Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

At one part of the year, however, these villages of hovels are uninhabited – altogether abandoned by their occupants. This is the dry season, during the greater portion of which the cisterns that supply the villages with water become dried up. The cisterns are fed by the rains of heaven, and no other water than this can be found throughout most tracts of the country. When these give out, the settlements have to be abandoned, and remain until the return of the periodical rains.

In a morning of the year 1830, at the distance of about three days’ journey from Arispe, a man was seated, or rather half reclining, upon his serapé in front of a rude hovel. A few other huts of a similar character were near, scattered here and there over the ground. It was evident, from the profound silence that reigned among these dwellings, and the absence of human forms, or implements of household use, that the rancheria was abandoned by its half nomad population. Such in reality was the fact, for it was now the very height of the dry season. Two or three roads branched out from this miserable group of huts, leading off into a thick forest which surrounded it on all sides. They were rather paths than roads, for the tracks which they followed were scarce cleared of the timber that once grew upon them. At the point of junction of these roads the individual alluded to had placed himself; and his attitude of perfect ease told that he was under no apprehension from the profound and awe-inspiring loneliness of the place. The croak of the ravens flitting from tree to tree hoarsely uttered in their flight; the cry of the chaculucas as they welcomed the rising sun, were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the scene.

Presently the white fog of the night began to rise upward and disappear under the strength of the sunbeams. Only a few flakes of it still hung over the tops of the mezquite and iron-wood trees that grew thickly around the huts.

Near where the man lay, there might be seen the remains of a large fire. It had been kindled no doubt to protect him from the chill dews of the night; and it now served him to prepare his breakfast. Some small cakes of wheaten meal, with few pieces of tasajo, were already placed upon the red embers of the fire; but notwithstanding that these would made but a meagre repast the man appeared eagerly to await the enjoyment of it.

Near at hand, with a frugality equal to that of his master, a horse was browsing upon the tufts of dry yellow grass, that grew thinly over the ground. This horse, with a saddle and bridle lying near, proved the solitary individual to be a traveller. Contrary to the usual custom of the country, the horse had no lazo, or fastening of any kind upon him; but was free to wander where he pleased.

The costume of the traveller consisted in a sort of jacket or vest of brick-coloured leather, without buttons or any opening in front, but drawn over the head after the manner of a shirt. Wide pantaloons of the same material, open from the knee downwards, and fastened at the waist by a scarf of red China crape. Under the pantaloons, and covering the calf of the leg nearly up to the knee, could be seen the botas of strong stamped leather, in one of which was stuck a long knife with a horn hilt – thus ready to the hand whether the owner was seated, standing, or on horseback. A large felt hat, banded with a toquilla of Venetian pearls, completed a costume sufficiently picturesque, the vivid colours of which were in harmony with that of the serapé on which the traveller was reclining. This costume denoted one of those men accustomed to gallop among the thorny jungles that cover the desert steppes of North Mexico; and who in their expeditions, whether against Indian enemies, or for whatever purpose, sleep with indifference under the shadow of a tree, or the open heaven itself, – in the forest, or upon the naked plain.

There was in the features of this traveller a singular mixture of brutal ferocity and careless good-humour. A crooked nose, with thick bushy eyebrows, and black eyes that sparkled from time to time with a malicious fire, gave to his countenance a sinister aspect, and belied the expression of his mouth and lips, that presented rather a pleasant and smiling contour. But the man’s features, when viewed as a whole, could not fail to inspire a certain feeling of repulsiveness mingled with fear. A short carbine that lay by his side, together with the long knife, whose haft protruded above the top of his boots, did not in any way tame down the ferocious aspect of his face. On the contrary they proclaimed him one whom it would not be desirable to have for a companion in the desert.

Despite the nonchalance of his attitude, it was evident that he awaited some one; but as everything in these countries is on a large scale, so also is the virtue of patience. This outlaw – for everything about him signified that he was one of some sort – this outlaw, we say, having made three days’ journey before arriving upon the ground where he now was, thought nothing of a few hours, less or more, spent in expectation. In the desert, he who has travelled a hundred leagues, will consider it a mere bagatelle to wait for a hundred hours: unlike to him who keeps an appointment in the midst of a great city, where a delay of a quarter of an hour will be endured with feverish impatience.

