“No. He went away just before noon, but he should be back by this time,” and then they crossed the arroyo on a foot-bridge, of a tree that had been felled over to span the little stream, and approached the house, or rather jacale, for it was no better.
Its walls were composed of the split trunks of the arborescent yucca, set stockade fashion in the ground, while its roof was a thatch furnished by the long, bayonet-shaped leaves of the same gigantic lily. The interstices between the uprights, instead of being “chinked” with clay, as is common among the lower class of peasants, was wattled with a species of heavy grass or reed.
The form of a man, old and enfeebled from age and sickness, sat upon a rude stool just within the doorway, smoking a pipe, slowly ejecting the fragrant vapor through his thin nostrils, his head leaning against the side of the door, with closed eyes and a faint smile of intense enjoyment playing around his mouth that told plainly he was a lover of the narcotic weed.
If looks were a criterion, he was already past the age allotted to man. His face was one mass of wrinkles; the hair was white as snow, and made but a thin, narrow fringe around his crown, like the shaven poll of a monk. He had been very tall, but now his form was like a bent bow, the chin resting upon his chest, giving him the appearance of being humpbacked. Such was Tomas Ventura, better known as tio, or uncle Tomas.
The wolf-like dog that lay at his feet leaped up and ran to welcome the young couple, arousing the old man, who, when he saw what was the cause, signified his pleasure by rubbing his bony hands together and calling out in a shrill, cracked voice:
“Ah, Marcos, my son, you are as welcome as the first drop of rain. But where have you been so long? and see, the boy is hurt! Look at the blood. Is it bad, Marcos, is it bad?”
“A few scratches, tio Tomas, nothing more,” was the hasty reply, for he noted the sudden start of alarm given by Carlita, who had been so excited by the adventure she had met with, that she did not notice he had been wounded before.
“But how was it, child, how did it happen? In a duel?” persisted Ventura, with the curiosity of old age.
“No,” hesitated Marcos, for it was partially from that cause, as the reader knows, but he did not wish Carlita to learn of that just at present; “it was with the Melladios. They attacked us of the Scarlet Shoulders night before last.”
“Ah, the accursed dogs! But you beat them; say that you beat the cowardly ladrones!” eagerly cried the old man.