His mother and sister had left early, for which fact he was thankful. He
walked home alone with his hat in his hand, letting the cold wind of early
morning blow on his hot brow. Punch and music and dancing had filled him
with a delightful excitement. He felt glad of life and full of power. He
could have gone on walking for hours, enjoying the rhythm of his stride
and the gorgeous confusion of his thoughts, but in a remarkably short time
he had covered the mile to his house in Old Town.
It was a long, low _adobe_ with a paintless and rickety wooden verandah
along its front, and with deep-set, iron-barred windows looking upon the
square about which Old Town was built. Delcasars had lived in this house
for over a century. Once it had been the best in town. Now it was an
antiquity pointed out to tourists. Most of the Mexicans who had money had
moved away from Old Town and built modern brick houses in New Town. But
this was an expensive proceeding. The old _adobe_ houses which they left
brought them little. The Delcasars had never been able to afford this
removal. They were deeply attached to the old house and also deeply
ashamed of it.
Ramon passed through a narrow hallway into a courtyard and across it to
his room. The light of the oil lamp which he lit showed a large oblong
chamber with a low ceiling supported by heavy timbers, whitewashed walls
and heavy old-fashioned walnut furniture. A large coloured print of Mary
and the Babe in a gilt frame hung over the wash-stand, and next to it a
college pennant was tacked over a photograph of his graduating class.
Several Navajo blankets covered most of the floor and a couple of guns
stood in a corner.
When he was in bed his overstimulated state of mind became a torment. He
rolled and tossed, beset by exciting images and ideas. Every time that a
growing confusion of these indicated the approach of sleep, he was brought
sharply back to full consciousness by the crowing of a rooster in the
backyard. Finally he threw off the covers and sat up, cursing the rooster
in two languages and resolving to eat him.
Sleep was out of the question now. Suddenly he remembered that this was
Sunday morning, and that he had intended going to the mountains. To start
at once would enable him to avoid an argument with his mother concerning
the inevitability of damnation for those who miss early Mass. He rose and
dressed himself, putting on a cotton shirt, a faded and dirty pair of
overalls and coarse leather riding boots; tied a red and white bandana
about his neck and stuck on his head an old felt hat minus a band and with
a drooping brim. So attired he looked exactly like a Mexican countryman—a
poor _ranchero_ or a woodcutter. This masquerade was not intentional nor
was he conscious of it. He simply wore for his holiday the kind of clothes
he had always worn about the sheep ranches.
Nevertheless he felt almost as different from his usual self as he looked.
A good part of his identity as a poor, discontented and somewhat lazy
young lawyer was hanging in the closet with his ready-made business suit.
He took a long and noisy drink from the pitcher on the wash-stand, picked
up his shot-gun and slipped cautiously out of the house, feeling care-free
and happy.
Behind the house was a corral with an _adobe_ wall that was ten feet high
except where it had fallen down and been patched with boards. A scrub cow
and three native horses were kept there. Two of the horses made the
ill-matched team that hauled his mother and sister to church and town. The
other was a fiery ragged little roan mare which he kept for his own use.
None of these horses was worth more than thirty dollars, and they were
easily kept on a few tons of alfalfa a year.
The little mare laid back her ears and turned as though to annihilate him
with a kick. He quickly stepped right up against the threatening hind
legs, after the fashion of experienced horsemen who know that a kick is
harmless at short range, and laid his hand on her side. She trembled but
dared not move. He walked to her head, sliding his hand along the rough,
uncurried belly and talking to her in Spanish. In a moment he had the
bridle on her.
The town was impressively empty and still as he galloped through it. Hoof
beats rang out like shots, scaring a late-roaming cat, which darted across
the street like a runaway shadow.
Near the railroad station he came to a large white van, with a beam of
light emerging from its door. This was a local institution of
longstanding, known as the chile-wagon, and was the town’s only all-night
restaurant. Here he aroused a fat, sleepy old Mexican.
“_Un tamale y cafe_,” he ordered, and then had the proprietor make him a
couple of sandwiches to put in his pocket. He consumed his breakfast
hurriedly, rolled and lit a little brown cigarette, and was off again.
His way led up a long steep street lined with new houses and vacant lots;
then out upon the high empty level of the _mesa_. It was daylight now, of
a clear, brilliant morning. He was riding across a level prairie, which
was a grey desert most of the year, but which the rainy season of late
summer had now touched with rich colours. The grass in many of the hollows
was almost high enough to cut with a scythe, and its green expanse was
patched with purple-flowered weeds. Meadow larks bugled from the grass;
flocks of wild doves rose on whistling wings from the weed patches; a
great grey jack-rabbit with jet-tipped ears sprang from his form beside
the road and went sailing away in long effortless bounds, like a
wind-blown thing. Miles ahead were the mountains—an angular mass of blue
distance and purple shadow, rising steep five thousand feet above the
_mesa_, with little round foothills clustering at their feet. A brisk cool
wind fanned his face and fluttered the brim of his hat.
