Chapter 95
“Se?or,” the older man called from his wagon. “May we rest our bones in your meadow and partake of water from your ria—your creek?”
“Certainly,” I called as Lone Eagle and Otter walked up to the porch from wherever they had been.
“Gracias.” The man climbed down from his wagon, a contraption considerably greater than a buckboard but less than a Conestoga. As his feet hit the ground, he shrugged as if throwing off the weariness of lengthy travel. The man left the watering of his team to his younger image and strode with firm step toward the stoop.
“May I introduce myself,” he said in strongly accented English. “I am Don Tibo Jaquez de Velasquez, late of Chihuahua, Mexico. And that—” he tossed a glance over his shoulder at the young man “—is my grandson, Carlos.”