Pedro Garcia stuck his black fist into my face. “He lof her,” he says, “and she say no. So he iss revenge hisself.” (Say! the grammar they use is plumb fierce.)
“He iss revenge hisself!” yells the rest of the bunch. Then they all looked at the widda.
“Boys,” she sobs, “I ain’t never refused him. Fer a good reason–he ain’t never ast me.”
(The cholos, they just growled.)
“What?” I ast, turnin’ on Bergin like I was hoppin’. “You love her, and yet you ain’t never ast her to marry you? Wal, you blamed bottle of ketchup, you oughta die!”
“How could I ast her?” begun the sheriff. “She plumb hates the sight of me.”
“I don’t! I don’t!” sobs the widda. “Mister Lloyd knows that ain’t so. Willie and me, we–we––”
“Y’ see?” I turned to the Mexicans. “He loves her; she loves him. We’re a-goin’ to have a weddin’, not a hangin’.”
“The stone–he iss revenge,” says Pedro.
“The stone,” I answers, “come outen the sky. It’s a mete’rite.”