made a living by selling hot suppers to theatre-goers reaped their
harvest. The wrinkled dames whose faces had been all tears only a
moment ago over the woes of Elena were calm, happy, and voracious.
Plate after plate of steaming hot “enchiladas” would disappear down
their throats, washed down by cups of boiling coffee or chocolate; or
perhaps appetite demanded “tamales” and “tortillas,” with plates of
“frijoles” and “chile con carne.”
The banquet may not have been any too grand, out in the open air, but
the gratitude of the bright-eyed, sweet-voiced young señoritas who
shared it made it taste delicious. Tucson etiquette in some things was
ridiculously strict, and the occasions when young ladies could go, even
in parties, with representatives of the opposite sex were few and far
between--and all the more appreciated when they did come.
If ever there was created a disagreeable feature upon the fair face of
nature, it was the Spanish dueña. All that were to be met in those days
in southern Arizona seemed to be possessed of an unaccountable aversion
to the mounted service. No flattery would put them in good humor, no
cajolery would blind them, intimidation was thrown away. There they
would sit, keeping strict, dragon-like watch over the dear little
creatures who responded to the names of Anita, Victoria, Concepcion,
Guadalupe, or Mercedes, and preventing conversation upon any subject
excepting the weather, in which we became so expert that it is a wonder
the science of meteorology hasn’t made greater advances than it has
during the past two decades.
The bull fight did not get farther west than El Paso. Tucson never had
one that I have heard of, and very little in the way of outdoor “sport”
beyond chicken fights, which were often savage and bloody. The rapture
with which the feminine heart welcomed the news that a “baile” was to
be given in Tucson equalled the pleasure of the ladies of Murray Hill
or Beacon Street upon the corresponding occasions in their localities.
To be sure, the ceremony of the Tucson affairs was of the meagrest. The
rooms were wanting in splendor, perhaps in comfort--but the music was
on hand, and so were the ladies, young and old, and their cavaliers,
and all hands would manage to have the best sort of a time. The
ball-room was one long apartment, with earthen floor, having around its
sides low benches, and upon its walls a few cheap mirrors and half a
dozen candles stuck to the adobe by melted tallow, a bit of moist clay,
or else held in tin sconces, from which they emitted the sickliest
light upon the heads and forms of the highly colored saints whose
pictures were to be seen in the most eligible places. If the weather
happened to be chilly enough in the winter season, a petty fire would
be allowed to blaze in one of the corners, but, as a general thing,
this was not essential.
The moment you passed the threshold of the ball-room in Tucson you had
broken over your head an egg-shell filled either with cologne of the
most dubious reputation or else with finely cut gold and silver paper.
This custom, preserved in this out-of-the-way place, dates back to the
“Carnestolends” or Shrove-Tuesday pranks of Spain and Portugal, when
the egg was really broken over the head of the unfortunate wight and
the pasty mass covered over with flour.
Once within the ball-room there was no need of being presented to any
one. The etiquette of the Spaniards is very elastic, and is based upon
common sense. Every man who is good enough to be invited to enter the
house of a Mexican gentleman is good enough to enter into conversation
with all the company he may meet there.
Our American etiquette is based upon the etiquette of the English.
Ever since King James, the mild-mannered lunatic, sold his orders of
nobility to any cad who possessed the necessary six thousand pounds
to pay for an entrance into good society, the aristocracy of England
has been going down-hill, and what passes with it for manners is the
code of the promoted plutocrat, whose ideas would find no place with
the Spaniards, who believe in “_sangre azul_” or nothing. There was
very little conversation between the ladies and the gentlemen, because
the ladies preferred to cluster together and discuss the neighbors who
hadn’t been able to come, or explain the details of dresses just made
or to be made.
Gentlemen invited whom they pleased to dance, and in the intervals
between the figures there might be some very weak attempt at
conversation, but that was all, except the marching of the gentle
female up to the counter and buying her a handkerchief full of raisins
or candies, which she carefully wrapped up and carried home with her,
in accordance with a custom which obtained among the Aztecs and also
among their Spanish conquerors, and really had a strong foothold in
good old England itself, from which latter island it did not disappear
until A.D. 1765.
