Escamilla, “a proper lad of twenty, five feet ten out of his zapatos,
straight as an organo, and lithesome as a reed.” Having been educated at
Queretaro, he was more refined than his brothers, and had acquired a
taste for dress, which enabled him to set off his comeliness to the best
advantage, and made him the cynosure of “the bright eyes” of all the
neighbouring rancheras. Next to him came Juan Maria, who was scarcely
less skilful, and certainly not less daring than his brother, and by good
judges was reputed to be even handsomer, that is, manlier and more
robust, though inferior in polish of manner and picturesqueness of
appearance. Until Escamilla’s return from Queretaro, he had always been
victor at “el Gallo” and the “colea,” and had laid his spoils at the feet
of the beauty of the valley, Isabel Mora, a charming black-eyed damsel of
sixteen, called from the hacienda where she resided, Isabel de la Cadena.
It was understood that she accepted them with pleasure, and rewarded the
suitor with her smiles.
But the course of true love never does run smooth, and in this instance
it was fated to be interrupted by fraternal treachery. Escamilla
contrived to win the fickle beauty’s affections from his brother, who,
however, instead of resenting the deceit, magnanimously forgave it, and
withdrew all pretensions to her hand. Escamilla and Isabel were duly
affianced, and a day was fixed for their marriage, which was to take
place at the bride’s hacienda; and in honour of the occasion a grand
“funcion de toros” was proclaimed, to which all the neighbours (the
nearest of whom, by the way, was forty miles distant) were duly invited.
Two days before the appointed wedding-day, El Coxo and his eight sons
made their appearance, extorting an admiring murmur from all beholders
as, mounted on superb steeds, they rode gaily into the hacienda.
On the following day, leaving Escamilla at home El Coxo and the rest of
his sons accompanied the master of the hacienda into the plains, to
assist him in the arduous work of driving in the bulls required for the
morrow’s sport; while the other rancheros were busy in constructing the
large corral intended to secure them.
Evening was drawing near; the sun dropped rapidly behind the rugged crest
of the sierra, investing each ridge and precipice with a luminous glory
of gold and purple; while the cold grey shadow of the coming night was
swiftly creeping over the plain beneath. The cry of the cranes was heard
in the silence, as, wedge-shaped, like the Macedonian phalanx of old,
they pursued their aerial flight; the shrill pipe of the mother quail
summoned together her foraging progeny; the brown hare stole from its
covert and prowled about in search of food; and the lowing cattle
assembled on the bank of the stream to quench their thirst before they
were driven to their stalls. The peones, or labourers of the farm, with
slow gait were returning from the scene of their day’s work; while at the
doors of the cottages the women, with naked arms, were pounding the
tortillas on stone slabs in preparation for the evening meal. Everything
indicated that the hours of labour had passed, and those of rest and
refreshment come.
Escamilla and Isabel were wandering among the hushed pastures, where the
last rays of the sun still lingered with a soft subdued radiance,
building those airy castles in the construction of which happy youth is
always so eager and so dexterous. In the distance they saw a little
cloud of dust rising from the plain; in another direction they heard the
shouts of the returning cowherds, and the heavy hoofs of the bulls they
were driving towards the corral. In advance rode a single horseman,
swiftly making for the hacienda.
Meanwhile, the cloud of dust rolled onwards rapidly, and out of it
emerged several cavaliers, who suddenly dashed towards the two happy
lovers. “Here come the bull-fighters,” exclaimed Isabel; and with
natural modesty she added, “Let us return.”
“Perhaps they are my father and brothers,” answered Escamilla. “Yes,
look; there are eight of them. Do you not see?”
Ay, she _did_ see, as her gaze rested on the group of horsemen, who,
thundering across the mead, were now within a few yards of them. She
_did_ see, and the blood ran cold in her veins, and her face turned white
with fear; for they were Comanche Indians, naked to the waist, horrible
in their war-paint, and fierce with brandished spears. Escamilla saw
them, too, and shrieking, “Los barbaros! los barbaros!” he fled with
rapid foot, and, like a coward, abandoned his affianced to her fate.
