 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
THE INROAD OF THE NABAJO.
It was a keen, cold morning in the latter part of
November, when I wound out of the narrow, rocky cañon
or valley, in which I had, for some hours, been travelling,
and came in sight of the village of San Fernandez, in the
valley of Taos. Above, below, and around me, lay the
sheeted snow, till, as the eye glanced upward, it was lost
among the dark pines which covered the upper part of the
mountains, although at the very summit, where the pines
were thinnest, it gleamed from among them like a white
banner spread between them and heaven. Below me on
the left, half open, half frozen, ran the little clear stream,
which gave water to the inhabitants of the valley, and along
the margin of which, I had been travelling. On the
right and left, the ridges which formed the dark and precipitous
sides of the cañon, sweeping apart, formed a spacious
amphitheatre. Along their sides extended a belt of
deep, dull blue mist, above and below which was to be
seen the white snow, and the deep darkness of the pines.
On the right, these mountains swelled to a greater and
more precipitous height, till their tops gleamed in unsullied
whiteness over the plain below. Still farther to the
right was a broad opening, where the mountains seemed to
sink into the plain; and afar off in front were the tall and
stupendous mountains between me and the city of Santa
Fe. Directly in front of me, with the dull color of its mud
buildings, contrasting with the dazzling whiteness of the
snow, lay the little village, resembling an oriental town,
with its low, square, mud-roofed houses and its two square
church towers, also of mud. On the path to the village
were a few Mexicans, wrapped in their striped blankets,
and driving their jackasses heavily laden with wood towards
the village. Such was the aspect of the place at a distance.
On entering it, you only found a few dirty, irregular
lanes, and a quantity of mud houses.
To an American, the first sight of these New Mexican
villages is novel and singular. He seems taken into a
the men with their pantalones of cloth, gaily ornamented
with lace, split up on the outside of the leg to the knee,
and covered at the bottom with a broad strip of morocco;
the jacket of calico; the botas of stamped and embroidered
leather; the zarape or blanket of striped red and white;
the broad-brimmed hat, with a black silk handkerchief tied
round it in a roll; or in the lower class, the simple attire of
breeches of leather reaching only to the knees, a shirt and
a zarape; the bonnetless women, with a silken scarf or
a red shawl over their heads; and, added to all, the continual
chatter of Spanish about him—all remind him that
he is in a strange land.
On the evening after my arrival in the village, I went to
a fandango. I saw the men and women dancing waltzes,
and drinking whiskey together; and in another room, I
saw the monti-bank open. It is a strange sight—a Spanish
fandango. Well dressed women—(they call them
ladies)—harlots, priests, thieves, half-breed Indians—all
spinning round together in the waltz. Here, a filthy, ragged
fellow with half a shirt, a pair of leather breeches, and
long, dirty woollen stockings, and Apache moccasins,
was hanging and whirling round with the pretty wife of
Pedro Vigil; and there, the priest was dancing with La
Altegracia, who paid her husband a regular sum to keep
out of the way, and so lived with an American. I was
soon disgusted; but among the graceless shapes and more
graceless dresses at the fandango, I saw one young woman
who appeared to me exceedingly pretty. She was under
the middle size, slightly formed; and besides the delicate
foot and ancle, and the keen black eye, common to all the
women in that country, she possessed a clear and beautiful
complexion, and a modest, downcast look, not often to be
met with among the New Mexican females.
I was imformed to my surprise, that she had been married
several years before, and was now a widow. There
was an air of gentle and deep melancholy in her face which
drew my attention to her; but when one week afterward
I left Taos, and went down to Santa Fe, the pretty widow
was forgotten.
Among my acquaintances in Santa Fe, was one American
in particular, by the name of L—. He had been in the
country several years; was a man of much influence there
among the people, and was altogether a very talented man.
Of his faults, whatever they were, I have nothing to say.
