The _Fiesta_, the "Feast of the Corn," had been declared, and there was
dancing and feasting, and song and laughter on the lips of men as
Captain Forest and José rode into Santa Fé late the following morning
and turned their horses' heads in the direction of the _Posada de las
Estrellas_, the Inn of the Stars, which was situated just outside the
principal entrance to the town.
The low gray adobe walls of the houses fronting directly upon the narrow
winding streets leading to and from the plaza were gay with the blossoms
of the pink and scarlet geranium, honeysuckle, and gorgeous magenta of
the bougainvilléa and golden cups of the trumpet-vine.
Pigeons fluttered from the house-tops to the streets, or hovered about
the plaza and bosky _alamedas_ of poplar, pepper and eucalyptus trees in
search of stray grains of corn. Humming-birds and butterflies flashed
their wings and gorgeous plumage in the sunshine as they darted in and
out among the foliage in the _patios_ and gardens at the rear of the
houses, luxuriant with fruit and flowers as was attested by the orange
and lemon, pomegranate and fig trees, heavy with ripening fruit and the
delicately mingled perfume of orange and lemon blossoms, hyacinth,
jasmine and Castilian rose.
Through the center of the town, beneath the walls of the half-ruined
convent, flowed the little river, Santa Maria, at whose banks young
girls and women were wont to wash their linen and beat it out on the
large, smooth stones which lay strewn along the water's edge. The notes
of the wood-dove and oriole mingling with the silvery voice of the
river, fell in rhythmical cadences upon the ears of the inhabitants who
rested in the shady seclusion of their _patios_ and gardens during the
hour of the _siesta_; rolling and smoking _cigarillos_ as they leisurely
discussed the latest bit of news or gossip over their black coffee,
_mescal_ and _tequila_, or engaged in a game of _moles_.
There had been much rain that season, the best of reasons why the people
should give thanks to the heavens and the fields receive the blessing of
the Church as well as that of the gods of the _Indios_ at whose altars
the Red men still worship and upon which still is written "blood for
blood," as in the days when the White men first came from the South,
bearing the fire and thunderbolts of heaven with which they overthrew
them. This was in fulfillment of the curse which the people had brought
upon themselves. The fate which their ancient Sachems had foretold would
overtake them in those days when they should forget the commands of the
gods and neglect the land, and the hand of brother be lifted against
brother until the coming of a Fair Child with a face like the sun unto
whose words all men would hearken and their hearts be united in love.
According to custom, runners had been sent forth to the north, east,
south and west to proclaim the annual _Fiesta_. For this ceremony the
choicest ears were selected from the new harvest, and, after being
borne aloft in the procession that took place during the benediction of
the fields, were placed in the churches where they remained until the
following year. The golden ears represented the sunrise, the red, the
sunset, the blue, the sky, the white, the clouds, and all together,
their Mother, the Earth, from which they sprang.
As the season for rejoicing drew near, the _rancheros_ of the
neighboring _haciendas_, together with the Indians of the distant
_pueblos_ and half-wild hill tribes, chance strangers and adventurers,
streamed toward Santa Fé and swarmed within her walls; some eager for
trade and barter, but most of them bent upon pleasure. Her streets and
plazas became a surging mass of struggling humanity, bright with the gay
costumes of men and women. In her market-booths were displayed
innumerable commodities; animals, fruit, vegetables, fowl--flowers,
goldfish, caged finches, canaries--jewelry, rugs, stamped leathers and
drawn-linen work--bright cloths, blankets, baskets and pottery--wines,
laces, silks, satins, cigarettes and cigars.
Bidding was brisk and at times vehement, but always good humored.
Sellers of lottery-tickets, writers of love-letters, jugglers and
mountebanks plied their trades. The cries of the water-carrier and
vender of sweet-meats mingled with those of the inevitable beggar who
asked alms for the love of God; invoking blessings or curses upon the
head of him who gave or refused him a _centavo_. Babel reigned. Donkies
brayed, geese and turkeys hissed and gobbled, chickens cackled and
fighting-cocks, tethered by the leg, strutted and crowed, while brown
children of all sizes and ages laughed and screamed as they chased one
another in and out among the crowds or rolled in the dust beneath the
pedestrian's feet.
