University of Virginia Library

A MEXICAN TALE.

It was just at night when I began to descend the last
mountain between the village of San Fernandez, in the
valley of Taos, and that of El Embudo, twenty-five miles
from it, and to which I was now approaching. I had
ascended these mountains in the midst of a fierce storm of
snow, which, as night came on, had lulled, leaving the
wind still blowing heavily through the mountain pines. As
I descended, the darkness and the cold both grew more
intense and palpable. Well wrapped, however, in blankets,
and trusting implicity to our sure-footed mules, we
descended the mountain, not swiftly, but safely. At times
the descent was so precipitous, that I was only kept from
falling by the aid of the deep saddle, and the broad wooden
stirrups of my friend, the worshipful Don Pedro Vigil, who,
owning the best house, the best horses, and the prettiest
wife in the valley of San Fernandez, had kindly supplied
us with mules and a guide. So soon as I arrived at a
part of the hill whence the descent was less rapid and
dangerous, I put my mule to the best speed which I
could accomplish by means of the long and heavy iron
spurs which I wore, at each application of which, my
mule uttered a groan, accompanied by a sensible increase
of speed. Crossing the small river, which, running out of
a narrow cañon or valley to the eastward of the road, supplies
water to the inhabitants, and which, frozen as it
was, caused to my mule more fear with its perilous slipperiness,
and to me, more difficulty, than all the voyage
beside—crossing this, we heard the baying of dogs, to
us a welcome sound, and were soon within the village.
Neither then, however, with its still, sombre, dungeon-like
appearance, nor on the following morning, as it lay
in the midst of the valley, with the hills rising all about it,
bare, red and desolate, and frowning gloomily over the
monotonous whiteness of the plain—neither at one time
nor the other, had it much of attraction for us. But I
have seen it at another time, and under happier auspices;

in the early autumn, when the corn and wheat were ripening
over the whole valley, and when the mountains, partially
clad in green, had not the same gloomy look as in
the depth of winter, and when the river sparkled and rattled
as it ran towards El Embudo, or the tunnel, the
passage through the rocks, whence the village derives its
name.

As we entered the village, everything save the bay
of the dogs was silent; no merry lights gleamed from
the casements, and the houses, as they stood huddled
together like so many brick-kilns, had a certain churlish
and inhospitable look. As we had no visions which
might prove realities, of anything here in the shape of a
merry tavern, with its good supper, good beds and jolly
landlord, we agreed to apply at the best house in the
village,—and we were not long in instructing our guide
to that effect. Accordingly, turning into a roughly fenced
enclosure, we found ourselves in front of a house, which,
with its piazza in front, seemed superior to the habitations
around it. Here our guide knocked at the small and
only window to be discovered, and after various invocations
to `La Santa Maria,' and other saints of both sexes, he
succeeded in arousing those within, and requested admittance
in the name of the party. `Adios!' was answered
in a shrill voice, `there are no men in the house, and you
have frightened us already. We cannot admit you.' In
this extremity, our guide bethought himself of the only
sure means of obtaining an entrance. `Pero, Señora,'
(but madam,) said he, `they are Americanos, and they pay
well.' I am not prepared to say which clause of this speech
produced the effect, whether our character as Americans,
or as good pay-masters; but of a certainty, the folding
doors were soon wide open, and the lady of the house
received us in her kindest manner. Passing through the
sala, or long hall, which was garnished with vast quantities
of buffalo meat, in thin, dry fleeces, as well as with
huge strings of onions, and of red and green pepper,
besides numberless saddle-trees, heavy bridles, and not a
few buffalo robes, we entered the small square room which
was the winter residence. In one corner of it stood the
little fireplace, like a square stove, open on two sides, and

filled with small sticks of pine set upright and burning,
filling the room with all heat and comfort. Round the
whole room, except the part occupied by two mattrasses,
was a pile of blankets, striped red and white, answering
the purpose of sofas. High up on the walls were various
small looking-glasses, pictures of saints, wooden images of
the Saviour, and wooden crucifixes, interspersed with
divers roses of red and white cambric. These, with two
or three wooden benches which served for both chairs and
tables, completed the furniture of the room. The inmates
of the house were but two. The mistress of it was a
woman of about thirty years of age, of features which, as
I discovered in my autumn visit, were not unpleasing,
when left to themselves, but which at this time were
hideously bedaubed and ornamented with red earth, which,
as well as the white chalk-like earth, is the common rouge
and paint of the females in the villages. Her hair lay
smooth behind, disdaining that luxury, the comb. Her
calico dress, with its short bosom and scanty pattern, was
ungraceful in the extreme; and her feet appeared beneath
it in their primitive nakedness. The Indian girl who
appeared now and then, as she moved in and out the
kitchen, was dirty in the extreme, clad only in a chemise
and petticoat, as dirty as herself. Divesting ourselves of
our blankets and extra clothing, we gave ourselves up
entirely to the influence of the fire and the hopes of supper—
for your mountain storm is a strange sharpener of the appetite.
Contrary to our fears, supper came in a reasonable
space of time, and we did good justice to the pounded
dry buffalo meat, the beans and the blood-red dish of meat
and pepper, all of them inseparable from a New Mexican
table, and forthwith consigned ourselves to the blankets
and mattrasses of our landlady.

On seating ourselves by the fireside the next morning,
we found ourselves favored with the company of our hostess's
father. A quaint looking old man was Don Diego
with his little sharp hat and little sharp chin, with short
leathern breeches, gray stockings, and Apache moccasins,
together with his coarse rough frock of woollen fabric.
During the age of preparation necessary, as I before hinted,
to prepare a meal, upon me, as the only linguist of the party,

fell the task of conversing with the old man—and sooth to
say, I found him neither a foolish nor an uninteresting
companion. Among other matters, I was struck with one
legend which the old man related to me, and for the real
truth of which he vouched. It struck me, not on account
of any peculiar novelty in the incidents or the catastrophe,
but because it goes far to prove the fact, of which we are
getting every day more and more convinced, that there
is more of romance in real life than in fiction, as also that
the fire of passion and the depth of affection can exist
under the most adverse circumstances, and in the roughest
and most uncultivated breasts.

It is now several years since a mounted man was seen,
just at the close of a fine day in August, to ride over the
last small hills of the rocky barrier to the south of El Embudo,
and approach the village, followed by two or three
pack mules and a Spanish servant. The sun was just
approaching to the western mountains, filling the sky with
the splendid flush of loveliness, which renders the sunset
scenes of New Mexico unsurpassed, even by those of New
England. Over the whole sky, even to the tops of the
eastern hills, the clouds were full of surpassing brilliancy
and beauty. Hues of every shade, from the lightest silver
to the deepest purple, and at every instant changing, gathered
in the heaven, as the sun slowly fell behind the mountains.
The valley, into which the trader was now entering,
was but scantily greened over with grass and a tall dry
weed which, even in summer, has a look of barrenness;
but just around the village, which, low, dull, and silent, lay
in the centre of the valley, the level expanse of wheat and
corn gave it an appearance of fertility, which in truth it
hardly deserves.

The trader, as he approached the town, seemed an
object of curiosity to various individuals who were to be
seen seated at the doors of the houses, all of them, of both
sexes, with their never-failing companion, a segar of punche
(their country tobacco) rolled in a slip of corn-husk. At
this time, which was just at the commencement of the
American trade to the country, the common people were
not so well accustomed to the sight of Americans as at
present. Then, the high hat, the long coat, the boots,

the full pantaloons, seemed to them odd and outre; and
they gazed upon the wearer as a singular curiosity. Amid
various ejaculations—for the New Mexicans are not a
people to restrain or hide their surprise or admiration—the
foreigner moved steadily through the town towards the
outer edge of it, obedient to a mute sign of direction given
by his servant. One group, particularly, by which he
passed, seemed interested by his arrival. There were two
old men with their dress of leather and coarse woollen,
a woman with her hair turned gray, and one of middle
age, a young man, and a girl of some fifteen years. In
the door-way, too, stood an Indian girl with her Nabajo
blanket, black, with a red border, just round her middle,
and answering for a gown.

