{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_58954/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_58954","id":"gutenberg_58954","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58954","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","New Mexico -- Social life and customs -- Fiction","Short stories, American","South America -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"E-text prepared by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team\n(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by\nInternet Archive (https://archive.org)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 58954-h.htm or 58954-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/58954/pg58954-images.html)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/58954/58954-h.zip)\n\n\n      Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive. See\n      https://archive.org/details/enchantedburro00lummrich\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENCHANTED BURRO\n\n\n[Illustration: THE ENCHANTED BURRO]\n\n\nTHE ENCHANTED BURRO\n\nAnd Other Stories as I Have Known Them\nFrom Maine to Chile and California\n\nby\n\nCHARLES F. LUMMIS\n\nAuthor of\nStrange Corners of Our Country, A Tramp Across the Continent,\nMexico Today, The Spanish Pioneers of America, My\nFriend Will, The Gold Fish of Gran Chim\u00fa,\nThe Land of Poco Tiempo, Pueblo\nIndian Folkstories,\netc., etc.\n\nNew Edition\nWith Many New Stories and Illustrations\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n\n\nChicago\nA. C. McClurg & Co.\n1912\n\nCopyright, 1897, by Way & Williams\n\nCopyright\nA. C. McClurg & Co.\n1912\n\nPublished September, 1912\n\nM. F. Hall Printing Company\nChicago\n\n\n\n\n_To AMADO and AMADO_\n\n\n    The name that stood for such a friend is tall enough for two\u2014\n    My oldest on the old frontier, my newest on the new.\n    Nor is it on my heart to pray my baby\u2019s feet be spared\n    So rugged paths (companioned so) as once his father fared.\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\n                                                   PAGE\n\n    THE ENCHANTED BURRO (New Mexico)                  1\n\n    THE MUMMY-MINER (Peru)                           25\n\n    A BOY OF THE ANDES (Peru)                        43\n\n    A DAUGHTER OF THE MISTI (Peru)                   65\n\n    THE WITCH DEER (New Mexico)                      85\n\n    FELIPE\u2019S SUGARING-OFF (Peru)                     99\n\n    ANDR\u00c9S, THE ARRIERO (Bolivia)                   111\n\n    OUR YELLOW SLAVE                                141\n\n    THE PEAK OF GOLD (New Mexico)                   161\n\n    PABLO\u2019S DEER HUNT (New Mexico)                  179\n\n    CANDEL\u00c1RIA\u2019S CURSE (New Mexico)                 203\n\n    THE HABIT OF THE FRAILE (Peru)                  219\n\n    THE GREAT MAGICIAN                              241\n\n    THE SILVER OMELET (Mexico)                      257\n\n    A DUEL IN THE DESERT (California)               275\n\n    A \u2019RASTLE WITH A WILDCAT (New England)          285\n\n    A TAME DEER (California)                        299\n\n    THE REBEL DOUBLE RUNNER (New England)           315\n\n    THE BALSA BOY OF LAKE TITI-CACA (Bolivia)       333\n\n\n\n\nIllustrations\n\n\n                                                   PAGE\n\n    THE ENCHANTED BURRO                   _Frontispiece_\n\n    LELO                                             17\n\n    THE HOME OF THE SOROCHE                          55\n\n    IN TA-BI-R\u00c1                                     179\n\n    \u201cTHE BONES OF TA-BI-R\u00c1\u201d                         186\n\n    THE PATIO PROCESS AT GUANAJUATO                 257\n\n    WILDCAT AND OWL IN DEATH-STRUGGLE               280\n\n\n\n\nForeword\n\n\nThe Truly Clever know enough to make books of a country by a few days of\nPullman and hotel\u2014or even by skimming the public library at home, without\nthe bother and expense of travel at all.\n\nBut the few Dullards now left can arrive in Knowledge only by plodding;\nnot \u201cas on wings of eagles\u201d and Inspiration, but by the drudgery of\nlearning.\n\nIt has taken more than twenty-five arduous years to beat into me what\nlittle I hope I know about the Frontiers of the Three Americas. To learn\nseveral new languages and digest innumerable old chronicles was but one\nside of the task: everywhere, and among many peoples, I had to win slow\nadoption from Stranger to Friend; to travel footsore or saddleweary; to\nshare their beds, their feasts, their famine, their speech, their ideas,\ntheir pleasures and their hardships\u2014in fact, to live their life. And it\n_was_ Life\u2014Human and warm, even at its rudest.\n\nPart of these stories, under this same title, were published in 1897 by\nan amateur firm which very presently succumbed\u2014_post hoc_, indeed, but\nI trust not _propter_. So the book has been out of print for a dozen\nyears. It was very gently entreated by critics and public while its young\ngodfathers lasted.\n\nI now add five stories and 4,000 miles of geography\u2014clear back to my\nvenerable boyhood. Born and bred a Yankee, I Escaped In Time (at 23),\nand have become a much better Indian, New Mexican, Mexican, Peruvian,\nCalifornian and composite _Paisano_ of the Frontier. It may be that other\ngraduate New Englanders will find here some echo to memory of what they\nand I used to think we knew of the Stern and Rockbound, so long ago; and\nthat the Unremoved will pardon my lapses, in view of my enduring Alibi.\n\nAs to anything this side of New England, I won\u2019t \u201ceither apologize or\nfight.\u201d This part is not remote and precarious memory of the only true\nGolden Age\u2014the Age when we Haven\u2019t Any\u2014but the indelible autograph of\nthirty older years, scarred and wrinkled upon me inside and out. It can\ntake care of itself.\n\nMost of these stories, in both instances, are of episodes in which I had\nsome part. Not all are \u201cTrue Stories,\u201d but all are truthful. I hope that\nmakes them no duller than if they had been guessed out of whole cloth and\ninnocence.\n\n                                                                 C. F. L.\n\nLOS ANGELES, CAL.\n\n\n\n\nThe Enchanted Burro.\n\n\n\n\nThe Enchanted Burro.\n\n\nLelo dropped the point of his heavy irrigating hoe and stood with chin\ndented upon the rude handle, looking intently to the east. Around his\nbare ankles the rill from the _ac\u00e9quia_[1] eddied a moment and then\nsucked through the gap in the little ridge of earth which bounded the\nirrigating bed. The early sun was yellow as gold upon the crags of the\n_mesa_[2]\u2014that league-long front of ragged cliffs whose sandstones,\nblack-capped by the lava of the immemorial Year of Fire, here wall the\nvalley of the Rio Grande on the west. Where a spur of the frowning\nK\u00fa-mai runs out is a little bay in the cliffs; and here the outermost\nfields of Isleta were turning green with spring. The young wheat swayed\nand whispered to the water, whose scouts stole about amid the stalks,\nand came back and called their fellows forward, and spread hither and\nyon, till every green blade was drinking and the tide began to creep\nup the low boundaries at either side. Up at the sluice gate a small but\neager stream was tumbling from the big, placid ditch, and on it came\ntill it struck the tiny dam which closed the furrow just beyond Lelo,\nand, turning, stole past him again to join the rest amid the wheat. The\nirrigating bed, twenty feet square, filled and filled, and suddenly the\ngathered puddle broke down a barrier and came romping into the next\nbed without so much as saying \u201cBy your leave.\u201d And here it was not so\nfriendly; for, forgetting that it had come only to bring a drink, it went\nstampeding about, knocking down the tender blades and half covering them\nwith mud. At sound of this, Lelo seemed suddenly to waken, and lifting\nwith his hoe the few clods which dammed the furrow, he dropped them into\nthe first gap, and jumping into the second bed repaired its barrier also\nwith a few strokes. Then he let in a gentler stream from the furrow.\n\n\u201c_Poco_, and I should have lost a bed,\u201d he said to himself,\ngoodnaturedly. Blas always took things easy, and I presume that is the\nreason no one ever called him anything but Lelo[3]\u2014\u201cSlow-poke\u201d\u2014for Indian\nboys are as given to nicknames as are any others, and the _mote_ had\nstuck to him ever since its invention. He _was_ rather slow\u2014this big,\npowerful boy, with a round, heavy chin and a face less clear-cut than was\ncommon in the pueblo. Old \u2019Lipe had taken to wife a Navajo captive, and\nall could see that the boy carried upon his father\u2019s strong frame the\nflatter, more stolid features of his mother\u2019s nomad people.\n\nBut now the face seemed not quite so heavy; for again he was looking\ntoward the pueblo and bending his head as one who listens for a far\nwhisper. There it came again\u2014a faint, faint air which not one of us could\nhave heard, but to this Indian boy it told of shouts and mingled wails.\n\n\u201cWhat will be?\u201d cried Lelo, stamping his hoe upon the barrier, and\nwith unwonted fire in his eyes. \u201cFor surely I hear the voice of women\nlamenting, and there are men\u2019s shouts as in anger. Something heavy it\nwill be\u2014and perhaps I am needed.\u201d Splashing up to the ditch, he shut the\ngate and threw down his hoe, and a moment later was running toward Isleta\nwith the long, heavy, tireless stride that was the jest of the other boys\nin the rabbit hunt, but left Lelo not so very far behind them after all.\n\nIn the pueblo was, indeed, excitement enough. Little knots of the swart\npeople stood here and there, talking earnestly but low; in the broad,\nflat plaza were many hurrying to and fro; and in the street beyond was a\ngreat crowd about a house whence arose the long, wild wails of mourners.\n\n\u201cWhat is, _tio_ Diego?\u201d asked Lelo, stopping where a number of men stood\nin gloomy silence. \u201cWhat has befallen? For even in the _milpa_[4] I heard\nthe cries, and came running to see.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is ill,\u201d answered the old man he had addressed as uncle. \u201cIt seems\nthat Those Above are angry with us! For this morning the captain of war\nfinds himself dead in bed\u2014and _scalped_! And no tracks of man were about\nhis door.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, _all_ is ill!\u201d groaned a short, heavy-set man, in a frayed blanket.\n\u201cFor yesterday, coming from the _llano_[5] with my burro,[6] I met a\nstranger\u2014a _b\u00e1rbaro_. And, blowing upon Paloma, he bewitched the poor\nbeast so that it sprang off the trail and was killed at the bottom of the\ncliff. It lacked only that! Last month it was the raid of the Cumanche;\nand, though we followed and slew many of the robbers and got back\nmany animals, yet mine were not found, and this was the very last that\nremained to me.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Pero_, Don \u2019Col\u00e1s!\u201d cried Lelo, \u201cyour burro I saw this very morning\nas I went to the field before the sun. Paloma it was, with the white\nface and the white hind foot\u2014for do I not know him well? He was passing\nthrough the bushes under the cliffs at the point, and turned to look at\nme as I crossed the fields below.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Vaya!_\u201d cried Nicol\u00e1s, angrily. \u201cDid I not see him, with these my eyes,\njump the cliff of two hundred feet yesterday, and with these my hands\nfeel him at the foot that he was dead? Go, with your stories of a stupid,\nfor\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nBut here the alguazil, who was one of the group, interrupted: \u201cLelo has\nno fool\u2019s eyes, and this thing I shall look into. Since this morning,\nmany things look suspicious. Come, show me where fell thy burro\u2014for to me\nall these doings are cousins one to another.\u201d\n\nNicol\u00e1s, with angry confidence, accompanied the broad-shouldered Indian\nsheriff, and their companions followed silently. Across the adobe-walled\ngardens they trudged, and into the sandy \u201cdraw,\u201d whose trail led along\nthe cliff and up among the jumble of fallen crags at one side.\n\n\u201cYonder he jumped off,\u201d said \u2019Col\u00e1s, \u201cand fell\u2014\u2014\u201d But even then he rubbed\nhis eyes and turned pale. For where he had left the limp, bleeding\ncarcass of poor Paloma only twenty-four hours before, there was now\nnothing to be seen. Only, upon a rock, were a few red blotches.\n\n\u201cWhat is this!\u201d demanded the alguazil, sternly. \u201cHast thou hidden him\naway? _Claro_ that something fell here\u2014for there is blood and a tuft of\nhair upon yon stone. But where is the burro?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow should I hide him, since he was dead as the rocks? It is witchcraft,\nI tell you\u2014for see! There are no tracks of him going away, even where the\nearth is soft. And for the coyotes and wildcats\u2014they would have left his\nbones. The Gentile I met\u2014_he_ is the witch. First he gave the evil eye to\nmy poor beast, that it killed itself; and now he has flown away in its\nshape to do other ills.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt can be so,\u201d mused the sheriff, gravely; \u201cbut in the meantime there\nis no remedy\u2014I have to answer to the Fathers of Medicine for you who\nbring such stories of dead burros, but cannot show them. For, I tell you,\nthis has something to say for the deed that was done in the pueblo this\nmorning. _Al calaboz!_\u201d\n\nHalf an hour later, poor Nicol\u00e1s was squatted disconsolately upon the\nbare floor of the adobe jail\u2014that simple prison from which no one of\nthe simple prisoners ever thinks to dig out. It is not so much the clay\nwall that holds them, as the authority of law, which no Pueblo ever yet\nquestioned.\n\n\u201c\u2019Col\u00e1s\u2019s burro\u201d was soon in every mouth. The strange story of its death\nand its reappearance to Lelo were not to be mocked at. So it used to\nbe, that the animals were as people; and every one knew that there were\nwitches still who took the forms of brutes and flew by night to work\nmischief. Perhaps it was some wizard of the Cumanche who thus, by the\naid of the evil ones, was avenging the long-haired horse-thieves who had\nfallen at Tajique.[7] And now Pascual, returning from a ranch across\nthe river, made known that, sitting upon his roof all night to think of\nthe year, he had been aware of a burro that passed down the street even\nto the house of the war captain; after which he had noticed it no more.\nClearly, then!\n\nSome even thought that Lelo should be imprisoned, since he had seen the\nburro in the morning. And when, searching anew, they found in a splinter\nof the captain\u2019s door a long, coarse, gray hair, every man looked about\nhim suspiciously. But there was no other clew\u2014save that Francisco, the\ncleverest of hunters, called the officials to a little corner of the\nstreet, where the people had not crowded, and pointed to some dim marks\nin the sand.\n\n\u201c_Que importa?_\u201d said the gray haired governor, shrugging his shoulders,\nas he leaned on his staff of office and looked closely. \u201cIn Isleta there\nare two thousand burros, and their paths are everywhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut see!\u201d persisted the trailer. \u201cAre they like this? For this brute was\nlame in all the legs, so that his feet fell over to the inside a little,\ninstead of coming flatly down. It will be the Enchanted Burro!\u201d\n\n\u201c_Ahu!_\u201d cried Lelo, who stood by. \u201cAnd this morning when I passed the\nburro of Don \u2019Col\u00e1s in the bushes, I saw that it was laming along as if\nits legs were stiff.\u201d\n\nBy now no one doubted that there was witchcraft afoot, and the officials\nwhose place it is were taking active measures to preserve the pueblo.\nThe cacique sat in his closed house fasting and praying, with ashes upon\nhis head. The Cum-pa-huit-la-wen were running here and there with their\nsacred bows and arrows, prying into every corner, if haply they might\nfind a witch. In the house of mourning the Shamans were blinding the\neyes of the ghosts, that none might follow the trail of the dead captain\nand do him harm before he should reach the safe other world. And in the\nmedicine house the Father of All Medicine was blowing the slow smoke\nacross the sacred bowl, to read in that magic mirror the secrets of the\nwhole world.