CHAPTER V“What is your name?” says I to the storekeeper.
“Gregorio,” says he. “I am Gregorio, son of Pedro Oñate—”
“Hold on, Gregorio,” says I. “I just want a name to call you by and not a song to sing to you!”
“Ah, well, señor!” says he. But he was pretty good-natured. It was plain that he was sort of tickled by me giving the dollar to the kid after the knife-heaving.
“Have you got any saddles, here?” says I.
“Señor!” says he, and he waves to the front of the store, where there was a whole mob of them saddles.
“Sure,” says I, “they’re leather to sit in, but have you got any saddles?”
He give me a look. You see, a fancy saddle is about one-half of a Mexican’s life.
“Señor,” says he, “as one gentleman to another, I shall show you a saddle which any caballero would be proud to sit in