`Mira! Don Santiago!' said one of the old men to the
other—`there comes one of these strangers that have
arrived now for years to our land.' `Yes, brother,' was
the answer, `and no doubt he comes well laden with goods
to fish away the pesitos (little dollars) of us poor.'
`And a good exchange,' resumed the other, `to barter
our musty gold and silver for the useful and beautiful
things he brings. Every pelayo has his hands full of dollars,
and his legs cased in leather—ay, and his back, for
not till now has he been offered a shirt.' `As to your gold,
Amigo Ramon,' answered Don Santiago, `I know and
see but little of it; but what little silver I have, Valgame
Dios y La Virgen! is better bestowed in my big chests
than in the pockets of that picaro.'

`Nay,' interrupted the oldest woman, `they are no
picaros, these Americans. I have been told by the Doña
Imanuela, in Santa Fe, that she would place her dollars in
their hands without counting them, and have no fear of
losing one. Nay, compadre, an American cannot steal.'

`Quien sabe?' (who knows?) ejaculated the old man,
`every rascal has a good face till he is found out.'

`And then they are such ingenious men!' went on the
dame, `Tata Dios! such strange things as they know how
to make,—they know everything,—calico and balls of
thread, and a thousand things more strange.'

`And, Señora,' said the young man, `what beautiful
guns—not like our old fusees—some with two barrels, and

some that have no flints. Nay, it is true, Inacia! Have
you not seen them, Tata Ramon?'

`Yes, indeed I have—and so strange they are, too! Ah!
they are great men, these Americans! they can all read
and write like a priest. Lastima! (pity) that they are
heretics.'

`And so beautiful,' timidly said Inacia, `y tan grandotes!'

`Ay, indeed,' spoke again the old woman, `they are all
white and beautiful; but, que les perdon Dios! they are
not Christians—they have no religion.'

`Y tan bravos! (and so brave) said the young man.
`Son Diablos, (they are devils) and have no fear. Well,
the dollars that I have are few; but they will be fewer
when I have seen the inside of this American's trunks.
I want some powder, and some calico for a jacket.'

`And I,' said Don Ramon, `want some tobacco. It
is ten times as good as punche; and besides, look at my
shirt-sleeve! I do n't intend to wear a blanket next winter,
either.'

`Well, do as you please,' said Don Santiago, `I am
content to wear a blanket like my father before me, and a
woollen shirt like my grandfather. Valgame la madre de
Dios y los Santos! it takes more than one sheep to buy a
big coat of these heretics, and I will fill the purse of none
of them, malditos sean sus cuerpos.'

`Vamos,' (uttered with a peculiar Indian-like tone, and
without sounding the final s) said Don Ramon as he rose
to depart, `what will you bet that you don't put ten dollars
in the purse or pocket of this American before he
leaves El Embudo?'

`Adios!' (sounded like the `Vamos') `Adios hombre;
not ten clakos—not ten jolas!'

`Que me apuestas?' (what will you bet?)

`My wife here and Inacia are foolish, and will perhaps
buy something; but I, not a clako!'

`Que me apuestas?'

`Que te apuesto? A hundred cigarritos.'

`A hundred! Vamos a ver! And of tobacco.'

`Well, of tobacco. Que diablo! ten dollars!'

`At any rate, Don Santiago, you will go and see this
American; may be he brings some news from the villa;
and, at any rate, he will not ask you to buy of him. Come,
take your stick, and let us go.'

`Let us go, husband; I want some thread,' said the
middle aged woman.'

`Do, father,' said another voice, `let us go.'

And go they did. The old man took his stick, which
mere habit, and not age, made him use, and his wife
deposited in her bosom several of the bright inmates of a
big purse, which, in its turn, was the inmate of a big chest
in the corner of the room.

Even according to this conversation was then the state
of affairs in New Mexico. It was supposed that an
American could be guilty of no crime—no meanness.
Did he want a store?—rooms in abundance were offered
him gratis. Did he eat and sleep at a Spanish house
while traveling?—no pay was received; and everywhere
the people possessed that character of hospitality which
they still preserve, at a distance from the large towns. In
fact, I have never, at a single door, requested food and
lodging, by the untranslatable expression, tengo posada?
(literally, have I a tavern?) without being promptly answered
in the affirmative; that is, in the little country
settlements. The dim mists were gathering thickly around
the dark brows of the mountains, blending the gloomy pines
into one undistinguishable mass, as the party entered the
house where the trade had stopped. It was the same
house in which I afterwards slept, and which bore then, as
it does now, the reputation of the best house in the village.
Passing through the sala, or long hall, in which then the
family resided, they were ushered into the winter room,
now occupied by `Cæsar and his fortunes.'

A country store, including everything saleable, from a
salt-kettle to a yard of tape, were nothing to the contents
of the six trunks, with which young Jones was to make or
mar his fortune.

Don Ramon was the first applicant; and the ice once
broken, the business went on fluently. The powder, the
shoes, the handkerchiefs, were soon purchased with little
chaffering; but buying the big coat was not to be lightly

hurried over. The price, however, being reduced to
twelve dollars the yard, Don Ramon counted them down
upon a trunk, and made no further purchases. The
females, however, had, like our own fair, a genius for
shopping; and to making a purchase, it was absolutely
essential to see the contents of all the trunks. During all
this time, the father was standing by the merchant,
sturdily, however, maintaining his resolve of making no
purchases. Catching an opportunity, while Don Ramon
left the room, he demanded to see some cloth for a capote.
The merchant showed him a cloak ready made. He bought
it. `Buy some tobacco, compadre,' said a voice from
the sala, `a hundred cigarrones, you know, of the best
ojas, and of tobacco.'

The young man bought his powder, his red crape shawl
to serve as a girdle, and a few other articles; and then a
silken scarf and some ribbons, and a quantity of very
small beads.

`Do you wear a scarf and ribbons?' said the provoking
Don Ramon.

Rafael blushed, and so did Inacia. The trading was
over. Let us leave the narrative a little.

Rafael Mestes was, in the judgment of Inacia Martin,
the most pleasing young man in the valley of El Embudo;
or, indeed, between Santa Fe and Taos. He was of the
middle size, rather slightly but still firmly built, and possessed
of all the agility of the leon of his mountains.

His eye, like those of all his people, was keen and
black; and his face, though by no means singular or
striking, might be accounted handsome. Mixing in his
veins the blood of the Spaniard and the Indian, he possessed
the energy and the indomitable fierceness of both
races, united to the simplicity of character, which, as yet,
had met little to corrupt it. He had been, from his youth,
a herdsman and shepherd; and winter and summer he
and his herds were to be found in the deep, narrow and
rich valleys of the mountains.

He was the best rider, the best thrower of the lasso, and
the best hunter in the valley. He could pick up a dollar
from the ground with his horse at full speed. He could
rope a running horse by either foot, or a buffalo by his

horns, and throw him. And when he shot at one of these
animals, his arrow fell out on the other side. Not that he
could not use a gun; but for running buffalo, both Spaniards
and Indians prefer the bow and arrow, and the lance.
His bravery was undisputed. Alone he chased the leon,
the tiger-cat, and the grizzly bear. And no Apache or
Comanche ever kept long the cattle of which they might
have robbed him. Neither does this sum up his good
qualities; he was the best dancer in the fandango, the
best fiddler, and the best improviso singer from the valley
of Taos to the city of the Holy Faith.[1]

Inacia was young and pretty. As to accomplishments,
a New Mexican girl has none. She could knit a glove or
a stocking, and cut corn-husks into slips for smoking, and
work various articles in beads.

