At the closed door stood a man, empty-handed. He was dressed in the loose shirt, baggy pants, worn shoes of a peon. He wore no hat and his wet, colorless hair hung bedraggled about his face.
He was rather scrawny looking, thin of face, and his eyes were gray and very level. I glanced back at the Tiger. He had dropped the gun and stepped back against Felipe’s counter. I think his eyes were closed, but it was hard to tell in that weak light.
“Welcome, señor,” said Mendez huskily.
“Gracias, señor.”
The man spoke softly, and there was a half-smile on his lips, as he crossed to the Tiger, who threw up one arm, as if to ward off a blow. It was as if he were hypnotized. We watched in amazement.
He looked down at Felipe and turned his head toward us, as he said, in Spanish,
“Move him to an easier position and wash away the blood.”
Mendez and I picked him up and placed him near the table, but we were too interested to take time in doctoring poor Felipe. The Tiger had not moved. Now the stranger unbuckled the Tiger’s belts and let them fall to the floor.
“Undress,” ordered the stranger.
The Tiger slowly removed every garment. He seemed like a man asleep. Not once did he speak nor make a sign, and he stood there, stripped to the skin, while the stranger dressed in the cowboy garb, tossing the peon garments aside.