“Is it thou indeed, my son? Now, my old eyes are gladdened this day. Enter, then, amigo mio, thrice-welcome—the house is thine in very truth. Nay, the young men shall care for thy horse.”
He raised his voice. Three tall sons, Abran, Zenobio, Donociano, came at the summons, gave Bransford grave greeting, and stood to await their father’s commands. Fathers of families themselves, they presumed not to sit unbidden, to join in the conversation, or to loiter.
Breakfast was served presently, in high state, on the table reserved for honored guests. Savory venison, chili, fish, eggs, tortillas, etole, enchiladas, cream and steaming coffee—such was the fare. Don Francisco sat gravely by to bear him company, while a silently hovering damsel anticipated every need.
Thence, when his host could urge no more upon him, to the deep shading cottonwoods. Wine was brought and the “makings” of cigarettes—corn-husks, handcut; a great jar of tobacco; and a brazier of mesquite embers. At a little distance women washed, wove or sewed; the young men made buckskin, fashioned quirts, whips, ropes, bridle-reins, tie-straps, hobbles, pack-sacks and chaparejos of raw-hide; made cinches of horse-hair; wrought ox-yokes, plow-beams and other things needful for their simple husbandry.
Meanwhile, Don Francisco entertained his guest with grave and leisurely recital of the year’s annals. Mateo, son of Sebastian, had slain a great bear in the Pass of All the Winds; Alicia, daughter of their eldest, was wed with young Roman de la O, of Cañada Nogales, to the much healing of feud and ancient hatred; Diego, son of Eusebio, was proving a bold and fearless rider of wild horses, with reason, as behooved his father’s son; he had carried away the gallo at the Fiesta de San Juan, with the fleet dun colt “creased” from the wild bunch at Quemado; the herds had grown, the crops prospered, all sorrow passed them by, through the intercession of the blessed saints.
The year’s trophies were brought. He fingered with simple pride the great pelt of the silver-tip. Antlers there were and lion-skins, gleaming prisms of quartz, flint arrowheads and agates brought in by the shepherds, the costly Navajo blanket won by the fleet-limbed dun at Cañada races.
Hither came presently another visitor—Florentino, breaker of wild horses, despite his fifty years; wizened and withered and small, merry and cheerful, singer of forgotten folk-songs; chanting, even as he came, the song of Macario Romero—Macario, riding joyous and light-hearted, spite of warning, omen and sign, love-lured to doom and death.