In the jarabes, or singular dances of the fandango, her
first partner was always Rafael. The first glass of the
aguadiente, or white brandy, or of the vino del Paso, generally
touched her lips. His hand was always ready at
shawling and unshawling; and various little ornaments
always marked his return from a journey to Taos. In
return, the little bundles of ojas which he took into the
mountains for smoking, were always cut by her hand;
and his guaje, or little gourd, was always filled by her, with
the best punche. His stockings were all knit by her; and
the little riband braided of beads, from which hung the little
silver saint, was put round his neck by her hand. Born
and brought up together, the course of their affection had
known no ebb and flow. They were not sufficiently
refined and sentimental, not to know that they loved each
other, and nothing had taught them to conceal it. At
least, if there was anything more than simplicity and
nature in the matter, the old man who told me the tale
could not describe it to me; for he had no idea of anything
like love in a novel.

It was a bright and sunny morning, when, on the second
day after his arrival, the trader's mules were seen wending,
their way out of the village at their accustomed pace, and,

crossing the river, were soon buried in the bosom of the
mountains on the path which leads to Taos. There is no
season of the day so exhilarating as sunrise. The heart
will feel sleepy at noon, and melancholy at sunset; but not
at sunrise. Everything seems to feel the influence of the
young day except a mule; it is always the same, with its
long pacing gait, and its ears tossing backward and forward.

At about the same hour, Rafael might have been seen
emerging from the small low but neat cabin of his mother;
and, after mounting his little fleet mare, taking the road
which led in an opposite direction. His dress was now
altered from the wide pantaloons, open on the outside of
either leg to the knees, and gaily ornamented with a profusion
of buttons, to the herdsman's common ones of
leather. His jacket, too, of blue cloth, had given way to
the short frock of gray woollen. His red sash had disappeared
likewise; but his head was left as usual for the
weather to do its worst upon. His fusee was set in front
of him, and supported by a strap depending from the horn
of the saddle. His bow and quiver hung at his back;
and these, with a long rope coiled in front of him, and a
small axe behind him, were the arms and implements of
his calling. Arriving at a deep hollow which runs across
the road about a hundred yards from the village, he alighted,
and, seating himself upon a rock, seemed to await the coming
of some one. Nor was he detained long; a light step
was soon heard approaching, and Inacia descended into
the hallow. Saluting each other by the title, brother and
sister, and by the embrace and kiss so common among
the Mexicans, they sat down together, and she inquired—
`And how long hast thou waited for me here?'

`It is but a moment. Were it an hour, I am paid. But
tell me, is your father well, and your mother?'

`They are both well, Gracias a Dios! and may he give
them a thousand years of life! But you seem sad, and
your eye is wandering; are you sick?'

`No,' said the young man, smiling, `I was only engaged
with my own fears: may they prove empty! Hearken,
Inacia. I have no fear that you will ever prove faithless:

why should you? We have been brought up together;
our mothers are comadres, (sponsors,) and you can never
know me better than you do now. But still, I have strange
fears; I had bad dreams last night, and awoke frightened,
thinking that a bear was tearing you from my arms. Ave
Maria purisima! Your father loves you; but he loves
money better. Nay, be not angry; I know what I say.
Oye! Your father does not love me; I know not why:
nor your mother. I cannot tell whence danger and disappointment
are to come; but old Juan de Dios Lopez
looks upon you with a loving eye—and he is rich. Perhaps,
they may come from him. Beside, these Americans who
come to the country—these beautiful, rich and brave—
they, like everything else, may love Inacia, and your
father may give you to one of them. Virgen bendita!
I rave at thinking of it. But, Inacia, never become the
bride of any but me. Look at these hands: they are
brown with toil; they can labor for two as well as for
one, and God will guard and prosper us. He loves his
children.'

`And why, caro hermano, should you fear that I will
wed either our neighbor Lopez, or any of these strangers
who frequent our country with their rare treasures? Have
we not lived together and known one another long? ay,
many years?'

`And have I not said, mi alma! that I do not distrust,
nay, have never distrusted you? but the entreaties and
severity of thy parents might do much with thy gentle
spirit.'

`Have you never marked, Rafael, how thy gentlest sheep
will prove bold in the defence of her weak young? and
even the turtle dove which we hear moaning in the mountains
like wind in the pine-tops—she, more gentle still,
will not flee from man when her young are in the nest.
And am I weaker than they, if they would force my
heart?'

`Well, my sweet Inacia! thou hast shown to me that
my fears are weak and simple; but, querida, when the
turtle dove is attacked by the hawk or the bald eagle, she
has been known to take refuge in the bosom of man. My

arm is strong, and wo to any who would ruffle a feather
on the wing of my white dove!'

`Nay, now I should of right chide thee, Rafael, that
thou thinkest so illy of my parents; but let it pass, though
perchance it may be construed into a want of duty to those
who love thee and reared thee in the true faith; if so, I
may but do penance.'

`And sit upon a tombstone? I wonder what crime
thou hadst ever committed, to pass thine hours in so gloomy
a place.'

`Hush, Rafael—all commit many sins.'

`And some have better, and strange to say, more lenient
confessors than we; in truth, our Padre teaches us by
precept better than by example. I doubt, sometimes,
Inacia, of the doctrines preached to us by such me as he;
the stream that runs through a muddy soil, becomes after
a space, itself foul. I have talked with these Americans,
Inacia, whom we call hereges, and they have told me many
strange things, which—but I forget:—lo, the sun is two
hours above the hills, and yet thou knowest not why I
called thee here. You have kindly promised to make me
a broad cinta to support my saint, for this round my neck
is, to say the truth, something worn. Here is the chaquina
(small beads) with which to weave it; wilt thou do it for
me?'

`Why not?'

`And, Inacia, here is something which, when thou
wearest, thou wilt remember the giver. Say not a word;
I'll not hear it. Come—the sun calls me sluggard; one
embrace, and I go to the mountains. Have care of yourself
till I return, lest you be sick. Adios mi vida!'

After the embrace, he threw himself upon his mare,
held out his hand, as a last farewell, and bounding up the
bank, rode swiftly off. Inacia stood silently watching him,
till a small ridge sloping off into the bosom of the mountains,
hid him from her sight; then, as a big tear gathered
slowly and fell from her black lashes, she turned silently
homeward. The village was silent, as common, and as she
passed through it to the home of her father, hardly an individual
met her eye.

The house into which she entered was like all around
it, a small building of mud. At each end of it was a room
projecting into the street beyond the body of the edifice
to a line with the piazza, which stood in front of the sala.
The walls, as I have said, were of large square bricks of
mud, and above them, small timbers were laid across, projecting
out to the distance of a foot or two from the building,
and which, placed near together and covered to the
depth of two feet with bricks of mud, formed the roof.
The thick, heavy door was roughly carved, and the square
windows were paned with the mica of the mountains.
Everything was quiet about the house; four or five oxen
and cows were lying about in the sun chewing their cud;
and the jackass, just eased of his heavy load of pine sticks,
was munching his husks contentedly at the door; two or
three dogs were basking in the sun under the heavy wain
of pine, which, with its pine wheels and pine axletree,
looked to the eye like a useless pile of lumber. Even the
hens had caught the infection, and went quietly about without
their endless cackling; and the half dozen pigs which
were staked close to the house to keep them out of the
corn were too luxurious to utter a grunt. Within, her
mother was busily twirling the distaff and making yarn by
the slow process of a former age, still common in New
Mexico. Her father was smoking his cigar of corn-husks.

In the country in which every man, though he be a fool,
has a small sprinkling of the knave, it cannot be supposed
that Don Santiago Sandoval had escaped the general contagion.
Not he; he had even been an Alcalde, which title
generally implies a greater knave with a better opportunity,
and a wider flight for his genius.

