“News is never plentiful at the Rancho Sierra,” replied the old Mexican. “But you come in time for our little fiesta. Felipe leaves at once for Santa Isabella to fetch a priest.”
“Madre de Dios!” swore Gonzales. “And why a priest, old man? Is it that someone is dying?”
Guadalupe laughed and shook his head.
“A priest for the wedding of our Torres, Gonzales.”
Gonzales threw back his head and stared at Torres, stroking his black mustaches violently.
“For the wedding of Torres, eh? Ho, ho, ho, ho! A fiesta for the wedding of Torres at Rancho Sierra! Now and then he must have his little joke. And who would marry Torres?”
Torres squirmed in his chair. He was less drunk now.
“And why not?” he demanded. “Have I not the right, Gonzales?”
“My question is not answered,” reminded Gonzales. “Does he marry some flat-faced daughter of a peon, or a dancing girl from the dives of the south?”
“A gringo bride,” laughed Guadalupe. “She came to him across a saddle, roped, that she might not fail to be here at the wedding. And”—Guadalupe laughed softly, silently—“on another horse came the mother, also roped. Have you a musician, Gonzales?”