Death; and the Donna Anna.
"Locoweed? Do I savey loco?" The Old Cattleman's face offered full
hint of his amazement as he repeated in the idiom of his day and
kind the substance of my interrogatory.
"Why, son," he continued, "every longhorn who's ever cinched a
Colorado saddle, or roped a steer, is plumb aware of locoweed. Loco
is Mexicano for mad--crazy. An' cattle or mules or ponies or
anythin' else, that makes a repast of locoweed--which as a roole
they don't, bein' posted instinctif that loco that a-way is no
bueno--goes crazy; what we-all in the Southwest calls 'locoed.'
"Whatever does this yere plant resemble? I ain't no sharp on loco,
but the brand I encounters is green, bunchy, stiff, an' stands
taller than the grass about it. An' it ain't allers thar when looked
for, loco ain't. It's one of these yere migratory weeds; you'll see
it growin' about the range mebby one or two seasons, an' then it
sort o' pulls its freight. Thar wont come no more loco for years.
"Mostly, as I observes prior, anamiles disdains loco, an' passes it
up as bad medicine. They're organized with a notion ag'inst it, same
as ag'inst rattlesnakes An'as for them latter reptiles, you can
take a preacher's hoss, foaled in the lap of civilization, who ain't
seen nothin' more broadenin' than the reg'lar church service, with
now an' then a revival, an' yet he's born knowin' so much about
rattlesnakes in all their hein'ousness, that he'll hunch his back
an' go soarin' 'way up yonder at the first Zizzz-z-z-z.
"Doc Peets informs me once when we crosses up with some locoweed
over by the Cow Springs, that thar's two or three breeds of this
malignant vegetable. He writes down for me the scientific name of
the sort we gets ag'inst. Thar she is."
And my friend produced from some recess of a gigantic pocketbook a
card whereon the learned Peets had written oxytropis Lamberti.
"That's what Peets says loco is," he resumed, as I handed back the
card. "Of course, I don't go surgin' off pronouncin' no sech words;
shorely not in mixed company. Some gent might take it personal an'
resent it. But I likes to pack 'em about, an' search 'em out now an'
then, jest to gaze on an' think what a dead cold scientist Doc Peets
is. He's shorely the high kyard; thar never is that drug-sharp in
the cow country in my day who's fit to pay for Peets' whiskey.
Scientific an' eddicated to a feather aige, Peets is. "You-all
oughter heard him lay for one of them cliff-climbin', bone-huntin'
stone c'llectors who comes out from Washin'ton for the Gov'ment. One
of these yere deep people strikes Wolfville on one of them rock-
roundups he's makin', an' for a-while it looks like he's goin' to
split things wide open. He's that contrary about his learnin', he
wont use nothin' but words of four syllables-words that runs about
eight to the pound. He comes into the New York Store where Boggs an'
Tutt an' me is assembled, an', you hear me, son! that savant has us
walkin' in a cirkle in a minute. "It's Peets who relieves us. Peets
strolls up an' engages this person in a debate touchin' mule-hoof
hawgs; the gov'ment sport maintainin' thar ain't no such swine with
hoofs like a mule, because he's never heard about 'em; an' Peets
takin' the opp'site view because he's done met an' eat 'etn a whole
lot. "'The mere fact,' says Peets to this scientist, 'that you
mavericks never knows of this mule-hoof hawg, cannot be taken as
proof he does not still root an' roam the land. Thar's more than one
of you Washin'ton shorthorns who's chiefly famed for what he's
failed to know. The mule-hoof hawg is a fact; an' the ignorance of
closet naturalists shall not prevail ag'inst him. His back is arched
like a greyhound's, he's about the thickness of a bowie-knife, he's
got hoofs like a mule, an' sees his highest deevelopment in the
wilds of Arkansaw.' "But speakin' of locoweed, it's only o'casional
that cattle or mules or broncos partakes tharof. Which I might
repeat for the third time that, genial, they eschews it. But you--
all never will know how wise a anamile is till he takes to munchin'
loco. Once he's plumb locoed, he jest don't know nothin'; then it
dawns on you, by compar'son like, how much he saveys prior. The
change shows plainest in mules; they bein'--that is, the mule normal
an' before he's locoed--the wisest of beasts. Wise, did I say? A
mule is more than valise, he's sagacious. An' thar's a mighty sight
of difference. To be simply wise, all one has to do is set 'round
an' think wise things, an' mebby say 'em. It's only when a gent goes
trackin' 'round an' does wise things, you calls him sagacious. An'
mules does wisdom.
