Meanwhile about everybody nearly had got "trout on the brain." We had caught frequent glimpses of the speckled beauties, as we crossed Sangre del Christo creek or rode along its banks, and concluded to go into camp early, so as to try our luck with a fly or two. A good camping place was found a mile or two farther on, near the foot of the Pass, and here while supper was preparing, several of us rigged up our lines and started off. H. and I were most unfortunate; we whipped the stream up and down quite a distance, but came back fishless. H. caught a bite, and I several nibbles, but neither of us landed a trout. We could see plenty of them, young dandies, darting about in the black pools, or, old fogies, floating along by the banks; but they were Arcadian in their tastes, and disdained the fancy flies we threw them. Dr. M. and L., however, had better luck. The spirit of good Isaak Walton seemed to rest upon and abide with them. They caught a dozen or more, of handsome mountain trout, weighing from two to three pounds each, and the next morning when brought on our rude table for breakfast, hot and smoking from the fire, nothing could have been more savory and delicious. Gen. B. and L. turned cooks for the occasion, and judged by the result Delmonico might have envied them. Their broiled trout, fresh from the brook and now piping hot, buttered and steaming, assailed both eye and palate at once, and we awarded them the palm, nem. con.
The weather that day, from noon on, had grown steadily colder, though the sun shone unclouded most of the time, and before we got our camp well pitched a snow-squall struck us. The flakes came thick and fast for awhile, but presently passed away, though more or less continued sifting downward until nightfall. Farther up the Pass, around the crest of the mountains, snow-squalls marched and countermarched most of the afternoon, and at sunset the air grew nippingly cold, even down where we were. We soon pitched our tent, and built a glorious fire in front of it; but that not sufficing, supper once over, we carried our sheet-iron cooking-stove inside, and all huddled about that. When bed-time came, blankets, buffalo-robes and great-coats were all in demand; yet in spite of all, we passed a sorry night of it, and morning dawned at last greatly to our relief.
We reached Fort Garland next day (Sept. 20) about one, p. m., without meeting a single Indian, either hostile or friendly. Denver, as before said, had warned us to be on our guard, and we tried to be; but all reported dangers vanished as we advanced—Munchausen after Munchausen exploding in turn. From the Huerfano across the mountains to Garland, some fifty miles or more, there was but a single ranch, and scarcely anybody on the road. A Mexican on foot and another on a donkey were emigrating to the Huerfano, and at one point we encountered a whole family similarly engaged. Paterfamilias, whiffing his cigarito, led a diminutive broncho (Mexican for jackass) about the size of a spring calf, on which sat his household gods, to wit, his Señora also smoking, with a child before and another behind her—all of them astride. Another broncho of about the same size followed on behind, loaded down with clothing, bedding, and various domestic utensils until there was but little to be seen of him except his legs. What the locomotive is to the Yankee, and the horse to the borderer, that the broncho is to the Mexican, and the two seem alike fitted for each other and inseparable. His patient little beast costs but little, and when stopping browses by the wayside the best it may, while Don Quixote himself sits basking in the sunshine. The serene and infinite content of a Mexican peon, as he sits thus wrapped in his poncho or serape, sucking his everlasting cigarrito, no American can imagine. His dignity is as perfect as that of a Castilian; but the stolidity of his brain, who shall describe?
Some fifteen miles or so from Fort Garland, in the heart of the San Luis Park, lies San Luis de Culebra, a hamlet of five or six hundred people, and I believe, the most considerable "city," there. You strike the Park proper some distance east of Fort Garland, and from there to Culebra the country is substantially a dead-level. Culebra was then a genuine Mexican town without an atom of the Yankee in or about it, and seemed a thousand years old, it was so sleepy, though comparatively a new settlement. Its houses were all one-story adobes, with chimneys in the corner, in the true Mexican style, and were all grouped about a central "plaza," of course, or the town would not be Mexican. All Southern Colorado, it will be remembered, formerly belonged to New Mexico, and hence these Mexican settlements here and beyond. The people raised wheat, barley, and oats to some extent; but depended on their flocks and herds chiefly for support. We entered Culebra at dark, amidst a multitudinous chorus of dogs, and halted at the house of Capt. D. a bright German, formerly an officer of New Mexican Volunteers, but who had recently married a Culebra señorita and settled there. He gave us an excellent supper, after which we all adjourned to a "baille," or Mexican Ball, gotten up especially in honor of Gen. Sherman and Gov. Cumming, but which Sherman was unable to attend. Several of his staff-officers, however, and the governor were present, and these with the rest of us made up quite a party. These bailles are great institutions among the New Mexicans, who retain all the old Spanish fondness for music and dancing, and are ready for a "baille," any time. The Culebrans had already had two or three that week, but got up the Sherman-Cumming one on short notice and in grand style. The only thing necessary was to engage a room and music, and send a runner through the village, to announce a baille was on the tapis, and the whole population—men, women, children, dogs, and fleas—were sure to be there. At the primitive hour of eight p. m. the people began to assemble, and by nine p. m. the baille was in full blast. The ball-room itself was an adobe building, one-story high, perhaps fifty feet long by thirty wide, with a dirt floor, and seats all around. At the farther end was a rude bar, with a transparency over it, bearing the motto, "Limonade and Egg-nog," at which each cavalier was expected to treat his lady from time to time. Near this was a rough platform for the musicians, who consisted of three or four violinists, led by an irrepressible guitarist—blind and quite a character in his way. As the evening progressed, he worked himself up into an ecstacy of enthusiasm, and then, with his eyes "in fine phrensy rolling," improvised words to every piece they played. He appeared perfectly absorbed and carried away with playing and singing, and when a dance ended seemed quite exhausted. No bone-ist, or tambourine-ist, in a troupe of minstrels east, ever performed with more thorough and reckless abandon. His head was thrown back; his eye-balls rolled wildly: his coarse, matted, coal-black hair swept his shoulders: his long and bony fingers fairly flew up and down his quivering guitar: while his shrill, piping, tenor voice rose and fell above the music, in thorough unison with the general scene. Later in the evening, after frequent potations of egg-nog, Don Jesus, (for that was his name) became immensely funny, and his gyrations amused us greatly.
With the first sound of the violins, the couples took the floor, and kept it up vigorously to the "wee sma' hours." The older people participated less, but young and old were all there, apparently the whole population, in their best "bib and tucker." Women came carrying their infants, and others held the babies while their mothers danced. The younger people, down to mere boys and girls, of course, all danced. First came some slow, stately Spanish dances; but presently they slid into schottisches and polkas, and performed these with a vigor worthy of New York or Paris. Many present were dressed humbly, and but few comparatively were well dressed; but ornaments abounded, and the baille or fandango seemed to put all on an equality. Most of our party selected partners, and soon were lost in the maze and whirl. True, they could not speak a word of Spanish, nor their señoritas any English; but that did not matter, as the Mexicans regard it as a mark of ill-breeding to converse while dancing. Their manner of saluting each other, when first they met, was unique and original, to wit: the sexes poked their heads over each other's shoulders, and took a good old fashioned hug. Throughout the evening, of course, there was a total absence of indecorum. As a whole, they seemed to be honest, simple folk, who took life as it came, without fret or worriment, and enjoyed themselves greatly. There was less beauty among the women, but more intelligence among the men, than we expected; their hospitality was hearty and generous—they did their best to give us a pleasant evening; and altogether the baille at Culebra was an event long to be remembered. I left Gov. C. at 11 p. m., looking on and enjoying it, and went to sleep on a good wool bed—the only kind used there—in a comfortable room, for the first time since leaving Denver.
Конец ознакомительного