Читать книгу The Border Kid - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 3
ОглавлениеYellow and White
Vespers was ringing faintly when William Benn crossed the piazza and turned down a Western street. His horse slackened from a dogtrot to a walk and Benn himself blinked, for before him was a living wall of gold that seemed to be rolling from the rooftops to the dust and advancing upon him with a rush. It was the red-gold light of the sun, now about to sink. William Benn, like all men who live by their wits, was superstitious; for he who cheats his fellows is convinced, in that hidden corner of his soul where conscience has its uncomfortable abode, that there must be some power which cannot be overreached.
William Benn was totally bad. He never had experienced a generous impulse. He rarely spoke a kind word except with malice aforethought. And he looked upon the cities of men as a wolf looks upon the folds of sheep. Moreover, it mattered not to William Benn whether he dined upon mutton or lamb. He was carnivorous; he was omnivorous. His soul was composed of chilled steel; his heart was adamant. And yet he was superstitious, and now he actually started in the saddle and jerked up his head.
“I am about to ride into some great good fortune!” said William Benn to himself.
So he let his horse go along slowly, not as one apt to meet good fortune with indifference, but as one unwilling to pass opportunity by. In this way he heard a sudden flurry of shouts, and when he turned the next corner he saw a pile of half a dozen youngsters struggling and writhing in the dust of the street. The pile now erupted, split apart, and tumbled away, and from beneath it rose a youth with hair like the red-gold of dancing flames. The reason for the scattering of his assailants was in his hand—a bright-bladed hunting knife.
He shook off some of the dust with which he was coated, as a dog shakes water out of its fur. Then he dropped his left hand jauntily upon his hip, waved the knife in his right, and spoke in Spanish somewhat as follows:
“After this, dogs and coyotes, I am going to hunt you in couples. I am going to find you not more than two at a time, and when I find you I am going to slice your ears and put red peppers in the cuts. I am going to rub pepper into your eyes, shake some more of it down your nostrils. I say this, I, Ricardo Perez. I am going to take off your hides and tan them, and cover a saddle with them.”
It was a little more than a childish brawl. These were boys of sixteen or eighteen years, and though Ricardo Perez spoke Spanish, the fight had taken place in the American section of the town, and there was no doubt that the half circle which faced the Mexican youth was composed of white blood. One of the boys now picked up a stone and, in answer to the insults of Ricardo, threw it with such good aim that it struck him in the mouth. Ricardo spat blood.
“This is what you do,” said Ricardo. “All the gringos are cowards. There is not one of you who will dare to come close to me. But you stand off like women and throw stones; and after a while you will get your older brothers and your fathers to come and help you to fight me. But even among them all, there is not one man who dares to stand to me by himself. You gringos are dogs, and the sons of dogs; you are mangy dogs. Some day I will tie together half a dozen of you. I will tie half a dozen of you together by the ears and then kick you into the river.”
He stamped as he finished this speech. The dust puffed beneath the stroke of his foot, and the audience of young Americans started a little.
William Benn looked upon this scene partly with a superstitious eye for wonders and partly with the keen eye of a critic of humanity. He looked sharply up and down the street, but he saw nothing to attract his interest except this group of quarreling youngsters and the storm center—the lad with the flaming hair. He had blue eyes, as well, and looked as little like a Mexican as any man William Benn ever had seen; however, he knew that the old Castilian strain of Gothic blood was bound to show itself again and again in the Mexican.
Now he rode into the circle. He said to the young Americans:
“Six of you on one! That’s fair play, I suppose?”
The oldest and largest stepped forward. He had the shoulders and the blunt jaw of a pugilist.
“He’s a poison snake,” said this boy. “He’ll never fight with his hands. He has to have a gun or a knife. He’s a murderer, that’s what he is! He oughta be put into prison!”
Full of honest indignation was this voice.
“Well,” said Benn to Ricardo Perez, “is it true that you’re afraid to fight these boys with your hands?”
Ricardo hesitated only a fraction of a second. Then he answered: “I will fight two of them at once, with my bare hands! I will fight any two of them! But they are afraid to stand up to me!”
