Carlos believed that his poverty alone was the barrier that separated him from Catalina. He knew that her father was not, properly speaking, one of the “rico” class. True, he was a rico now: but only a few years ago he had been a poor “gambucino”—poor as Carlos himself. In fact, they had once been nearer neighbours; and in his earlier days Don Ambrosio had esteemed the boy Carlos fit company for the little Catalina.
What objection, then, could he have to the cibolero—provided the latter could match him in fortune? “Certainly none,” thought Carlos. “If I can prove to him that I, too, am a ‘rico,’ he will consent to my marrying Catalina. And why not? The blood in my veins—so says my mother—is as good as that of any hidalgo. And, if the Wacoes have told me the truth, one more journey and Carlos the cibolero will be able to shew as much gold as Don Ambrosio the miner!”
These thoughts had been running in his mind throughout the whole of his homeward journey. Every day—every hour—did he build his aery castles; every hour did he buy the silk dress for Rosita—the tea, coffee, and chocolate for his mother; every hour did he erect the new rancho, buy the farm, show a fortune in gold-dust, and demand Catalina from her father! Châteaux en Espagne!
Now that he was close to his home, these pleasant visions grew brighter and seemed nearer; and the countenance of the cibolero was radiant with joy. What a fearful change was soon to pass over it!
Several times he thought of spurring on in advance, the sooner to enjoy the luxury of his mother’s and sister’s welcome; and then he changed his mind again.
“No,” muttered he to himself; “I will stay by the atajo. I will better enjoy the triumph. We shall all march up in line, and halt in front of the rancho. They will think I have some stranger with me, to whom belong the mules! When I announce them as my own they will fancy that I have turned Indian, and made a raid on the southern provinces, with my stout retainers. Ha! ha! ha!” And Carlos laughed at the conceit.
“Poor little Rosy!” he continued; “she shall marry Don Juan this time! I won’t withhold my consent any longer? It would be better, too. He’s a bold fellow, and can protect her while I’m off on the plains again: though one more journey, and I have done with the plains. One more journey, and I shall change my title from Carlos the cibolero to Señor Don Carlos R—, Ha! ha! ha!”
Again he laughed at the prospect of becoming a “rico,” and being addressed as “Don Carlos.”
“Very odd,” thought he, “I don’t meet anyone. I don’t see a soul upon the road up or down. Yet it’s not late—the sun’s above the bluff still. Where can the people be? And yet the road’s covered thick with fresh horse-tracks! Ha! the troops have been here! they have just passed up! But that’s no reason why the people are not abroad; and I don’t see even a straggler! Now I could have believed there was an alarm of Indians had I not seen these tracks; but I know very well that, were the Apaches on their war-trail, my Comandante and his Whiskerandos would never have ventured so far from the Presidio—that I know.
“Well, there’s something extraordinary! I can’t make it out. Perhaps they’re all up to the town at some fiesta. Anton, my boy, you know all the feast-days! Is this one?”