The old man lashed fast the gate to the corral and turned back toward the house.
“Ah, yes,” he said musingly, “the Americanos say continually that we Mexicanos are foolish––but look at me! Here is my good home, the same as before. I have always plenty beans, plenty meat, plenty flour, plenty coffee. I welcome every one to my house, to eat and sleep––yet I have plenty left. I am muy contento, Señor Hardy––yes, I am always happy. But the Americanos? No! When the sheep come, they fight; when their cattle are gone, they move; 75 fight, fight; move, move; all the time.” He sighed and gazed wearily at the barren hills.
“Señor Hardy,” he said at last, “you are young, yet you have seen the great world––perhaps you will understand. Jeff tells me you come to take charge of the Dos S Rancho, where the sheep come through by thousands, even as they did here when there was grass. I am an old man now; I have lived on this spot twenty-four years and seen much of the sheep; let me advise you.
“When the sheepmen come across the river do not fight, as Don Jeff does continually, but let them pass. They are many and the cowmen are few; they are rich and we are very poor; how then can a few men whip many, and those armed with the best? And look––if a sheepman is killed there is the law, you know, and lawyers––yes, and money!” He shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands, peeping ruefully through the fingers to symbolize prison bars.
“Is it not so?” he asked, and for the first time an Americano agreed with him.
“One thing more, then,” said Don Pablo, lowering his voice and glancing toward the house, where Creede was conversing with the Señora. “The papá of Don Jeff yonder was a good man, but he was a fighting Texano––and Jeff is of the same blood. Each year as the sheep come through I have fear for him, lest he 76 should kill some saucy borreguero and be sent to prison; for he has angry fits, like his father, and there are many bad men among the sheep-herders,––escaped criminals from Old Mexico, ladrones, and creatures of low blood, fathered by evil Americanos and the nameless women of towns.
“In Sonora we would whip them from our door, but the sheepmen make much of their herders, calling them brothers and cuñados and what not, to make them stay, since the work is hard and dangerous. And to every one of them, whether herder or camp rustler, the owners give a rifle with ammunition, and a revolver to carry always. So they are drunk with valor. But our Jeff here has no fear of them, no, nor decent respect. He overrides them when the fit is on him, as if they were unfanged serpents––and so far he has escaped.”
The old man leaned closer, and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, acting out his words dramatically.
“But some day––” he clasped his heart, closed his eyes, and seemed to lurch before a bullet. “No?” he inquired, softly. “Ah, well, then, you must watch over him, for he is a good man, doing many friendships, and his father was a buen hombre, too, in the days when we all were rich. So look after him––for an old man,” he added, and trudged wearily back to the house.