“You see that horse?” said he.
“I do,” answered the boy “and a very fine one he is, too.”
“Could you ride him to Anelo and back,[[2]] to-day?”
“How much money could I get to do it?” asked the youth, eyeing the officer as if to measure his liberality.
“Twenty dollars,” Harding answered; “or, if you do not find me on your return, you may keep the horse.”
“Agreed,” said the boy, promptly. “I’ll set out now.”
Harding took a blank leaf from his pocket-book and wrote a note to the commandant of a detachment of Texan rangers, whom he knew to be then foraging at Anelo, and handed it to the boy.
“You must be back before midnight,” said he; “and you may ask for me at the hacienda. My name is Harding.”
“And mine is Eltorena,” said the youth. “I am six months older than Margarita, and entitled to the name by the same right.”
His eyes glistened as he spoke with an expression so devilish, that Harding was half inclined to take back the note and discharge him. But while reflecting upon the words of the boy, the latter, as if divining his half formed intention, suddenly put spurs to his horse’s flanks and bounded away. Harding watched him until he had crossed the river, and avoiding La Embocadura by a wide circuit, was fast disappearing among the groves to the east.