path: root/78217-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78217 ***


                       THE FATE OF THE WOLF

                         By W. C. Tuttle
        Author of “Quien Sabe,” “The Price of a Name,” etc.


        In the Mexican borderland, the name of The Wolf was one
        to strike fear into men’s hearts. And only Destino knew
        why The Wolf, who once had only robbed the rich to give
        to the poor, had changed to a killer and despoiler of all


I did not know whence he came; I only knew that he stood at the little
bar in Felipe’s cantina, a mug of warm beer in his hand and a ring of
laughter in his voice. He was taller than most men of the Santa Clemente
country.

His hair was tinged with red, and his devil-may-care, blue eyes sparkled
with mirth, as he slapped one huge hand on his broad chaparejos, a
resounding slap, which caused every man in the cantina to start with
alarm.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” he laughed loudly. “By the saints, you are a
jumpy crew! Is it because I speak of _El Lobo_? It is? Are ye afraid
of a name? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

He crashed his mug on the bar and bade Felipe fill it again, with one
for each of us.

“Faugh!” he grunted with disgust. “The beer is warm and the world is
warm! And when I speak of _El Lobo_ ye shiver. I wish I could find
somethin’ that would make me shiver.”

“Perhaps _El Lobo_--” began Emilio, who owned the little Rancho Sereno.

“_El Lobo_?” The big man laughed again, until the cobwebs on the
rafters danced a jig. “The Wolf? And why, my friend? Are you afraid
of a name? Drink a toast with me--” he lifted his mug above his head
and laughed again--“to the day when I clip the brush from a cowardly
animal--_El Lobo_!”

We drank, but with a fear in our hearts. And _El Lobo_ was a name to
strike fear. For five years he had been in the borderland, and no
man knew where he would strike next. Rumor had said that the man was
insane.

He had never come to Santa Clemente. Perhaps there was little to bring
him. We were not a wealthy community. Except for Don Roberto Aliso, who
owned the Rancho del Aguila, the Ranch of the Eagle, the valley of the
Santa Clemente would make sorry pickings for _El Lobo_.

For three years _El Lobo_ had been but a--what shall I call him? He
robbed many, it is true, but only the rich. And he gave to those in
need. No poor man need guard his flock against _El Lobo_, at that time.
In mysterious ways gold came to the Church, and it was whispered that
it came from _El Lobo_. _Quien sabe?_

Then the gold ceased to come, and the poor suffered with the rich. And
not only did _El Lobo_ rob. He killed. _Madre de Dios_, the man had no
compassion!

But Don Roberto Aliso was not afraid of _El Lobo_. The Rancho del
Aguila was well named, the Ranch of the Eagle. It was like a castle
of old Spain, high on the top of a hill, its red tiled roofs gleaming
against the gray cliff behind it.

Don Roberto was rich, as men are accounted rich in Santa Clemente; rich
and very proud. I should know this, because for years I have been an
overseer for Don Roberto.

I have watched the Señorita Juana grow from a gangling, long-limbed
child to the most beautiful creature in the whole Santa Clemente
country. Don Roberto had sent her to the convent for education, but
she had been back a whole year, and there was much speculation as to
whom she would marry.

You have seen the yucca in bloom? Truly it is a thing of rare beauty,
its tall, graceful head of flowery bells, fit to grace the garden of a
king. Yet it is only of the desert hills, a princess of the desolation.

But below this graceful flower is a circlet of daggers, surrounding
the stalk, as though a jealous nature had grown a defense against all
intruders.

And the Señorita Juana was like the yucca--even to the circlet of
daggers; for Don Roberto was a jealous man and guarded Juana well.
Perhaps too well. Five of his riders were gunmen; hard-faced men from
the north, who drank heavily, swore in great oaths against living
where nothing ever happened, and took their pay. And it was good pay,
too.

The Señora Aliso was a tall, gray-haired woman, kindly, but seldom
smiling. Don Roberto was a hard man, but just. Perhaps he was just a
trifle harsh with his family; but that is not the business of an
overseer.

And this man at the cantina bar? None of us knew him. His horse, a
_pintado_, drowsed at the hitching-rack, while its owner laughed at
us for being afraid of a name. When he had gone for something to eat,
Felipe gave him a name--“The Laughing Caballero!”

The name fitted him well. We drank a toast to him. Perhaps it was more
of a prayer than a toast, because we liked him--and his great laugh.