"Shore! I admits it; I'm friendly to mules. If the Southwest ever
onbends in a intellectual competition--whites barred--mules will
stand at the head. The list should come out, mules, coyotes, Injuns,
Mexicans, ponies, jack rabbits, sheepherders, an' pra'ry dogs, the
last two bein' shorely imbecile.
"Yes, son; you can lean up ag'inst the intelligence of a mule an' go
to sleep. Not but what mules hasn't their illoosions, sech as white
mares an' sim'lar reedie'lous inflooences; but them's weaknesses of
the sperit rather than of mind.
"While mules don't nacherally go scoutin' for loco, an' commonly
avoids said weed when found, if they ever does taste it once, they
never quits it as long as they lives. It's like whiskey to Huggins
an' Old Monte; the appetite sort o' goes into camp with 'em an'
takes possession. No; a locoed mule ain't vicious nor voylent; it's
more like the tree-mors--he sees spectacles that ain't thar none.
I've beheld a locoed mule that a-way, standin' alone on the level
plains in the sun, kickin' an' pitchin' to beat a straight flush. he
thinks he's surrounded by Injuns or other hostiles; he's that crazy
he don't know grass from t'ran'lers. An' their mem'ry's wiped out;
they forgets to eat an' starves to death. That's the way they dies,
onless some party who gets worked up seein' 'em about, takes a
Winchester an' pumps a bullet into 'em.
"Yes, Peets says if a gent was to take to loadin' up on loco, or
deecoctions tharof, he'd become afflicted by bats, same as cattle
an' mules. But no one I knows of, so far as any news of it ever
comes grazin' my way, is that ongyarded. I never hears tell in
detail of sech a case but onct, an' that's a tale that Old Man
Enright sets forth one evenin' in the Red Light.
"We-all is settin' 'round the faro layout at the time. Cherokee Hall
is back of the box, with Faro Nell on the look-out's stool, but
nobody's feelin' playful, an' no money's bein' changed in. It's only
about first drink time in the evenin', which, as a season, is
prematoor for faro-bank. It's Dave Tutt who brings up the matter
with some remarks he makes touchin' the crazy-hoss conduct of a
party who works over to the stage company's corral. This hoss-
hustler is that eccentric he's ediotic, an' is known as 'Locoed
Charlie.' It's him who final falls a prey to ants that time.
"'An' it's my belief,' asserts Tutt, as he concloodes his relations
of the ranikaboo breaks of this party, 'that if this Charlie,
speakin' mine fashion, was to take his intellects over to the assay
office in Tucson, they wouldn't show half a ounce of idee to the
ton; wouldn't even show a color. Which he's shore locoed.'
"'Speakin' of being locoed that a-way,' says Enright, 'recalls an
incident that takes place back when I'm a yearlin' an' assoomes my
feeble part in the Mexican War. That's years ago, but I don't know
of nothln' sadder than that story, nothin' more replete of sobs. Not
that I weeps tharat, for I'm a thoughtless an' a callous yooth, but,
all the same, it glooms me up a heap.'
"'Is it a love story, Daddy Enright?' asks Faro Nell, all eager, an'
bendin' towards Enright across the layout.
"'It shows brands an' y'ear marks as sech, Nellie,' says Enright;
'love an' loco makes up the heft of it.'
"'Then tell it,' urges Faro Nell. 'I'm actooally hungerin' for a
love story,' an' she reaches down an' squeezes Cherokee's hand onder
the table.
"Cherokee squeezes hers, an' turns his deal box on its side to show
thar's no game goin', an' leans back with the rest of us to listen.
Black Jack, who knows his mission on this earth, brings over a
bottle with glasses all 'round.
"'Yere's to you, Nellie,' says Texas Thompson, as we shoves the
nose-paint about. 'While that divorce edict my wife wins back in
Laredo modifies my interest in love tales, an' whereas I don't feel
them thrills as was the habit of me onct, still, in a subdooed way I
can drink happiness to you.'
"'Texas,'says Boggs, settin' down his glass an' bendin' a eye full
of indignant reproach on Thompson; 'Texas, before I'd give way to
sech onmanly weakness, jest because my wife's done stampeded, I'd
j'ine the church. Sech mush from a cow-man is disgraceful. You'll
come down to herdin' sheep if you keeps on surrenderin' yourse'f to
sech sloppy bluffs.'
