"HATS OFF!"
Within the city of Chihuahua, metropolis of the northern provinces of
Mexico--for the most part built of mud--standing in the midst of vast
barren plains, o'ertopped by bold porphyritic mountains--plains with a
population sparse as their timber--in the old city of Chihuahua lies the
first scene of our story.
Less than twenty thousand people dwell within the walls of this North
Mexican metropolis, and in the country surrounding it a like limited
number.
Once they were thicker on the soil; but the tomahawk of the Comanche and
the spear of the Apache have thinned off the descendants of the
_Conquistadores_, until country houses stand at wide distances apart,
with more than an equal number of ruins between.
Yet this same city of Chihuahua challenges weird and wonderful memories.
At the mention of its name springs up a host of strange records, the
souvenirs of a frontier life altogether different from that wreathed
round the history of Anglo-American borderland. It recalls the cowled
monk with his cross, and the soldier close following with his sword; the
old mission-house, with its church and garrison beside it; the fierce
savage lured from a roving life, and changed into a toiling _peon_,
afterwards to revolt against a system of slavery that even religion
failed to make endurable; the neophyte turning his hand against his
priestly instructor, equally his oppressor; revolt followed by a deluge
of blood, with ruinous devastation, until the walls of both _mission_
and military _cuartel_ are left tenantless, and the redskin has returned
to his roving.
Such a history has had the city of Chihuahua and the settlements in its
neighbourhood. Nor is the latter portion of it all a chronicle of the
olden time. Much of it belongs to modern days; ay, similar scenes are
transpiring even now. But a few years ago a stranger entering its gates
would have seen nailed overhead, and whisked to and fro by the wind,
some scores of objects similar to one another, and resembling tufts of
hair, long, trailing, and black, as if taken from the manes or tails of
horses. But it came not thence; it was human hair; and the patches of
skin that served to keep the bunches together had been stripped from
human skulls! They were _scalps_--the scalps of Indians, showing that
the Comanche and Apache savages had not had it all their own way.
Beside them could be seen other elevated objects of auricle shape, set
in rows or circles like a festooning of child peppers strung up for
preservation. No doubt their procurement had drawn tears from the eyes
of those whose heads had furnished them, for they were human ears!
These ghastly souvenirs were the _bounty warrants_ of a band whose deeds
have been already chronicled by this same pen. They were the trophies
of "Scalp Hunters"--vouchers for the number of Indians they had killed.
They were there less than a quarter of a century ago, waving in the dry
wind that sweeps over the plains of Chihuahua. For aught the writer
knows, they may be there still; or, if not the same, others of like gory
record replacing or supplementing them.
It is not with the "Scalp Hunters" we have now to do--only with the city
of Chihuahua. And not much with it either. A single scene occurring in
its streets is all of Chihuahuaense life to be depicted in this tale.
It was the spectacle of a religious procession--a thing far from
uncommon in Chihuahua or any other Mexican town; on the contrary, so
common that at least weekly the like may be witnessed. This was one of
the grandest, representing the story of the Crucifixion. Citizens of
all classes assisted at the ceremony, the soldiery also taking part in
it. The clergy, of course, both secular and regular, were its chief
supports and propagators. To them it brought bread, and if not butter--
since there is none in Chihuahua--it added to their incomes and
influence, by the sale of leaden crosses, images of the Virgin Mother,
and the numerous sisterhood of saints. In the _funcion_ figured the
usual Scripture characters:--The Redeemer conducted to the place of
Passion; the crucifix, borne on the shoulders of a brawny, brown-skinned
Simon; Pilate the oppressor; Judas the betrayer--in short, every
prominent personage spoken of as having been present on that occasion
when the Son of Man suffered for our sins.
There is, or was then, an American hotel in Chihuahua, or at least one
conducted in the American fashion, though only a mere _posada_. Among
its guests was a gentleman, stranger to the town, as the country. His
dress and general appearance bespoke him from the States, and by the
same tokens it could be told that he belonged to their southern section.
He was in truth a Kentuckian; but so far from representing the type,
tall, rough, and stalwart, usually ascribed to the people "Kaintuck," he
was a man of medium size, with a build comparable to that of the
Belvidere Apollo. He had a figure tersely set, with limbs well knitted;
a handsome face and features of amiable cast, at the same time
expressing confidence and courage. A costly Guayaquil hat upon his
head, and coat to correspond, bespoke him respectable; his _tout
ensemble_ proclaimed him a man of leisure; while his air and bearing
were unmistakably such as could only belong to a born gentleman.
