Let us to the story of the piebald. There was a cattle-marking at neighbour Sotelo's estancia, and out of a herd of three thousand head we had to part all the yearlings to be branded. After that, dinner and a dance. At sunrise we gathered, about thirty of us; all friends and neighbours, to do the work. Only with us came one person nobody knew. He joined us when we were on our way to the cattle; a young man, slender, well-formed, of pleasing countenance and dressed as few could dress in those days. His horse also shone with silver trappings. And what an animal! Many horses have I seen in this life, but never one with such a presence as this young stranger's piebald.
Arrived at the herd, we began to separate the young animals, the men riding in couples through the cattle, so that each calf when singled out could be driven by two horsemen, one on each side, to prevent it from doubling back. I happened to be mounted on a demon with a fiery mouth—there was no making him work, so I had to leave the parters and stand with little to do, watching the yearlings already parted, to keep them from returning to the herd.
Presently neighbour Chapaco rode up to me. He was a good-hearted man, well-spoken, half Indian and half Christian; but he also had another half, and that was devil.
"What! neighbour Lucero, are you riding on a donkey or a goat, that you remain here doing boy's work?"
I began telling him about my horse, but he did not listen; he was looking at the parters.
"Who is that young stranger?" he asked.
"I see him to-day," I replied, "and if I see him again to-morrow then I shall have seen him twice."
"And in what country of which I have never heard did he learn cattle-parting?" said he.
"He rides," I answered, "like one presuming on a good horse. But he is safe, his fellow-worker has all the danger."