Twenty miles east of Santa Clemente was El Sicomoro, the big rancho of
Don Esteban Carillo. It was almost as big as the Rancho del Aguila, but
the lure of the green cloth kept Don Esteban from becoming a rich man.

He was tall, thin, graceful, always the gentleman. Perhaps just a trifle
too suave. His mustaches were always waxed to needle points, and he too
laughed--but not like the laughter of the stranger. And where the
stranger wore the plain, rough dress of an American cowboy, Don Esteban
sparkled with the color and silver of old Spain. In dress, there was no
comparison.

Don Esteban was a great friend of Don Roberto, and Don Roberto asked Don
Esteban’s advice in many things. I knew that Don Esteban wanted Señorita
Juana above all things, but I also knew that Don Roberto did not want
Don Esteban for a son-in-law, because he knew that Don Esteban had many
weaknesses. Perhaps Señorita Juana did not want Don Esteban. But that is
not the business of an overseer, so I shall not venture an opinion.

Among Don Roberto’s gunmen was Peter Sleen, who was in fact the main
one of the five. Sleen was a big man, quarrelsome, quick to anger. It
was said that Sleen had killed men with his bare hands, but I do not
know this for a fact, although it would be easy to believe. But I do
know that the next day after the Laughing Caballero came to Santa
Clemente, he rode to the Rancho del Aguila with Don Roberto and four
of his men. And he laughed at me, as he rode into the wide patio.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I have come to help guard thee from _El Lobo_!”

I was quick to see the black looks from the other gunmen, but did not
understand what it was all about until Don Roberto called me to his
room and told me the story.

“This new man will take the place of Sleen,” he told me. “His name is
Destino.”

“But what of Sleen?” I asked.

“Sleen is dead, Pablo. These two met in Santa Clemente. Destino laughed
at Sleen, who was not a man to be laughed at. Someone had told Destino
that Sleen had been hired by me as a protection against _El Lobo_.
Destino told Sleen that if such as he were able to keep _El Lobo_ from
the Rancho del Aguila, then indeed the man was not a wolf, but a
slinking coyote. You know, Pablo, that Sleen was so fast on the draw
that the eye could hardly follow his hand, but Destino was faster. He
forced Sleen to drop his gun. _Dios!_ And then he laughed.” Don Roberto
shook his head, as though hardly believing what his eyes had told him.
“He taunted Sleen for being a sloth on the draw, and offered to fight
him barehanded.

“There was much difference in their weight. And Sleen was reputed a
killer with his hands. But Santa Clemente will never forget that
fight, Pablo! In the middle of the street they fought. Sleen, his
great shoulders hunched, his hands extended, as he tried to grasp
Destino.

“_Dios!_” But it was no use. Once he tore the sleeve from Destino, and
all the while the fists of the tall man beat a devil’s tattoo in his
face, until Sleen did not look like a man. It was just smash, smash,
smash! Sleen’s face looked like the mud beneath the hoofs of a running
horse--thud and splatter.

“Flesh and blood cannot stand it, Pablo. Destino slipped, and Sleen
fell into him, grasping him with both hands. It was what Sleen had
wanted, to get his vise-like hands on this laughing devil. You know
how strong Sleen was, Pablo. They came to grips and Destino laughed;
laughed joyfully, I tell you. Then he tore Sleen’s grip loose, heaved
him high over his head and threw him headlong.

“We waited for Sleen to get up, while Destino leaned against a post
and felt of his sore knuckles. But Sleen did not get up. It was a fair
fight, witnessed by many people. Destino came to me and asked if he
might take Sleen’s place.”

“And the others?” I asked.

“They saw the fight, Pablo. Sleen was never a favorite. And when it
comes to fighting, Destino is worth more than all of them.”

“I pray to the saints that no fighting will come,” I replied. “_El
Lobo_ and his bandits know better than to try and raid this rancho,
Don Roberto.”

“Do they?” Don Roberto smiled grimly and turned to his desk, from which
he took a piece of paper. “Pablo, you do not read; so I will tell you
what this paper says. It is from _El Lobo_, and came yesterday.” And he
read out:

        “To Señor Aliso--a warning. You will deliver ten thousand
        pesos in silver, in person, to a man who will meet you at
        the highest point of the San Sebastian trail at noon on the
        tenth day of the present month. Go alone. Comply with this
        request, or suffer the consequences. I demand but once.
                                                        _El Lobo_.”

“And what will you do?” I asked when he had finished.

