Crossroads (21 page)

T
o say that the town of Double Bend was in suspense would be to put it lightly. It was rather in a constant tension—the sort of tension that a steady pressure puts on a hair-trigger. Everyone knew that Dix Van Dyck was in the town to kill
Señor
Don Porfirio Maria Oñate. Everybody knew that Oñate knew it. And there was the singular spectacle of a sheriff besieged in his house. He had gathered trained fighters about him. Day and night they patrolled his house.

In the meantime the duties of the sheriff lapsed. There were complaints, and then Oñate called in a Mexican doctor, and the doctor gave out an interview and said that Oñate was suffering from a serious form of heart disease and that it might be some time before he could resume his official duties. Most of the
Americanos
agreed that Oñate was suffering from internal trouble, but most of them would have been disposed to call it “white liver” rather than heart trouble. Jokes were made and repeated on this subject. Even the
Mejicanos
enjoyed the dumb play of the sheriff’s heart trouble.

The news was spread abroad. People began to come into Double Bend to wait for the catastrophe, for it was agreed that a man like Dix Van Dyck—especially since the exploit of the jail was now fully known—could not be kept away from his victim. Dix Van Dyck kept a room at the hotel, and Jacqueline Boone had a room in a private
house. She had been strictly ordered by Dix not to take a hand in this business, but on that subject she had opinions of her own. She wore a gun, and she knew how to use it. A scheme for attack was gradually forming in her mind.

The first two days passed, and at the end of that time a strange event happened. A Mexican, known to be one of the sheriff’s house guards, rode straight to the hotel and inquired for Dix Van Dyck. The bystanders looked for a gun play and a bold attempt at assassination, but, when Dix Van Dyck hove on the horizon, the Mexican thrust his hands eagerly above his head and in this position delivered his message in a low voice.

He said: “I,
señor
, have come from a man who is not your friend.”

“You mean,” said the big man, “that you’re one of the hangers-on of Oñate?”

“I am working for
Señor
Oñate,” answered the other and prepared for a quick jump for the door.

“Talk,” said Dix Van Dyck, and fell into an attitude of patient waiting. “But maybe I can save you a long line of chatter. I suppose Oñate wants to buy me off?”

“It is true,” said the Mexican, keeping his arms tirelessly above his head. “It is true that
Señor
Oñate thinks that Señor Van Dyck might be tempted by a price.”

“It is true,” responded Dix Van Dyck with a white anger, “that the swine could not buy me off for all the gold in Mexico. I’m here to get him, my friend, and I
mean
to get him. So just trot back to Oñate and tell him what I say. I’m in no hurry. Sooner or later he has to leave his hole, and then I’ll be on the spot.”

“Ah,
señor
,” said the Mexican, “Don Porfirio would never dream of purchasing a peace with Dix Van Dyck with gold. But,
señor
, there are other things that pass as a price.”

“It seems to me that somewhere in your heart you’re laughing at me. Now I want to tell you straight that no one has laughed at me yet and got away with it. Understand?”

The pallor of death came over the messenger. “Señor,” he pleaded eagerly, “there is no smile in my heart. I swear it. I could not laugh. My throat is too dry. I could not.”

“Moisten your throat with a lie,” said the implacable Dix Van Dyck, “and blaze away with your yarn. What’s the price of
Señor
Oñate?”

“
Señor
Dix Van Dyck has a brother,” said the messenger.

“Right,” answered Van Dyck. “The finest lad that ever swung into a saddle within a hundred miles of Guadalupe. What of him? Does he owe a gambling debt to Oñate?”

“Alas! No,
señor
. It is more. The good
Señor
Joseph Van Dyck has fallen into a greater misfortune. You must know,
señor
, that the sheriff has many friends. Some of them have large hearts but small brains. They learned in a little while that
Señor
Oñate was in danger from Dix Van Dyck…a terrible man in killing…and they shuddered because they feared for their friend. Some of these simple men took thought among themselves how they could help the sheriff. Was it not so? Yes, they took thought, and then this is what they did. They went by night around the house of Joseph Van Dyck and made a calling such as a friend of his had been heard to make. When he came out of the house, they seized him with many hands, gagged and bound him, and they led him away into the hills where no man could ever follow them. Then they sat down and wrote a letter….”

