“Chiquitita,” (Very, very small) coolly responded José.
I took the “cuenta chiquitita” in my fingers, and opening it, read—“Un peso por cena—un peso por cama—un peso por almuerzo—très pesos por vino:—Suma seis pesos.” (Anglice: Slipper, one dollar—bed, one dollar—breakfast, one dollar—wine, three dollars. Total, six dollars.)
“It’s a joke the old fellow’s playing me,” thought I.
I looked at José, then at the bill; then back at José again, putting on a knowing smile, to show him that I was up to his fun; but after carrying on this dumb show for some moments, I perceived that not a muscle of the Mexican’s face betrayed the slightest motion. His features remained as rigid as the bronze statue of Carlos Quinto that stood in the capital; and, after scanning them fairly, I became satisfied there was no joke either “meant or intended.”
Arriving at this conclusion, my first impulse was to make his “worship” eat the bill, and then leap to my saddle, and show him “clean heels;” but this, I saw on reflection, would be but a shabby reckoning on my part. True I had fared well; but it was vexatious to be thus “chizzled,” and in such a scandalous manner. It could not be mended, however; and mentally promising never again to trust Mexican hospitality, I drew forth my purse, and reluctantly counted out the “seis pesos.” Then both mentally and verbally sending José to a climate hotter than the tropics, I touched my mare’s flank, and left the village in a gallop.
I was so “bitter mad” at the trick played upon me, that I did not draw bridle for a mile or more. After that, checking my fiery animal, I fell into an easy canter, and laughed till I was nearly hoarse. I kept straight on for Guadalupe, expecting to overhaul my friends in the middle of their breakfast.
I had not the slightest intention of showing them the “cuenta chiquitita,” or saying a word about it. No, no; I should have preferred paying it twice over.
With these reflections, occasionally making the woods ring with my laughter, I had reached to within five miles of San Cristobal, when, all at once, my mare uttered a loud neigh, and sprang into a by road. The reins had been thrown loosely upon her neck; and before I could collect them, she was fairly into the new track, and going at top speed! I dragged with all my might upon the bitt—which happened to be a “fool’s fancy,” lightly constructed—when, to my mortification, one of the rings gave way, and the rein came back with a jerk. I had now only one rein. With this I could have brought her up on open ground, but we were running up a narrow lane, and on each side was a treble row of magueys, forming a most fearful-looking chevaux-de-frise!
Had I pulled the mare to either side, she would have certainly tripped up in the magueys, and impaled me on their bayonet-shaped spikes. I could do nothing better than keep my seat, and let her run it out. She would not be long about it, at the rate she was going, for she ran as if on a course, and staked ten to one against the field. At intervals she would throw up her head, and utter that strange wild neigh which I had noticed on first seeing her.
On we went through the tall aloes, the rows of plants looking like a green fringe as we shot past them. We came up to several ranchós. The leperos that lounged about the doors threw up their hats, and shouted “Viva!” The ranchos fell behind. A large house—a hacienda—lay before. I could see beautiful women clustering into the windows as I approached Gilpin and Don Quixote came into my head.