Old Santa Fé, christened by the early Franciscan Friars, "City of the
Blessed Faith," but in reality a fair wanton, a veritable Sodom and
Gomorrha of iniquity with her _corridos_, her cock-pits and dance and
gambling-halls, threw wide her gates and bade the stranger welcome; and
if he did not receive the worth of his gold in pleasure and substance,
surely it was no fault of Santa Fé's. Besides, it was only a step from a
gaming-table to a Father Confessor.
The soul of old Spain still lived in the land. The click of castanettes
was heard daily in her plazas and streets where the _fandango_ and
_jotta_ were gayly danced; while at night the soft sounds of guitars and
voices issued from out the deep shadow of her walls. Soft hands drew the
latches of casements, and slender figures stepped out upon moonlit
balconies or beneath purple black heavens studded with myriads of golden
stars, and passionate words and vows were exchanged under the cover of
night.
Having passed the day at the Inn of the Stars, where they had been
resting after the fatigues of the long night's ride, the Captain and
José again directed their steps toward the town in the cool of the
evening; José making for Pedro Romero's gambling-hall, the Captain for
Carlos Moreno's theater, the _Theatro Mexicano_.
Owing to the tardiness of his arrival, he found the house packed to the
doors. The performance, vaudeville in character, had already begun, and
it was only after much elbowing and crowding that he finally succeeded
in making his way to Carlos' private box where the latter awaited him.
A tall, dark woman had just ceased dancing, and as she paused before the
footlights amid a burst of musical accompaniment, the audience with one
impulse rose to its feet and gave vent to prolonged salvos of applause.
Showers of glittering gold and silver coins, bouquets and wreaths of
flowers were flung upon the stage, burying her feet in a wealth and
suffusion of color as she stood smiling and bowing before the audience,
vainly endeavoring to still the tumultuous applause which continued with
deafening uproar until she consented to repeat the performance.
"Delicious--divine--'tis the Chiquita, _amigo mio_!" cried Carlos;
pausing in the midst of his _vivas_ to greet the Captain.
"You shall know her and fall in love with her like all the rest of the
world--" but his speech was cut short by a fresh burst of applause from
the audience. The floral tributes that had been showered upon her were
hastily removed to one side of the stage and piled high against the
wings. The musicians struck up their accompaniment and the dance began
again.
It was evident that she was a favorite of the audience which perhaps
partially accounted for the remarkable demonstration with which her
performance was received. But be this as it may, Captain Forest felt
that he had never witnessed such a remarkable exhibition of subtle grace
and beauty and extraordinary execution and dash as she displayed in the
dance. He recalled the names of the famous dancers he had known, but
none of them had risen to such heights--succeeded in vitalizing and
inspiring their art with so much poetry and life.
To all appearance she was either Spanish or of Indian extraction, and
yet there was a foreign touch about her that seemed to set her apart
from the women of Santa Fé.
Who was she, this unknown genius, this master of the terpsichorean art,
living in this far away Mexican town? Such talent could not remain in
obscurity for long. Another great Spanish dancer was about to burst
unheralded upon the world. It only remained for her to dance into it--to
captivate and conquer it.
This then, was the surprise Carlos had promised him if he came to the
theater that evening. His curiosity was aroused, and he turned to him
for an explanation, but he was no longer by his side; he had rushed
behind the scenes to felicitate the dancer on her remarkable success.
The air was hot and stifling, and not caring to witness the remaining
numbers on the programme, he took advantage of the intermission that
followed the dance and left the theater.
Outside the air was deliciously cool. The moonlight and myriads of
artificial lights strung across the streets and on the façades of the
houses, together with the flaming torches in front of the many booths,
lent the appearance of day to night as he slowly made his way through
the surging crowds in the direction of Pedro Romero's gambling-hall
where Carlos had agreed to join him after the performance.
Pedro's establishment was the chief and only respectable place of its
kind of which the town could boast. It was the resort of the better
element of Santa Fé, and if one were looking for a friend or
acquaintance, he was usually to be found there. The hall was spacious
and well lighted with electricity and resplendent in gilt and mirrors.
The gay strains of a string band enlivened the scene as he entered.