A horseman met him: it was Juan Maria, who, having lassoed a little
antelope on the plains, was riding in advance of his company to present
it to the fickle Isabel. Glancing around, he saw her imminent danger;
flung down the animal he was carrying in his arms, dashed his spurs
desperately into his horse’s sides, and hastened to her rescue. “Salva
me, Juan Maria!” she cried, “salva me!” (“save me”). But the
bloodthirsty savages were before him. With a ferocious whoop, the
foremost plunged his spear into her heart, and in a moment her scalp was
hanging from his saddle-bow. He did not long enjoy his triumph. A
clatter of hoofs caused him to turn; and, behold, Juan Maria, with lasso
swinging round his head, and his heart beating with the desire of
vengeance, rode fiercely towards the murderer, heedless of the storm of
arrows that rained upon him. The savage shrank from the encounter; but
the open coil of the lasso, whirling through the air, fell over his head,
and dragged him to the ground with a fatal crash.
The odds, however, were against Juan Maria, who, surrounded by Indians,
had no other weapon than a small machete, or rusty sword. Bating not one
jot of heart or hope, he rushed on the nearest Indian, and dealt a blow
at his head, which cleft it open; the savage fell dead. Daunted by the
Mexican’s surpassing courage, the others kept at a distance, discharging
their swift arrows, and piercing him with many wounds. Spurring his
horse towards them, he fought on bravely, cheered by the shouts of his
father and brothers, who were galloping full speed to his support.
Before they could reach him, an arrow, discharged at but a few paces’
distance, penetrated his heart. He slipped heavily from his horse, and
one of the Comanches rode away in triumph, with the heroic Mexican’s
scalp as a trophy.
At that moment the Indians were reinforced by some thirty or forty of
their tribe, and a desperate struggle ensued between them and El Coxo and
his sons. The latter, burning with rage at the death of their brother,
fought with such eager courage, that, outnumbered as they were, they slew
half a dozen of the Comanches. It is probable, however, they would have
been overpowered but for the arrival of the rancheros, who, coming up
from the hacienda, put the Indians to flight. As night had darkened in
the sky, they did not pursue; but returned to the hacienda with the dead
bodies of Juan Maria and Isabel, who were buried the next day, side by
side, at the very hour that had been fixed for the unfortunate Isabel’s
marriage. As for Escamilla, ashamed of his cowardice, he was seen no
more in the valley of the Rio Florido, but settled at Queretaro, where he
afterwards married.
This tragedy occurred on the 11th of October, 1845.
* * * * *
From Durango Mr. Ruxton proceeded westward for Chihuahua and New Mexico.
On the second day of his journey an unpleasant incident very sternly
convinced him of the treachery and bloodthirstiness of the lower
Mexicans. He was riding slowly ahead of his native attendant, whom he
had hired at Durango, when the sudden report of fire-arms, and the whiz
of a bullet close to his head, caused him to turn sharply round, and he
beheld his amiable mozo [young man], pistol in hand, some fifteen yards
behind him, looking guilty as well as foolish. Drawing a pistol from his
holsters, Mr. Ruxton rode up to him immediately, and was about to blow
out his brains, when his terror-stricken and absurdly guilty-looking face
turned his employer’s wrath into “an immoderate fit of laughter.”
“Amigo,” said Mr. Ruxton, “do you call this being skilled, as you
boasted, in the use of arms, to miss my head at fifteen yards?”
“Ah, caballero, in the name of all the saints, I did not fire at you, but
at a duck which was flying over the road. Your worship cannot believe I
would do such a thing.” Now, the pistols which Mr. Ruxton had given him
to carry were secured in a pair of holsters tightly buckled and strapped
round his waist. To unbuckle them at any time was difficult; to unbuckle
them in time to get one out to fire at a flying duck, was impossible.
Mr. Ruxton knew that the duck was an invention, and a clumsy one, and to
prevent another treacherous attack, took from the fellow everything in
the shape of offensive weapon, including even his knife. Then, after
lecturing him severely, he administered a sound thrashing with the
buckle-end of his surcingle, and promised him that, if he were suspected
of even dreaming of another attempt at murder, he would be pistolled
without a moment’s hesitation.