“God!” said Dix Van Dyck without breath in his voice, and sat down heavily in a chair.

“They wrote a letter,” said the messenger, letting his triumph creep into his voice, though he kept it out of his
eyes with a religious care, “saying to
Señor
Oñate that they had heard of his danger and that they had, therefore, taken a precaution to care for him. They had seized on young Joseph Van Dyck, and if the sheriff were in any way mistreated, killed, or in any way injured…understand,
señor
, in
any
way injured…they would do to
Señor
Joseph Van Dyck what was done to the sheriff…and perhaps a little bit more…sí, a little bit more. Is this clear,
Señor
Van Dyck?”

“I suppose,” said the other slowly, “that the damned dog of a sheriff is now rubbing his fat hands?”

“It is true,
señor
,” said the messenger, “that the sheriff is now enjoying a deep sleep. But he will doubtless awaken to hear the answer of the brave Dix Van Dyck.”

“If I let Oñate alone, my brother will be sent back safe?”

“If reasonable surety is given,” said the messenger cautiously. “If reasonable surety is given,
señor
….”

“But in the meantime,” said Van Dyck, “tell Oñate that he had better lie awake and keep thinking. I’m not done yet. How does he know that these men
he
could buy are safe from the price of somebody else, eh? Go back and tell him that I’ll find their price and that I’ll get Joseph free. After I’ve done it, I’ll have another score to settle with Oñate. Tell him also that I’m in no hurry. That I have the patience of an Indian. Tell him that besides my own little troubles with him…which the death of Vincente balances, in a way…that I have the death of El Tigre to cross off the account. Tell him also that there are other ways of death than a quick one. Is that plain?”

“It is very clear,” said the messenger anxiously, “but the
señor
should understand that these men who have carried your brother into the mountains are very rough men. You should consider that they are not safe men in any way and that they are, perhaps, liable to forget kindness.
That they are liable to point a gun toward Joseph Van Dyck and perhaps grow so careless as to fire, for the burden of keeping him safe is not small.”

“Partner,” said the big man calmly, “you make a good talk. I allow that, and I’ll tell the world that you talk better’n the sheriff himself could plead for his life. But your bluff don’t work with me. That’s all. I like your lingo, but I see ways through it. Now, my friend, I know that there ain’t a single one of you, from Oñate down, that wants to get me on his trail unless he has to. Your kind friends up there in the hills are among the rest of ’em. So go back and tell Oñate that.”

“Listen,” said the other, dropping his caution in a burst of blind anger, though still he kept his hands high, “if you do this, you will have men against you. You are marked,
señor
. You are a known man. You keep your back to the wall. You dare not turn. Even suppose that you are able to kill Oñate, how will that help you? Others will still be alive, and we do not forget,
señor
. We do not forget!”

“Go back to Hole-in-the-Ground Oñate and tell him that for the present there’s a truce, but tell him to get out all his wits and sharpen ’em up, for I’m going to get that lad Joseph away from his men. Then I’m coming straight for Oñate, and I’ll nail him to the wall.”

“Is that all?” said the messenger with ominous and furious calm.

“It’s just about all, I guess,” said Dix Van Dyck. “Except, get out!”

He had raised his voice as he said this last, and with every word the messenger had retreated a step across the big room until at the parting injunction he leaped sidewise through the door and was gone.

S
o the game continued day after day. Men ventured to ask Dix Van Dyck what he had up his sleeve, and his only reply was a broad and genial smile. So they drew upon their imaginations and figured up the possibilities that remained to him. It was commonly known that Joseph Van Dyck had been kidnapped, and it was at least commonly conjectured who had been the inspiration behind that act of violence. Some held that he dared make no move until his brother was out of danger. There were others who declared that he cared nothing for God, man, or devil, and that the safety of his brother would never make him postpone his vengeance.

This same clan pointed out that he delayed the killing of Oñate simply because it was humanly impossible for any man to break through the line of Oñate’s guards. Others, on the other hand, vowed that, if his brother were only safe, Dix Van Dyck would make the attempt and either kill or be killed. Public opinion demanded action from him. The weight of this opinion, indeed, grew heavier and heavier as more and more men drifted in, coming with the avowed intention of being on the ground when the famous feud reached its
dénoûment
, even if they had to stay there all year. It was plain that Dix Van Dyck could not long delay action with such an audience waiting for him.