“I haven’t ten thousand pesos to throw to the wolves.”

It was not for me to offer advice to a Don. At any rate he did not ask
me for advice. I left the room and went down the flagged walk to the
patio gate, where I found Juana, one hand resting against the wall, as
she peered across the patio toward the men’s sleeping quarters.

I halted to listen. A man was playing a guitar and singing. _Madre de
Dios_, what a voice! He was singing in English, and I understand but
little, but it was a love song. No man can put that much feeling in
his voice unless he sings of love. I did not move until he finished.
Juana turned slowly and saw me.

“Who is he, Pablo?” she asked. “The singing man?”

“I am not sure, señorita, but I think it is Destino, a new man, whom
your father, Don Roberto, hired today.”

“Destino? What a queer name, Pablo. It means Fate.”

I had not thought of that, but I said, “But he is an American, I think,
and they have strange names. He takes the place of Sleen.”

“Of Sleen? Oh, I dislike Sleen, Pablo. Anyone would be welcome in his
place. Sh-h-h-h! He sings again.”

I saw her white hand tighten on an ivy stem, but could not see her face,
as he sang an old love song of Spain, sang it softly, plaintively, as
though beneath the window of his love. Don Roberto had come softly up
behind us and listened to the song.

“It is Destino,” I said, when the song was finished.

“Laughs while he kills a man, and then sings of love,” said Don Roberto
thoughtfully. “He is a man, Pablo. Juana, my daughter, the night grows
cool.”

She left us and went slowly back to the house. Cigarettes glowed
from the bench beside the sleeping quarters, and the guitar strummed
softly. Mockingbirds called sleepily from the bower of pepper trees
which shaded the patio, and somewhere a mother crooned softly to her
child.

On the far end of the patio, high up, on the thick adobe wall, showed
the silhouette of a watchful guard, his sombrero and shoulders clearly
etched against the sky. Another watched from the south side, watching
toward the land of _El Lobo_.

“He can never come here,” I said, speaking my thoughts.

“One never knows,” said Don Roberto. “_El Lobo_ needs ten thousand
pesos, and when he is in need----”

Don Roberto did not finish, but turned away. Such was the fear of The
Wolf.

A guard called a warning from the wall. Three horsemen were approaching
from the north. Don Roberto came back and went to the main gate. The
riders were Don Esteban Carillo and two of his men.

They were made welcome for the night, as the hospitality of the Rancho
del Aguila was proverbial. It was an hour later that Don Roberto sent
for me, and I found Don Esteban with him. There were many empty bottles
on the table.

“Pablo,” said Don Roberto, “this Destino spoke to you as we rode in, did
he not? What do you know of him?”

I told him what Destino had said at the cantina of Felipe. Don Esteban
shook his head.

“I would not trust this man,” he said. “He is a stranger. I can furnish
you a dependable man to take the place of Sleen. I furnished these five
men to you, Roberto. They have proved their worth, and this stranger may
not work in harmony with them. You cannot afford to take any chances.”

“Perhaps you are right,” nodded Don Roberto. “But I have taken a fancy
to this man, Esteban. Remember he defeated the big Sleen in a fair
fight. Pablo, find Destino and bring him here.”

I had little trouble in finding Destino. He was near the door as I came
out, the guitar under his arm. His teeth flashed white in the moonlight,
as he said, “My friend, I seek the ladies.”

“And for what?” I asked.

“That they might share in the music. _Madre de Dios_, do you think I
would waste my songs on those dolts, whose minds are never higher than
the brim of a mescal glass?”

I told him Don Roberto wished to see him; so he laughed softly, tucked
the guitar tightly under his arm and bade me precede him. They were
drinking more wine as we came in. Destino swept off his sombrero,
stepped aside from the door and leaned against the wall.

“You sent for me, Don Roberto?” he asked.

“Yes, Destino. Don Esteban is of the opinion that I was hasty in
bringing you to the Rancho del Aguila. Perhaps he is right. It is not
safe to deal with strangers. And you are a stranger.”

“That is true,” said Destino softly. “I have none to speak for me.”

“Why did you come to Santa Clemente?” asked Don Esteban.

“Why?” Destino laughed boldly. “It is no secret, señor; I came to try
and kill _El Lobo_.”

“To try and kill _El Lobo_? A fool’s errand, my friend.”

“Perhaps I am a fool.”

