Reputation

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Tramps of the Range,” “The Misdeal,” etc.
“ El Tigre! Madre de Dios! ” A man must indeed have the soul of a devil to draw such an exclamation at the mere mention of his name.
“The Tiger! Mother of God!”
We of Santa Ynez, a little handful of folks living in a little mission village, near the Mexican border, knew him only by reputation. But that was enough.
Riders dropped in at the little cantina and over their cups of tequila or warm beer would tell us of some new deviltry done by Jeff Tigard, the killer. And Felipe’s hands trembled as he drew the beer, while we laughed at him for being such a coward.
What would the Tiger do in Santa Ynez, we asked each other. 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.
It was very warm in the little, one-story adobe cantina; too warm for heated argument, even over the Tiger.