DON PABLO MORENO
On the edge of the barren mesa and looking out over the sandy flats
where the Salagua writhed about uneasily in its bed, the _casa_ of Don
Pablo Moreno stood like a mud fort, barricaded by a palisade of the
thorny cactus which the Mexicans call _ocotilla_. Within this fence,
which inclosed several acres of standing grain and the miniature of a
garden, there were all the signs of prosperity--a new wagon under its
proper shade, a storehouse strongly built where chickens lingered
about for grain, a clean-swept _ramada_ casting a deep shadow across
the open doorway; but outside the inclosure the ground was stamped as
level as a threshing floor. As Creede and Hardy drew near, an old man,
grave and dignified, came out from the shady veranda and opened the
gate, bowing with the most courtly hospitality.
"_Buenos tardes, senores_," he pronounced, touching his hat in a
military salute. "_Pasa!_ Welcome to my poor house."
In response to these salutations Creede made the conventional
replies, and then as the old man stood expectant he said in a hurried
aside to Hardy:
"D'ye talk Spanish? He don't understand a word of English."
"Sure," returned Hardy. "I was brought up on it!"
"No!" exclaimed Creede incredulously, and then, addressing the Senor
Moreno in his native tongue, he said: "Don Pablo, this is my friend
Senor Hardy, who will live with me at Agua Escondida!"
"With great pleasure, senor," said the old gentleman, removing his
hat, "I make your acquaintance!"
"The pleasure is mine," replied Hardy, returning the salutation, and
at the sound of his own language Don Pablo burst into renewed
protestations of delight. Within the cool shadow of his _ramada_ he
offered his own chair and seated himself in another, neatly fashioned
of mesquite wood and strung with thongs of rawhide. Then, turning his
venerable head to the doorway which led to the inner court, he shouted
in a terrible voice:
"_Muchacho_!"
Instantly from behind the adobe wall, around the corner of which he
had been slyly peeping, a black-eyed boy appeared and stood before
him, his ragged straw hat held respectfully against his breast.
"_Sus manos!_" roared the old man; and dropping his hat the
_muchacho_ touched his hands before him in an attitude of prayer.
"Give the gentlemen a drink!" commanded Don Pablo severely, and after
Hardy had accepted the gourd of cold water which the boy dipped from a
porous _olla_, resting in the three-pronged fork of a trimmed
mesquite, the old gentleman called for his tobacco. This the _mozo_
brought in an Indian basket wrought by the Apaches who live across the
river--Bull Durham and brown paper. The senor offered these to his
guest, while Creede grinned in anticipation of the outcome.
"What?" exclaimed the Senor Moreno, astounded. "You do not smoke? Ah,
perhaps it is my poor tobacco! But wait, I have a cigarro which the
storekeeper gave me when I--No? No smoke nothing? Ah, well, well--no
smoke, no Mexicano, as the saying goes." He regarded his guest
doubtfully, with a shadow of disfavor. Then, rolling a cigarette, he
remarked: "You have a very white skin, Senor Hardy; I think you have
not been in Arizona very long."
"Only a year," replied Hardy modestly.
"_Muchacho!_" cried the senor. "Run and tell the senora to hasten the
dinner. And where," he inquired, with the shrewd glance of a country
lawyer, "and where did you learn, then, this excellent Spanish which
you speak?"
"At Old Camp Verde, to the north," replied Hardy categorically, and at
the name Creede looked up with sudden interest. "I lived there when I
was a boy."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Don Pablo, raising his eyebrows. "And were your
parents with you?"
"Oh, yes," answered Hardy, "my father was an officer at the post."
"Ah, _si_, _si_, _si_," nodded the old man vigorously, "now I
understand. Your father fought the Apaches and you played with the
little Mexican boys, no? But now your skin is white--you have not
lived long under our sun. When the Apaches were conquered your parents
moved, of course--they are in San Francisco now, perhaps, or Nuevo
York."
"My father is living near San Francisco," admitted Hardy, "but," and
his voice broke a little at the words, "my mother has been dead many
years."
"Ah, indeed," exclaimed Don Pablo sympathetically, "I am very sorry.
My own _madre_ has been many years dead also. But what think you of
our country? Is it not beautiful?"
"Yes, indeed," responded Hardy honestly, "and you have a wonderful air
here, very sweet and pure."
"_Seguro!_" affirmed the old man, "_seguro que si!_ But alas," he
added sadly, "one cannot live on air alone. Ah, _que malo_, how bad
these sheep are!"
He sighed, and regarded his guest sadly with eyes that were bloodshot
from long searching of the hills for cattle.
