The Black Rider Read Online Free Page A

me?”
    Instantly the other made answer in perfect Spanish, smooth, close-clipped, the truest Castilian: “You are my master,
señoñ
You are
Señor
Torreño.”
    Torreño turned to the girl with a broad grin on his face, as much as to say: “This you see is another matter when the right man speaks!”
    He added to the Indian. “And now your name?” “I am Taki, the son of….”
    “That is enough. So, Taki, you have drawn a knife upon my son?”
    “A knife?” said Taki blankly. “I cannot remember that!”
    The girl broke into ringing laughter, a small, sweet voice in the vast silence of those hills. The music of it softened the hard heart of Torreño.
    “I should have had him flayed alive,” said he. “But since he has amused you, dear girl, I shall forgive him.”
    “Flayed alive?” murmured the girl. “Are such things possible here?”
    “In this country,” said Torreño, “one must be a king or a slave; and to be a king one must be a tyrant. I
señorita
, am a tyrant, partly because it is necessary partly because it pleases me to be one. Where I am, there is no other word, except for the sake of conversation.”
    He said this with a grave, sharp glance at her, which could not avoid giving the words a certain meaning. Whether she understood or not, however, could not be seen, for again her face wore an expression as grave and as unreadable as the Indian’s. Torreño turned back to the culprit.
    “You have drawn a knife upon my son…who is my flesh, who is me! Would you strike steel into my arm?”
    “Heaven forbid,
señor”
    “This Don Carlos is more than my arm. He is part of my heart. He is that part of me which will live after my death. To touch him is to touch me.”
    He added aside to the girl: “That is rather neatly spoken, child, is it not?”
    “A pretty speech,” said she without emotion.
    “Señor
, my master,” said the Indian.
    “Well?” queried Torreño.
    “I have a horse,
señor!”
    “You are rich, then? But what of the horse?”
    “He is mine. He is my slave.”
    “Ah?”
    “When I whistle, he comes. When I speak, he lifts his ears. I need no bridle to control him.”
    “This fellow,” said Torreño, “talks like a man of sense…if I could only understand what he is striking at!”
    This was spoken, like the rest of his asides, in French. And the Navajo instantly answered for himself, in the purest French of Paris, where alone French was pure.
    “I mean that the horse is my slave,
señor.”
    “By the heavens!” broke out Torreño. “The fellow speaks French, also. Better French than I use myself!”
    “Wait, wait!” said the girl in a hurried voice, raising her hand to stop interruptions, and staring fixedly at the Indian. “He has something more to say.”
    “Aye,” said Torreño, nodding. “The horse is your slave.”
    “Because he will do these things,” said the Indian, “and because he is fleeter than the horses, even, which you ride,
señor
    “What! That’s a broad lie, Taki!”
    At this, the other stiffened a little.
    “Nevertheless,” he said, “it is true! It is a fleeter horse than any of those you ride. And it is also my slave. But,
señor
, though I value him more than gold, it is because his speed is all for me. His strength is all mine. No other man can sit on his back! To them, he is a devil.”
    “You are right, Taki. That is something I can understand!”
    “If he were a horse for any man to ride, I should not care. There would be a price upon him. But me he serves for love! Therefore he is priceless.”
    “Very well…very well! And what has this to do withthe knife you drew on my son, the
Señor
Don Carlos Torreño? By the heavens, Taki, tell me that!”
    “If a man were to take a whip to that horse of mine,
señor
, should I not be happy if he used his heels?”
    Passion had been swelling in the face, in the throat of Torreño. Now it relaxed a little.
    “I begin to understand! I begin to understand! You, Taki, will have