“No doubt.” Don Esteban poured himself a drink. “If you were not a
stranger in this country you would not say these things.”

“Familiarity with danger would not make me a coward, señor.”

Don Esteban flushed hotly.

“Peace,” said Don Roberto. “We will not quarrel. At least the man is no
coward, Esteban. Stranger he may be, but a stranger unafraid. Go back to
your quarters, Destino. You are no longer a stranger.”

Destino bowed low to both of them and went away. Don Esteban shook his
head.

“Something tells me that the man is dangerous, Roberto. After that
letter, demanding ten thousand pesos, you must know that _El Lobo_ has
his eye on this rancho. And who knows where and how he will strike? The
man does not work alone.”

“We shall see, Esteban. There will be no bag of silver at the top of the
San Sebastian trail tomorrow. If _El Lobo_ wants meat he must fight for
it, because I will never butcher for a wolf.”

I do not know what else was said on the subject, because Don Roberto
dismissed me, but it is my opinion that they talked of Juana. Don
Esteban was in a vile humor the next morning, but it may have been
because of too much wine.

The Señorita Juana was not yet of age, although nearly. Don Esteban
and his men were ready to leave, when little Rafael, the son of one
of the guards, came running to Don Roberto with something clutched in
each hand.

They were alike, two rolled papers, tied with string, and to each was
attached a stone the size of an egg. The child had found them inside
the patio.

Don Roberto’s face paled slightly as he unrolled one of them and scanned
the writing. Swiftly he unrolled the other, but after a glance he handed
it to Don Esteban, who read it through and swore with a great wonder in
his voice.

“Listen to this,” he commanded, and read aloud:

        “To Señor Esteban: Too long have you enjoyed the undivided
        prosperity of El Sicomoro. I will come soon. _El Lobo_.”

Don Esteban crumpled the note in his hand, his lips shut tightly as he
looked around at the men of the rancho. Then Destino threw back his
head and laughed, as though it were a huge joke. Don Esteban glared at
him and his fingers twitched at the knife hilt in his sash, but Destino
still only laughed.

“The man must be mad,” muttered Don Esteban, and I saw two of the gunmen
make the sign of the cross. Don Esteban turned to Don Roberto.

“And is your message the same, Roberto?”

“Another warning, telling me that unless I deliver the ten thousand
pesos he will take what I hold more dear than money.”

“Juana?” whispered Don Esteban, and Don Roberto nodded.

“What will you do, Roberto?”

“What would you do?”

“God knows. Money is little compared with safety.”

“True. But if I pay once, I pay always, Esteban. The Wolf has an
appetite.”

“Pay nothing,” advised Destino. “Let The Wolf come, señor. We will nail
his skin to the patio door.”

Don Roberto smiled, “At least you are not afraid, Destino.”

“Why be afraid? We could defy an army, señor. Let The Wolf howl in the
hills until his throat aches.”

Don Roberto nodded and asked me to find the guards who had watched
from the walls. I brought them to him but they swore that no one had
come near the rancho. He showed them the messages, of which they knew
nothing.

“Sleeping fools!” snapped Don Roberto. “You deserve many lashes. Perhaps
it will serve to keep your eyes open in the future.”

“Pardon, señor,” said Destino. “Possibly the guards are not at fault.
From the rock of the eagle, a man with a good arm might throw that stone
to the patio. Men would not look that way, because no danger could come
from that direction.”

“That is true,” nodded Don Roberto. “It is possible to scale the other
side of that cliff, and the stones were found at the far side of the
patio. Tonight I will have a man on the cliff.”

“But could anyone assault the rancho from the cliff?” asked Don Esteban.

“No. The overhang of the cliff prevents it. From the top of the rock,
one might see the end of the patio, but it would be impossible to attack
from that quarter.”

There was little more talk. Don Esteban and his men mounted and rode
away swiftly, anxious to get back to El Sicomoro and prepare a defense.
We had been talking near an overhanging balcony, and after Don Roberto
had gone away, Juana came to me.

“Pablo, what is all this about _El Lobo_?” she asked. I tried to evade
the question, but she was insistent; so I told her all about it. She
had been on that balcony and heard Don Esteban read his message, and
had heard Don Roberto explain what his was about.

“Don Esteban wishes to marry me,” she said. “I must talk to someone,
Pablo. My father has told me this, but has not given Don Esteban his
consent--yet. My mother admires Don Esteban.”

“And you, Juana?” I asked.

