TIGRE and ISOLA
It seldom rains in Arizona. The narrow valleys that drain southwardinto Mexico are the most arid in America. But, on the night old NuñezPico died, a black cloud rolled over the ragged rim of the CanilleMountains, dragged itself slowly along, was ripped by the graniteteeth, collapsed, and fell in a deluge of rain. The bare stoneshoulders of the mountain heaved the floods into the canyons, fromwhose monstrous throats it came bellowing into the valley. Theriver-bed was overbrimmed and the lowland became a sea.
Far into the night we sat about the long table upon which lay theshrouded form of the old Spaniard. The solemnity ofthe vigil, the feeble light, and the tumult of the stormdepressed our minds and caused ourspeech to be low and infrequent, and it was a distinct relief tome when Major Blanchard said:
“Twenty years ago to-night we had just such a storm as this.”
Something in the tone of his voice, and in the introspective eyesof the old soldier, moved me to say: “Major, if there is astory waiting to be told, it would be kind of you to giveit to us now. This watch is going to be heavy and long.”
He mused for a moment, then said:
“It is hardly a story, yet more than an episode. It was thefinest tragedy I ever witnessed.”
Without further urging he began.
“Nuñez Pico, after fifteen years of life upon this ranch,revisited his early home inSpain, and returned, bringing with him his only daughter, who,after her mother’s death, had been reared and educatedin Seville. It is not surprising that she found littlehappiness in this isolated valley. She was a splendid woman,and her superiority of blood and training was at once anduniversally recognized by the inhabitants of this half-wildland. None of the young rancheros wasbold enough to lay siege to her heart, and the ‘Lady Isola,’ asshe was usually called, passed many lonely days.
“Tigre Palladis was a gambler, a robber, and many times ahomicide. He was born to his estate of lawlessness. Hismother was a Spanish-lndian half-blood, his father anAmerican adventurer of the worst type, who was killed whileTigre was a babe. Possibly it was because of his father’signominious death that the boy always bore his mother’sname.
“The young devil grew into a marvelous physical manhood. Indeed,he was the handsomest animal I ever saw—very tall, of anexceedingly powerful build, and with a lightness andimpetuosity of movement that indicated immense vital force.Dark of face and dark of heart he was, as all who knew himknew, yet there was something in his contemptuous defiance oflawful restraint, and in his measureless strength andlightning-like energy of action in emergency, that arousedenough of hero-worship in the hearts of the half-wild people ofthe valley to have spared him long and to have shielded himfrom the vengeance earned by many a desperate deed, had he notchanced to meet the Lady Isola.
“The love that flamed in his volcanic heart did not illuminatehis reason. It did not counsel patience, reformation ofcharacter, abandonment of lawless ventures, and subjugation ofhis turbulent spirit, but seemed rather to multiply hisactivities and to increase the violence of histemperament. Had the lady accepted his attentions or evenyielded the fine courtesy she gave to the poorest peon upon herfather’s ranch, it might have been better for her a