They will make you
poor, Don Andres, while you wait for them to be just. No, I permit
no 'prairie schooner' to stop, even that their oxen may drink. My
vaqueros ride beside them till they have crossed the boundary. You,
Don Andres, if you would permit your vaqueros to do likewise, instead
of shaking hands with the gringos and bidding them welcome--"
"But I do not permit it; nor do I seek counsel from the children I
have tossed on my foot to the tune of a nursery rhyme." He shook
his white-crowned head reprovingly. "He was always screaming at his
duenna, one child that I recollect," he smiled.
"Art thou scolding Jose again, my Andres? He loves to play that thou
and Teresita are children still, Jose; it serves to beguile him into
forgetting the years upon his head! Welcome, Senors. Teresita but told
me this moment that you had come. She is bringing the wine--"
On their feet they greeted the Senora Picardo. Like the don, her
husband, honest friendliness was in her voice, her smile, the warm
clasp of her plump hand. The sort of woman who will mother you at
sight, was the senora. Purple silk--hastily put on for the guests, one
might suspect--clothed her royally. Golden hoops hung from her ears,
a diamond brooch held together the lace beneath her cushiony chin; a
comfortable woman who smiled much, talked much and worried more lest
she leave some little thing undone for those about her.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96