At the Miraflores’s hacienda, Smith stood uncertainly beside a corral. He wore the fancy leather bolero and flat-topped hat of a vaquero with silver conchas, a wide riding belt, gaucho pants, and boots to complete his outfit. He was supposed to go out riding with Bonita, but he wasn’t sure he even knew how to get into a saddle.
Thirty vaqueros lounged around on the split-rail fence, taking a break from the day’s chores in hopes of hearing some of Pedrito’s adventures, or at least hoping to see what the wild redheaded revolutionary would do next. The other horsemen applauded his arrival, clapping him on the back and shouting encouragement.
Inside the corral, a buckskin stallion reared and plunged and squealed, circling like a hungry shark that smelled blood. A daring or foolish vaquero ha