So the days crept on, a week—two weeks. Then a dusty
rider galloped to the door of Oñate and threw a sealed envelope to one of the loitering guards. It was addressed to Oñate, and, though the guard could not read, he carried the missive to the master of the house.

Señor
Oñate had Manuel open the letter. He was far too wise to do that himself for he had heard unpleasant tales of poisons—dust concealed in an envelope that, when opened, filled the air, and a single breath was horrible death. But the missive was safely opened, and Manuel drew out a little slip of yellow paper, rough at the edges, and scrawled upon in a painful hand. Then
Señor
Oñate took it and read:

The sheriff fell back in his chair. It was rather a collapse than a fall. His fat body seemed to have been turned to jelly that loosely filled the chair from arm to arm and overflowed. Manuel, skilled to the needs of the master, brought a drink. When it was disposed of, Oñate managed to continue past the fatal opening:

The paper fluttered from the sheriff’s hand to the floor. He sat smiling. It was merely the relaxation of the muscles of his face, and the smile was like the smile of death.
It
was
death. He knew it. His mind worked through a daze slowly back toward life. The warm sunlight fell across his hand. He stretched out his fingers in it. It was good to feel. The bright colors on the wall—perhaps he was looking at them for the last time. His vague eyes turned to Manuel. Perhaps it would be those stubby fingers that washed the blood from his wounds. And yet, no wounds. No, Dix Van Dyck would use no weapon except his long-fingered hands. He remembered them as vividly as if he had painted them. They grew as terrible in his mind as the mandibles of a tarantula. He caressed his plump throat slowly. It was there that those hands would settle. It was said that a single pressure of Van Dyck’s grip could crush a man’s throat.

And he said, at last out of his stupor: “Manuel!”

The servant approached, trembling.

“Manuel, I am a dead man.” The words were like a stimulant. He sprang up with a shriek. “Dead, in my own house? No, no, no! Call my guards…my men. I have been close-fisted with them. I shall open treasures to them. Dead! Help! But, no. There is no help. Dolores…the she-devil. She is with Van Dyck. She will teach him a way to reach me. Dolores! Demon! Manuel! Oh, God!”

His guards came running in and found him collapsed on the floor. In falling, he had struck his temple, and the crimson blood streaked slowly down across his flabby face. They looked to each other with round eyes grunting, and they worked over him until he came back to life—life that was a delirium.

“It is no matter,” said Oñate. “Why did you not let me die? There was no pain in that. It was sleep. But to night…to night Van Dyck will come!”

And Dolores? It was evening before she rode into Double Bend with Joseph Van Dyck at her side. Throughout their long, hard journey she had not spoken to him once,
aside from snapping brief orders and directions, and to all his proffers of gratitude she listened with a deaf ear, until they came close to the hotel where Dix Van Dyck lived.

“
Señor
Dix Van Dyck,” said the Yaqui, halting her horse, “lives in that big house. Go find him there,
señor
. Your tongue has been pleasant to Dolores. The things you would have said to Dolores, remember them all and say them to
Señor
Dix Van Dyck. Now he will kill
Señor
Don Porfirio Maria Oñate. Tell him first to wait until Dolores comes. She will tell him a way.
Adiós, señor
.” And she turned her horse down an alley.

Joseph Van Dyck rode straight on to the hotel. A man who knew him saw him cross the porch. The news spread from lip to lip—Joseph Van Dyck was free. Tonight, with his hands free from fear for his brother, Dix Van Dyck would kill Oñate. He could wait no longer. The time had come.

It was like the night of the rising of the mob against the jail, save that the conditions were reversed. On that night the
Mejicanos
had gathered in the streets, and the
Americanos
had kept to their houses. Now the Americanos, who had been drifting into Double Bend for days, gathered here and there in little knots, laughing, talking, waiting. When
Mejicanos
passed these little groups, they crossed to the other side of the street and went straight to their houses and waited there, ill at ease. All of this happened in the space of half an hour.

