He hoped also to find one if not both of the Mexican Indians, Thomas and Christopher, who had remained along the river when Castaño de Sosa’s column returned to Mexico.
Leaving the North Pass behind them the Governor’s train marched up the wide flat valley where they met wandering Indians who lived a carefree existence, “far removed from the bustle and hurry of our great cities,” and a former courtier noted that the Indians were “ignorant of court life.” Soon they heard that the first of the river towns lay ahead. The Governor sent a detachment under Captain de Aguilar to scout the town, with orders, under penalty of death, not to enter the town for any reason whatsoever, but to see it from afar and return to report.
At a point sixty miles above the North Pass, the army came to the great westward turn in the river caused by the end of a mountain range. It was the same place where Núñez Cabeza de Vaca had turned west. The river could not be followed in its valley there, for on the east bank mountains sloped almost directly into it, and on the west bank the land fell to the river in such a repeated tumble of gullies and arroyos, with rising and falling hills between, that no road could be made over it with the tools and equipment owned by the army. And where the river went west, the army wanted to go north. There was only one thing to do, which was to leave the river and continue overland on the northward course, and presently—ninety miles upstream—the river would be accessible again. For all the intervening distance, bare, high and abrupt mountains separated the travellers from the river, and their course would lie over a desert plain flat enough for the carts and wagons.
Just as the colony was about to leave the river and enter the journey over the north-lying desert, Captain de Aguilar returned to report to the Governor.
He had seen the town?
Yes.
How far away was it?
About ninety miles—near the end of the desert passage.
And there were people?
Yes, he talked with them.
Talked with them?
The Governor was enraged. Did the Captain disobey orders and enter the town, then?
Yes. He had done so.
The Governor stormed on. Did the Captain not suppose that the Governor had full and sufficient reasons for giving orders not to enter the town? It was a known habit of those Indian people to gather their possessions and abandon their towns when they heard of an army’s approach. Such behavior would defeat the Governor’s purpose. If they now through the Captain’s disobedience had news of the approaching caravan, a proper beginning for the colony might be impossible. The Captain’s grave offense must not go unnoticed. The Governor hardly pausing to catch his breath commanded that he be executed at once, for outright disobedience to orders.
The sentence aroused the colony. The Captain’s men came to plead with the Governor for his life. The Governor listened to all who asked to be heard. Had he been hasty? But he was not entirely alone in his decision. Juan Piñero, an ensign of the army, who had gone north with the Captain, stated that he for one had wished to obey the Governor’s orders exactly. He had been overruled, and he now repeated that the orders should have been obeyed. He would not plead against the punishment. But in the end the Governor yielded to all the others and spared the Captain.
But he felt obliged now to take a mobile and light detachment of thirty horsemen and go ahead himself, to meet the Indians in the pueblos, and pacify them, and keep them in their houses. He gave command of the army to a senior officer and by forced marches crossed the desert passage leaving the army to follow him in its trudging.
They made their course by the stars at night. The desert was bounded on east and west by long mountain ranges between which the river had once run. In the summer daytime the heat was great. Mountains seemed to waver on their bases in the desert shimmer. A knife, a sword, any metal thing, or even leather, if it was shined and hard-finished, was actually too hot to handle if exposed to the sun. The mountains between the desert and the river held the colors of dead fire—dusty reds, yellows, clinker purple, ash violet, and burned blacks; and at sundown for a few moments seemed to fire alive again on the surface as once they must have been fired within.
On May 21, Pedro Robledo, one of the soldiers, died and was buried near the end of the mountain range on the west, which was named for him. Two days later the Governor’s party was in distress from lack of water. They had advanced only six leagues since the twenty-first. Man, horse and dog (there was a little dog travelling with the party) searched for a water hole in any likely place. On the twenty-third the little dog disappeared and awhile later returned to his soldiers. They took him up and spoke to him, but he had already answered them, for all his paws were freshly muddy, and there must be water near-by. Everyone looked again, and the dog helped, and presently Captain Pérez de Villagrá found a water hole a little way toward the mountain barrier of the river, and soon after that a soldier named Cristóbal Sanchez found another, and all drank, some too much, including the Father President Fray Alonso Martinez, who drank until he was ill. They named the place Perillo Spring, after the little dog, and marked it for those following. It was for generations the only place where travellers could find water in the whole desert passage between the outlying mountains. Later Spaniards named the ninety-mile desert the Jornada del Muerto, the Dead Man’s March*—the name by which it was finally to be known.
Where the river came back from the west and joined the northward route, ending the Dead Man’s March, the Governor found a good campsite. In honor of one of his Franciscan chaplains, the place, and the mountains that rose above it, were given the chaplain’s name—Fray Cristóbal—when on a later passage he died near there.
And north of there on the river’s west bank clear in the diamond sunlight was the first of the towns. As the Governor approached with his men the sky went suddenly black with clouds. How could it be, when a moment ago the sky was clear? A torrent fell on the instant. The soldiers trembled. There was no shelter. They prayed. It was certainly the Devil who had done this, to keep the army from its good task. Hail followed the rain and wild shattering thunder. Lifting their crucifixes the friars replied to the storm with the terrible prayers of exorcism. What happened instantly was almost more fearful than the storm. The sky cleared, the rain stopped, the clouds vanished in silence, and the sun shone forth. As the soldiers rode forward to the pueblo they saw that the Indians too were amazed at the sudden end of the tempest.
* Given in reference to the Spanish usage which defined Jornada as a single day’s march.
The Indians came out to meet them, took them into the pueblo, gave them rooms, food and comforts. Seeing the crucifixes on the long rosaries of the friars the Indians took them up and kissed them. On the walls of the little cubed rooms the soldiers saw paintings of the Indian gods—gods of water, mountain, wing, seed, all fierce and terrible. In honor of the day, for it was the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, June 24, the Governor ordered a military display and sham battle. He divided the command into two sides, both mounted, and put his nephews Juan and Vicente in charge as opposing leaders. The brothers gave a brave show, and all handled their horses with skill and their weapons with dexterity. Indians watched. There was much meaning to the tournament.
When it was over the Governor went among the soldiers speaking about the games. Presently three naked Indians came up to him, and one declared loudly, in Spanish:
“Thursday,