By L. W. Payne, Jr.
This legend of old Fort Stockton was written for me in short-story form
in 1911 by Miss Josephine Brown, on whose father’s ranch in Brewster
County are the ruins of the old fort. The legend is frequently related
by ranch people as well as by Mexicans in West Texas.
Fran——ces——ca! Fran——ces——ca!
I straightened up, listening. The low wailing sound that seemed to
pronounce a name came again.
“Juan, what makes that noise?” Juan did not answer, and I turned in the
seat to look at him. He was terrified. His eyes were stretched wide
open, and he gasped out something about praying to the Virgin.
“What’s the matter, Juan? Tell me!”
“Oh, señor, that noise! The Virgin protect us!” he exclaimed. He began
whipping the horses.
“Juan, stop! The road is rough. Be careful. There, give me the reins.”
He began saying his prayers, and I could occasionally distinguish the
word “espiritus.”
I was very curious to know why he was so excited, but I thought I would
wait until he calmed down a little before I asked him. Finally he
became more calm, and I handed him the reins.
It was a cold, rainy night in the late fall. The big, piled-up
mountains, at one side of the road, were barely visible through the
rain. The creek, which ran on the other side, made a subdued, rustling
sound. I could scarcely distinguish the road, and knew when we went up
or down a hill only by the movement of the vehicle. We ran over a rock
in the road, and the jolt seemed to loosen Juan’s tongue.
“You saw those big piles of rocks back there, señor? They are all
that’s left of old Fort Stockton. Long time ago, in Indian times, there
were a lot of soldiers here, and they lived in those houses. I’ve heard
the padre tell tales of them. That one with the walls still standing is
what was the church, and that’s where Ferenor”—here he interrupted
himself to say some prayers.
“Well, Juan?” I said encouragingly.
“That’s where Ferenor calls for his sweetheart,” he said.
“Why?” I asked, as he seemed loath to continue.
“Get up, Maria! Steady there, Pierto. You see, señor, she was the most
beautiful girl in all the country. Many young men wanted to marry her,
but she loved Ferenor, the padre’s nephew, who was almost a padre
himself, for he had taken some of the vows. His uncle preached to the
soldiers and lived there behind the church. There were lots of Indians
in those times, and one of the chiefs wanted Francesca for his wife.
All this time Francesca was in love with Ferenor, but she couldn’t
marry him on account of his vows.
“But one day Ferenor got desperate and swore he would marry Francesca
anyway. That night, about this time of the year—and a night like this,
only worse—they went to the padre to be married. Of course, he would
not marry them, for it is unlawful for a young priest to marry. They
begged and implored, but the padre refused to comply with their wishes.
Finally the padre became very angry, and opening the door, he commanded
them to go. Somehow, in the storm, they missed the trail to Francesca’s
house, and after wandering around a while, they realized that they were
lost. On and on they wandered, until Francesca was ready to drop with
fatigue.
“Suddenly Ferenor exclaimed, ‘A light, Francesca!’ There was a light in
the distance. They started toward it but Francesca dropped to the
ground exhausted.
“‘I can’t go, Ferenor,’ she sobbed.
“‘I’m too tired to carry you that far, Francesca. You stay here, and
I’ll come back for you when I get help.’
“He started out toward the light, but walking brought him no nearer to
it. It seemed to move and lead him astray. He was very cold and sleepy.
And where was Francesca? He knew; right over there she was waiting. He
started to the place where he thought he had left her. Suddenly he
slipped and fell, hitting his head on a stone. It was several hours
later, just about dawn, that he regained consciousness.
“‘Francesca! Francesca!’ he cried, starting up. Vainly he searched. She
was gone. Neither of the lovers was ever seen after that. Several
months later a rumor was heard that just such a girl as Francesca was
in the camp of Red Blanket. And Ferenor? On such a night as this, at
this time of the year, he wanders around the old Fort, searching for
his sweetheart, and always calling her name, ‘Francesca, Francesca.’
And señor, when a lover hears it, it means there is danger to him or
his betrothed. Santa Madre preserve us!” Here Juan began saying his
prayers again.
“What is that light, Juan?” I asked a few minutes later.
“That’s the headquarters of the H-Triangle, señor,” he said.
A good fire and jolly company did not altogether dispel the memory of
the weird tale that Juan told me when we heard those strange sounds
made by the wind in the ruins of the old Fort.