TIGRE and ISOLA

by Will H. Thompson

Author of “The High Tide at Gettysburg”




It seldom rains in Arizona. The narrow valleys that drain southward into
Mexico are the most arid in America. But, on the night old Nuñez Pico
died, a black cloud rolled over the ragged rim of the Canille Mountains,
dragged itself slowly along, was ripped by the granite teeth, collapsed,
and fell in a deluge of rain. The bare stone shoulders of the mountain
heaved the floods into the canyons, from whose monstrous throats it came
bellowing into the valley. The river-bed was overbrimmed and the lowland
became a sea.

Far into the night we sat about the long table upon which lay the
shrouded form of the old Spaniard. The solemnity of the vigil, the
feeble light, and the tumult of the storm depressed our minds and caused
our speech to be low and infrequent, and it was a distinct relief to me
when Major Blanchard said:

“Twenty years ago to-night we had just such a storm as this.”

Something in the tone of his voice, and in the introspective eyes of the
old soldier, moved me to say: “Major, if there is a story waiting to be
told, it would be kind of you to give it to us now. This watch is going
to be heavy and long.”

He mused for a moment, then said:

“It is hardly a story, yet more than an episode. It was the finest
tragedy I ever witnessed.”

Without further urging he began.

                *       *       *       *       *

“Nuñez Pico, after fifteen years of life upon this ranch, revisited his
early home in Spain, and returned, bringing with him his only daughter,
who, after her mother’s death, had been reared and educated in Seville.
It is not surprising that she found little happiness in this isolated
valley. She was a splendid woman, and her superiority of blood and
training was at once and universally recognized by the inhabitants of
this half-wild land. None of the young _rancheros_ was bold enough to
lay siege to her heart, and the ‘Lady Isola,’ as she was usually called,
passed many lonely days.

“Tigre Palladis was a gambler, a robber, and many times a homicide. He
was born to his estate of lawlessness. His mother was a Spanish-lndian
half-blood, his father an American adventurer of the worst type, who was
killed while Tigre was a babe. Possibly it was because of his father’s
ignominious death that the boy always bore his mother’s name.

“The young devil grew into a marvelous physical manhood. Indeed, he was
the handsomest animal I ever saw—very tall, of an exceedingly powerful
build, and with a lightness and impetuosity of movement that indicated
immense vital force. Dark of face and dark of heart he was, as all who
knew him knew, yet there was something in his contemptuous defiance of
lawful restraint, and in his measureless strength and lightning-like
energy of action in emergency, that aroused enough of hero-worship in
the hearts of the half-wild people of the valley to have spared him long
and to have shielded him from the vengeance earned by many a desperate
deed, had he not chanced to meet the Lady Isola.

“The love that flamed in his volcanic heart did not illuminate his
reason. It did not counsel patience, reformation of character,
abandonment of lawless ventures, and subjugation of his turbulent
spirit, but seemed rather to multiply his activities and to increase the
violence of his temperament. Had the lady accepted his attentions or
even yielded the fine courtesy she gave to the poorest peon upon her
father’s ranch, it might have been better for her and for him at the
last. But she seemed both to scorn and to fear him. She would neither
receive him in her home nor walk abroad when he was in the vicinity.

“I knew Nuñez Pico well. His was the loftiest soul I ever hope to find
on earth. The prayer of his distressed child to be permitted to return
to Spain moved him deeply, but he refused to believe that danger
threatened her, and he could not bear to part with her. In the simple
sincerity of his nature he sought the disturber of his home and pleaded
with him to leave his daughter in peace. But the passionate idolater
would give no promise and swore that his love should yield to no earthly
bar.

“However, after this interview, Tigre left the valley and was heard of
in Mexico. Pico believed the trouble ended. Not so the Lady Isola. It
was plain that her distress was unabated. She clung to the house, not
venturing into the fine garden that lay between her window and the
river, forsaking her loved hammock on the wide eastern porch, and pacing
the long hall with a nervous step. In her dilated eyes one could mark
the panic of her soul.

“A month after Tigre’s departure I visited Pico. Never before had I seen
the garden so beautiful. The intense heat of the afternoon failed at
sunset, and the full moon rose in cloudless beauty beyond the crenelated
wall of the Canille Mountains. The air was delicious in its clearness
and serenity. So great was the temptation to escape the stifling heat,
still retained by the rooms, that Isola yielded to her father’s request
and mine, and came out upon the east porch and sat for an hour listening
to our talk, but taking no part therein.

