W. C. Tuttle

“ There is nothing for him here.
“Who knows, señores?” trembled Felipe. “Always the tales come closer to Santa Ynez. Some day he will come.”
“Perhaps to cut off your ears,” laughed Ramon, who is very brave. “I hear that the Tiger strings them on a gold thread and wears them for a girdle.”
“Diable!” swore Mendez, whose fierce beard belies his character. “Are we weaklings? One man—bah! Tiger, indeed! The devil may own his soul, but his body is mortal—and mortal man dies.”
Mendez gulped his warm beer and waited for someone to challenge his statement. ”

“ We went into the cantina. I think we were all in need of artificial courage. Felipe lighted the candles which guttered in the draught and cast grotesque shadows on the wall; shadows which danced drunkenly at our every move.
Felipe swore softly at his drawing. "Even the beer is wild tonight. I can not keep it in the mugs."
"That was ever my greatest trouble," laughed Mendez. "They are forever becoming empty. Hurry, Felipe, or I shall drink from the spigot." ”

“ I thought there was some one near the door, but could not see. Ramon was lighting the candles, bringing the room back to a half-light again. The wind roared against the door, rattling the bar, as if angry at being cheated.
I was looking at Mendez and he was no longer praying. His eyes were wide open now and he was staring toward the door.
I turned. Just between me and the door stood a man, whose eyes glittered like beads under the brim of his rain-drenched sombrero. The evils of purgatory showed in every line of his face; the hawk-like nose, scarred chin and thin-lipped, grinning mouth. ”