“‘He laughs best who laughs last,’ and that won’t be my Miguel, no. For the guests of the master to lose their supper, that is one thing, indeed; but what of Amador, no?”
Now Amador was the delight of Miguel’s soul and it needed but this suggestion to send him doorward again. The horse was gone, and in fury he turned upon his unoffending mother:
“Didst thou—didst—”
“Pouf! Is it I, Marta Cardanza, at eighty years, would mount that fiend, Amador, and ride away with a dangling jar of hot stew, yes? Such pranks suit not gray hairs, Miguel, son of my soul, no.”
“But which way, mother? How dared she?” Marta shrugged her shoulders, answering:
“Bah! Some maids are ever silly. ’Tis I think these strangers have foul-bewitched all Refugio, yes.”
Yet there was a gleam of mischief in her black eyes as she pointed to where a vaquero was leading the beautiful horse that Mr. Rupert had ridden to the rancho. “Tit for tat,” she quoted in her native tongue.
“Thanks, mother! That is good!”
Then, even while Mr. Rupert came onward to mount, did Miguel seize the creature before its owner’s eyes and ride away as only a plainsman can ride. Instantly, the visitor turned upon his servant, like all the others—angry with the wrong person:
“Boy, what do you mean by that? Where has he gone?”