\n\nBut in spite of everything, a curse seemed to have fallen upon the\npeaceful town. Lucero, the third assistant war captain, did not return\nwith his flock, and when searchers went to the _llano_, they found him\nlying by a chapparo bush dead, and his sheep gone. But worst of all, he\nwas scalped, and all the wisdom of that cunning head had been carried\naway to enrich the mysterious foe\u2014for the soul and talents of an Indian\ngo with his hair, according to Indian belief. And in a day or two came\nrunning Antonio Peralta to the pueblo, gray as the dead and without his\nblanket. Herding his father\u2019s horses back of the Accursed Hill, he sat\nupon a block of lava to watch them. As they grazed, a lame burro came\naround the hill grazing toward them. And when it was among them, they\nsuddenly raised their heads in fear and snorted and turned to run;\nbut the burro, rising like a mountain lion, sprang upon one of them\nand fastened on its neck, and all the herd stampeded to the west, the\naccursed burro still perched upon its victim and tearing it. Ay! a gray\nburro, _jovero_,[8] and with a white foot behind. Antonio had his musket,\nbut he dared not fire after this witch beast. And here were twelve more\ngood horses gone of what the Cumanche robbers had left.\n\nBy now the whole pueblo was wrought to the highest tension. That\nfrightful doubt which seizes a people oppressed by supernatural fears\nbrooded everywhere. No man but was sure that the man he hated was mixed\nup in the witchcraft; no man who was disliked by any one but felt the\nfinger of suspicion pointing at him. People grew dumb and moody, and\nlooked at each other from the corner of the eye as they passed without\neven a kindly \u201c_Hina-k\u00fa-p\u2019wiu_, neighbor.\u201d As for work, that was almost\nforgotten, though the fields cried out for care. No one dared take a\nflock to the _llano_, and few went even to their gardens. There were\nmedicine makings every night to exorcise the evil spirits, and the\nShamans worked wonders, and the medicine guards prowled high and low for\nwitches. The cacique sat always in his house, seeing no one, nor eating,\nbut torturing his flesh for the safety of his people.\n\nAnd still there was no salvation. Not a night went by but some new\noutrage befell. Now it was a swooping away of herds, now some man of the\nwisest and bravest was slain and scalped in his bed. And always there\nwere no more tracks than those of a burro, stiff-kneed, whose hoofs did\nnot strike squarely upon the ground. Many, also, caught glimpses of the\nEnchanted Burro as they peered at midnight from their dark windows.\nSometimes he plodded mournfully along the uncertain streets, as burros\ndo; but some vowed that he came down suddenly from the sky, as alighting\nfrom a long flight. Without a doubt, old Melo had seen the brute walk up\nthe ladder of Ambr\u00f3sio\u2019s house the very night Ambr\u00f3sio was found dead in\nthe little lookout room upon his own roof. And a burro which could climb\na ladder could certainly fly.\n\nOn the fourth day Lelo could stand it no longer. \u201cI am going to the\nfield,\u201d he said, \u201cbefore the wheat dies. For it is as well to be eaten\nby the witches now as that we should starve to death next winter, when\nthere will be nothing to eat.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat folly is this?\u201d cried the neighbors. \u201cDoes Lelo think he is\nstronger than the ghosts? Let him stay behind those who are more men.\u201d\n\nBut Lelo had another trait, quite as marked as his slowness and good\nnature. When his deliberate mind was made up there was no turning him;\nand, though he was as terrified as anyone by the awful happenings of the\nweek, he had decided to attend to his field. So he only answered the\ntaunts with a stolid, respectful: \u201cNo, I do not put myself against the\nghosts. But perhaps they will let me alone, knowing that my mother has\nnow no one else to feed her.\u201d\n\nThe flat-faced mother brought him two _tortillas_[9] for lunch; and\nputting her hands upon his shoulders, looked at him a moment from wet\neyes, saying not a word. And slinging over his shoulder the bow-case and\nquiver, Lelo trudged away.\n\nHe plodded along the crooked meadow road, white-patched here and there\nwith crystals of alkali; jumped the main irrigating ditch with a great\nbound, and took \u201cacross lots\u201d over the adobe fences and through the\nvineyards and the orchards of apple, peach and apricot.\n\nIn the farther edge of the last orchard stood a tiny adobe house, where\nold Reyes had lived in the summer-time to guard her ripening fruits.\nSince her death it had been abandoned, with the garden, and next summer\nthe Indian congress could allot it to any one who asked, since it would\nhave been left untilled for five years. The house was half hidden from\nsight\u2014overshadowed on one side by ancient pear trees and on the other by\nthe black cliffs of an advance guard of the lava flow.\n\nAs he passed the ruined hut Lelo suddenly stooped and began looking\nanxiously at a footprint in the soft earth. \u201cThat was from no moccasin\nof the Tee-wahn,\u201d he muttered to himself, \u201cfor the sole is flatter than\nours. And it comes out of the house, where no one ever goes, now that\nGrandmother Reyes is dead. But _this_! For in three steps it is no more\nthe foot of a man, but of a beast\u2014going even to the bushes where I saw\nthe Enchanted Burro that morning\u201d\u2014and all of a tremble, Lelo leaned\nup against the wall of the house. It was all he could do to keep from\nturning and bolting for home\u2014and you need not laugh at him. The bow-case\nat his side was from the tawny mountain lion Lelo had slain with his\nown hands in the ca\u00f1ons of the Tetilla; and when Ref\u00fagio, the youngest\nmedicine-man, fell wounded in the fore-front of the fight at Tajique,\nit was Lelo who had lumbered forward and brought him away in his arms,\nsaving his life and hair from the Cumanche knife. But it takes a braver\nman to stand against his own superstitions than to face wild beast\nor wilder savage; and now, though Lelo did not flee, his knees smote\ntogether and the blood seemed to have left his head dry and over-light.\nHe sat down, so weak was he; and, with back against the wall, he tried to\ngather his scattered thoughts.\n\nAt that very moment, if Lelo had turned his head a very little more to\nthe left and looked at one particular rift in the thorny greasewoods\nthat choked the foot of the cliff, he might have seen two dark, hungry\neyes fixed upon him; but Lelo was not looking that way so much as to the\ncorner of the cliff. There he would have to pass to the field; and it was\njust around that corner that he had seen the Enchanted Burro. \u201cAnd there\nalso I have seen the mouth of a cave, where they say the ogres used to\nlive and where no one dares to enter\u201d\u2014and he shivered again, like one\nhalf frozen. Then he did look back to the left, but saw nothing, for\nthe eyes were no longer there. Only, a few rods farther to the left, and\nwhere Lelo could not see for the wall at his back, the tall, white ears\nof a burro were moving quietly along in the bushes, which hid the rest of\nits body. Now and then the animal stopped and cocked up its ears, as if\nto listen; and its eyes rose over the bush, shining with a deep, strange\nlight. Just beyond was the low adobe wall which separated Reyes\u2019s garden\nfrom the next\u2014running from the foot of the cliff down past the old house.\n\nTo go on to the field needed even more courage than to keep from fleeing\nfor home; and stubborn as he was, Lelo was trying to muster up legs and\nheart to proceed. He even rose to his feet and drew back his elbows\nfiercely, straining the muscles of his chest, where there seemed to be\nsuch a weight. Just around the corner of the house, at that same moment,\na burro\u2019s head, with white ears and a blazed face, rose noiselessly above\nthe adobe fence, and seeing nothing, a pair of black hoofs came up, and\nin a swift bound the animal was over the wall\u2014so lightly that even the\nsharp Indian ears not fifteen feet away heard nothing of it.\n\nBut if Lelo did not notice, a sharper watcher did. \u201c_Kay-e\u00e9-w\u2019yoo!_\u201d\ncried a complaining voice, and a brown bird with broad wings and a big,\nround head went fluttering from its perch on the roof. Lelo started\nviolently, and then smiled at himself. \u201cIt is only _tecol\u00f3te_,\u201d he\nmuttered, \u201cthe little owl that lives with the _t\u00fasas_,[10] and they say\nhe is very wise. To see where he went.\u201d\n\nThe boy stole around the corner of the house, but the owl was nowhere to\nbe seen, and he started back.\n\nAs he turned the angle again, he caught sight of a burro\u2019s head just\npeeping from around the other corner; and Lelo felt the blood sinking\nfrom his face. The beast gave a little start and then dropped its head to\na bunch of alfalfa that was green at the corner. But this did not relieve\nLelo\u2019s terror. It was Paloma\u2014dead Paloma\u2014now the Witch Burro. There was\nno mistaking that _jovero_ face. And plain it was, too, that this was no\nlonger burro-true, but one of the accursed spirits in burro shape. Those\neyes! They seemed, in that swift flash in which they had met Lelo\u2019s, to\nbe sunk far, far into the skull; and he was sure that deep in them he saw\na dull gleam of red. And the ears and head\u2014they were touched with death,\ntoo! Their skin seemed hard and ridgy as a rawhide, instead of fitting as\nthe skin does in life. So, also, was the neck; but no more was to be seen\nfor the angle of the wall.\n\n[Illustration: LELO]\n\nThere are men who die at seventy without having lived so long or suffered\nso much as Lelo lived and suffered in those few seconds. His breath\nrefused to come, and his muscles seemed paralyzed. This, then, was the\nEnchanted Burro\u2014the witch that had slain the captain of war, and his\nlieutenants, and many more. And now he was come for Lelo\u2014for though he\nnosed the alfalfa, one grim eye was always on the boy. So, no doubt, he\nhad watched his other victims\u2014but from _behind_, for not one of them had\never moved. And with that thought a sudden rush of blood came pricking\nlike needles in Lelo\u2019s head.\n\n\u201cNo one of them saw him, else they had surely fought! And shall I give\nmyself to him like a sheep? Not if he were _ten_ witches!\u201d And with the\none swift motion of all his life, the lad dropped on one knee, even as\nhand and hand clapped notch to bowstring, and, in a mighty tug, drew the\narrow to the head.\n\nLightning-like as was his move, the burro understood, and hastily reared\nback\u2014but a hair too late. The agate-tipped shaft struck midway of its\nneck with a loud tap as upon a drum, and bored through and through till\nthe feathers touched the skin. The animal sprang high in air, with so\nwild and hideous a scream as never came from burro\u2019s throat before, and\nfell back amid the alfalfa, floundering and pawing at its neck.\n\nBut Lelo had waited for no more. Already he was over the wall and running\nlike a scared mustang, the bow gripped in his left hand, his right\nclutching the bow-case, whose tawny tail leaped and fluttered behind\nhim. One-Eyed Quico could have made it to the pueblo no faster than the\ntown slow-poke, who burst into the plaza and the porch of the governor\u2019s\nhouse, gasping:\n\n\u201cThe Enchanted Burro! I have\u2014killed\u2014him!\u201d\n\nFifteen minutes later the new war captain, the medicine men, the\ngovernor, and half the rest of the men of the pueblo were entering\nReyes\u2019s garden, and Lelo was allowed to walk with the _principales_. All\nwere very grave, and some a little pale\u2014for it was no laughing matter\nto meddle with the fiend, even after he was dead. There lay the burro,\nmotionless. No pool of blood was around; but the white feathers of the\narrow had turned red. Cautiously they approached till suddenly Francisco,\nthe sharpest eyed of trailers, dashed forward and caught up the two hind\nlegs from amid the alfalfa, crying:\n\n\u201cSaid I not that he tipped the hoofs? With reason!\u201d\n\nFor from each ankle five dark, naked toes projected through a slit in the\nhide.\n\n\u201cAy, well bewitched!\u201d exclaimed the war captain. \u201cPull me the other\nside!\u201d And at their tug the belly of the burro parted lengthwise, showing\nonly a stiff, dried skin, and inside the cavity a swart body stripped to\nthe breech-clout. Alongside lay arrows and a strong bow of buffalo horn,\nwith a light copper hatchet and a keen scalping knife.\n\n\u201c_S\u00e1calo!_\u201d ordered the war captain; but it was easier said than done.\nThey bent the stubborn rawhide well apart; but not until one had run his\nknife up the neck of the skin and cut both ends of Lelo\u2019s arrow could\nthey haul out the masquerader. The shaft had passed through his throat\nfrom side to side, pinning it to the rawhide, and there he had died.\n\nWhen the slippery form was at last dragged forth, and they saw its face,\nthere was a startled murmur through the crowd; for even without the long\nscalp lock and the vermilion face-paint, there were many there who would\nhave known the Cumanche medicine man, whose brother was the chief that\nfell at Tajique. He, too, had been taken prisoner, and had taunted his\ncaptors and promised to pay them, and in the night had escaped, leaving\none sentinel dead and another wounded.\n\nThe Enchanted Burro was all very plain now. The plains conjurer, knowing\nwell by habit how to play on superstitious fears, had used poor Paloma\nas the instrument of his revenge\u2014hiding the carcass and drying the skin\nquickly on a frame with hot ashes, so that it stood perfectly in shape\nby itself. The bones of the fore legs he had left in, to be managed with\nhis hands; and in the dark or amid grass, no one would have noticed the\npeculiarity of the hind legs. He had only to pry open the slit in the\nbelly and crawl in, and the stiff hide closed after him. Thus he had\nwreaked the vengeance for which, uncompanioned, he had followed the\nPueblos back to their village. In the cave behind the greasewoods were\nthe scalps of his victims, drying on little willow hoops; but instead of\ngoing to deck a Cumanche lodge in the great plains, they were tenderly\nburied in the old church-yard, restored to their proper owners.\n\nAfter all these years there still are in the pueblo many tales of the\nEnchanted Burro, nothing lost by the re-telling. As for the skin itself,\nit lies moth-eaten in the dark storeroom of the man who has been first\nassistant war captain for twenty years, beginning his novitiate the very\nday he finished a witch and a Cumanche with a single arrow.\n\n\n\n\nThe Mummy Miner.\n\n\n\n\nThe Mummy Miner.\n\n\nThere was certainly nothing suggestive of antiquity about Faquito\u2019s\nappearance. His droll, brown face, his thickset boyish figure and the\nalarming tatters of his scant apparel were all undignified as his\nname\u2014which had got to the most disrespectful distance possible from the\nstately Francisco of the baptismal font. There could be no worthier name\nfor a boy of Peru than that worn by the great _conquistador_ Pizarro. But\nit is hard to live up to the dignity of the christening, and Francisco\ndegenerates into Francisquito, which is fond; and then to Franco, which\nis familiar; and finally to Faquito, which is positively rude. Probably\nit never occurred to the lad to be comforted with thinking that the\ngreatest conqueror of the Americas was called Faquito, too, when he was\nherding his pigs in Truxillo; and that if one Faquo could grow up to be\nDon Francisco, so might another. These consolations of philosophy never\ndo come to us until we are too old to need them so much.\n\nBut perhaps you are thinking: \u201cWell, why _should_ a twelve-year-old\n_cholo_ boy look antiquated? Are lads of that age in Peru expected to be\nancient, any more than in New York or Boston?\u201d\n\nN-no, not exactly that\u2014though in the quick tropics a boy _is_ older at\ntwelve than is one of the same years in the temperate zone; bigger and\nmore mature. But it was Faquito\u2019s occupation rather than his age which\nmade me think of him as rather paradoxical. You will admit that to find\nthis irresponsible, twinkling face set in one of the most century-worn\nframes on earth might well seem incongruous, not to say startling. The\nsight of this half Spanish, half Indian[11] boy of to-day, playing with\nlives and thoughts that were forgotten five hundred years ago\u2014aye, and\nsome of them, perhaps, that long before the Old World dreamed there was a\nNew\u2014was enough to make any explorer rub his eyes.