"'See yere, Dan,' retorts Thompson, an' his eye turns red on Bogs;
'my feelin's may be bowed onder losses which sech nachers as yours
is too coarse to feel, but you can gamble your bottom dollar, jest
the same, I will still resent insultin' criticisms. I advises you to
be careful an' get your chips down right when you addresses me, or
you may quit loser on the deal.'
"'Now you're a couple of fine three-year-olds! breaks in Jack Moore.
'Yere we be, all onbuckled an'fraternal, an' Enright on the brink of
a love romance by the ardent requests of Nell, an' you two longhorns
has to come prancin' out an' go pawin' for trouble. You know mighty
well, Texas, that Boggs is your friend an' the last gent to go
harassin' you with contoomely.'
"'Right you be, Jack,' says Boggs plenty prompt; 'if my remarks to
Texas is abrupt, or betrays heat, it's doo to the fact that it
exasperates me to see the most elevated gent in camp--for so I holds
Texas Thompson to be--made desolate by the wild breaks of a lady who
don't know her own mind, an' mighty likely ain't got no mind to
know.'
"'I reckons I'm wrong, Dan,' says Thompson, turnin' apol'getic. 'Let
it all go to the diskyard. I'm that peevish I simply ain't fit to
stay yere nor go anywhere else. I ain't been the same person since
my wife runs cimmaron that time an' demands said sep'ration.'
"'Bein' I'm a married man,' remarks Dave Tutt, sort o' gen'ral, but
swellin' out his chest an' puttin' on a lot of dog at the same time,
'an' wedded to Tucson Jennie, the same bein' more or less known, I
declines all partic'pation in discussions touchin' the sex. I could,
however, yoonite with you-all in another drink, an' yereby su'gests
the salve. Barkeep, it's your play.' "'That's all right about
another drink,' says Faro Nell, 'but I wants to state that I
sympathizes with Texas in them wrongs. I has my views of a female
who would up an' abandon a gent like Texas Thompson, an' I explains
it only on the theery that she shorely must have been coppered in
her cradle.'
"'Nellie onderstands my feelin's,' says Texas, an' he's plumb
mournful, 'an' I owes her for them utterances. However, on second
thought, an' even if it is a love tale, if Enright will resoome his
relations touchin' that eepisode of the Mexican War, I figgers that
it may divert me from them divorce griefs I alloodes to. An', at any
rate, win or lose, I assures Enright his efforts will be regyarded.'
"Old Man Enright takes his seegyar out of his mouth an' rouses up a
bit. He's been wropped in thought doorin' the argyments of Boggs an'
Thompson, like he's tryin' to remember a far-off past. As Thompson
makes his appeal, he braces up.
"'Now that Dan an' Texas has ceased buckin',' says Enright, 'an'
each has all four feet on the ground, I'll try an' recall them
details. As I remarks, its towards the close of the Mexican War.
Whatever I'm doin' in that carnage is a conundrum that's never been
solved. I had hardly shed my milk teeth, an' was only 'leven hands
high at the time. An' I ain't so strong physical, but I feels the
weight of my spurs when I walks. As I looks back to it, I must have
been about as valyooable an aid to the gov'ment, as the fifth kyard
in a poker hand when four of a kind is held. The most partial an'
besotted of critics would have conceded that if I'd been left out
entire, that war couldn't have suffered material charges in its
results. However, to get for'ard, for I sees that Nellie's patience
begins to mill an' show symptoms of comin' stampede.
"'It's at the close of hostil'ties,' goes on Enright, 'an' the
company I'm with is layin' up in the hills about forty miles back
from Vera Cruz, dodgin' yellow fever. We was cavalry, what the folks
in Tennessee calls a "critter company," an', hailin' mostly from
that meetropolis or its vicinity, we was known to ourse'fs at least
as the "Pine Knot Cavaliers." Thar's a little Mexican village where
we be that's called the "Plaza Perdita." An' so we lays thar at the
Plaza Perdita, waitin' for orders an' transportation to take us back
to the States.
"'Which most likely we're planted at this village about a month, an'
the Mexicans is beginnin' to get used to us, an' we on our parts is
playin' monte, an' eatin' frijoles, an' accommodatin' ourse'fs to
the simple life of the place. Onct a week the chaplain preaches to
us. He holds that Mexico is a pagan land, an', entertainin' this
idee, he certainly does make onusual efforts to keep our morals
close-herded, an' our souls bunched an' banded up in the Christian
faith, as expressed by the Baptis' church. Candor, however, compels
me to say that this yere pulpit person can't be deescribed as a
heavy winner on the play.' "'Was you-all so awful bad?' asks Faro
Nell.