"I remember the day when the first sheep came," he said, in the manner
of one who begins a set narration. "In the year of '91 the rain came,
more, more, more, until the earth was full and the excess made
_lagunas_ on the plain. That year the Salagua left all bounds and
swept my fine fields of standing corn away, but we did not regret it
beyond reason for the grass came up on the mesas high as a horse's
belly, and my cattle and those of my friend Don Luis, the good father
of Jeff, here, spread out across the plains as far as the eye could
see, and every cow raised her calf. But look! On the next year no rain
came, and the river ran low, yet the plains were still yellow with
last year's grass. All would have been well now as before, with grass
for all, when down from the north like grasshoppers came the
_borregos_--_baaa_, _baaa_, _baaa_--thousands of them, and they were
starving. Never had I seen bands of sheep before in Arizona, nor the
father of Don Jeff, but some say they had come from California in '77,
when the drought visited there, and had increased in Yavapai and fed
out all the north country until, when this second _ano seco_ came
upon them, there was no grass left to eat. And now, _amigo_, I will
tell you one thing, and you may believe it, for I am an old man and
have dwelt here long: it is not God who sends the dry years, but the
sheep!
"_Mira!_ I have seen the mowing machine of the Americano cut the tall
grass and leave all level--so the starved sheep of Yavapai swept
across our mesa and left it bare. Yet was there feed for all, for our
cattle took to the mountains and browsed higher on the bushes, above
where the sheep could reach; and the sheep went past and spread out on
the southern desert and were lost in it, it was so great.
"That was all, you will say--but no! In the Spring every ewe had her
lamb, and many two, and they grew fat and strong, and when the grass
became dry on the desert because the rains had failed again, they came
back, seeking their northern range where the weather was cool, for a
sheep cannot endure the heat. Then we who had let them pass in pity
were requited after the way of the _borregueros_--we were sheeped out,
down to the naked rocks, and the sheepmen went on, laughing
insolently. _Ay, que malo los borregueros_, what devils they are; for
hunger took the strength from our cows so that they could not suckle
their calves, and in giving birth many mothers and their little ones
died together. In that year we lost half our cows, Don Luis Creede and
I, and those that lived became thin and rough, as they are to this
day, from journeying to the high mountains for feed and back to the
far river for water.
"Then the father of Jeff became very angry, so that he lost weight and
his face became changed, and he took an oath that the first sheep or
sheep-herder that crossed his range should be killed, and every one
thereafter, as long as he should live. Ah, what a _buen hombre_ was
Don Luis--if we had one man like him to-day the sheep would yet go
round--a big man, with a beard, and he had no fear, no not for a
hundred men. And when in November the sheep came bleating back, for
they had promised so to do as soon as the feed was green, Don Luis met
them at the river, and he rode along its bank, night and day,
promising all the same fate who should come across--and, _umbre_, the
sheep went round!"
The old man slapped his leg and nodded his head solemnly. Then he
looked across at Creede and his voice took on a great tenderness. "My
friend has been dead these many years," he said, "but he was a true
man."
As Don Pablo finished his story the Senora opened the door of the
kitchen where the table was already set with boiled beans, meat stewed
with peppers, and thin corn cakes--the conventional _frijoles_, _carne
con chili_, and _tortillas_ of the Mexicans--and some fried eggs in
honor of the company. As the meal progressed the Senora maintained a
discreet silence, patting out _tortillas_ and listening politely to
her husband's stock of stories, for Don Pablo was lord in his own
house. The big-eyed _muchacho_ sat in the corner, watching the corn
cakes cook on the top of the stove and battening on the successive
rations which were handed out to him. There were stories, as they ate,
of the old times, of the wars and revolutions of Sonora, wherein the
Senor Moreno had taken too brave a part, as his wounds and exile
showed; strange tales of wonders and miracles wrought by the Indian
doctors of Altar; of sacred snakes with the sign of the cross blazoned
in gold on their foreheads, worshipped by the Indians with offerings
of milk and tender chickens; of primitive life on the _haciendas_ of
Sonora, where men served their masters for life and were rewarded at
the end with a pension of beans and _carne seco_.
Then as the day waned they sat at peace in the _ramada_, Moreno and
Creede smoking, and Hardy watching the play of colors as the sun
touched the painted crags of the Bulldog and lighted up the square
summit of Red Butte across the river, throwing mysterious shadows into
the black gorge which split it from crown to base. Between that high
cliff and the cleft red butte flowed the Salagua, squirming through
its tortuous canyon, and beyond them lay Hidden Water, the unknown,
whither a single man was sent to turn back the tide of sheep.
In the silence the tinkle of bells came softly from up the canyon and
through the dusk Hardy saw a herd of goats, led by a long-horned ram,
trailing slowly down from the mesa. They did not pause, either to rear
up on their hind feet for browse or to snoop about the gate, but filed
dutifully into their own corral and settled down for the night.
"Your goats are well trained, Don Pablo," said Hardy, by way of
conversation. "They come home of their own accord."
"Ah, no," protested Moreno, rising from his chair. "It is not the
goats but my goat dogs that are well trained. Come with me while I
close the gate and I will show you my flock."