So it was with our solitary traveller; and when the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard at some distance off in the forest, he did nothing more than to make a slight change in the attitude in which he had been reclining; while his steed, also hearing the same sounds, tossed up his head and neighed joyously. The hoof-strokes each moment were heard more distinctly; and it was evident that a horseman was galloping rapidly in the direction of the huts. After a little the strokes became more gentle, and the gallop appeared to be changed to a walk. The rider was approaching with caution.

A few seconds intervened, and then upon one of the roads – that leading to Arispe – the horseman was perceived coming on at a slow and cautious pace.

On perceiving the traveller, still half reclining upon his serapé, the horseman drew his rein still tighter and halted, and the two men remained for some seconds regarding each other with a fixed and interrogative glance.

Chapter Seven

Two Honest Gentlemen

The new-comer was a tall man with a dark complexion, and thick black beard, costumed very similarly to the other – in vest and pantaloons of brick-red leather, felt sombrero, sash, and boots. He was mounted upon a strong active horse.

It may appear strange that during the period of mutual examination, each of these two men made a very similar reflection about the other; but it was scarcely strange either, considering that both presented an equally suspicious aspect.

“Carramba!” muttered the horseman as he eyed the man on the serapé, “if I wasn’t sure that he is the gentleman I have been sent to meet, I should believe that I had chanced upon a very unlucky acquaintance.”

At the same instant he upon the ground said to himself —

“Por Dios! if that infernal Seven of Spades had left any dollars in my purse, I should have considered them in danger of being taken out of it just now.”

Despite the nature of his reflection, the horseman did not hesitate any longer, but spurring his horse forward to the edge of the fire, lifted his hat courteously from his head, and saluted him on the ground, at the same time saying interrogatively: —

“No doubt it is the Señor Don Pedro Cuchillo I have the honour to address?”

“The same, cavallero!” replied the other, rising to his feet, and returning the salute with no less politeness than it had been given.

“Cavallero! I have been sent forward to meet you, and announce to you the approach of the Señor Arechiza, who at this time cannot be many leagues distant. My name is Manuel Baraja, your very humble servant.”

“Your honour will dismount?”

The horseman did not wait for the invitation to be repeated, but at once flung himself from the saddle. After unbuckling his enormous spurs, he speedily unsaddled his horse, fastened a long lazo around his neck, and then giving him a smart cut with the short whip which he carried, despatched the animal without further ceremony to share the meagre provender of his companion.

At this movement the tasajo, beginning to sputter over the coals, gave out an odour that resembled the smell of a dying lamp. Notwithstanding this, Baraja cast towards it a look of longing.

“It appears to me Señor Cuchillo,” said he, “that you are well provided here. Carramba! —tortillas, of wheaten meal! tasajo! – it is a repast for a prince!”

“Oh, yes,” replied Cuchillo, with a certain air of foppishness, “I treat myself well. It makes me happy to know that the dish is to your liking; I beg to assure you, it is quite at your service.”

“You are very good, and I accept your offer without ceremony. The morning air has sharpened my appetite.”

And saying this, Baraja proceeded to the mastication of the tassajo and tortillas. After being thus engaged for some time, he once more addressed himself to his host.

“Dare I tell you, Señor Cuchillo, the favourable impression I had of you at first sight?”

“Oh! you shock my modesty, señor. I would rather state the good opinion your first appearance gave me of you!”

The two new friends here exchanged a salute, full of affability, and then continued to eat, Baraja harpooning upon the point of his long knife another piece of meat out of the ashes.

“If it please you, Señor Baraja,” said Cuchillo, “we may talk over our business while we are eating. You will find me a host sans cérémonie.”

“Just what pleases me.”

“Don Estevan, then, has received the message which I sent him?”

“He has, but what that message was is only known to you and him.”

