Майн Рид
The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico
Chapter Twenty
The “ranchos” and “haciendas” of the valley extended nearly ten miles along the stream below San Ildefonso. Near the town they were studded more thickly; but, as you descended the stream, fewer were met with, and those of a poorer class. The fear of the “Indios bravos” prevented those who were well off from building their establishments at any great distance from the Presidio. Poverty, however, induced others to risk themselves nearer the frontier; and, as for several years the settlement had not been disturbed, a number of small farmers and graziers had established themselves as far as eight or ten miles distance below the town.
Half-a-mile beyond all these stood an isolated dwelling – the last to be seen in going down the valley. It seemed beyond the pale of protection – so far as the garrison was concerned – for no patrol ever extended its rounds to so distant a point. Its owner evidently trusted to fate, or to the clemency of the Apaches – the Indians who usually troubled the settlement, – for the house in question was in no other way fortified against them. Perhaps its obscure and retired situation contributed to its security.
It stood somewhat off the road, not near the stream, but back under the shadow of the bluff; in fact, almost built against the cliff.
It was but a poor rancho, like all the others in the valley, and, indeed, throughout most parts of Mexico, built of large blocks of mud, squared in a mould and sun-dried. Many of the better class of such buildings showed white fronts, because near at hand gypsum was to be had for the digging. Some of greater pretension had windows that looked as though they were glazed. So they were, but not with glass. The shining plates that resembled it were but laminae of the aforesaid gypsum, which is used for that purpose in several districts of New Mexico.
The rancho in question was ornamented neither with wash nor windows. It stood under the cliff, its brown mud walls scarce contrasting with the colour of the rock; and, instead of windows, a pair of dark holes, with a few wooden bars across them, gave light to the interior.
This light, however, was only a supplement to that which entered by the door, habitually kept open.
The front of the house was hardly visible from the valley road. A traveller would never have noticed it, and even the keen eye of an Indian might have failed to discover it. The singular fence that surrounded it hid it from view, – singular to the eye of one unaccustomed to the vegetation of this far land, it was a fence of columnar cacti. The plants that formed it were regular fluted columns, six inches thick and from six to ten feet high. They stood side by side like pickets in a stockade, so close together that the eye could scarce see through the interstices, still further closed by the thick beard of thorns. Near their tops in the season these vegetable columns became loaded with beautiful wax-like flowers, which disappeared only to give way to bright and luscious fruits. It was only after passing through the opening in this fence that the little rancho could be seen; and although its walls were rude, the sweet little flower-garden that bloomed within the enclosure told that the hand of care was not absent.
Beyond the cactus-fence, and built against the cliff, was another enclosure – a mere wall of adobe of no great height. This was a “corral” where cattle were kept, and at one corner was a sort of shed or stable of small dimensions. Sometimes half-a-dozen mules and double the number of oxen might be seen in that corral, and in the stable as fine a horse as ever carried saddle. Both were empty now, for the animals that usually occupied them were out. Horse, mules, and oxen, as well as their owner, were far away upon the prairies.
Their owner was Carlos the cibolero. Such was the home of the buffalo-hunter, the home of his aged mother and fair sister. Such had been their home since Carlos was a child.
And yet they were not of the people of the valley nor the town. Neither race – Spanish nor Indian – claimed them. They differed from both as widely as either did from the other. It was true what the padré had said. True that they were Americans; that their father and mother had settled in the valley a long time ago; that no one knew whence they had come, except that they had crossed the great plains from the eastward; that they were hereticos, and that the padrés could never succeed in bringing them into the fold of the Church; that these would have expelled, or otherwise punished them, but for the interference of the military Comandante; and furthermore, that both were always regarded by the common people of the settlement with a feeling of superstitious dread. Latterly this feeling, concentrated on the mother of Carlos, had taken a new shape, and they looked upon her as a hechicera– a witch – and crossed themselves devoutly whenever she met them. This was not often, for it was rare that she made her appearance among the inhabitants of the valley. Her presence at the fiesta of San Juan was the act of Carlos, who had been desirous of giving a day’s amusement to the mother and sister he so much loved.
Their American origin had much to do with the isolation in which they live. Since a period long preceding that time, bitter jealousy existed between the Spano-Mexican and Anglo-American races. This feeling had been planted by national animosity, and nursed and fomented by priestcraft. Events that have since taken place had already cast their shadows over the Mexican frontier; and Florida and Louisiana were regarded as but steps in the ladder of American aggrandisement; but the understanding of these matters was of course confined to the more intelligent; but all were imbued with the bad passions of international hate.
