University of Virginia Library

REFUGIO.

If there is any one thing calculated to disturb my
patience, (and I confess that I am no rival of Job,)
it is to be misinformed in distances when I am traveling.
I cannot conceive of anything more perfectly calculated
to destroy a man's good humor, than to expect to ride or
walk three miles, and on the contrary, to find it lengthen
out to ten. After the expiration of the three miles, your
whole aim is to reach the stopping place; you become
insensible to the beauties, if there are any, of nature
around you. Every time your horse stumbles, or you hit
your toe, you wish the road, guide, director and all, at the
—worst place which your principles allow; and in fine,
you get to be a remarkably well refined specimen of a
man non compos mentis. Such, at least, was my condition,
as I approached Santa Fe, for the first time. Leaving
La Cañada de la Santa Cruz, or the valley of the Holy
Cross, in the morning about ten of the clock, we moved
sturdily towards the city of the Holy Faith, distant about
twenty-five miles. We had already left the snow behind
us, and were now traveling over the hard, frozen ground.

We were told, at starting, that it was five leagues to the
city, and after traveling nearly that distance, we inquired
of the guide, `How far now?' `Cosa de media legua,'
(about a mile and a half.) It was then a little over ten
miles. In the course of two or three miles more, I inquired
again. It was now `quizas legua y media,' (perhaps
four miles and a half.) I had a great idea of shooting
him. At length, getting utterly out of patience, with
the cold wind increasing every moment in intensity, I inquired
again. Poking out his chin and pouting out his
lips, as if to indicate the place, he said it was `mui
cerquita,' (close at hand.) `Is it half a league?' inquired
I. `Si es lejitos.' Now, lejitos and cerquita are the exact
antipodes of each other; but I have always observed,
that in that country, when you are told that a place is cerquita,
it is proper to lay in three days' provision. I have
been told that a place was three leagues off, when it was
two days' journey. At length, surmounting a small eminence,
our guide turned, with an air of immense importance,
and ejaculated—`Ai esta!' There it was, sure
enough; and I now saw the perfect propriety of General
Pike's description of it, viz.—that it resembled a fleet of
flat boats going down the Mississippi. It looks like a
whole city of brick-kilns. The mile between us and it
was soon passed over, and we descended a small elevation,
and entered the city. For about two hundred yards, we
kept along a narrow street, with a continuous row of mud
buildings on one side of it, and a meadow on the other.
This discovery of the meadow, however, was subsequently
made; for just then, it was getting too dark to discern objects
particularly well. Now and then, at the sound of
an American's voice, a door was opened, and a head protruded
for an instant, and then again all was dark; for
acarcely ever does the glimmer of a candle shine through
the small, square windows of that part of the villa. Leaving
this street, we turned short to the right, and entered
the public square. All here, too, was dark and desolate.
We crossed it, and our guide, stopping before one of the
doors in its continuous wall, commenced interrogating a
person who was passing, in immensely bad patois, as to
the possibility of finding a boarding house. The answer
was, in good plain English, `I do n't comprehend you;'
and making ourselves known to our countryman, and committing
ourselves to his guidance, we were soon safely established
in the comfortable house of Don Francisco Ortis.

On viewing the city, the next morning, I found that
there was something more of splendor here than in Taos.
There is the public square, surrounded with blocks of mud
buildings, with porticos in front, roughly pillared, and
mud-covered. The windows have a wooden grating in
front, which no doubt renders them exceedingly fine and
very comfortable. The panes in the square are of glass;
in the other parts of the city, generally of the mica of the
mountains. In one corner of the square is the jail and
guard room—for the soldiers here serve as jailers, and were
to be seen crawling about, nearly as ragged as a French
beggar, and adding greatly to the splendor of the square.
Within forty yards of this square there is another, called
the muralla, surrounded, likewise, by buildings, which on
one side are fallen to ruin. It is used as a wheat-field,
and belongs to the soldiers who have their dwellings around
it. Except in these two squares, the houses are placed
anywhere, in an admirable disorder. The little stream
which runs through the town waters their fields. It was
once much larger than at present; for when the Indians
were driven from the Valley of Santa Fe, they retreated to
the lake in which this river and the Pecos both rise, as
well as the little creek of Tisuqui, and attempted to dam
up the river of Santa Fe, and starve out the inhabitants;
and they nearly succeeded. This lake is on the summit
of one of the highest mountains in the vicinity of Santa
Fe. It is about sixteen miles, perhaps more, from the
city, and never opens until July. It is always full, and fed
with constant springs. The people of Santa Fe, a few
years since, employed an Englishman to open it, agreeing
to pay him two thousand dollars for so doing, which money
was to be raised by subscription. When it was nearly
finished he demanded a part of the money, in order to pay
his workmen, and other expenses. They refused to advance
a dollar until it was finished; and he swore that
they might finish it for themselves. Since then, the work
has remained as he left it, needing about a month's labor