While the language of conversation was entirely Spanish, the figures
were called off in English, or what passed for English in those days in
Arizona: “Ally man let ’n’ all shassay”; “Bal’nce t’ yer podners ’n’
all han’s roun’”; “Dozydozy-chaat ’n’ swing.”
What lovely times we used to have! What enchanting music from the
Pan’s pipes, the flute, the harp, the bass-drum, and the bull-fiddle
all going at once! How lovely the young ladies were! How bright the
rooms were with their greasy lamps or their candles flickering from the
walls! It can hardly be possible that twenty years and more have passed
away, yet there are the figures in the almanac which cannot lie.
After the “baile” was over, the rule was for the younger participants
to take the music and march along the streets to the houses of the
young ladies who had been prevented from attending, and there, under
the window, or, rather, in front of the window--because all the houses
were of one story, and a man could not get under the windows unless he
crawled on hands and knees--pour forth their souls in a serenade.
The Spanish serenader, to judge him by his songs, is a curious blending
of woe and despair, paying court to a damsel whose heart is colder
than the crystalline ice that forms in the mountains. The worst of
it all is, the young woman, whose charms of person are equalled by
the charms of her mind, does not seem to care a rush what becomes of
the despairing songster, who threatens to go away forever, to sail on
unknown seas, to face the nameless perils of the desert, if his suit
be not at once recognized by at least one frosty smile. But at the
first indication of relenting on the part of the adored one, the suitor
suddenly recollects that he cannot possibly stand the fervor of her
glance, which rivals the splendor of the sun, and, accordingly, he begs
her not to look upon him with those beautiful orbs, as he has concluded
to depart forever and sing his woes in distant lands. Having discharged
this sad duty at the windows of Doña Anita Fulana, the serenaders
solemnly progress to the lattice of Doña Mercedes de Zutana, and there
repeat the same heart-rending tale of disappointed affection.
It was always the same round of music, taken in the same series--“La
Paloma,” “Golondrina,” and the rest. I made a collection of some twenty
of these ditties or madrigals, and was impressed with the poetic fervor
and the absolute lack of common sense shown in them all, which is the
best evidence that as love songs they will bear comparison with any
that have ever been written. The music in many cases was excellent,
although the execution was with very primitive instruments. I do not
remember a single instance where the fair one made the least sign of
approval or pleasure on account of such serenades, and I suppose that
the Mexican idea is that she should not, because if there is a polite
creature in the world it is the Mexican woman, no matter of what degree.
But it is morning now, and the bells are clanging for first mass, and
we had better go home and to bed. Did we so desire we could enter the
church, but as there is much to be said in regard to the different
feasts, which occurred at different seasons and most acceptably divided
the year, we can leave that duty unfulfilled for the present and give
a few brief sentences to the christening and funerals, which were
celebrated under our observation.
The Mexicans used to attach a great deal of importance to the naming
of their children, and when the day for the christening had arrived,
invitations scattered far and near brought together all the relatives
and friends of the family, who most lavishly eulogized the youngster,
and then partook of a hearty collation, which was the main feature of
the entertainment.
Funerals, especially of children, were generally without coffins, owing
to the great scarcity of lumber, and nearly always with music at the
head of the procession, which slowly wended its way to the church to
the measure of plaintive melody.
Birthdays were not observed, but in their stead were kept the days of
the saints of the same name. For example, all the young girls named
Anita would observe Saint Ann’s day, without regard to the date of
their own birth, and so with the Guadalupes and Francescas and others.
I should not omit to state that there were whole blocks of houses
in Tucson which did not have a single nail in them, but had been
constructed entirely of adobes, with all parts of the wooden framework
held together by strips of rawhide.
Yet in these comfortless abodes, which did not possess ten dollars’
worth of furniture, one met with charming courtesy from old and young.
