He dismounted and began taking off the saddle. The Indian ran to help him and got a halter for use instead of the bridle. The horse was picketed beside the road and thrown hay and grain. Then the Indian led the way into the hut.
It was of adobe, small, round. A table was built into one wall, a bunk into another. While the caballero sat on the bunk to rest, his host put out cold meat and wine and dried wheat-paste. The guest ate, and not sparingly, and then removed his boots and threw himself down on the couch.
“I will sit outside and watch the door, señor,” the Indian said. “You may sleep without fear.”
“But with a pistol ready at my hand,” the caballero growled.
After the Indian had gone, he arose and extinguished the torch, and listened for a moment at the door, until he was sure his host was squatting there. It was troubled sleep he had, for the surroundings were peculiar, and he did not fully trust his host.
A step beside the couch caused him to awaken and spring to his feet, pistol held ready.
“Within an hour, señor, it will be dawn,” he heard the voice of the old Indian say. “I have more wine and food ready, and water fresh from the spring. It is better that you are gone before others awake, then none will know of your passing.”
The caballero ate again, and followed his host outside, carrying saddle and bridle. When the horse was ready, he mounted, then tossed the native a coin.
“No, señor—not from you, if you please,” the Indian said. “It has been a pleasure——”
“White man and red—both give me hospitality and refuse payment,” remarked the caballero. “At times I think myself the most fortunate of men, at other times the most unlucky. One fray aids me and another refuses to sell me a horse. It is a peculiar world!”