to finish it, and by giving the city a greater supply of
water, to increase the extent of arable land, and of course,
the size of the city. In the course of the first week of
my residence in Santa Fe, I became acquainted with several
of the great men of the province, and it is but fair
that you, kind reader, should enjoy the benefit of their acquaintance.
Briefly then:

Santiago Abreu, the present Governor of the Province
of New Mexico, is, of course, the most distinguished man
in it. At the death of his father, he was left in possession
of a small property, which belonged in common to
him and his two younger brothers; this property he gambled
off, and made his first entrance into public life in
front of the Governor's coach, with his brothers standing
as footmen behind. After this, he passed some years in
abject poverty, supported chiefly by Americans; and two
or three years ago, when an American died there who had
brought out a small stock of goods, Abreu bought his
goods on credit, sold them for cash, and, gambling with
the money, won about three thousand dollars. This made
him a great man. He was then chosen Delegate to the
Congress; and while in the city of Mexico, his letters
were opened in the Post Office, at Santa Fe, by the post
master, Juan B. Vigil, who sent copies of them back to
Mexico, where they were versified and published. Last
year he was appointed Governor. He is ignorant, deceitful,
mean and tyrannical. Every New Mexican, however,
is deceitful and mean. Juan B. Vigil was formerly
custom-house officer, and was deprived of office, citizenship,
and the privilege of entering a church, for peculation
and fraud. He now lives very comfortably upon his
booty, has a church of his own, and gets along very well
without the citizenship.

Francisco Rascon, the second Alcalde, was punished,
when in the Pass, for stealing the ornaments from the image
of the Virgin Mary.

I do not know anything against the first Alcalde, the
Secretary and the Assessor, except that they take bribes
whenever they can get them; that is nothing, however, in
New Mexico.

The Regidor, or Assistant Alcalde, Miguel Sena, has
only perjured himself three times, to my own knowledge,
and put his father in jail once: but even the New Mexicans
call him a great rascal.

The former Governor, Chares, has been seen to steal a
dollar at a monti-bank. He is, however, too stupid to be
capable of committing sin.

Juan Ortis, another great dignitary, very pious, and formerly
Alcalde, stole several pair of shoes from an American,
a year or two ago.

So much for my acquaintances, the great men of the
province. As to the common herd, they are rather better;
they have some generosity and hospitality. They
will all lie and steal, to be sure, and have no idea of gratitude.
There is neither honor among the men nor virtue
among the women. In fact, honor in New Mexico would
be apt to lie on the owner's hands. Character is a mere
drug, a valueless article; and he who has little of it is as
well off, and as rich, as he who has much. The men
most in honor now in that country are such as have
either stolen, perjured or dishonored themselves. One, in
particular, in San Miguel, had been confined under the
regal government nine years, for stealing, and only a year
or two ago was taken in irons to Santa Fe, for stealing
mules; and he—he is more powerful and respected in his
town than the head Alcalde.

Among the Americans with whom I became acquainted,
shortly after my arrival in Santa Fe, there was one in particular
who excited my interest and won my esteem.
And here I beg leave to remark, that in what I am about
relating, I shall, for reasons which will doubtless be obvious
to all who follow my brief tale to the conclusion, conceal
the actual names of the persons interested in it.
Most of the circumstances are facts, although the time at
which they actually occurred was a little anterior to the
date of the tale. Most of them are facts, and the actors
yet alive.

The name by which my new acquaintance was known
by the Mexicans was Refugio, and by this appellation I
shall designate him, whenever I have occasion to mention
his name at all.