“The soft moonlight fell over her like a veil. It seemed more to conceal
than to reveal her. It dimmed the traces of sorrow and softened the
unnatural luminosity of her eyes. She was very beautiful and, as I
watched her face from my position in the shadow of the great clematis
vine, her expression of hopelessness and terror was almost unbearable. I
was younger then than now, and, as I said, Isola Pico was very
beautiful.

“Moving my seat into the light, I looked across the silent garden and
little shining river to the highlands beyond. In the silvery glory the
landscape came out like a cameo. The garden seemed alert and watching
with a thousand eyes. Beyond the garden the slender river gleamed in its
stony bed. Wasted by the Summer’s heat, it was too weak to grieve. In
the lowland beyond the river a space of alfalfa ran to the first swell
of the foothills. Upon the plain at the base of the rise, a great rock,
deeply imbedded in the earth, and rising fifty feet above the surface,
was all in shadow; but, as the moon overlooked the mountain crest, the
top of the rock seemed slowly to rise from out the darkness and break
into the white flood.

“This movement appeared so real and affirmative that I turned to Isola
to learn if she had noticed it. She did not heed my action, but sat with
her eyes fixed upon the rock with such a stare as one might have who saw
the rending of the solid earth. Quickly turning, I saw that on the top
of the rock a man was standing, with lifted face and folded arms. The
pose was grandly pathetic. The form looked larger than human in the wan
moonlight. I was about to break the silence with an exclamation, when a
mighty voice, a noble baritone, came rolling across the distance, wave
upon wave, bearing the burden of an old and half-forgotten love-song:

  ‘The God who wrought thee over-sweet
    In Love’s old garden long ago.
  Gave me the curse of wandering feet,
    The power to know, and only know,
  That even God shall not repeat
    The agony of loving so!’

“When the refrain was reached I was thrilled as the singer substituted
another name for the one written in the old song, and the night was
stirred by a burst of passionate melody that will haunt my memory while
I live:

  ‘Isola! Love, I love thee!
    Isola! Hear my cry!
  The skies are black above me!
    Love me, or bid me die!
  Isola! Isola!
    Love me, or let me die!’

“As the wonderful voice held the last word at the top of the register
without a quaver, the lady arose, stood unsteadily for a moment, then
turned and walked proudly to the hallway and disappeared within. Nuñez
Pico rose and, without a word, followed his daughter.

                *       *       *       *       *

“That night I could not sleep, and near morning left my room and paced
the garden walks until daybreak. Then, drawn by curiosity, I crossed the
river and came to the great rock at the foot of the rise. Here I found
the trace of a horse, coming and going, and, behind the rock, evidence
that the horse had stood there for many hours.

“The Lady Isola came to the breakfast the following morning without a
tear-stain upon her face, her features set and cold. The look in her
proud eyes seemed to say: ‘My hours of terror are done! I am master of
myself!’

“She moved about the house, the porches and the garden as freely as of
old, but with a different manner. Then it was with the languorous grace
of one in love with idleness; now she moved with the proud militancy of
one who asserts dominion and defies aggression. I was glad of the
changed mien, and so, I think, was Pico.

“When on that evening she passed me, going down into the garden, she
seemed to have grown taller, so martial was her carriage. I sat long in
the gathering dusk with little note of passing time, when suddenly, a
woman’s shriek, clear, high and long-drawn, rose from the garden,
followed almost instantly by the thunder of galloping hoofs upon the
stony bed of the river, a plash of water, the muffled sound of a falling
earth-bank, and then the lessening throb of flying feet that died upon
the night.

“The shriek, the rush of the trampling feet through the garden, the
vault of the steed over the adobe wall, and the uproar of the steel-shod
hoofs upon the stones of the river-bed did not occupy five seconds, and
before I could leap from the porch and rush through the garden shrubbery
the beat of the retreating feet sounded faint and far.

“The aroused household acted with desperate energy. Swift messengers
called the assistance of all the neighboring _rancheros_. The cinching
of saddle-girths, the clank of arms, the trampling of impatient horses,
the sharp orders of Pico, and the headlong incoming of horsemen from the
outer night, told of stern preparation that boded ill for the frenzied
abductor.

“But before the pursuit could be taken up the storm came over the
Obsidian Hills and broke upon the valley with lightning, thunder,
roaring wind and such a downpour of rain that within half an hour the
river could not be crossed except by a detour of many miles, and then
only by leading our horses singly upon a frail swinging bridge intended
only for pedestrians. However, the cloudburst passed as quickly as it
came, and the trail was taken before midnight. Despite the obliterating
effects of the storm, the trace was easy to follow, for one had joined
us whose fame as a tracker in mountain and desert was supreme in Arizona
and Mexico, and when Cady rode out, taking the trail at a gallop, all
were content to follow blindly.

