Madariaga’s fortune was enormous.  He had lived in the field since his arrival in America, when the white race had not dared to settle outside the towns for fear of the Indians.  He had gained his first money as a fearless trader, taking merchandise in a cart from fort to fort.  He had killed Indians, was twice wounded by them, and for a while had lived as a captive with an Indian chief whom he finally succeeded in making his staunch friend.  With his earnings, he had bought land, much land, almost worthless because of its insecurity, devoting it to the raising of cattle that he had to defend, gun in hand, from the pirates of the plains.

Then he had married his China, a young half-breed who was running around barefoot, but owned many of her forefathers’ fields.  They had lived in an almost savage poverty on their property which would have taken many a day’s journey to go around.  Afterwards, when the government was pushing the Indians towards the frontiers, and offering the abandoned lands for sale, considering it a patriotic sacrifice on the part of any one wishing to acquire them, Madariaga bought and bought at the lowest figure and longest terms.  To get possession of vast tracts and populate it with blooded stock became the mission of his life.  At times, galloping with Desnoyers through his boundless fields, he was not able to repress his pride.

“Tell me something, Frenchy!  They say that further up the country, there are some nations about the size of my ranches.  Is that so?” . . .

The Frenchman agreed. . . .  The lands of Madariaga were indeed greater than many principalities.  This put the old plainsman in rare good humor and he exclaimed in the cowboy vernacular which had become second nature to him—­“Then it wouldn’t be absurd to proclaim myself king some day?  Just imagine it, Frenchy;—­Don Madariaga, the First. . . .  The worst of it all is that I would also be the last, for the China will not give me a son. . . .  She is a weak cow!”

The fame of his vast territories and his wealth in stock reached even to Buenos Aires.  Every one knew of Madariaga by name, although very few had seen him.  When he went to the Capital, he passed unnoticed because of his country aspect—­the same leggings that he was used to wearing in the fields, his poncho wrapped around him like a muffler above which rose the aggressive points of a necktie, a tormenting ornament imposed by his daughters, who in vain arranged it with loving hands that he might look a little more respectable.

One day he entered the office of the richest merchant of the capital.

“Sir, I know that you need some young bulls for the European market, and I have come to sell you a few.”

The man of affairs looked haughtily at the poor cowboy.  He might explain his errand to one of the employees, he could not waste his time on such small matters.  But the malicious grin on the rustic’s face awoke his curiosity.