“The man will die,” Señora Vallejo said. “His clothing is soaked, and he cannot build a fire and cook food.”
“Perhaps it will teach him a lesson,” Lopez snarled. “We must watch; he may try to break into the storehouse to-night.”
“Listen! He is singing again,” Anita called.
“Oh, the man has courage enough!” Lopez said. “They tell a thousand stories of his daring. The men at one of the missions were going to whip him down the highway once, and he sang them out of it. Moreover, he got them to play at cards, and finally went down the highway with a drove of mules loaded with goods he had won.”
“You are certain all the stories are true?” the girl asked.
“More stories are true than you may be told, señorita. It is best not to ask too much,” Señora Vallejo put in; and she frowned a warning at the storekeeper.
They sat down to the evening meal, to a table loaded with food as if for a feast. The man down on the slope was still singing.
“Perhaps he will go away after the storm,” Anita suggested. “He will be too miserable to remain.”
“And when the story gets up and down El Camino Real, he will be forced to leave the country,” Lopez added. “He is the sort of man who cannot stand ridicule.”
Darkness descended swiftly that night, and down beside the swollen creek the caballero, now downhearted, tried to think of some expedient that would make his lot better. When the lights were burning brightly in the guest house, he took his guitar and slipped across the plaza, to stand beneath Anita’s window again and play and sing. The howling of the wind almost drowned his voice, and he doubted whether those inside could hear. Once the giant Pedro walked within a dozen feet of him, but did not speak, and the caballero knew that he was being watched.