“Come, come,” answered Benn, a little irritated by this. “You—big fellow—you’re willing to fight Ricardo, I take it? Without any help?”
“Fight him?” snarled the American champion. “Why, I’ll knock the stuffing out of him. I’ll break him in two and feed his insides to the birds. But the sneak’ll pull a knife if I get him cornered!”
“If he does,” said William Benn deliberately, “I’ll shoot him through the head. In order,” he added with sardonic quiet, “in order to keep him from murdering another! Stand up, Ricardo.”
Ricardo actually made two or three bold paces forward, with a bearing of wonderful confidence, as though he expected that the American boy would shrink away from him and try to run. But the other was a burly youth, and besides, he had obviously been taught to box, for he fell into a good position of defense, his posture correct, his weight evenly distributed on his toes, and his guard high. In those poised fists of his was gathered almost all the force which even full maturity would give him. In fact, he was nearer to twenty than to eighteen, and his pale-gray eyes now glittered with the fire of battle.
William Benn looked upon him approvingly. It might very well be that this splendid, strapping youngster was the good fortune of which he had felt the near presence!
Ricardo, marching toward his enemy, suddenly halted and actually wavered. He in turn doubled his fists, but the instant he did so it was apparent that he knew nothing of the new game. His ignorance was apparent to the trained eye of the American boy, who nodded, and said with satisfaction:
“I got you where I want you now, Ricardo. I’m gonna knock your head right off of you and——”
“Are you?” sneered Ricardo. “You are going to knock my head off and——”
He left his own sentence incomplete, for with the last word he leaped at the other, swayed to get beneath a driving fist—and was clipped by the American fairly upon the jaw. Nothing could resist the impetus of such a shock, and Ricardo pitched backward, struck the dust, and rolled over and over with a terrible cry.
It seemed to William Benn, his ears thrilling with that cry, that it contained more rage and horror and surprise than actual pain or fear; but the sound of it raised a howl from all the young Americans; they sounded like so many savage dogs, which have heard a cat yell in anguish. As for the American champion, he did not overlook this opportunity, but ran after his rolling enemy ready to plant a finishing blow the instant that Ricardo got up.
But he was not prepared for the manner of Ricardo’s rising. It was not to the knee, and then staggeringly to the feet. Instead, young Perez hurled himself suddenly from hands and knees and feet and dived under the guard of the American and smote him in the stomach. Whether it was fist, hand, or knee that delivered the blow, even the quick eye of William Benn could not discover. But the effect was wonderful. The white champion remained standing, but he was doubled over, and his face was distorted with a breathless grin of agony.
“You’ll stand up to me, you fool?” said Ricardo Perez.
And he struck the other across the face with his open hand. It was not a heavy blow. There was no sting in it except the insult, but the paralyzed nerves of the other fighter at that moment took possession of him. He fell into the dust and lay on his side, feebly kicking out with alternate feet and biting at the air like a dog at a bone.
Ricardo Perez stepped straight over the fallen body and walked toward the other youngsters. There was a trickle of blood still running from his mouth, but that stain was hardly perceptible, so sneering and cruel was his smile.
“Where’s the next one?” he asked. “I want to pass you all through my hands, to-day. I have a judge to stand by and see fair play. To-day I’m going to put my mark on your hides; another day I’ll begin to skin you!”
They shrank back before him. They had seen the awful downfall of Goliath; he lay writhing, almost dying before their eyes.
“You yellow rats!” shouted Perez suddenly, and rushed.
The others did not wait for his coming; they turned and bolted in five different directions, and the instant they fled, Ricardo Perez stopped his pursuit. It was apparently the moral triumph that delighted him more than actually mauling one of them. Or perhaps he knew very well that there was strength enough in every one of these youths to beat him if it came to physical grips. At any rate, he was smiling faintly as he walked back to the fallen form of the other warrior.
William Benn looked on with the keenest attention while Perez actually raised the fallen hero and dusted off his clothes, and helped him to breathe again by patting him on the back.
“Now you know what I am,” said Ricardo Perez. “But I like you better than the rest. You stood up and fought. I’m ready to be your friend!”
William Benn, astonished, saw them shake hands. Then the American went rather uncertainly on his way.