The family of the cibolero suffered under the common prejudice, and on that account lived almost wholly apart from the inhabitants of the valley. What intercourse they had was mostly with the native Indian population – the poor Tagnos, who felt but little of this anti-American feeling.
If we enter the rancho of Carlos we shall see the fair-haired Rosita seated upon a petaté, and engaged in weaving rebosos. The piece of mechanism which serves her for a loom consists of only a few pieces of wood rudely carved. So simple is it that it is hardly just to call it a machine. Yet those long bluish threads stretched in parallel lines, and vibrating to the touch of her nimble fingers, will soon be woven into a beautiful scarf to cover the head of some coquettish poblana of the town. None in the valley can produce such rebosos as the cibolero’s sister. So much as he can beat all the youth in feats of horsemanship, so much does she excel in the useful art which is her source of subsistence.
There are but two rooms in the rancho, and that is one more than will be found in most of its fellows. But the delicate sentiment still exists in the Saxon mind. The family of the cibolero are not yet Indianised.
The kitchen is the larger apartment and the more cheerful, because lighted by the open door. In it you will see a small “brazero,” or altar-like fireplace – half-a-dozen earthen “ollas,” shaped like urns – some gourd-shell cups and bowls – a tortilla-stone, with its short legs and inclined surface – some petatés to sit upon – some buffalo-robes for a similar purpose – a bag of maize – some bunches of dried herbs, and strings of red and green chilé – but no pictures of saints; and perhaps it is the only house in the whole valley where your eye will not be gratified by a sight of these. Truly the family of the cibolero are “hereticos.”
Not last you will see an old woman seated near the fire, and smoking punche in a pipe! A strange old woman is she, and strange no doubt her history but that is revealed to no one. Her sharp, lank features; her blanched, yet still luxuriant hair; the wild gleam of her eyes; all render her appearance singular. Others than the ignorant could not fail to fancy her a being different from the common order. No wonder, then, that these regard her as “una hechicera!”
Chapter Twenty One
Rosita knelt upon the floor, passing her little hand-shuttle through the cotton-woof. Now she sang – and sweetly she sang – some merry air of the American backwoods that had been taught her by her mother; anon some romantic lay of Old Spain – the “Troubadour,” perhaps – a fine piece of music, that gives such happy expression to the modern song “Love not.” This “Troubadour” was a favourite with Rosita; and when she took up her bandolon, and accompanied herself with its guitar-like notes, the listener would be delighted.
She was now singing to beguile the hours and lighten her task; and although not accompanied by any music, her silvery voice sounded sweet and clear.
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, niña – 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, niña! 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 chilé Colorado (red capsicum).
“Niña, the guisado is cooked,” said she, after lifting a portion of the stew on a wooden spoon, and examining it; “let us to dinner!”
“Very well, mother,” replied Rosita, rising from her loom; “I shall make the tortillas at once.”
Tortillas are only eaten warm – that is, are fit only for eating when warm – or fresh from the “comal.” They are, therefore, to be baked immediately before the meal commences, or during its continuance.
Rosita set the olla on one side, and placed the comal over the coals. Another olla, which contained maize – already boiled soft – was brought forward, and placed beside the “metate,” or tortilla-stone; and then, by the help of an oblong roller – also of stone – a portion of the boiled maize was soon reduced to snow-white paste. The metate and roller were now laid aside, and the pretty, rose-coloured fingers of Rosita were thrust into the paste. The proper quantity for a “tortilla” was taken up, first formed into a round ball, and then clapped out between the palms until it was only a wafer’s thickness. Nothing remained but to fling it on the hot surface of the comal, let it lie but for an instant, then turn it, and in a moment more it was ready for eating.
These operations, which required no ordinary adroitness, were performed by Rosita with a skill that showed she was a practised “tortillera.”
When a sufficient number were piled upon the plate, Rosita desisted from her labour, and her mother having already “dished” the guisado, both commenced their repast, eating without knife, fork, or spoon. The tortillas, being still warm, and therefore capable of being twisted into any form, served as a substitute for all these contrivances of civilisation, which in a Mexican rancho are considered superfluous things.
Their simple meal was hardly over when a very unusual sound fell upon their ears.
“Ho! what’s that?” cried Rosita, starting to her feet, and listening.
The sound a second time came pealing through the open door and windows.
“I declare it’s a bugle!” said the girl. “There must be soldiers.”
She ran first to the door, and then up to the cactus-fence. She peered through the interstices of the green columns.