“No doubt of that,” muttered Cuchillo to himself.

“The Señor Arechiza,” continued the envoy, “started for Tubac shortly after receiving your letter. It was my duty to accompany him, but he ordered me to proceed in advance of him with these commands: ‘In the little village of Huerfano you will find a man, by name Cuchillo; you shall say to him that the proposal he makes to me deserves serious attention; and that since the place he has designated as a rendezvous is on the way to Tubac, I will see him on my journey.’ This instruction was given by Don Estevan an hour or so before his departure, but although I have ridden a little faster to execute his orders, he cannot be far behind me.”

“Good! Señor Baraja, good!” exclaimed Cuchillo, evidently pleased with the communication just made, “and if the business which I have with Don Estevan be satisfactorily concluded – which I am in hopes it will be – you are likely to have me for a comrade in this distant expedition. But,” continued he, suddenly changing the subject, “you will, no doubt, be astonished that I have given Don Estevan a rendezvous in such a singular place as this?”

“No,” coolly replied Baraja, “you may have reasons for being partial to solitude. Who does not love it at times?”

A most gracious smile playing upon the countenance of Cuchillo, denoted that his new acquaintance had correctly divined the truth.

“Precisely,” he replied, “the ill-behaviour of a friend towards me, and the malevolent hostility of the alcalde of Arispe have caused me to seek this tranquil retreat. That is just why I have established my headquarters in an abandoned village, where there is not a soul to keep company with.”

“Señor Don Pedro,” replied Baraja, “I have already formed too good an opinion of you not to believe that the fault is entirely upon the side of the alcalde, and especially on the part of your friend.”

“I thank you, Señor Baraja, for you good opinion,” returned Cuchillo, at the same time taking from the cinders a piece of the meat, half burnt, half raw, and munching it down with the most perfect indifference; “I thank you sincerely, and when I tell you the circumstances you may judge for yourself.”

“I shall be glad to hear them,” said the other, easing himself down into a horizontal position; “after a good repast, there is nothing I so much enjoy as a good story.”

After saying this, and lighting his cigarette, Baraja turned upon the broad of his back, and with his eyes fixed upon the blue sky, appeared to enjoy a perfect beatitude.

“The story is neither long nor interesting,” responded Cuchillo; “what happened to me might happen to all the world. I was engaged with this friend in a quiet game of cards, when he pretended that I had tricked him. The affair came to words – ”

Here the narrator paused for an instant, to take a drink from his leathern bottle, and then continued —

“My friend had the indelicacy to permit himself to drop down dead in my presence.”

“What at your words?”

“No, with the stab of a knife which I gave him,” coolly replied the outlaw.

“Ah! no doubt your friend was in the wrong, and you received great provocation?”

“The alcalde did not think so. He pestered me in the most absurd manner. I could have forgiven the bitterness of his persecution of me, had it not been that I was myself bitterly roused at the ill-behaviour of my friend, whom up to that time I had highly esteemed.”

“Ah! one has always to suffer from one’s friends,” rejoined Baraja, sending up a puff of smoke from his corn-husk cigarette.

“Well – one thing,” said Cuchillo, “the result of it all is that I have made a vow never to play another card; for the cards, as you see, were the original cause of this ugly affair.”

“A good resolution,” said Baraja, “and just such as I have come to myself. I have promised never to touch another card; they have cost me a fortune – in fact, altogether ruined me.”

“Ruined you? you have been rich then?”

“Alas! I had a splendid estate – a hacienda de ganados (cattle farm) with a numerous flock upon it. I had a lawyer for my intendant, who took care of the estate while I spent my time in town. But when I came to settle accounts with this fellow I found I had let them run too long. I discovered that half my estate belonged to him!”

“What did you do then?”

“The only thing I could do,” answered Baraja, with the air of a cavalier, “was to stake my remaining half against his on a game, and let the winner take the whole.”

“Did he accept this proposal?”

“After a fashion.”

“What fashion?”

