Title: Reputation
Author: Tuttle, W. C. (Wilbur C.)
Language: English
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                              Reputation

                           by W. C. Tuttle

         Author of “Tramps of the Range,” “The Misdeal,” etc.


“_El Tigre! Madre de Dios!_” A man must indeed have the soul of a
devil to draw such an exclamation at the mere mention of his name.

“The Tiger! Mother of God!”

We of Santa Ynez, a little handful of folks living in a little mission
village, near the Mexican border, knew him only by reputation. But
that was enough.

Riders dropped in at the little cantina and over their cups of
_tequila_ or warm beer would tell us of some new deviltry done by Jeff
Tigard, the killer. And Felipe’s hands trembled as he drew the beer,
while we laughed at him for being such a coward.

What would the Tiger do in Santa Ynez, we asked each other. There is
nothing for him here.

“Who knows, _señores_?” trembled Felipe. “Always the tales come closer
to Santa Ynez. Some day he will come.”

“Perhaps to cut off your ears,” laughed Ramon, who is very brave. “I
hear that the Tiger strings them on a gold thread and wears them for a
girdle.”

“_Diable!_” swore Mendez, whose fierce beard belies his character.
“Are we weaklings? One man—bah! Tiger, indeed! The devil may own his
soul, but his body is mortal—and mortal man dies.”

Mendez gulped his warm beer and waited for someone to challenge his
statement.

It was very warm in the little, one-story adobe cantina; too warm for
heated argument, even over the Tiger.

“Mendez speaks true,” nodded Pasquale, who is not a Mexican, but
Italian. “Mortal man dies—when he is killed. That is the point,
_compadres_. This Tiger will most surely die—when he is killed. More
beer, Felipe.”

“But why should the Tiger come to Santa Ynez?” asked Felipe nervously,
clattering the mug-bottoms on the rough table-top.

“_Dios!_” swore Mendez angrily. “One might think he had sent you a
message, Felipe. You are like a timid hen which hears the rustle of a
hawk’s wings in every stirring breeze.”

Ramon laughed softly and drained his mug.

“Why should we have fear of that man? It is true that he has the soul
of a devil. Men have told us that he is without a conscience and that
he kills men for sport. It must be so.

“But we of Santa Ynez need not fear this man. We live at peace with
everyone. Our vineyards are loaded, the hills are dotted with our
cattle and horses and there is nothing but good in our hearts. There
remains only the fact that Felipe serves his beer too warm.”

Ramon laughed joyously and slapped Mendez on the back.

“Is is not so, _compadre_? We do not fear the Tiger, eh?”

“Fear?” Mendez rumbled deep in his beard. “I fear no man. I am
Mendez.”

“And thou art full of warm beer,” stated Pasquale, laughing loudly.

Mendez joined the laugh, even at his own expense, for Mendez was full
of beer, which always makes him boastful, but not angry.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was very hot in Santa Ynez, as I have said before, but that day it
was oppressive. The very sky seemed to press down upon the earth. Even
the cattle seemed to stand in silent wonder and did not eat.

The piñon pines on the high hills were as black blots against the
sky-line, and the cañons seemed to send out faint whisperings to the
hills and valleys. Perhaps the cañons knew and were telling that a
storm was coming.

But no whispering was needed to tell us that the Storm God was
preparing for a ride through the valley of the Santa Ynez. Long lines
of cattle were winding their way off the hills, like great jointed
serpents, seeking the shelter of the lowlands.

The little street of the village was deserted. Not a horse was tied at
the hitch-racks. The bright colors of the adobe houses had faded in
that queer light, and were now only a gray.

Gone were the laughing voices of the children, which had filled the
street. Even the dogs were in hiding. It was as if a great calamity
had fallen, although there was nothing—except fear and caution.

And then, from the westward, high over the tops of the mountains,
which look down upon the Pacific, came the cloud; like the belching of
a mighty furnace. Swiftly it blotted out the sun, and a semidarkness
settled upon the valley. But there was none of the coolness of the
night.

At the door of the cantina we watched it come—that cloud. There were
Ramon, Mendez, Pasquale, Pancho, a herder, Felipe and myself. None of
us had wives to go home to.

We had been intently watching this cloud, but now the whole sky seemed
overcast, dropping lower and lower, as if to crush out the world.

A dog started across the street toward us, but stopped, sniffing at
the air. A gust of wind stirred the dust at its feet, and, with a
whimper, as if of pain, it turned back, leaning sideways in its walk,
as if bracing against the wind which had not yet come.

