I was young then.
"You don't say so, Don Ernesto!" said his podgy, putty-faced little
Highness. "Where was it? When was------ By heavens, somebody shall
suffer for this! Just let me or any of my soldiers catch the thieves,
and not one of them shall reach Santa Fe alive. Now, I'll tell you what.
Just leave it to me, and don't you worry nor think any more about the
matter, much less mention it to a soul. In less than two days I'll have
the thief or thieves here in the stocks."
I told him plainly that that was not my programme, and that, whatever he
did, I was not going to leave that fence unpatrolled until I could move
the stock out of the paddock.
"Then this is what we'll do, Don Ernesto. You shall be one of us. You
come and dine with me at six o'clock this evening, and afterwards we'll
go out with the sergeant and five or six men and catch 'em."
It was about the equinox, if I remember rightly--the springtime, when
everything is lovely and lovable: the camp flowers all in bloom, the
aroma of the trees burdening the air with delicious perfume, the fresh
verdure and plenty of grass, the powerful, stout-hearted bounding of the
horse (no longer "poor") beneath one, and, above all, the great issue
expected of the business in hand, the most important business to me in
the world at the time--all these combined spelled but one word, "Hope!"
Carbine in hand, Colt in holster, I arrived at his residence.
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