"They are no good, they are not worth the meat they eat," the blacksmith declared with strong contempt. "As for salt, they do not eat any. Comrade, they are not worth a curse. They have been long enough under the fathers' teaching to forget the way of making a living in the woods, but not long enough to know how to get it out of the ground like civilized men."
"That is why the priests have to watch the dollars, Vulcan. Well, when they get to making wine and brandy the money will come easier."
"I have made them a still," the blacksmith nodded his head in solemn confirmation of his word, "of two hundred gallons depth. There will be brandy enough as soon as the wine is ripe."
"I can see it isn't going to be such a melancholy life for a soldier to be stationed at this mission," the sergeant said, his eyes following Magdalena as she bent to baste the roast.
"There is but one Magdalena," the blacksmith complained, "and a man might as well expect favors from Our Señora by the side of the altar."
"I am sure you speak a true word," the soldier returned. If Magdalena heard she did not turn up an eye. She pushed the dripping-pan under the roast and dipped up the rich liquid, in which pepper pods swam, and the cloves of garlic, and laved the brown savory meat.
"As for these Indian women, they are animals. The fathers say they are Christians, but consider a man married to a woman who eats bugs!"