It was from him, some time after my arrival, and when
the widow had ceased almost to be a thing of memory, that
I learned the following particulars respecting her former
fortunes. I give them in L.'s own words as nearly as I
can, and can only say, that for the truth of them, he is my
authority—true or not, such as I received them, do I
present them to my readers.
You know, said he, that I have been in this country
several years. Six or eight years ago, I was at Taos, upon
business, and was lodging in the house of an old acquaintance,
Dick Taylor. I had been up late one night, and
early the next morning, I was suddenly awakened by mine
host, Dick, who, shaking me roughly by the shoulder, exclaimed,
`Get up, man—get up—if you wish to see
sport, and dress yourself.' Half awake and half asleep, I
arose and commenced dressing myself. While employed
in this avocation, I heard an immense clamor in the street;
cries, oaths, yells, and whoops, resounded in every direction.
I knew it would be useless to ask an explanation of
the matter from the sententious Dick; and I therefore quietly
finished dressing, and, taking my rifle, followed him
into the street. For a time, I was at a loss to understand
what was the matter. Men were running wildly about—
some armed with fusees, with locks as big as a gunbrig;
some with bows and arrows, and some with spears. Women
were scudding hither and thither, with their black
hair flying, and their naked feet shaming the ground by
their superior filth. Indian girls were to be seen here
and there, with suppressed smiles, and looks of triumph.
Men, women, and children, however, seemed to trust less
in their armor, than in the arm of the Lord, and of the
saints. They were accordingly earnest in calling upon
Tata Dios! Dios bendito! Virgen purisima! and all
the saints of the calendar, and above all, upon Nuestra
Señora de Guadalupe, to aid, protect, and assist them.
One cry, at last, explained the whole matter,—`Los malditos
robbing them; they had entered the valley below, and were
sweeping it of all the flocks and herds—and this produced
the consternation. You have never seen any of these Nabajos.
They approach much nearer in character to the
Indians in the south of the Mexican Republic than any
others in this province. They are whiter; they raise corn;
they have vast flocks of sheep, and large herds of horses;
they make blankets, too, and sell them to the Spaniards.
Their great men have a number of servants under them,
and in fact, their government is apparently patriarchal.
Sometimes they choose a captain over the nation; but
even then, they obey him or not, just as they please. They
live about three day's journey west of this, and have about
ten thousand souls in their tribe. Like most other Indians,
they have their medicine men who intercede for them with
the Great Spirit by strange rites and ceremonies.
Through the tumult, we proceeded towards the outer
edge of the town, whither all the armed men seemed to be
hastening. On arriving in the street which goes out
towards the cañon of the river, we found ourselves in the
place of action. Nothing was yet to be seen out in the
plain, which extends to the foot of the hills and to the
cañon, and of which you there have a plain view. Some
fifty Mexicans had gathered there, mostly armed, and were
pressing forward towards the extremity of the street. Behind
them were a dozen Americans with their rifles, all as
cool as might be; for the men that came through the prairie
then were all braves. Sundry women were scudding about,
exhorting their husbands to fight well, and praising `Los
Señores Americanos.' We had waited perhaps half an
hour, when the foe came in sight, sweeping in from the
west, and bearing towards the cañon, driving before them
numerous herds and flocks, and consisting apparently of
about one hundred men. When they were within about
half a mile of us, they separated; one portion of them
remained with the booty, and the other, all mounted, came
sweeping down upon us. The effect was instantaneous,
and almost magical. In a moment not a woman was to
be seen far or near; and the heroes who had been chattering
and boasting in front of the Americans, shrunk in
We immediately extended ourselves across the street, and
waited the charge. The Indians made a beautiful appearance
as they came down upon us with their fine looking
horses, and their shields ornamented with feathers and
fur, and their dresses of unstained deer-skin. At that
time, they knew nothing about the Americans; they supposed
that their good allies, the Spaniards, would run as
they commonly do, that they would have the pleasure of
frightening the village and shouting in it, and going off
safely. As they neared us, each of us raised his gun
when he judged it proper, and fired. A dozen cracks of
the rifle told them the difference; five or six tumbled out
of their saddles, and were immediately picked up by their
comrades, who then turned their backs and retreated as
swiftly as they had come. The Americans, who were,
like myself, not very eager to fight the battles of the New
Mexicans, loaded their guns with immense coolness, and
we stood gazing at them as they again gathered their
booty and prepared to move towards the cañon. The
Mexicans tried to induce us to mount and follow; but we,
or at least I, was perfectly contented. In fact, I did not
care much which whipped. The Nabajos seemed thus in
a very good way of going off with their booty unhindered,
when suddenly the scene was altered. A considerable
body, perhaps sixty, of the Pueblo of Taos, a civilized
Indian who are Catholics, and citizens of the Republic,
appeared suddenly under the mountains, dashing at full
speed towards the mouth of the cañon. They were all
fine looking men, well mounted, large, and exceedingly
brave. These Pueblos, (a word which signifies tribes—of
Indians) are in fact, all handsome, athletic men. There
are about a dozen different tribes around here, each having
a different language, and all very small in number.