He was a native of some one of the Eastern States. I
never perfectly learned his history, for he was, in general,
of a reserved and abstracted nature, and seldom spoke
much of himself. I do not know that this proceeded from
any desire to conceal any part of his life or history; on
the contrary, he always seemed to me to be careless about
it. But it was only when required, for the sake of elucidating
or explaining any circumstance which occurred in
conversation, that he spoke of himself; and he then did so in
the same manner as he would have done of any other individual,
and mentioned any fault or folly as unhesitatingly
as he did anything on which he might have been inclined
to boast. What I did learn, was, therefore, learned at
different times, and in detached portions. His parents
were in moderate circumstances, and his father was a
farmer, who, possessing strong and good sense, and a
common education, early took care to bestow upon his son
the benefits of erudition, of which he knew the value; and
in the country where learning is common and easily obtained,
the excellent talents of Refugio, and his constant
and intense application, soon stored his mind with the
riches of ancient and modern lore. About the time that
Refugio commenced the study of the law, his circumstances
became involved, and after various ineffectual struggles
to extricate himself, he left his home, and bent his
steps to the far West. The idea of a wild and lonely life
struck his fancy, which was now morbid from disappointment
and sorrow, and he embarked in a trip to Santa Fe,
with the purpose of going from that place into the northern
mountains, and there hunting beaver. On arriving,
however, in the territory, he was disgusted with the tiresome,
dull, monotonous nature of a wood life, and with the insipid
and tedious companions with whom it brings a man in
contact—companions gathered from the lowest ranks of
society, that is to say, in general, when in the woods, only
remarkable for ribaldry, profanity, and constant quarrel
and jar, and when out of them, like sailors in port, for
revelling, drunkenness and a senseless scattering of their
hard-earned wages. He therefore remained in Santa Fe,
and, perhaps, enjoyed as much solitude there as he could
have done in the woods. He resided alone, and had his

meals brought him by a native of the country; and at almost
any hour of the night or day, you might find him in
his room, reading, writing, or, more commonly, immersed
in reflection. His excellent knowledge of the Spanish,
which he spoke superbly, made him be generally employed
as an interpreter in the courts of justice, and as a
transactor of business for the Americans, a business which
was, at that time, abundantly lucrative; and his carelessness,
as to consequences, when determined upon any line of
conduct, and his independence in asserting and maintaining
the rights of those for whom he was acting, rendered him
feared and respected by the dispensers of justice, (they
call it justice,) in the city; and his constant accommodating
disposition, his known talents, and quick retribution
when he felt himself aggrieved, made him respected by
the Americans. He was a thin, spare man, with a bold,
intellectual, but melancholy cast of countenance. His
eyes were deep and black, but not vivid, unless when he
was excited by passion, and had, except then, the peculiar
look which accompanies the eyes of all who are shortsighted.

As I said before, I never made inquiries of him respecting
his former history, but after my acquaintance with
him had continued some three months, and we became
somewhat intimate, he gave me the liberty of ransacking
what he called his chaos of papers. I have always been
sorry that I never copied any of them. They consisted
chiefly of poetry in fragments, thrown about in careless
disorder. His writing was to him—so it seemed to me—
like a conversation with himself, an embodying and expressing
of unformed and floating thoughts, under the
concentration of mind which the action of writing called
forth. From these I became convinced, that among
other things of which his separation from home had bereft
him, had been that first, greatest passion, love. I
think he had been unfortunate in fixing his affections
where they were not answered or rewarded.

There is one circumstance which, perhaps, it were better
to leave untouched, but it is my purpose to delineate
an actual character, and neither to extenuate or exaggerate
in what I have to relate. Refugio was a bold and unwavering

infidel. Of this I became aware casually; for
he never disputed in my hearing upon the matter, although
I had several times given him occasion, and though others
had spoken harshly of those who, like him, were blind to
the true faith. By such remarks his spirit was never stirred,
and no answer was ever elicited. After I became
acquainted with his disbelief, he was, perhaps, a little less
cautious in expressing his sentiments before me, but still I
could never induce him to dispute with me. He seemed
to be totally convinced of the correctness of his views,
and the strength of his objections, and being aware that
the diffusion of his unfaith would neither help the cause of
morality or happiness, to the commonalty of mankind, he
of course had no motive for disputation. He was no
bigot in his creed, no vulgar railer, no causeless and
wanton shocker of the feelings and prejudices of others—
and this made him respected, even by the most zealous
and bigotted of his countrymen in New Mexico. I think
that his mind was continually occupied with the past.
For the future, he seemed to have no care, though a love
of home, and a hope of returning there, never seemed to
leave him. He would sit and muse for hours together,
without speaking, and would then, perhaps, break his silence
by some wild, abrupt remark, on some singularly
deep and strange metaphysical thought, which seemed to
come from him unconsciously; and then, without a moment's
hesitation, he would plunge into some remote subject,
or acute train of reasoning or observation, as if he
desired to remove the effect of what he had unconsciously
uttered. Perhaps I am delaying too long in describing
his character. It is natural for one to suppose that what
interests himself should likewise interest his readers,—the
true cause of prosing and weariness in writing. From
such evil fortune, may heaven shield us.