In the meantime Joseph Van Dyck was directed by the clerk of the hotel to the upper rear verandah of the rickety, old hotel and, coming out onto the little platform, he found a singular picture—Dix Van Dyck and Jacqueline Boone. It was a much more significant picture than Joseph Van Dyck could understand. What astonished him was to find his big brother alone with any
woman—alone, and sitting in that silence that speaks more loudly than words.

And the woman? She no longer wore the divided skirt and the flaring bandanna around her throat. She had given up the short, divided riding-skirt. She had given up the boots with their big, jangling spurs. There was no longer the belt sagging across her hips and pulled far down by the heavy Forty-Five. Instead, she wore a small, soft hat of white cloth with a blue feather curling along one side, a white skirt, and a white shirtwaist, joining the skirt with a broad, black belt. Joseph Van Dyck saw white silk stockings and very small white shoes.

He saw these things and thought them very pleasant, for how could he know that this was Jack Boone? But, if he had known, he would have been most of all astonished by her occupation. For there was a sewing basket beside her, and she was sewing an edging of lace onto something soft and white and fluffy. Could this be Jack Boone? Where was the quick, cold, keen glance of the girl? Where was the calm aloofness? Where was the masculine poise that struck all comers with a sudden sense of respect and a little feeling of danger? It was all gone. In fact, it was no longer Jack, but Jacqueline. The eyes she turned on Joseph Van Dyck were wide and soft and infinitely gentle and with a light in them that old women and very young children understand. Sir Lancelot, says Mallory, laid down shield and spear and became a holy man in a monastery or, some say, an anchorite. With the losing of the cross, Jack Boone had given up the strength of horse and gun and knife and taken instead the disarming powers of a woman.

These things Joseph Van Dyck saw, in part, when he put foot on the verandah but hardly had that foot fallen, when Dix Van Dyck turned his leonine head and then
shouted like a cowboy at a round up: “Heya, Joe!” He made one crashing bound and swept the boy into arms that would have strained the ribs of a bear. “You!” thundered Dix Van Dyck again.

“All that you’ve left of me,” gasped Joseph Van Dyck, extricating himself from that terrible grip.

“Ha!” cried Dix Van Dyck. “They couldn’t keep you, lad. The fighting Van Dycks! I’d forgotten that. And blood will out. Tell me, Joe, was it night work? How many d’you drop? Who? When? How’d they get you? Tell me everything. I….”

“Gimme a chance, Dix,” said the other, and he was aware, more than of the great voice of his brother, of the big, luminous, contented eyes of the girl. She had once more begun her sewing.

“Speaking personal,” said Joe, “I’d never have had a chance alone ag’in’ that gang. They were a pretty hard lot. They was too many for me, but that Yaqui friend of yours came in….”

“What?”

“That girl, Dolores, she come to me. They thought she was strong with Oñate. So they let her come and go. It was she who worked me out of the place and gave me a running start. Dix, she’s got the brains of a man.”

“And a wolf,” nodded Dix Van Dyck. “Was it a running fight?”

“Yep,” said the boy, sighing at the memory. “They made it hot for a while, but we had the foot of ’em, and Dolores knew the country like a book. I winged two of the birds, and then they give up. So, here I am, but if it hadn’t been for Dolores….”

“Where is she?”

“She’s coming here to see you, Dix, and for my sake….”

“Oh?” said Dix Van Dyck.

“What’s the matter?” cried the boy. “I’m not ashamed of liking her, Dix.”

“You’ve had a long ride,” said the big man. “Maybe you better hit some chow and then go to bed, Joe.”

“See you in hell first,” said the boy, and it was strange to hear talk like this to Dix Van Dyck.

“You young devil,” growled Dix Van Dyck, “I’ll….”

“Before you fight,” said the gentle voice of the girl, “I’d like to meet your brother, Dix.”

They stood suddenly abashed, the big man and the slender, handsome, viciously graceful boy. The introduction came stammeringly, and then Joseph Van Dyck felt his fingers taken in a strong, cool, soft hand and felt a glance of strong, steady eyes pass into his own, not with criticism but with a calm understanding. His irritation left him. He sat down and felt, by little, slow degrees, the coolness of the evening and the oncoming of the dark. Then the anxious eyes of Jacqueline were on his brother. He thought he understood, and he leaned to her in a carefully chosen moment.

“Is it Oñate? Tonight?”

She answered with a whispering sigh. “God help us!”

And that was all.