Nescesito buen caballo
Buena Silla, y buen gaban.
CHAPTER V
At La Paz they were in time for coffee, and Raquel, who had ridden ahead with an Indian boy, was told a strange story by the Mexican cook.
A good breakfast had been cooked, but the devil had got among the horses in the night; there had been a stampede—or something. Every one had got into the saddle and ridden that way—up the river,—no one had come back to tell him what it meant or to eat the breakfast that was ready. It was cold now, all but the coffee, but they were welcome to it.
He was a newcomer in the land, and had never heard of the Doña Luisa. To the cholo the lady or the lord of the land is often an unknown personality; their representative, the major-domo, is the centre of their little universe.
But as the carriage came lurching down from the mesa, the oldest of the vaqueros, a very black Indian, rode back to camp, and at sight of Doña Luisa's face white and drawn in the morning light, he slid from his bronco, and ignoring the cook's impatient questions stood with bent head uncovered, until the old mistress noticed him and spoke.
"You are Benito, are you not?" she asked, as she brought him to the carriage with a gesture, and rested her hand on his to alight.
"Yes, señora," said the old man with grave courtesy, though trembling with pleasure at the honor she chose to bestow; "I am Benito. I used to break all the horses you rode. No one else was let put a hand on them. You do not forget; I thank you."