TIGRE
“YES, I’ve a power over animals. Look at Tigre there! But the old women in Micas say I’ve found one wild thing I’ll never tame.”
“And that, señor?” asked Muella.
“My young and pretty wife.”
She tossed her small head, so that her black curls rippled in the sunlight, and the silver rings danced in her ears.
“Bernardo, I’m not a parrot to have my tongue slit, or a monkey to be taught tricks, or a jungle cat to be trained. I’m a woman, and—”
“Yes—and I am old,” he interrupted bitterly. “Look, Muella—there on the Micas trail!”
“It’s only Augustine, your vaquero.”
“Watch him!” replied Bernardo.
Muella watched the lithe figure of a man striding swiftly along the trail. He was not going to drive cattle up to the corrals, for in that case he would have been riding a horse. He was not going toward the huts of the other herders. He faced the jungle into which ran the Micas trail.