In riding about the range it was very pleasant to find, as one
constantly did, by the side of some "motte" (Texan for a considerable
cluster of scrub growth), or beneath the shade of a great live-oak, or
on the barren face of a divide, the little canvas A-tents of the
herders, nestled cosily to circular pens for the sheep, and generally
surrounded by brush to prevent the intrusion of inquisitive cattle.
Within the tent a sheepskin or so, stretched on the ground or on a
lattice of branches, for his bed, and without, a padlocked chest, with a
coffee mill screwed to the top, in which he keeps his rations, a skillet
and a few other utensils hanging from the branches of a neighboring
tree, a whitened buffalo's skull for a _metate_, a smouldering
fire,--this little spot, with its surrounding fence shutting out the
solitude, is the herder's palace, schloss, villa, town-and
country-house. "_Seguro_," says Juan, as he lights a brown cigarette and
quenches the yellow fuse in an empty cartridge-shell, "man wants but
little here below." They were a genial and hospitable set, the herders,
and if one arrived about mid-day they would regale him with scraps of
jerked beef, a cake of unleavened bread cooked in the skillet, and
coffee which, considering what it was made of, was a very inspiring
drink. In particular I recall the _pastor_ Patricio, a very pretty
fellow, with curly black hair and black eyes, a fine nose with a
patrician lift to the nostrils, a little black moustache bristling like
a cat's on a smiling lip, a red handkerchief about his neck: he was very
voluble of soft words, and made the waste blossom with his distinguished
manner. A dozen of these camps were to be discovered about the range,
and the brush fences and unused corrals of many more, which had been
used and would be used again as the sheep were moved from
grazing-ground to grazing-ground and portions of the range temporarily
exhausted.
From his camp the herder goes forth at daybreak with his flock of
fourteen hundred ewes and lambs or two thousand wethers, grazing slowly
toward the creek or neighboring water-hole where at noon he lies up in
the shade; and to it he slowly returns in the cool of the afternoon, the
flock moving in loose order among the mesquites, taking a nip here, a
nip there, but ever hanging together and dependent, the most gregarious
of animals. In their unity of action, in their interdependence and
solidarity, the timid sheep are capable of a momentary suggestion of
awe. About weaning-time a couple of large flocks got temporarily
together, and one could see driven by the herder a compact mass of four
thousand advancing over the prairie with a quick step, "a unit in
aggregate, a simple in composite," their impassible countenances gazing
fixedly forward, resembling, it seemed to me, a brigade going into
action. For most of the year it is thought by no means advisable to fold
the sheep in the corral at night, so they sleep at large near it.
Especially on moonlight nights they are apt to be uneasy and to move
from their bed-ground short distances, when the herder quits his tent,
and, rolling a cigarette, follows his fanciful flock about the blanched
and wistful prairie till they subside; then, throwing his cloak over his
shoulder with the swing of an hidalgo, he falls asleep beside them.
The herder's incidents are the fortnightly arrival of his rations and
the weekly or possibly more frequent visit of the superintendent to
count and examine his flock and inquire after the general condition of
things. The Mexican herder invariably denies all knowledge of English
and compels one to meet him on his own ground, which, it is needless to
say, is a far cry from Castile; and in encounters between Juan and the
superintendent the fine feathers of syntax are apt to fly in a way I
shall not attempt to reproduce.
"Good-afternoon, Juan," says the superintendent.
"Good-afternoon, señor."
"How's the flock, Juan?"
"Oh, pretty well, señor."
"No better than pretty?"
"No, señor."
"How's that?"
And then Juan goes on to explain that the recent unusually wet weather
has made many lame, etc., etc., to which the superintendent listens with
a grave countenance. Perhaps some unfortunate ewe has been bitten by a
"cat," or in some way received a wound in which the fly has deposited
its malignant egg: they lay her on her side and doctor her in company.
Finally, the superintendent gives the herder some tobacco, some
cigarette-papers, and a couple of yards of yellow fuse, and, mounting
his horse, nods farewell, and Juan touches his hat, smiles, and says,
"_Adios_."
In the ordinary course of events this is his weekly allowance of human
intercourse. It was the common opinion that none but Juan and his
brethren could stand this sort of thing; but what there is in the
Mexican character that adapts him to it only becomes a mystery on
acquaintance therewith. His most obvious and, one inclines to think, his
highest and most estimable quality is his sociability. He has a sense of
the agreeableness of life, with a very considerable feeling for manners.
