The Scalp Hunters

Next morning I was awakened by the voice of my man Gode, who appeared to be in high spirits, singing a snatch of a Canadian boat-song.

“Ah, monsieur!” cried he, seeing me awake, “to-night – aujourd’hui – une grande fonction – one bal – vat le Mexicain he call fandango. Très bien, monsieur. You vill sure have grand plaisir to see un fandango Mexicain?”

“Not I, Gode. My countrymen are not so fond of dancing as yours.”

“C’est vrai, monsieur; but von fandango is très curieux. You sall see ver many sort of de pas. Bolero, et valse, wis de Coona, and ver many more pas, all mix up in von puchero. Allons! monsieur, you vill see ver many pretty girl, avec les yeux très noir, and ver short – ah! ver short – vat you call em in Americaine?”

“I do not know what you allude to.”

“Cela! Zis, monsieur,” holding out the skirt of his hunting-shirt; “par Dieu! now I have him – petticoes; ver short petticoes. Ah! you sall see vat you sall see en un fandango Mexicaine.

“‘Las niñas de Durango
Commigo bailandas,
Al cielo saltandas,
En el fandango – en el fan-dang – o.’

“Ah! here comes Monsieur Saint Vrain. Écoutez! He never go to fandango. Sacré! how monsieur dance! like un maître de ballet. Mais he be de sangre – blood Français. Écoutez!

“‘Al cielo saltandas,
En el fandango – en el fan-dang – .’”

“Ha! Gode!”

“Monsieur?”

“Trot over to the cantina, and beg, borrow, buy, or steal, a bottle of the best Paso.”

“Sall I try steal ’im, Monsieur Saint Vrain?” inquired Gode, with a knowing grin.

“No, you old Canadian thief! Pay for it. There’s the money. Best Paso, do you hear? – cool and sparkling. Now, voya! Bon jour, my bold rider of buffalo bulls I still abed, I see.”

“My head aches as if it would split.”

“Ha, ha, ha! so does mine; but Gode’s gone for medicine. Hair of the dog good for the bite. Come, jump up!”

“Wait till I get a dose of your medicine.”

“True; you will feel better then. I say, city life don’t agree with us, eh?”

“You call this a city, do you?”

“Ay, so it is styled in these parts: ‘la ciudad de Santa Fé;’ the famous city of Santa Fé; the capital of Nuevo Mexico; the metropolis of all prairiedom; the paradise of traders, trappers, and thieves!”

“And this is the progress of three hundred years! Why, these people have hardly passed the first stages of civilisation.”

“Rather say they are passing the last stages of it. Here, on this fair oasis, you will find painting, poetry, dancing, theatres, and music, fêtes and fireworks, with all the little amorous arts that characterise a nation’s decline. You will meet with numerous Don Quixotes, soi-disant knights-errant, Romeos without the heart, and ruffians without the courage. You will meet with many things before you encounter either virtue or honesty. Hola! muchacho!”

“Que es, señor?”

“Hay cafe?”

“Si, señor.”

“Bring us a couple of tazas, then – dos tazas, do you hear? and quick – aprisa! aprisa!”

“Si, señor.”

“Ah! here comes le voyageur Canadien. So, old Nor’-west! you’ve brought the wine?”

“Vin délicieux, Monsieur Saint Vrain! equal to ze vintage Français.”

“He is right, Haller! Tsap – tsap! delicious you may say, good Gode. Tsap – tsap! Come, drink! it’ll make you feel as strong as a buffalo. See! it seethes like a soda spring! like ‘Fontaine-qui-bouille’; eh, Gode?”

“Oui, monsieur; ver like Fontaine-qui-bouille. Oui.”

“Drink, man, drink! Don’t fear it: it’s the pure juice. Smell the flavour; taste the bouquet. What wine the Yankees will one day squeeze out of these New Mexican grapes!”

“Why? Do you think the Yankees have an eye to this quarter?”

“Think! I know it; and why not? What use are these manikins in creation? Only to cumber the earth. Well, mozo, you have brought the coffee?”

“Ya, esta, señor.”

“Here! try some of this; it will help to set you on your feet. They can make coffee, and no mistake. It takes a Spaniard to do that.”

“What is this fandango Gode has been telling me about?”

“Ah! true. We are to have a famous one to-night. You’ll go, of course?”

“Out of curiosity.”

“Very well, you will have your curiosity gratified. The blustering old grampus of a Governor is to honour the ball with his presence; and it is said, his pretty señora; that I don’t believe.”

“Why not?”

“He’s too much afraid lest one of these wild Americanos might whip her off on the cantle of his saddle. Such things have been done in this very valley. By Saint Mary! she is good-looking,” continued Saint Vrain, in a half-soliloquy, “and I knew a man – the cursed old tyrant! only think of it!”

“Of what?”

“The way he has bled us. Five hundred dollars a waggon, and a hundred of them at that; in all, fifty thousand dollars!”

“But will he pocket all this? Will not the Government – ?”

“Government! no, every cent of it. He is the Government here; and, with the help of this instalment, he will rule these miserable wretches with an iron rod.”

“And yet they hate him, do they not?”

“Him and his. And they have reason.”