The Greaser brightened up, smiled, and said that though there was not Señor Trujillo, there were plenty of stones in the placita, which, por Dios! I might buy. Stones through which one could barely see; as well as some of blue. Oh, Si. I might vamos tambien.
These half-savage hill people are not fond of having Americans come to their villages; but they cannot resist the fascination of exchanging smoky topaz and turquoise for silver pesos. I said nothing further, but set out with my new companions, not caring much how far we went, or where. One leaves his senses at the edge of the Capitans.
We pulled down along the rio a half mile or so, half in half out of the water, slipping on the stones, swishing in the stream which whispered up to ’Pache and me not to go on, and clanking over stones which sent up dull, grating objurgations at us through the water. Then we left the stream and entered a black-mouthed cañon which tunneled sharp north, right into the Capitans.
The wonderful Southern moon swam stately up the blue sky and silvered the hills above us, and once in a while shed its light into the cañon. The bull-team plodded and coughed. The big carro creaked and groaned. The Greaser swore musically.
The moon climbed higher; lit up the cañon, glorified the peaks beyond, softened and melted the rocks along the trail into white, trembling heaps of silver. I dismounted from ’Pache, and tied him at the end of the carro. As a matter of courtesy, I hung my belt and .45 over the pommel of the saddle; but, as a matter of fact, I kept a tidy .41 in its usual dwelling-place. In case of any foolishness, I thought the .41 would do. It is always well to be polite; but it is always well also to have a reserve fund when you are dealing with human nature, Greaser or white, in mountains or city.
“O toros, sons of infants of sin, name of the devil and twelve saints, bowels of St. Iago, can ye not vamos, then? It is late. Vamos, refuse of the earth, vamos!”
I inferred that my host was a domestic sort of Greaser. I heard him say that their being so late would cause the madre to be in wonder. And the boy replied, “Si; y Ysleta.” (“Yes, and Ysleta also.”)
Ysleta? What a pretty name! Then I laughed and winked at ’Pache. Ysleta would be thirty years old, and would weigh 230 pounds. Bah! You couldn’t fool ’Pache and me!
We groaned into the placita somewhere before midnight. ’Pache sat up all night and stole corn, but I rolled in under the wagon, dead tired, and was asleep in a minute.