Tiger, Tiger! by George Owen Baxter

Book Details

Tiger, Tiger! (1927) – An idealist, a gunfighter who is a righter of wrongs, embarks on a path to kill a man for cheating another man, not realizing that he and his ideals were being deceived.

An independently wealthy, college educated, idealistic young man trains himself to be a gunfighter, to right wrongs and vindicate the oppressed. He is very successful and becomes a feared gunfighter, the kind of man who kills outlaws with cool purpose, and moral clarity. This is the story of how he is hired to kill a man under false pretenses and saved from becoming the same type of monster that he has sworn to track down and destroy.

Tiger, Tiger! (1927)
Chapter I. – From Post To Pillar.
Chapter II. – The Word Of A Gentleman.
Chapter III. – Pedrillo In Action.
Chapter IV. – Eavesdropping.
Chapter V. – ‘Leven Dead Men On A Live Man’s Chest.
Chapter VI. – A Face In The Window.
Chapter VII. – The Gentleman And The Tiger.
Chapter VIII. – The Rogue And The King.
Chapter IX. – What The Hero Thought Of His Valet.
Chapter X. – Do Lions Eat Ladies?
Chapter XI. – The Proverbial Pedrillo.
Chapter XII. – A Trap?
Chapter XIII. – Fallen Warriors.
Chapter XIV. – Still Unsatisfied.
Chapter XV. – A Moment From Heaven.
Chapter XVI. – The End Of The Story.

George Owen Baxter was the pen name of Frederick Schiller Faust (May 29, 1892 – May 12, 1944), born in Seattle, Washington. In his lifetime, Faust is estimated to have written nearly fifteen million words using eighteen different pen names including Max Brand, George Owen Baxter, Walter C. Butler, George Challis, Evan Evans, Frederick Faust, John Frederick, Frederick Frost, and David Manning, and others.

Tiger, Tiger! was published in Western Story Magazine in 1927.

Tiger, Tiger! has 1 illustration.

Files:

1. Baxter-TigerTiger

Excerpt: Tiger, Tiger!

Chapter I.

From Post To Pillar.

IF you have seen Pedrillo Oñate in the days of his poverty, when he was kicked from pillar to post in the town of San Joaquin, it may be interesting to observe him now that his fortunes have changed. He stands in Pat McGuire’s saloon, the leading drinking parlor in the town of Crawfordville, and holds the place of honor; that is to say, he keeps his post at the farther end of the bar, where he can turn his shoulder to the side wall and watch all who enter—and be watched from behind by no man. There are other men crowded before that bar and the bartenders are exceedingly busy. Teamsters and cow-punchers are there, enjoying the damp coolness of the place, for the floor is sprinkled every two hours with wet sawdust which is then swept out. The pungent odor of beer and the sour fragrance of rye whisky linger in the air, and every time the swinging doors are opened they cast a cloud of smoke before them, rolling it far into the saloon and sending it bulging out of the farther windows. For, of course, every one is smoking. Some smoke to give relish to the drinks. Some smoke to kill the taste of the cheap, poisonous liquor. There are ranchers, miners, lumbermen, tramps, fugitive yeggs and other criminals; officers of the law; outlaws of no vocation except battle; beggars, thieves, and confidence men. All these are crowded together in the saloon, and the deep sound of the voices of strong men rises and falls like the noise of waves along a beach.

There is another sound, steady as the dropping of water on the floor of a cave: the chime of silver and gold dropping into the three tills ever yawning to receive more coin. This musical chatter, small but clear, keeps steady pace with the music of the voices; when there is much talk, much confusion, much bustling and heaving and pushing in the crowd, then the clinking of money grows louder and steadier. What a steady tide of money is flowing into the pockets of Pat McGuire! In a month of such a trade as this, he must become a rich man, one would say. But as a matter of fact, there is a flaw, a leak, in the pocket of Pat. Across the street in Sweeney’s place is a game of faro which never ceases, day or night; and once a week into Sweeney’s place goes Pat McGuire, his pockets bulging with money. Once a week Pat is a rich man; once a week he comes back, humbled, weakened in spirit, poor in cash. Once a week he swears that never again will he attempt to beat the cursed game of faro; and once a week, certain as fate, he will wander back to the faro game across the street, scowl at it, curse it,snarl like a wounded wolf. But, before long he will be playing; before long he will be losing.

Pat McGuire is the greatest man in Crawfordville, the boldest, most famous spirit; and in his saloon all the celebrated people of the period and the range appear; but no one in that saloon catches the eye so clearly and quickly as does Pedrillo Oñate.

