Jan’s response to the Challenge
The Lion’s Paw
Like the king of a
substantial castle surveying the peasants, Don Sebastian Montoya descended the simple
staircase. Resplendent in a
heavily-embroidered lavender suit, the Lion of Sonora held fast to his cane,
tapping it with annoyance when he stopped at the landing. With disgust, he glared at his son. “Manolito, you are dirty.”
The dark-haired young
man crossed a muddy boot over his knee and began ponderously unbuckling his
spur. Grabbing the caked rowel, he
pulled the spur from his boot and the boot from his foot. “Papá, sí. I am. And your ability to state the obvious
overwhelms me as always,” he responded wearily.
“Oh-ho and you are
insolent as always.” Don Sebastian continued down the stairs. As Mano released the other spur and shucked
his boot, the tip of his father’s cane prodded his knee. “Mi
hijo, I did not raise you to be disrespectful nor did I raise you to be
dirty. Yet you are both of these things,
to my continuing shame.”
“Sí, Papá.” He brushed away the cane and slid from his
socks. Sighing, he wiggled his long toes before heaving his tired feet onto the
hassock.
“And why is that,
do you suppose?”
Shaking his head, Mano
watched as his father methodically cleaned the cane by grinding it into a
discarded sock; satisfied, Don Sebastian sat stiffly, facing the fireplace. He addressed the older man’s profile. “Padre mio, have you noticed it is
raining?”
“¡Ay, caramba! Of course I have noticed,
but I fail to see how your rain is of concern to me.”
Put your chin any higher in the air, old lion, you
will tip over backwards. Then you will
complain about the poor quality of the chair. “Papá, here at the Chaparral, I
work. Today, the axle on the chuckwagon
came loose, the wheel of the chuckwagon broke.
I have been working… yes, working,
Papá … to repair John Cannon’s
wagon,” he explained hotly, the words squeezed through tight lips. “Perdoname,
but it is difficult to do this without becoming muddy.”
“As I was saying,
I fail to see how your rain is my concern.
This is my concern, Manolito.” He
raised his hands. “I seem to be missing
one of my gloves. Francisco has been
unable to locate it. Make yourself
useful, mi hijo. Clean away the filth of your menial labor,
put on suitable clothing and find it,” he ordered with a sideways glance,
clapping his hands sharply when his son made no move to comply. “Why are you
still sitting when there is something I need you to do?”
Mano scratched his
cheek pensively, then snickered, crossing his arms. “Why? Because,
Papá, I cannot imagine the appropriate clothing to look for a glove. I know the clothes of a vaquero, the clothes of a fine caballero,
but the clothes of one hunting for a glove? Those I do not know.” Amusement in his
eyes, he studied the elder Montoya. “Eh,
purple gloves, Papá? Where do you even purchase
such a thing?”
“As if it is any
of your business, they were especially tailored to match my suit. That should be obvious to you,” the haciendado declared haughtily. “Does it
make you happy to prattle while my hand is cold?”
“No, Papá.” ¡Madre de Dios! A few short minutes under
the Lion’s paw, I am no longer Manolo Montoya, a free man, a lover of women and
herder of cattle. I become merely a little muchacho with dirty hands. Manolito sighed in surrender, rising to
his feet with great effort. He muttered to himself as he trudged for the
stairs, “¡Ay-yi-yi! Rest would make
me happy, but that is apparently impossible.”
“What did you
say?”
“Only that you
should rest, Papá,” he called over his shoulder. Someplace
else. Anyplace else.
The old man cried
out merrily, “A splendid idea, mi hijo! While you are up, bring me a snifter of my
good brandy. Oh, also, my servants left
one of my trunks in the wagon. Please collect it and take it to my room.”
Slowly, Manolito
ran his fingers through his damp hair, resting a hand on the banister as
dampness from his shirt chilled his back.
“Can the trunk not wait? The rain is falling in sheets.”
“Which means now
is the perfect time, since you are still wet.”
He pressed his palms together.
“Just be careful of the trunk, Mano.
It contains gifts for
Rolling his eyes,
Mano spat a silent curse and said, “All right, but when you wonder why I do not
return to Rancho Montoya, remember this conversation. This is exactly
why I do not.”
Don Sebastian
examined his ruffled cuffs, spoke toward the fireplace, puzzled. “But Mano,
that makes no sense. It does not often rain
in
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