Overland with Kit Carson by George Douglas Brewerton

Author:George Douglas Brewerton [Brewerton, George Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Criminals & Outlaws, Rich & Famous, Social Science, Ethnic Studies, Native American Studies, History, United States, 19th Century
ISBN: 9781787209022
Google: 2S5BDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2017-01-12T05:22:53+00:00

In traversing the old road between Taos and Santa Fé, the eye of the traveler is oftentimes arrested by rude wooden crosses half imbedded in stone-heaps. These crosses mark the spot where someone has been murdered by hostile Indians, or the equally formidable ladrones—as the banditti of Mexico are usually called. The stone-heaps which encircle the base of these rude structures are, as I am told, accumulated by a custom of the country which requires each Mexican who passes them to add a stone to the pile already gathered, and mutter a prayer for the repose of those who slumber so dreamlessly below. If the frequent recurrence of these sad memorials of crime be taken as a proof, the number of persons who die a violent death in New Mexico must be very great.

It was nearly sunset, when the close of our first day’s travel brought us to the banks of a clear but rapid brook, which wound its way through the narrow street of a little Mexican village. Here we encamped; and while still engaged in removing the saddles from our weary beasts, we received a deputation of the inhabitants, who sent a fair representation, in the shape of some half a dozen señoritas, who brought eggs, goat’s milk, and tortillas—the sum total of the products of the place. Each and all of these they were willing to dispose of to their “amígos,” Los Americanos, for a pecuniary consideration. But, as their “American friends” were just then decidedly deficient in funds—five silver dollars being a large estimate of the amount of “circulating medium” in the hands of our party—and, moreover, as we confidently expected that the same state of things would continue until relieved by the pay-master, their traffic prospered poorly.

But our inability to trade seemed in no wise to lessen their sociability, for our visitors continued to come in until every man, woman, and child in the rancho had favored us with their company. Among others, the village priest figured most conspicuously, and, from his clerical dress, to say nothing of his ample rotundity of figure, attracted no small share of my attention. Were I to attempt a description of Father Ignatio, I should say that his style, though peculiar, was not unlike that of Saint Nicholas of Christmas holiday memory, for

“He had a broad chin, and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly.”

Indeed, I am inclined to suspect that the worthy priest was a man of the world, who loved better to gather life’s roses than to encounter its thorns; preferring a good dinner and a long afternoon siesta, with other carnal enjoyments, or the performance of a penance or the keeping of a fast.

By nightfall our camp would have furnished a rich subject for Wouverman’s pencil, as the wild-looking figures flitted to and fro; now strongly marked and standing out in bold relief against the ruddy glare of the fire-light, and then growing dim and shadowy as they retired into the gloom.

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