The Taos, the Picuris, the Poguaque, the Tisuqui, the
Xemes, the San Domingo, the Pecos, (the two latter, however,
though they live fifty miles apart, all speak the same
language,) the San Ildefonso,[1] and one or two others; all
miles from Santa Fe to find any of them. Some of their
towns were formerly much larger than at present—for
example, that of the Pecos tribe. Half their town is fallen
to ruin. The wall which originally surrounded it, is now
at a distance from the one little square which composes
the present town. I say square, but it is an oblong, about
forty yards by fifteen, surrounded by continuous houses of
mud, three and four stories high, to which you generally
ascend by ladders, and go down again from the top. Everything
is built for the purpose of defence. There is but
one passage from the oblong, and this is about six feet
wide. When the Spaniards first came up above the Pass
and conquered the Indians, and founded Santa Fe, these
tribes rose against them and drove them again below the
Pass. Only the Pecos and San Domingo tribes remained
faithful, and they were nearly exterminated by the other
Indians, on account of it. In the Pecos tribe, there
are not more than fifteen or twenty men. The Santa Fe
tribe went into the mountains, and has disappeared, mingling,
perhaps, with the Apaches. Another tribe is the one
which the Indians and Spaniards call the Montezuma
tribe. I cannot say, whether this be their proper name,
or one which they have learned from the Americans; but
the latter supposition would be improbable. This, too, is
a small and diminishing tribe; they live in the mountains
not far from Taos, and never intermarry with any other
tribe. They worship a large snake, whose teeth, I suppose,
they have extracted, and rendered it harmless. Not
long ago, it was lost, and after a time, it was discovered by
some of the Pueblo of Taos, who knew it by some ornaments
it wears. They gave notice to the Montezuma tribe,
and their priest came and took it back. But I am tiring
you with this verbiage; shall I go back to my story?
`Ho,' said I, `go on with your account of these Indians
first.'
`Just as you please. They likewise keep a continual
fire burning in a kind of cave; every year, a man is placed
there to take care of it; and for the whole of that year, he
does not see the sun;—they bring him food, wood and
water. I have never seen this, but creditable Spaniards
inclined to doubt it. You will see between this and the
Nabajo country, remains of vast buildings of rock and mud,
which were evidently used for temples—by their insulated
position, and their entire difference from the other ruins
around them. One of these places, about two days' ride
from here, is under a mountain, in which, they say, treasures
are hid. In fact, many things concur to prove these
Indians to be different from our Indians, and even from
the Eutaws—(or, as the Spaniards write it, Llutas)—from
the Apaches and from the Comanches. Their dances are
very graceful and considerably complicated, and as regular
as our contra dances; much handsomer than any dances
and xarabes of these vagabond Mexicans. But sooth it
is, they are accompanied by the same monotonous hu a ha,
hu a ha, which all Indians sing, so far as I have ever seen
them. I might say, too, that they have very little of that
sententious gravity and unbending sobriety of appearance
generally ascribed to Indians. They laugh, and chatter,
and play; but so do all Indians—Mr. Cooper, and Heckelwalder,
and any other person, to the contrary notwithstanding.
