The mother had laid aside her pipe of _punche_, and was busy as Rosita herself. She spun the threads with which the rebosos were woven. If the loom was a simple piece of mechanism, much more so was the spinning-machine--the "huso," or "malacate"--which was nothing more or less than the "whirligig spindle." Yet with this primitive apparatus did the old dame draw out and twist as smooth a thread as ever issued from the "jenny." "Poor dear Carlos! One, two, three, four, five, six--six notches I have made--he is just in his sixth day. By this time he will be over the Llano, mother. I hope he will have good luck, and get well treated of the Indians." "Never fear, nina--my brave boy has his father's rifle, and knows how to use it--well he does. Never fear for Carlos!" "But then, mother, he goes in a new direction! What if he fall in with a hostile tribe?" "Never fear, nina! Worse enemies than Indians has Carlos--worse enemies nearer home--cowardly slaves! they hate us--both _Gachupinos_ and _Criollos_ hate us--Spanish dogs! they hate our Saxon blood!" "Oh, mother, say not so! They are not _all_ our enemies. We have some friends." Rosita was thinking of Don Juan. "Few--few--and far between! What care I while my brave son is there? He is friend enough for us. Soft heart--brave heart--strong arm--who like my Carlos? And the boy loves his old mother--his strange old mother, as these _pelados_ think her. He still loves his old mother. Ha! ha! ha! What, then, cares she for friends? Ha! ha! ha!" Her speech ended in a laugh of triumph, showing how much she exulted in the possession of such a son. "O my! what a _carga_, mother! He never had such a carga before! I wonder where Carlos got all the money?" Rosita did not know exactly where; but she had some fond suspicions as to who had stood her brother's friend. "_Ay de mi_!" she continued; "he will be very rich if he gets a good market for all those fine things--he will bring back troops of mules. How I shall long for his return! One--two--three--six--yes, there are but six notches in the wood. Oh! I wish it were full along both edges--I do!" Rosita's eyes, us she said this, were bent upon a thin piece of cedar-wood that hung against the wall, and upon which six little notches were observable. That was her clock and calendar, which was to receive a fresh mark each day until the cibolero's return--thus keeping her informed of the exact time that had elapsed since his departure. After gazing at the cedar-wood for a minute or two, and trying to make the six notches count seven, she gave it up, and went on with her weaving. The old woman, laying down her spindle, raised the lid of an earthen "olla" that stood over a little fire upon the brazero. From the pot proceeded a savoury steam; for it contained a stew of _tasajo_ cut into small pieces, and highly seasoned with _cebollas_ (Spanish onions) and _chile Colorado_ (red capsicum).