Scalp Hunters. Captain Mayne Reid
ha, ha! so does mine; but Gode’s gone for medicine. Hair of the dog good for the bite. Come, jump up!”
“Wait till I get a dose of your medicine.”
“True; you will feel better then. I say, city life don’t agree with us, eh?”
“You call this a city, do you?”
“Ay, so it is styled in these parts: ‘la ciudad de Santa Fé;’ the famous city of Santa Fé; the capital of Nuevo Mexico; the metropolis of all prairiedom; the paradise of traders, trappers, and thieves!”
“And this is the progress of three hundred years! Why, these people have hardly passed the first stages of civilisation.”
“Rather say they are passing the last stages of it. Here, on this fair oasis, you will find painting, poetry, dancing, theatres, and music, fêtes and fireworks, with all the little amorous arts that characterise a nation’s decline. You will meet with numerous Don Quixotes, soi-disant knights-errant, Romeos without the heart, and ruffians without the courage. You will meet with many things before you encounter either virtue or honesty. Hola! muchacho!”
“Que es, señor?”
“Hay cafe?”
“Si, señor.”
“Bring us a couple of tazas, then — dos tazas, do you hear? and quick — aprisa! aprisa!”
“Si, señor.”
“Ah! here comes le voyageur Canadien. So, old Nor’-west! you’ve brought the wine?”
“Vin délicieux, Monsieur Saint Vrain! equal to ze vintage Français.”
“He is right, Haller! Tsap — tsap! delicious you may say, good Gode. Tsap — tsap! Come, drink! it’ll make you feel as strong as a buffalo. See! it seethes like a soda spring! like ‘Fontaine-qui-bouille’; eh, Gode?”
“Oui, monsieur; ver like Fontaine-qui-bouille. Oui.”
“Drink, man, drink! Don’t fear it: it’s the pure juice. Smell the flavour; taste the bouquet. What wine the Yankees will one day squeeze out of these New Mexican grapes!”
“Why? Do you think the Yankees have an eye to this quarter?”
“Think! I know it; and why not? What use are these manikins in creation? Only to cumber the earth. Well, mozo, you have brought the coffee?”
“Ya, esta, señor.”
“Here! try some of this; it will help to set you on your feet. They can make coffee, and no mistake. It takes a Spaniard to do that.”
“What is this fandango Gode has been telling me about?”
“Ah! true. We are to have a famous one to-night. You’ll go, of course?”
“Out of curiosity.”
“Very well, you will have your curiosity gratified. The blustering old grampus of a Governor is to honour the ball with his presence; and it is said, his pretty señora; that I don’t believe.”
“Why not?”
“He’s too much afraid lest one of these wild Americanos might whip her off on the cantle of his saddle. Such things have been done in this very valley. By Saint Mary! she is good-looking,” continued Saint Vrain, in a half-soliloquy, “and I knew a man — the cursed old tyrant! only think of it!”
“Of what?”
“The way he has bled us. Five hundred dollars a waggon, and a hundred of them at that; in all, fifty thousand dollars!”
“But will he pocket all this? Will not the Government — ?”
“Government! no, every cent of it. He is the Government here; and, with the help of this instalment, he will rule these miserable wretches with an iron rod.”
“And yet they hate him, do they not?”
“Him and his. And they have reason.”
“It is strange they do not rebel.”
“They have at times; but what can they do? Like all true tyrants, he has divided them, and makes them spend their heart’s hatred on one another.”
“But he seems not to have a very large army; no bodyguard — ”
“Bodyguard!” cried Saint Vrain, interrupting me; “look out! there’s his bodyguard!”
“Indios bravos! les Navajoes!” exclaimed Gode, at the same instant.
I looked forth into the street. Half a dozen tall savages, wrapped in striped serapes, were passing. Their wild, hungry looks, and slow, proud walk at once distinguished them from “Indios manzos,” the water-drawing, wood-hewing pueblos.
“Are they Navajoes?” I asked.
“Oui, monsieur, oui!” replied Gode, apparently with some excitement. “Navajoes!”
“There’s no mistaking them,” added Saint Vrain.
“But the Navajoes are the notorious enemies of the New Mexicans! How come they to be here? Prisoners?”
“Do they look like prisoners?”
They certainly showed no signs of captivity in either look or gesture. They strode proudly up the street, occasionally glancing at the passers with an air of savage and lordly contempt.
“Why, then, are they here? Their country lies far to the west.”
“That is one of the secrets of Nuevo Mexico, about which I will enlighten you some other time. They are now protected by a treaty of peace, which is only binding upon them so long as it may suit their convenience to recognise it. At present they are as free here as you or I; indeed, more so, when it comes to that. I wouldn’t wonder it we were to meet them at the fandango to-night.”
“I have heard that the Navajoes are cannibals.”
“It is true. Look at them this minute! See how they gloat upon that chubby little fellow, who seems instinctively to fear them. Lucky for the urchin it’s broad daylight, or he might get chucked under one of those striped blankets.”
“Are you in earnest, Saint Vrain?”
“By my word, I am not jesting! If I mistake not, Gode’s experience will confirm what I have said. Eh, voyageur?”
“C’est vrai, monsieur. I vas prisonnier in le nation; not Navagh, but l’Apache — moch de same — pour tree mons. I have les sauvages seen manger — eat — one — deux — tree — tree enfants rotis, like hump rib of de buffles. C’est vrai, messieurs, c’est vrai.”
“It is quite true; both Apaches and Navajoes carry off children from the valley, here, in their grand forays; and it is said by those who should know, that most of them are used in that way. Whether as a sacrifice to the fiery god Quetzalcoatl, or whether from a fondness lor human flesh, no one has yet been able to determine. In fact, with all their propinquity to this place, there is little known about them. Few who have visited their towns have had Gode’s luck to get away again. No man of these parts ever ventures across the western Sierras.”
“And how came you, Monsieur Gode, to save your scalp?”
“Pourquoi, monsieur, je n’ai pas. I not haves scalp-lock: vat de trappare Yankee call ‘har,’ mon scalp-lock is fabriqué of von barbier de Saint Louis. Voilà monsieur!”
So saying, the Canadian lifted his cap, and along with it what I had, up to this time, looked upon as a beautiful curling head of hair, but which now proved to be only a wig!
“Now, messieurs!” cried he, in good humour, “how les sauvages my scalp take? Indien no have cash hold. Sacr–r–r!”
Saint Vrain and I were unable to restrain our laughter at the altered and comical appearance of the Canadian.
“Come, Gode! the least you