“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.
“Mendez speaks true,” nodded Pasquale, who is not a Mexican, but Italian. “Mortal man dies—when he is killed. That is the point, compadres. This Tiger will most surely die—when he is killed. More beer, Felipe.”
“But why should the Tiger come to Santa Ynez?” asked Felipe nervously, clattering the mug-bottoms on the rough table-top.
“Dios!” swore Mendez angrily. “One might think he had sent you a message, Felipe. You are like a timid hen which hears the rustle of a hawk’s wings in every stirring breeze.”
Ramon laughed softly and drained his mug.
“Why should we have fear of that man? It is true that he has the soul of a devil. Men have told us that he is without a conscience and that he kills men for sport. It must be so.
“But we of Santa Ynez need not fear this man. We live at peace with everyone. Our vineyards are loaded, the hills are dotted with our cattle and horses and there is nothing but good in our hearts. There remains only the fact that Felipe serves his beer too warm.”