Sure enough there were soldiers. A troop of lancers was marching by twos down the valley, and not far off. Their glittering armour, and the pennons of their lances, gave them a gay and attractive appearance. As Rosita’s eyes fell upon them, they were wheeling into line, halting, as they finished the movement, with their front to the rancho, and not a hundred paces from the fence. The house was evidently the object of their coming to a halt.
What could soldiers want there? This was Rosita’s first reflection. A troop often passed up and down the valley, but never came near the rancho, which, as already stated, was far from the main road. What business could the soldiers be upon, to lead them out of their usual track?
Rosita asked herself these questions; then ran into the house and asked her mother. Neither could answer them; and the girl turned to the fence, and again looked through.
As she did so she saw one of the soldiers – from his finer dress evidently an officer – separate from the rest, and come galloping towards the house. In a few moments he drew near, and, reining his horse close up to the fence, looked over the tops of the cactus-plants.
Rosita could just see his plumed hat, and below it his face, but she knew the face at once. It was that of the officer who on the day of San Juan had ogled her so rudely. She knew he was the Comandante Vizcarra.
Chapter Twenty Two
The officer, from his position, had a full view of the girl as she stood in the little enclosure of flowers. She had retreated to the door, and would have gone inside, but she turned to call off Cibolo, a large wolf-dog, who was barking fiercely, and threatening the new-comer.
The dog, obedient to her voice, ran back into the house growling, but by no means satisfied. He evidently wanted to try his teeth on the shanks of the stranger’s horse.
“Thank you, fair Señorita,” said the officer. “It is very kind of you to protect me from that fierce brute. I would he were the only clangour I had to fear in this house.”
“What have you to fear, Señor?” inquired Rosita, with some surprise.
“Your eyes, sweet girl: more dangerous than the sharp teeth of your dog, – they have already wounded me.”
“Cavallero,” replied Rosita, blushing and averting her face, “you have not come here to jest with a poor girl. May I inquire what is your business?”
“Business I have none, lovely Rosita, but to see you, – nay, do not leave me! – I have business – that is, I am thirsty, and halted for a drink: you will not refuse me a cup of water, fair Señorita?”
These last phrases, broken and hastily delivered, were meant to restrain the girl from cutting short the interview, which she was about to do by entering the house. Vizcarra was not thirsty, neither did he wish for water; but the laws of hospitality would compel the girl to bring it, and the act might further his purposes.
She, without replying to his complimentary harangue, stepped into the house, and presently returned with a gourd-shell filled with water. Carrying it to the gate-like opening of the fences, she presented it to him, and stood waiting for the vessel.
Vizcarra, to make his request look natural, forced down several gulps of the fluid, and then, throwing away the rest, held out the gourd. The girl stretched forth her hand to receive it, but he still held it fast, gazing intently and rudely upon her.
“Lovely señorita,” he said, “may I not kiss that pretty hand that has been so kind to me?”
“Sir! please return me the cup.”
“Nay, not till I have paid for my drink. You will accept this?”
He dropped a gold onza into the gourd.
“No, Señor, I cannot accept payment for what is only an act of duty. I shall not take your gold,” she added, firmly.
“Lovely Rosita! you have already taken my heart, why not this?”
“I do not understand you, Señor; please put back your money, and let me have the cup.”
“I shall not deliver it up, unless you take it with its contents.”
“Then you must keep it, Señor,” replied she, turning away. “I must to my work.”
“Nay, further, Señorita!” cried Vizcarra; “I have another favour to ask, – a light for my cigar? Here, take the cup! See! the coin is no longer in it! You will pardon me for having offered it?”
Vizcarra saw that she was offended, and by this apology endeavoured to appease her.
She received the gourd-shell from his hands, and then went back to the house to bring him the light he had asked for.
Presently she reappeared with some red coals upon a small “brazero.”
On reaching the gate she was surprised to see that the officer had dismounted, and was fastening his horse to a stake.
As she offered him the brazero, he remarked, “I am wearied with my ride; may I beg, Señorita, you will allow me a few minutes’ shelter from the hot sun?”
Though annoyed at this request, the girl could only reply in the affirmative; and the next moment, with clattering spur and clanking sabre, the Comandante walked into the rancho.
Rosita followed him in without a word, and without a word he was received by her mother, who, seated in the corner, took no notice of his entrance, not even by looking up at him. The dog made a circuit around him, growling angrily, but his young mistress chided him off; and the brute once more couched himself upon a petaté, and lay with eyes gleaming fiercely at the intruder.
