“Twenty onzas, Carlos, for any other purpose. But I cannot encourage this mad project.”
It was the young ranchero, his former backer, who spoke.
“Thank you, Don Juan,” replied the cibolero. “I know you would lend them. Thank you all the same. Do not fear! I’ll win the onza. Ha! ha! ha! I haven’t been twenty years in the saddle to be bantered by a Gachupino.”
“Sir!” thundered Vizcarra and Roblado in a breath, at the same time grasping the hilts of their swords, and frowning in a fierce threatening manner.
“Oh! gentlemen, don’t be offended,” said Carlos, half sneeringly. “It only slipped from my tongue. I meant no insult, I assure you.”
“Then keep your tongue behind your teeth, my good fellow,” threatened Vizcarra. “Another slip of the kind may cost you a fall.”
“Thank you, Señor Comandante,” replied Carlos, still laughing. “Perhaps I’ll take your advice.”
The only rejoinder uttered by the Comandante was a fierce “Carrajo!” which Carlos did not notice; for at this moment his sister, having heard of his intention, sprang down from the carreta and came running forward, evidently in great distress.
“Oh, brother Carlos!” she cried, reaching out her arms, and grasping him by the knees, “Is it true? Surely it is not true?”
“What, hermanita?” (little sister), he asked with a smile.