For days we journey down the Del Norte. We pass through numerous
villages, many of them types of Santa Fe. We cross the zequias and
irrigating canals, and pass along fields of bright green maize plants.
We see vineyards and grand haciendas. These appear richer and more
prosperous as we approach the southern part of the province, the Rio
Abajo.
In the distance, both east and west, we descry dark mountains rolled up
against the sky. These are the twin ranges of the Rocky Mountains.
Long spurs trend towards the river, and in places appear to close up the
valley. They add to the expression of many a beautiful landscape that
opens before us as we move onward.
We see picturesque costumes in the villages and along the highways: men
dressed in the chequered serape or the striped blankets of the Navajoes;
conical sombreros with broad brims; calzoneros of velveteen, with their
rows of shining "castletops" and fastened at the waist by the jaunty
sash. We see mangas and tilmas, and men wearing the sandal, as in
Eastern lands. On the women we observe the graceful rebozo, the short
nagua, and the embroidered chemisette.
We see rude implements of husbandry: the creaking carreta, with its
block wheels; the primitive plough of the forking tree-branch, scarcely
scoring the soil; the horn-yoked oxen; the goad; the clumsy hoe in the
hands of the peon serf: these are all objects that are new and curious
to our eyes, and that indicate the lowest order of agricultural
knowledge.
Along the roads we meet numerous atajos, in charge of their arrieros.
We observe the mules, small, smooth, light-limbed, and vicious. We
glance at the heavy alparejas and bright worsted apishamores. We notice
the tight wiry mustangs, ridden by the arrieros; the high-peaked saddles
and hair bridles; the swarth faces and pointed beards of the riders; the
huge spurs that tinkle at every step; the exclamations, "Hola, mula!
malraya! vaya!" We notice all these, and they tell us we are journeying
in the land of the Hispano-American.
Under other circumstances these objects would have interested me. At
that time, they appeared to me like the pictures of a panorama, or the
changing scenes of a continuous dream. As such have they left their
impressions on my memory. I was under the incipient delirium of fever.
It was as yet only incipient; nevertheless, it distorted the images
around me, and rendered their impressions unnatural and wearisome. My
wound began to pain me afresh, and the hot sun, and the dust, and the
thirst, with the miserable accommodations of New Mexican posadas, vexed
me to an excess of endurance.
On the fifth day after leaving Santa Fe, we entered the wretched little
pueblo of Parida. It was my intention to have remained there all night,
but it proved a ruffian sort of place, with meagre chances of comfort,
and I moved on to Socorro. This is the last inhabited spot in New
Mexico, as you approach the terrible desert, the Jornada del Muerte.
Gode had never made the journey, and at Parida I had obtained one thing
that we stood in need of, a guide. He had volunteered; and as I learnt
that it would be no easy task to procure one at Socorro, I was fain to
take him along. He was a coarse, shaggy-looking customer, and I did not
at all like his appearance; but I found, on reaching Socorro, that what
I had heard was correct. No guide could be hired on any terms, so great
was their dread of the Jornada and its occasional denizens, the Apaches.
Socorro was alive with Indian rumours, "novedades." The Indians had
fallen upon an atajo near the crossing of Fra Cristobal, and murdered
the arrieros to a man. The village was full of consternation at the
news. The people dreaded an attack, and thought me mad, when I made
known my intention of crossing the Jornada.
I began to fear they would frighten my guide from his engagement, but
the fellow stood out staunchly, still expressing his willingness to
accompany us.
Without the prospect of meeting the Apache savages, I was but ill
prepared for the Jornada. The pain of my wound had increased, and I was
fatigued and burning with fever.
But the caravan had passed through Socorro only three days before, and I
was in hopes of overtaking my old companions before they could leave El
Paso. This determined me to proceed in the morning, and I made
arrangements for an early start.
Gode and I were awake before dawn. My attendant went out to summon the
guide and saddle our animals. I remained in the house, making
preparations for a cup of coffee before starting. I was assisted by the
landlord of the posada, who had risen, and was stalking about in his
serape.
While thus engaged I was startled by the voice of Gode calling from
without, "Von maitre! von maitre! the rascal have him run vay!"
"What do you mean? Who has run away?"
"Oh, monsieur! la Mexicaine, with von mule, has robb, and run vay.
Allons, monsieur, allons!"
I followed the Canadian to the stable with a feeling of anxiety. My
horse--but no--thank Heaven, he was there! One of the mules, the macho,
was gone. It was the one which the guide had ridden from Parida.
"Perhaps he is not off yet," I suggested. "He may still be in the
town."
We sent and went in all directions to find him, but to no purpose. We
were relieved at length from all doubts by the arrival of some early
market men, who had met such a man as our guide far up the river, and
riding a mule at full gallop.
What should we do? Follow him to Parida? No; that would be a journey
for nothing. I knew that he would not be fool enough to go that way.
Even if he did, it would have been a fool's errand to seek for justice
there, so I determined on leaving it over until the return of the
traders would enable me to find the thief, and demand his punishment
from the authorities.
My regrets at the loss of my macho were not unmixed with a sort of
gratitude to the fellow when I laid my hand upon the nose of my
whimpering charger. What hindered him from taking the horse instead of
the mule? It is a question I have never been able to answer to this
day. I can only account for the fellow's preference for the mule on the
score of downright honesty, or the most perverse stupidity.
I made overtures for another guide. I applied to the Boniface of
Socorro, but without success. He knew no mozo who would undertake the
journey.
"Los Apaches! los Apaches!"