“Ah! happy the eyes that gaze upon thee,” was the form of salutation
to friends who had been absent for a space--“Dichosos los ojos que ven
a V.” “Go thou with God,” was the gentle mode of saying farewell, to
which the American guest would respond, as he shifted the revolvers on
his hip and adjusted the quid of tobacco in his mouth: “Wa-al, I reckon
I’ll git.” But the Mexican would arrange the folds of his serape, bow
most politely, and say: “Ladies, I throw myself at your feet--À los
pies de VV., señoritas.”
Thus far there has been no mention of that great lever of public
opinion--the newspaper. There was one of which I will now say a word,
and a few months later, in the spring of 1870, the town saw a second
established, of which a word shall be said in its turn. The _Weekly
Arizonian_ was a great public journal, an organ of public opinion,
managed by Mr. P. W. Dooner, a very able editor.
It was the custom in those days to order the acts and resolutions of
Congress to be published in the press of the remoter Territories, thus
enabling the settlers on the frontier to keep abreast of legislation,
especially such as more immediately affected their interests.
There may have been other matter in the _Weekly Arizonian_ besides the
copies of legislative and executive documents referred to, but if so I
never was fortunate enough to see it, excepting possibly once, on the
occasion of my first visit to the town, when I saw announced in bold
black and white that “Colonel” Bourke was paying a brief visit to his
friend, Señor So-and-so. If there is one weak spot in the armor of a
recently-graduated lieutenant, it is the desire to be called colonel
before he dies, and here was the ambition of my youth gratified almost
before the first lustre had faded from my shoulder-straps. It would
serve no good purpose to tell how many hundred copies of that week’s
issue found their way into the earliest outgoing mail, addressed to
friends back in the States. I may be pardoned for alluding to the
reckless profanity of the stage-driver upon observing the great bulk
of the load his poor horses were to carry. The stage-drivers were
an exceptionally profane set, and this one, Frank Francis, was an
adept in the business. He has long since gone to his reward in the
skies, killed, if I have not made a great mistake, by the Apaches in
Sonora, in 1881. He was a good, “square” man, as I can aver from an
acquaintance and friendship cemented in later days, when I had to
take many and many a lonesome and dangerous ride with him in various
sections and on various routes in that then savage-infested region.
It was Frank’s boast that no “Injuns” should ever get either him or
the mail under his care. “All you’ve got to do with ’n Injun’s to be
smarter nor he is. Now, f’r instance, ’n Injun’ll allers lie in wait
’longside the road, tryin’ to ketch th’ mail. Wa’al, I never don’ go
’long no derned road, savey? I jest cut right ’cross lots, ’n’ dern
my skin ef all th’ Injuns this side o’ Bitter Creek kin tell whar to
lay fur _me_.” This and similar bits of wisdom often served to soothe
the frightened fancy of the weary “tenderfoot” making his first trip
into that wild region, especially if the trip was to be by night, as it
generally was.
Whipping up his team, Frank would take a shoot off to one side or the
other of the road, and never return to it until the faint tinge of
light in the east, or the gladsome crow of chanticleer announced that
the dawn was at hand and Tucson in sight. How long they had both been
in coming!
Through it all, however, Frank remained the same kind, entertaining
host; he always seemed to consider it part of his duties to entertain
each one who travelled with him, and there was no lack of conversation,
such as it was.
The establishment of the rival paper, the _Citizen_, was the signal for
a war of words, waxing in bitterness from week to week, and ceasing
only with the death of the _Arizonian_, which took place not long
after. One of the editors of the _Citizen_ was Joe Wasson, a very
capable journalist, with whom I was afterward associated intimately
in the Black Hills and Yellowstone country during the troubles with
the Sioux and Cheyennes. He was a well-informed man, who had travelled
much and seen life in many phases. He was conscientious in his ideas
of duty, and full of the energy and “snap” supposed to be typically
American. He approached every duty with the alertness and earnestness
of a Scotch terrier. The telegraph was still unknown to Arizona, and
for that reason the _Citizen_ contained an unusually large amount of
editorial matter upon affairs purely local. Almost the very first
columns of the paper demanded the sweeping away of garbage-piles, the
lighting of the streets by night, the establishment of schools, and the
imposition of a tax upon the gin-mills and gambling-saloons.