In the latter part of February, Refugio informed me
that he had agreed to accompany another American to
Chihuahua, for the sake of seeing the lower country; and
in the course of a day or two, he called upon me to take
leave of me. The pack mules of the merchant, Donaldson,
were already on the road, and he was on his way out
of the city, to overtake them. He shook hands with me

kindly, and wished me every kind of prosperity. He told
me that it was improbable that he should return to Santa
Fe. `Heaven knows,' said he, `what will become of me,
or where my destiny will lead me. I am a leaf the wind
blows on his unsteady currents, and as I have never yet
been fortunate, it is highly improbable that I ever shall be
so. Farewell! and now and then remember me in your
dreams.'

On arriving at a little village about one hundred miles
this side of the Pass, Donaldson was taken sick, and Refugio
delayed with him some days. In the mean time,
the pack mules went on under the protection of the convoy
of Mexican soldiers, then stationed at the villages of
the Rio Abajo, as it is called, half way between the city of
Santa Fe and the Paso del Norte, to escort passengers,
and defend them from the attacks of the Apaches, who
were, at that time, committing depredations on the inhabitants
of the country; for they break out of the mountains,
now and then, and use their good allies, the denizens of
the Mexican republic, very roughly. They are, in fact,
a powerful tribe, and extend from the vicinity of Taos
all along the chain of the Cordilleras, to near the city
of Mexico. I have heard them computed at fifteen thousand
warriors, but I cannot vouch for the correctness of
the statement: I hardly think that it is much exaggerated.
They will come down and rob the people, to the very
gates of Durango and Chihuahua, and when the soldiers
come out of the country below, to oppose them, they retreat
to the mountains, and as soon as the soldiers return,
they follow on the track, and about the time that they enter
the city, the Indians are robbing outside of the gates,
driving off cattle, and depriving of their hair the loyal subjects
of Sant' Ana. They are the more dangerous, on
account of using poisoned arrows, the least scratch with
which is certain death. They gather and confine a
number of rattlesnakes, centipedes and scorpions, and
tease them until they become furious. They then kill a
sheep, and, taking out the heart, throw it, with the blood
yet circulating in it, into the midst of them. Every fang
and sting is immediately fastened upon it, and after leaving
it there for a time, they take it out and place it in

some vessel. In a day or two it becomes a green mass of
corruption, and in it they dip the points of their arrows.

When Donaldson recovered from his illness, two other
Americans came down from Santa Fe, and the four started
together to go on to the Pass, through the Jornada de la
Muerte, or the journey of death, a distance of ninety miles,
entirely without water. Of the two men who joined them,
Waitman and Everton, I know but little, and, in fact,
never saw them save once or twice. They were common,
gross, sensual men, who would never have been admitted
to the society of such men as Refugio, except in a country
where all distinction among Americans is confounded.
They started together, all mounted on good mules, and
well armed.

It was a chilly night in the beginning of March, (for in
that mountainous region the nights are always cool;) the
moon had not yet arisen, but her light was beginning to
brighten a little in the dark and changing clouds, which
covered the sky from the eastern to the western mountains;—the
west wind came sweeping down in fitful gusts,
from the icy peaks beyond the Del Norte, across the desolate
plain of the Jornada de la Muerte, which lay barren
and desolate as a desert; a few tall weeds raised their
heads above its red, hard surface, and sighed as the wind
went by, with a singular desolate sound of mourning;—
here and there a cedar stood—low, ragged and gnarled,
with its long and grotesque branches dimly seen through
the obscurity of the cloudy night;—the wolf was heard
howling about with his multitudinous noises, and the
collote, or prairie-wolf was barking, off in the distance,
towards the mountains. In the midst of all this dreariness,
a Mexican gentleman was traveling hastily towards
the Pass, (now but a few miles distant,) attended by three
or four servants, when suddenly the mule upon which the
gentleman was mounted and riding ahead, stopped, and
putting her head down, snorted loudly, and refused to proceed.
In vain did the rider attempt to get her to go on;
he turned her out of the road, but still her only motions
were retrograde; and at length, by her violent springs
and prancing, he became in imminent danger of being
dismounted. He therefore directed his servants to lead

