Ahead of him, along the misty horizon, he could see a line of low convex hills. Quentin had been told that he must go toward them, and in that direction he went at the slow pace of his horse. The road wound in and out, tracing curves in the level country between fields of stubble.
Here and there yokes of huge oxen tilled the dark soil; magpies skimmed along the ground; and overhead, flocks of birds like triangles of black dots, flew screeching by.
At this point a man mounted on a horse appeared in the road. He carried a long pike, with the point up and the butt supported by his stirrup, like a lance. He signalled Quentin to get to one side of the road. As he did so, several bulls and bell-oxen rushed past. Behind them rode two garrochistas or bull-stickers on horseback, each with a pike held in the middle and balanced horizontally.
“The peace of God be with you, Señores,” said Quentin.
“Good morning, caballero.”
“Am I taking the right direction for the Maillo farm?”
“Sí, Señor; you are right.”
“Thanks very much.”
Quentin continued his way. Just before he reached the somewhat hilly country, a farmhouse appeared before his eyes. He went up to it, riding his horse across a red field which had been converted into a mud-hole by the rain.
“Hey!” he shouted.