“None questioned his skill, nor his coolness and courage in the hour of
conflict. All had heard stories of his almost miraculous feats in the
following of horse-thieves and marauding Indians to their ruin, but few,
I think, were prepared for the ease and certainty with which this
man-hunter carried the trail at a speed as high as we dared urge our
horses, over flinty mesas, up slopes of broken lava, through thorny
fields of cactus and sage-brush, across a succession of lateral ravines
that now, for the first time in many years, brought down to the river a
hundred roaring streams, and on across scrub and chaparral, to the
south, toward the outlaw’s hoped-for refuge in the mountains of Mexico.

“It was a wild ride and there were thirty wild men riding. Pico, half
crazed by the horror of his daughter’s possible fate, urging on with
brief, inflammatory appeals the already excessive ardor of the pursuers;
Cady, silent and alert, rode a rod or two in advance, followed by
Kenneth, Pico’s foreman, a gigantic Scotchman, a violent man of great
physical power and energy. I rode with Pico when the exigencies of the
trail permitted. The others followed as best they could keep the pace.

“At sunrise we were thirty miles south of the Pico ranch and upon the
high mesa two miles east of the river. Here the trail entered, but did
not cross, a deep and rough ravine that ran at right angles to the
course hitherto taken by the fleeing desperado. Cady plunged without
hesitation down the steep bank and clung to the lessening trace over
bare spaces of slab stone, clean-washed by the storm, and across acres
of boulder-covered bars, until the portal of the canyon was reached,
where the storms of ages had cut a narrow channel to the river. Before
this rock-walled gateway Cady halted, leaped from his horse and waited
until all had come up.

“‘Dismount, men!’ he said, ‘The beast is at bay.’

“‘This canyon,’ he said, ‘twists to the right a hundred yards below,
then opens into a big triangle facing the river. The jaws are two
hundred yards apart, but each jaw is jammed square against the
precipitous bank of the river. The bank on this side is a basalt bluff
twenty feet high; the opposite bank is low, and a trail leads up a
ravine from the water to the Obsidian Hills. Tigre knows the trail, but
he forgot the storm. Do you hear the roar of the river? It is filled
with jagged blocks of basalt, and the flood is now a regular
water-cyclone. No horse or man that ever lived could cross it. The game
is bagged. There is a heavy thicket along the bluff on this side of the
river and he will be in the brush. There will be a fight. Every man must
cover himself as best he can. Take no chances on Tigre Palladis. Shoot
anything that moves; the woman will be hid.’

“Dismounted, we followed down the gorge until we reached the outlet and
noted the heavy wall of brush that hid the river from our view. Beyond
this the rage of the waters made itself manifest in terrible bellowings.
Cady said:

“‘There may be trouble in the first fifty yards of open ground, and
every man must make straight to the thicket. Move rapidly. If Tigre
fires, riddle the spot from which the shot comes, and run in upon him.
Shoot him down; he will not surrender.’

“Our rush followed, and was met by the crack of a Winchester. Ramon
Aguates, a young _ranchero_, threw up his hands, spun around upon his
toes and fell stone-dead. He had hardly touched the ground when another
man, close by my side, sank slowly to his knees, gave a little sigh, and
crumpled up into a shapeless heap. Tigre’s second shot was not heard, as
our volley came at the same instant. Our second volley cut a wide swath
in the foliage at the point where the smoke from the desperado’s rifle
hung, and was instantly followed by a woman’s scream.

“‘Hold, men!’ cried Pico, ‘We are killing my child!’

“Cady sprang into the open and, raising his right hand, cried:

“‘Tigre, give us the lady uninjured and I swear that you shall go and
not be followed!’

“No answer came, and it may be that the river’s voice drowned the call.
Neither did any shot follow. Not knowing what to expect, we crept
forward, taking the protection of every shrub and stone, until we
reached and entered the thicket.

“Here we recognized our disadvantage in that we dared not fire upon any
moving thing until we first ascertained whether it be friend or foe. But
Tigre would know that every sound or motion marked an enemy. Yet, to our
amazement, no rifle cracked, and neither sight nor sound indicated the
presence of our desperate quarry.

