On the third day after the fandango, it is announced that the caravan
will move onward to Chihuahua. The day arrives, and I am unable to
travel with it. My surgeon, a wretched leech of a Mexican, assures me
that it will be certain death to attempt the journey. For want of any
opposing evidence, I am constrained to believe him. I have no
alternative but to adopt the joyless resolve to remain in Santa Fe until
the return of the traders.
Chafing on a feverish bed, I take leave of my late companions. We part
with many regrets; but, above all, I am pained at bidding adieu to Saint
Vrain, whose light-hearted companionship has been my solace through
three days of suffering. He has proved my friend; and has undertaken to
take charge of my waggons, and dispose of my goods in the market of
Chihuahua.
"Do not fret, man," says he, taking leave. "Kill time with the
champagne of El Paso. We will be back in a squirrel's jump; and, trust
me, I will bring you a mule-load of Mexican shiners. God bless you!
Good-bye!"
I can sit up in my bed and, from the open window, see the white tilts of
the waggons, as the train rolls over a neighbouring hill. I hear the
cracking whips and the deep-toned "wo-ha" of the teamsters; I see the
traders mount and gallop after; and I turn upon my couch with a feeling
of loneliness and desertion.
For days I lay tossing and fretting, despite the consolatory influence
of the champagne, and the rude but kindly attentions of my voyageur
valet.
I rise at length, dress myself, and sit in my ventana. I have a good
view of the plaza and the adjacent streets, with their rows of brown
adobe houses, and dusty ways between.
I gaze, hour after hour, on what is passing without. The scene is not
without novelty as well as variety. Swarthy, ill-favoured faces appear
behind the folds of dingy rebozos. Fierce glances lower under the
slouch of broad sombreros. Poplanas with short skirts and slippered
feet pass my window; and groups of "tame" Indians, pueblos, crowd in
from the neighbouring rancherias, belabouring their donkeys as they go.
These bring baskets of fruit and vegetables. They squat down upon the
dusty plaza, behind piles of prickly pears, or pyramids of tomatoes and
chile. The women, light-hearted hucksters, laugh and sing and chatter
continuously. The tortillera, kneeling by her metate, bruises the
boiled maize, claps it into thin flakes, flings it on the heated stone,
and then cries, "Tortillas! tortillas calientes!" The cocinera stirs
the peppery stew of chile Colorado, lifts the red liquid in her wooden
ladle, and invites her customers by the expressions: "Chile bueno!
excellente!" "Carbon! carbon!" cries the charcoal-burner. "Agua! agua
limpia!" shouts the aguadord. "Pan fino, pan bianco!" screams the
baker; and other cries from the vendors of atole, huevos, and leche, are
uttered in shrill, discordant voices. Such are the voices of a Mexican
plaza.
They are at first interesting. They become monotonous, then
disagreeable; until at length I am tortured, and listen to them with a
feverish excitement.
After a few days I am able to walk, and go out with my faithful Gode.
We stroll through the town. It reminds me of an extensive brick-field
before the kilns have been set on fire.
We encounter the same brown adobes everywhere; the same
villainous-looking leperos lounging at the corners; the same
bare-legged, slippered wenches; the same strings of belaboured donkeys;
the same shrill and detestable cries.
We pass by a ruinous-looking house in a remote quarter. Our ears are
saluted by voices from within. We hear shouts of "Mueran los Yankies!
Abajo los Americanos!" No doubt the pelado to whom I was indebted for
my wound is among the ruffians who crowd into the windows; but I know
the lawlessness of the place too well to apply for justice.
We hear the same shouts in another street; again in the plaza; and Gode
and I re-enter the Fonda with a conviction that our appearance in public
might be attended with danger. We resolve, therefore, to keep within
doors.
In all my life I never suffered ennui as when cooped up in this
semi-barbarous town, and almost confined within the walls of its filthy
Fonda. I felt it the more that I had so lately enjoyed the company of
such free, jovial spirits, and I could fancy them in their bivouacs on
the banks of the Del Norte, carousing, laughing, or listening to some
wild mountain story.