“He is nearly as old as my father, Pablo. He drinks much wine to keep
his heart warm and pays the toll of several gambling houses.”

“Perhaps that is true, Juana.”

“It is true,” she said softly. “Pablo, you are not young, but you were
young once, and at that time would you have married an old woman?”

“No, Juana. Youth is for youth. It is not natural for May to wed with
December. They are of different seasons.”

“And _El Lobo_ is old,” she sighed. “He threatens to come and carry
me away. If I marry Don Esteban, I will have an old husband, and, if
I wait for _El Lobo_ to carry me away, I will have an old master. Is
there no youth in the world, Pablo?”

She looked at me so distressfully that I must laugh, and she laughed
with me. Then I looked up to see Destino standing beside a corner of
the wall, looking at us. Juana looked at him and they both smiled. It
was the first time she had ever seen him.

“Pardon, señorita,” he said softly. “Your laugh brought me here. It is
good to hear you laugh.”

Juana blushed and turned away, but in two strides he was at her side,
imploring her not to leave.

“Destino,” I said, “this is the Señorita Aliso, the daughter of Don
Roberto.”

She turned and looked at him, as he made her a sweeping bow.

“Señorita, perhaps it is not just that a hired gunman speak with a
daughter of a Don; but I am named Fate. And who shall say that fate
does not speak to all?”

“Fate is something we cannot evade,” she said seriously.

“It is useless to try, señorita.”

“And who may know whether their fate is good or ill?”

Destino laughed, “None, señorita. One must take fate as it comes,
finding out to their gladness--or sorrow.”

They looked at each other and smiled. I am old enough to have a little
wisdom; so I excused myself and went away. I knew that Don Roberto would
not approve of a hired gunman talking to Juana, but what was that to me.
I am an overseer, not a duenna.

Later that day I went with Don Roberto to the far side of the cliff,
where we searched for signs of the man who had thrown the messages. It
was difficult for men to reach the top of the cliff, but we managed to
make the climb.

We sat on the edge of the cliff and scanned the country. Far below us
we could glimpse a part of the open patio and some of the stables, but
it would be impossible for anyone to approach the rancho from over the
cliff.

“You worry about _El Lobo_?” I asked.

“Yes, Pablo,” he replied. “There is much wealth here, wealth enough to
tempt any man. In fear of raiders I have sold most of my herds, as you
know, and the money is here. And _El Lobo_ is bold and cunning.

“Pablo, you have seen this Destino; what do you think of him? Is he
only a loud laughing braggart, a man whose gun is for sale, or is he
something else? Esteban mistrusts him, and Esteban is not one to see
danger in a shadow.”

“Why does Esteban mistrust him?” I asked. “Does he think that Destino is
in any way connected with _El Lobo_?”

“_Madre de Dios!_ That is an idea, Pablo! If _El Lobo_ had a man within
the walls--And Destino laughed at Don Esteban’s message from _El Lobo_.
It makes me wonder.”

“But he says he came to kill _El Lobo_, señor.”

“Quite naturally. Let us go down.”

I did not know what Don Roberto meant to do, until he had instructed
the other four gunmen to seize Destino, disarm him and lock him in a
room of the sleeping quarters. Destino did not attempt a defense,
when Don Roberto accused him of being a spy for _El Lobo_.

Neither did he laugh. For once, it seemed that Destino did not see any
humor in the situation. The room had but one small window, and the door
was of heavy oak, fastened with a huge padlock, of which I had a key.

Don Roberto seemed relieved after Destino was safely locked in the room.
It was not a thing to be kept secret, and Juana heard of it. She came to
me and I told her of what had been done.

“Your father says that Destino is a spy for _El Lobo_,” I told her.

“A spy for _El Lobo_? Oh, no, Pablo, that cannot be.”

“Perhaps not, Juana. It is your father’s belief, and he is master here.”

I know she did not believe Destino guilty, and what maid would after
knowing the man and hearing him sing.

“May I speak to him through the window?” she asked. “No one will know
it, except you, Pablo.”

“Not even I, Juana. It is not good to know too much.”

I went about my duties, forgetting that she had conversed with the
prisoner. And what passed between them through that deep, narrow hole
of a window is no affair of mine, because an overseer’s duty is not
that of eavesdropping.

But _El Lobo_ did not get his silver pesos that day, and those who knew
of his demand talked seriously over what would follow Don Roberto’s
refusal to pay tribute.

