Riding into the sunset, just like in an old cowboy movie, Smith and Bonita trotted along. Bonita looked fine on her dapple-gray horse, dressed in a black riding habit with a white scarf tied around the top hat. Smith sat astride the once-wild buckskin stallion, who now seemed resigned to his new look-alike master.
The past several days had passed in a blur, and Smith still hadn’t been able to telephone the United States. Rancho Miraflores had no phone service whatsoever.
So many people had called him “Pedrito” for so many days now, he responded to the name automatically. Even the real Pedrito’s parents didn’t seem to notice any difference. He hadn’t seen Yaquita since the old monoplane had landed … which he supposed was good, considering the attentions Bonita showered on him.
Today, the
