The store was owned and conducted by one Pedro Garcia. Pedro Garcia was the mountain Shylock. He loaned money at enormous rates of interest, and he rented out horses at prohibitive rates per day. Also, being what he was, Pedro had gained his pounds of flesh–was alarmingly fat, with short legs of giant circumference. Usually these legs were clothed in tight-fitting overalls, and his small feet incased in boots of high-grade leather wonderfully roweled. Yet many years had passed since Pedro had been seen in a saddle. Evidently he held to the rowels in fond memory of his days of slender youth and coltish gambolings. Pedro was seated in his customary place upon an empty keg on the porch, and Felipe, ignoring his grunted greeting, plunged at once into the purpose of his call.
He had come to borrow a horse, Felipe explained. One of his own was unfit for work, yet the cutting and drawing must go on. While the mare was recuperating, he carefully pointed out, he himself could continue to earn money to meet some of his pressing debts. Any kind of horse would do, he declared, so long as it had four legs and was able to carry on the work. The horse need not have a mouth, even, he added, jocosely, for reasons nobody need explain. After which he sat down on the porch and awaited the august decision.
Pedro remained silent a long time, the while he moistened his lips with fitful tongue, and gazed across the tiny settlement reflectively. At length he drew a deep breath, mixed of disgust and regret, and proceeded to make slow reply.
It was true, he began, that he had horses to rent. And it was further true, he went on, deliberately, that he kept them for just this purpose. But–and his pause was fraught with deep significance–it was no less true that Felipe Montoya bore a bad reputation as a driver of horses–was known, indeed, to kill horses through overwork and underfeed–and that, therefore, to lend him a horse was like kissing the horse good-by and hitching up another to the stone-boat. Nevertheless, he hastened to add, if Felipe was in urgent need of a horse, and was prepared to pay the customary small rate per day, and to pay in advance–cash–
Here Pedro paused and popped accusing eyes at Felipe, in one strong dramatic moment before continuing. But he did not continue. Felipe was the check. For Felipe had leaped to his feet, and now stood brandishing an ugly fist underneath the proprietor’s nose. Further–and infinitely worse–Felipe was saying something.
“Pedro Garcia,” he began, shrilly, “I must got a horse! And I have coom for a horse! And I have thee money to pay for a horse! And if I kill thot horse,” he went on, still brandishing his fist–“if thot horse he’s dropping dead in thee harness–I pay you for thot horse! I haf drive horses–”
“Si, si, si!” began Pedro, interrupting.
“I haf drive horses on thees trail ten years!” persisted Felipe, yelling, “and in all thot time, Pedro Garcia, I’m killin’ only seven horses, and all seven of thees horses is dyin’, Pedro Garcia, when I haf buy them, and I haf buy all seven horses from you, Pedro Garcia, thief and robber!” He paused to take a breath. “And not once, Pedro Garcia,” he went on, “do I keeck about thot-a horse is a horse! But I haf coom to you before! And I haf coom to you now! I must got a horse quick! And I bringin’ thot horse back joost thee same as I’m gettin’ thot horse–in good condition–better–because everybody is knowin.’ I feed a horse better than you feed a horse–and I’m cleanin’ the horse once in a while, too!” Which was a lie, both as to the feeding and the cleaning, as he well knew, and as, indeed, he well knew Pedro knew, who, nevertheless, nodded grave assent.
“Si,” admitted Pedro. “Pero ustede–”
“A horse!” thundered Felipe, interrupting, his neck cords dangerously distended. “You give me a horse–you hear? I want a horse–a horse! I don’ coom here for thee talk!”