After narrowly escaping a collision with a party of Indians, Mr. Ruxton
reached a place called El Gallo, where he resided for a couple of days in
the house of a farmer. He tells us that in a rancho the time is occupied
as follows:—The females of the family rise at daybreak, and prepare the
chocolate, or alde, which is eaten the first thing in the morning. About
nine o’clock, breakfast is served, consisting of chile colorado, frijoles
(beans), and tortillas (omelettes). Dinner, which takes place at noon,
and supper at sunset, are both substantial meals. Meanwhile, the men
employ themselves in the fields or attending to the animals; the women
about the house, making clothes, cleaning, cooking, washing. In the
evening the family shell corn, and chat; or a guitar is brought, and
singing and dancing are continued until it is time to retire.
Riding onward from El Gallo, Mr. Ruxton turned aside from the regular
route to kill an antelope and broil a collop for breakfast. He was
descending the sierra to quench his thirst at a stream which flowed
through a cañon, or deep ravine, when a herd of antelopes passed him, and
stopped to feed on a grassy plateau near at hand. He started in pursuit.
As soon as he got within rifle-shot, he crept between two rocks at the
edge of the hollow, and raised his head to reconnoitre, when he saw a
sight which startled him, as the footprint on the sand startled Robinson
Crusoe. About two hundred yards from the cañon, and scarcely twice that
distance from his place of concealment, eleven Comanches, duly equipped
for war, each with lance and bow and arrow, and the chief with a rifle
also, were riding along in Indian file. They were naked to the waist,
their buffalo robes being thrown off their shoulders, and lying on their
hips and across the saddle, which was a mere pad of buffalo-skin. Slowly
they drew towards the cañon, as if to cross it by a deer-path near the
spot where Mr. Ruxton lay concealed. The odds were great; but he was
advantageously posted, and he held in readiness his rifle, a
double-barrelled carbine, and a couple of pistols. If he were attacked,
he thought he could make a good defence; but, if unobserved, he had
nothing to gain by attacking them. On they came, laughing and talking,
and Mr. Ruxton, raising his rifle and supporting it in the fork of a bush
which served as a screen, covered the chief with deadly aim. On they
came, but suddenly diverged from the deer-path and struck across the
plain, thereby saving the chief’s life, and probably Mr. Ruxton’s. As
soon as they had disappeared, he recrossed the sierra, and returned for
the night to El Gallo.
The next stage from El Gallo was Mapimi, situated at the foot of a range
of mountains which teems with the precious metals. There he got rid of
his mozo, or native attendant, and engaged in his place a little
Irishman, who had been eighteen years in Mexico, and had almost forgotten
his own language. He readily agreed to accompany him to Chihuahua,
having no fear of the Indians, though they infested the country through
which the travellers would have to pass. They reached Chihuahua,
however, without misadventure. Its territory is described as a paradise
for sportsmen. The common black or American bear, and the formidable
grizzly bear, inhabit the sierras and mountains; and in the latter is
found the carnero cimarron, or big-horn sheep. Elk, black-tailed deer,
cola-arieta (a large species of the fallow deer), the common American red
deer, and antelope, are everywhere abundant. Of smaller game the most
numerous are peccaries, hares, and rabbits; and in the streams the
beavers still construct their dams. There are two varieties of wolf—the
white, or mountain wolf, and the cayeute, or coyote, commonly called the
prairie-dog. Of birds the most common are the faisan (a species of
pheasant), snipe, plover, crane, and the quail, or rather a bird between
a partridge and a quail.
The entomologist would find much to interest him in the plains of
Chihuahua, and especially an insect which seems almost peculiar to that
part of Mexico. From four to six inches in length, it has four long
slender legs. Its body, to the naked eye, seems nothing more than a
blade of grass, and has no apparent muscular action or vitality except in
the two antennæ, which are about half an inch long. It moves very slowly
upon its long legs, and altogether looks not unlike a blade of grass
carried by ants. The Mexicans assert that if horse or mule swallow these
zacateros (so called from _zacato_, grass), it invariably dies; but the
assertion may well be doubted. The variety of spiders, bugs, and beetles
is endless, including the tarantula and the cocuyo, or lantern-bug. Of
reptiles the most common are the rattlesnake and the copper-head: both
are poisonous; and the sting of the scorpion is fatal under some
conditions. The grotesque but harmless cameleon abounds in the plains.
On the American prairies it is known as the “horned frog.”