Men did not cry out against him, or point to him as an
example to be shunned, and by which their children
might take heed to their steps. No; he had no such reputation.
He had been a man of much diligencia,[2] as the
Spaniards call a faculty which they possess and exercise,—
in our language, swindling. He had, perhaps, been bribed
once or so. He had once had a chain upon his leg for a
little time; `but other reputable men had done the same—

nay, worse. For example, there was Juan de Dios Lopez,
and Juan de Jesus Ortis; they had been in prison for stealing
horses and sheep; but Tata Dios de mi alma! such men
always became rich, and flourished in the world.' This
was by way of moral to their children.

No remark was made, or question put, when Inacia
entered; and she sat down quietly to her knitting, in the
still manner which characterizes the females of her country.
Although we may reasonably suppose, that Love,
who works more changes, and produces more strange
effects, than Prospero's `quaint and dainty Ariel,' had
lent to Rafael something of exaggeration, and a little vain
fear, when he supposed that all things which looked upon
Inacia must love her, yet natheless, she was a pretty,
almost a beautiful girl. There is no taste in the dress of
a New Mexican female—not a spark—and they never
develope any thing of that grace of bust and outline, which
enchants us in our own delightful girls. But without the
aid, or rather with the disadvantage of dress, detracting
from her natural beauty, Inacia was far from homely;
her eyes were keen, black and vivid; her face was oval
and delicate; her mouth small, and lips beautifully thin—
and a thin delicate lip well befits a black eye and jet
locks. Her skin was tinged with the hue which the sun
gives to all he loves to look upon warmly, and her small
and round, yet delicate form, seemed to have hardly support
enough in a taper foot and slender ankle which might
have become Titania. Were I to detail the conversation,
which after the entrance of Inacia served to wear away
the monotony of the forenoon, I should most certainly
wear away the patience of my readers. Suffice it to say
that it turned upon the crops, cattle, and in a word, upon
all possible subjects except politics—that is a matter in
which this isolated and unimportant, as well as uninterested
people have nothing to do. Noon, that unwearied
traveller, had arrived, perhaps passed, when the tramp of a
horse was heard approaching; and the rider dismounting,
entered the door, uttering as he did so, a benediction.
He was the priest to whom belonged the spiritual charge
of the village of El Embudo, as well as of the Jolla and
some others. As he entered, he was saluted by the master

of the house with the title, Tata Padre, and by the
mother more respectfully, as Padre Santo. His hat and
cane were officiously taken charge of, and after seating
himself on a pile of blankets, and wiping the sweat from his
brow, he received and returned various enquiries after
health, and started various topics of conversation, which,
so far as I know, are common to all nations.

The Frai Luis Muro was about thirty years of age, of
features coarse, and sensual, but regular; stoutly and
firmly built, and of the medium height. Had he not been
a priest, his character for virtue would have been little
respected. He was grievously addicted to various sins;
and among them was numbered the love of good liquor,
and, at times, a forgetfulness of his vow of celibacy. Had
he not been a priest, however, he would have been only a
bon vivant, and a very good fellow, as the world of New
Mexico goes, and no crime or sin would have been laid at
his door.

To say the truth, the Padre Muro was infinitely superior
to many or most of his brethren, who, in general, are
in that country hardly as well educated as a boy of eight
years in ours. Now the Frai Luis had been educated at
the college of Guadalajara, and was a tolerable scholar in
Latin and Greek. He was also well versed in the now
exploded systems of natural philosophy and chemistry; and
was in fact a man of no mean talent—and of no great
sanctity.

During a pause in the conversation, which had continued
for some time after his entrance, the eye of the Padre fell
upon the cloak which had so lately elicited the dollars of
Don Santiago.

`What, hermano,' said he, `you have purchased a new
capote! Did you not say that one of these strangers,
these Americans, had been here of late?'

`Some such thing has happened, father, as you mention;
and of a truth, I did improve the opportunity to lay
aside the blanket and to wear the cloak.'

`And to lose,' said a voice from the door, `a hundred
cigarros of tobacco to me, which you are not to forget to
pay, or I to claim. But, father, pardon me! My first
salute was due to you.'

`You have no pardon to ask, Don Ramon! What of
these hundred cigarros?'

`A wager, father, that he would not put ten dollars
into the purse of this American.'

`And he—when did he go from here?'

`This morning, after the sun rose.'

`Did you talk with him while he was here?'

`Yes, father, he slept at my house.'

`And what said he?—do you remember?

`Yes; much that it is not meet for me to repeat to you.
These strangers are a bold and careless race; and of a
truth they pay little respect to our holy church. They
neither cross themselves nor tell the rosary—nay, nor
remove their hat as they pass a crucifix.'

`It is true, hijo. I have seen some of them. They do
not scruple even to attack our faith with argument; and if
they are allowed to enter and reside thus in our country,
I fear for the consequences. There are some among
us already touched with heresy. I have heard of some
bold speeches of a youth of El Embudo, and grievous shall
be the penance with which he must atone. I speak of
young Rafael Mestes—nay, it may be that unless he make
full acknowledgement and reformation, I shall call upon
the Gefe Politico to forward him to Mexico, there to learn
the true doctrine.'

`Nay, father,' said Don Ramon, `I hardly think that
your power extends so far; and neither do I imagine that
Rafael has merited any such penance. The boy may have
had some thoughts, that certain matters in the existing
state of the church might be altered for the better; and
truly, father, I have had a shrewd leaning to the same
opinion myself. For example, it seems to me that those
who are our teachers should themselves be men of exemplary
lives. How, for example, am I to take warning not
to brutalize myself with liquor, when he who is my adviser,
finds a difficulty in standing upright, and hath his words
one standing in the way of the other? It seems, too, at
times, to my mind, that we who are the most concerned in
the matter, should have the right of examining the credentials
of those, who claim to be our guides, and of looking
into the book whence they derive their doctrines.'

`It is soon proved, Don Ramon!'

`Nay, father, I meant not to enter upon an argument
in this matter; to doubt of one side is not to defend the
other. Of these Americans, father, I have only this to
say,—receive your tithes, and leave them in peace; your
flock is not about to receive doctrines from them; although
were we all like them, neither we nor you might be the
worse. They too are Christians, and have their Padres,
and do them reverence, and are never misused by them;
and perhaps, as the sacred Scriptures may be read by him
who runs, they who, to a child, can read it, may be more
probably in the right way than we who never see it. But
with regard to Rafael, should you oppress him, men might
say that you did so, distrusting the goodness of your cause.
Would we punish men—would you punish me because I
in my heart preferred a monarchy to a republic? Nay,
father, let him talk; they that heed him are few; they
that he will convert are fewer. By the way, father, do
you know of the reply which a Nabajo made not long ago
to the Padre Sanchez?

`Not I.'

`The Padre urged him to become a Christian. “No,”
said he, “God made me for a Nabajo; he does not want me
to be a Christian.” “But,” said the old man, “now he has
brought you here as a prisoner, purposely to give you an
opportunity to become a Christian.” “No, no,” was the
answer; “he did not make me for a Christian. Look
here; he made a horse for a horse, and a mule for a mule;
he made you to be a Christian, and me to be a Nabajo.”
What do you think of that?'

`I think that the Padre had better have left him alone.'

`He did, and acted wisely; but tell me, Padre, when
will you celebrate mass?'

`Early in the morning, to-morrow; to-day I must see to
the arrangement of the coming tithes; at the utmost, they
are no immense matter, and if I lose half of them, as I do
of the primicias, (first fruits,) I may sit down with nothing.'

`I have not forgotten that I owe you six sheep of the
primicias, which you may receive at any day. In the
mean time, let us together pay a visit to our neighbor Lopez;

if you will accompany me, we will not be detained
long.'

