise. Back in his corner in the minute interval, Kelly, the promoter,came and talked to Rivera.
"Throw it, damn you," he rasped in, a harsh low voice. "You gotta laydown, Rivera. Stick with me and I'll make your future. I'll let you lickDanny next time. But here's where you lay down."
Rivera showed with his eyes that he heard, but he made neither sign ofassent nor dissent.
"Why don't you speak?" Kelly demanded angrily.
"You lose, anyway," Spider Hagerty supplemented. "The referee'll take itaway from you. Listen to Kelly, and lay down."
"Lay down, kid," Kelly pleaded, "and I'll help you to the championship."
Rivera did not answer.
"I will, so help me, kid."
At the strike of the gong Rivera sensed something impending. The housedid not. Whatever it was it was there inside the ring with him and veryclose. Danny's earlier surety seemed returned to him. The confidence ofhis advance frightened Rivera. Some trick was about to be worked. Dannyrushed, but Rivera refused the encounter. He side-stepped away intosafety. What the other wanted was a clinch. It was in some way necessaryto the trick. Rivera backed and circled away, yet he knew, sooner orlater, the clinch and the trick would come. Desperately he resolvedto draw it. He made as if to effect the clinch with Danny's next rush.Instead, at the last instant, just as their bodies should have cometogether, Rivera darted nimbly back. And in the same instant Danny'scorner raised a cry of foul. Rivera had fooled them. The referee pausedirresolutely. The decision that trembled on his lips was never uttered,for a shrill, boy's voice from the gallery piped, "Raw work!"
Danny cursed Rivera openly, and forced him, while Rivera danced away.Also, Rivera made up his mind to strike no more blows at the body. Inthis he threw away half his chance of winning, but he knew if he was towin at all it was with the outfighting that remained to him. Given theleast opportunity, they would lie a foul on him. Danny threw all cautio
nto the winds. For two rounds he tore after and into the boy who darednot meet him at close quarters. Rivera was struck again and again;he took blows by the dozens to avoid the perilous clinch. During thissupreme final rally of Danny's the audience rose to its feet and wentmad. It did not understand. All it could see was that its favorite waswinning, after all.
"Why don't you fight?" it demanded wrathfully of Rivera.
"You're yellow! You're yellow!" "Open up, you cur! Open up!" "Kill'm,Danny! Kill 'm!" "You sure got 'm! Kill 'm!"
In all the house, bar none, Rivera was the only cold man. By temperamentand blood he was the hottest-passioned there; but he had gone throughsuch vastly greater heats that this collective passion of ten thousandthroats, rising surge on surge, was to his brain no more than the velvetcool of a summer twilight.
Into the seventeenth round Danny carried his rally. Rivera, under aheavy blow, drooped and sagged. His hands dropped helplessly as hereeled backward. Danny thought it was his chance. The boy was at, hismercy. Thus Rivera, feigning, caught him off his guard, lashing out aclean drive to the mouth. Danny went down. When he arose, Rivera felledhim with a down-chop of the right on neck and jaw. Three times herepeated this. It was impossible for any referee to call these blowsfoul.
"Oh, Bill! Bill!" Kelly pleaded to the referee.
"I can't," that official lamented back. "He won't give me a chance."
Danny, battered and heroic, still kept coming up. Kelly and others nearto the ring began to cry out to the police to stop it, though Danny'scorner refused to throw in the towel. Rivera saw the fat police captainstarting awkwardly to climb through the ropes, and was not sure what itmeant. There were so many ways of cheating in this game of the Gringos.Danny, on his feet, tottered groggily and helplessly before him. Thereferee and the captain were both reaching for Rivera when he struck thelast blow. There was no need to stop the fight, for Danny did not rise.
"Count!" Rivera cried hoarsely to the referee.
And when the count was finished, Danny's seconds gathered him up andcarried him to his corner.
"Who wins?" Rivera demanded.
Reluctantly, the referee caught his gloved hand and held it aloft.
There were no congratulations for Rivera. He walked to his cornerunattended, where his seconds had not yet placed his stool. He leanedbackward on the ropes and looked his hatred at them, swept it on andabout him till the whole ten thousand Gringos were included. His kneestrembled under him, and he was sobbing from exhaustion. Before his eyesthe hated faces swayed back and forth in the giddiness of nausea. Thenhe remembered they were the guns. The guns were his. The Revolutioncould go on.
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