\n\nDoubtless we shall understand each other better by a little translation.\n_Huaco_ is a word not found in the Spanish dictionaries, for it belongs\nonly to Peru. It is from the Quichua, or speech of the Incas, of whom\nyou have heard so many remarkable (and not very accurate) stories;\nand as adopted into the Spanish of Peru means specifically a relic of\nthe ancient Indian \u201ccivilizations\u201d which occupied this strange land\nbefore the coming of Europeans. _Huaquero_ is the Spanish derivative\nto mean a digger of these antiquities\u2014in other words, a _mummy miner_.\nThis is a regular profession in Peru, just as much as gold mining. A\ncompetent huaquero commands as good wages as a skilled laborer in the\nmarvelous silver mountain of Cerro de Pasco; and, if he works \u201con his\nown hook,\u201d _may_ earn much more. Peru is dotted everywhere with the\nruins of large towns of the Incas and other tribes\u2014some of them that we\nhave so long been taught to regard as \u201ckings\u201d and the like, while in\nfact they were tribes very much like the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico;\nremarkably advanced in some things, but still entirely Indians socially,\npolitically and mentally. Some of these ruins have been deserted for\nuncounted centuries, and no man can say who built them nor when they were\nabandoned. In fact, Peru is the American Egypt in antiquity; and a more\nthan Egypt in richness. It was in its time the richest country in the\nworld. Even before Europeans came to tap its peaks of silver and valleys\nof gold, the ancient Peruvians had discovered a way to treat the precious\nmetals, and used them to adorn themselves and their temples. Like the\nIndians they were, they had the invariable Indian idea of the next world;\nand always buried with their dead the best clothing and other property,\nto give the wanderer a handsome start beyond the grave\u2014precisely as our\naborigines do still. And as the dryness of the Peruvian desert preserves\nmummies indefinitely through the ages, you will begin to see how mummy\nmining has become one of the important industries of Peru. There are\nmummies everywhere; and each mummy has still what was its wealth in life.\nThe gold and silver trinkets, the exquisite cloths and potteries of these\nstrange folk of old, and all the other relics of their handiwork, fetch\nhigh prices from museums and collectors.\n\nSo that was Faquo\u2019s business\u2014and a very hard and unpleasant business it\nis. _Taita_[12] Pedro should have provided for his family; but _taita_\nPedro much preferred to lie around the great sugar plantation in the next\nvalley beyond the arm of desert, and keep his swarthy hide full of the\ncheap rum which is the last and worst gift of the sugar cane. He never\ncame home to the little cabin at Lurin\u2014a hut of _quincha_, or wattled\nbamboos plastered with adobe\u2014except to get money. Poor, fat Maria would\nhave had a very rough time caring for her fat brood, if it had not been\nfor Faquito. She worked in the cane fields of the nearer hacienda, and\nwashed for the priest; but the few _reales_ she could earn would not have\nbeen enough to put a cotton shirt on half the backs she was responsible\nfor, after feeding all the mouths. Mariquita was a perfect little woman\nfor ten years old; but she could only attend to the babies\u2014which was\nindeed contract enough for a much older nurse. So it had been a great\nrelief when Faquo got big enough to be a producer\u2014with the equal good\nfortune that the sandy headland only two miles away was crowned by the\nmighty ruins of Pachac\u00e1mac.\n\nEvery day, except Sundays and _fiestas_, Faquito was early trudging\nthe dusty road to the ruins, his spade over his shoulder, his fat face\nscrewed up sometimes to whistle a doleful yarav\u00ed (the only air he knew),\nor as often equally twisted with munching sugar cane. It was very\nconvenient to have one\u2019s candy growing by the roadside\u2014particularly as\nthere were no stores. All a boy had to do was to clamber over the adobe\nwall, cut a stalk of the _ca\u00f1a dulce_ from amid its dense bristle of\nsword leaves, and clamber back to chew upon this pithy molasses candy\nat leisure. There was generally a culm in Faquito\u2019s hand as he trudged\nacross; and when he got tired of chewing the obstinate fiber, he would\nrest his jaws with whistling.\n\nWhen he had crossed the flat, and waded the shallow brook of Lurin, there\nwas a great scramble up the precipitous bluff which is the jumping-off\nplace of the desert; and even Faquo was always puffing hard by the time\nhe came to the top. An ancient wall was there; and under the long,\nmorning shadow of this he used to sit down a moment\u2014partly for a bit of\na rest, and partly because he liked to gaze upon that strange vista in\nthe hot, level light. Behind was the lovely valley, dense green with\ntropic cane-fields and bananas and palms; but in front was the great,\ngray desert, unspotted by one living blade. On the rolling sand hills\nclose before him was a wild, mysterious huddle of mighty walls, tall\nand broken and gray in the sunlight, with black shadows lurking in\ntheir angles\u2014walls and walls in a bewildering labyrinth. At his left\nwas the huge castle on its tall headland, boxed about with tier after\ntier of walls thirty feet high; and in front of him the central hill,\ncrowned with an enormous building. In a hollow at the foot of the castle,\nfifty acres were thick-dotted with dark, irregular holes, around which\nthousands of white specks gleamed in the sun. Momently, too, little puffs\nof dust flew up here and there. Castro and Juan and Pancho, the grown-up\nhuaqueros from Lima, were already at work down there amid the bleaching\nskulls, each at the bottom of his dusty shaft, hoping at any moment to\nfind a rich tomb\u2014perhaps even the \u201cBig Fish\u201d of Peruvian folk lore. That\nis what Faquito was dreaming about, too. How many times he had heard of\nthe hundreds of man-loads of gold that the Yuncas buried in Pachac\u00e1mac\nwhen Hernando Pizarro came pricking down from the mountains, every horse\nof his cavalcade shod with silver!\n\nIf he could only find the _Pez Grande_! Or even the tail of it! He got up\nfrom under the wall with a sigh and started down the dusty trail toward\nwhere the men were at work. His \u201cmine\u201d was there too\u2014where he had dug a\nweek without finding any but the poorest graves.\n\nJust then an owl\u2014the little brown owl of the desert\u2014flew up almost at his\nvery feet and alighted upon a wall a few rods away. How Mariquita would\nlike it for a pet! Faquo crept up behind the wall; but just as he was\nabout to clap his hat over the bird it fluttered off a few rods farther.\n\nIt was so stupid with the sun that Faquo felt sure he would get it this\ntime, and again he crept up. But stupid as the owl was, it was just too\nsmart for Faquo. A dozen times it was almost in his hands; but a dozen\ntimes, too, it fluttered away again\u2014until it had led him up the central\nhill, through the great ruined building there, and down the other side.\n\nAt the foot of an adobe wall sixty feet high it settled upon the edge\nof some deep-sunken rooms. Faquo scrambled down a gap and stole out\nalong the parapet; and suddenly reaching up from this shelter caught the\nastonished bird by the wing. But he had forgotten the beak and claws,\nwhich the very field-mice know. As they hooked savagely into his brown\nfist he drew back sharply\u2014and just too far. The ledge was very narrow;\nand overbalanced by his recoil, he fell sprawling twenty feet into the\ngreat cell below.\n\nLuckily there was at the bottom nothing harder than the universal\nin-blown sand; and though sadly shaken up by the fall Faquo was not\nseriously hurt. For a few moments he lay there half stunned; then slowly\ngathered himself up and looked about in a dazed way.\n\nThe owl was still in his hand\u2014less by his grasp than by the obstinate\nclenching of its own curved claws, which now began to hurt again. He\nunhooked them painfully, one by one, tore a tatter from his shirt and\ntied it about those mischievous feet. A rather stubborn boy, Faquo. It\nwas very hard to turn his attention from anything upon which he had once\nstarted, until it was finished.\n\nAt last, when his prize was safely anchored to a clod of adobe, he was\nfree to think of more important matters. _Pues!_ He had walked into a bad\ntrap. There were no doors nor windows down here\u2014clearly the ancients had\ndescended into these cellar-like rooms by ladders, which had long ago\ndisappeared. And how was he to get up that twenty feet? In this adobe he\ncould cut steps to the top; or even, in time, burrow through the base of\nthat eight-foot wall\u2014but his spade stood away up there on the ledge,\nleaning against the parapet where he had left it.\n\n\u201cCastro! Cas-tro-o!\u201d he screamed at the top of his lungs\u2014but it seemed\nthat his voice did not rise at all out of the sunken chamber. How buried\nand pent it was! He shouted until he was hoarse; but knew as well that\nthe huaqueros did not hear him, as if he could have seen them still\ndigging stolidly away, far down the other side of the hill.\n\nThe place grew terrible to him. In such a maze of ruins they might not\nfind him until too late. Maria would come to look, surely, if he were not\nhome by dark; but how could she expect to find him so far from where he\nalways worked?\n\nHe knew well, this boy of the edge of the desert, that one does not last\nlong on such a gridiron of the tropics. Without food one may do for\nseveral days; but without water, under that sun\u2014\u2014! Already his mouth was\nparched.\n\nAnd that _maldito_ owl\u2014that was to blame for it all! He started up\nangrily with a clod of adobe to throw at it. But his arm dropped\nsuddenly. \u201cNo! _Nana_ says always that the birds, too, are children of\n_Taita Di\u00f3s_, and that He loves best those who are good to them. So\nperhaps I am punished for catching it. _Pobrecito!_ For now we both are\ncaught.\u201d\n\nThe owl did not seem to mind so much. It sat bunched upon its tethered\nfeet, blinking back at Faquo. It looked so very grave, so very wise!\n_Quiza_ it knew very much about the ruins; for here it had lived, and its\npeople, very long now. Perhaps it even knew where was the Big Fish!\n\nEven as Faquo looked at it with these thoughts, the owl turned its head\ndown on one side, and looked at him soberly along its shoulder. Some\nmight have laughed at this proceeding, but not so Faquito. He was too\ngood an Indian to despise the wisdom of them that talk not; and suddenly\nhe asked with great earnestness: \u201cIn truth that thou dost know, friend\nowl! No?\u201d\n\nAt this direct question the owl turned its head down upon the other\nshoulder, and looked wiser than ever. Surely, he knew!\n\n\u201cBut where?\u201d cried the boy. \u201cTell me, owl friend!\u201d\n\nBut the bird said not a word. Only it gazed at Faquo very seriously; and\nthen, turning its head as upon a pivot, began to spruce up the feathers\nupon its back, as much as to say: \u201cOh, that you must find out for\nyourself, as I did.\u201d\n\nSuch a wise bird, but so unspoken! Really, how convenient it must be to\nbe able to turn one\u2019s head square around that way, and look straight\nback! It must be that he can even see that spot on the wall just behind\nhim and above his head\u2014that round place where the adobe is yellower than\nthe rest. Probably the plaster was broken there, and they patched it.\n\nFaquo got up idly, and set the owl carefully to one side, and passed his\nhand over the spot. It was somewhat larger than his head\u2014just a round\npatch of adobe plaster, centuries old, yet evidently newer than the rest\nof the wall.\n\nHe picked aimlessly at its edge. A pebble came out under his fingers, and\nshowed, behind, a small crevice\u2014as if a deep hole had been filled up,\ninstead of a little break in the wall plaster. Instantly the boy\u2019s eyes\nwaked up, and a queer, professional look settled upon his face.\n\n\u201cIt will be a wall niche,\u201d he said gravely. \u201cAnd sometimes they filled\nthem up to change the wall; but why did the owl sit by this one, if that\nwas all?\u201d\n\nHe pried and pulled until his fingers were sore, and pounded with\nhis fist upon the yellow patch; but the adobe was very stubborn. How\naggravating to have the spade perched away up there, when he wanted to\nopen this niche! For by now he had quite forgotten about getting out of\nhis prison. The strange fascination that all miners know was upon him.\n\nPlague take the spade! He picked up again the strong lump of adobe which\nhad fallen with him from the upper wall, and flung it at the offending\nspade. It struck the sandy shelf, and a little stream of sand fell down\nwith the missile. That gave him a thought; and he picked up his clod and\nthrew it again and again and again.\n\nEach time it fell back a little smaller, but each time a little more sand\nsifted down. Then the sand, thus started, began frittering down of its\nown accord, and the undermined shovel began to creep, stopped, slid a\nlittle, and at last pitched down and fell at Faquo\u2019s feet.\n\nHe jabbed at the adobe with the corner of his spade, and the hard lumps\nshowered down upon his bare toes. In a few moments a smooth-rimmed\nopening was revealed, and he thrust in his arm.\n\nIt was not like any of the niches he knew\u2014the ones that have never\nbeen closed, but remain as they were 500 years ago, when the people of\nPachac\u00e1mac kept on these odd shelves their ornaments and trinkets. This\none was like a nest of the \u201cGod-give-you\u201d bird\u2014with a small opening, but\nlarge inside. In the big hollow was something soft; and Faquo drew out\nhis hand full of beautiful yellow floss.\n\n\u201cThe wool of the vicu\u00f1a, only,\u201d he mumbled, disappointedly, but with the\nexpert\u2019s air. \u201cBut why should they ceil _that_ up? Perhaps there is also\ncloth.\u201d\n\nIn went the brown fist again; and rummaging down through the silken\nfleece, his fingers met something firmer. In a moment he had it out\u2014a\nlong bundle of that matchless weaving of old Peru; of cloth as soft and\nstrong as silk, woven with strange figures of men and gods and beasts;\nsuch fabrics as never unthinking loom has woven, nor any machine less\nwondrous than the fingers of a man.\n\n\u201cAy! It will be worth twenty _soles_!\u201d cried Faquo softly. \u201cBut it is so\nheavy! Perhaps they have wound it on a stone.\u201d\n\nVery tenderly he unrolled it, that none of those bright threads\u2014stronger\nthan all the centuries, but brittle to a careless touch\u2014might be broken.\nBut when the last fold came off, this very stupid Indian boy fell down on\nhis knees in the sand, and cried and cried. For it was not a stone at all.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf you will go to the _Exposicion_ in Lima, among the bewildering\ncollections of Peruvian antiquities, you can see two priceless idols,\neach big as a large doll. They are like human figures, excellently\nsculptured; and the strangest thing about them is that they are made of\nalternate zones of gold and silver from feet to head, so that they remind\none of that great image we read of in Revelations.\n\nThat is the nearest Faquito ever came to finding the _Pez Grande_\u2014and\nquite near enough for one poor boy. And that is what took my breath away\nwhen I had wakened and hauled up with my reata the little, ragged cholo I\naccidentally spied in the trap where he had cried himself to sleep over\nsomething hugged in his arms.\n\nWhen he had laid the precious images and the spade on the broad top of\nthe wall, and told me all about it, he insisted on being lowered again on\nthe rope to get the owl, which he loosed and let go, saying, in the tone\nof an old man:\n\n\u201c_Taita Di\u00f3s_\u2014God our Father\u2014sends us friends we know not. For the owl\nbrought me here and showed me the place, so that now we are very rich.\nAnd even so, I could have died there without the help of you. So I think\nyour grace may be even as wise as the owl, which knows where is the _Pez\nGrande_.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nA Boy of the Andes.\n\n\n\n\nA Boy of the Andes.\n\n\nProbably they would not have seen Ramon Ynga at all, but for the llamas.\nThere was enough else to look at. The overpowering walls of the mountains\non both sides seemed to turn the eyes, even as they turned the foaming\nRimac, into a channel from which there was no escape. Up at the end of\nthe cleft was such a sight as no man can long hold his eyes from\u2014the\nblack peak of Chin-ch\u00e1n, bent down with its load of eternal winter.