“But then, mother, he goes in a new direction! What if he fall in with a hostile tribe?”
“Never fear, niña! Worse enemies than Indians has Carlos—worse enemies nearer home—cowardly slaves! they hate us—both Gachupinos and Criollos hate us—Spanish dogs! they hate our Saxon blood!”
“Oh, mother, say not so! They are not all our enemies. We have some friends.”
Rosita was thinking of Don Juan.
“Few—few—and far between! What care I while my brave son is there? He is friend enough for us. Soft heart—brave heart—strong arm—who like my Carlos? And the boy loves his old mother—his strange old mother, as these pelados think her. He still loves his old mother. Ha! ha! ha! What, then, cares she for friends? Ha! ha! ha!”
Her speech ended in a laugh of triumph, showing how much she exulted in the possession of such a son.
“O my! what a carga, mother! He never had such a carga before! I wonder where Carlos got all the money?”
Rosita did not know exactly where; but she had some fond suspicions as to who had stood her brother’s friend.
“Ay de mi!” she continued; “he will be very rich if he gets a good market for all those fine things—he will bring back troops of mules. How I shall long for his return! One—two—three—six—yes, there are but six notches in the wood. Oh! I wish it were full along both edges—I do!”
Rosita’s eyes, us she said this, were bent upon a thin piece of cedar-wood that hung against the wall, and upon which six little notches were observable. That was her clock and calendar, which was to receive a fresh mark each day until the cibolero’s return—thus keeping her informed of the exact time that had elapsed since his departure.