"'No,' replies Enright, 'we ain't so bad none, but our conduct is a
heap onhampered, which is the same thing to the chaplain. He gives
it out emphatic, after bein' with the Pine Knot Cavaliers over a
year, that he plumb despairs of us becomin' christians.'
"'Whatever does he lay down on you-all like that for?' says Faro
Nell. 'Couldn't a soldier be a christian, Daddy Enright?'
"'Why, I reckons he might,' says Enright, he'pin' himse'f to a
drink; 'a soldier could he a christian, Nellie, but after all it
ain't necessary.
"'Still, we-all likes the chaplain because them ministrations of his
is entertainin', an', for that matter, he likes us a lot, an' in
more reelaxed moments allows we ain't so plumb crim'nal--merely
loose like on p'ints of doctrine.'
"'Baptis' folks is shore strong on doctrines,' says Tutt, coincidin'
in with Enright. 'I knows that myse'f. Doctrine is their long suit.
They'll go to any len'ths for doctrines, you hear me! I remembers
once ridin' into a hamlet back in the Kaintucky mountains. Thar
ain't one hundred people in the village, corral count. An' yet I
notes two church edifices.
"You-all is plenty opulent on sanctooaries," I says to the barkeep
at the tavern where I camps for the night. "It's surprisin', too,
when you considers the size of the herd. What be the two
deenom'nations that worships at them structures?"
"'"Both Baptis'," says the barkeep.
"'"Whyever, since they're ridin' the same range an' runnin' the same
brand," I says, "don't they combine like cattle folks an' work their
round-ups together?"
"'"They splits on doctrine," says the barkeep; "you couldn't get 'em
together with a gun. They disagrees on Adam. That outfit in the
valley holds that Adam was all right when he started, but later he
struck something an' glanced off; them up on the hill contends that
Adam was a hoss-thief from the jump. An' thar you be! You couldn't
reeconcile 'em between now an'the crack of doom. Doctrines to a
Baptis' that a-way is the entire check-rack."
"'To ag'in pick up said narratif,' says Enright, when Tutt subsides,
'at the p'int where Dave comes spraddlin' in with them onasked
reminiscences, I may say that a first source of pleasure to us, if
not of profit, while we stays at the Plaza Perdita, is a passel of
Mexicanos with a burro train that brings us our pulque from some'ers
back further into the hills.'"
"What's pulque?" I interjected.
It was plain that my old gentleman of cows as little liked my
interruption as Enright liked that of the volatile Tutt. He hid his
irritation, however, under an iron politeness and explained.
"Pulque is a disapp'intin' form of beverage, wharof it takes a bar'l
to get a gent drunk," he observed. And then, with some severity: "It
ain't for me to pull no gun of criticism, but I'm amazed that a
party of your attainments, son, is ignorant of pulque. It's, as I
says, a drink, an' it tastes like glucose an' looks like yeast. It
comes from a plant, what the Mexicans calls 'maguey,' an' Peets
calls a 'aloe.' The pulque gatherers scoops out the blossom of the
maguey while it's a bud. They leaves the place hollow; what wood-
choppers back in Tennessee, when I'm a colt, deescribes as
'bucketin' the stump.' This yere hollow fills up with oozin' sap,
an' the Mexican dips out two gallons a day an keeps it up for a
month. That's straight, sixty gallons from one maguey before ever it
quits an' refooses to further turn the game. That's pulque, an' when
them Greasers gathers it, they puts it into a pigskin-skinned
complete, the pig is; them pulduc receptacles is made of the entire
bark of the anamile. When the pulque's inside, they packs it, back
down an' hung by all four laigs to the saddle, a pigskin on each
side of the burro. It's gathered the evenin' previous, an' brought
into camp in the night so as to keep it cool.
"When I'm a child, an' before ever I connects myse'f with the cow
trade, if thar's a weddin', we-all has what the folks calls a
'infare,' an' I can remember a old lady from the No'th who
contreebutes to these yere festivals a drink she calls 'sprooce
beer.' An' pulque, before it takes to frettin' an' fermentin'
'round, in them pigskins, reminds me a mighty sight of that sprooce
beer. Later it most likely reminds you of the pigskin.