The Osages play with their children before
white men, laugh, chat and joke; the Choctaws laugh so
much as frequently to appear silly; and you may look in
vain for those specimens of dignity and gravity which are
told of in many veritable books. Not that I mean to say
that they are never grave—sometimes they are; but generally,
an Indian is the most merry and apparently light-hearted
thing in the world. Do you think that they are
like Chingachgook, who would not embrace Uncas till
they were alone by their camp-fire? No. An Osage
chief will fondle his child, toss it in the air, and chatter to
it like a childish woman, talking baby talk. So will a
Comanche, or a Crow, or a Snake, and they are the gratest
Indian I ever saw. But I was speaking of the difference
between them and our Indians. They have woven blankets—heaven
knows how long; and they have, and had
before this continent was discovered, a considerable knowledge
of pottery; witness the vessels of cookery, and also
the bottomless jars, which they put one upon the other for
their chimneys. They are probably a mixture of the Mexicans,
Egyptians, or Aboriginals,) and of the Northern and
Eastern Indians—the fiercer and ruder tribes who inhabit
to the north, east and west of them. The Mexicans, in
my opinion, penetrated at some day—heaven knows how
long ago—into the United States, and were repulsed, leaving
those fortifications, hieroglyphics, and other matters
so curious to the learned. They likewise came towards
the north and left colonies in New Mexico; but the cold
kept them from going farther; they were no people for
mountains and deserts. I incline to believe that they were
Phœnicians; at any rate, they were an insulated portion
of the human race, entirely distinct from, and far superior
to, the natives of the east and north, as well as of
California. As to the story of the Nabajos having a part of
a Welsh bible, and a silver cup, it is all a matter of imagination.
To be sure they have beards, and are whiter than
the surrounding Indians, and they do speak a language
which nothing can learn, and which is marvellously like
the Welsh, in the respect of guttural and nasal unpronounceables.
So much for Indians—and since I have
ended where I began—with the Nabajos—I will return to
my narrative.
Upon seeing the Pueblo of Taos, between them and the
mouth of the cañon, the Nabajos uttered a shrill yell of
defiance, and moved to meet them. Leaving a few men
to guard the cattle, the remainder diverging like the opening
sticks of a fan, rushed to the attack. Each man shot
his arrow as he approached, till he was within thirty or
forty yards, and then wheeling, retreated, shooting as he
went. They were steadily received by the Pueblo, with a
general discharge of fire-arms and arrows at every charge,
and were frustrated in every attempt at routing them.
Several were seen to fall at every charge; but they were
always taken up and borne to those who were guarding the
cattle. During the contest, several Mexicans mounted,
and went out from the village to join the Pueblos, but only
two or three ventured to do so; the others kept at a very
respectful distance. At length, finding the matter grow
desperate, more men were joined to those who guarded the
cattle, and they then moved steadily towards the cañon.
fifty yards, and then converging again, charged boldly
upon one point; and as the Pueblo were unprepared for
this manœuvre, they broke through, and again charged
back. Drawing them together in this way to oppose them,
nearly two thirds of the cattle were driven through the line,
goaded by arrows and frightened by shouts. Many of the
Nabajos, however, fell in the melée, by the long spears
and quick arrows of the Pueblo. In the mean time, I had
mounted, and approached within two hundred yards of the
scene of contest. I observed one tall, and good looking
Spaniard, of middle age, who was particularly active in the
contest; he had slightly wounded a large athletic Nabajo,
with his spear, and I observed that he was continually followed
by him. When this large chief had concluded that
the cattle were near enough to the mouth of the cañon to
be out of danger, he gave a shrill cry, and his men, who
were now reduced to about sixty, besides those with the
cattle, gathered simultaneously between the Pueblo and
the cañon. Only the chief remained behind, and rushing
towards the Spaniard who had wounded him, he grasped
him with one hand and raised him from the saddle as if he
had been a boy. Taken by surprise, the man made no
resistance for a moment or two, and that moment or two
sufficed for the horse of the Nabajo—a slight made, Arabian
looking animal—to place him, with two or three
bounds, among his own men. Then his knife glittered
in the air, and I saw the Spaniard's limbs contract, and
then collapse. A moment more sufficed for him to tear
the scalp from the head; he was then tumbled from before
him to the ground, and with a general yell, the whole
body rushed forward, closely pursued by the Pueblo. In
hurrying to the cañon the Nabajo lost several men and
more of the cattle; but when they had once entered its
rocky jaws, and the Pueblo turned back, still more than
half the plunder remained with the robbers; fifteen Nabajos
only were left dead; and the remainder were borne
off before their comrades. The Pueblos lost nearly one
third of their number.