The four gunmen drank much tequila and quarreled over their card game,
but seemed more at ease with Destino under lock and key. I spoke to him
through the little window later on in the afternoon. I wished to find
out what I could for Don Roberto.

“Do you think _El Lobo_ will come here?” I asked him.

“He promised, did he not, Pablo?”

“But how can he expect to force his way in, Destino?”

Destino laughed, “I alone know, Pablo. And they have locked me up and
taken away my gun.”

“And you know how he will get here?” I asked.

“I can guess, my friend.”

“Then you are a spy of _El Lobo_?”

“Spy? No, Pablo; I am more than a spy.”

Further than this he would not say. I went to Don Roberto and found
him with Juana. I did not mean to listen, but the door was ajar. It
seems that someone had seen her talking with Destino and reported it
to Don Roberto, who was furious.

“You have too much freedom,” he told her angrily. “I have allowed you
to associate with everyone, to have your own way. And you come to plead
for a spy! I find you talking with him--to a hired gunman, a killer. It
is time you were married. Last night I refused Don Esteban’s suit and
he rode away broken-hearted. But he said he would come again, and when
he does----”

“I shall not marry him,” said Juana firmly. “He is an old man.”

“Old man? I am not an old man, and he is a year younger.”

“But you are my father.”

I slipped away and went to my own quarters, without telling Don Roberto
what Destino had said. If Destino was more than a spy, what was he? He
was not _El Lobo_. Men had seen _El Lobo_, and in spite of his mask they
were able to see that the man was gray of hair. This was when he robbed
only the rich, and men do not grow younger with the years.

I do not know the outcome of the argument between Juana and her
father, but I found her later, sitting on a vine-covered bench in an
angle of the patio wall, crying. The sun was low in the west and the
shadows of the patio walls had painted the Rancho del Aguila with a
brush of softest blue. I did not speak until she had looked up at
me.

“Pablo,” she said wearily, “are you a friend?”

“A friend, Juana? Did you ever question my friendship?”

She shook her head. “I do not want to, Pablo. You have been more like
one of the family than a servant, and I know you are loyal to my
father.”

“I am, Juana,” I replied.

She got up from the bench and came closer to me.

“Pablo, my father has forbidden me to speak to Destino again. He says
I shall marry Don Esteban. And listen closely, Pablo: I overheard
those four men talking--the ones who carry guns all the time. Tonight
when food is taken to Destino, the door will be left unlocked. Do you
know what that means, Pablo?”

I knew. When the prisoner walked out he would be shot and killed.

“Is this your father’s order, Juana?” I asked.

“I do not know, Pablo.”

“And why do you wish to save him? If this man is a spy of _El Lobo_, he
deserves death. And what is he to you, the daughter of a Don?”

As if in answer to my question came Destino’s voice, singing through the
little window of his cell. The Rancho del Aguila was stilled. Even the
mockingbirds ceased calling, “Peter, Peter, Peter,” while he sang. A
little sheepdog puppy, which had been chasing its tail for many minutes,
stopped suddenly and sat up on its haunches, one ear cocked toward the
sound of the song.

The song died away and I looked at Juana. Her eyes were lifted toward
the purple of the setting sun, a smile on her lips. Just now she was
not at the Rancho del Aguila.

I moved softly away, leaving her there alone. I went to the kitchen,
where Rufo, a man of great girth, presided over his pots and pans. He
scowled at me, because not even an overseer might give him an order.

“I but come to beg a favor, Rufo,” I told him. He tugged at his
mustachio and considered me more kindly, nodding slowly.

“We have a prisoner,” I said. “They say he is a spy of _El Lobo_. If
any come to get food for him before everyone else is fed, refuse them,
Rufo.”

“That is not a big favor, Pablo,” he said. “It is granted.”

I thanked him and went away. It would be mealtime in a few minutes.
Already the men were preparing. Juana whispered to me, as I passed
beneath a low balcony----

“Pablo, are you a friend?”

“When they are eating,” I whispered. “It is a fool’s task, and there is
no place for him to hide; so I will send him here.”

I knew what it would mean to play false with Don Roberto, but I am
not a young man, and what is a few years, more or less? And when the
patio was empty, I unlocked the door and let him out. He gripped my
hand, when I told him where to go, after which I secured an iron bar
and managed to draw the heavy staple from the door. It was a clumsy
attempt at making it appear that Destino had escaped, because the
man never lived who could force it from within.