the way, but their animals had likewise caught the infection,
and refused to go on. He then ordered a servant to
dismount, and see what there was in the road to frighten
the mules. Proceeding cautiously forward for perhaps a
rod, the servant was frightened by some object which lay
in the road, and which proved to be a man's hat. A little
farther on, a mule was found, with the rope which was attached
to her neck tangled in a ragged cedar. All the
party now dismounted, and commenced the search in utter
silence. Some moments were passed in this manner,
when a sudden and shrill cry from the eastern side of the
road drew all to the spot whence it proceeded. `Aqui,
Señor! Venga par aca!' (Here, sir! Come hither!)
As the gentleman approached within four or five feet of
the group of servants, he felt his feet detained by some tenacious
and slippery substance, the nature of which he
was at no loss to divine. Just at this moment the moon
broke forth from behind the hills, and gave a dim, gloomy
light through the medium of the clouds, discovering the
body of a man lying upon his face, upon the dry grass and
weeds of the plain. He was dead—entirely dead; but
the blood was yet undried on the hard earth. When they
turned him over, it was seen that one of his hands was
still clenching a part of the hair reins of the bridle.
There was a wound in his back, made by a bullet, and
the gun had been discharged so near him as to burn his
clothes. Besides this, there was a deep stab behind the
shoulder; and one of the servants, in treading about, discovered
a broad and long knife lying near the body. It
was at first conjectured that the Apaches had slain the
American—for such he was—but this idea was untenable.
There was his mule—his gun—his hat—everything belonging
to him—and his scalp was untouched: and they
remembered that a lone American had passed them the
day before, going out of the upper edge of the Jornada.
Of course, therefore, it was conjectured that his own
countryman had been his murderer.

After much difficulty, the corpse was bound upon a
mule, and conveyed into the Pass, where it was identified
as the body of Donaldson, and the two men, Waitman
and Everton, were arrested on suspicion; for it was easily

proved that they had entered the Jornada de la Muerte in
company with the deceased, and that they had arrived at
the Pass only a short time before the corpse, perhaps three
hours. The affair was taken up by the few Americans
residing there, and the two men were committed to prison,
heavily ironed.

The body of the unfortunate merchant was buried upon
a hill near the town,—for the people are too pious to permit
a heretic to be buried in holy ground, and to be
pounded down after the fashion of true believers,—and the
grave was afterwards guarded for two or three nights, to
prevent the Mexicans from opening it to obtain the sheets
in which the corpse was wrapped.

In the course of a fortnight the trial of Waitman and
his accomplice was had, and proof enough was adduced
to show them guilty. They, accordingly, confessed the
crime, but, at the same time, implicated Refugio, and accused
him of striking the blow with the knife. They
pointed out his initials on the handle of the knife, and not
a doubt remaining on the minds of the Alcalde and of the
Americans present, of the guilt of this unfortunate man,
orders were immediately sent up to Santa Fe, for his arrest
and coveyance to Chihuahua. Waitman allowed that
he shot Donaldson in the back, as he was riding ahead,
and that the mule of the deceased, frightened by the report,
threw him off to the ground, where he was finished
by the knife of Refugio. When asked for the motives he
said that there were none but the desire of money, of
which the deceased had a considerable sum about him.

Upon the arrival of this news at Santa Fe, great commotion
was excited. Refugio was taken, ironed heavily,
and chained to a post in the public square. Every one
supposed him guilty, but when he was examined, a day or
two after his apprehension, many were induced to alter
their belief; his appearance was so much like that of an
innocent man—he told his own story so clearly, in the
same quiet, melancholy manner which commonly characterized
him—and he seemed so unconcerned about his
fate. He stated that on first entering the Jornada he had
been insulted, and forced into a quarrel by Waitman;
that Donaldson had taken the part of the latter, and that

consequently, he had returned to Santa Fe. He referred
them to the short time which elapsed after his departure
from the last village till his return thither, and stated that
the knife with which he started from Santa Fe was stolen
from him a day or two before entering the Jornada.