\nThere is something awful about the snow that never melts\u2014the great blank\nfields, the wrinkled glaciers, the savage ice cornices, the black rocks\nthat peer out hopelessly here and there. It is so different from the\nfriendly white we know and welcome for its sleigh rides and coastings,\nits snow men and snow-ballings.\n\nIt was far up the summit of the Peruvian cordillera, at the very foot of\nthe last wild peaks that stand 18,000 feet in the sky. Where the panting\nmules trudged, 3,000 feet below the peaks, was low, green herbage; and\n500 feet lower yet the little torrent, white as its mother snows, roared\nand chuckled alternately to the uneven wind. But up yonder all was so\nwhite and still; their eyes kept lifting up to it, forgetful of the\ndangerous trail\u2014the mules could take care of that. They, poor brutes,\nseemed ill at ease. They breathed in short, loud gasps; and every forty\nfeet or so they stopped and rested for a few moments, unmindful of the\nspur. Then, when they were ready, they started up again of their own\naccord, sighing heavily. They would not last much longer, at this rate.\n\n\u201cI think I\u2019ll get off and walk awhile,\u201d said the younger of the two, a\nbronzed, sinewy man of twenty-five. \u201cIt spoils even this scenery for me,\nto see the suffering of the mules. One wouldn\u2019t think they\u2019d play out so,\non such a good trail.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not the grade,\u201d remarked the Professor, quietly, \u201cas perhaps you\nwill learn. _I_ am sorry for the mules, too; but it is better to risk\nthem than something more important.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, you speak as though there were some danger about it!\u201d said the\nyounger man, who was now striding sturdily along, leaving his animal to\nfollow. Many a time he had climbed Pike\u2019s Peak and its brother giants\nof Colorado, and once had stood on the cone of Popocat\u00e9petl. A peak was\nnothing to him; and as for this excellent path\u2014pooh! It was mere child\u2019s\nplay.\n\nThe Professor watched him without a word, but with an expression half\nquizzical, half grave. After a hundred yards he spoke:\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t seem quite so springy, Barton. I never saw _you_ heavy-footed\nbefore.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, the truth is, Professor,\u201d gasped Barton, rather shamefacedly, \u201cI\nfeel most remarkably queer. My knees ache as they never did before\u2014though\nI wouldn\u2019t mind that so much. But I cannot seem to breathe well. Here\nmy heart and lungs are pounding away, as if I\u2019d been sprinting for the\n220-yard record! It\u2019s enough to make a man ashamed of himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo cause at all for shame, my dear boy; you are simply learning what\neveryone has to learn who tempts great altitudes. Now get on your mule.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I\u2019ll wear this thing off!\u201d cried the athlete, impatiently. \u201cI\u2019m no\npuny boy, to give up just because I feel a little wrong. I\u2019ll just keep\nat it, and beat it yet!\u201d\n\n\u201cBarton,\u201d said the older man, in a tone his companion had never heard him\nuse before, \u201cyou get on that mule, and let us have no more nonsense. I\nlike your pluck; and it is because you have more real \u2018sand\u2019 (as they say\nin our West) than any young man I know, that I picked you out for this\njourney. But courage is a dangerous thing unless you mix it with brains.\nYou must learn that there are some things pluck cannot overcome\u2014and this\nis one of them. Mount, then!\u201d\n\nBarton obeyed with rather an ill grace, and promptly got angrier with\nhimself at realizing what a relief it was to be perched again in the\nridiculously comfortable Peruvian saddle. He could not get over a feeling\nof shame that the muscles which had borne the cruelest tests of the\nfrontier should now have \u201cplayed the baby,\u201d as he put it; and he rode on\nsomewhat sulkily.\n\nIt was here that Ramon Ynga stumbled into their lives; and, as I have\nsaid, all by the doing of the llamas. As the travelers rounded a sharp\nturn in the trail the mules stopped suddenly almost face to face with\nthe two strangest animals that Barton had ever seen. Shabby, grotesque\nfigures they were, with splay feet, long, awkward legs, and bodies\nlooking like long tussocks of dry grass. But their necks were the\nworst\u2014tall and ungainly as stovepipes covered with hair. Their backs\nwere hardly so high as those of the under-sized mules; but on these\nunspeakable necks their heads were quite on a level with Barton\u2019s. And\n_such_ heads! They were disproportionately small and ludicrously narrow,\nwith pointed ears, malignant little faces, and lips wickedly drawn back.\n\n\u201cWhy, I never saw anything, except a rattlesnake, look so vindictive!\u201d\ncried Barton. \u201cWhat on earth are they?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the national bird of Peru,\u201d replied the Professor roguishly.\n\u201cWe are apt to see many up here. In fact, if we had had any daylight in\nCasapalca you would have noticed many hundreds of them; for they bring\nall the ore to the stamp mills, and do most of the freighting besides.\nLower than 10,000 feet you will hardly ever find them; the llama[13] is a\nmountain animal, and soon dies if taken to the coast.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo that is the llama! But I thought that was called the \u2018Peruvian\nsheep;\u2019 and these look no more like sheep than my mule does.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt got that foolish name from the closet naturalists. No one who\never saw a llama could fail to recognize it for a camel\u2014smaller and\nlonger-haired than the Eastern beast, and without a hump; but a true\ncamel.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a funny-looking brute,\u201d laughed Barton. \u201cIt seems to put in its\ntime thinking what a grudge it has against everybody. Hi! Get out of the\nway, you standing grievances!\u201d\n\nThe Professor and the young frontiersman had thus far enjoyed the pause\nof the mules; but now the need of pushing on recurred to their minds,\nand Barton\u2019s exclamation was meant as a signal for advance. But the\nllamas stood stolidly, blocking the trail. He drummed his spurs against\nhis mule; whereat the animal took two steps forward and stopped, bracing\nback, unmindful of the rowels. The llamas did not take a step. Only they\nseemed to drop their bodies a little, upon those long legs.\n\n\u201cWhy, they\u2019re not such fools as they look!\u201d cried Barton, whose sharp eye\nunderstood the trifling motion. \u201cSee! They are going to give us the edge!\u201d\n\nThe trail was two feet wide\u2014an endless thread of a shelf hewn along the\nmountain wall. On the right, the great, dark slope ran up to the very\nclouds; on the left, one could snap a pebble into the white torrent, 500\nfeet below.\n\n\u201cI have heard that they always take the wall,\u201d the Professor rejoined,\n\u201cand that when two llama trains meet on one of these trails it is almost\nimpossible to make a passing. Sometimes they even shove each other off\nthe cliff.\u201d\n\n\u201cI guess we\u2019d better not force the right of way\u2014a tumble into the Rimac\nthere is more than I care for!\u201d And Barton jumped from his mule and\nadvanced upon the blockaders, waving his arms threateningly.\n\n\u201cLook out!\u201d cried the Professor; but before the words were fairly off his\ntongue, the foremost llama opened its ugly mouth and spat at Barton in\nfury. At this unpleasant salutation he retreated hastily.\n\n\u201cThat is their weapon of defense,\u201d said the Professor. \u201cAnd their saliva\nis wonderfully acrid. It\u2019s as well you didn\u2019t get it in the face. But I\nwish they _would_ get out of the way\u2014we have no time to spare.\u201d\n\nJust then there was another surprise. A figure hardly less remarkable\nthan the camels slid down from the overhanging hillside, and stood in the\npath, looking at the startled travelers. It was a dwarfish creature, not\nfour feet tall, with a large, round head, a broad, strong body, and very\nshort legs, peculiarly bundled up in unfamiliar clothes. A boy\u2014what in\nthe world was he doing on that impossible slope? What a goat he must be!\n\n\u201cHulloa!\u201d cried Barton, as soon as he could find a voice.\n\n\u201cGod give you good day, sirs,\u201d answered the lad gravely, in thick\nSpanish. \u201cWait me so-little, and I will get you by.\u201d\n\nWith this he called \u201cU-pa!\u201d to the llamas, lifting his finger as if to\npoint them up the trail. Ordinarily they would have obeyed; but the\naggressive manner of Barton had roused their obstinacy, and they did not\nbudge. The boy put his shoulder to the ribs of one, and heaved hard, but\nthe brute stood its ground.\n\n\u201cWell, it is to wait!\u201d said he; and ran about the path, gathering up\nvery small pebbles until his shabby hat was full. Then he sat down on\na boulder that jutted from the bank, settling himself as if for a long\nrest, and threw a mild and measured pebble at each llama. They turned\ntheir heads a little and wrinkled their disagreeable noses. He waited a\nmoment and then pitched two more pebbles\u2014which had the same effect. So\nhe sat, slowly and mechanically tossing his harmless missiles upon the\ndense hair of his charges. Evidently he was in no hurry; and the two\ntravelers, impatient as they were, had too much wisdom of experience to\ntry to push him. They sat quietly in their saddles, watching the droll\nscene. It was very ridiculous to need deliverance from two stupid beasts,\nand to get it from such an owlish little tatterdemalion. His ragged\nclothing was of very thick, coarse cloth; and upon his feet were the\nclumsy _yanquis_, or rawhide sandals of mountain Peru, and he wore thick\nstockings rising to his knees. Over his trousers was a curious garment,\nhalf apron and half leggings; and oversleeves of the same material, hung\nwith a cord about his neck, came up over the elbows of his coat. These\ntwo garments were knit in very strange patterns, amid which were square,\nbrown llamas wandering up and down a gray background. Around his waist\nwas a woven belt, now very old, but of beautiful colors and workmanship.\nAnd his face\u2014what a brown, round riddle!\n\n\u201cHow do you call yourself, friend?\u201d asked the Professor in Spanish. \u201cAnd\nhave you ten years or a hundred?\u201d\n\n\u201cRamon Ynga, se\u00f1or. And the other I do not know. I have been here a long\ntime\u2014ever since they built the mill at Casapalca.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must be about fifteen, then. And where do you live?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere, above,\u201d answered Ramon, tossing another pebble.\n\n\u201cA curious habit of the mountaineers,\u201d said the Professor. \u201cThese\nIndians, instead of living in the valleys, climb to the very tops of\nthese peaks, and build there their squalid stone hovels. They seem to\nthink nothing of the eternal clambering up and down.\u201d\n\nAn hour crawled by, and the stones in Ramon\u2019s hat were running low.\nSuddenly the brown llama turned with a snort of disgust, and strode off\nup the trail. The white one hesitated a moment, snorted, and followed.\n\u201cThat way they get tired, sirs,\u201d said the boy, emptying his hat and\npulling it down upon his thatch of black hair.\n\n\u201cI\u2019d take a good club to them!\u201d growled Barton, who had great confidence\nin the Saxon way of forcing things.\n\n\u201cNo, the boy is quite right. It is another case wherein you must not try\nto be smarter than nature. The llama is the stubbornest brute alive\u2014a\nmule is vacillating compared to him. If you put a pound too much on\nhis load, he will lie down, and you might beat him to death or build a\nfire beside him, but he would not get up. Nobody but a Peruvian Indian\ncan do anything with a Peruvian camel, and Ramon has just shown us the\nproper tactics. Hurt the animal, and he only grows more sullen; but the\npebbles merely tease him until he can bear it no longer. And really he\nrepays patience; for he is the only animal that can work effectively at\nthese altitudes, where horses and mules are practically useless. But\n_adelante_! (forward!)\u201d\n\n\u201cIs your Excellency going to Cerro de Pasco?\u201d asked the little Peruvian,\nrunning alongside the mule and looking up at the Professor with unusual\nanimation in his non-committal face. He had never spoken with \u201cYankees\u201d\nbefore, and indeed for any stranger to notice him kindly was a new\nexperience. He liked these pale men; and a dim little wish to please\nthem warmed in his heart. That big young man\u2014why, he was taller than any\nSerrano in the cordillera!\u2014was good. Ramon had seen money a few times;\nbut that round, shiny _sol_,[14] which the stranger had tossed him when\nthe llamas moved, was the first he had ever held in his hand; and it was\nalmost a worry to be so rich! But the other man, with a little gray above\nhis ears, who only looked at him _so_, and spoke as if he knew him\u2014he,\nsurely, was very great; and it was to him that the ragged boy had said\n\u201c_Excel\u00e9ncia._\u201d His face was kindly; and there were little smiles at the\nedges of his mouth, though he did not laugh.\n\n\u201cNo, _hijito_ (little son),\u201d he answered, \u201cwe are not bound to the mines.\nWe are going to climb the Chin-ch\u00e1n, to look at the ice cornices and to\nmeasure them.\u201d\n\nEven Ramon looked astonished at this. If a Serrano had said it, every one\nwould know he was crazy. Or if it were the young man\u2014well, what could you\nexpect of one who would give away a whole _sol_? But this one\u2014whatever\n_he_ did, it must be right. He certainly was not crazy. Still\u2014\u2014\n\n\u201cBut the Soroche, your Excellency,\u201d ventured the boy. \u201cFor all strangers\nhave it; and many die, even in crossing the slope. Only we who were born\nhere can go so high.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have to go, my boy; for I must look at the snow fields and the cliffs\nof ice, and measure them,\u201d said the Professor, kindly. \u201cI know well of\nthe mountain sickness, and we will be very careful. Besides, we are both\nvery strong.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: THE HOME OF THE SOROCHE]\n\n\u201cIt is not always of the strong,\u201d persisted Ramon. \u201cSometimes the sick\ncross in safety, and those who are very large and red\u2014even larger than\nyour Excellency\u2019s friend\u2014fall suddenly and never rise again; for the\nSoroche is stronger than any.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are quite right, my wise friend. It is terrible. But all do not fall\nvictims, and we must brave it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt the least, Excellency, let me go also! For I know these hills very\nwell, and perhaps I could help. As for the llamas, my brother Sancho\ncomes even yonder, and he will herd them.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou won\u2019t really take the little rat up there, will you, Professor?\u201d\nbroke in Barton. \u201cIt would be the death of him.\u201d\n\n\u201cM-m! I only hope we may be as safe as I know he will be! _Est\u00e1 bien_, my\nboy! _Vamos!_\u201d[15]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt nine the next morning the three were entering the edge of the snow\nfields. They had camped for the night in a deserted hovel at the head of\nthe valley; and there the mules could be seen grazing, pulling as far\ndown bill as their ropes would allow. The hut was not a mile behind; but\nthe travelers had been ever since daylight coming thus far. The Professor\nlooked old; and Barton\u2019s big chest was heaving violently. As for Ramon,\nhe clambered along steadily and soberly, stopping only when he saw the\nothers had stopped.\n\nBy noon they were at the foot of the last ridge, in a great rounding bay\nflanked by two spurs of the upper peak. The curving rim far overhead was\na savage cliff of eternal ice\u2014a cliff of 1,500 feet sheer. At the top a\ngreat white brow projected many yards, overhanging the bluish precipice.\n\n\u201cIt is\u2014a\u2014noble\u2014cornice,\u201d gasped the Professor, as they sank upon the\nsnow to rest for the hundredth time since morning. \u201cBut I fear\u2014we\u2014made\u2014a\nmistake. We\u2014should\u2014not have\u2014tried this\u2014without\u2014waiting a\u2014few weeks\u2014in\nCasa\u2014palca\u2014to get\u2014acclimated.