The old gentleman walked leisurely down the trail to the corral, and
at their approach Hardy saw two shaggy dogs of no breed suddenly
detach themselves from the herd and spring defiantly forward.
"_Quita se, quita se!"_ commanded Don Pablo, and at his voice they
halted, still growling and baring their fangs at Hardy.
"_Mira_," exclaimed the old man, "are they not _bravo_? Many times the
_borregueros_ have tried to steal my bucks to lead their timid sheep
across the river, but Tira and Diente fight them like devils. One
Summer for a week the _chivas_ did not return, having wandered far up
into the mountains, but in the end Tira and Diente fetched them safely
home. See them now, lying down by the mother goat that suckled them;
you would not believe it, but they think they are goats."
He laughed craftily at the idea, and at Hardy's eager questions.
"_Seguro_," he said, "surely I will tell you about my goat dogs, for
you Americans often think the Mexicans are _tonto_, having no good
sense, because our ways are different. When I perceived that my cattle
were doomed by reason of the sheep trail crossing the river here at my
feet I bought me a she-goat with kids, and a ram from another flock.
These I herded myself along the brow of the hill, and they soon
learned to rear up against the bushes and feed upon the browse which
the sheep could not reach. Thus I thought that I might in time conquer
the sheep, fighting the devil with fire; but the coyotes lay in wait
constantly to snatch the kids, and once when the river was high the
_borregueros_ of Jeem Swopa stole my buck to lead their sheep across.
"Then I remembered a trick of my own people in Sonora, and I took the
blind pups of a dog, living far from here, and placed each of them
with a she-goat having one newborn kid; and while the kid was sucking
at one teat the mother could not help but let down milk for the puppy
at the other, until at last when the dog smell had left him she
adopted him for her own. Now as the pups grew up they went out on the
hills with their goat mother, and when, they being grown, she would no
longer suckle them, they stole milk from the other she-goats; and so
they live to-day, on milk and what rabbits they can catch. But
whenever they come to the house I beat them and drive them back--their
nature is changed now, and they love only goats. Eight years ago I
raised my first goat dogs, for many of them desert their mothers and
become house dogs, and now I have over a hundred goats, which they
lead out morning and night."
The old man lashed fast the gate to the corral and turned back toward
the house.
"Ah, yes," he said musingly, "the Americanos say continually that we
Mexicanos are foolish--but look at me! Here is my good home, the same
as before. I have always plenty beans, plenty meat, plenty flour,
plenty coffee. I welcome every one to my house, to eat and sleep--yet
I have plenty left. I am _muy contento_, Senor Hardy--yes, I am always
happy. But the Americanos? No! When the sheep come, they fight; when
their cattle are gone, they move; fight, fight; move, move; all the
time." He sighed and gazed wearily at the barren hills.
"Senor Hardy," he said at last, "you are young, yet you have seen the
great world--perhaps you will understand. Jeff tells me you come to
take charge of the Dos S Rancho, where the sheep come through by
thousands, even as they did here when there was grass. I am an old man
now; I have lived on this spot twenty-four years and seen much of the
sheep; let me advise you.
"When the sheepmen come across the river do not fight, as Don Jeff
does continually, but let them pass. They are many and the cowmen are
few; they are rich and we are very poor; how then can a few men whip
many, and those armed with the best? And look--if a sheepman is killed
there is the law, you know, and lawyers--yes, and money!" He shrugged
his shoulders and threw out his hands, peeping ruefully through the
fingers to symbolize prison bars.
"Is it not so?" he asked, and for the first time an Americano agreed
with him.
"One thing more, then," said Don Pablo, lowering his voice and
glancing toward the house, where Creede was conversing with the
Senora. "The _papa_ of Don Jeff yonder was a good man, but he was a
fighting Texano--and Jeff is of the same blood. Each year as the sheep
come through I have fear for him, lest he should kill some saucy
_borreguero_ and be sent to prison; for he has angry fits, like his
father, and there are many bad men among the sheep-herders,--escaped
criminals from Old Mexico, _ladrones_, and creatures of low blood,
fathered by evil Americanos and the nameless women of towns.
"In Sonora we would whip them from our door, but the sheepmen make
much of their herders, calling them brothers and _cunados_ and what
not, to make them stay, since the work is hard and dangerous. And to
every one of them, whether herder or camp rustler, the owners give a
rifle with ammunition, and a revolver to carry always. So they are
drunk with valor. But our Jeff here has no fear of them, no, nor
decent respect. He overrides them when the fit is on him, as if they
were unfanged serpents--and so far he has escaped."
The old man leaned closer, and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper,
acting out his words dramatically.
"But some day--" he clasped his heart, closed his eyes, and seemed to
lurch before a bullet. "No?" he inquired, softly. "Ah, well, then, you
must watch over him, for he is a good man, doing many friendships, and
his father was a _buen hombre_, too, in the days when we all were
rich. So look after him--for an old man," he added, and trudged
wearily back to the house.