Against all this was the testimony of the two murderers.
Refugio was again taken and chained to the post, and
kept there for the space of two or three weeks. His
conduct while there has been, and is, matter of astonishment
and admiration to the Spaniards. They speak of
him as a wonderful man. Chained there in the hot sun
for so long a time, fatigued, wearied, starving,—nothing
conquered his spirit. The dignitaries of the place, (of
whom I have given the characters,) were mean and Mexican-like
enough to insult, scoff at and misuse him; but they
repented of it. His splendid knowledge of their language,
and perfect command of his faculties, enabled him to overwhelm
them with a flood of scorn and biting satire, which
caused even the populace to pursue them to their houses
with hisses. So terrible was his anger, that the Spaniards
took him to be deranged; and it was only when some one
of his few remaining friends went to see him, that he
seemed again himself. Then he would converse as before
his disgrace, and seem not to feel the intense degradation
of his situation; and then only, the terror-stricken
dignitaries of New Mexico could venture through the
square, without feeling the terrible lash of his tongue.

He had been confined about three weeks, when, as I
was standing conversing with him, a band of about twenty
soldiers rode into the square, and surrounded us. The
chains were struck from his hands, and half a dozen of
the soldiers, grasping him in the same manner as they
would a sack of corn, proceeded to bear him towards a
mule, which stood with its aparejo,—its leather rope, &c.
all ready for packing him to Chihuahua. So sudden was
the motion of Refugio, that I know not how he accomplished
it, but there was a loud cry, and I saw one soldier
dashed against the post, bleeding at the mouth and nose,
and another fifteen steps from him, with one arm bent under
him, as though he had been thrown upon it; and Refugio
stood erect, grasping the heavy musket of one of the

soldiers, and bidding them all stand off at their peril. At
this moment Viscara rode into the square:—another instant,
and half a dozen bullets would have been lodged in
the body of Refugio, (that is, if the soldiers could have
hit him;) but at the cry, `El teniente coronel!' each man
bared his head, and awaited the approach of Viscara.
He was immediately accosted by Refugio. `Sir,' said he,
`call off your dogs, and thank Heaven that none of them
are dead. What! do you imagine that I am to be bound
upon a pack-mule, like a bag of wheat, and taken thus to
Chihuahua? I thought that you, at least, knew me better.
Dead, you may take me so, but alive you cannot,
and you know it; and you and the fools with whom you
are associated know that I am innocent. Kill, then; I
have two or three friends who will not fail to avenge me.'
By this time some half dozen Americans had gathered
around, who were mostly friends to Refugio; and Viscara
knew their stuff too well to despise it. He well remembered
the time when a house was barricadoed against his
troops—and when they fought, the Americans would have
whipped his troops to death. They have had plenty of
examples to teach them the nature of the Americans.
Milton Sublette, (who deserves to be remembered for his
courage,) is the man who, three or four years ago, when
a pack of beaver belonging to him was confiscated, and
lay in the public square, under a guard of five or six soldiers,
and in front of the guard-house, went out and tumbled
over the fifteen or twenty packs which lay upon it,
then throwing his own upon his left shoulder, and grasping
his long, keen knife in his right hand, he threatened
any one with instant death who should dare to pursue him.
He bore his pack of beaver to the house where he boarded,
and threw it upon the roof, and that night took it to Taos.
A few such examples make men careful.

`Refugio,' said Viscara, `if you will give me your word
of honor, that you will not attempt to escape from my soldiers,
I give you mine that you shall be conveyed honorably
and decently to Chihuahua.'

`I ought to do no such thing,' was the bold answer; `I
have the power of life and death in my own hands, and
am not inclined to ask favors. But I answer you as a

man of honor, which is more than can be said of any other
contemptible New Mexican, and I will therefore accept
your pledge, and give you mine.'

`Give up the musket, then, Refugio; and as that soldier
who lies there bleeding at the mouth seems rather
unfit for service, you can take his mule and ride it; my
word is pledged for your being treated well.'

`Very well; but do not hurry me. As to the musket,
there it is,' throwing it down, `but I have something yet
to say to my friend. Your men can wait for me a while.'

