Even for a Spanish
Mexican his face was dark. Swart it was, the cheeks hollow; a tiny,
tight mustache with ends truculently pointed and erect helped out the
belligerency of the tight-shut lips. The eyes were black as bitumen, and
flashed continually under heavy brows.
"Perhaps," thought Felipe, "he is a _toreador_ from Mexico."
The stranger followed his horse to the barn, but, returning in a few
moments, stood before Felipe and said:
"Senor, I have taken the liberty to put my horse in the stall occupied
by yours. Your beast the _muchacho_ turned into the _corrale_. Mine is
an animal of spirit, and in a _corrale_ would fight with the other
horses. I rely upon the senor's indulgence."
At ordinary times he would not have relied in vain. But Felipe's nerves
were in a jangle these days, and his temper, since Buelna's dismissal of
him, was bitter. His perception of offense was keen. He rose, his eyes
upon the stranger's eyes.
"My horse is mine," he observed. "Only my friends permit themselves
liberties with what is mine."
The other smiled scornfully and drew from his belt a little pouch of
gold dust.
"What I take I pay for," he remarked, and, still smiling, tendered
Felipe a few grains of the gold.
Felipe struck the outstretched palm.
"Am I a _peon_?" he vociferated.
"Probably," retorted the other.
"I _will_ take pay for that word," cried Felipe, his face blazing, "but
not in your money, senor.
Pages:
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180