Free Crossroads by Max Brand Page A

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. In the meantime you shall have these.”
    He flung them idly to her. Her hand darted out as swiftly as the head of a striking snake. The beads werecaught by her and disappeared in the folds of her dress. Once again there was a flash of light in her eyes. It reminded Señor Oñate 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 Oñate.
    “My father,” said Dolores, and Oñate wondered at the timbre of her voice, deep as a man’s and light as a girl’s, “is filled with care for his children. I, Dolores, am not worthy. I am less than the desert rat creeping from mesquite to mesquite under the eye of the eagle that circles 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 Señor Oñate. I am the child of my father. I am his slave. I am his shadow who does what he wills…who comes when he comes…who goes when he goes.”
    She drew the rebozo over her head again, turned, and made back toward the adobe hut. Señor Oñate watched her, swelling with the importance that comes from the knowledge of a good deed done. It made a little warmth in his body and lightness in his brain. But perhaps that came from following the easy, springing gait of Dolores. Like Diomedes, she rose a little with every step, as if her small feet scorned the ground. He matched her pride of gait against the humility of her speech and chuckled softly.
    Afterward he followed stealthily toward the adobe hut until he gained an advantage post at the rear window. Through this he peered and saw Dolores squatted cross-legged on the floor of the hut. In the full current of thesunlight that slanted through the door, she dangled the string of bright beads, and, as the light made liquid brilliance of each bead, the face of the girl shone with an almost fierce exultation. With a soft little cry of delight she tossed the beads above her and caught them again with a dexterous hand as they fell. She poured them from hand to hand swiftly, so that it seemed at times as if she were handling liquid fire. She slipped them over her head and, catching up a polished steel mirror, surveyed herself from every angle.
    Back to his comfortable chair on the verandah Señor Oñate carried the image of that smile. He forgot in time the head-hunt that El Tigre was carrying on in the northern hills. He forgot even the inevitable tequila that stood in a vase on the little table beside him.
    Now, it is a dangerous thing to forget too much. It is also dangerous to think too much of one thing, particularly in a climate where the sun burns ideas home in the brain. There is nothing worse than brooding in the tropics or semi-tropics. When a man becomes too visionary, it is time for him to travel north and cool his body with snow and his thoughts with change. Of this Señor Oñate did not think. He gave himself up to visions like an opium smoker. The skin of Dolores, in fact, was hardly darker than his own. The complexion that he saw in his dreams, however, was almost an Italian olive. In those same dreams her smile grew softer. Her eyes grew gently conscious of him.
    Now these dreams were endurable during the day, but, when the sun dropped from sight and when the night wind began to whisper drowsily through the leaves of the palms…. Señor Oñate awoke from his reverie and began to think of reality. This was no easy task. While he ate his supper, the vision crossed between him and his plate. It dazzled him. He sat, absent-minded, until