“IS MY COUSIN JUAN A COWARD, THAT HE LIES IN AMBUSH?”
“Every day, for many, many days, Juan, from his hiding could see of the rides, the starting—Chiquita and the Englishman—always the cursed Inglés! Not always would they ride near Juan. One way sometimes, then next day another way, but every day some way they ride—Chiquita and her Englishman. And they ride so close, so very close—so close together they ride that Juan sometimes forgets almost, and then he looks at the rifle. So hungry he looks at it, and how the itching it is in the fingers! Always is it loaded, the rifle, and it carries far and true the bullet when Juan fires it. He is fine shot, that little Juan.
“One day Chiquita and the Englishman they not ride together. The Milord is alone. Next day is he alone once more. He does not ride the way of Juan. That is good, for Chiquita is not there, and to remember is hard when she is not there, and the gun it is loaded.
“Two days, then, the Englishman he ride alone. The second day, in the evening, Juan sees the vaqueros and the women run, and run—they run about like jack-rabbits. And then they gather together and talk, talk, always they talk; like el loro, the parrot, they talk. There is no work. For two days, Juan has not seen Don Pedro.
“The third day, in the morning, everything is like dead at the hacienda. No one is stir, only sometimes the dogs they bark. By and by comes the Englishman out of the house, springs quick on his mustang and like the wind he is off. He rides close by Juan, so near that the boy he could have plucked him off his horse. And the Englishman’s face it was white—white just like a corpse. He ride like he is scared—like el diablo—like the devil he ride!
“Juan, too, was scared. He was sure something go bad, very bad, at the hacienda. And so he is go down to the place and look all around, but he is see nobody—they are all gone, the vaqueros and the women.
“And then Juan go into the house. There he find Don Pedro dying with la viruela, the smallpox, Señor! with nobody to care for him but Chiquita, and one old woman that was call for the joke, La Bonita, the beautiful, because she have the pest long before and was, oh, so ugly! Ah! the face of Don Pedro! It was horrible; it made Juan to grow sick!
“But Juan stay and help the women. At first the boy he was afraid, but he loved Chiquita, and soon the pest he forgot.
“Well, Señor, soon and sure the end was. In five days Don Pedro he was dead. And Juan and La Bonita they bury him, with nobody to help. Chiquita her heart is break. She cry and cry and cry, but Juan he knew it was not all for that her father was dead. She would not tell Juan, but he knew. The coward Inglés that have run away—for him also were the tears.