Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 3 — page 85: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CROSSROADS. These things being known, it is not diffi- cult to imagine why Senor Onate watched with interest the tall form of Dolores, daughter of El Tigre. She came from the squat door of the dobe hut, where the Yaquis dwelt and moved onto a little hillock near by. There she took her stand and screened her eyes against the glare of the sun while she looked north into the shadows of the hills. The wind fluttered the loose end of her crimson rebozo, and blew the dress about her, cling- ing at every curve. She was very tall, very slender, very erect, and as she came down the hill again toward the hut, walking with the easy, swinging grace of a youth, Senor Onate felt a very great need of words. His heart, indeed, was filled to overflowing, for the gringoes should know, before many days, what comes to those who cross the path of Senor Don Porfirio Maria Onate. He called: ‘‘ Dolores!”’ She swerved in the midst of a stride and stood stiff and straight, looking toward him, as if she could not understand that he had ~ called. He had never summoned her before, but now she was the only creature in the world who could entirely understand and sympathize with him. Her father had taken the war-path, and he had taken it-at the command of the sheriff. Senor Onate felt a sudden kinship with the girl; he forgot, for the instant, that she was an Indian, and a Yaqui at that. So he called again: “Dolores, come hither!” She came with the same buoyantly erace- ful stride, like a young man, and her small feet paused beyond the veranda at a re- spectful distance. She stood much as her father stood in the presence of the great sheriff. .In place of removing a hat, which she did not wear, she took off the rebozo which partially veiled her face. It was the ultimate tribute of respect; it was like the act of a child which will hide nothing from the eye of its father. The heart of Senor Onate was touched. It was his habit to carry about with him pockets full of trinkets. For a little gift here and there, given with a good grace, is more to the childish heart of the Mexican than a rich bribe to a white man. He 395 fumbled now, automatically, in one of his loose coat-pockets, and brought out a slen- der necklace of coral—a flimsy trinket, but very bright in the morning sun. | He held it high so that the light could catch at it and run flashing from bead to bead. The face of Dolores, daughter of El Tigre, lighted a single instant with desire, and then the light went out. Her eyes had grown luminous and darkened again like the flashing of a red torch over a black pool ——a glimmer, and then a more profound darkness. “They are yours, Dolores,” said the sheriff, “‘ to comfort you for the loss of your father. He will come again in a little while. And in the meantime you shall have these.” He flung them idly to her. Her hand darted out as swiftly as the head of a strik- ing snake. The beads were caught to her and disappeared in the folds of her dress. Once again there was that flash of light in her eyes. It reminded Senor Onate of the spark that flies from flint when iron strikes it. She straightened a little more, and her head went back. She was about to speak of her gratitude, and on such occasions an Indian never does less than orate. “My father,” said Dolores, and Onate wondered at the timbre of her voice, deep as a man’s and light as a girl’s, “‘ my father is filled with care for his children. I, Dolores, am not worthy. I am less than the desert rat creeping from mesquite to mes- quite under the eye of the eagle which cricles high in the air—high—a little speck on a white sky.” She made a slow gesture, first raising her arm and then unfolding her slender hand. It suggested infinite height. ; “Yet the care of the father is even for Dolores. He has made her rich. The heart of El Tigre shall beat hard when he sees the gift of the Senor Onate. I am the child of my father; I am his slave. I am his.shadow which does what he wills; which comes when he comes; which goes when he goes.”’ She drew the rebozo over her head again, turned, and made back toward the dobe hut. Senor Onate watched her, swelling with the importance which comes from the knowledge of a good deed done. It made a little warmth in his body and a lightness COMMICLOOOkKS (C@