But with the rising of the sun the wind dropped, it became warm and he
felt dull and sleepy. When he came to a little juniper bush which spread
its bit of shadow beside the road, he dismounted, pulled the saddle off
his sweating mare, and sat down in the shade to eat his lunch. When he had
finished he wished for a drink of water and philosophically took a smoke
instead. Then he lay down, using his saddle for a pillow, puffing
luxuriously at his cigarette. It was cool in his bit of shadow, though all
the world about him swam in waves of heat.… Cool and very quiet. He felt
drowsily content. This sunny desolation was to him neither lonely nor
beautiful; it was just his own country, the soil from which he had
sprung.… Colours and outlines blurred as his eyelids grew heavy. Sleep
conquered him in a sudden black rush.
It was late afternoon when he awakened. He had meant to shoot doves, but
it was too late now to do any hunting if he was to reach Archulera’s place
before dark. He saddled his mare hurriedly and went forward at a hard
gallop.
Archulera’s place was typical of the little Mexican ranches that dot the
Southwest wherever there is water enough to irrigate a few acres. The
brown block of _adobe_ house stood on an arid, rocky hillside, and looked
like a part of it, save for the white door, and a few bright scarlet
strings of _chile_ hung over the rafter ends to dry. Down in the _arroyo_
was the little fenced patch where corn and _chile_ and beans were raised,
and behind the house was a round goat corral of wattled brush. The skyward
rocky waste of the mountain lifted behind the house, and the empty reach
of the _mesa_ lay before—an immense and arid loneliness, now softened and
beautified by many shadows.
Ramon could see old man Archulera far up the mountainside, rounding up his
goats for evening milking, and he could faintly hear the bleating of the
animals and the old man’s shouts and imprecations. He whistled loudly
through his fingers and waved his hat.
_“__Como lo va primo!__”_ he shouted, and he saw Archulera stop and look,
and heard faintly his answering, _“__Como la va!__”_
Soon Archulera had his goats penned, and Ramon joined him while he milked
half a dozen ewes.
“I’m glad you came,” Archulera told him, “I haven’t seen a man in a month
except one gringo that said he was a prospector and stole a kid from me.…
How was the fair?”
When the milking was over, the old man selected a fat kid, caught it by
the hind leg and dragged it, bleating in wild terror, to a gallows behind
the house, where he hung it up and skilfully cut its throat, leaving it to
bleat and bleed to death while he wiped his knife and went on talking
volubly with his guest. The occasional visits of Ramon were the most
interesting events in his life, and he always killed a kid to express his
appreciation. Ramon reciprocated with gifts of tobacco and whisky. They
were great friends.
Archulera was a short, muscular Mexican with a swarthy, wrinkled face,
broad but well-cut. His big, thin-lipped mouth showed an amazing disarray
of strong yellow teeth when he smiled. His little black eyes were shrewd
and full of fire. Although he was sixty years old, there was little grey
in the thick black hair that hung almost to his shoulders. He wore a cheap
print shirt and a faded pair of overalls, belted at the waist with a strip
of red wool. His foot-gear consisted of the uppers of a pair of old shoes
with soles of rawhide sewed on moccasin-fashion.
With no more disguise than a red blanket and a grunt Archulera could have
passed for an Indian anywhere, but he made it clear to all that he
regarded himself as a Spanish gentleman. He was descended, like Ramon,
from one of the old families, which had received occasional infusions of
native blood. There was probably more Indian in him than in the young man,
but the chief difference between the two was due to the fact that the
Archuleras had lost most of their wealth a couple of generations before,
so that the old man had come down in the social scale to the condition of
an ordinary goat-herding _pelado_. There are many such fallen aristocrats
among the New Mexican peasantry. Most of them, like Archulera, are
distinguished by their remarkably choice and fluent use of the Spanish
language, and by the formal, eighteenth-century perfection of their
manners, which contrast strangely with the barbaric way of their lives.
The old man was now skinning and butchering the goat with speed and skill.
Nothing was wasted. The hide was flung over a rafter end to dry. The head
was washed and put in a pan, as were the smaller entrails with bits of fat
clinging to them, and the liver and heart. The meat was too fresh to be
eaten tonight, but these things would serve well enough for supper, and he
called to his daughter, Catalina, to come and get them.
The two men soon joined her in the low, whitewashed room, which had hard
mud for a floor, and was furnished with a bare table and a few chairs. It
was clean, but having only one window and that always closed, it had a
pronounced and individual odour. In one corner was a little fireplace,
which had long served both for cooking and to furnish heat, but as a
concession to modern ideas Archulera had lately supplemented it with a
cheap range in the opposite corner. There Catalina was noisily distilling
an aroma from goat liver and onions. The entrails she threaded on little
sticks and broiled them to a delicate brown over the coals, while the head
she placed whole in the oven. Later this was cracked open and the brains
taken out with a spoon, piping hot and very savoury. These viands were
supplemented by a pan of large pale biscuits, and a big tin pot of coffee.
Catalina served the two men, saying nothing, not even raising her eyes,
while they talked and paid no attention to her. After eating her own
supper and washing the dishes she disappeared into the next room.
