“Sure! Let a woman pick her own, if she can find him!” agreed Rotil, and then he grinned again as he looked at Kit. “And, señor, it is a safe bet that this time she’ll find him!––you are a good big mark, not easily hidden.”
The other men smiled and nodded at the humor of their chief, and regarded Kit with appreciative sympathy. It was most natural of course for them to suppose that if he took a woman from Marto, he meant to win her for himself.
Kit smiled back at them, and shook his head.
“No such luck for a poor vaquero,” he confessed. “The lady is in mourning, and much grief. She is like some saint of sorrows in a priest’s tale, and–––”
“The priests are liars, and invented hell,” stated Rotil.
“That may be, but sometimes we see sad women of prayers who look like the saints the priests tell about,––and to have such women sold by a gambler is not good to hear of.”
No one spoke for a little. The eyes of Rotil closed in a curious, contemptuous smile.
“You are young, boy,” he said at last, “and even we who are not so young are often fooled by women. Trust any woman of the camp rather than the devout saints of the shrines. All are for market,––but you pay most for the saint, and sorrow longest for her. And you never forget that the shrine is empty!”
His tone was mocking and harsh, but Kit preferred to ignore the sudden change of manner for which there seemed no cause.
“Thanks for the warning, General, and no saints for me!” he said good naturedly. “Now, is there any practical thing I can do to add to your comfort here? Any plans for tomorrow?”