With a promise to Don Santiago that he would return
to dinner, the Frai Luis accompanied him to the house of
him who has been already once or twice mentioned in this
narrative by the name Juan de Dios Lopez. This man
was about sixty years of age. His hair had not yet lost
any of its original blackness, but his beard, always half an
inch long, was of a dirty gray color; his eyes, small and
half shut, were set deeply behind his cheek bones; his
nose, thin and straight, projected over his mouth. Add to
this a small figure, and a stooping, shuffling gait, with a
certain fiendish and beastly expression of countenance,
and you have the Señor Lopez. Besides tilling his ground,
he at times brought up from the Paso del Norte, chocolate,
sugar, wine, and whiskey, which he vended to his neighbors.
It was the latter of these articles which caused him
the present visit.

Upon their entrance into the house of this worthy, and
after the usual salutations and embraces, a cuartillo of
aguardiente, or grape whiskey, was at the instance of Don
Ramon produced and placed upon the table, and the priest
was not slow in testing its virtues.

`Gracias a Dios!' was his first expression, as he put
down the glass after taking a long draught; `Gracias a
Dios! there is no water in that.'

`No, Señor Padre,' said Lopez, `it is of the vintage of
Velarde, of whom you may have heard. He is not the
man to vend bad wine or whiskey; and far and near his
vintage is known and in repute.'

`And worthily, too, if all his liquor hath such a gusto as
this.'

`But, father,' said Don Ramon, `how is it that our self-denying
and mortifying church alloweth our teachers to
partake of the juice of the grape, while of things, as it
seems to me, yet more innocent, they have denied them
the partaking?'

`It is, hijito, hard to find, in the whole range of creation,
comforts more innocent and edifying than the juice
of the grape, whether simply expressed in wine, or sublimated
in aguardiente. And doth not St. Paul say to

Timothy, that he hath license to take a little wine for his
stomach's sake?—which word kardia, signifying in the
Greek as well heart as stomach, I take to imply, that
Timothy was of a diffident and timorous disposition, and
that in order to give him courage to preach in public, the
Apostle prescribed wine, which, as all men know, maketh
the fearful bold. Hast thou not marked me when I have
risen with a dry throat, and a heart on which the dew of
wine hath not fallen, how I have hesitated and stammered
and failed to edify my hearers? And again, when the
naturally slow blood hath been quickened by the generous
liquor, hast thou not seen how powerfully I have uttered
the truths of our holy faith, and caused the hearts of the
wicked to tremble?'

`I have, indeed, seen at times, father, that thou wert
more powerful and edifying at one time than at another,
but never till now have I known the cause. So let us take
one other draught, and search for the bottom of the cuartillo.
It may be, that when this is out the Señor Lopez
will act the part of a kind host, and at his own expense
replenish the measure.'

`He shall, or I will lay on him the malediction of our
holy church, and that is not to be lightly incurred.'

`That it is not, father; and yet these heretic Americans
thrive well under it. But tell me, father, how is it with
these fasts, which come so often, and act so roughly both
with body and soul? It strikes me that they are far from
being of an edifying quality.'

`In sooth, hermano, thou art right. Our church, (thou
art discreet,) our most holy church is like some tall and
venerable trees—she hath, clinging to her, some useless
vines, which might be lopped off, and the tree flourish all
the better. I doubt if my hungering for a day either
pleases or benefits our Father in heaven.'

`Nor I; but, father, these penances and mortifications
of the body and soul, are they, too, not included in the
same reasoning? they most surely cannot benefit God,
more than a burnt offering.'

`Brother Ramon, thou art one who loveth to dive too
deep into these matters; pearls are only found in shallow
water, and he who trieth the deep water worketh in vain.

But here is one thing in which thou canst dive as deep as
thou pleasest. Our host hath complied with thy hint, and
hath set before us another measure of Velarde's vintage.'

The crafty Don Ramon, who, as the reader will have
seen, was a sceptic upon the most received points of his
religion, had drawn the Frai Luis into this discourse in
order to elicit from him his opinions upon such articles of
their belief as he was inclined to doubt, in order to indulge
his malicious propensity, not openly—for that he might not
dare to do—but covertly, by secret sneers at the pastor of
his neighbors, and by laughing in his sleeve at the hypocrisy
of the priest, and the folly of his dupes; perhaps, too,
having some fears that he was not altogether right in his
scepticism, he wished to learn the true belief of a man
whom he knew to be well learned, and interested in
maintaining the belief which he professed.

Whatever might have been his object, it was fully accomplished;
for after their host had left the room, and the
liquor began to work more powerfully on the strong brain
of the priest, his companion drew from him, one by one,
his most secret feelings and opinions.

Like a great proportion of the priests in Mexico, as
well as in all other catholic countries, the Frai Luis, from
despising many of the tenets he was obliged to teach, and
by sophistry to defend, had, by degrees, arrived at the
conclusion that the whole foundation of his faith was alike
futile; and the number of Spanish translations of Volney's
ruins had rendered him a convert to the faith, or rather,
absence of faith, of that ingenious writer. Leaving him,
therefore, and Don Ramon, to pursue their conversation,
which only ended when the utterance of the priest became
embarrassed, and his tongue tied by the potent liquor, we
will follow the steps of their host after he left them to
themselves, as we have before mentioned.

First, however, I have to say, that the reader is not to
suppose that the picture I have drawn of the Frai Luis
Muro is to be considered as anything less than a true picture
of one half the priests in New Mexico. The priests
of Santa Fe, of Taos, of San Miguel, and other places
which I could mention—were name of avail—are all notorious
gamblers, and scruple not to cheat in this branch of

their sacred profession. The priest of Serolleta is rarely
seen except disguised with liquor, and the priest of Taos
scruples not to intoxicate himself at a fandango. As to
their deism, several of them have Volney in their libraries,
and as to their chastity, they make no profession of it, and
speak of their mistresses and their amours as a matter of
course. Thus much by way of explanation.

When Lopez left his house, he bent his course directly
towards that of Santiago Sandoval. There was a more
than usual attempt at splendor in his appearance this
morning; a pair of American shoes in the place of the
common Comanche moccasins; a new black silk handkerchief
rolled round his hat; and some other unimportant
alterations in other parts of his dress.

When he entered the house with the usual salutation,
Buenos dias le de Dios, everything was as when the priest
left it. Inacia was still knitting; her mother twirling the
spindle, and her father occupied with his eternal cigar.

`Busy as common, comadre!' said Lopez as he entered,
addressing the mother, `late and early I can find you at
work.'

`Yes, compadre,' was the answer. `It behoves me to
be busy; there must be blankets for my husband to take
to Sonora in the spring, and they are not found growing on
the bushes.'

`You say true, comadre! I sold my mules last year at
a good price to these Americans; and those that I and
my brother, your husband, shall bring from Sonora next
summer, will pay us still better.'

`Ah,' replied the woman, `you are rich, and the bigger
the snow-ball, the faster it gathers and increases. We are
poor, and must be content with an humbler profit.'

`True; I should lie were I to call myself poor. I have
flocks of sheep and herds of cattle in the mountains. I
have land enough to bring me every year, a hundred fanegas
of wheat, and I have a good house; and yet, with all
this, I have never taken me a wife.'

`And why not? There are girls enough. The woman
whom you marry will live respected and happy; but perhaps
you look for one who is rich. Is it so?'

`No; she whom I would marry must be young, handsome,
and good tempered; and I am too old to get such
an one.'

`Adios! you are far from old,' exclaimed the mother.

`Shu!' cried the father, as if chiding a mule.

`You was born the same year with me,—que diablo!
am I old? Valgame la madre de Dios!'

`Vaya en hora buena,' (pronouncing it as vaya ena
uena) replied Lopez—`perhaps then you will do me the
favor which I am about to ask.'

`Who knows?' replied the father. `What is it?'

`I have been thinking for a week that I had better
marry.'

`Bueno!'

`And I thought that when I go to Sonora, I had better
have some one to leave in my house and to take care of
matters; people are very roguish, compadre!'

`Very true.'

`And besides, I am getting old, and I want some one to
tend me when I am sick.'