Why he was in Chihuahua, or whence he had come to it, no one seemed to
know or care. Enough that he was there, and gazing at the spectacular
procession as it filed past the posada.
He was regarding it with no eye of wonderment. In all likelihood he had
seen such before. He could not have travelled far through Mexico
without witnessing some ceremony of a similar kind.
Whether interested in this one or no he was soon notified that he was
not regarding it in the manner proper or customary to the country.
Standing half behind one of the pillars of the hotel porch, he had not
thought it necessary to take off his hat. Perhaps placed in a more
conspicuous position he would have done this. Frank Hamersley--for such
was his name--was not the sort of man to seek notoriety by an exhibition
of bravado, and, being a Protestant of a most liberal creed, he would
have shrunk from offending the slightest sensibilities of those
belonging to an opposite faith--even the most bigoted Roman Catholic of
that most bigoted land. That his "Guayaquil" still remained upon his
head was due to simple forgetfulness of its being there; it had not
occurred to him to uncover.
While silently standing with eyes turned towards the procession, he
observed scowling looks, and heard low growlings from the crowd as it
swayed slowly past. He knew enough to be conscious of what this meant;
but he felt at the same time disinclined to humiliate himself by a too
facile compliance. A proud American, in the midst of a people he had
learned to despise--their idolatrous observances along with them--no
wonder he should feel a little defiant and a good deal exasperated.
Enough yielding, he thought, to withdraw farther back from behind the
pillar, which he did.
It was too late. The keen eye of a fanatic had been upon him--one who
appeared to have authority for meting out chastisement. An officer,
bearded and grandly bedizened, riding at the head of a troop of lancers,
quickly wheeled his horse from out of the line of march, and spurred him
towards the porch of the posada. In another instant his bared blade was
waving over the hatted head of the Kentuckian.
"_Gringo! alto su sombrero! Abajo! a sus rodillas_!" ("Off with your
hat, greenhorn! Down upon your knees!") were the words that came
hissing from the moustached lips of the lancer.
As they failed to beget compliance, they were instantly followed by a
blow from the blade of his sabre. It was given sideways, but with
sufficient sleight and force to send the Guayaquil hat whirling over the
pavement, and its wearer reeling against the wall.
It was but the stagger of a sudden and unexpected surprise. In another
instant the "gringo" had drawn a revolving pistol, and in yet another
its bullet would have been through the brain of the swaggering
aggressor, but for a third personage, who, rushing from behind, laid
hold of the Kentuckian's arm, and restrained the firing.
At first it seemed to Hamersley the act of another enemy; but in a
moment he knew it to be the behaviour of a friend--at least a
pacificator bent upon seeing fair play.
"You are wrong, Captain Uraga," interposed he who had intermeddled,
addressing himself to the officer. "This gentleman is a stranger in the
country, and not acquainted with our customs."
"Then it is time the heretico should be taught them, and, at the same
time, respect for the Holy Church. But what right, Colonel Miranda,
have you to interfere?"
"The right, first of humanity, second of hospitality, and third that I
am your superior officer."
"Bah! You mistake yourself. Remember, senor coronel, you are not in
your own district. If it was in Albuquerque, I might take commands from
you. This is the city of Chihuahua."
"Chihuahua or not, you shall be made answerable for this outrage. Don't
imagine that your patron, Santa Anna, is now Dictator, with power to
endorse such base conduct as yours. You seem to forget, Captain Uraga,
that you carry your commission under a new regime--one that holds itself
responsible, not only to fixed laws, but to the code of decency--
responsible also for international courtesy to the great Republic of
which, I believe, this gentleman is a citizen."
"Bah!" once more exclaimed the bedizened bully. "Preach your _palabras_
to ears that have time to listen to them. I shan't stop the procession
for either you or your Yankee protege. So you can both go to the
devil."
With this benevolent permission the captain of lancers struck the spurs
into his horse, and once more placed himself at the head of his troop.
The crowd collected by the exciting episode soon scattered away--the
sooner that the strange gentleman, along with his generous defender, had
disappeared from the portico, having gone inside the inn.
The procession was still passing, and its irresistible attractions swept
the loiterers along in its current--most of them soon forgetting a scene
which, in that land, where "law secures not life," is of too frequent
occurrence to be either much thought of or for long remembered.