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s awful!\u201d groaned Barton. \u201cMy head\u2014feels\u2014as if\u2014it would\u2014burst. But\nI\u2019ll be hanged\u2014if I\u2014give up!\u201d And the resolute young man fairly snatched\nhimself to erectness, and started toward the spur. But with the third\nstep his tall form swung half around, and swayed an instant, and fell as\na dead pine falls in the wind, and lay heavily upon the snow. His face\nwas black; and a bright red stream trickled from each nostril as the\nProfessor sank on his knees beside him, crying huskily, \u201cMy\u2014poor boy! I\nhave\u2014killed\u2014you!\u201d\n\nThe Professor\u2019s face had a strange look, too. His eyes were very red and\nswollen\u2014but that was from the merciless glare of the snow\u2014and in his\ncheeks a gray shadow seemed to be struggling with the unnatural purple.\nAnd he was so unlike the Professor of yesterday. He seemed so dull; even\nstupid!\n\n\u201cCome, Excellency!\u201d Ramon was shouting in his ear. \u201cIt is the Soroche,\nthe mountain sickness, and none can fight it. We must be gone from here,\nelse very soon you are both dead. Come!\u201d The small brown fist was tugging\nat the old man\u2019s shoulder, and in the quaint, boyish voice was a strange\nthrill. The Professor understood. Dazed as he was, the way in which Ramon\nsaid that one word \u201cCome\u201d roused and cheered him like the far bugle call\nwhich tells of reinforcements to the besieged. He was not alone. Here\nwas help\u2014the help of a dwarfed Indian boy of fifteen! But that is often\nthe very sort we need\u2014not muscle so much as the elbow-touch of a staunch\nheart.\n\n\u201cBut\u2014Barton?\u201d said the Professor. He could no longer think clearly;\nand instinctively he turned to Ramon as superior. \u201cBarton?\nWe\u2014cannot\u2014leave\u2014Barton!\u201d The Serrano lad looked at the prostrate figure\nand then at the Professor.\n\nBut even in those bloodshot eyes Ramon read something that decided him.\nIt was very hard, and it was more dangerous so; but the Friend-man loved\nthe other. The other must be tried for too!\n\nRamon unwound his long woven belt and passed it under Barton\u2019s back. The\nends he drew up under the armpits and crossed them at the back of the\nneck, giving one end to the Professor and keeping one himself. Then, when\nthey pulled apart, the crossing of the belt supported Barton\u2019s head.\n\u201cNow!\u201d cried Ramon; and pulling strongly the two dragged the heavy form\nalong the snow to the edge of the steep slope. The Professor\u2019s face was\npurple, and drops of blood beaded his finger tips.\n\n\u201cLet me, se\u00f1or!\u201d said the boy; and taking both ends of the belt over his\nshoulder, he went plunging down the declivity, Barton\u2019s limp head bumping\nagainst his legs, and Barton\u2019s body and heels dragging in the soft snow\njust enough to act as a brake. As for the Professor, he stumbled after as\nbest he could, with vague eyes and bursting veins and treacherous legs.\nSometimes he fell forward and plowed a rod in the snow, and once he was\nbeginning to roll, but Ramon leaped and stopped him just in time.\n\nAnd so at last they came to the end of the snow. The boy laid his burden\nupon the matted grass, with head up-hill, and piled a little drift of\nsnow about the head. \u201cPut it so, also, to your head,\u201d said he, \u201cand I\nwill bring the mules.\u201d\n\nWith that he was racing off down the hill in knowing zigzags, though it\nlooked too steep for a goat.\n\nIn half an hour a very tired boy was getting two helpless men upon two\nalmost helpless mules. Perhaps if the latter had been able to object, he\ncould not have succeeded. But by the help of the slope, and hauling with\nhis belt over the saddle from the down-hill side, he presently had both\nup. Barton\u2019s feet he tied together under the mule, and Barton\u2019s hands\naround its neck. The Professor could sit up, in a stupid way, and Ramon\ntied only his feet. \u201cHold well!\u201d he cried loudly and sternly, but with\nthe same little quiver in his voice; and taking both bridle reins in one\nhand, he plunged down the hill, his weight thrown forward upon the hard\nbits, so that the reluctant mules had no choice but to follow.\n\nThe only one who remembers much of that grim journey is Ramon, and as he\nis not much given to talking, no one knows just what he does think of\nit. The Professor\u2019s clear recollection begins with finding himself on\nboard the train at Casapalca\u2014a train of that most wonderful railroad in\nthe world, the railroad above the clouds, that clambers up and burrows\nthrough the cordillera of Peru. Before that are only hazy memories of a\nvast mountain wall leaning over to crush him; a winding path in the air;\na queer, boy\u2019s voice, coming from nowhere, with little Spanish words of\ncheer. And now a round, brown face from the opposite seat was watching\nhim seriously\u2014even tenderly, the Professor fancied\u2014while the burly\nconductor was saying:\n\n\u201cI never seen it come any closer! How ever the boy got you in, beats my\ntime. And I saw he hated to leave you, so I says to him, says I, \u2018Just\nget in, sonny, \u2019n\u2019 go down to Lima with us, \u2019n\u2019 I\u2019ll fetch you back if\nI lose my job!\u2019 He\u2019s the right sort, he is! An\u2019 you\u2019ll be all right, as\nsoon as you get down there\u2014that\u2019s the only medicine for the S\u2019rochy.\u201d\n\nAll right they were next day in the capital. Even Barton was able to sit\nup; and he nodded weakly as the Professor said to Ramon:\n\n\u201cMy boy, I would like you to go with us. We have to travel much in Peru;\nand if you will accompany us you will earn good wages. And you shall\nbe as my son. For neither of us would be alive now if we had not had a\nlittle hero with us. Will you come?\u201d\n\nJoy flashed over Ramon\u2019s face. But then it faded, and tears started in\nhis eyes as he said simply:\n\n\u201cYou are good, Excellency! I would go _anywhere_ with you. But in the\nChin-ch\u00e1n is my mother, with the babies; and since father died, I must be\nthe man, for Sancho is too young. _Adios!_\u201d\n\nAnd he ran out, so that they should not see him crying.\n\n\n\n\nA Daughter of the Misti.\n\n\n\n\nA Daughter of the Misti.\n\n\nNot the elder daughter, whom all the world knows where she sits, white\nupon her little green patch against the hopeless desert, looking up with\nnow and then a shiver at the white-headed giant, her father. No, the\none I mean now is something like three hundred and fifty years younger\nthan the Misti\u2019s first born and favorite, and not white at all, nor\nover-dignified, nor even given to much thought as to when _taita_[16]\nshall shrug again those mighty shoulders and rattle the walls about\nher ears. In fact, to look at the two\u2014the fat, brown, clumsy _cholo_\ngirl and the shining city\u2014I dare say you would never take Tr\u00e1nsita and\nArequipa[17] for sisters at all. But as both are daughters of the Misti,\nI see no other way out of it.\n\nWhat! You don\u2019t know either of them? Hm! Of course it could hardly be\nexpected that you should be acquainted with Tr\u00e1nsita, for she lives on a\nback street on the other side of the river and comes very seldom to the\nplaza. And probably you could not talk with her, anyhow, since her speech\nis only Spanish and Quichua. But not to know Arequipa\u2014why that is to\ncount out the prettiest city in Peru, and one of the oldest in America.\nAnd if you do not know the daughter you have missed the father, too,\nwhich is an even greater pity\u2014for he is one of the handsomest giants on\nearth, though a baby in his own family. Well, well\u2014the sooner I give you\nan introduction the better, then.\n\nThe Misti is an inactive but living volcano, a hundred miles from the\nsea, in southern Peru. As I have said, it ranks small at home, being\nonly 19,300 feet tall, while some of its brother Andes tower to 26,000\nfeet. But few of them are so handsome. It stands alone and erect, with\nhead up and shoulders squared, while some of them look as if the nurse\nhad dropped them in their babyhood and they had never got their spines\nstraight again. It is a huge and very perfect cone, symmetrical as the\nsacred peak of Japan, but vastly higher. So steep is it that the thick\nblanket of volcanic cinders would surely slip down from its shoulders,\nexcept for the long brooches of dead lava that pin it up. As for its\nhead, that is old with eternal snow.\n\nFor time unknown\u2014since long before history\u2014the Misti has been the best\nknown mountain in Peru; and I do not much wonder. It has a nobility of\nits own, such as its mightier brethren do not all possess. Just to its\nright vast Charchani climbs 20,000 feet into the sky, and a most majestic\npeak it is. Just to its left towers the grand wall of Pichu-pichu, itself\ntaller than the greatest mountain in the United States. But it is always\nthe lone, solemn Misti, to which every one looks, of which every one\nspeaks\u2014with a strange mixture of love and awe. Meeting an Arequipe\u00f1o\nabroad, you might very likely fancy there were no other mountains in\nsight of his home; but you will not be left long in ignorance that\nthere is a Misti. Even before Europeans knew of America, the remarkable\nIndians of Peru half worshiped the Misti; and so Arequipa gets its name,\nan Aymar\u00e1 word which means \u201cwith the peak behind it.\u201d Far up its deadly\nsides they toiled to make their sacrifices to Those Above; and even in\nthe elder crater I have counted the ruins of aboriginal shrines. It is\nso isolated, so individual, so majestic in its awful stature; and above\nall, while its neighbor brothers are just mountains, it has a soul\u2014the\nwondrous fire-soul of the volcano.\n\nA stern father is the Misti. His daughter is surely not undutiful, but\nmany a time he has punished her sorely. Many a time he has sent her\nsprawling in the dust, and turned her smiling whiteness to a generation\nof mourning. So, even as late as 1868 over half the buildings of Arequipa\nwent down in a mortal chaos of stone, killing as many people as fall in\nan ordinary battle.\n\nOne might fancy that such a parent would get himself disliked; but his\nseverity does not seem to be laid up against him. Arequipa loves the\nMisti\u2014and as for Tr\u00e1nsita, she loved him even more than she did Arequipa.\nTheir house faced south, but the first thing in the morning Tr\u00e1nsita used\nto climb to the stone-arched roof to look at the peak black against the\nrising sun; and the last thing at evening to watch the rosy west-glow\nupon that venerable head. And always she wondered the more, for now as\nshe grew taller, and the untaught soul had room to swell, she saw more\nand more in that great dark one with his elephant-wrinkled hide and\nthe lava scars on his white head, and now and then, of a hushed dawn,\nthe ghost of a cloud floating plume-like from his brow. Perhaps it was\nbecause he is so incomprehensible a giant that she comprehended him\u2014in\nthat child way which is more at home in some mysteries than we older\nstupids are. At all events, she turned to him for companionship and\nconfidences, and had a way of talking with him ever so softly, that no\none else should hear.\n\n\u201cNow, _taita_,\u201d she was whispering this morning, \u201chast thou heard what\nis to be? For they say that the _Tuerto_, the cross-eyed, who oppressed\nus before, is to make new revolution, that he may be president again and\nrob himself still richer. And it has always been in Arequipa that they\nbegin. Dost thou think it? And would they kill Eug\u00e9nio? For he is very\nloyal, and is one of importance, being a corporal. Do not let them hurt\nmy brother\u2014wilt thou, _taita_?\u201d\n\nTo all these questions and the adjuration the giant answered never a\nword. His face was grave with the morning shadows. To look at him no one\nbut Tr\u00e1nsita would have dreamed he knew anything about it.\n\nNor do I really know that he did, though he had the best of\nopportunities. From that lookout in the sky, so overtopping the town, he\ncould see right into the high-walled court of Don Telesfor\u2019s mansion. It\nwas a flat old courtyard, paved with tipsy blocks of stone and framed\nfour-square with long shadowy verandas of the white _sillar_.[18] In the\ncenter was a long-forgotten fountain, and at the middle of each side\na quaint staircase of the same white tufa ran up to the cracked and\nprecarious _sillar_ roof. No one was to be seen about the court. Only,\nalong the eastern _portal_[19] was a long ridge of fresh earth.\n\nDon Telesfor was making repairs. A great many people in Arequipa had long\nbeen free to say that he ought to mend his ways, and the old place might\ncertainly count as a way that should be mended. His career as prefect,\nyears before, had been by no means free from charges of extortion and\nthievery, and it was notorious that he would be glad to see again in the\npresidential chair the unscrupulous usurper who had grown from pauper\nsoldier to many-times millionaire in one term. For this reason Don\nTelesfor was as little beloved as his old patron; and poor _cholos_, with\nbetter love than understanding of freedom, took malicious pleasure in\nlaying the scourge to their two backs jointly. \u201cLook at the Cacerist!\u201d\nthey would growl audibly when Don Telesfor thundered down the reeling\ncobblestones on his silver trapped horse. As for his house, I fancy\nnot one of them ever passed it after nightfall, with a bit of chalk in\nhis pocket (and chalk is the last thing to be without in Peru during a\ncampaign), but he stopped and scrawled in elastic Spanish upon the outer\nwall: \u201cDeath to the tyrant and his leeches! Down with the cross-eyed!\u201d\n\nBut though he was unpopular in person and politics, no one thought of\ntaking Don Telesfor very seriously. Like his patron, he had turned tail\nwhen the Chilean wolves came down on the fold; and unlike him, his\ncaution was greater than his greed. Every one knew him for timorous. The\nunhappy republic was torn and pale with fear of a new usurpation; but in\nall the whisperings and the glances over the shoulder, Don Telesfor was\nquite forgotten. Since the downfall of the pretender he had been quietly\ncultivating his pretty _chacra_ at Yura, and now even thought to patch\nup the old mansion in Arequipa, long tousled and neglected since the\nterrible _temblor_ of \u201968. This was praiseworthy and reassuring, too. In\nthose troublous times to think rather of beautifying and restoring the\nhome was clearly a pledge of peace.\n\nSober burros, each laden with two big white blocks of _sillar_, had been\ntrudging down from the lofty quarries, and the tottering arches of the\ncourtyard had been rebuilt. Now, Don Telesfor was hauling rich soil all\nthe way from his plantation to make flower beds in the _patio_.[20] Some\nfelt that the soil of Arequipa ought to be good enough for any flower;\nbut if he chose to haul dirt twelve miles instead of one, that was his\nlookout. So the crazy wagons creaked across the ancient stone bridge\nevery afternoon and bumped into the courtyard, and were relieved of\ntheir mules. Don Telesfor was always on hand in person to attend to the\nunloading\u2014he and his nephew, Don Beltran, and two old peons\u2014while the\ndrivers took their animals to the _ac\u00e9quia_. One would have thought that\nloam sacred, by the care he took of it.\n\nJust now the big gates were shut. The wagons would not be in from Yura\nfor some time yet. Along the east side of the _patio_ was the long mound\nof soil, paling in the hot sun; aside from that, one might have thought\nthe place abandoned.\n\nBut if one could have peered through the heavy doors of the middle room\nof the north portal one would have seen Don Telesfor and Don Beltran\nand half a dozen strangers talking low and earnestly. The windows and\neven the skylight were shuttered, and the one candle sent strange shadows\nsprawling over a formidable row of long, shallow, iron-bound boxes\nstained with fresh earth.\n\n\u201cTo-morrow night, then,\u201d said one of the strangers, laying his hand on\nDon Telesfor\u2019s shoulder. \u201cEven so it will begin in Lima on the eve of\nthe new congress, and all is set that the revolution burst in the same\nhour in Truxillo, Cuzco, here and all Peru. And carrying it off well here\nin the south, who knows but Don Telesfor shall earn a place in the new\ncabinet?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u00d3jala!