`Um!'

`And, you know I ought to write a letter, to be polite,
asking for the maiden whom I wish to marry.'

`Shu!—people at our time of life do n't stand so much
upon politeness; it will do well enough for boys.'

`I thought so—and so I have come myself and saved
the trouble of writing a letter. I thought it useless to
stand upon ceremony when I wished to marry the daughter
of my compadre.'

`Que?'

`And so if you will give me Inacia, I think we can be
happy together. I have known her from a baby, and I
shall be like a father to her.'

`Certainly I will give her to you,' said the father, `and
you shall be married whenever you see proper.'

`And,' said the mother, `Inacia will be the prettiest
bride, and the happiest wife in the valley of El Embudo.'

`Mother, I'll never marry him,' was the first expression
which broke from the lips of Inacia. Her voice in the
matter had been considered a thing of no importance; and
it had all been settled without once appealing to her; of

course all were astonished when they heard these words
issuing from the lips of her who had before this ever been
obedient to their slightest sign. There she sat, pale as
death, with her temples swollen, and her eyes bright and
keen, with the fierce, lowering look of an angry Spaniard.

`Inacia,' said her father, `you shall marry him.'

`Oh father!' she cried, `do not say so. What fault
have I committed that you should at once make me miserable
for life, and shorten the existence which you gave me.
When you have been sick, have I not spread and smoothed
your bed and pillow? I have prepared your food, and fed
you as if you were an infant. I have watched by your
bedside night after night, and wept over you as you slept.
And when have I ever offended you? I have watched
your eye to learn what you wanted before you spoke;
and now, for the love of God, do not render me forever
wretched.'

`Nay, Inacia,' said the mother, `how canst thou be
wretched; this is a girlish whim, and no more.'

`Nay, mother, it is more—much more. Rafael and I
have pledged ourselves to one another before heaven, and
God will punish me if I break that vow; and you will not
force me to incur his anger.'

`And who bid thee incur his anger?' said the father.
`Did I pledge thee to this wretch, Rafael?'

`And, daughter, he is but a herdsman,' said the mother,
`and is reported to be a heretic.'

`They who call him heretic belie him; and though a
herdsman, he is honest, bold, and faithful.'

`He is a cuzco, a chucho, a mal-criado, a picaro,' said
old Lopez; implying by these epithets, a general assortment
of disgraceful and mean qualities.

`Listen, father, and you, mother,' said Inacia, rising
and standing erect on the floor—her face now flushed, and
her frame quivering; `I hear you vilify Rafael and make
no answer, because you are my parents; but tell that reptile
to take heed how he gives a loose to his tongue. A
stone from a weak hand will crush a scorpion. Tell him,
too, that I am pledged to another; and that if God gives
me my reason I will never break my vow. Tell him that

I detest and abhor him; and that I would spit upon him,
could I thus slay like the centipede. Ai Dios!'

With the last word, clapping both hands upon her head,
she fell forward into the middle of the floor, and lay as
dead. Remedies were applied to bring her out of her
swoon, and while this was being done, Lopez silently and
unceremoniously departed, determining within himself, as
he did so, to accomplish his purpose at all hazards. Inacia
lay for an hour or two nearly senseless; and when she did
recover her faculties, she was so pale, so weak, and so
languid, that her parents, who sincerely loved her, and no
doubt consulted what they took to be her welfare in determining
on this marriage—her parents placed her in her bed,
and promised not to urge the marriage.

On arriving at his home, Lopez, who imagined that in
the cold parting from the parents of Inacia, he saw the
downfall of his hopes, threw himself upon a pile of blankets
and mused a long time. He then rose and called the
Indian girl. `Where is the Padre?' said he.

`He fell out of his chair, and is now in bed asleep.'

`Where 's Don Ramon?'

`He has gone home, Señor.'

`Mal rayo abrasa!' muttered he. `Well, go and get
me some dinner, and make haste; and whenever the
father wakes, let me know. Do you hear?'

`Yes, Señor.'

It was three or four hours before the priest awoke.
During this time, except the short space occupied in eating,
Lopez walked the room, muttering to himself, now curses
against Rafael, now against the priest. The latter, however,
carefully uttered sotto voce. At length the firm
step of the priest was heard to approach; and lifting the
curtain which covered the doorway, the Frai Luis entered
the apartment with his face flushed, and his eyes red—but
betraying in no other way the effects of the late debauch.
Saluting his host in his common bland but firm tones, he
seated himself, and proceeded to strike fire and light his
cigar with the coolness of one who knew himself welcome.

`Will you smoke, Don Juan de Dios?' said he, holding
towards his host a small package of paper cigars. `These

are of the best tobacco of Vera Cruz, and of a flavor something
superior to our punche, which, of a certainty, is
rather tasteless.'

Lopez took his cigar and lighted it in silence. He then
rose, and drawing a measure of wine from the large earthen
jar which contained it, he set it before the Frai.

`Drink, father,' said he, `and then I have something
for thy private ear, and which closely touches the interest
of the church.'

The Frai drank a huge draught, and then looking into
the eye of his host, he said `Proceed.'

`Thou knowest Inacia, father?'

`I have marked her for a pretty maiden, and a close
attendant at the mass.'

`It is rumored, and with much seeming of truth, that
she is about to wed the herdsman, Rafael Mestes.'

`And how doth this affect the church?'

`Every way. He is, as it is well known, a favorer of
these heretic Americans, and hath much communion with
Ramon Bernal, who is well known to be attached to
strange and sceptical opinions; and surely it affecteth the
church that he should be allowed to wed one who is so
disposed to the truth as this Inacia.'

`Still,' replied the father, coldly, `I see no danger in
this. She may convert her husband from any misgivings
which he may have in this matter; and if not, why even
let him remain a heretic. Such as he shake not the pillars
of the church.'

`Nay, father, but these Americans are a bold, and fearless,
and dangerous people. Should their opinions and
faith gain ground, where wilt thou be?'

`The Americans have priests.'

`But, father, I, as thou knowest, am a zealous and
faithful servant of the church. I pay my tithes and
primicias regularly; and I lean not to any new opinions.
This thou knowest; and I, to say truth, I would fain wed
with this Inacia.'

`Still, Don Juan, I do not see that my duty to the church
calls upon me to interfere in this matter.'

`But, father, if I can show thee that it is for thy interest
to do so, then, as a pious servant of the church, thou wouldst,

perhaps, see thyself called upon to interfere; for thou and
the church are one.'

`And how showest thou that it is for my interest? How
provest thou this?'

`Thus:—if thou wilt use thy influence with the girl, and
win her consent to marry me, I will bestow upon the
church through thee, three ounces of gold and a jar of
Velarde's best vintage.'

`This, indeed, alters the matter. Hast thou spoken to
the parents in this matter?'

`This very day, and had their consent; but the tears of
the girl turned them again; and I fear me that I am now
defeated in my hopes.'

`Nay, son! let us hope better things. What I can do
for thee, con licencia de Dios, shall be done. Truth it is,
this Rafael is an arrant heretic, and ought not be suffered
to wed with one so pious and fair as Inacia. To-morrow
I will talk with her touching this matter; and now let us
discuss the merits of another modicum of thy liquor.'

`At your pleasure, father! Serve me but in this, and
henceforth command me. I have set my heart on this
marriage.'

We will not accompany them through their debauch;
nor will we disgust our readers with the conversation
which passed between the priest and Inacia on the following
morning. Suffice it to say, that he held forth to her in
turn, exhortation, entreaty, and threatening. He warned
her of the sin of disobeying her parents, and of the still
greater enormity of marrying or loving a favorer of heretics.
He threatened her with the anger of the church and
of God, until Inacia, weary and frightened, yielded, and
consented to marry Lopez. The day was appointed. At
the end of a week the marriage was to take place, and
she promised her parents that if she were alive on that
day she would wed the man whom they had urged upon
her.