This self-effacing behaviour on the part of the girl accorded with the
highest standards of Mexican etiquette, and showed her good breeding. The
fact that old Archulera paid no more attention to her than to a chair did
not indicate that he was indifferent to her. On the contrary, as Ramon had
long ago discovered, she was one of the chief concerns of his life. He
could not forget that in her veins flowed some of the very best of Spanish
blood, and he considered her altogether too good for the common
sheep-herders and wood-cutters who aspired to woo her. These he summarily
warned away, and brought his big Winchester rifle into the argument
whenever it became warm. When he left the girl alone, in order to guard
her from temptation he locked her into the house together with his dog.
Catalina had led a starved and isolated existence.
After the meal, Archulera became reminiscent of his youth. Some
thirty-five years before he had been one of the young bloods of the
country, having fought against the Navajos and Apaches. He had made a
reputation, long since forgotten by every one but himself, for ruthless
courage and straight shooting, and many a man had he killed. In his early
life, as he had often told Ramon, he had been a boon companion of old
Diego Delcasar. The two had been associated in some mining venture, and
Archulera claimed that Delcasar had cheated him out of his share of the
proceeds, and so doomed him to his present life of poverty. When properly
stimulated by food and drink Archulera never failed to tell this story,
and to express his hatred for the man who had deprived him of wealth and
social position. He had at first approached the subject diffidently, not
knowing how Ramon would regard an attack on the good name of his uncle,
and being anxious not to offend the young man. But finding that Ramon
listened tolerantly, if not sympathetically, he had told the story over
and over, each time with more detail and more abundant and picturesque
denunciation of Diego Delcasar, but with substantial uniformity as to the
facts. As he spoke he watched the face of Ramon narrowly. Always the
recital ended about the same way.
“You are not like your uncle,” he assured the young man earnestly, in his
formal Spanish. “You are generous, honourable. When your uncle is dead,
you will repay me for the wrongs that I have suffered—no?”
Ramon would always laugh at this. This night, in order to humour the old
man, he asked him how much he thought the Delcasar estate owed him for his
ancient wrong.
“Five thousand dollars!” Archulera replied with slow emphasis. He probably
had no idea how much he had lost, but five thousand dollars was his
conception of a great deal of money.
Ramon again laughed and refused to commit himself. He certainly had no
idea of giving Archulera five thousand dollars, but he thought that if he
ever did come into his own he would certainly take care of the old man—and
of Catalina.
Soon after this Archulera went off to sleep in the other end of the house,
after trying in vain to persuade Ramon to occupy his bed. Ramon, as
always, refused. He would sleep on a pile of sheep skins in the corner. He
really preferred this, because the sheep skins were both cleaner and
softer than Archulera’s bed, and also for another reason.
After the old man had gone, he stretched out on his pallet, and lit
another cigarette. He could hear his host thumping around for a few
minutes; then it was very still, save for a faint moan of wind and the
ticking of a cheap clock. This late still hour had always been to him one
of the most delightful parts of his visits to Archulera’s house. For some
reason he got a sense of peace and freedom out of this far-away quiet
place. And he knew that in the next room Catalina was waiting for
him—Catalina with the strong, shapely brown body which her formless calico
smock concealed by day, with the eager, blind desire bred of her long
loneliness.
During his first few visits to Archulera, he had scarcely noticed the
girl. That was doubtless one reason why the old man had welcomed him. He
had come here simply to go deer-hunting with Archulera, to eat his goat
meat and chile, to get away from the annoyance and boredom of his life in
town, and into the crude, primitive atmosphere which he had loved as a
boy. Catalina had been to him just the usual slovenly figure of a Mexican
woman, a self-effacing drudge.
He had felt her eyes upon him several times, had not looked up quickly
enough to meet them, but had noticed the pretty soft curve of her cheek.
Then one night when he was stretched out on his sheep skins after
Archulera had gone to bed, the girl came into the room and began pottering
about the stove. He had watched her, wondering what she was doing. As she
knelt on the floor he noticed the curve of her hip, the droop of her
breast against her frock, the surprising round perfection of her
outstretched arm. It struck him suddenly that she was a woman to be
desired, and one who might be taken with ease. At the same time, with a
quickening of the blood, he realized that she was doing nothing, and had
merely come into the room to attract his attention. Then she glanced at
him, daring but shy, with great brown eyes, like the eyes of a gentle
animal. When she went back to her own room a moment later, he confidently
followed.
Ever since then Catalina had been the chief object of his week-end
journeys, and his hunting largely an excuse. She had completed this life
which he led in the mountains, and which was so pleasantly different from
his life in town. For a part of the week he was a poor, young lawyer,
watchful, worried, careful; then for a couple of days he was a ragged
young Mexican and the lover of Catalina—a different man. He was the
product of a transition, and two beings warred in him. In town he was
dominated by the desire to be like the Americans, and to gain a foothold
in their life of law, greed and respectability; in the mountains he
relapsed unconsciously into the easy barbarous ways of his fathers.
Incidentally, this periodical change of personality was refreshing and a
source of strength. Catalina had been an important part of it.… As he lay
now sleepily puffing a last cigarette, he wondered why it was that he had
suddenly lost interest in the girl.