Devout Mexicans crossed themselves as they passed this fanatic, whom
nothing would seem to satisfy but the subversion of every ancient
institution. Even the more progressive among the Americans realized
that Joe was going a trifle too far, and felt that it was time to put
the brakes upon a visionary theorist whose war-cry was “Reform!” But
no remonstrance availed, and editorial succeeded editorial, each more
pungent and aggressive than its predecessors. What was that dead burro
doing on the main street? Why did not the town authorities remove it?
“Valgame! What is the matter with the man? and why does he make such a
fuss over Pablo Martinez’s dead burro, which has been there for more
than two months and nobody bothering about it? Why, it was only last
week that Ramon Romualdo and I were talking about it, and we both
agreed that it ought to be removed some time very soon. Bah! I will
light another cigarette. These Americans make me sick--always in a
hurry, as if the devil were after them.”
In the face of such antagonism as this the feeble light of the
_Arizonian_ flickered out, and that great luminary was, after the lapse
of a few years, succeeded by the _Star_, whose editor and owner arrived
in the Territory in the latter part of the year 1873, after the Apaches
had been subdued and placed upon reservations.
TOLD AT TRINIDAD
A. A. HAYES, JR.
1879
From “New Colorado and the Santa Fé Trail.” By A. A. Hayes, Jr.
Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Harper and Brothers, New
York.[27]
We had driven over from El Moro only to find that the daily train for
the South had started, and that we had a long night and day on our
hands. We soon exhausted the sights of the town, and sat down on the
hotel piazza in company with rather a motley group. We talked in a
languid way about various subjects, and drifted after awhile to the old
staging days; then a quiet New Yorker took his cigar out of his mouth,
and said,
“Gentlemen, I should like to tell you a story. Those of you who saw
the _New York Herald_ of July --, 1876, may have noticed a rather
unintelligible account of a crime committed by the scion of a wealthy
and distinguished family long resident in the city. It was supposed
to be a heavy forgery, but one soon saw that extraordinary measures
and powerful influence had suppressed details and prevented further
publicity, and the matter passed off as a nine days’ wonder. When I
myself first saw the item, I felt sure that I knew who the culprit was.
James W---- and I were school-mates at Geneva, and once great friends.
He was the son of one of the finest gentlemen of the old school that I
have ever seen--who had married rather late in life, and been a most
affectionate and indulgent father. James was a boy of most attractive
appearance, with very dark complexion, hair and eyes, and the figure
of an athlete. There was apparently nothing in feature, expression, or
manner, to cause suspicion that he was not a very fine fellow; and yet
there came to me before long the positive conviction, first, that under
that attractive exterior a desperate power of evil was at work; second
(and I am no more able to explain this than those other spiritual
mysteries which so many of us encounter in our lives), that it would be
my fate to come into contact with him in after years when this power
had developed itself.
“Through certain channels then open to me I easily ascertained that,
after a career of deep dissipation, James W----had committed a bold
forgery; that in some way the money had been paid, and the affair
quashed. Other things came to my ears, all strongly confirmatory of my
expectations about him. About eighteen months later his mother died,
and his father settled all his business and went to Europe; nearly
everyone supposing, in the meantime, that the son had suddenly started,
when he was first missed from his accustomed haunts, on a journey to
Central Asia, and that it would be months before he could hear this sad
news.
“Later again, as the Union Pacific train, on which I was a passenger,
stopped at the Green River station, I saw on the platform, evidently
waiting to join us, a father and daughter. The former was a fine
specimen of the better class of plainsmen--six feet two, and of
powerful build--his eyes large and blue, his long hair and full beard
light-colored, and his expression kindness itself. The young girl was
about eighteen, slender and delicate, and altogether charming--one of
those beautiful, tender, clinging young creatures sometimes found on
the frontier, like the delicate wild flowers in the cañons. They were
going to Chicago; and having been commended to Major G---- by some
mutual acquaintances, I passed much time in his company, and we became
excellent friends. He had been a widower for a number of years, and
was deeply devoted to his pretty Anita, who in her turn seemed to
adore him. I could not help thinking that she was ill-fitted to meet
the cares of life, and that there was a look in her lovely eyes that
suggested a rare capacity for suffering. She had never been east of
the Missouri before, and the major told me that after a short stay in
Chicago, they were going to live on a ranch which he had bought in the
Wet Mountain Valley. He had been a noted hunter and Indian fighter in
the West, and bore the scars of more than one struggle with wild beast
and wilder man. I remained with them one day in Chicago, and remember
Anita’s childish delight in a bouquet of flowers which I gave her, when
I called at the hotel to say good-bye, and her waving her handkerchief
to me as I drove off to the station, and she stood on the balcony
leaning on her father’s shoulder.