"Mexican barkeeps, when they sells pulque, aims to dispose of it two
glasses at a clatter. It gives their conceit a chance to spread
itse'f an' show. The pulque is in a tub down back of the bar. This
yere vain Mexican seizes two glasses between his first an' second
fingers, an' with a finger in each glass. Then he dips 'em full
back-handed; an' allers comes up with the back of his hand an' the
two fingers covered with pulque. He claps 'em on the bar, eyes you a
heap sooperior like he's askin' you to note what a acc'rate, high-
grade barkeep he is, an' then raisin' his hand, he slats the pulque
off his fingers into the two glasses. If he spatters a drop on the
bar, it shows he's a bungler, onfit for his high p'sition, an'
oughter be out on the hills tendin' goats instead of dealin' pulque.
"What do they do with the sour pulque? Make mescal of it--a sort o'
brandy, two hookers of which changes you into a robber. No, thar's
mighty few still-houses in Mexico. But that's no set-back to them
Greasers when they're out to construct mescal. As a roole Mexicans
is slow an oninventive; but when the question becomes the
arrangement of somethin' to be drunk with, they're plenty fertile.
Jest by the way of raw material, if you'll only confer on a Mexican
a kettle, a rifle bar'l, a saddle cover, an' a pigskin full of sour
pulque, he'll be conductin' a mescal still in full blast at the end
of the first hour. But to go back to Enright's yarn.
"'These yere pulque people,' says Enriglit, 'does a fa'rly rapid
commerce. For while, as you-all may know, pulque is tame an' lacks
in reebound as compared with nose-paint, still when pulque is the
best thar is, the Pine Knot Cavaliers of the Plaza Perdita invests
heavily tharin. That pulque's jest about a stand-off for the
chaplain's sermons. "'It's the fourth trip of the pulque sellers,
when the Donna Anna shows in the door. The Donna Anna arrives with
'em; an' the way she bosses 'round, an' sets fire to them pulque
slaves, notifies me they're the Donna Anna's peonies. "'I'm sort o'
pervadin' about the plaza when the Donna Anna rides up. Thar's an
old she-wolf with her whose name is Magdalena. I'm not myse'f what
they calls in St. Looey a "connoshur" of female loveliness, an' it's
a pity now that some gifted gent like Doc Peets yere don't see this
Donna Anna that time, so's he could draw you her picture, verbal.
All I'm able to state is that she's as beautiful as a cactus flower,
an' as vivid. She's tall an' strong for a Mexican, with a voice like
velvet, graceful as a mountain lion, an' with eyes that's soft an'
deep an' black, like a deer's. She's shorely a lovely miracle, the
Donna Anna is, an' as dark an' as warm an' as full of life as a
night in Joone. She's of the grande, for the mule she's ridin',
gent-fashion, is worth forty ponies. Its coat is soft, an' shiny
like this yere watered silk, while its mane an' tail is braided with
a hundred littler silver bells. The Donna Anna is dressed half
Mexican an' half Injun, an' thar's likewise a row of bells about the
wide brim of her Chihuahua hat.
"'Thar's mebby a half-dozen of us standin' 'round when the Donna
Anna comes up. Nacherally, we-all is interested. The Donna Anna,
bein' only eighteen an' a Mexican, is not abashed. She waves her
hand an' says, "How! how!" Injun fashion. an' gives us a white flash
of teeth between her red lips. Then a band of nuns comes out of a
little convent, which is one of the public improvements of the Plaza
Perdita, an' they rounds up the Donna Anna an' the wrinkled
Magdalena, an' takes 'em into camp. The Donna Anna an' the other is
camped in the convent doorin' the visit. No, they're not locked up
nor gyarded, an' the Donna Anna comes an' goes in an' out of that
convent as free as birds. The nuns, too, bow before her like her own
peonies.
"'Thar's a Lootenant Jack Spencer with us; he hails from further up
the Cumberland than me--some'ers near Nashville. He's light-ha'red
an' light-hearted, Spencer is; an' as straight an' as strong as a
pine-tree. S'ciety ain't throwin' out no skirmish lines them days,
an' of course Spencer an' the Donna Anna meets up with each other;
an' from the onbroken hours they tharafter proceeds to invest in
each other's company, one is jestified in assoomin' they experiences
a tender interest. The Donna Anna can't talk Americano, but Spencer
is a sharp on Spanish; an' you can bet a pony, if he wasn't, he'd
set to studyin' the language right thar.