This feeling makes it a pleasure for him to meet you; it causes him to
put _himself_ into the most commonplace conversation, the simplest
greeting, and make it, in his small way, a matter of art. It makes it a
pleasure for him to call upon a friend beneath the shade of some
live-oak or in a dugout or _jacal_, carrying some white sugar for his
wife or some candy for his little ones. Our instinctive disposition to
infer deplorable lacunae in the region of morals from the possession of
a talent for manners is in the case of the poor Mexican too thoroughly
justified. For him there is no such region; it is an undiscovered
country. He is the lightest of light-weights. When his heart is warmest
he is tossing a silver dollar in the air and thinking; of _monte_.
Cimental herded industriously during the winter, and became the proud
possessor of a horse and saddle, a Winchester, and a big ivory-handled
pistol. In May, shearing going on, he drove his flock to the
shearing-shed, and spent the night at the ranch. In the morning he came
into the store laughing. What about? Oh, he had had a little _monte_
over-night, and horse, saddle, rifle, revolver, all were gone. He had
been shorn of half a year's growth. But there was still a large deposit
at his bank,--the bank of Momus.
The herder has, of course, his "consolatory interstices and sprinklings
of freedom;" he undoubtedly mitigates his solitary life by frequent
derelictions, nightly visits to the farm--settlements (or the _jacal_)
which a few possess, and where he keeps, possibly, a wife and family.
But, on the whole, his life, and not unfrequently his death, is lonely,
Just before shearing-time Juan Lucio and his flock were lost. The flock
was found, but not Juan. It was impossible to say what had become of
him: he had a reputation for steadiness, and it seemed unlikely that he
had taken French leave. When shearing was in full swing, a couple of
freighters came for a load of wood. After some talk, they drove off to
camp, a little way up the creek, proposing to return in the morning.
About sunset they were seen slowly approaching the shearing-shed, It
seemed that in watering their horses they had seen a man in the creek.
The small freighter imparted this information in a low voice, with some
hesitation and a deprecatory half-smile. The young and large freighter
stood aloof, with a half-smile too, but he had evidently found the
sensation disagreeably strong. This, it seemed certain, must be the lost
Juan Lucio. The next day, which was Sunday, the ranchmen and a county
officer proceeded toward the scene of the discovery. The shearers heard
of the affair, and paused in the arrangement of a horse-race. They went
in a body to the store and purchased candles, and then the motley
cavalry coursed over the prairie after the rest. They lifted Juan Lucio
from the river and bore him to a live-oak tree, where the coroner and
his jurymen debated his situation. They inclined to think that he had
come to his death by drowning. Then the Mexicans dug a grave for him,
and stood a moment round it with their candles lighted; each lifted a
handful of earth and tossed it in. Finally, they covered the
prairie-grave with brush to protect it from the coyotes, and rode slowly
home in twos and threes. About a month after, a young Mexican rode into
the ranch: he had ridden from San Anton, two hundred miles away, to put
a board cross above his father's grave, marked for him by the
store-keeper, "Juan Lucio, May, 1884."
The herders on the ranch were all Mexicans, and throughout the county it
was generally so. An old Scotchman who paused one moment to smoke a pipe
beneath the porch was a solitary instance to the contrary. He was a most
markedly benevolent-looking old man, and had about him that copious halo
of hair with which benevolence seems to delight to surround itself. He
had also about him the halo of American humor, having just been up to
answer a charge of murder, in another county, of which he was
extravagantly innocent. He carried a crook, as seemed fitting, and had
with him two sheep-dogs, one of which the kindly man assured us he had
frequently cured of a recurrent disease by cutting off pieces of its
tail. This sacrificial part having been pretty well used up, the beast's
situation in view of another attack was very ticklish. And it had, in
fact, the air of occupying the anxious-seat. The Mexican, it may be
added, uses neither dog nor crook. He may have a cur or _pillone_ to
share his solitude, but its function is purely social: for catching
sheep there is his lariat. He is measurably faithful and trustworthy, a
careful observer of his flock, and quick to appreciate their troubles.
Of course he loses sheep semi-occasionally, causing those long
sheep-hunting rides among the hills which the ranchman curses and the
visitor enjoys; and occasionally in winter on cold nights he is
overpowered by the temptation to visit a friend, the whole flock gets
astray, and, fearing consequences, Juan, not stopping to fold his tent
like the Arab, silently steals away.