His horse, with a small head and legs fine as spindles, was splendidly accoutred: las armas de agua and the zarapé fastened to the croup, and the magnificent anquera adorned with steel chains, completed a caparison of which we can form no idea in Europe.
Like all Mexicans of a certain class when travelling, the stranger was armed from head to foot; that is to say, in addition to the lasso fastened to the saddle, and the rifle laid across the saddle-bow, he had also by his side a long sword, and a pair of pistols in his girdle, without reckoning the knife whose silver inlaid hilt could be seen peeping out of one of his boots.
Such as we have described him, this man was the perfect type of a Mexican of Sonora—ever ready for peace or war, fearing the one no more than he despised the other. After bowing politely to Tío Lucas he took the cards the latter offered him, and shuffled them while looking around him.
"Ah!" he said, casting a friendly glance to the lepero, "you're here, gossip Cucharés?"
"At your service, Don Martial," the other replied, lifting his hand to the ragged brim of his beaver.
The stranger smiled.
"Be good enough to cut for me while I light my pajillo."
"With pleasure," the lepero exclaimed.
El Tigrero, or Don Martial, whichever the reader may please to call him, took a gold mechero from his pocket, and carelessly struck a light while the lepero cut the cards.
"Señor," the latter said in a piteous voice.