“Let us have beer,” said Mendez softly. “_Madre de Dios!_ That dog
bracing against a ghost wind makes me weak of the spine.”

“Thou art Mendez,” said Pasquale, as if to remind Mendez of his former
boasting.

“But I am not that Mendez. Just now I am sober, and I have no stomach
to be sober at a time like this.”

We went into the cantina. I think we were all in need of artificial
courage. Felipe lighted the candles which guttered in the draught and
cast grotesque shadows on the wall; shadows which danced drunkenly at
our every move.

Felipe swore softly at his drawing. “Even the beer is wild tonight. I
can not keep it in the mugs.”

“That was ever my greatest trouble,” laughed Mendez. “They are forever
becoming empty. Hurry, Felipe, or I shall drink from the spigot.”

The wind was wailing now, and from a distance came the jarring of
thunder, like roll of a mighty drum. It was not good to hear. Then the
candles paled in the flash of the lightning.

Mendez drained his mug and thrust it back at Felipe.

“More!” he panted. “Madre de Dios, what a night—for a sober man!”

He but echoed our sentiments. A drift of rain pattered upon the
cantina. Then, like the roar of a stampeded herd, the storm was upon
us. We sat in awe, as the cantina seemed to fairly writhe in the grasp
of that mighty wind and the thunder beat a devil’s tattoo on our very
roof.

Flash after flash, so close together that they seemed one great light,
the lightning seemed to hiss through that whirling, howling tempest.
And the swirling candle flame danced the shadows on the wall, whenever
the lightning ceased for a moment.

Felipe was praying on his knees, with his forehead against a beer
cask. I think I laughed, but it was not with mirth. I could see
Mendez, his eyes shut tight and lips moving. Perhaps I might have
prayed, but I knew no prayer at that time. My thoughts were jumbled.

The door crashed open, letting in a mighty swirl of wind and rain,
which extinguished the candles.

I sprang across the room and forced the door shut.

I thought there was some one near the door, but could not see. Ramon
was lighting the candles, bringing the room back to a half-light
again. The wind roared against the door, rattling the bar, as if angry
at being cheated.

I was looking at Mendez and he was no longer praying. His eyes were
wide open now and he was staring toward the door.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I turned. Just between me and the door stood a man, whose eyes
glittered like beads under the brim of his rain-drenched sombrero. The
evils of purgatory showed in every line of his face; the hawk-like
nose, scarred chin and thin-lipped, grinning mouth.

Two heavy revolvers rested in holsters at his hips, and the cartridges
in his crossed belts gleamed like points of light. He wore black
leather chaparajos, with wide, flaring sides, which flopped like the
wings of a great buzzard.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

He laughed at us mockingly, while the water spewed off his clothes and
ran in dirty puddles along the dirt floor.

“Welcome, señor” said Pasquale in a weak voice.

“What need have I of welcome?”

The man’s voice was like the hoarse croak of an angry buzzard. He took
a step forward and dropped his claw-like hands to his holsters.

“Afraid to_talk?” he sneered. “Know who I am?”

He leered around at us and hunched his shoulders, as if about to
attack.

“I am the Tiger.”

No need to tell us that. We knew it. His looks did not belie his
reputation. For he was every inch a killer.

Perhaps he could see the fear in our eyes and it served to fan his
devilish egotism. He leered at Felipe, who crossed himself, and the
action caused the Tiger much merriment.

“What do you want here?” queried Ramon huskily.

“Want? Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

He threw back his head and laughed, but his beady eyes watched
closely.

“What does the Tiger always want?” He shoved out a claw-like hand,
opening and closing it. “Gold! Give me your gold—all of it!”

“I have little gold, señor” whined Felipe. “We are poor people in
Santa Ynez.”

The storm still raged, but we gave it no heed now.

“Liars!” snarled the Tiger. “I teach men to tell the truth. Give me
the gold, fool!”

Felipe got slowly to his feet and moved back of his small counter,
where he kept his money.

“Stop!” commanded the Tiger. “Do you think I am a fool?”

Felipe stopped, and the Tiger went slowly over to him, keeping an eye
on us all the while. He shoved Felipe aside and picked up the money
box. It was nearly empty and the Tiger threw it aside with a curse.

“Were you expecting me?”

He shoved his evil face close to Felipe, as he spoke, and Felipe
recoiled in terror.

“But I told you that we are poor men, señor,” protested Felipe.

