At Fray Cristoval Mr. Ruxton came upon the river Del Norte, and thence pushed along its banks to the ruins of Valverde, where, encamped in the shade of noble trees, he found a trading caravan and a United States surveying party, under the command of a Lieutenant Abert. The traders’ waggons were drawn up so as to form a corral, or square – a laager, as the Boers of South Africa call it – constituting a truly formidable encampment, which, lined with the fire of some hundred rifles, could defy the attacks of Indians or Mexicans. “Scattered about,” says Mr. Ruxton, “were tents and shanties of logs and branches of every conceivable form, round which lounged wild-looking Missourians; some looking at the camp-fires, some cleaning their rifles or firing at targets – ‘blazes’ cut in the trees – with a bull’s-eye made with wet powder on the white bark. From morning till night the camp resounded with the popping of rifles, firing at marks for prizes of tobacco, or at any living creature which presented itself. The oxen, horses, and mules were sent out at daylight to pasture on the grass of the prairie, and at sunset made their appearance, driven in by the Mexican herders, and were secured for the night in the corrals. My own animals roamed at will, but every evening came to the river to drink, and made their way to my camp, where they would frequently stay round the fire all night. They never required herding, for they made their appearance as regularly as the day closed, and would come to my whistle whenever I required my hunting mule.”
Mr. Ruxton remained several days at Valverde in order to recruit his animals. He amused himself by hunting. Deer and antelope were plentiful; so were turkeys, hares, rabbits, and quail on the plain, geese and ducks in the river; and he had even a shot – an unsuccessful one – at a painter, or panther. In some men the love of sport amounts to a passion, and in Mr. Ruxton it seems to have been equalled or surpassed only by his love of adventure. But about the middle of December the camp broke up, the traders departing for Fray Cristoval; while Mr. Ruxton resumed his northward journey, in company with Lieutenant Abert’s party. Crossing the Del Norte, he arrived at Socorro, the first settlement of New Mexico upon this river. Here the houses are not painted, but the women are; they stain their faces, from forehead to chin, with the fire-red juice of the alegria, to protect the skin from the effects of the sun. At Galisteo he met with a typical Yankee, of the kind Sam Slick has made us familiar with – a kind that is rapidly dying out, – sharp, active, self-reliant; a cunning mixture of inquisitiveness, shrewdness, and good nature. On reaching Mr. Ruxton’s encampment he unyoked his twelve oxen, approached the camp-fire, and seated himself almost in the blaze, stretching his long lean legs at the same time into the ashes. Then he began: “Sich a poor old country, I say! Wall, strangers, an ugly camp this, I swar; and what my cattle ull do I don’t know, for they have not eat since we put out of Santa Fé, and are very near give out, that’s a fact; and thar’s nothin’ here for ’em to eat, surely. Wall, they must jist hold on till to-morrow, for I have only got a pint of corn apiece for ’em tonight anyhow, so there’s no two ways about that. Strangers, I guess now you’ll have a skillet among ye; if yev a mind to trade, I’ll jist have it right off; anyhow, I’ll jist borrow it to-night to bake my bread, and, if you wish to trade, name your price… Sich a poor old country, say I! Jist look at them oxen, wull ye! – they’ve nigh upon two hundred miles to go; for I’m bound to catch up the sogers afore they reach the Pass, and there’s not a go in ’em.”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Ruxton, “would it not be as well for you to feed them at once and let them rest?”
“Wall, I guess if you’ll some of you lend me a hand, I’ll fix ’em right off; tho’, I tell you! they’ve give me a pretty lot of trouble, they have, I tell you! but the critturs will have to eat, I b’lieve!”