Then I went to my meal, listening for the first alarm, which would brand
me a traitor. Benito, who had charge of the stables, carried the other
key, and he was always the first at table, which would absolve him of
all guilt.

It was possibly an hour later that the escape was discovered. The moon
had not yet risen and the night was dark, except for the stars. There
was great excitement. The guards had been changed, as soon as the night
guards had eaten their supper.

Don Roberto swore bitterly and questioned the day guards, who must have
been on duty during the escape, but they swore that nothing had passed
the gate or the walls. Don Roberto examined the lock, and by the light
of the lantern I could see his lips shut tightly.

You may be sure that I kept in the background, realizing that I could
not lie to him.

“The man has been released,” declared Don Roberto. “He is within these
walls, possibly armed. He is a spy of _El Lobo_, and deserves no mercy.
Light all the lanterns. We must take this man, dead or alive.”

There was great scurrying, as the men brought lanterns and guns. I
wondered where Destino was hiding, and it was in my mind to leave the
rancho. After all, a man has only one life. I made my way to the far
end of the patio, watching the bobbing lanterns, as the searching
party began their work. They split in two parties and the lanterns
threw their shadows in grotesque shapes on the walls. There was much
loud talking and calling from one to another, as though trying to
bolster their own feelings. Destino had killed Sleen with his bare
hands, and was no mean opponent for all of them.

For several minutes I leaned against the wall of a building. I could
see the silhouette of a guard on the wall, standing in an attitude of
attention. Suddenly he swayed slowly, and I thought he was about to
fall.

Then he went slowly to his knees, and I thought he was but lowering
himself from some danger without. A moment later I heard the thud of a
falling body, and the space on the wall where he had stood was empty.

I ran across the patio and found him lying near the wall, crumpled in
a heap, his gun flung aside. His heart was still beating, but the man
was unconscious. I ran back to the center of the patio, not knowing
just what to do.

The other guard was on his hands and knees, striving to cling to the
wall. I called his name, but he did not answer. Then he slumped forward
and fell to the ground. He, too, was unconscious.

In a flash it came to me that someone had poisoned the guards. I forgot
the escape of Destino, as I raced for the house to sound an alarm. The
searchers were grouped in the central room, which was hazy with oil
smoke.

“He is in this house,” declared Don Roberto. “Two of you guard the
stairs, while the rest of us search up there.”

Upstairs were the rooms of Don Roberto and Señora Aliso and of Juana.
Two of the four gunmen stopped at the foot of the stairs, while the rest
surged ahead. I tried to reach Don Roberto, but there were too many men,
and the stairs were narrow.

By the time I had managed to reach the upper floor, search had been
partly made. Over the heads of the crowd I could see Juana, a
pale-faced, white-robed figure, standing against the door of her room,
arms outstretched, as though forbidding them to enter her room.

But Don Roberto shoved her roughly aside and flung the door open.
Bending low and shoving with all my strength, I managed to worm my way
through the crowd, many of whom cursed me for walking on their feet,
and reach the doorway.

Don Roberto was just inside the room, one hand clinging to the sleeve of
Juana, while in the center of the room, a grim smile on his lips, stood
Destino. A revolver butt protruded from the waistband of his trousers,
but he made no move to draw it.

“You are not only a spy, but a cowardly spy,” declared Don Roberto.
“Hiding in the room of the señorita.”

“Don Roberto!” I fairly yelled in his ear. “Listen to me, I implore
you.”

He whirled on me.

“Listen to you--you traitor! You let this man escape, Pablo. There were
only two keys, and I took one from Benito when we locked this man in his
cell. Your case will be judged later.”

“But Don Roberto, the guards--” And this is as far as I got. He struck
me full in the face, knocking me down.

I was not unconscious, but badly dazed, and I do not know exactly what
happened for the next few moments. I seemed to hear a shout, a babel of
voices, a shrill command. It was like the sounds one hears in a dream.

Then the mists faded away and I came back to reality. Don Roberto was
backed against the wall, and a man was holding a rifle muzzle against
his body. Another had an arm flung around Juana, holding her tightly.

Standing just inside the doorway was a tall man, dressed in black
garments, trimmed in silver. His sombrero was also of black, and a
black silk mask concealed his face and throat.

In his right hand he dangled a heavy revolver, as he looked around
through the eye-holes of his mask.

