PABLO GONZALES was returning home leisurely from the pueblo, his long legs appearing like an extra pair belonging to the burro which carried him, his toes were so near to the ground. It was an old burro, as Pablo was old, long-haired, shaggy, gray. It pattered along in short strides, head down, ears lopping forward, the bell on its bridle scarcely jingling, its gait so smooth and unbroken. Pablo said there was not another animal in the world that went with such an easy foot. It was comparable only to riding on a cloud.
Pablo squinted his eyes against the sun, at that level in the west when it strikes under a man's hatbrim, no matter how he slants it. He carried a sack in front of him, across the burro's withers, a lump of his purchases in each end, sitting himself on the soft long hair of the ancient beast, not so much as a saddle-blanket to give him dignity. As for comfort, neither saddle nor blanket, cushion nor pad would have added to that, according to his own long usage and belief.
It was said of Pablo's burro that it was as old as its owner, and more esteemed by him than all his other possessions combined. Such creatures, it was well known, lived to incredible age; there were
