The Scalp Hunters. Reid Mayne

niñas de Durango

      Commigo bailandas,

      Al cielo – !’

      “Ha! Are you ready, my bold rider?”

      “Not quite. Sit down a minute and wait.”

      “Hurry, then! the dancing’s begun. I have just come that way. What! that your ball-dress? Ha! ha! ha!” screamed Saint Vrain, seeing me unpack a blue coat and a pair of dark pantaloons, in a tolerable state of preservation.

      “Why, yes,” replied I, looking up; “what fault do you find? But is that your ball-dress?”

      No change had taken place in the ordinary raiment of my friend. The fringed hunting-shirt and leggings, the belt, the bowie, and the pistols, were all before me.

      “Yes, my dandy; this is my ball-dress: it ain’t anything shorter; and if you’ll take my advice, you’ll wear what you have got on your back. How will your long-tailed blue look, with a broad belt and bowie strapped round the skirts? Ha! ha! ha!”

      “But why take either belt or bowie? You are surely not going into a ball-room with your pistols in that fashion?”

      “And how else should I carry them? In my hands?”

      “Leave them here.”

      “Ha! ha! that would be a green trick. No, no. Once bit, twice shy. You don’t catch this ’coon going into any fandango in Santa Fé without his six-shooters. Come, keep on that shirt; let your leggings sweat where they are, and buckle this about you. That’s the costume du bal in these parts.”

      “If you assure me that my dress will be comme il faut, I’m agreed.”

      “It won’t be with the long-tailed blue, I promise you.”

      The long-tailed blue was restored forthwith to its nook in my portmanteau.

      Saint Vrain was right. On arriving at the room, a large sala in the neighbourhood of the Plaza, we found it filled with hunters, trappers, traders, and teamsters, all swaggering about in their usual mountain rig. Mixed among them were some two or three score of the natives, with an equal number of señoritas, all of whom, by their style of dress, I recognise as poblanas, or persons of the lower class, – the only class, in fact, to be met with in Santa Fé.

      As we entered, most of the men had thrown aside their serapes for the dance, and appeared in all the finery of embroidered velvet, stamped leather, and shining “castletops.” The women looked not less picturesque in their bright naguas, snowy chemisettes, and small satin slippers. Some of them flounced it in polka jackets; for even to that remote region the famous dance had found its way.

      “Have you heard of the electric telegraph?”

      “No, señor.”

      “Can you tell me what a railroad is?”

      “Quien sabe?”

      “La polka?”

      “Ah! señor, la polka, la polka! cosa buenita, tan graciosa! vaya!”

      The ball-room was a long, oblong sala with a banquette running all round it. Upon this the dancers seated themselves, drew out their husk cigarettes, chatted, and smoked, during the intervals of the dance. In one corner half a dozen sons of Orpheus twanged away upon harp, guitar, and bandolin; occasionally helping out the music with a shrill half-Indian chant. In another angle of the apartment, puros, and Taos whisky were dealt out to the thirsty mountaineers, who made the sala ring with their wild ejaculations. There were scenes like the following: —

      “Hyar, my little muchacha! vamos, vamos, ter dance! Mucho bueno! Mucho bueno? Will ye?”

      This is from a great rough fellow of six feet and over, addressed to a trim little poblana.

      “Mucho bueno, Señor Americano!” replies the lady.

      “Hooraw for you! Come along! Let’s licker fust! You’re the gal for my beaver. What’ll yer drink? Agwardent or vino?”

      “Copitita de vino, señor.” (A small glass of wine, sir.)

      “Hyar, yer darned greaser! Set out yer vino in a squ’ll’s jump! Now, my little un’, hyar’s luck, and a good husband!”

      “Gracias, Señor Americano!”

      “What! you understand that? You intende, do yer?”

      “Si, señor!”

      “Hooraw, then! Look hyar, little ’un, kin yer go the b’ar dance?”

      “No entiende.”

      “Yer don’t understan’ it! Hyar it is; thisa-way;” and the clumsy hunter began to show off before his partner, in an imitation of the grizzly bear.

      “Hollo, Bill!” cries a comrade, “yer’ll be trapped if yer don’t look sharp.”

      “I’m dog-gone, Jim, if I don’t feel queery about hyar,” replies the hunter, spreading his great paw over the region of the heart.

      “Don’t be skeert, man; it’s a nice gal, anyways.”

      “Hooray for old Missouri!” shouts a teamster.

      “Come, boys! Let’s show these yer greasers a Virginny break-down. ‘Cl’ar the kitchen, old folks, young folks.’”

      “Go it hoe and toe! ‘Old Virginny nebir tire!’”

      “Viva el Gobernador! Viva Armijo! Viva! viva!”

      An arrival at this moment caused a sensation in the room. A stout, fat, priest-like man entered, accompanied by several others, it was the Governor and his suite, with a number of well-dressed citizens, who were no doubt the elite of New Mexican society. Some of the new-comers were militaires, dressed in gaudy and foolish-looking uniforms that were soon seen spinning round the room in the mazes of the waltz.

      “Where is the Señora Armijo?” I whispered to Saint Vrain.

      “I told you as much. She! she won’t be out. Stay here; I am going for a short while. Help yourself to a partner, and see some tun. I will be back presently. Au revoir!”

      Without any further explanation, Saint Vrain squeezed himself through the crowd and disappeared.

      I had been seated on the banquette since entering the sala, Saint Vrain beside me, in a retired corner of the room. A man of peculiar appearance occupied the seat next to Saint Vrain, but farther into the shadow of a piece of furniture. I had noticed this man as we entered, and noticed, too, that Saint Vrain spoke to him; but I was not introduced, and the interposition of my friend prevented me from making any further observation of him until the latter had retired. We were now side by side; and I commenced a sort of angular reconnaissance of a face and figure that had somewhat strangely arrested my attention. He was not an American; that was evident from his dress; and yet the face was not Mexican. Its outlines were too bold for a Spanish face, though the complexion, from tan and exposure, was brown and swarth. His face was clean-shaven except his chin, which carried a pointed, darkish beard. The eye, if I saw it aright under the shadow of a slouched brim, was blue and mild; the hair brown and wavy, with here and there a strand of silver. These were not Spanish characteristics, much less Hispano-American; and I should have at once placed my neighbour elsewhere, but that his dress puzzled me. It was purely a Mexican costume, and consisted of a purple manga, with dark velvet embroidery around the vent and along the borders. As this garment covered the greater part of his person, I could only see that underneath was a pair of green velveteen calzoneros, with yellow buttons, and snow-white calzoncillos puffing out along the seams. The bottoms of the calzoneros were trimmed with stamped black leather; and under these were yellow boots, with a heavy steel spur upon the heel of each. The broad peaked strap that confined the spur, passing over the foot, gave to it that peculiar contour that we observe in the pictures of armed knights of the olden time. He wore a black, broad-brimmed sombrero, girdled by a thick band of gold bullion. A pair of tags of the same material stuck out from the sides: the fashion of the country.

      The man kept his sombrero slouched towards the light,