\u201d sighed Don Telesfor, his mouth twitching greedily. \u201cAt all\nevents, this end is safe. I promise you no one so much as suspects us,\nand with the two hundred men that will sleep here to-night hidden, we can\neasily put down any resistance. The _gu\u00e1rdias_ are the only danger; for,\nbeing _cholos_[21] they all worship Pi\u00e9rola, and it avails not the trying\nto buy them. The only argument with such stupids is to rap them the back\nof the head\u2014and for that, thirty secure men are appointed to hide upon\nthe beat and silence each his policeman. By midnight that should all\nbe settled without noise, and then we will fall upon the barracks. A\nhundred soldiers, asleep, have nothing to say with us; and in the morning\nArequipa will waken to find herself in our ranks.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing lacks, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing. All is understood. Forty rifles are still to come, but they\nwill be here in an hour, or maybe two, for the carts move slowly.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd then the flower beds will be done, no?\u201d chuckled the other with a\nwink.\n\n\u201cAye, and ready to bloom,\u201d answered Don Telesfor, smiling grimly at the\njest.\n\n\u201cAnd, methinks, with enough thorns\u2014_ay di\u00f3s!_ What?\u201d\n\nFor a deep, far roar crept through the closed shutters; a Babel of\nhowling curs and crowing cocks and the jangle of church bells. Before one\ncould fairly turn to look at his neighbor it was as if that whole room\nof stone had suddenly been dropped twenty feet, as one might drop a bird\ncage to the floor. The heavy boxes and the standing men and the massive\nfurniture were tossed as feathers in a gust of air. The wide stone vault\noverhead yawned and let in a foot of sky, and shivered as if to fall, and\nthen as swiftly clapped its ragged teeth shut again, while a great dust\nfilled the room to choking. Then all was still as the grave, and for a\nfew seconds nothing moved. At last the men scrambled to their feet, pale\nand hushed, and stood looking blankly at one another.\n\n\u201c_Ea!_ But I like not your Arequipa temperament,\u201d faltered the tallest of\nthe strangers. \u201cIt is too impulsive. Not if you gave me three Arequipas\nwould I dwell here!\u201d\n\n\u201c_Pues_, it is nothing,\u201d answered Don Telesfor, coolly. \u201cOnly in the\nbeing accustomed. These _temblores_ are fearsome, but we think little of\nthem. To the street, when the shock comes, lest the walls thump us on the\nheads; and then back into the house, as if there had been nothing. As for\nthis one, it is a good omen. El Misti gives us the hand that he is with\nus for an overturning.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTr\u00e1nsita, sitting upon the stone coping of her own roof, had a clearer\nview of the earthquake, and her opinion certainly did not coincide with\nthat of Don Telesfor. It was a perfect day, as most days in Arequipa are,\nbut something in the air made her nervous and ill at ease, and all the\nmorning she had been perched up there confiding her fears to the great\npeak. Below, the street was still echoing the rumble of clumsy carts high\nheaped with earth. She had paid little attention to them or their clamor.\nHer thoughts were for Eug\u00e9nio, and her anxiety about him seemed to grow.\nSo groundlessly, too. The national unrest was everywhere, but vague and\nundefined. No one knew any specific cause for alarm, and she least of\nall. Now, if her ears had been sharp enough to hark across to that barred\nroom a mile away, where Don Telesfor was at that very moment saying: \u201cThe\nonly argument with such stupids is to rap them the back of the head.\u201d\nAnd \u201csuch stupids\u201d meant precisely Eug\u00e9nio and his fellow-soldiers, the\nmilitary police of the city.\n\nSix wagons had already turned the corner toward the bridge and were out\nof sight. As the straggling seventh and last trundled past the house the\nteamster, seeing that squat figure up there, tossed at it a pebble from\nhis load. Tr\u00e1nsita only shrugged her shoulder at the tap. She was too\nbusy with her thoughts to so much as turn around. \u201cMuch care of Eug\u00e9nio,\u201d\nshe murmured. \u201cAnd if truly there be of these Cacerists here, confound\nthem, _taita_!\u201d\n\nAs she raised her eyes to the great peak a swift chill ran through her.\nShe was sure the Misti nodded, as if he had heard her words. Surely the\ngiant moved! Far spurts of dust rose from his shoulders, and dark masses\ncame leaping down, and the great profile seemed to lose its sharpness.\nShe winked hard to be sure of her eyes, and now the Misti moved no more.\nBut from the corrals roundabout rose a bedlam; and Chopo ran out, barking\nfrantically, and the ancient cottonwoods up by the mill suddenly bowed\ntheir heads as to a hurricane. The _ac\u00e9quia_ bank split and the stream\ncame panicking out. The tall wall back of Eus\u00e9bio\u2019s house was rent from\ntop to bottom, and two-foot blocks of _sillar_ flew all about. The very\nroof on which she sat\u2014a massive arch of stone, as are nearly all the\nroofs of Arequipa\u2014went up and down as if a heavy wave had passed under\nit. The coping spilled into the street; and Tr\u00e1nsita was left clinging\non the broken edge, her face hanging over. There were wild screams, and\nevery one stood, as by magic, in the middle of the street, looking up at\nthe tottering walls. And in the self-same breath it was all done, and no\nsign was left save the shattered blocks of stone, the truant _ac\u00e9quia_\nand a tall cloud of yellow dust that went bellying off toward Charchani.\n\nYes, one thing more. Tr\u00e1nsita lay bewildered a moment, and then began\nto look about, still without moving. Every one was going back into the\nhouses, laughing nervously, a few children crying. In another moment\nthe street was deserted. It was as if that thousand people had been a\nreturn-ball, to pop one instant into sight, and in another back with the\nrecoil of the elastic. But down by the empty hovels over the way was a\ncart, broken across in halves. Two dazed mules were trying clumsily to\nright themselves with the forward end of the wreck, while the rear half\nwas tossed up on the narrow sidewalk against the ruined walls. The load\nof earth had been unceremoniously dumped into the gutter, and the _cholo_\ndriver, half overwhelmed by it, lay motionless along the curb.\n\nAt that, Tr\u00e1nsita was upon her feet at once, nor paused until she was\ntugging at the teamster\u2019s arms. The dirt was heaped upon his legs, and he\nhad fainted with the pain, and such a dead weight she could not budge.\nShe dropped the limp shoulders and began to claw the loose earth away.\nIn a moment the left foot was free; but as she dragged it out, the dirt\nslipped down and revealed the corner of an iron-bound box resting upon\nthe other leg. A sudden impulse led her to sweep back the soil until\nthe end of the case was uncovered. The funny black marks there meant\nnothing to Tr\u00e1nsita\u2014indeed, if any one had spelled out for her the\n\u201cM-a-double-n-l-i-c-h-e-r,\u201d I seriously doubt if that grewsome German\nname would have made her any the wiser. But if she did not know letters\nfrom ten-penny nails, and was equally ignorant of the inventions and the\nexistence of Germany, Tr\u00e1nsita was no fool. For a moment her brown face\nlooked more than usually dull. Then a slow grayness crept into it, and\nthere was a hitch in her breath.\n\nShe looked up at the Misti appealingly, and then down at the box, staring\nas if fascinated. Presently the rather heavy jaw set stubbornly. She\nlifted the corner of the box an inch, by a violent effort, pried her\nshin against the sharp edge to hold it, and laboriously dragged out the\nimprisoned foot. Then she scraped the earth over until the box was well\nhidden again, and leaving the liberated but unconscious teamster where he\nlay, went racing down the street like one gone daft.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cThis is a pretty story to bring to the _cuartel_, daughterling,\u201d said\nCaptain Yrribarri, fifteen minutes later. Corporal Eug\u00e9nio had no\nsooner heard his sister\u2019s breathless message than he brought her before\nthe commanding officer, and there she had rehearsed it all, unshaken by\nquestionings and banter. \u201cIt has to be true,\u201d she declared, over and\nover, \u201celse _mi taita_ Misti never would have showed me.\u201d\n\n\u201cA girl\u2019s nonsense,\u201d the grave officer repeated. \u201cAnd still\u2014what do _any_\nboxes, thus hidden in loads of earth, and in these times? I mind me, now,\nthat Don Telesfor has been hauling earth all the way from Yura these\nmany weeks, when there is better at Carmen Alto. It is fit to be looked\ninto, and by the saints, if thy guess is true, little one, thou shalt\nbe corporal, or thy brother sergeant! _Oyez_, Eug\u00e9nio! With a squad of\nthirty men surround Don Telesfor\u2019s house and hold it tight that it leak\nnot, while Pedro goes with five to verify the cart and the box. If that\nis nothing, they will report to you and you will return to quarters with\nthe tongue behind the teeth; but if they shall find arms in the cart,\nkeep the house and warn me.\u201d\n\nFor my own part, I do not overly love the soldier-police of Arequipa,\nand have sometimes been angry enough to want to choke them for murdering\nmy sleep with their abominable midnight whistles. But after all, I am\nglad that they were not all knocked on the head the night after the\nearthquake; for in spite of their ignorance and their skin and their\near-piercing way of announcing \u201cAll\u2019s well,\u201d they are a kindly, honest,\nwell meaning set, who could be much better utilized than by clubbing.\nAnd particularly Eug\u00e9nio, who is a very good boy and likes to talk with\nme, calling me \u201cyour grace.\u201d He has told me many interesting things, and\noften sent a _cholo_ to \u201ctote\u201d my heavy camera around. Sergeant Eug\u00e9nio\nnow, please\u2014for Tr\u00e1nsita declined to be a corporal when the search\nrevealed not only the one case of Mannlicher rifles in the dirt under\nthe wrecked cart, but thirty cases more in Don Telesfor\u2019s house, along\nwith papers which left no doubt of his treason. Some fellow-conspirator\nmust have warned him in time of the wayside accident, for though Eug\u00e9nio\nand his men kept the house fully surrounded until a report came from the\ncart, when they broke in there was not a soul to be found.\n\nNone of the other plotters were known, and Don Telesfor eluded pursuit.\nIt may or may not be true, as, I have been told, that he took asylum\nin Bolivia and was afterward drowned in trying to ford the Choqueyapu\nduring a freshet; but, at all events, he never came back to revive his\nnipped revolution.\n\nAs for Tr\u00e1nsita, you might just as well try to tell her that the Misti\nis not there at all as that \u201cHe\u201d did not specially and intentionally\ninterpose to save the peace of his daughters and the head of Eug\u00e9nio.\nI half believe her brother is secretly of the same opinion, for the\nsuperstition of the peak is very strong in Arequipa; though he shrugs his\nshoulders in a deprecatory way when put the direct question, and says\nevasively:\n\n\u201c_Pues_, who knows? So the women declare. For me it is enough that he did\nit, and in time, the same as if he knew.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Witch Deer.\n\n\n\n\nThe Witch Deer.\n\n\n\u201cTchu! \u2019st\u00e1-te!\u201d cried Josefa,[22] straightening up from her work and\nlooking severely at a small brown rogue who had climbed up to the little\nshelf over the corner fireplace. The adobe floor was spattered with big\ndrops of water, to lay the dust; and Josefa, bent half double to reach it\nwith the short wisp of broom corn which serves in New Mexican homes, was\nsweeping toward the door the fine gray powder that works up daily from\nthe compact clay.\n\n\u201cGive me that little stone, _nana_,\u201d begged the boy. \u201cThe one _tata_\ncarries in his pouch when he goes to hunt.\u201d\n\n\u201cGet away, quick, for that is the charm of the Magic Deer! Much care! For\nif ever thou touch that, thy grandfather will see to thee!\u201d\n\nAnast\u00e1cio clambered down reluctantly from the old chair, and went outside\nto play with the burro. But the stone weighed on his mind. It was a very\nordinary-looking pebble, gray, light, porous, and without any particular\nshape\u2014looking, in fact, like one of the pieces of pumice which were so\ncommon in the mountains. But somehow it had a fascination for Anast\u00e1cio.\nAnd that evening, when we all sat by the crackling fire, he climbed on\nhis grandfather\u2019s knee and said:\n\n\u201cGo, _tata_, tell me what is this stone of the Magic Deer, that I may not\nplay with it.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo play with _that_?\u201d exclaimed Don Jos\u00e9, in a tone of horror. \u201cChild!\nThat little stone is very precious. For no other hunter in New Mexico has\nthe like; and if it were lost or broken, we should be ruined, since only\nwith it is it possible to kill the deer which are enchanted, as are many.\nAnd to get that stone I passed a sad time.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow? Where? When? With the Enchanted Deer? Tell me, _tatita_!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, with the _Venado Encantado_, and in many ways.\u201d And Don Jos\u00e9, the\nluckiest hunter in Rio Arriba, a gray-headed but sharp-eyed Mexican\u2014whom\nI count a staunch friend and a brave man, even if he does believe some\nthings I do not\u2014nodded to me, as if for permission to tell the story. I\nhad often heard of the Witch Deer, and knew that a very large proportion\nof the natives of New Mexico believe firmly in this and in many other\nforms of witchcraft. I knew, too, that Don Jos\u00e9 was a scrupulously\ntruthful man. The years of our acquaintance had proved that beyond doubt.\nWhatever in his story might be supernatural would have to be charged to\nhis faith, and not to any intention of deceiving.\n\n\u201cYou must know, Don Carlos,\u201d said he, \u201cthat while there are many witches\nhere, there is one kind that delights most to vex hunters. Without doubt\nyou also will have seen the Enchanted Deer, as much as you hunt.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I answered. \u201cI have never seen one, but I have heard of them all\nover New Mexico these five years.\u201d\n\n\u201cSure! For there are many; and many have lost their lives thereby, for\nthe Witch Deer is more dangerous than bear or mountain lion. Only when\none has the stone which they wear in the first fork of their horns is it\npossible to conquer them, for that makes one not to be seen.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I can see you, Don Jos\u00e9,\u201d I interrupted, smiling, as he held up the\nmagic stone.\n\n\u201cBut, friend, that is different! For it is only in its use. Now I _want_\nyou to see me; but when I carry this no deer in the sierra has eyes for\nme, and I could walk even up to them, taking care only that they scented\nme not.\u201d\n\nIt is worse than useless to argue against these beliefs. Don Jos\u00e9 would\nnever be convinced, and the incredulity of a friend could only hurt his\nfeelings, and, besides being ill-mannered, further caviling would lose me\na story, so I said, simply:\n\n\u201cAll right, _compadre_, tell us all about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, thus it was, and you shall see I am right. It makes many\nyears now, for it was long before I married me with Josefa, in the\nyear of \u201967. Her father was Alcalde of Abiquiu[23]; and there lived my\nparents also. When I was a young man, already grown, strong\u2014as you may\nyet see\u2014and well taught in the ways of hunting, I came often to these\nmountains for game; and our house was never without dried meat in plenty.\nThere was one that hunted with me, and they always called him _Cabezudo_,\nbecause of his strong head; but in truth he was Lu\u00eds Delgado, a cousin\nof me. In heart we were as brothers, and either would give his life for\nthe other. Often the old men of Abiquiu told us of the Witch Deer, which\ncould never be killed unless by a hunter unseen; and Lu\u00eds answered\nalways: \u2018Aha! When there is a deer too strong for this rifle, let him eat\nme.\u2019 For, you see, he believed not in witches. This was the only thing we\never quarreled about\u2014that he was without faith.