Rejoiced at this promise, and thinking her happiness
now on the eve of completion, her parents commissioned
the priest to make it known to Lopez, and to request his attendance
to receive from the mouth of Inacia her promise

to be his bride. The Frai, elated by his success, and
already grasping his reward, hastened to bear the message.

`It is needless to describe the joy of Lopez at receiving
it. Neither is it necessary to relate the manner of the
parting of these two worthies, when, half an hour afterward,
the priest put foot in the stirrup for the village of
the Jolla, which parting was accompanied by many mutual
expressions of endearment; on the part of Lopez,
too, of reverence and thanks, and on that of the Frai, of
kind condescension and fatherly affection, all too supremely
ridiculous to translate. At length, with a promise on the
part of the priest that he would attend on the day appointed
for the marriage, he rode off with his three ounces of
gold in his pocket, and a servant bearing a large jar riding
behind. Neither is it needful to describe the meeting of
Lopez and his betrothed—and how, with the powerful
command over her feelings, which all women, at times,
know how to assume, she calmly told him that she would
become his bride on the day appointed.

The reader will now allow me the privilege of passing
over four or five days, and taking up the narrative on the
day before that appointed for the marriage. He is likewise
requested to allow the scene to be changed a little,
and transferred into the bosom of the mountains, about
fifty miles to the north and east of El Embudo. Let him
imagine, then, that he is standing in a deep, narrow cañon,
between two immense ranges of mountains which gird
the sides of the hollow, and meeting at each end, seem to
forbid either ingress or egress. Around their feet the tall
dark pines stand up in thousands from among the abundant
rocks, but grow thinner as the eye glances upward,
leaving the bleak summits of the mountains to stand red
and bare in the sight of heaven. Let him also imagine
the valley itself to be thinly covered with tall pines, among
which the grass is green and luxuriant. On one side of
the valley runs a clear stream of cold water, perhaps twenty
yards wide, rattling over the rocks, or standing in little
pools beneath the fir-trees. Such was the valley in which
Rafael was herding his cattle. Just in the centre of the
valley stood a small edifice, built conically of poles after the

fashion of the Caiawas, and covered with snowy skins.
Just opposite the tent were the remains of an old dam,
seeming as if nothing short of man's ingenuity could have
constructed it, although it was, in fact, the work of that
singular animal, the beaver; and the fresh cut willows
along the bank, and here and there a path from the water,
showed that the community had not yet been extirpated,
or obliged to transmigrate. Spread along the valley was
a goodly number of beeves and sheep feeding quietly or
lying in the shade; around the tent two or three skins of
the grizzly bear and of the mountain deer were stretched
and drying in the sun. The little mare was feeding not
far from the door, and his dog tigre was coiled up and
lying in the door-way. Rafael himself might have been
seen a little farther up the valley, gliding carefully along
the bank of the stream, and angling for the delicious little
trout, which abounded in the clear elemental rivulet.

While he was thus employed, a man came winding
slowly down from the hill at the western end of the valley,
and approached the tent. His mule seemed jaded and
hard ridden; and he himself was dusty, and bore other
signs of travel and weariness. He was met by Rafael,
and as he dismounted, greeted openly and kindly as an
old acquaintance.

`Como te vas compadre?' said Rafael, holding out his
hand.

`I am well, gracias a Dios!—and you?'

`And what brings you here, Jose? it is long since you
have been in this cañon.'

`It would have been longer had you not been here.
I come to bring you tidings which closely concern you.'

`What tidings? Oh, speak out. Do n't bring tidings,
and be afraid to tell them.'

`Well—they say that he is a raven who croaks ill news;
but I must tell you that Inacia Sandoval is to be married
to-morrow.'

`How? To-morrow, do you say? And to whom?'

`To old Juan de Dios.'

`To him? And why not come sooner to inform me of it.
Had it been your case, I would have ridden night and day
to have told you of it.'

`It was only yesterday at noon that I returned from
Taos. I have not failed in my friendship.'

`Well! forgive me, Jose. But tell me, how came it
about, and after her vow to me?'

`Her parents and the Padre persuaded her to it.'

`Ay, so I told her. God's curse upon the priest and
the parents; but I will see her before this marriage, and
face this proud and drunken priest. If they push me too
far, I may stand at bay and gore them. I might as well
die at any rate as be a cowherd, whom every rich man
can trample. Good bye, and thanks, Jose. You cannot
go to El Embudo so quickly as my little mare.'

`But the cattle!'

`Ay, the cattle; let them take care of themselves. Part
of them belong to Lopez; let him come and herd them.'

He caught his mare, saddled her, and rode swiftly off
in the direction by which Jose had entered. It was now
noon. Night overtook him as he reached the foot of the
highest mountain on his road, and it was late when he
crossed it. The wolf yelled from among the pines, and the
wild cry of the leon was heard at intervals ringing from
the caves and rocks. Over hill, rock, and stream, however,
his sure-footed mare kept her way in the dim path, which
was hardly descried by the starlight, and about sunrise on
the next day he reached the main road from El Embudo to
Santa Fe. Just at the point where the path in which he
had been journeying meets this road, the latter enters a narrow
passage between the hill on one side and some immense
piles of rocks on the other, extending, perhaps, fifty
yards, and just wide enough for one man to pass on horseback.
As Rafael wound round the point of rocks at the
entrance, and turned abruptly into the pass, he saw that in
front of him a man had stopped, blocking up the way with
his horse, and employed very leisurely about some repairs
on his saddle. He was of a tall, bulky frame, clumsily
made, and sitting heavily in the saddle. His horse, too,
was taller and larger than the horses of the country; and
both by his bridle and saddle as well as by his dress, the
stranger was evidently an American.

`Make way there,' cried Rafael, sharply, `and let me
pass.'

`Diablo!' was the answer, in a strange kind of jargon,
as the stranger turned in his saddle, showing a heavy, good
natured face and large blue eyes. `You might get your
head broke, man, if you should not pay a little more respect
to people.'

`Nay, Señor,' replied Rafael humbly, `I meant no
affront; but if you knew all, you would excuse me and let
me pass.'

`All what, man? What is the matter with you?'

It is needless to repeat Rafael's brief and somewhat unintelligible
tale, which he was obliged to repeat and explain
to Lem Carpenter before he was allowed to pass on his
way. Lem was a Kentuckian and a blacksmith, who,
from the spirit of curiosity, had come to New Mexico, and
from the spirit of gain, had remained there. He was undaunted
as a lion, and ready to follow his feelings in any
enterprise into which they chose to lead him; and the consequence
was, that he very often found himself in a scrape.

When Rafael had made his story clear to Lem, which,
considering that the latter was no classical scholar in the
Spanish, was done in a marvellously short time, he was
encouraged by an assurance that all would go well; and
Lem moved onward, directing him to follow.

