His _rancho_ was about
two miles from the store, and our ride thither was about as strange
a gallop as I ever took. Lucero was a _domador_, or horse-tamer,
and the beast he rode was quite unbroken and vicious as it could be.
Between horse and man a fierce struggle for mastery raged the whole
time, the horse rearing, plunging, buck-jumping, and putting into
practice every conceivable trick to rid itself of its burden; while
Lucero plied whip and spur with tremendous energy and poured out
torrents of strange adjectives. At one moment he would come into violent
collision with my old sober beast, at another there would be fifty
yards of ground between us; still Lucero would not stop talking, for
he had begun a very interesting story at starting, and he stuck to his
narrative through everything, resuming the thread after each tempest
of execration vented on his horse, and raising his voice almost to a
shout when we were far apart. The old fellow's staying powers were
really extraordinary, and when we arrived at the house he jumped airily
to the ground, and seemed fresh and calm as possible.
In the kitchen were several people sipping _mate_, Lucero's
children and grandchildren, also his wife, a grey old dame with
dim-looking eyes. But then my host was old in years himself, only,
like Ulysses, he still possessed the unquenched fire and energy of
youth in his soul, while time bestowed infirmities together with
wrinkles and white hairs on his helpmate.
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