“At last we came upon the body of the horse. The splendid animal had
been struck by a number of our bullets and, to put it out of its misery,
its throat had been cut. How cool the fellow must have been to conceive
and execute the deed of mercy in a moment of such mortal peril! Near the
body, beside an ugly pool of blood, we found one of the Lady Isola’s
slippers and a few scattered beads from a turquoise necklace. The
thoroughly ransacked thicket yielded nothing more. As we stood upon the
rock rim, looking down into the boiling water, Pico cried:

“‘He has killed her, thrown her body into the river, and then drowned
himself!’

“I felt this to be true and was about to say so, when Cady, who had been
standing apparently lost in thought, called to me in sharp tones,
indicative of great excitement:

“‘Major, give me your glass, quick!’

“I handed to him the large field-glass I carried. Looking through it at
the farther shore for a moment, he turned to me and cried:

“‘As God lives, the madman has crossed that water-hell!’

“‘Impossible!’ I cried. ‘A man would be dashed to pieces in five
seconds!’

“‘Nevertheless it is true,’ he said. ‘Look for yourself!’

“Taking the glass, I searched the farther shore, and there, plainly to
be seen, were the deeply set footprints of a man in the wet sand at the
water’s edge, and higher, upon the rocks of the ravine, were the
splotched and straggling lines made by the water drained from the wet
clothing.

“The outlaw’s tremendous achievement, which under other circumstances
would have lifted my admiration to enthusiasm, passed from my thought as
I marked that his footprints were _alone_. No small tracks were beside
his, nor were there any traces of a dragged body. Evidently in his
flight from the grasp of the river Tigre had not turned to look for his
pursuers, nor down the stream for the poor girl’s body, if the hand of
murder had given it to the waves.

“A hush of awe and horror fell upon us, and many seconds passed before
it was broken by Cady’s low, masterful voice:

“‘Pico, take two men, go down to the mouth of Alkali Wash and watch for
the body. All the drift swings in there when the water is high. Ride
fast and you will be in time. The Major and I will see this hunt to the
end. Come, Major, we can cross two miles above here, but it will be six
miles as we ride.’

“Back we went to our horses, leaving four men to care for the dead, and
at last, after many slides and zigzags, reached the river at a point
where the current was slow. Cady’s horse took the water by a plunge from
the crumbling bank, and we followed, swimming our animals to a narrow
shingle at the base of the opposite bluff. Following this stony
passageway a short distance, we scaled the hill after a struggle that
left a number of our horses useless, and after a brief rest fifteen of
us rode on.

“We struck the trail two miles from the river, at the point where the
ravine rose to the level of the mesa, and followed it across rugged
country—hard upon our horses, and harder, too, it must have been, for
the indomitable man who crossed it on foot, keeping a direct course for
the mountains.

                *       *       *       *       *

“The blood-stains, found in many places, indicated severe wounds, yet
the length of his strides and the deep impressions of his feet proved
that he had passed at great speed. What exhaustless fountain of infernal
energy supplied the strength to maintain this reckless waste? Many times
we asked ourselves this question as hour after hour we urged on our
flagging horses. No animal is equal to man at his best, and here, I
think, was Nature’s masterpiece.

“We climbed the first foothills at sunset. As night came on with clouds
obscuring the moon the pursuit became impossible and we unsaddled our
tired horses, spread our blankets and slept until daybreak.

“Frequently, since recovering the trail, Cady had dismounted and closely
examined the footprints of the fleeing man, with a look in his eyes that
puzzled me. It betokened amazement, admiration and something akin to
pity.

“When we took the saddle at sunrise the pace was forced, and within a
mile we came to the spot where Tigre had passed the night, and I was
amazed to find that, wounded and wearied unto death as he must have
been, he had, with much patient toil, gathered from far and near enough
of weed-stems and grass-blades to make a soft couch whereon to pass the
night. The scant growth upon the waterless mesa betrayed the labor
necessary in such gleaning. The bed, at about the position occupied by
the sleeper’s breast, was heavily stained with blood. Perhaps it was on
account of his wounds that he gave such effort to provide a comfortable
couch. Cady looked steadily at the pitiful bed, carefully examined the
blood-stains, then turned to mount his horse, muttering:

“‘My God! I knew it! And yet it seems impossible!’

“The hunt went remorselessly to the end. Through beds of cactus that
stabbed and stung, up slopes of broken lava that tore the horses’ feet,
through grease wood wastes rising to the sterile buttresses of the
Obsidian Hills we followed on until I began to wonder if human feet had
made this trail.