Standing there at the far end of the bar, he glows like a beautifully feathered tropical bird. And indeed, he is a mass of color and of metal. His lofty sombrero is banded around with heavy golden ornaments. It makes one’s forehead burn even to think of enduring such a weight in such weather as this. He wears a jacket of yellow deerskin, threaded and chased with golden thread, and embossed with massy silver. It is a short jacket; for, otherwise, one might miss the miracle of crimson sash which engirdles his waist. Men say that the sacrilegious dog is wearing an altar-cloth, woven by the patient hands of Indians, a miracle of labor and of beauty. But to Pedrillo it is no more than a sash—a little ornament. His shirt is bluest of blue silk, buttoned down the front with golden buttons. and, lest the flaps of the shirt should fall apart too far, they are held loosely together with a delicate golden chain which supports in the center a great ruby. The boots of Pedrillo shine a dull, mahogany-red glow, his trousers are ornamented with solid silver conchos, and the holsters which support his two guns—what use has a one-armed man for two guns?—are of the purest white leather worked and chased with gold!

Oh, Pedrillo Oñate, what woman of your people could behold your magnificence, your shining, glorious presence, without completely opening her heart?

“Women are flowers,” said the refulgent Pedrillo, “but alas, they wither in a day!”

His fat cheeks are still fatter, now, and glisten as though they had been coated with polish and rubbed hard. His black eyes seem blacker and brighter. And he smiles continually, out of the greatness of his sense of well-being.

There are other Mexicans in that crowd in Pat McGuire’s saloon; and they are distinctly of the upper class. They are gentlemen. Yet they are little regarded. They are served last. They are slighted by their companions in the place, and most of all by the bartenders. They are shouldered and crowded to the wall.

How different it is with Pedrillo, though he has only one arm, though certainly he cannot pretend to gentle birth! Around him there is preserved a little space into which no man intrudes. All the rest of the bar is packed. But this portion is clear, open, free. And that is a little miracle.

Pedrillo pretends not to notice. But this little attention, this little tribute of fear and awe from the crowd are to his soul as the music of the spheres. He drinks tequila, slowly, sipping the white fire drop by drop, spending half an hour over a single glass. Others swallow whisky with a gulp before they are crowded from their places by thirstier drinkers. But Pedrillo takes his time, leaning his one elbow on the bar, at ease, cool, smiling, content. Of how many hundreds of dollars does he deprive Pat McGuire by taking so much time and so much space at that favored end of the bar?

Pedrillo likes to compute that loss. It amuses him.

Presently he says: “I’m taking up a good deal of room here. Shall I move along?”

The nearest bartender shakes his head violently.

“Stay where you are, Pedrillo,” says he. “Anything wrong?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” says Pedrillo, and returns to his glass of tequila. Meantime, his ears are busy listening to a hundred broken conversations, piecing them together, making of them the groundwork upon which he will rear a fabric of inventions later on. For of all the careless speakers in a country of careless speech, of all the gossips, the inventors, Pedrillo Oñate is the very greatest liar. His magnificent combinations, his glorious flights of fancy, his soul-stirring fabrications are unmatched in a country where even the children can tell such tales as make the listening angels shudder.

Yet the attitude of Pedrillo is not entirely that of a man who listens idly, gathering gossip as a humming bird gathers the honey of a blossom. In it there is something more narrowly attentive. There is an air of eagerness and an air of patient expectation combined. Study the face of a fisherman, and you will see the same expression.

For what does he wait there? For what is he fishing, this transfigured and radiant Oñate?

Presently, out of the crowd comes a fellow dressed like any cow-puncher; a man of middle age, with fat jowls, a hawk nose, and eyes glittering with a wonderful brightness. Even a dog could have guessed that this was a man of evil. But Oñate did not seem to care. He noted the approach of the other from the corner of his eye, and pretended to heed the newcomer not at all. But that was not the truth. His expectant attitude had ceased. His expression had changed. Oñate now has a fierce glitter in his eye, a fierce but contented glitter, so that he looks no longer like the merely idle fisher. Now he has something on the hook.

Once, twice, and again the man of the hook nose and the bright eyes looks earnestly at Oñate. Then he comes closer. He steps into the little enchanted clearing which surrounds the Mexican. He waits, almost reverently, quietly, his eyes attentive. Still Pedrillo pays no heed!

And, all the time, like a hawk watching a sparrow, Pedrillo is watching this newcomer, judging him, regarding especially the size of a diamond ring upon his finger.

At length, the stranger steps briskly up to the bar and looks Pedrillo in the eye.

“You’re Pedrillo Oñate, I guess,” says he.

“I am,” says Pedrillo.

“Well, then,” says the stranger, “I think we can do business together. And back yonder is a little empty room where we can talk. Come along!”

When he had said this, he turned on his heel and walked straight toward the little back room which he had designated. Pedrillo stared. He wanted to follow, because he felt that this interview might be much to his advantage. But on the other hand, he did not like the assured manner in which this white man led the way, confident that Pedrillo would follow. It angered Oñate. It made him frown. But curiosity was stronger than resentment, and presently he walked, scowling, on the heels of the stranger and into the little back room.

Excerpt From: George Owen Baxter. “Tiger, Tiger!”