was left in its lawless native luxuriance, while the rude tiled sheds near the walled corral contained the old farming implements, unchanged for a century, even to the ox-carts, the wheels of which were made of a single block of wood.  A few peons, in striped shirts and velvet jackets, were sunning themselves against a wall, and near them hung a half-drained pellejo, or goatskin water-bag.  The air of absolute shiftlessness must have been repellent to Mrs. Saltillo’s orderly precision, and for a moment I pitied her.  But it was equally inconsistent with Enriquez’s enthusiastic ideas of American progress, and the extravagant designs he had often imparted to me of the improvements he would make when he had a fortune.  I was feeling uneasy again, when I suddenly heard the rapid clack of unshod hoofs on a rocky trail that joined my own.  At the same instant a horseman dashed past me at full speed.  I had barely time to swerve my own horse aside to avoid a collision, yet in that brief moment I recognized the figure of Enriquez.  But his face I should have scarcely known.  It was hard and fixed.  His upper lip and thin, penciled mustache were drawn up over his teeth, which were like a white gash in his dark face.  He turned into the courtyard of the rancho.  I put spurs to my horse, and followed, in nervous expectation.  He turned in his saddle as I entered.  But the next moment he bounded from his horse, and, before I could dismount, flew to my side and absolutely lifted me from the saddle to embrace me.  It was the old Enriquez again; his face seemed to have utterly changed in that brief moment.

“This is all very well, old chap,” I said; “but do you know that you nearly ran me down, just now, with that infernal half-broken mustang?  Do you usually charge the casa at that speed?”

“Pardon, my leetle brother!  But here you shall slip up.  The mustang is not half-broken; he is not broke at all!  Look at his hoof—­never have a shoe been there.  For myself—­attend me!  When I ride alone, I think mooch; when I think mooch I think fast; my idea he go like a cannon-ball!  Consequent, if I ride not thees horse like the cannon-ball, my thought he arrive first, and where are you?  You get left!  Believe me that I fly thees horse, thees old Mexican plug, and your de’ uncle ’Ennery and his leetle old idea arrive all the same time, and on the instant.”

It was the old Enriquez!  I perfectly understood his extravagant speech and illustration, and yet for the first time I wondered if others did.

“Tak’-a-drink!” he said, all in one word.  “You shall possess the old Bourbon or the rhum from the Santa Cruz!  Name your poison, gentlemen!”

He had already dragged me up the steps from the patio to the veranda, and seated me before a small round table still covered with the chocolate equipage of the morning.  A little dried-up old Indian woman took it away, and brought the spirits and glasses.