horse, throwing him back on his haunches, and waved for some of us to
come to him, never taking his eyes off what he saw in the road. The
owner was riding on one point of the herd and I on the other. We
hurried around to him and both rode up at the same time, when the
vaquero blurted out, 'There's my horse's track.'

"'What horse?' asked the owner.

"'My own; the horse we lost two days ago,' replied the Mexican.

"'How do you know it's your horse's track from the thousands of others
that fill the road?' demanded his employer.

"'Don Tomas,' said the Aztec, lifting his hat, 'how do I know your
step or voice from a thousand others?'

"We laughed at him. He had been a peon, and that made him respect our
opinions--at least he avoided differing with us. But as we drove on
that afternoon, we could see him in the lead, watching for that
horse's track. Several times he turned in his saddle and looked back,
pointed to some track in the road, and lifted his hat to us. At camp
that night we tried to draw him out, but he was silent.

"But when we were nearing San Antonio, we overtook a number of wagons
loaded with wool, lying over, as it was Sunday, and there among their
horses and mules was our Mexican's missing horse. The owner of the
wagons explained how he came to have the horse. The animal had come to
his camp one morning, back about twenty miles from where we had lost
him, while he was feeding grain to his work stock, and being a pet
insisted on being fed. Since then, I have always had a lot of respect