Vegetation is very scanty in Chihuahua. The shrub that covers its
plains, the mezquit, is a species of acacia, growing to a height of ten
or twelve feet. The seeds, contained in a small pod, resemble those of
the laburnum, and are used by the Apache Indians to make a kind of bread,
or cake, which is not unpleasant to the taste. This constantly recurring
and ugly shrub, according to Mr. Ruxton, becomes quite an eyesore to the
traveller who crosses the mezquit-covered plains. It is the only thing
in the shape of a tree seen for hundreds of miles, except here and there
a solitary alamo or willow, overhanging a spring, and invariably
bestowing its name on the rancho or hacienda which may generally be found
in the vicinity of water. Thus day after day the traveller passed the
ranchos of El Sauz, Los Sauzes, Los Sauzilles—the willow, the willows,
the little willows,—or El Alamo, Los Alamitos—the poplar, the little
poplars. The last is the only timber found on the streams in northern
Mexico, and on the Del Norte and the Arkansas it grows to a great size.
* * * * *
Leaving Chihuahua, Mr. Ruxton set out for the capital of New Mexico,
escorted by three dragoons of the regiment of Vera Cruz, and carrying
despatches from the governor to the commander of the American troops then
posted on the frontier. At El Paso del Norte he entered a valley of
great fertility; but this delightful change of scenery lasted only as far
as San Diego, where begins the dreaded and dreadful wilderness
significantly known as the _Jornada del Muerto_, or “Dead Man’s Journey.”
Not only is it cursed by an absolute want of water and pasture, but it is
the favourite foraging-ground of the Apache Indians, who are always on
the alert to surprise the unwary traveller, to plunder and kill him.
There is no vegetation but artemisia (sago) and screw-wood (torscilla).
About half-way lies a hollow or depression called the _Laguna del
Muerto_, or “Dead Man’s Lake,” but this is hard and dry except in the
rainy season. Mr. Ruxton’s horses suffered considerably, but the “Dead
Man’s Journey” of ninety-five or one hundred miles was performed,
nevertheless, without accident in twenty-four hours.
At Fray Cristoval Mr. Ruxton came upon the river Del Norte, and thence
pushed along its banks to the ruins of Valverde, where, encamped in the
shade of noble trees, he found a trading caravan and a United States
surveying party, under the command of a Lieutenant Abert. The traders’
waggons were drawn up so as to form a corral, or square—a laager, as the
Boers of South Africa call it—constituting a truly formidable encampment,
which, lined with the fire of some hundred rifles, could defy the attacks
of Indians or Mexicans. “Scattered about,” says Mr. Ruxton, “were tents
and shanties of logs and branches of every conceivable form, round which
lounged wild-looking Missourians; some looking at the camp-fires, some
cleaning their rifles or firing at targets—‘blazes’ cut in the trees—with
a bull’s-eye made with wet powder on the white bark. From morning till
night the camp resounded with the popping of rifles, firing at marks for
prizes of tobacco, or at any living creature which presented itself. The
oxen, horses, and mules were sent out at daylight to pasture on the grass
of the prairie, and at sunset made their appearance, driven in by the
Mexican herders, and were secured for the night in the corrals. My own
animals roamed at will, but every evening came to the river to drink, and
made their way to my camp, where they would frequently stay round the
fire all night. They never required herding, for they made their
appearance as regularly as the day closed, and would come to my whistle
whenever I required my hunting mule.”