“Why, you see I am too timid when I play in presence of company, and certain to lose. I prefer, therefore, to play in the open air, and in some quiet corner of the woods. There I feel more at my ease; and if I should lose – considering that it was my whole fortune that was at stake – I should not expose my chagrin to the whole world. These were the considerations that prompted me to propose the conditions of our playing alone.”

“And did the lawyer agree to your conditions?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“What a droll fellow he must have been!”

“He would only play in the presence of witnesses.”

“And you were forced to his terms?”

“To my great regret, I was.”

“And of course you lost – being so nervous in presence of company?”

“I lost the second half of my fortune as I had done the first. The only thing I kept back was the horse you see, and even him my ex-intendant insisted upon having as part of the bet. To-day I have no other hope than to make my fortune in this Tubac expedition, and if I should do so I may get back, and settle accounts with the knave. After that game, however, I swore I should never play another card; and, carramba! I have kept my oath.”

“How long since this happened?”

“Five days.”

“The devil! – You deserve credit for keeping your word.”

The two adventurers after having exchanged these confidences, began to talk over their hopes founded on the approaching expedition – of the marvellous sights that they would be likely to see – but more especially of the dangers that might have to be encountered.

“Bah!” said Baraja, speaking of these; “better to die than live wearing a coat out at elbows.”

Cuchillo was of the same opinion.

Meanwhile the sun was growing hotter and hotter. A burning wind began to blow through the trees, and the horses of the two travellers, suffering from thirst, uttered their plaintive neighings. The men themselves sought out the thickest shade to protect them from the fervid rays of the sun, and for a while both observed a complete silence.

Baraja was the first to resume the conversation.

“You may laugh at me, Señor Cuchillo,” said he, fanning himself with his felt hat, “but to say the truth the time appears very long to me when I am not playing.”

“The same with myself,” hastily responded Cuchillo.

“What do you say to our staking, on word of honour, a little of that gold we are going to find?”

“Just what I was thinking myself, but I daren’t propose it to you; – I am quite agreeable.”

Without further parley each of the two thrust a hand into his pocket, and drew forth a pack of cards – with which, notwithstanding the oath they had taken, both were provided.

The play was about to commence, when the sound of a bell, and the clattering of hoofs at a distance, announced the approach, most probably, of the important personage whom Cuchillo awaited.

Chapter Eight

The Senator Tragaduros

The two players suspended operations, and turned their faces in the direction whence came the sounds.

At some distance along the road, a cloud of dust suddenly rising, indicated the approach of a troop of horses.

They were without riders. One only was mounted; and that was ridden by the driver of the troop. In short, it was a remuda– such as rich travellers in the north of Mexico usually take along with them for a remount. These horses, on account of the half-wild life they lead upon the vast plains where they are pastured, after a gallop of twenty leagues without carrying a rider, are almost as fresh as if just taken out of the stable. On long routes, each is saddled and mounted at regular intervals; and in this way a journey is performed almost as rapidly as by a mail express, with relays already established.

According to usual custom, a bell-mare preceded this drove, which appeared to consist of about thirty horses. It was this bell that had first attracted the attention of the players.

When within a hundred yards or so of the huts, the driver of the remuda galloped to the front, and catching the bell-mare, brought her to a stop. The other horses halted on the instant.

Shortly after, five cavaliers appeared through the dust, riding in the direction of the huts. Two were in advance of the other three, who, following at a little distance, were acting as attendants or servants.

The most distinguished looking of the two who rode in advance, was a man of somewhat over medium height. He appeared to have passed the age of forty. A greyish-coloured sombrero, with broad brim, screened his face from the fervent sunbeams. He was habited in a pelisse, or dolman, of dark blue, richly laced with gold, and almost concealed under a large white kerchief, embroidered with sky-blue silk, and known in Mexico as pano de sol. Under the fiery atmosphere, the white colour of this species of scarf, like the burnous of the Arabs, serves to moderate the rays of the sun, and for this purpose was it worn by the cavalier in question. Upon his feet were boots of yellow Cordovan leather, and over these, large spurs, the straps of which were stitched with gold and silver wire. These spurs, with their huge five-pointed rowels, and little bells, gave out a silvery clinking that kept time to the march of the horse – sounds most agreeable to the ear of the Mexican cavallero.