The aid asked for was given, and some corn added to the scanty rations which he put before his wearied and hungry oxen. When they had been fixed, the Yankee returned to the fire and baked his cake, fried his bacon, and made his coffee, while his tongue kept up an incessant clatter. He was all alone, with a journey of two hundred miles before him, and his waggon and twelve oxen to look after; his sole thought and object, however, were dollars, dollars, dollars! He caught up every article he saw lying about, wondered what it cost and what it was worth, offered to trade for it, or for anything else which anybody might be disposed to offer, never waiting for an answer, but rattling on, eating and drinking and talking without pause; until at last, gathering himself up, he said, “Wall, I guess I’ll turn into my waggon now, and some of you will, maybe, give a look round at the cattle every now and then, and I’ll thank you.” No sooner said than done. With a hop, step, and a jump, he sprang into his waggon, and was snoring in a couple of minutes.
Next morning, at daybreak, while he was still asleep, Mr. Ruxton resumed his journey, and before evening entered Santa Fé, after a ride in all of nearly two thousand miles.
There was nothing in Santa Fé to repay him for all he had undergone in getting there. The houses were built of sun-dried mud, and every other one was a grocery, that is, a gin or whisky shop, where Mexicans and Americans were drinking eagerly or playing monté. The streets were filled with brawlers, among whom Pueblo Indians and priests endeavoured to make their way. Donkey-loads of hoja, or corn-shucks, were hawked about for sale. It was noise everywhere; noise and filth, dirt and drink. The town contains about 3500 inhabitants, and lies at the foot of a summit of the eastern chain of the Rocky Mountains, about fourteen miles from the river Del Norte. As for the province, it covers an area of 6000 square miles, with a population of 70,000, divided among the Mexico-Spanish (descendants of the original settlers), the Mestizos (or half-castes), and the Indian Manzos or Pueblos (the aboriginal inhabitants).
Mr. Ruxton was so disgusted with Santa Fé, that in a very few days he had packed his mules, taken his leave of its profanity, drunkenness, and squalidness, and, through the valley of Taos, continued his northward route. The landscape was now ennobled by the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, with cool green valleys and misty plains lying among them, through which the river had hewn its way in deep rocky cañons. The scenery had assumed a new character of grandeur, and Mr. Ruxton surveyed it with admiration. At the Rio Colorado he crossed the United States frontier, and plunged into the wild expanse of snow, with towering peaks rising on every side, that lay before him; his object being to cross the Rocky Mountains by the trail or track of the Ute Indians, and strike the river Arkansas near its head-waters. The cold was intense, and when a cutting wind swept over the bleak plains or roared through the wooded valleys, the hardy traveller found scarcely endurable.
Stricken almost to the heart, he suffered the antelope that bounded past – hunter as he was! – to go unscathed. His hands, rigid as those of “the Commandant” in the statue-scene of Mozart’s “Don Giovanni,” dropped the reins of his horse, and allowed him to travel as he pleased. The half-breed who attended him, wrapped himself round in his blanket, and heaved a sigh at the thought of the fine venison that was being lost. At length, a troop of some three thousand swept almost over them, and Mr. Ruxton’s instincts as a sportsman prevailed over the inertness and deadness induced by the icy air; he sprang from his horse, knelt down, and sent a bullet right into the midst. At the report two antelopes leaped into the air, to fall prostrate in the dust; one of them shot in the neck, through which the ball had passed into the body of the other. While he was cutting up the prize, half a dozen wolves howled around, drawn to the spot by the scent of blood. A couple of these creatures, tamed by hunger, gradually drew nearer, occasionally crouching on their haunches, and licking their eager lips as if already partaking of the banquet. Mr. Ruxton flung at them a large piece of meat; whereupon the whole pack threw themselves upon it, growling and fighting, and actually tearing each other in the wild, fierce fray. “I am sure,” says our traveller, “I might have approached near enough to have seized one by the tail, so entirely regardless of my vicinity did they appear. They were doubtless rendered more ravenous than usual by the uncommon severity of the weather, and from the fact of the antelope congregating in large bands, were unable to prey upon these animals, which are their favourite food. Although rarely attacking a man, yet in such seasons as the present I have no doubt that they would not hesitate to charge upon a solitary traveller in the night, particularly as in winter they congregate in troops of from ten to fifty. They are so abundant in the mountains, that the hunter takes no notice of them, and seldom throws away upon the skulking beasts a charge of powder and lead.”
Mr.