“So you decided not to pay, Don Roberto,” he said. His voice was husky,
as though with a bad cold. “I have come to teach you obedience. Tonight
I take everything of value at the Rancho del Aguila. Perhaps it will
serve as a warning to others that _El Lobo_ keeps his word.”

My eyes flashed to Destino, who still stood in the same position,
although he was not smiling now. His elbow covered the butt of his
revolver.

“Are you _El Lobo_?” asked Destino.

The eyes behind the mask studied him thoughtfully.

“I am _El Lobo_.”

“You lie.” It was not said in anger, it seemed, nor was Destino’s voice
raised.

_El Lobo’s_ body stiffened.

“You dare to say that to me?” he questioned.

“_El Lobo_ is dead,” said Destino. “He has been dead for two years. And
you killed him.”

“Who are you?” _El Lobo’s_ voice came in a tense whisper.

“Destino--fate--you murderer!”

As swift as the blinking of an eye, Destino’s arm twisted at the elbow
and a spurt of flame leaped from his revolver straight at _El Lobo_. I
blinked my eyes again and _El Lobo_ was sprawling toward the floor.
Twice more the orange-colored flame leaped from the gun muzzle, and I
saw two more men go down--the one who had held the rifle against Don
Roberto and the one who had held Juana.

Destino leaped for the door, and I saw him pick up the gun of the man
who had called himself _El Lobo_. Then he was gone, leaping down the
stairs.

I staggered to my feet, choking from the powder fumes. Don Roberto had
taken Juana in his arms and was staring down at the dead men.

“His mask, Pablo!” exclaimed Don Roberto hoarsely. “Take it off!”

Stooping over, I tore the mask from his face, disclosing the features of
Don Esteban Carillo! Don Roberto cried out sharply, because Don Esteban
had been his friend.

“The guards were poisoned,” I told Don Roberto. “I tried to tell you,
but you struck the words from my mouth.”

“Forgive me, Pablo,” he said, whispering his words, as though afraid
that the dead might hear. “I have been a fool. The gunmen were in the
pay of Esteban.”

“And they poisoned the guards tonight,” I said.

We went slowly down the stairway, not knowing what was taking place
down below. One of the gunmen sprawled on the steps and Don Roberto
lifted Juana over him.

Out in the patio we found another gunman, dead. Destino was standing
against the wall, an empty gun in each hand, a laugh on his lips. The
forces of Don Esteban, of which there were few left, were far off
across the hills, riding for their lives.

Destino came to Juana and held out his hands.

“One who trusted me,” he said slowly. “I will never forget.”

“And there was Pablo,” she said softly.

“Ah, yes. Pablo. But it was for your sake, señorita.”

“And I can only ask forgiveness,” said Don Roberto humbly. “It is still
a mystery, Destino.”

“_El Lobo_ was killed two years ago,” said Destino. “The man who killed
him took his name, and made it a thing of execration. _El Lobo_ was not
a murderer. He stole from the rich and gave most of it to the poor and
to the church; keeping only enough to gratify his one great desire in
life.

“For a year I have searched for this man who wore a false name. Always
he has baffled me. But like fate I have followed him to his finish. I
suspected Don Esteban. No man may lose as he has lost at gambling and
still retain his El Sicomoro.

“I came to Santa Clemente and I saw Sleen. I knew him to be a cutthroat,
and when I found that he was guarding you from _El Lobo_, I suspected
that he was in the employ of _El Lobo_. The very fact that this rancho
was inaccessible to attack, told me that it would be accomplished from
within.

“And when those messages, attached to stones, were found in the patio, I
knew I was right. They were placed there by Don Esteban or his men; one
for Don Esteban, to cause him to share equally with you.”

“And that is why you laughed?” asked Don Roberto.

“I laughed,” said Destino softly, “because after all these months, I
was about to revenge the death of my father, who had been a thief that
I might study voice under the best teachers of Spain.”

And now I knew why he was more than a spy for _El Lobo_. He was a son of
The Wolf. Somehow, like shadows drifting away, the men followed Don
Roberto back to the house, leaving Juana, Destino and myself alone there
in the patio. I do not know why I stayed, because it was not a business
that needed an overseer. But I felt that I had had a part in it, and I
was too glad to go away.

They were looking at each other, saying nothing. It seemed as though
they were going to stare at each other forever; so I said, “Destino,
they are all gone.”

“Except my friend, Pablo,” he said softly.

So I went away, too.


[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the June 25, 1925 issue
of _Short Stories_ magazine.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78217 ***