After leaving this pass they wound a short time among
small hills, following the course of a little brook of water,
and soon came in sight of the village. A few people were
gathered round the door of a house which served as a
church, at the sight of which Rafael spurred forward
eagerly towards the village. Lem, however, overtook
him in a moment, and catching his animal by the mane,
forced him to ride a little more moderately. On reaching
the door of the church, Lem dismounted, and signing
to Rafael to remain in his saddle, he entered into
the church with his never failing companion, his rifle, in
his hand. His entrance disturbed the ceremony which the
Frai Luis had just commenced, and the priest's voice
hushed as the careless American walked heavily towards
the altar with his hat upon his head. Unmindful of every
thing about him, he drew the pale and weeping Inacia
aside, and whispered with her a moment; then, suddenly

grasping her by one arm, he bore her towards the door.
Some of the bystanders attempted to interfere; but Lem
threw them rudely aside, and continued his course. Handing
his burden to the expectant Rafael, he pointed to the
mountains, and Rafael, with a brief expression of thanks,
darted forward again, and was soon out of sight. Some
motion was made to follow him; but it was quickly prevented
by Lem, who, placing himself in his saddle,
menaced any one with death who should dare to stir.
He maintained his place steadily for two hours or more, as
if he were on guard, in spite of the maledictions of the
Frai Luis, few of which, though delivered in very excellent
Castillian, did he understand, and none of which did
he care for. He then turned his horse's head towards
Taos, and moved steadily out of the village. In the mean
time Rafael pursued his swift course towards the cañon.
He rested there a day and night; and then, leaving his old
encampment, he struck by a wild and narrow pass through
to the valley of the Picuris, a small stream which runs out
of the mountains near El Embudo. From the eastern
extremity of the valley, there is a pass by the head of the
river to the valley of the Demora, on the eastern side of the
mountains, and at the western extremity a road goes into
the valley of Taos. At the time in which the scene of
our tale is laid, the valley of the Mora—a large, spacious,
and good plain—was uninhabited; and consequently there
was but little travel through the valley of the Picuris except
by Comanche traders, and the Apaches of the mountains.
The Mora, as it is commonly called, has, since then, been
settled by the Mexicans, and its inhabitants, after remaining
there some years, were forced to vacate the valley by
the incursions of the Pananas or Pawnees.

Here, then, Rafael established himself. He built a hut
and soon had it covered with skins. The flesh of the
bear, and of the black-tailed deer, was to be had for the
asking; and the sly little trout could always be obtained
from the sparkling stream. They dwelt here happily for
a month, until they began to imagine themselves secure
from pursuit. Hunting, fishing, and dressing the skins
for their house, occupied them both; and Love, the strange

wizard, made the valley as pleasant to them, and as free
from loneliness, as if it had been peopled with multitudes.
Although Rafael was something of a sceptic in matters of
the Romish faith, still there was something in the quiet,
patient and constant piety of Inacia, which commanded his
respect. The old superstitions implanted in his mind kept
still hold upon him, as they do more or less upon every
mind; and perhaps the very idea that he was superior to
her,—(a sceptic will have a feeling of superiority)—perhaps
this very feeling enhanced and increased his love for her.
The passion of Love may be more sublimated, more delicate,
and more fastidious, in the more enlightened classes
of society; but I doubt whether true, deep devotion—that
love which teaches one to die for another—be not more frequently
met with in the simple, uninstructed portion of
the world to which Rafael and Inacia belonged. After
being in the valley nearly a fortnight, Rafael returned
alone to the old encampment which he had left, and drove
home to his new camp nearly all the cattle and sheep which
he had been herding; and in the course of another fortnight,
he missed early one morning, some dozen of his
best cattle. Horse tracks were seen further up the valley;
and the robbers, whoever they were, had gone out towards
the Demora. Rafael would have considered it a degradation
to have lost a cow from his herd, even had the
whole Pawnee nation taken it from him. He immediately
mounted his mare, and pursued; and about eight miles from
his camp, he overtook four Apaches, very leisurely driving
his cattle before them. Without a word, he prepared himself
to retake them. His only arms were his bow and arrows,
and his keen knife. Drawing his bow from its
leather sheath, he fitted an arrow to the string, and spurring
his animal, while he directed her by the pressure of
his legs and the swaying of his body, he rode swiftly up,
and before the Apaches were fully aware of his approach,
he was within six or eight steps of the hindmost; and drawing
his arrow to the head, it passed through the back of
the Indian, and fell from his breast. He immediately dropped
forward upon the pommel of his saddle-tree, and his
horse ran wildly on in the path, frightened at the convulsive
grasp of the dying man, who still clung to the beast
with all the tenacity of an Indian. The first arrow had
hardly left the string, when another was drawn from the
quiver, and directed against a broad chested Indian who
had turned half way in his saddle and was looking back.
It struck him in the side, and he reeled and fell from his
horse. Unless one has seen the rapidity with which an
Indian or a Spaniard sends arrow after arrow, it is difficult
to conceive of it. As the two remaining Indians wheeled
and came towards him, another arrow struck one of their
horses in the breast, and he fell forward, entangling his rider
with the stirrups; and the remaining horse, taking fright at
the dead body which lay in the path, stopped, and putting
down his head, refused to stir an inch—and the rider was
forced to dismount. Rafael sprang to meet him, dismounting
likewise, tossing his bow and quiver aside, and grasping
his keen knife. As they met, they grappled with each
other, and for some time seemed equally matched. The Indian
was a stouter and stronger man than the young herdsman—an
advantage which was nearly made up for by the
superior tenacity and spring of nerve and muscle in
Rafael. They struggled for some time, each attempting to
throw the other, or to employ their knives, which, however,
soon fell from their grasp upon the earth. They fell together
at length, and lay turning and rolling upon the
ground like two serpents. The dust rose thickly around
them; and just as Rafael felt his own grasp begin to relax,
and that of his adversary tighten, and just as by one sudden
exertion he had thrown him from him, and they lay
side by side, he felt the clench of his foe relax upon his
throat, and something warm gushed over him. He sprang
to his feet; and as he did so, he saw close by him upon
his knees, the Indian who had been crippled by the fall of
his horse. He had crawled to them, and by mistake, had
struck his knife to the heart of his comrade instead of his
foeman. He despatched his remaining adversary, and
then very leisurely scalping them in the fashion of the Comanches,
that is, the whole head over, he mounted his
mare, and without washing himself, proceeded towards
his home.

Driving his cattle slowly before him, it was late in the
day before he arrived near his camp. On approaching, he
thought it singular that his dog came not out to bark at
the tramp of the horse, and that Inacia came not running
to meet him as was her wont. He dashed past his cattle,
and rode hastily to the door of the hut. It was wide open;
but within, all was still and desolate. His faithful dog was
lying dead across the threshold, with several arrows sticking
in him. The fire was still burning in the middle of
the hut, adding, if possible, to the utter loneliness of the
place. Rafael sank down, and hid his face in his hands
awhile; then rising and dashing the tears from his eyes,
he took a measure of the corn which he had brought
thither for his own use, and bore it to his mare who stood
patiently at the door. `Eat, my life,' said he—`eat; it
may be the last meal I shall give you.' He sat down again
and waited silently till she had finished her corn, and then
tightening the girth, he sprang into the saddle, and started
quickly, but like one whose thoughts were calm and collected,
towards the path which led across the mountains
and towards El Embudo. It was nearly noon of the next
day when he overtook the party which had taken his bride.
It consisted of Lopez and several of his relations, and of
the father of Inacia. He came upon them just as they
were turning into the main road at the entrance of the
narrow pass which I have before mentioned. As he came
up, they bent their bows; but he made no answering sign
of hostility. On the contrary, he gave signs of peace, and
they, somewhat awed by his unnatural quiet, and by the
deadly paleness of his face, here and there spotted with
blood, suffered him to approach closely. `Listen,' said he,
in the calm tone of despair. `You have taken my bride from
me. She is mine in the sight of God. But it is useless to
contend against a host. Suffer me to bestow upon her one
embrace, and I pledge my honor not to molest her more.'

A brief consultation was held between Lopez and her
father, and then she was placed upon the ground from before
the saddle of the latter. The party formed a ring
around her and Rafael, and she rushed into his arms.
Long, long was that last embrace, and but few words were

spoken, when, with a motion like thought, Rafael buried
his knife in her bosom. She staggered back,—smiled
upon him, and fell. The whole party rushed immediately
upon him; but, with the spring of a tiger-cat, he grappled
with the old Lopez, and, though a dozen mortal wounds
were given him with their long, slender spears, he quit not
his hold until he had buried his knife two or three times
in the body of his foe.

Three crucifixes are carved in the rock just at the entrance
of this path; and upon the top of it, above them,
stands another of wood, set in a pile of small stones; and
every one who passes is requested, by the inscription,
to say an Ave Maria for the rest of three souls which
departed there.