“He certainly was not an honest man,” I answered, with a smile. “You have an agent in Mexico,” continued I, “who has claimed this animal in your name?”
“Si señor.”
“I had purchased her from the Texan, who deceived me as to her previous history.”
“I know all that,” was the prompt response.
“I told your agent—not knowing him—that I could not give her up until his claim was made good before the commander-in-chief, or until I could have the honour of an interview with yourself.”
“Bueno!”
“I was passing with a party of friends, and, leaving them, I entered the road leading to your residence, and, as you see, I am here. I should apologise for the manner of my approach. The animal, overjoyed at heading towards her home, made a complete run away with me, and, as you may observe, has broken the bitt-ring.”
There was the least little bit of a white lie in this, but I felt that my life was in extreme danger. The Texans had harried this neighbourhood not a month before—in fact, at the time the mare was stolen. Several men had been killed upon the occasion. The inhabitants were much exasperated in consequence, and would have thought little of making me the victim of retaliatory vengeance, by jerking me up to a tree. I think, therefore, I was rather justified in the slight colouring I gave to my narrative.
Don Miguel stood for some time as if puzzled at what I had said.
“You say, then, the mare is yours?” I resumed, breaking the silence.