Everybody called Chicha's little girl Chichi, but
the grandfather bestowed on her the same nickname that he had given her
brother, the "peoncito." And Chichi, who was growing up wild, vigorous
and wilful, breakfasting on meat and talking in her sleep of roast beef,
readily fell in with the old man's tastes. She was dressed like a boy,
rode astride like a man, and in order to win her grandfather's praises
as "fine cowboy," carried a knife in the back of her belt. The two raced
the fields from sun to sun, Madariaga following the flying pigtail of
the little Amazon as though it were a flag. When nine years old she,
too, could lasso the cattle with much dexterity.
What most irritated the ranchman was that his family would remember his
age. He received as insults his son-in-law's counsels to remain quietly
at home, becoming more aggressive and reckless as he advanced in years,
exaggerating his activity, as if he wished to drive Death away. He
accepted no help except from his harum-scarum "Peoncito." When Karl's
children, great hulking youngsters, hastened to his assistance and
offered to hold his stirrup, he would repel them with snorts of
indignation.
"So you think I am no longer able to help myself, eh! . . . There's
still enough life in me to make those who are waiting for me to die, so
as to grab my dollars, chew their disappointment a long while yet!"
Since the German and his wife were kept pointedly apart from the family
life, they had to put up with these allusions in silence.
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