Gode shared my feelings, and became as desponding as myself. The light
humour of the voyageur disappeared. The song of the Canadian boatman
was heard no longer; but, in its place, the "sacre" and English
exclamations were spluttered plentifully, and hurled at everything
Mexican. I resolved at length to put an end to our sufferings.
"This life will never do, Gode," said I, addressing my compagnon.
"Ah! monsieur, nevare! nevare it vill do. Ah! ver doll. It is like von
assemblee of le Quaker."
"I am determined to endure it no longer."
"But what can monsieur do? How, capitaine?"
"By leaving this accursed place, and that to-morrow."
"But is monsieur fort? strongs beau-coup? strongs to ride?"
"I will risk it, Gode. If I break down, there are other towns on the
river where we can halt. Anywhere better than here."
"C'est vrai, capitaine. Beautiful village down the river. Albuquerque;
Tome: ver many village. Mon Dieu! all better, Santa Fe is one camp of
tief. Ver good for us go, monsieur; ver good."
"Good or not, Gode, I am going. So make your preparations to-night, for
I will leave in the morning before sunrise."
"It will be von grand plaisir to makes ready." And the Canadian ran
from the room, snapping his fingers with delight.
I had made up my mind to leave Santa Fe at any rate. Should my
strength, yet but half restored, hold out, I would follow, and if
possible overtake the caravan. I knew it could make but short journeys
over the deep sand roads of the Del Norte. Should I not succeed in
coming up with it, I could halt in Albuquerque or El Paso, either of
which would offer me a residence at least as agreeable as the one I was
leaving.
My surgeon endeavoured to dissuade me from setting out. He represented
that I was in a most critical condition, my wound far from being
cicatrised. He set forth in most eloquent terms the dangers of fever,
of gangrene, of haemorrhage. He saw I was obstinate, and concluded his
monitions by presenting his bill. It amounted to the modest sum of one
hundred dollars! It was an extortion. What could I do? I stormed and
protested. The Mexican threatened me with "Governor's" justice. Gode
swore in French, Spanish, English, and Indian. It was all to no
purpose. I saw that the bill would have to be paid, and I paid it,
though with indifferent grace.
The leech disappeared, and the landlord came next. He, like the former,
made earnest entreaty to prevent me from setting forth. He offered a
variety of reasons to detain me.
"Do not go; for your life, senor, do not!"
"And why, good Jose?" I inquired.
"Oh, senor, los Indios bravos! los Navajoes! carambo!"
"But I am not going into the Indian country. I travel down the river,
through the towns of New Mexico."
"Ah! senor! the towns! no hay seguridad. No, no; there is safety
nowhere from the Navajo. Hay novedades: news this very day. Polvidera;
pobre polvidera! It was attacked on Sunday last. On Sunday, senor,
when they were all en la misa. Pues, senor, the robbers surrounded the
church; and oh, carambo! they dragged out the poor people--men, women
and children! Pues, senor; they kill the men: and the women: Dios de mi
alma!"
"Well, and the women?"
"Oh, senor! they are all gone; they were carried to the mountains by the
savages. Pobres mugeres!"
"It is a sad story, truly; but the Indians, I understand, only make
these forays at long intervals. I am not likely to meet with them now.
At all events, Jose, I have made up my mind to run the risk."
"But, senor," continued Jose, lowering his voice to a confidential tone,
"there are other ladrones besides the Indians: white ones, muchos,
muchissimos! Ay, indeed, mi amo, white robbers; blancos, blancos y muy
feos, carrai!"
And Jose closed his fingers as if clutching some imaginary object.
This appeal to my fears was in vain. I answered it by pointing to my
revolvers and rifle, and to the well-filled belt of my henchman Gode.
When the Mexican Boniface saw that I was determined to rob him of all
the guests he had in his house, he retired sullenly, and shortly after
returned with his bill. Like that of the medico, it was out of all
proportion; but I could not help myself, and paid it.
By grey dawn I was in my saddle; and, followed by Gode and a couple of
heavily packed mules, I rode out of the ill-favoured town, and took the
road for the Rio Abajo.