Drawing my arm through his, he walked to the outside
of the soldiers, and we finished our conversation. `And
now,' said he, `farewell! I suppose that the two miscreants
will hang me, for in this country they are not over
scrupulous in examining and weighing anything which is
in favor of an American. But if I can once see them
face to face, I will wring the truth out of them; I think I
can make them quail a little; I have always thought that
I possessed, in a considerable degree, the faculty of obtaining
an influence over mankind—that is, if I chose to
exert it. Generally, however, it has been too unimportant
an object for me to take the requisite pains. But if
I can do nothing with them, at least, the cowardly and
despicable slaves of Chihuahua shall never have the pleasure
of seeing me hung; I will take my own time and way
to leave the world. Thank God, my parents will never
hear of it, for none here know my true name. Not that I
have committed any crime, to make me ashamed of it, but
I wished not for them and the world to hear of me only as
an unfortunate and disappointed man. Life has long been
wearisome to me, but the hope of one day seeing my home,
and the want of sufficient cowardice to enable me to put
an end to myself, have kept me struggling along with the
world. I am not afraid to die. Men say that I shall recant
and be terrified on my death bed. It may be so; at
present I have no fears of dying; I have been too wretched,
my hopes have been too often crushed, for me to wish
to live or to be afraid to die.'

`Have you never thought, Refugio, that it might be that
your doctrines and your unfaith have been the chief cause
of your gloom and disquiet?'

`No—I know they are not; it is my nature; I am not
deceived in myself; I have studied my own heart long
and intimately, and I know its powers and its strength, as
well as its springs of action. Abstract argument will never
prove to me that any particular creed can render a man
gloomy and sad. One creed may have a greater tendency
that way than another, and perhaps mine in a superior degree;
but Chatterton, Savage, and Henry Neele were as
deeply involved in melancholy as Byron and Shelley. No,
it is the nature of man and his disappointments. But we
must part. Whether I am destined to go down to the
grave with obloquy, and the imputation of guilt resting on
my name, or not, you at least will believe me innocent.
God bless you:—we part forever.'

Directly after this, the cavalcade passed out of the city,
and took the road to the Pass. Another party of troops
received him at the Rio Abajo, and continued with him
to the Pass, and there delivered him to another, which
took him to Chihuahua. When he arrived there, he was
emaciated, by fatigue, to a skeleton; but still he preserved
the same unconcerned boldness which had marked his deportment
in Santa Fe. A day or two after his arrival, he
was brought to trial, together with Waitman and Everton.
The latter were first tried and condemned on their own
confession, and then their evidence was brought forward
against Refugio, together with the other circumstances
which conspired to show him guilty. He then rose,
and supporting himself with difficulty, requested the permission
of the court to address a few words to the prisoners.
It was cheerfully accorded him. As he commenced
speaking, his tones were low and faint, but as he proceeded,
his voice fell more and more distinctly upon all ears, and
the earnest and rich modulations of its sweet tones thrilled
like the notes of an Æolian harp. His pale face became
flushed, and his frame seemed to acquire an intense
strength. `Men,' said he, `what have you against me,
that can urge you to seek for a life which is now ready to
be rendered up to the God who gave it. Have I wronged
you? Have I broken your peace of mind, or ruined your
prospects, that you desire to send me to the scaffold, and
to leave disgrace and shame resting darkly upon my name?

Be not deceived; nay, quail not, hide not your eyes, and
turn not away your heads. Be not deceived; the God in
whom ye believe will avenge me. Ye will go down to the
grave with the curse of a double murder resting on your
souls, and ye cast away—if your creed be true—every
hope of a reconciliation with God. Posterity will know
that I was innocent. Who will believe, who does believe,
even now, your tale? Look at me. Am I a man, I, who
scarcely live now, to take away the life of a fellow being
for the sake of a little gold? Am I the man to raise a
knife against him? am I the dastard to strike him in the
back? am I the wretch to associate with you in an act of
murder? For my life I care nothing—that is valueless.
For my fame, my good and honest name only, have I a
care. Let that be unstained, and I am content to stand
upon the scaffold with you, to die with you, and to pollute
the air with you. Have you the heart to see a fellow man,
whom you know to be innocent, writhing in the torture of
death and dishonor, turning his last look at the sun, and
quivering with the last gasp of death, to satisfy your revenge?
If ye have the courage, why not look me now in
the eye? Am I guilty, am I abashed at the eye of any
mortal, and, more than all, of yours? Hearken! If there
be indeed a future state of retribution, as ye both believe,
it shall be your chief torment, that even in death ye insulted
and contemned the Lord God Omnipotent; that ye
dragged a man, who was entirely innocent, upon the scaffold
with you? And how will ye, who cannot bear the
glance of my eye, how will ye look into the countenance
of an offended and a terrible God? And what will ye
gain? Will I die by your side? No, never! Death will
do his work on me ere the time; or if not, I can do it on
myself. Will men believe me guilty? Not they. When
they learn that I was absent but one day after entering the
Jornada de la Muerte, and that I returned to the village
above it before the murder was committed, who will not
see that I was innocent? and what court would condemn
me, except in a country where no foreigner need hope for
justice?' Here he was interrupted. A stir was visible
among the judges, and the eldest of them spoke; for what
Refugio said was interpreted as he spoke.