“Bah!”

The Tiger drew a gun and struck Felipe a slashing blow on the head.
Felipe crumpled at his feet. It was a dastardly thing to do, and I
sprang to my feet, but the unwavering muzzle of the gun pointed
straight at my middle and I sat down again.

Felipe tried to get to his feet, but the Tiger kicked him viciously.

“Fool! I said I wanted gold—not a few mangy silver coins.”

“He has no gold,” said Ramon softly. “He does not lie, señor”

“Did I speak to you?” asked the Tiger angrily. “When I ask for your
gold you may lie—if you dare.”

It was a strange sight there in the little cantina. Poor Felipe
sprawled at the feet of the Tiger, his hands outspread on the floor,
while the Tiger leaned forward facing us, a snarl writhing his thin
lips.

Ramon was backed against the table, and almost into Mendez’s chair.
Pasquale was sprawled forward, his arms on the table-top, while I
hunched in my chair, afraid to move, I think.

Suddenly the Tiger whipped off his dripping sombrero and sent it
spinning on to the table. A whisp of the water struck me in the eyes,
but I did not blink.

“Put your gold in the hat,” said the Tiger. “I have stayed too long.”

“But señor—” Ramon started to protest.

“Gold—not lies!” rasped the Tiger.

I moved my feet to enable me to get into my pocket, and they came in
contact with something. It was Pancho under the table. I had forgotten
him. For a moment I thought perhaps he was intending to shoot the
Tiger. Pancho was armed, because I could see the butt of his pistol,
but his attitude was one of cramped prayer.

I tossed my slender wallet into the hat and prayed that the Tiger
might not see how meager it was. Behind me the door creaked, as if
from the wind, but when I looked up at the Tiger I knew that it was
not wind.

He was standing in the same position, gun leveled at us, but the sneer
seemed frozen on his face and his eyes were dilated. I looked back.

At the closed door stood a man, empty-handed. He was dressed in the
loose shirt, baggy pants, worn shoes of a peon. He wore no hat and his
wet, colorless hair hung bedraggled about his face.

He was rather scrawny looking, thin of face, and his eyes were gray
and very level. I glanced back at the Tiger. He had dropped the gun
and stepped back against Felipe’s counter. I think his eyes were
closed, but it was hard to tell in that weak light.

“Welcome, señor,” said Mendez huskily.

“_Gracias, señor._”

The man spoke softly, and there was a half-smile on his lips, as he
crossed to the Tiger, who threw up one arm, as if to ward off a blow.
It was as if he were hypnotized. We watched in amazement.

He looked down at Felipe and turned his head toward us, as he said, in
Spanish,

“Move him to an easier position and wash away the blood.”

Mendez and I picked him up and placed him near the table, but we were
too interested to take time in doctoring poor Felipe. The Tiger had
not moved. Now the stranger unbuckled the Tiger’s belts and let them
fall to the floor.

“Undress,” ordered the stranger.

The Tiger slowly removed every garment. He seemed like a man asleep.
Not once did he speak nor make a sign, and he stood there, stripped to
the skin, while the stranger dressed in the cowboy garb, tossing the
peon garments aside.

The stranger dumped the wallets out of the sombrero and put it on his
head.

“It was a terrific storm, _señores_,” said the stranger softly. “It
fairly blew my horse from under me, and at times I despaired of
finishing my quest.”

“Señor, we do not understand,” said Ramon, pointing at the stripped
Tiger.

“It is a short tale,” smiled the stranger. “I was a guest at this
man’s house. It was miles from here. Not so far, perhaps, if one went
as the crow flies, but there have been many twistings which made it
long.

“This man had a wife, and but one bed. To me they gave the bed,
because I was their guest. But I am not the kind of a man who deprives
a woman; so I gave her the bed.

“This man did not know. I had much gold which he wanted. He thought
that I was in that bed. That is the tale, _señores_. It was not nice.”

He turned and motioned to the Tiger. The rain still whipped in from
the west, but he drove the Tiger out into it, while we crowded into
the doorway. Swiftly the stranger uncoiled a rope and dropped a loop
around the neck of the Tiger, and mounted his horse.

“Señor,” called Ramon, “we shall wonder much over this, and not know
whom we shall mention in our prayers. Who art thou?”

And from out of the darkness, in the direction of the vanishing rider,
came the words—

“Jefferson Tigard, _señores_; and thank you. _Buenas noches._”


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 30, 1923
issue of Adventure magazine.]



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