\n\n\u201cIt came that in October of the year \u201960 we were together camped in the\nValles, and with much care, since the Navajos were bad. We had a house of\nlogs, very strong, and in it already was a wonder of dried meat of deer\nand bear. We went forth always together, for fear of the Indians, but by\ngood luck they molested us not. As for game, I think there was never such\na year.\n\n\u201cOne day, when the first snow was three hours old, we came to a round\n_mesa_ that stood on the plateau, and near the foot of it were tracks\nof a deer. But alas! I knew then that it was no true deer, for its\nfootprints were great as those of a horse. \u2018It will be the Venado\nEncantado,\u2019 said I to Lu\u00eds. \u2018Let us go the other way!\u2019 But he said:\n\u2018_What_ Enchanted Deer, nor yet what mouse-traps? Get out! I thought\nthee a man! Thou that only yesterday didst kill, with dagger alone, the\ngreat she-bear, and now wouldst run from a deer track!\u2019 And it was true;\nfor since the bear, well wounded, was upon us before there was room to\nreload, I had the luck to compose her with my hunting-knife.\n\n\u201cWrong of me it was, but I had shame at the words of Lu\u00eds, and followed\nhim. \u2018Truly this is grandfather of all the deer!\u2019 he cried. \u2018For never\nhave I seen such tracks. And his horns we will take to Abiquiu, though\nthey shall weigh like a tree. Come on!\u2019\n\n\u201cWith that we pursued the tracks, wondering always at their greatness.\nThey went a little around the foot of the mesa, and then up a steep way\nto its top. When we came to the top, where was a cleft in the rocks, so\nthat one could get up, we found a large level place, round, and with\na rim of cliffs below, so that nowhere else was it possible to reach\nthe summit. The trail went away among the junipers, and we followed it\ncautiously, knowing that the deer must be here, since no tracks led down.\nAnd of a sudden, crawling around a clump of trees, we stood before him.\nAy, se\u00f1or! How great he was! Great as a tall horse, and upon his head the\nkeys [horns] were as the branches of a blasted cedar. There he stood,\na thing of fifty yards away, looking at us with his head high, as if\nmocking. My heart forgot its count; for truly he was no thing of this\nearth\u2014that beast with a look so cunning and so terrible.\n\n\u201c\u2018What a beast!\u2019 Lu\u00eds whispered. \u2018At the throat, to break his neck. But\nsave thou thy fire, for in case\u2019\u2014and putting his rifle firm as a rock, he\nfired. But as the smoke blew by, there stood the deer, wagging himself\nthe head scornfully, for the bullet had rebounded from him. So it is with\nthese beasts that are witches, for when they see you, no ball will enter\ntheir hide. And then, putting down his head till that the horns lacked\nbut a foot from the ground, he came like a large rock leaping down the\nmountain.\n\n\u201cNow I knew well that he was no mortal thing, and that I had no right to\nshoot. But for sake of Lu\u00eds, who was pouring new powder in his rifle, I\ncared not even if I should be accursed; and when the beast was very close\nI sprang to one side and gave him the ball, of an ounce weight, squarely\nupon the side. But it could not enter him. Lu\u00eds jumped, too, and the\nbrute passed between us like a strong wind. In a moment he turned and\ncharged us again, and I am sure I saw smoke come from his nose. As for\nhis eyes, they were pure fire. \u2018Run for yourself!\u2019 cried Lu\u00eds, and he\nmade for the tree, while I took the other way. Turning a juniper, I ran\nfor the edge of the cliff; but just as I came there, there was a scream,\nand looking across my shoulder, I saw the deer making with his horns as\none does with his spade upon hard ground.\n\n\u201cAfter that I could go no more to our camp, but came straightway to\nAbiquiu. When they heard what had been, all the town mourned\u2014for Lu\u00eds was\nwell beloved. But none were surprised, for they said: \u2018Always we told him\nof the Venado Encantado, but he would not believe. And now it has come\ntrue. Poor headstrong Lu\u00eds!\u2019\n\n\u201cAs for me, I sickened, and was much time in bed. And always I saw the\ndeer leaping upon Lu\u00eds and tearing him, until it was not to be borne.\nWhen at last I was cured, I could think only to kill the Witch Deer, and\navenge my poor _compa\u00f1ero_. I asked of all the old men if there was how\nto do it; but all said, \u2018Beware, lest he trample thee also!\u2019 And Josefa\nprayed me to think no more of it, for she would never marry one who\nput himself against the witches. I know not how, Don Carlos, for I too\nfeared, but Lu\u00eds would not let me rest.\n\n\u201cTwice I went alone to the mesa, for no one would companion me. _There_\nwas always the deer; but I kept under the rocks, where he could not reach\nme, and waited my turn. Once, when my aim was true upon his heart, the\nrifle only snapped; and when I went to prime with double care, the flint\nwas all in cracks, so that it would not strike a spark. And again, when I\nshot him between the very eyes, from near, it did him nothing. So I saw\nit was useless.\n\n\u201cFrom then all went ill. Even the wild turkeys had no fear of me, for I\ncould shoot nothing. And in Abiquiu I was mocked, for the young men had\nbeen jealous that formerly I had killed more game than any, and now they\ntaunted me for \u2018the starved hunter.\u2019\n\n\u201cAt the last I thought me of one who lived in the ca\u00f1on of Juan Tafoya\u2014a\nwitch, they say, very wise in such things\u2014and to him I went. When he\nhad heard my story, he said: \u2018But, man! knowest thou not that this is\nthe Venado Encantado? How dost thou think to kill him? For he has in\nhis horns a stone of great power, having the which he cannot be harmed.\nThere is only one way in which it could be done, and that is to shoot him\nwhen he sees thee not. But that, even the best hunter cannot do, for the\nanimal is very wise and of sharp sight. Only having an invisible stone\ncould one do it.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018And have other deer this stone?\u2019 I asked; and he replied: \u2018There are\nsome, for this is not the only Witch Deer. But none of them canst thou\nkill if they see thee.\u2019\n\n\u201cAfter that they saw me little in Abiquiu, for I was always hunting. For\nmany months I pursued the trail of every buck deer, killing many. And at\nlast, shooting from ambush one that passed me unsuspecting, I found in\nthe first fork of its horns a stone like this, but not the half of it in\nsize. This I proved in many ways, and clear it was that now my luck had\nchanged.\n\n\u201cBeing satisfied of this, then, I loaded my rifle with great pains, and\nwent one evening in search of the Venado Encantado. Coming to the mesa\nby night, I camped among the rocks, without a fire, and in the morning,\nbefore the sun, climbed up without a little noise. In my pouch was the\nstone, and my rifle was well ready. When I came through the cleft at\nthe top, there stood the deer, looking straight at me, not twenty yards\ndistant, and I threw my rifle to my shoulder, giving myself up for lost.\nBut he moved not, and watching him, I perceived that he did not see me at\nall\u2014the which is proof that the stone makes one to be invisible. At this\nI took heart, and with a true aim on his throat, fired. He leaped _thus_\nhigh in the air and fell dead; and coming to him, I found that the ball\nhad broken his neck.\n\n\u201cHis meat I did not touch, for besides being accursed, he had killed my\nLu\u00eds, whose bones I brought away to Christian ground in Abiquiu. But in\nthe first fork of the horns, which were taller than my head, I found this\nstone which you see. Since I have that, I kill whatsoever deer with ease,\nbecause they cannot see me. What think you, then?\u201d\n\nWe sat for a few moments silent, watching the flames that licked and\ntwisted about the cedar sticks in the fireplace. Anast\u00e1cio was voiceless,\nwith an awe too strong even for his boyish excitement; and as for me, the\nstory of Lu\u00eds\u2019s death had brought back some vivid and uncanny memories.\nBut Don Jos\u00e9, who really cared enough for me to wish to lead me out of\nthe darkness of error, followed the matter up.\n\n\u201cDo you not see, Don Carlos, that there _are_ Witch Deer? For look at his\nfierceness, and that he could not be hurt until I had a charm-stone like\nhis own. And you know that I tell you truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, old fellow, I know you tell me the truth as you see it. But it is\nnothing strange for a buck to be _bravo_ in the fall\u2014_that_ I myself\nhave suffered by. And I fancy you _could_ have killed him before, if you\nhad not felt so sure that you couldn\u2019t.\u201d Then I was rather ashamed to\nhave said even so much, and as gently as it could be said, for I do not\nadmire the always-superior person. But the old man understood, and was\nnot offended; only he shook his head with real sadness, and said:\n\n\u201cAh, that way was Lu\u00eds. God keep you from being taught as he was!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nFelipe\u2019s Sugaring-off.\n\n\n\n\nFelipe\u2019s Sugaring-off.\n\n\nThe great water-wheel was trundling as fast as ever the white impulse\nfrom the old stone aqueduct could kick it along. The wheel, indeed,\ngrumbled at so much hard work; but the water only laughed and danced as\nthe big iron jaws of the _trapiche_[24] chewed up the yellow culms of\nsugar cane and spat to one side the useless pith, while the sweet, dark\nsap crept sluggishly down the iron conduit toward the sugar-house. In\nfront was a very mountain of cane brought from the fields by bullock\ncarts; and half a dozen sinewy negroes were feeding it, an armful at a\ntime, between the rolls of the mill. Behind it others with wooden forks\nwere spreading the crushed cane to dry for a day, after which it would\nbe used as fuel to boil its own plundered juice. Off beyond the sugar\nbuilding gleamed the white Moorish walls of the tile-roofed chapel and\nmanor house, built three hundred years ago, when Peru was the richest\ncrown jewel of Spain. Everywhere else stretched the great fields of\ncane\u2014to the very foot of the sandhills of the encroaching desert, to the\nvery rim of the blue Pacific. What an immensity of sugar it all meant!\n\nThe same thought struck the grizzled _administrador_[25] this morning as\nhe stood on a pier of the aqueduct\u2014just where its stream pounced upon\nthe lazy wheel\u2014and swept the scene with those watchful old eyes. \u201cOf a\ntruth,\u201d he was saying to himself, \u201cthe world must be very large, as they\nsay, and many must eat nothing else, for here we make every day forty\nthousand pounds of sugar, three hundred days of the year, and there are\nmany other sugar haciendas in Peru, though maybe none so big as Villa.\nTruly, I know not where it all goes. _Hola!_ Always that fellow!\u201d and,\nspringing to the ground as lightly as a boy, in two bounds he was at the\nmill.\n\nThere four of the negro laborers were in sudden struggle with a newcomer\nfrom the quarters\u2014a huge black fellow, whose brutish face was now\ndistorted by drunken rage. He was naked to the waist, and his dark hide\nbulged with tremendous muscles, as he swayed his four grapplers to and\nfro, trying to free his right hand, which clasped a heavy _machete_.\nThis murderous combination of sword and cleaver, which lopped the\nstubborn cane at a blow, had found worse employment now, for a red stain\nran down its broad blade, and on the ground lay a man clenching a stump\nof arm. Old Melito paused for no questions, but, plucking up a heavy bar\nof _algarroba_, smote so strongly upon the desperado\u2019s woolly pate that\nthe ironwood broke. The black giant reeled and fell, and one of the men\nwrenched away the _machete_ and flung it into the pool below the wheel.\n\n\u201cHe came very drunk, and only because Roque brushed against him with an\narmful of cane he wanted to kill him,\u201d said the men as they knotted their\ngrimy handkerchiefs upon the wrists and ankles of the stunned black.\n\n\u201cYou did well to hold him,\u201d replied the _admimistrador_. \u201cBring now the\nirons and we will put him in the _calaboz_ till to-morrow. Then he shall\ngo to Lima to the prison, for we can have no fighting here, nor men of\ntrouble.\u201d\n\nA slender, big-eyed Spanish boy coming out a few moments later from the\ngreat castle arch of the manor house saw four peons lugging away between\nthem the long bulk of the prisoner, and stopped to ask the trouble.\n\n\u201cAh! That bad Coco. That he may never come back from Lima,\u201d said the\nyoung Spaniard earnestly. \u201cHe is a terror to all, and now I fear he will\nkill Don Melito, for Coco never forgets. I shall ask my father to see the\nprefect, that they keep him away. And the sugar?\u201d\n\nFelipe never tired of following all the processes with a grave air, as\nif it all rested upon his small shoulders. A boy who never felt that he\nwas \u201chelping\u201d\u2014if such a very helpless boy ever existed\u2014has lost one of\nthe best things in all boyhood, and Felipe could not have understood such\na boy at all. He went on now and joined Don Melito, and the two stood\ntogether watching the vat with professional eyes while two negroes plied\ntheir plashing hoes. It was very hot work even to watch it, but a good\n_administrador_ would never trust this to the laborers.\n\n\u201cNow you watch it a little,\u201d said Don Melito suddenly, with roguish\ngravity, looking at the boy\u2019s preoccupied face. \u201cAs for me, I must see\nhow are the _pailas_,\u201d and he climbed the steps to the platform where the\ncaldrons were hissing with their new supply of sap.\n\nFelipe, thus left alone with the heaviest responsibility he had ever\nborne, knit his smooth brows very hard and peered into the vat as if the\nfate of nations hung on his eyes. For the first time he began to doubt\nthem. He wondered if it were not worked enough\u2014if he had not better stop\nthe hoes and get the molders to work. If only Don Melito would come back\nand decide for him!\n\nBut Don Melito was not here, and there were no signs of his coming.\nPerhaps he was leaving Felipe to find out the difference between knowing\nhow some one else does a thing and how to do it one\u2019s self. The boy\nfidgeted up and down and looked at the vat first from one end and then\nfrom the other, and grew more doubtful the more he looked.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know, and I don\u2019t _know_,\u201d he cried to himself. \u201cBut sure it is\nthat I must do something, for he left me in charge and perhaps is busy\nwith other matters, thinking I would not let it be spoiled. Put it in the\nmolds!\u201d\n\nThe men leaned their candied hoes against the wall. The molders began\nladling their buckets full, and, in turn, filling the shallow molds. The\ncolor there darkened again as sudden crystallization set in; but Felipe\nfelt a great load lifted off his shoulders. He was very sure now that it\nwas a good color\u2014not a hint of the hateful underdone black, but a soft,\nrich brown, shading to gold at the thin edges.\n\nNow he was free\u2014the laborers could attend to the rest, as usual\u2014and he\nwould go and hunt for Don Melito. He ran up the steps and along the\nplatform\u2014and half way stopped short, as if he had run against a wall.\n\nThe rusty irons should never have been trusted with that giant\u2019s\nstrength! They might do for common men, but for Coco\u2014as soon as\nconsciousness came back to him, and with it the old rage, he had snapped\nthem, and, wrenching out the iron bars from the window of the _calaboz_,\nhad come for his revenge. Even now he was shaking his wrists, one still\nhooped with the iron band, before the old _administrador\u2019s_ face, and\nhissing: \u201cYou! _You_ did me this! And now I will boil you!\u201d\n\nDon Melito stood still and gray as a stone, looking up into Coco\u2019s eyes.\nHis hat was in his hand on account of the heat; but now he put it on as\nif scorning to stand uncovered before the fellow\u2014put it steadily upon the\ncurling gray hair that reached barely to the level of those great naked\nchest muscles.\n\n\u201cI did strike you down and ordered you to be ironed, Coco,\u201d he said\nquietly, \u201cand I would do so again. Now I am going to send you to Lima.\nThere is no place at Villa for people like you.