their headlong course, swept across the flat land
bordering the river, hurtled across the swollen
Rio Grande itself, and so on up the gentle rise of
ground to the town, where they swung through
the streets in ruthless strides -- banging signs,
ripping up roofings, snapping off branches -- and
then lurched out over the mesa to the east.
Here, as if in glee over their escape from city
confines, they redoubled in fury and tore down
to earth -- and enveloped Felipe Montoya, a young
and good-looking Mexican, and his team of
scrawny horses plodding in a lumber rigging, all
in a stinging swirl.

"Haya!" cried Felipe, as the first of the sand-laden
winds struck him, "Chivos -- chivos!" And
he shot out his whip, gave the lash a twist over
the off mare, and brought it down with a resounding
thwack. "R-run!" he snarled, and again brought
the whip down upon the emaciated mare. "You
joost natural lazy! Thees storm -- we -- we get-tin'--"
His voice was carried away on the swirling
winds.

But the horses seemed not to hear the man;
nor, in the case of the off mare, to feel the bite of
his lash. They continued to plod along the beaten
trail, heads drooping, ears flopping, hoofs scuffling
disconsolately. Felipe, accompanying each outburst
with a mighty swing of his whip, swore and
pleaded and objurgated and threatened in turn.
But all to no avail. The horses held stolidly to
their gait, plodding -- even, after a time, dropping
into slower movement. Whereat Felipe, aban-

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p001 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p002w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p003

v?