Mr. Ruxton remained several days at Valverde in order to recruit his
animals. He amused himself by hunting. Deer and antelope were
plentiful; so were turkeys, hares, rabbits, and quail on the plain, geese
and ducks in the river; and he had even a shot—an unsuccessful one—at a
painter, or panther. In some men the love of sport amounts to a passion,
and in Mr. Ruxton it seems to have been equalled or surpassed only by his
love of adventure. But about the middle of December the camp broke up,
the traders departing for Fray Cristoval; while Mr. Ruxton resumed his
northward journey, in company with Lieutenant Abert’s party. Crossing
the Del Norte, he arrived at Socorro, the first settlement of New Mexico
upon this river. Here the houses are _not_ painted, but the women _are_;
they stain their faces, from forehead to chin, with the fire-red juice of
the alegria, to protect the skin from the effects of the sun. At
Galisteo he met with a typical Yankee, of the kind Sam Slick has made us
familiar with—a kind that is rapidly dying out,—sharp, active,
self-reliant; a cunning mixture of inquisitiveness, shrewdness, and good
nature. On reaching Mr. Ruxton’s encampment he unyoked his twelve oxen,
approached the camp-fire, and seated himself almost in the blaze,
stretching his long lean legs at the same time into the ashes. Then he
began: “Sich a poor old country, I say! Wall, strangers, an ugly camp
this, I swar; and what my cattle ull do I don’t know, for they have not
eat since we put out of Santa Fé, and are very near give out, that’s a
fact; and thar’s nothin’ here for ’em to eat, surely. Wall, they must
jist hold on till to-morrow, for I have only got a pint of corn apiece
for ’em tonight anyhow, so there’s no two ways about that. Strangers, I
guess now you’ll have a skillet among ye; if yev a mind to trade, I’ll
jist have it right off; anyhow, I’ll jist borrow it to-night to bake my
bread, and, if you wish to trade, name your price. . . . Sich a poor old
country, say I! Jist look at them oxen, wull ye!—they’ve nigh upon two
hundred miles to go; for I’m bound to catch up the sogers afore they
reach the Pass, and there’s not a go in ’em.”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Ruxton, “would it not be as well for you to feed
them at once and let them rest?”
“Wall, I guess if you’ll some of you lend me a hand, I’ll fix ’em right
off; tho’, I tell you! they’ve give me a pretty lot of trouble, they
have, I tell you! but the critturs will have to eat, I b’lieve!”
The aid asked for was given, and some corn added to the scanty rations
which he put before his wearied and hungry oxen. When they had been
fixed, the Yankee returned to the fire and baked his cake, fried his
bacon, and made his coffee, while his tongue kept up an incessant
clatter. He was all alone, with a journey of two hundred miles before
him, and his waggon and twelve oxen to look after; his sole thought and
object, however, were dollars, dollars, dollars! He caught up every
article he saw lying about, wondered what it cost and what it was worth,
offered to trade for it, or for anything else which anybody might be
disposed to offer, never waiting for an answer, but rattling on, eating
and drinking and talking without pause; until at last, gathering himself
up, he said, “Wall, I guess I’ll turn into my waggon now, and some of you
will, maybe, give a look round at the cattle every now and then, and I’ll
thank you.” No sooner said than done. With a hop, step, and a jump, he
sprang into his waggon, and was snoring in a couple of minutes.
Next morning, at daybreak, while he was still asleep, Mr. Ruxton resumed
his journey, and before evening entered Santa Fé, after a ride in all of
nearly two thousand miles.
There was nothing in Santa Fé to repay him for all he had undergone in
getting there. The houses were built of sun-dried mud, and every other
one was a grocery, that is, a gin or whisky shop, where Mexicans and
Americans were drinking eagerly or playing monté. The streets were
filled with brawlers, among whom Pueblo Indians and priests endeavoured
to make their way. Donkey-loads of hoja, or corn-shucks, were hawked
about for sale. It was noise everywhere; noise and filth, dirt and
drink. The town contains about 3500 inhabitants, and lies at the foot of
a summit of the eastern chain of the Rocky Mountains, about fourteen
miles from the river Del Norte. As for the province, it covers an area
of 6000 square miles, with a population of 70,000, divided among the
Mexico-Spanish (descendants of the original settlers), the Mestizos (or
half-castes), and the Indian Manzos or Pueblos (the aboriginal
inhabitants).
Mr. Ruxton was so disgusted with Santa Fé, that in a very few days he had
packed his mules, taken his leave of its profanity, drunkenness, and
squalidness, and, through the valley of Taos, continued his northward
route. The landscape was now ennobled by the majesty of the Rocky
Mountains, with cool green valleys and misty plains lying among them,
through which the river had hewn its way in deep rocky cañons. The
scenery had assumed a new character of grandeur, and Mr. Ruxton surveyed
it with admiration. At the Rio Colorado he crossed the United States
frontier, and plunged into the wild expanse of snow, with towering peaks
rising on every side, that lay before him; his object being to cross the
Rocky Mountains by the trail or track of the Ute Indians, and strike the
river Arkansas near its head-waters. The cold was intense, and when a
cutting wind swept over the bleak plains or roared through the wooded
valleys, the hardy traveller found scarcely endurable.