“Muchas gracias, Don Juan! as usual she is. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”
“Hola!” exclaimed Don Juan. “What are you laughing at, Rosita?”
“Ha! ha! ha! Saw you nothing of the fine soldiers?”
“True, I did. I met the troop as I came down, going up the valley in a gallop, and the Comandante riding far ahead, as if the Apaches were after him. In truth, I thought they had met the Indios bravos—for I know that to be their usual style of riding after an interview with these gentry.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” still laughed the little blonde, “but did you notice nothing odd about the officer?”
“I think I did. He looked as though he had ridden through the chapparal; but I had scarce a glance at him, he passed so quickly. He gave me one that was anything but friendly. No doubt he remembers the loss of his gold onzas at San Juan. Ha! ha! But, dear Rosita, what may you be laughing at? Have the soldiers been here? Anything happened?”
Rosita now gave an account of the Comandante’s visit; how he had called to light his cigar and get a drink of water; how he had entered the house and been attacked by Cibolo, which caused the precipitate retreat to his horse, and his hasty departure from the place. She was silent, however, about the most important particulars. She said nothing of the insulting speeches which Vizcarra had made—nothing of the kiss. She feared the effect of such a communication on Don Juan. She knew her lover was of a hot rash disposition. He would not hear these things quietly; he would involve himself in some trouble on her account; and these considerations prompted her to conceal the cause that had led to the “scene.” She, therefore, disclosed only the more ludicrous effects, at which she laughed heartily.
Don Juan, even knowing only so much, was inclined to regard the affair more seriously. A visit from Vizcarra—a drink of water—light his cigar—enter the rancho—all very strange circumstances, but not at all laughable, thought Don Juan. And then to be attacked and torn by the dog—to be driven from the house in such a humiliating manner—in presence of his own troop, too!—Vizcarra—the vainglorious Vizcarra—the great militario of the place—the hero of a hundred Indian battles that never were fought—he to be conquered by a cur! Seriously, thought Don Juan, it was not an affair to laugh at. Vizcarra would have revenge, or try hard to obtain it.
The young ranchero had other unpleasant thoughts in connexion with this affair. What could have brought the Comandante to the rancho? How had he found out that interesting abode,—that spot, sequestered as it was, that seemed to him (Don Juan) to be the centre of the world? Who had directed him that way? What brought the troop out of the main road, their usual route of march?
These were questions which Don Juan put to himself. To have asked them of Rosita would have been to disclose the existence of a feeling he would rather keep concealed—jealousy.