"'Nothin' much is thought by the Pine Knot Cavaliers of an'
concernin' the attitoodes of Spencer an' the Donna Anna touchin' one
another.
Love it might be, an' less we cares for that. Our army, when it
ain't fightin', is makin' love throughout the entire Mexican War;
an' by the time we're at the Plaza Perdita, love, mere everyday
love, either as a emotion or exhibition, is plenty commonplace. An'
so no one is interested, an' no one keeps tabs on Spencer an' the
Donna Anna.
Which, if any one had, he'd most likely got ag'inst Spencer's gun;
wharfore, it's as well mebby that this yere lack-luster feelin'
prevails.
"'It's about the tenth day sicice the Donna Anna gladdens us first.
Orders comes up from Vera Cruz for the Pine Knot Cavaliers to come
down to the coast an' embark for New Orleans. The word is passed,
an' our little jimcrow camp buzzes like bees, with us gettin' ready
to hit the trail. Spencer asks "leave;" an' then saddles up an'
starts at once. He says he's got a trick or two to turn in Vera Cruz
before we sails. That's the last we-all ever beholds of Lootenant
Jack Spencer. "'When Spencer don't show up none in Vera Cruz, an'
the ship throws loose without him, he's marked, "missin'," on the
company's books. If he's a private, now, it would have been
"deserted;" but bein' Spencer's an officer, they makes it "missin'."
An' they gets it right, at that; Spencer is shorely missin'. Spencer
not only don't come back to Tennessee none; he don't even send no
word nor make so much as a signal smoke to let on whar he's at. This
yere, to some, is more or less disapp'intin'. "'Thar's a lady back
in Tennessee which Spencer's made overtures to. before he goes to
war that time, to wed. Young she is; beautiful, high-grade, corn-
fed, an' all that; an' comes of one of the most clean-bred fam'lies
of the whole Cumberland country. I will interject right yere to say
that thar's ladies of two sorts. If a loved one, tender an' troo,
turns up missin' at roll-call, an' the phenomenon ain't accompanied
with explanations, one sort thinks he's quit, an' the other thinks
he's killed. Spencer's inamorata is of the former. She's got what
the neighbors calls "hoss sense." She listens to what little thar is
to tell of Spencer fadin' from our midst that Plaza Perdita day,
shrugs her shoulders, an' turns her back on Spencer's mem'ry. An'
the next news you gets is of how, inside of three months, she jumps
some gent--who's off his gyard an' is lulled into feelin's of false
secoority--ropes, throws, ties an' weds him a heap, an' he wakes up
to find he's a gone fawn-skin, an' to realize his peril after he's
onder its hoofs. That's what this Cumberland lady does. I makes no
comments; I simply relates it an' opens a door an' lets her out.
"'I'm back in Tennessee mighty nigh a year before ever I hears ag'in
of Lootenant Jack Spencer of the Pine Knot Cavaliers. It's this a-
way: I'm stoppin' with my old gent near Warwhoop Crossin', the same
bein' a sister village to Pine Knot, when he's recalled to my boyish
mind. It looks like Spencer ain't got no kin nearer than a aunt, an'
mebby a stragglin' herd of cousins. He never does have no brothers
nor sisters; an' as for fathers an' mothers an' sech, they all
cashes in before ever Spencer stampedes off for skelps in that
Mexican War at all. "'These yere kin of Spencer's stands his absence
ca'mly, an' no one hears of their settin' up nights, or losin'
sleep, wonderin' where he's at. Which I don't reckon now they'd felt
the least cur'ous concernin' him--for they're as cold-blooded as
channel catfish--if it ain't that Spencer's got what them law
coyotes calls a "estate," an' this property sort o' presses their
hands. So it falls out like, that along at the last of the year, a
black-coat party-lawyer he is-comes breezin' up to me in Warwhoop
an' says he's got to track this yere Spencer to his last camp, dead
or alive, an' allows I'd better sign for the round-up an' accompany
the expedition as guide, feclos'pher an' friend--kind o' go 'long
an' scout for the campaign. "'Two months later me an' that law sharp
is in the Plaza Perdita. We heads up for the padre. It's my view
from the first dash outen the box that the short cut to find Spencer
is to acc'rately discover the Donna Anna; so we makes a line for the
padre. In Mexico, the priests is the only folks who saveys anythin';
an', as if to make up for the hoomiliatin' ignorance of the balance
of the herd, an' promote a average, these yere priests jest about
knows everythin'. An' I has hopes of this partic'lar padre speshul;
for I notes that, doorin' them times when Spencer an' the Donna Anna
is dazzlin' one another at the Plaza Perdita, the padre is sort o'
keepin' cases on the deal, an' tryin' as well as he can to hold the
bars an' fences up through some covert steers he vouchsafes from
time to time to the old Magdalena. "'No; you bet this padre don't at
that time wax vocif'rous or p'inted none about Spencer an' the Donna
Anna. Which he's afraid if he gets obnoxious that a-way, the Pine
Knot Cavaliers will rope him up a lot an' trade him for beef. Shore
don't you-all know that? When we're down in Mexico that time, with
old Zach Taylor, an' needs meat, we don't go ridin' our mounts to
death combin' the hills for steers. All we does is round up a band
of padres, or monks, an' then trade 'em to their par'lyzed
congregations for cattle. We used to get about ten steers for a
padre; an' we doles out them divines, one at a time, as we needs the
beef. It's shorely a affectin' sight to see them parish'ners, with
tears runnin' down their faces, drivin' up the cattle an' takin'
them religious directors of theirs out o' hock.
