The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico. Reid Mayne

at the feet of Catalina de Cruces!

      A murmur of surprise ran through the crowd, and sharp censure followed fast. What! a cibolero, – a poor devil, of whom nothing was known, aspire to the smiles of a rico’s daughter? It was not a compliment. It was an insult! Presumption intolerable!

      And these critiques were not confined to the señoras and señoritas. The poblanas and rancheros were as bitter as they. These felt themselves slighted – passed by – regularly jilted – by one of their own class. Catalina de Cruces, indeed!

      Catalina – her situation was pleasant, yet painful – painful, because embarrassing. She smiled, then blushed, uttered a soft “Gracias, cavallero!” yet hesitated a moment whether to take up the trophy. A scowling father had started to his feet on one side, on the other a scowling lover. The last was Roblado.

      “Insolent!” cried he, seizing the plume, and flinging it to the earth; “insolent!”

      Carlos bent down from his saddle, once more laid hold of the plume, and stuck it under the gold band of his hat. Then, turning a defiant glance upon the officer, he said, “Don’t lose your temper, Captain Roblado. A jealous lover makes but an indifferent husband.” And transferring his look to Catalina, he added with a smile, and in a changed tone, “Gracias, señorita!”

      As he said this he doffed his sombrero, and, waving it gracefully, turned his horse and rode off.

      Roblado half drew his sword, and his loud “Carrajo!” along with the muttered imprecations of Don Ambrosio, reached the ears of the cibolero. But the captain was far from brave, with all his swagger; and seeing the long machete of the horseman strapped over his hips, he vented his spite in threats only, and suffered Carlos to depart.

      The incident had created no small excitement, and a good deal of angry feeling. The cibolero had roused the indignation of the aristocracy, and the jealousy and envy of the democracy; so that, after all his brilliant performances, he was likely to leave the field anything but a favourite. The wild words of his strange old mother had been widely reported, and national hatred was aroused, so that his skill called forth envy instead of admiration. An angel indeed, should he have been to have won friendship there – he an Americano – a “heretico” – for in this far corner of the earth fanaticism was as fierce as in the Seven-hilled City itself during the gloomiest days of the Inquisition!

      Mayhap it was as well for Carlos that the sports were now ended, and the fiesta about to close.

      In a few minutes the company began to move off. The mules, oxen, and asses, were yoked to the carretas – the rancheros and rancheras climbed inside the deep boxes; and then, what with the cracking of quirts, the shouts of drivers, and the hideous screaming of the ungreased axles, a concert of sounds arose that would have astonished any human being, except a born native of the soil.

      In half-an-hour the ground was clear, and the lean coyote might be seen skulking over the spot in search of a morsel for his hungry maw.

      Chapter Nine

      Though the field-sports were over, the fiesta of San Juan was not yet ended. There were still many sights to be seen before the crowd scattered to their homes. There was to be another turn at the church – another sale of “indultos,” beads, and relics, – another sprinkling of sacred water, in order that the coffers of the padrés might be replenished toward a fresh bout at the monté table. Then there was an evening procession of the Saint of the day (John), whose image, set upon a platform, was carried about the town, until the five or six fellows who bore the load were seen to perspire freely under its weight.

      The Saint himself was a curiosity. A large wax and plaster doll, dressed in faded silk that had once been yellow, and stuck all over with feathers and tinsel. A Catholic image Indianised, for the Mexican divinities were as much Indian as Roman. He appeared bored of the business, as, the joinings between head and neck having partially given way, the former drooped over and nodded to the crowd as the image was moved along. This nodding, however, which would have been laughed at as supremely ridiculous in any other than a priest-ridden country, was here regarded in a different light. The padrés did not fail to put their interpretation upon it, pointing it out to their devout followers as a mark of condescension on the part of the Saint, who, in thus bowing to the crowd, was expressing his approbation of their proceedings. It was, in fact, a regular miracle. So alleged both padrés and cura, and who was there to contradict them? It would have been a dangerous matter to have said nay. In San Ildefonso no man dared to disbelieve the word of the Church. The miracle worked well. The religious enthusiasm boiled up; and when Saint John was returned to his niche, and the little “cofre” placed in front of him, many a “peseta,” “real,” and “cuartillo,” were dropped in, which would otherwise have been deposited that night in the monté bank. Nodding Saints and “winking Madonnas” are by no means a novel contrivance of the Holy Church. The padrés of its Mexican branch have had their wonderful saints too; and even in the almost terra ignota of New Mexico can be found a few of them that have performed as smart miracles as any recorded in the whole jugglery of the race.

      A pyrotechnic display followed – and no mean exhibition of the sort neither – for in this “art” the New Mexicans are adepts. A fondness for “fireworks” is a singular but sure characteristic of a declining nation.

      Give me the statistics of pyrotechnic powder burnt by a people, and I shall tell you the standard measure of their souls and bodies. If the figure be a maximum, then the physical and moral measure will be the minimum, for the ratio is inverse.

      I stood in the Place de Concorde, and saw a whole nation – its rich and its poor – gazing on one of these pitiful spectacles, got up for the purpose of duping them into contentment. It was the price paid them for parting with their liberty, as a child parts with a valuable gem for a few sugar-plums. They were gazing with a delight that seemed enthusiasm! I looked upon scrubby, stunted forms, a foot shorter than were their ancestors. I looked upon eyes that gleamed with demoralised thought.

      These were the representatives of a once great people, and who still deem themselves the first of mankind. I felt sure that this was an illusion. The pyro-spectacle and its reception convinced me that I saw before me a people who had passed the culminating point of their greatness, and were now gliding rapidly down the declining slope that leads to annihilation and nothingness.

      After the fireworks came the “fandango.” There we meet the same faces, without much alteration in the costumes. The señoras and señoritas alone have doffed their morning dresses, and here and there a pretty poblana has changed her coarse woollen “nagua” for a gay flounced muslin.

      The ball was held in the large saloon of the “Casa de Cabildo,” which occupied one side of the “Plaza.” On this festival day there was no exclusiveness. In the frontier towns of Mexico not much at any time, for, notwithstanding the distinctions of class, and the domineering tyranny of the government authorities, in matters of mere amusement there is a sort of democratic equality, a mingling of high and low, that in other countries is rare. English, and even American travellers, have observed this with astonishment.

      All were admitted to the “Salon de baile” who chose to pay for it; and alongside the rico in fine broad-cloth you might see the ranchero in his leathern jacket and velveteen calzoneros; while the daughter of the rich comerciante danced in the same set with the “aldeana,” whose time was taken up in kneading tortillas or weaving rebosos!

      The Comandante with Roblado and the lieutenant figured at the fandango in full uniform. The alcalde was there with his gold-headed cane and tassel; the cura in his shovel hat; the padrés in their swinging robes; and all the “familias principales” of the place.

      There was the rich comerciante, Don José Rincon, with his fat wife and four fat sleepy-looking daughters – there, too, the wife and family of the alcalde – there the Echevarrias, with their brother the “beau” in full Paris costume, with dress coat and crush hat – the only one to be seen in the saloon. There, too, the rich hacendado, Señor Gomez del Monté, with his lean wife and several rather lean daughters – differing in that respect from the hundreds of kine that roam over the pastures of his “ganada.” And there, too, observed of all, was