The tone in which the Mexican repeated the last words had a tinge of sadness in it—while his eyes turned upon the fire with an expression that betrayed melancholy. It was easy to tell that he too—odd, and even ludicrous as was his personal appearance—either was, or had been, one of love’s victims. I fancied he might have a story to tell—a love story? and at that moment my mind was attuned to listen to such a tale. Sure-shot had also left us—our animals picketed a few paces off requiring his attention—and the two of us were left alone by the fire. If the trapper’s tale should prove a sentimental romance—and such are not uncommon in the Mexican border land—the moment was opportune. Seeing that my new acquaintance was in the communicative mood, I essayed to draw him forth.
“You speak truly,” I said. “Love is a powerful passion, and defies even the desert to destroy it. You yourself have proved it so, I presume? You have souvenirs?”
“Ay, señor, that have I; and painful ones.”
“Painful?”
“As poison—Carrai-i-i!”
“Your sweetheart has been unfaithful?”
“No.”
“Her parents have interfered, I suppose, as is often the case? She has been forced against her will to marry another?”
“Ah! señor, no. She was never married.”
“Not married? what then?”