Clouds of tobacco smoke hung over the throngs that crowded round the
gaming-tables to try their luck with the Goddess Chance.
José was playing roulette, and judging by the satisfied expression of
his face which the Captain noted in passing, he rightly conjectured that
luck was on his side.
Like Carlos, Pedro had taken a great fancy to the Captain, and had
generously placed his private stock of wines and cigars at the latter's
disposal. Many an evening had the three passed together smoking and
drinking and chatting; Pedro and Carlos listening with rapt attention to
the Captain's anecdotes and adventures of which he seemed to possess an
inexhaustible store. The hall was greatly overcrowded, rendering it
difficult to find an acquaintance, but as the Captain paused in the
midst of the tables in order to obtain a better view of the faces about
him, he felt a touch on the shoulder from behind and turning, saw Pedro,
the object of his search.
"_Por Dios!_ but I'm glad to see you again, _amigo_!" exclaimed the
proprietor, a dark little man with a kindly face pitted by the smallpox.
He grasped and shook the Captain warmly by the hand.
"How are you--when did you return?" he inquired; leading him to a table
in one corner of the hall around which were seated a number of his
friends who, on the appearance of the Captain, rose and greeted him
effusively.
"_Mozo--mozo!_" shouted Pedro to the waiter, "a glass for the Captain!"
The others also had been to the theater, and like him, had left during
the intermission following the dance. Naturally the dancer formed the
sole topic of conversation.
"Had the Señor _Capitan_ seen the Chiquita--had he ever seen such
dancing before--what did he think of her?" And by the time Carlos
appeared on the scene, all agreed that the latter's fortune was
made--that he would soon desert the sleepy old town for a tour of the
world with his newly found star of the footlights.
"A tour of the world--with the Chiquita?" echoed Carlos, a fat,
broad-shouldered little man of mixed blood, pausing and pulling back a
chair in the act of seating himself at the table.
"_Dios!_ if such a thing were possible," he exclaimed, pushing his hat
on the back of his head and surveying his companions with critical eyes,
"I would not exchange it for the richest gold mine in Mexico! But," he
added, seating himself at the table, "you don't know the Chiquita, _mis
amigos_. She is made of different stuff than that of the women who dance
for a living."
To this last remark the company agreed.
"_Caramba_--how she danced!" he continued, taking a sip of _pulque_.
"Had the house been as large as the plaza and the price of the seats
doubled, there would not have been standing room left to accommodate the
spectators."
"Aye!" broke in Miguel Torreno, a dark, wizened old Mexican with a face
resembling a monkey's, "they say a thousand people were turned away at
the doors."
"A thousand? Half the town, you mean!" returned Carlos, rolling a
_cigarillo_ between the tips of his stubby fingers.
"A pretty penny this dance of the Chiquita's must have cost you, Carlos
Moreno," continued Miguel, his head cocked knowingly on one side, while
he squinted over the rim of his glass between puffs of cigarette smoke.
"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_," answered Carlos. "But by the Virgin, it
was worth it!"
"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_!" ejaculated his auditors with one breath.
Old Miguel dropped his glass which fell with a crash, scattering its
contents and fragments over the floor.
"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_!" he gasped. "_Alma de mi vida!_ Soul of
my life! 'tis the salary of a Bishop! Are you mad, Carlos Moreno?"
"Perhaps. But only Carlos Moreno can afford to pay such salaries during
the _Fiesta_," he answered complacently, taking a fresh sip of
_pulque_.
"How did you ever persuade her to dance?" asked Pedro. "It's not the
first time you have made overtures to her."
"Ah, that's the mystery! I'd give something to know why she danced. You
know," he continued, "it's the first time she has ever appeared in
public."
"The first time?" interrupted the Captain in surprise. "Why--she
possesses the composure of a veteran of the footlights."
"Just so," rejoined Carlos. "Nothing is more characteristic of her;
she's at home everywhere. When I first saw her dance three years ago in
the garden of the old _Posada_ at the birthday fête of Señora Fernandez,
I knew instantly that she was either possessed of the devil or the
ancient muse of dance; also, why Don Felipe Ramirez went mad over her.