A mango, richly slashed with gold lace, hung over the pommel of the saddle in front of the horseman, half covering with its folds a pair of wide pantaloons, garnished throughout their whole length with buttons of filigree gold. In fine, the saddle, embroidered like the straps of the spurs, completed a costume that, in the eyes of a European, would recall the souvenirs of the middle ages. For all that, the horseman in question did not require a rich dress to give him an air of distinction. There was that in his bearing and physiognomy that denoted a man accustomed to command and perfectly au fait to the world.

His companion, much younger, was dressed with far more pretension: but his insignificant figure, though not wanting in a certain degree of elegance, was far from having the aristocratic appearance of him with the embroidered kerchief.

The three servants that followed – with faces blackened by dust and sun, and half savage figures – carried long lances adorned with scarlet pennons, and lazos hung coiled from the pommels of their saddles. These strange attendants gave to the group that singular appearance peculiar to a cavalcade of Mexican travellers. Several mules, pack laden, and carrying enormous valises, followed in the rear. These valises contained provisions and the ménage necessary for a halt.

On seeing Cuchillo and Baraja, the foremost of the two cavaliers halted, and the troop followed his example.

“’Tis the Señor Don Estevan,” said Baraja, in a subdued voice. “This is the man, señor,” he continued, presenting Cuchillo to the cavalier with the pano de sol.

Don Estevan – for it was he – fixed upon Cuchillo a piercing glance, that appeared to penetrate to the bottom of his soul, at the same time the look denoted a slight expression of surprise.

“I have the honour to kiss the hands of your excellency,” said Cuchillo. “As you see, it is I who – ”

But in spite of his habitual assurance, the outlaw paused, trembling as vague souvenirs began to shape themselves in his memory; for these two men had met before, though not for a very long time.

“Eh! if I don’t deceive myself,” interrupted the Spaniard, in an ironical tone, “the Señor Cuchillo and I are old acquaintances – though formerly I knew him by a different name?”

“So too your excellency, who was then called – ”

Arechiza frowned till the hairs of his black moustache seemed to stand on end. The outlaw did not finish his speech. He saw that it was not the time to tell what he knew; but this species of complicity appeared to restore him to his wonted assurance.

Cuchillo was, in truth, one of those gentlemen who have the ill luck to give to whatever name they bear a prompt celebrity; and for this reason he had changed his more than once.

“Señor Senator,” said Arechiza, turning toward his compagnon de voyage, “this place does not appear very suitable for our noon siesta?”

“The Señor Tragaduros y Despilfarro, will find the shade of one of these cottages more agreeable,” interposed Cuchillo, who knew the senator of Arispe. He knew, moreover, that the latter had attached himself to the fortunes of Don Estevan, in default of better cause: and in hopes of repairing his own fortune, long since dissipated.

Despite the low state of his finances, however, the Senator had not the less a real influence in the congress of Sonora; and it was this influence which Don Estevan intended using to his own advantage. Hence the companionship that now existed between them.

“I agree with all my heart to your proposal,” answered Tragaduros, “the more so that we have now been nearly five hours in the saddle.”

Two of the servants dismounting, took their masters’ horses by the bridle, while the other two looked after the cargas of the mules. The camp-beds were taken from the pack saddles, and carried into two of the houses that appeared the most spacious and proper.

We shall leave the Senator reclining upon his mattress, to enjoy that profound slumber which is the portion of just men and travellers; while we accompany Don Estevan into the hut which he had chosen for himself, and which stood at some distance from that occupied by the legislator.

Chapter Nine

The Compact

After having followed Don Estevan, at the invitation of the latter, inside the hovel, Cuchillo closed behind him the wattle of bamboos that served as a door. He did this with great care – as if he feared that the least noise should be heard without – and then he stood waiting for the Spaniard to initiate the conversation.