"'We finds the padre out back of his wickeyup, trimmin' up a game-
cock that he's matched to fight the next day. The padre is little,
fat, round, an' amiable as owls. Nacherally, I has to translate for
him an' the law sport.
"'"You do well to come to me, my children," he says. "The Senor
Juan"--that's what the padre calls Spencer--"the Senor Juan is dead.
It is ten days since he passed. The Donna Anna? She also is dead an'
with the Senor Juan. We must go to the Hacienda Tulorosa, which is
the house of the Donna Anna. That will be to-morrow. Meanwhile, who
is to protect Juarez, my beloved chicken, in his battle when I will
be away? Ah! I remember! The Don Jose Miguel will do. He is skilful
of cocks of the game. Also he has bet money on Juarez; so he will be
faithful. Therefore, to-morrow, my children, we will go to the Donna
Anna's house. There I will tell you the story of the Senor Juan."
"'The Hacienda Tulorosa is twenty miles back further in the hills.
The padre, the law sharp an' me is started before sun-up, an' a good
road-gait fetches us to the Hacienda Tulorosa in a couple of hours.
It's the sort of a ranch which a high grade Mexican with a strong
bank-roll would throw up. It's built all 'round a court, with a
flower garden and a fountain in the centre. As we comes up, I
observes the old Magdalena projectin' about the main door of the
casa, stirrin' up some lazy peonies to their daily toil--which, to
use the word "toil," however, in connection with a Greaser, is plumb
sarcastic. The padre leads us into the cases, an' the bitter-lookin'
Magdalena hustles us some grub; after which we-all smokes a bit.
Then the padre gets up an' leads the way.
"'"Come, my children," says the padre, "I will show you the graves.
Then you shall hear what there is of the Senor Juan an' the Donna
Anna."
"'It's a set-back,' continyoos Enright, as he signals Black Jack the
barkeep to show us he's awake; 'it's shorely a disaster that some
book-instructed gent like Peets or Colonel Sterett don't hear this
padre when he makes them revelations that day. Not that I overlooks
a bet, or don't recall 'em none; but I ain't upholstered with them
elegancies of diction needed to do 'em justice now. My language is
roode an' corrupted with years of sech surroundin's as cattle an'
kyards. It's too deeply freighted with the slang of the plains an'
the faro-banks to lay forth a tale of love an' tenderness, as the
o'casion demands. Of course, I can read an' write common week-day
print; but when thar's a call for more, I'm mighty near as
illit'rate that a-way as Boggs.'
"'Which, as you su'gests, I'm plumb ignorant,' admits Boggs, 'but it
ain't the fault none of my bringin' up neither. It jest looks like I
never can learn print nohow when I'm young. I'm simply born book-
shy, an' is terrified at schools from my cradle. An', say! I'm yere
to express my regrets at them weaknesses. If I was a eddicated gent
like Doc Peets is, you can put down all you has, I'd be the
cunnin'est wolf that ever yelps in Cochise County.'
"'An' thar ain't no doubt of that, Boggs,' observes Enright, as he
reorganizes to go ahead with them Donna Anna mem'ries of his. 'Which
if you only has a half of Peets' game now, you'd be the hardest
thing--mental--to ride that ever invades the Southwest. Nacherally,
an' in a wild an' ontrained way, you're wise. But to rcsoome: As
much as I can, I'll give the padre in his own words. He takes us out
onder a huddle of pine trees, where thar's two graves side by side,
an' with a big cross of wood standin' gyard at the head. Thar's
quite a heap o' rocks, about as big as your shet hand, heaped up on
'em. It's the Mexicans does that. Every Greaser who goes by, says a
pray'r, an' tosses a rock on the grave. When we-all is camped
comfortable, the padre begins.
