The bull ran under some trees, endeavoring to free itself from the incumbrance. Zelaya drew himself up into the branches.
"It is again the merienda, as I have said. Now, farewell, toro mio, I go to the corral and stables for a mount superior even to you."
The bull hurried back to his bellowing herd, and soon together they were tearing onward to the hills, to fight the myriad homecomers.
"A thousand and one devils! A thousand and one devils!" exclaimed Zelaya a few moments later. The corrals and stables were empty. The peon cots were vacant. Evidently, Mendoza had sent all available horses and men to the San Joaquin to bring home his grazing stock.
The little man did not hesitate. Off came his embroidered jacket, his outer, as well as his inner, shirt, then his long riding boots. He tossed his sombrero, heavy with gold, to one side.
"Behold! 'twould not be so bad, if I only had my running shoes."
The morning sun fell on his muscular torso, the runner's flat abdomen and well-sinewed limbs discernible through the knee-pants and leggings.
For an instant he pulled his short mustachios savagely. "I may meet more bulls and their families, and I have now no spurs," glancing at his discarded boots. "Well, if a bull chases me toward Mission San José I shall reach my goal all the quicker."
It was three leagues good, as the bird flies, to the Mendoza hacienda house, at the Mission. Don Pedro set off across country at a long, swinging gait which ate the miles like fire. For nearly a league he ran along cattle paths in the tall oats and drying mustard. Then he struck the main-traveled road. Here he rested for a moment.
"Diablo!" standing first on one foot, then on the other. "That dried grass has the edge of a knife!"