It was this fight, sir, this inroad of the Nabajos, which
brought me acquainted with the young widow of whom
of fourteen; and a very pretty girl too was La Señorita
Ana Maria Ortega. I need not trouble you with descriptions
of her; for she has saved me the trouble by appearing
to your eyes in that sublime place, a fandango—when
you first saw the charms of New Mexican beauty, and
had your eyes ravished with the melody and harmony of a
Spanish waltz—(I beg Spain's pardon)—a New Mexican
waltz.'
`Which waltz,' said I, `I heard the next morning played
over a coffin at a funeral; and in the afternoon, in the
procession of the Host.'
`Oh that is common. Melody, harmony, fiddle, banjo,
and all—all is common to all occasions. They have but
little music, and they are right in being economical with
it; and the presence of the priest sanctifies anything.
You know the priest of Taos?'
`Yes. The people were afraid to get drunk on my first
fandango night. I was astonished to find them so sober.
The priest was there; and they feared to get drunk until
he had done so. That event took place about eleven at
night, and then aguadiente was in demand.'
`Yes, I dare say. That same priest once asked me if
England was a province or a state. I told him it was a
province. He reads Voltaire's Philosophical Dictionary,
and takes the old infidel to be an excellent christian.
Ana Maria was his god-daughter, I think, or some such
matter; and I became acquainted with her in that way.
He wanted me to marry her; she knew nothing of it,
though; but I backed out. I did not mind the marrying
so much as the baptism and the citizenship. I do n't
exchange my country for Mexico; or the name American
for that of Mexican. Ana was in truth, not a girl to be
slighted. She was pretty, and rich, and sensible; her
room was the best furnished mud apartment in Taos; her
zarapes were of the best texture, some of them even from
Chihuahua, and they were piled showily round the room.
The roses skewered upon the wall, were of red silk;
and the santos and other images had been brought
from Mexico. There were some half dozen of looking-glasses,
too, all out of reach, and various other adornments
round her neck, with a cross-looking San Pablo upon it,
was of beaten gold, or some other kind of gold. She had
various dresses of calico and silk, all bought at high prices
of the new comers; and her little fairy feet were always
adorned with shoes. That was a great extravagance in
those days. Ana Maria had no mother when I first saw
her; but she was still wearing the “luto” for her, and she
had transferred all the affection to her father, which she
had before bestowed upon her mother; and when the knife
of the Nabajo made her an orphan, I suppose that she felt as
if her last hold upon life was gone. She appeared to, at
least.
Victorino Alasi had been her lover, and her favored
one. He had never thought of any other than Ana Maria
as his bride, and he had talked of his love to her a hundred
times. But there came in a young trapper, who gave him
cause to tremble, lest he should lose his treasure. Henry,
or as he was most commonly called, Hentz Wilson, was a
formidable rival. Ana knew not, herself, which to prefer;
the long friendship and love of Victorino was almost balanced
by the different style of beauty, the odd manners,
and the name American, which recommended Hentz.
