As we reached the site of the rodeo, distant from the house more than half a league, my companion, after he had taken advantage of the first apparent flat to turn and scratch the horse, entered into a tug-of-war conversation with me. He unpacked all he knew about the matrimonial pretensions of Carlos, with whom he had resumed friendship since they met again in the Cauca.
–What do you say? -he ended up asking me.
I slyly dodged an answer; and he went on:
–What's the use of denying it? Charles is a working lad: once he is convinced that he can't be a planter unless he lays aside his gloves and umbrella first, he must do well. He still makes fun of me for lassoing, and making a fence, and barbequing mule; but he's got to do the same or go bust. Haven't you seen him?
–No.
–Do you think he doesn't go to the river to bathe when the sun is strong, and if they don't saddle his horse he won't ride, just so he won't get a tan and get his hands dirty? As for the rest, he's a gentleman, that's for sure: it wasn't eight days ago that he got me out of a jam by lending me two hundred patacones that I needed to buy some heifers. He knows he doesn't let it go to waste; but that's what you call serving in time. As for his marriage… I'll tell you one thing, if you offer not to scorch yourself.
–Say, man, say what you want.
–In your house they seem to live with a great deal of tone; and it seems to me that one of those little girls brought up among soots, like the ones in fairy tales, needs to be treated like a blessed thing.
He laughed and continued:
–I say that because that Don Jerónimo, Carlos's father, has more shells than a siete-cueros, and he's as tough as a chili pepper. My father can't see him since he's got him involved in a land dispute and I don't know what else. The day he finds him, at night we have to put some yerba mora ointment on him and give him a rub of aguardiente with malambo.
We had arrived at the rodeo site. In the middle of the corral, in the shade of a guásimo tree and through the dust raised by the moving bulls, I discovered Don Ignacio, who approached me to greet me. He was riding a pink and coarse quarter horse, harnessed with a tortoiseshell whose lustre and decay proclaimed his merits. The meagre figure of the rich owner was decorated as follows: shabby lion's pauldrons with uppers; silver spurs with buckles; an unplacked jacket of cloth and a white ruana overloaded with starch; crowning it all was an enormous Jipijapa hat, the kind they call when the wearer gallops: Under its shadow, Don Ignacio's big nose and small blue eyes played the same game as in the head of a stuffed paletón, the garnets that he wears for pupils and the long beak.
I told Don Ignacio what my father had told me about the cattle they were to fatten together.
–He replied, "It's all right," he said, "You can see that the heifers can't get any better: they all look like towers. Don't you want to come in and have some fun?
Emigdio's eyes were going wild watching the cowboys at work in the corral.
–Ah tuso! -he shouted; "beware of loosening the pial.... To the tail! To the tail!
I excused myself to Don Ignacio, thanking him at the same time; he continued:
–Nothing, nothing; the Bogotanos are afraid of the sun and the fierce bulls; that's why the boys are spoiled in the schools there. Don't let me lie to you, that pretty boy, son of Don Chomo: at seven o'clock in the morning I met him on the road, bundled up with a scarf, so that only one eye was visible, and with an umbrella!.... You, as far as I can see, don't even use such things.