“At last, as the sun was low in the west, we entered a canyon leading up
into the heart of the mountain range. A slender rill issued from it, and
a dense clump of brush filled the bottom from wall to wall. We were
following the foot of the basaltic bluff upon our left and were about to
enter the thicket, when Cady suddenly halted and threw up his hand with
a gesture so full of meaning that all pulled up and every rifle was
thrown forward for instant use.

“After a long pause, in which no word was spoken, Cady signaled for all
to dismount. As we stood in silence, I plainly heard the heavy breathing
of some laboring thing, and the slight rustling of the brush. The sounds
slowly approached, the branches parted, and Tigre Palladis stepped into
the open. A dozen rifles covered him in a second, and a volley would
have instantly followed had not Cady’s voice, sharp and imperious, rung
out:

“‘Hold, men! There is no need _now_!’

“The outlaw stood motionless, looking straight into the muzzles of the
leveled guns. His aspect was terribly pathetic. The butt of his heavy
rifle rested upon the ground, his right hand upon its muzzle. The torn
and disheveled clothing spoke pitifully of the dreadful journey. His
head was bare, the waves of black hair tumbling about his neck. His face
was shrunken and pallid, and the nostrils were updrawn, as we often see
them in the article of death. The lips were apart, like those of a
runner at the end of a desperate race, but the jaws were locked and
grim. His eyes were glorious.

“I once joined in a lion hunt in upper Nubia. A great male lion, many
times wounded, was surrounded in a copse of mimosa brush. With twenty
guns leveled, we stood waiting while the beaters hurled fragments of
stone into the cover. Instantly the branches parted and, with bristling
mane and grand uplifted head, the desert king came forth. For a moment
he stood in his defiant attitude, gazing at the threatening guns, then
the royal mane fell, the great eyes blenched, the huge head sank, and
the fierce beast turned and slunk into the copse.

“I recalled this Nubian episode as I now stood looking upon this hunted
thing. But this was not a lion—it did not blench!

“There was a fearful silence. No one seemed to know what to do or say.
At last Cady’s voice broke the silence, the low, measured tones
vibrating with feeling.

“‘Tigre, God knows I should like to save you. If the Lady Isola—’

“His words were abruptly broken off by Kenneth. The big Scotchman
roughly pushed him aside, fiercely crying:

“‘Save that bloody brute? Hold up your hands, you cowardly murderer!’

“What we then saw was a most wonderful thing. The outlaw’s face glowed
with such radiancy as comes to men only in moments of ineffable joy.
With electrical swiftness the heavy rifle was whisked backward, whirled
with a swish over his right shoulder, and hurled forward with the
resistless force of a cannon-shot. I heard the flutter as the weapon
spun in the air like a revolving wheel, the crunch of the splintered
ribs, and the sickening smash as the body of Kenneth was slammed back
against the canyon wall, as a wind-gust slams a door. Then came a spurt
of smoke from a dozen rifles, and the jar of the volley.

“The combined blow of the bullets shook the outlaw’s breast as though he
had been struck with a heavy club, and a great red splotch flared out
upon his bosom. The light slowly faded from his dauntless eyes, and,
feebly turning, like one who walks in his sleep, he passed within the
copse. An instant later we heard the fall of a heavy body, and then out
rang a cry, a shriek of frenzied agony, a woman’s wail, carrying in its
tones such horror and despair as to chill the blood within my heart. I
turned to Cady, and the expression upon his white and drawn face
appalled me. His hands shook as they slowly relaxed, dropping his rifle
upon the ground. In a low voice, trembling with emotion, he cried:

“‘Great God, I knew it! We shot her at the river, and he swam with her
through that water-hell! For two days he carried her mangled body before
our horses! I knew why his footprints were so deep! I knew for whom that
couch of grass was made! At last he knew she was dying, and he came out
to be killed! God of heaven! what manner of man was this!’

“Rushing into the brush, I found the body of Palladis lying upon the
back with arms outspread. The dying woman had crawled to his side; her
arms were about his head, her lips upon his face, and, as she kissed
him, she cried with a passion that should have mocked the power of
death:

“‘Oh, Tigre! Tigre! I will tell you now!’

“Feebly she drew her lips to his ear and whispered something I could not
hear. Her arms tightened about his head, there was a slight tremor of
the slender body—and the Lady Isola Pico was dead.”

Major Blanchard rose and, stepping to the table, lifted the covering
from the face of his old friend. He looked long and steadily upon the
placid features of the dead. As he replaced the veil, he said:

“In the cemetery at Old Nogales there stands a beautiful monument of
pink onyx, bearing the simple inscription:

                        TIGRE AND ISOLA

“Nuñez Pico was the noblest man I ever knew.”