`Señor Refugio,' said he, `this court can hear no imputations
upon itself, and you are allowed to make none.'

`I stand corrected, Señor! the truth should not be told
at all times.'

`Where is the evidence of your so speedy return to the
village?' again demanded the judge.

`At home—who was to bring him here—and how was
an American to obtain anything which might aid him in
saving his life and his honor? They are not here. But
let me proceed.'

`You cannot do so; you have insulted the court, and if
you die, your blood be on your own head.'

`Who says that I shall not do so? Listen to me, countrymen!
I adjure you by all your hopes of heaven! I adjure
you by your parents, wives and children! by your
manhood! by your good feelings which are not yet extinct!
by all that is sacred and dear to you! to rise and
declare the truth. Now, by the God of heaven! you shall
look me in the face for one moment. I command you to
lift your eyes to mine; and if you can, after that, still declare
me guilty, be it so, and I am content.'

Struck by the earnestness of his address, the men both
lifted their eyes to his, and for a moment or two were unable
to withdraw them. The intense, deep wo which
reigned there had yielded to a blaze of terrible light which
seemed to illumine the whole of his transparent features.
Fixing his gaze steadily upon them for a space, he essayed
to move towards them, but swayed and fell, and the blood
burst forth from his lungs. The event would still have
been doubtful, although the moving lips and the restless
gaze of both the prisoners seemed to indicate the failure
of their vindictive resolution, when a sudden tumult arose
without the court. Two Mexicans—their mules covered
with foam and themselves with dust—rode up to the door,
and rushed into the presence of the judges, and demanded
to be sworn. They had heard that their evidence would
save the life of Refugio, and they had come to give it in.
They deposed, that during the time of his absence from
their village he could not have entered more than twenty
miles into the Jornada de la Muerte.

`At what time did he leave the village?' inquired the
chief judge.

`At sunrise, Señor; and returned again before sunset.'

`Do you know this knife?'

`Yes, Señor; it is the knife which the Señor Refugio
had when he arrived at my house,' answered one of the
men.'

`You are sure it is his knife?'

`Si, Señor; but I will tell you; that American in the
black coat took it from the sheath, when it hung up in the
room, while Refugio was out.'

`Why did you not tell Refugio of this?'

`Señor, what had I to do in making a quarrel between
two friends? I thought that it might be only a joke. How
could I imagine that an American would steal a knife?'

`Take up the unfortunate man and bear him to my
house,' said the chief judge. `Father,' added he, to a
gray-headed old man, wearing the tonsure, who sat by his
side, `will you accompany him, and see that the French
surgeon attends to him?'

Refugio was raised by the nervous arms of four servants;
and as they were about bearing him past the box
in which the prisoners sat, the old priest ordered them to
stop. The prisoners looked with troublous eyes upon the
body. The blood was abundant about his mouth and upon
his breast; his black hair was wet with sweat, as though
it had rained upon him, and his eyes were closed. Suddenly,
the deep, solemn tones of the Padre were heard.
`Men,' said he, `I charge you, in the name of the living
God, whom Christians and Heathen worship, to lay your
hands here in his blood, and declare that he was guilty;
and wo! wo! unto perjury!' Waitman alone moved to
do so; and just as his hand touched the body it quivered.
The wretch fell back to his seat, and his whole vindictive
courage giving way to terror, he muttered, `He was innocent.'

What remains of our tale can be told in a few words.
The two prisoners were forwarded to Mexico, and either
there or on the road, they escaped from prison. Refugio
recovered partially from his sickness, and likewise went
to the south, and I have since then heard nothing from

him. He is probably dead ere now. But his memory
will long live in the country which witnessed his sufferings,
his disgrace, his undaunted boldness, and his final
triumph.