Her vanity was flattered by the homage of an American,
and Victorino was in danger of losing his bride. The
bold, open bearing of Hentz, and his bravery, as well as
his knowledge, which, though slight at home, was wondrous
to the simple New Mexicans, had recommended him, likewise,
to the father. Just before, his death suspended, for
a time, all operations. They had each of them made
application by letter (the common custom) for the hand
of Ana Maria. In the course of a fortnight after the inroad
of the Nabajo, each of the lovers received, as answer,
that she had determined to give her hand to either of them
who should kill the murderer of her father. And with
this, they both were obliged to content themselves for the
present.
Directly after the inroad, I came down to Santa Fe.
The Lieutenant Colonel of the Province, Viscara, was
raising a body of men to go out against the Nabajo, and
repay them for this and other depredations lately committed
him—so much so, that I was obliged to comply with
his requests, and promised to go. Troops were sent for
from below, and in the course of four months, the expedition
was ready; and we set out upon the Nabajo campaign.
We were a motley set. First there was a body of
regular troops, all armed with British muskets and with
lances. Here, there was a grey coat and leathern pantaloons;
there, no coat and short breeches. But you have
seen the ragged, ununiformed troops here in the city, and
I need not describe them to you. Next there was a parcel
of militia, all mounted; some had lances, some, old fusees;
and last, a body of Indians of the different Pueblos, with
bows and shields—infinitely the best troops we had, as well
as the bravest men. Among the militia of Taos, I observed
the young Victorino—and Hentz had likewise volunteered
to accompany the expedition, and lived with me in the
General's tent.
It was in the dryest part of summer that we left Santa
Fe, and marched towards the country of the Nabajo. We
went out by the way of Xemes, and then crossing the Rio
Puerco, went into the mountains of the Nabajo. We came
up with them, fought them, and they fled before us, driving
their cattle and sheep with them into a wide sand desert;
and we being now out of provisions, were obliged to overtake
them or starve. We were two days without a drop
of water, and nearly all the animals gave out in consequence
of it. On the third day, Viscara, fifteen soldiers,
and myself went ahead of the army, (which I forgot to say,
was thirteen hundred strong.) Viscara and his men were
mounted. I was on foot, with no clothing, except a cloth
round my middle, with a lance in one hand, and a rifle in
the other. That day I think I ran seventy-five miles, barefooted,
and through the burning sand.'
`Viscara tells me that you ran thirty leagues.'
`Viscara is mistaken, and overrates it. Just before
night, we came up with a large body of Nabajos, and
attacked them. We took about two thousand sheep from
them, and three hundred cattle, and drove them back that
night to the army. The Nabajos supposed, when we
rushed on them, that the whole of our force was at hand,
which you are most concerned. When we attacked the
Nabajo, they were drawn up, partly on foot, and partly on
horseback, in the bed of a little creek which was dry. It
was the common way of fighting, charge, fire and retreat;
and if you have seen one fight on horseback, you have
seen all. I observed, particularly, one Nabajo, upon whom
three Pueblos charged, all on foot; he shot two of them
down before they reached him. Another arrow struck the
remaining one in the belly. He still came on with only a
tomahawk, and another arrow struck him in the forehead.
Yet still he braved his foe, and they were found lying dead
together. I could have shot the Nabajo with great ease,
at the time; for the whole of this took place within seventy
yards of me.
In the midst of the battle, I observed Victorino and
Hentz standing together in the front rank, seeming rather
to be spectators than men interested in the fight. They
were both handsome men, but entirely different in appearance.
Victorino was a dark-eyed, slender, agile young
Spaniard, with a tread like a tiger-cat; and with all his
nerves indurate with toil. His face was oval, thin, and of
a rich olive, through which the blood seemed ready to
break; and you could hardly have chosen a better figure
for a statuary as he stood, now and then discharging his
fusee, but commonly glancing his eyes uneasily about
from one part of the enemy to the other. Hentz, on the
contrary, was a tall, and well proportioned young fellow,
of immense strength and activity; but with little of the
cat-like quickness of his rival; his skin was fair even to
effeminacy, and his blue eyes were shaded by a profusion
of chestnut hair; he, too, seemed expecting some one to
appear amid the enemy; for though he now and then
fired and reloaded, it was but seldom, and he spent more
time in leaning on his long rifle, and gazing about among
the Nabajos.