"_Dios!_ she's a strange woman--almost mysterious at times!" he added
reflectively, with a shrug of the shoulders and gesture of the hands. "I
thought, of course, that it was the money she wanted when she finally
consented to dance, but I'm not so sure of it now."
"What reason have you for supposing otherwise?" asked Pedro.
"Every reason. What do you think she did with the heap of gold and
silver that was showered upon her by the audience?"
"What?" excitedly demanded old Miguel, who by this time had fortified
himself with a fresh glass of _aguardiente_.
"Why, after it had been gathered up and handed to her, she, without so
much as looking at it, tossed it lightly into the center of the stage
and bade the musicians and stage-hands remember her when they drank to
their sweethearts to-night."
Captain Forest's interest began to be aroused.
"_Caramba_--'tis strange!" muttered old Miguel, eyeing his glass
meditatively; his head nodding slightly from the effects of too much
liquor. "But what will Padre Antonio say when he hears of it? How
fortunate he wasn't here to witness a sight that must have caused him
the deepest humiliation. Poor man," he continued, assuming a sympathetic
tone, "it is already the scandal of the town."
"Bah! what of that?" returned Carlos.
It was evident to all that the delights of the _Fiesta_ were beginning
to tell on the old man. Already it had been noted on previous occasions
that an overindulgence in _aguardiente_ usually invoked a religious
frame of mind in him, but which in Miguel's case resembled rather the
groping of a lost soul than the prophetic vision of the seer.
"What of that?" echoed Miguel, an ominous light flashing from his eyes.
"Those golden _pesos_ so lightly earned will just about pay for a
thousand masses in order to avert excommunication and enable the Church
to snatch the soul of the Chiquita from the fires of purgatory as a
punishment for conduct unbecoming the ward of a priest."
"Bah! you talk like an infant, Miguel! What a sad, weary world this
would be if there were only priests and churches in it and men did
nothing all day long but say aves and burn candles on altars," and
Carlos lightly blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.
"Ah, yes, perhaps--_quien sabe, amigo mio_?" answered the old man dryly.
"But the Church is the Church."
"Miguel, you are growing old," said Pedro, slapping him lightly on the
back. "Have another glass!"
"I'm not old. I'm no older than the rest of you, and neither will I have
another glass," retorted Miguel hotly, greatly irritated by the others'
laughter.
"Ah!" he continued, wagging his head, and in a tone of bravado and
offended dignity, "you think I can't get home alone, do you? I'll show
you that Miguel Torreno is still as young as the rest of you!" And
supporting himself with one hand on the table and the other on his
stick, he rose from his seat with great difficulty.
"Miguel Torreno old, is he? A thousand devils!" A chorus of laughter
greeted this last outburst as he turned unsteadily and swaying to and
fro, slowly made his way through the crowd toward the door.
Just then a man at the next table rose with an oath. It was Juan Ramon,
Major-domo of the Inn of the Stars. Juan Ramon, the handsome, the hawk,
the gambler--the greatest _vaquero_ in Chihuahua. The man who took
delight in riding horses that other men feared--the man in whose hand
the _riata_ became a magic wand, a hissing serpent, and who could
stretch a bull at full length upon the ground at a given spot within a
given time.
"Has the blessed _Fiesta_ brought you no luck, Juan?" inquired Carlos,
tilting himself back in his chair and smiling up in the other's face.
"Luck--blessed _Fiesta_? The devil take them both!" exclaimed Juan, the
look of disgust on his face gradually changing to one of
resignation--that serene expression of the born gambler whom experience
has taught that days of famine are certain to follow those of plenty.
"Look!" he repeated. "The cards are bewitched--not a _centavo_! My
pockets are empty as Lazarus' stomach! Only a month ago I picked out a
beautiful little _hacienda_ with the fairest acreage to which I intended
to retire and live like a _Caballero_--to-day I parted with my only
horse at a loss--to-morrow," and he shrugged his shoulders
indifferently, "if this sort of thing continues, I'll be forced to pawn
the buttons on my breeches.
"_Mercedes Dios_, blessed be the _Fiesta_!" And flinging the end of his
_zerape_ over one shoulder and across the lower half of his face, he
stalked toward the door; the laughter of his friends ringing in his
ears.