Once in the house, Vizcarra did not feel easy. He saw he was not welcome. Not a word of welcome had been uttered by Rosita, and not a sign of it offered either by the old woman or the dog. The contrary symptoms were unmistakeable, and the grand officer felt he was an intruder.
But Vizcarra was not accustomed to care much for the feelings of people like these. He paid but little regard to their likes or dislikes, especially where these interfered with his pleasures; and, after lighting his cigar, he sat down on a “banqueta,” with as much nonchalance as if he were in his own quarters. He smoked some time without breaking silence.
Meanwhile Rosita had drawn out her loom, and, kneeling down in front of it, went on with her work as if no stranger were present.
“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the officer, feigning interest in the process, “how very ingenious! I have often wished to see this! a reboso it is? Upon my word! and that is how they are woven? Can you finish one in a day, Señorita?”
“Si, Señor,” was the curt reply.
“And this thread, it is cotton; is it not?”
“Si, Señor.”
“It is very prettily arranged indeed. Did you place it so yourself?”
“Si, Señor.”
“Really it requires skill! I should like much to learn how the threads are passed.”
And as he said this he left his seat upon the banqueta, and, approaching the loom, knelt down beside it.
“Indeed, very singular and ingenious. Ah, now, do you think, pretty Rosita, you could teach me?”
The old woman, who was seated with her eyes bent upon the ground, started at hearing the stranger pronounce her daughter’s name, and glanced around at him.
“I am really serious,” continued he; “do you think you could teach me this useful art?”
“No, Señor!” was the laconic reply.
“Oh! surely I am not so stupid! I think I could learn it – it seems only to hold this thing so,” – here he bent forward, and placed his hand upon the shuttle, so as to touch the fingers of the girl, – “and then put it between the threads in this manner; is it not – ?”
At this moment, as if carried away by his wild passions, he seemed to forget himself; and, turning his eyes upon the blushing girl, he continued in an under tone, “Sweetest Rosita! I love you, – one kiss, fairest, – one kiss!” and before she could escape from his arms, which had already encircled her, he had imprinted a kiss upon her lips!
A scream escaped from the girl, but another, louder and wilder, answered it from the corner. The old woman sprang up from her crouching position, and running across the floor launched herself like a tigress upon the officer! Her long bony fingers flew out, and in an instant were clutching his throat!
“Off! beldame! off!” cried he, struggling to escape: “off I say; or my sword shall cut short your wretched life, off! – off! – I say!”
Still the old woman clutched and screamed, tearing wildly at his throat, his epaulettes, or whatever she could lay hold of.
But sharper than her nails were the teeth of the great wolf-dog that sprang almost simultaneously from his lair, and, seizing the soldier by the limbs, caused him to bellow out at the top of his voice —
“Without there! Sergeant Gomez! Ho! treason! to the rescue! to the rescue!”
“Ay! dog of a Gachupino!” screamed the old woman, – “dog of Spanish blood! you may call your cowardly myrmidons! Oh! that my brave son were here, or my husband alive! If they were, you would not carry a drop of your villain blood beyond the threshold you have insulted! – Go! – go to your poblanas – your margaritas! Go – begone!”
“Hell and furies! This dog – take him off! Ho, there! Gomez! your pistols. Here! send a bullet through him! Haste! haste!”
And battling with his sabre, the valiant Comandante at length effected a retreat to his horse.
He was already well torn about the legs, but, covered by the sergeant, he succeeded in getting into the saddle.
The latter fired off both his pistols at the dog, but the bullets did not take effect; and the animal, perceiving that his enemies outnumbered him, turned and ran back into the house.
The dog was now silent, but the Comandante, as he sat in his saddle, heard a derisive laugh within the rancho. In the clear soft tones of that jeering laughter he distinguished the voice of the beautiful güera!
Chagrined beyond measure, he would have besieged the rancho with his troop, and insisted on killing the dog, had he not feared that the cause of his ungraceful retreat might become known to his followers. That would be a mortification he did not desire to experience.
He returned, therefore, to the troop, gave the word to march, and the cavalcade moved off, taking the backward road to the town.
After riding at the head of his men for a short while, Vizcarra – whose heart was filled with anger and mortification – gave some orders to the sergeant, and then rode off in advance, and in full gallop.
The sight of a horseman in blue manga, passing in the direction of the rancho – and whom he recognised as the young ranchero, Don Juan – did not do much towards soothing his angry spirit. He neither halted nor spoke, but, casting on the latter a malignant glance, kept on.
He did not slacken his pace until he drew bridle in the saguan of the Presidio.
His panting horse had to pay for the bitter reflections that tortured the soul of his master.