On a sudden, a sharp yell was heard, and a party of
Nabajos came dashing down the bank of the creek, all
mounted, and headed by the big chief who had killed the
father of Ana Maria. Then the apathy of the two rivals
was at once thrown aside. Hentz quickly threw his gun
again stood quietly watching the motions of the chief, and
Victorino did the same. Wheeling round several times,
and discharging a flight of arrows continually upon us, this
new body of Nabajo at length bore down directly towards
Hentz and Victorino. As the chief came on, Victorino
raised his gun, took a steady, long aim, and fired. Another
moment, and the Nabajo were upon them, and then
retreated again like a wave tossing back from the shore.
The chief still sat on his horse as before; another yell, and
they came down again. When they were within about a
hundred yards, Hentz raised his rifle, took a steady, quick
aim, and fired. Still they came on; the chief bent down
over the saddle-bow, and his horse, seemingly frightened by
the strange pressure of the rider, bore down directly towards
Hentz, who sprang to meet him, and caught the bridle;
the horse sprang to one side, and the wounded chief lost
his balance, and fell upon the ground. Losing his hold
upon the horse, he dashed away through friend and foe,
and was out of sight in a moment. The Nabajo rallied
to save the body of the chief, and Viscara himself rushed
in with me to the rescue of Hentz. But the long barrel
of Hentz's rifle, which he swayed with a giant's strength,
and in which I humbly imitated him, the sword of Viscara,
and the keen knife of Victorino, who generously sprang in
the aid of his rival, would all have failed in saving the
body, had not a band of the gallant Pueblo attacked them
in the rear and routed them. Hentz immediately dispatched
the chief, who was, by this time, half hidden by
a dozen Nabajos, and immediately deprived his head of
the hair, which is more valuable to an Indian than life.
After our route in the sand desert, the Nabajos sued for
peace, and we returned to Santa Fe. Poor Victorino, I
observed, rode generally alone, and had not a word to say
to any one. Although formerly, he had been the most
merry and humorous, now he seemed entirely buried in
sorrow. He kept listlessly along, neither looking to the
right hand or the left, with his bridle laying on the neck
of his mule. I tried to comfort him, but he motioned me
away. I urged it upon him, and he answered me gloomily,
“Why should I cheer up? what have I to live for? Had
so hardly of it; but by this cursed old fusee, and because
another man can shoot better than I—Oh, sir, leave me
to myself, I pray you, and make me no offers which do
me no good. I think I shall be happy again, but it will
be in my grave, and Dios me perdone! I care not how
soon I am there.”
As I fell back towards the rear where I generally
marched, Hentz rode up by me and inquired what the
young Spaniard had said. I repeated it to him. “Do you
think he is really that troubled?” inquired he. “Yes,”
said I—“the poor fellow seems to feel all he says.” Without
a word, Hentz rode towards him, and reining up by
him, tapped him on the shoulder. Victorino looked fiercely
up, and seemed inclined to resent it, but Hentz, without
regarding the glance, proceeded with a mass of immensely
bad Spanish, which I know not how the poor fellow ever
understood. “Here,” said he, “you love Ana better than
I do, I know—you have known her longer, and will feel
her loss more; and after all, you would have killed the
chief if you could have done it—and you did help me save
the body. Take this bunch of stuff,” holding out the hair,
“and give me your hand.” Victorino did so, and shook the
offered hand heartily; then taking the scalp, he deposited
it in his shot-pouch, and dashing the tears from his eyes,
rode off towards his comrades like a madman. So much
for the inroad of the Nabajos.'
`But what became of Victorino?' inquired I.
`He married Ana Maria after she had laid aside the
luto, (mourning,) and two years ago, he died of the small
pox, in the Snake country. Poor fellow—he was almost
an American.'
| Prose sketches and poems | |