“Chance brought me, within six or eight months, to the region south
of the Arkansas, and I took a trip on the Wet Mountains with an old
Mexican called Manuel. One day it occurred to me that we could not be
far from my friend’s location; so I asked Manuel if we could not cross
the range and go down into the valley, and if he knew where Major G----
lived.
“‘Oh si, señor!’ he quickly replied, ‘we easy come over the mountain
and to the Rancho San José, where live the major. Oh, it is a place so
beautiful! the valley which the señor will see when we pass the Sierra
and go down the cañon.’ ‘And the major, and his daughter, are they
well?’ I asked. ‘The major, yes,’ said Manuel; ‘but the señorita’--and
his voice changed--‘she is not well. The señor does not then know--but
ah! how could he?--that she have so great trouble.’
“Much surprised and shocked, I gradually elicited from him a narration
of what had occurred after the father and daughter took up their abode
in the valley. It seemed that a young man, bound ostensibly on a
hunting trip, once asked for a night’s lodging at the ranch, and was
evidently struck by the beauty of Anita; that he had returned again and
again, and finally expressed his intention of taking up a homestead in
the vicinity. Anita seemed attracted by him from the first. They were
finally betrothed, and the major had the comfort of knowing that they
would remain near him. He had apparently given his full confidence to
the young man, and talked freely to him of his affairs; and notably,
on one occasion, of his intention to keep quite a large sum of money
in the house for two days, contrary to his usual custom, but for the
purpose of paying for a mine which he had bought. The next morning the
money was gone! The young man was never seen again.
“I heard this tale with great regret, and said to myself that the
poor girl would never bear such a blow. When I asked Manuel about her
condition, he broke into distressed and almost incoherent utterances
about _la pobrecita_ (the poor little one), for whom might the _Madre
de Dios_ intercede. I began to dread the visit to the ranch, and would
have turned back but for a desire to offer my sympathies.
“When we entered the corral the sun was just sinking behind the Sangre
de Cristo Range, and flooding the valley with light. The major came
out when he heard our horses, and, recognizing me, at once bade us
welcome. When I saw his poor daughter I was shocked beyond measure. She
lay on a sofa looking at the western mountains. She knew me and gave
me her poor little hand, so thin that it seemed almost transparent.
Her face was pallid, and deep purple rings were under her eyes. I said
a few commonplace words of sympathy, and then turned away. The major
followed me into the house, and, coming up and taking my offered hand,
said, ‘They call it quick consumption. I know better than that--it is
a broken heart!’ His grasp tightened painfully on my hand. ‘My God!’
he cried, ‘how can I bear it!’ The scene was painful in the extreme.
I found Manuel and told him that we must go on, and that he had best
lead the horses outside of the corral, where I would join him. The
major’s life-long instincts of hospitality flashed out in a momentary
protest at my departure, but he did not press me to stay. I knew that
he had kind neighbors, and the ranch seemed no place for us. I went to
say farewell to the dying girl, but finding her lying with closed eyes
and folded hands, I dared not disturb her, although I knew that I saw
her for the last time. Major G---- walked mechanically to the gate, and
bade us good-bye. I saw the tears in old Manuel’s eyes as we mounted
and rode some distance in silence. Two weeks after this, coming from
Fort Garland, I bought a Denver paper from the newsboy on the train,
and saw that I had rightly judged of the poor child’s inability to bear
a rude shock, for I read that she had ‘entered into rest.’