"'"This is that which was with the Senor Juan and the Donna Anna,"
he says. "They adored each other with their hearts. It was many
months ago when, from the Plaza Perdita, they came together here to
the Donna Anna's house, the Hacienda Tulorosa. Who was the Donna
Anna? Her mother was an Indian, a Navajo, and the child of a head
man. Her father was the Senor Ravel, a captain of war he was, and
the Americanos slew him at Buena Vista. No; they were not married,
the father and the mother of the Donna Anna. But what then? There
are more children than weddings in Mexico. Also the mother of the
Donna Anna was a Navajo. The Captain Ravel long ago brought her to
the Hacienda Tulorosa for her home--her and the Donna Anna. But the
mother lived not long, for the Indian dies in a house. This is years
gone by; and the Donna Anna always lived at the Casa Tulorosa. "'No;
the Senor Juan and the Donna Anna do not marry. They might; but the
Senor Juan became like a little child-muchachito. This was within a
few days after he came here. Then he lived until ten days ago; but
always a little child. "'When the Senor Juan is dead, the Donna Anna
sends for me. The Seuor Juan is ready for the grave when I arrive.'
Is it to bury him that I come?' I ask. 'No; it is to bury me,' says
the Donna Anna. Ah! she was very beautiful! the Donna Anna. You
should have seen her, my children. "'When the Senor Juan is laid
away, the Donna Anna tells me all. 'He came, the Senor Juan,' says
the Donna Anna, 'and I gave him all my love. But in a day he was to
have gone to his home far away with the Americanos. Then I would
never more see him nor hear him, and my soul would starve and die.
There, too, was a Senorita, an Americana; she would have my place.
Father, what could I do? I gave him the loco to drink; not much, but
it was enough. Then his memory sank and sank; and he forgot the
Senorita Americana; and he remembered not to go away to his home;
and he became like a little child with me. The good loco drove every
one from his heart; and all from his mind-all, save me, the Donna
Anna. I was the earth and the life to him. And so, night and day,
since he came until now he dies, my arms and my heart have been
about the Senor Juan. And I have been very, very happy with my
muchachito, the Senor Juan. Yes, I knew he would go; because none
may live who drinks the loco. But it would be months; and I did not
care. He would be mine, ever my own, the Senor Juan; for when he
died, could I not die and follow him? We were happy these months
with the flowers and the fountain and each other. I was happier than
he; for I was like the mother, and he like a little child. But it
was much peace with love! And we will be happy again to-morrow when
I go where he waits to meet me. Father, you are to remain one day,
and see that I am buried with the Senior Juan.' "Then," goes on the
padre, "I say to the Donna Anna, 'If you are to seek the Senor Juan,
you will first kneel in prayer and in confession, and have the
parting rites of the church.' But the Donna Anna would not. 'I will
go as went the Senor Juan,' she says; 'else I may find another
heaven and we may not meet.' Nor could I move the Donna Anna from
her resolution. 'The Senor Juan is a heretic and must now be in
perdition,' I say. 'Then will I, too, go there,' replies the Donna
Anna, 'for we must be together; I and the Senor Juan. He is mine and
I will not give him up to be alone with the fiends or with the
angels.' So I say no more to the Donna Anna of the church.
"'" On the day to follow the burial of the Senor Juan, it is in the
afternoon when the Donna Anna comes to me. Oh! she was twice lovely!
'Father,' she says, 'I come to say my adios. When the hour is done
you will seek me by the grave of my Senor Juan.' Then she turns to
go. 'And adios to you, my daughter,' I say, as she departs from my
view. And so I smoke my cigars; and when the hour is done, I go also
to the grave of the Senor Juan--the new grave, just made, with its
low hill of warm, fresh earth.
"'" True! it was as you guess. There, with her face on that little
round of heaped-up earth, lay the Donna Anna. And all the blood of
her heart had made red the grave of her Senor Juan. The little knife
she died by was still in her hand. No, I do not fear for them, my
children. They are with the good; the Donna Anna and her Senor Juan.
They were guiltless of all save love; and the good God does not
punish love."'"