\u201d\n\nBut Coco leaped upon him like the black jaguar, and clutched him with\nthose long, knotted arms. Melito was sinewy and lithe as a cat, but he\nwas no match for this huge foe. He fought for life, but Coco with the\nequal desperation of hate. Struggle as he would, he was borne back and\nback until his legs cringed from the glow of the _paila_. At this he made\nso wild a lunge that it bore them back a few feet; but it was only for a\nmoment. Inch by inch the negro urged him toward that bubbling roar which\nseemed to drown all other sounds. And even now, with a wild chuckle, the\ngiant doubled him backward against the edge of the _paila_, with a black,\nresistless palm under his chin.\n\nOnly an instant had Felipe stopped, frozen, at sight of Coco; in another\nhe had sprung to the rail, shrieking to the men below: \u201cJuan! Sancho!\nQuico! Come!\u201d And then, rushing at the struggle, he flung himself as\nferociously upon Coco as Coco had attacked Don Melito. But it seemed as\nif he were back in some dreadful dream. He hammered with futile fists\nupon that bare and mighty back, and caught a fierce hold about one of\nthose gnarled legs and tugged to trip it, and kicked it with crazy feet.\nBut it was all with the nightmare sense that he was doing nothing by all\nhis efforts. Indeed, it is half doubtful if the infuriated Coco knew\nat all of this attack in the rear. What to him were the peckings of a\ntwelve-year-old boy?\n\nWould the men never come? Felipe redoubled his kicks and blows, but with\na sickening fear. Don Melito was weakening\u2014already his head was thrust\nback over the steam of the _paila_. Only for his arms locked about the\ngiant\u2019s waist, he would go in. And now Coco\u2019s huge hand came behind him\nand wrenched at the old man\u2019s slender ones, tearing open finger by finger\nresistlessly. In another moment it would be too late to think.\n\nAha, Mr. Coco! The boy sprang to the second _paila_ and snatched the\nlong-handled skimmer that leaned against it, and, dipping it full from\nthe caldron, flung the molten sugar squarely upon Coco\u2019s back. Howling,\nthe negro whirled about, dropping the half-senseless _administrador_\nfrom him, and sprang at Felipe. But the boy stood stiff and very white,\nholding the ladle back aloft. \u201cThis time in the eyes!\u201d he cried,\nhoarsely. \u201cIf you touch Don Melito again, or me, I will throw it in your\nface!\u201d\n\nEven Coco hesitated at this. He was not too drunk with rage to know\nwhat boiling sugar meant. Plainly, this little fool had the advantage.\nHe must be tricked\u2014and then\u2014\u2014. But just then a wan smile flitted across\nFelipe\u2019s face, and, as Coco half turned his head to see what pleasing\nthing could be behind him, he got a glimpse of Pancho, the horse-breaker,\nand something dark and wavy in the air. He ducked forward, but a rope\nsettled upon his broad shoulders, tightening like iron, and he was jerked\nbackward to the ground, and a dozen men were upon him.\n\nCoco made no more trouble on the hacienda of Villa. At Lima he found the\nprompt justice which sometimes happens in Peru. Don Melito was in bed\nseveral days, for he had been roughly handled in body and in nerves. The\nfirst day on which he could sit up a little, Felipe brought him a cake of\n_chancaca_.\n\n\u201cThank you,\u201d said the old man, laying it on the coverlet. Sugar was an\nold story to him.\n\n\u201cBut you must taste this, my _administrador_, and see if it is all\nright.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is good,\u201d answered Melito, munching submissively. And then, with a\nsudden light: \u201cIt is _very_ good\u2014as good as I could have made myself.\nQuite right. And I think you sent it to the molds at just the right\ntime!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAndr\u00e9s, the Arriero.\n\n\n\n\nAndr\u00e9s, the Arriero.[26]\n\n\nI.\n\n\u201c_Hupa mula! Que fam\u00edlia!_\u201d\n\nThe command was right enough, for the beast barely moved, and any one who\never had to do with mules may very likely have cried out, with Andr\u00e9s,\n\u201cWhat a family!\u201d But no one but Andr\u00e9s, I am sure, would have said it\nhere. By the time you get up to 16,000 feet in the Andes, if you are not\ndead altogether, you certainly have no breath to spare\u2014not even so much\nas to say, \u201cThis mouth is mine.\u201d As for exhorting a pack-mule to \u201cget up\u201d\nor trying to make it ashamed of its blood relations, why, you couldn\u2019t\nif you would. If some one were to stand at the head of the pass offering\nyou a dollar a word for remarks, the chances are a hundred to one that\nyou would find yourself without either the ambition or the lungs to earn\na nickel. It is a very strange thing, as well as a very frightful one,\nhow these great altitudes clutch you by the windpipe, and turn your\nheart\u2019s strong beat to the last flutter of a wounded bird, and fill your\neyes with strange red threads and your ears with a dull tap! tap! tap! so\nthat you can count your pulse simply by listening. Worse still, how there\nseems to have been turned somewhere a sly faucet which has let the last\ndrop of strength drip away before you knew it. But very lucky indeed are\nyou if that is all. Many more than escape with these unpleasant symptoms\nhave worse. There is a horrible nausea, as much beyond seasickness as\nthat is beyond a plain stomach-ache, and nearly every one gets it above\na certain height. Then come sudden hemorrhages from nose, mouth, ears,\neyes, finger-tips, and so on to the last. These symptoms and any of them\nmean, \u201cGet down stairs instanter.\u201d If you cannot get down fast enough\nyou will be carried down\u2014too late to do you any good. I have seen great,\npowerful men fall there as an ox falls when the ax is laid to its head,\nand never rise again nor again be conscious. At less elevations I have\nseen robust men go dead in twenty-four hours with no disease on earth but\nthe altitude. Only recently an acquaintance of mine visiting a town but\n12,500 feet above the sea went to bed in perfect health and\u2014\u201cwoke up\ndead in the morning,\u201d as a Celtic mutual friend related in all sincerity.\n\nStill, the only certain thing about it is that if you go high enough\nyou will pay the penalty; but no one can tell you how high that is, nor\ncan you yourself learn finally, even by experiment. You may start out\nwith a party from one of the inland towns of Peru, say at an elevation\nof 7,000 to 8,000 feet\u2014and even there many are greatly affected by the\naltitude. One of the party, and perhaps the most robust looking, may\nbecome so dangerously sick at 10,000 feet that he will have to be sent\nback at once. The rest may go on safely to 12,000 feet, and there another\nsuccumb, and so on. And you may (though it is very unlikely) toil on\neven up to 17,000 or 18,000 feet without serious symptoms, and then a\nfew days later be so terribly affected at 10,000 feet that only the\nmost rapid removal to lower levels will save your life. Myself, I have\nnever felt the mountain sickness. But then, my constitution is a most\nextraordinarily pig-headed one, which seems to butt against almost any\nwall with impunity. I have climbed and worked hard at considerably over\n19,000 feet, and for a long time lived from 12,000 to 15,000 feet above\nthe sea, and never felt anything worse than room for an extra pair of\nlungs, there where is really precious little air to breathe. But warning\nwas all around, so that I never felt quite sure my turn would not come\nnext.\n\nThere is much in habit, of course. You all remember the Irishman\u2019s\nhorse which learned to live on shavings\u2014though unfortunately it died\njust as it was becoming accustomed to this economical diet. And lungs,\ntoo, can get used to living on such shavings as the upper air\u2014that is,\nif there are lungs enough and you give them long enough. Many die in\nthe learning, but in centuries a type is fixed. So with Andr\u00e9s. His\nfathers for a thousand years had breathed no heavier air than that of the\ngreat Bolivian plateau. He had been born on one of the \u201clittle hills\u201d\nbeside Lake Titi-caca, and brought up there. Leadville is the highest\nconsiderable town in North America, and it is too elevated for a great\nmany people; but Andr\u00e9s had never in his life got so low as 11,000 feet.\nIf he were suddenly set down in New York his lungs would be almost as\nmuch embarrassed as would yours if you were so suddenly snatched up to\nhis skyward home. He might almost call for an ax to break that thick air\nup into breathing chunks! And you, sitting with bloodshot eyes and open\nmouth, would be wondering what skim-milk atmosphere was this, that in ten\nminutes\u2019 gasping you could not get as fair a fill to your lungs as you\nnow get with every breath you draw.\n\nThe mule was a well-seasoned mule, born in Puno and never any nearer\nsea level than that 12,500-foot town. True, it was now some 4,000 feet\nnearer the sky, and barely crawling up the pass. At every half-dozen or\ndozen paces it paused to groan despairingly, panting full five minutes\nbefore it could go another step. But that was a good mule. If you wished\nto see what an ordinary mule did in the pass, you had only to look at\neither side of the trail almost anywhere. There were hundreds of bleached\nskeletons lying just where they had fallen, but white as the snows upon\nthe peaks above. Here and there were even the bones of the llama[27]\u2014the\nhighest-dwelling quadruped on earth. As for horses, their usefulness\nceases long before reaching such altitudes as that of the Quimca-chata.\nI have seen people who had an air of feeling that the mule ought always\nto be begging pardon for being alive, and that nature was in pretty small\nbusiness when she made him. But that, of course, is a notion of very\nuninformed folk. In fact, as all know who have stirred out a little, the\nmule is the most broadly useful animal in the service of man. The horse\ncan run faster, the elephant carry heavier loads, the llama climb higher\nabove the clouds; but no other beast can carry so much so far, so fast,\nso low and so high as this unpretentious and maligned big-ears; and\nwherever civilized man has had to conquer the wilderness this has been\nhis best friend.\n\nSomething of this was in the thought of the traveler sprawled beside the\n_apacheta_ at the head of the pass\u2014watching now the gasping saddle-mule\nnear him, and now the rest of his small caravan as it crept upward. He\nwas breathing with open mouth, but otherwise showed no traces of the\nhour\u2019s climb since he left Andr\u00e9s and the pack-beast, and tramped on,\ndriving his own mule ahead rather than ride the distressed beast.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he was saying (but to himself, which called for no expenditure of\nbreath), \u201cold Tom Moore, Crook\u2019s chief packer, was right when he used to\nsay, \u2018God made mules a-purpose!\u2019 How they have been the right hand of the\npioneer in both Americas. _Bien_, Andr\u00e9s\u2014so you got him up at last.\u201d\n\nAndr\u00e9s took off his frowsy hat, leaving upon his head the long-peaked\nknit cap of vicu\u00f1a[28] wool, removed from his mouth the quid of coca\nleaves he had been chewing, and flung the wad against the rough, upright\nstone, which was already pimpled all over with similar offerings. No\nmountain Indian of Bolivia would any more think of passing such a\nmonument at the crest of a pass without making this sacrifice than you\nwould think of going into church with your hat on.\n\n\u201c_Si, viracocha_,\u201d he answered, with a slow, good-natured smile; and went\non in his stumbling mixture of Spanish and Aymar\u00e1. \u201cYou ought to bite the\ncoca, _ps, viracocha_, that the _sorojchi_ catch you not. For so do we of\nthe mountains, and by it we get our strength. Take\u201d\u2014and he drew from his\nleft-hand pouch a pinch of the dried leaves and a bit of lime.\n\nThe American shook his head, with a smile, as much as to say: \u201cThanks,\nbut I need it not.\u201d Then he rose, with a significant glance at the\nclouds, and made a gesture of haste, pointing to the trail which from\ntheir feet dipped far downward to the east.\n\nAndr\u00e9s cinched up the sagging _chipas_ on the pack-mule, setting his bare\nfoot against its ribs and hauling at the hair rope with main strength.\nThe traveler likewise tightened his saddle-girth and swung up. Half an\nhour more, and they were some miles down the slope, descending at a gait\nwhich was decidedly smart compared with the snail\u2019s pace of the last few\nhours. Through gaps in the foothills ahead came now and then wondrous\noutlooks across the upper Bolivian plateau. Off to the left was the\nglorious blue of Titi-caca, highest great lake in the world; behind it,\nand stretching far to the right, the still more glorious white of the\ngreat Andes of Bolivia.\n\n\u201cThere, _mps_, is Mururata, the Beheaded,\u201d said the arriero, pointing to\na flat-topped peak far lower than the rest, but still tall enough to wear\neternal snow. \u201cThe gods cut off its head long ago, to punish pride, and\nset it over yonder, where you will soon see it smoke\u2014for now it is a fire\nmountain.\u201d Andr\u00e9s trotted along, pointing, chattering, smiling, as if\nbreath were quite the cheapest thing on earth.\n\nJust then the traveler found a little, too\u2014but not for the lost head of\nMururata. He was staring across a saddle in the hills with very much such\na face of incredulity and bewilderment as one might wear at sight of a\nghost.\n\n\u201cSeest thou?\u201d he demanded of the arriero. \u201cConfuse me, but I thought\nthere was no such thing as a wheel in the country, except the Chililaya\nstage.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, _si, viracocha_\u2014in La Paz are five or six carriages! And yonder will\nbe the Ja\u00faregui going to their _chacra_.\u201d[29]\n\nA top buggy of most ancient pattern was creeping up around the turn at\nthe heels of four tired mules. In a few moments the travelers were not\nfar apart; and now Andr\u00e9s\u2019s employer broke out afresh, but in a lower\ntone:\n\n\u201c_Oyez!_ But where is the feast to which these _maromeros_ go?\u201d\n\nThey did look clown-like enough, to be sure. The driver was clearly an\nAymar\u00e1 Indian, and showed nothing more peculiar than the quaint garb of\nhis people. But at his left sat two tall and surprising figures in long\nlinen dusters and white peaked caps. The latter were shaped something\nlike fools\u2019 caps; but instead of ending at the ears came down upon the\nshoulders, over the whole head. Eye and mouth holes and a woven nose gave\nthem a finish as uncanny as it was strange.\n\n\u201c_\u00c1 Di\u00f3s, caballero!_\u201d cried a muffled voice in clearly well-bred\nSpanish; and the Indian driver pulled the willing mules to a halt. One\nof the masks leaned from the carriage, and from behind the white yarn a\npair of keen, black eyes stared first at the pack-mule and then at the\nAmerican.\n\n\u201cPardon the molesting, but you carry a machine of the photograph, is it\nnot?\u201d\n\nThe tripod stretching along the pack-beast from ears to tail, and the\nsquare, leather boxes in the _chipas_ were clear enough, and the traveler\nreplied politely:\n\n\u201cAs you see, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood! And how much is worth a picture? Come, we will occupy you.\u201d\n\n\u201cInfinite thanks, cavaliers, but I do not sell. And pardon, for I am in\nhaste.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow not?\u201d There was an incredulous flash in the ambushed eyes, and the\nvoice had lost the edge of its courtesy. \u201cWe have money in hand, and we\nwish to take out our pictures.\u201d\n\n\u201cI lament it, sirs; but you ask the impossible. The government of Bolivia\nhas entered my materials free of duty, seeing that I come on a scientific\nmission; and in return, that your native artists shall not have whereof\nto complain, I am pledged to sell no pictures. It often pains me,\nknowing how one feels for a picture here where artists are few. But in\nany event, I make _vistas_ only for the one purpose, and need all the\nplates we brought.\u201d\n\nThe maskers evidently did not credit any such absurd story. The gringo\u2014he\nwas a gringo, of course, in spite of his comfortable Spanish\u2014_pues_, he\nknew them for rich and was holding off for a big offer.\n\n\u201cWell, we will give fifty _bolivianos_.[30] Get in and we will carry you\nto the _chacra_. There is your home. You shall stay so much as you will;\nand there is much hunting and such views of Illimani as you have not\nseen. Also, there are strange monuments of the ancients. Eh? Then one\nhundred _bolivianos_!\u201d\n\n\u201cI give you the most expressive thanks, gentlemen, and would willingly\nsee your _chacra_. But I am bound for Tiahuanaco. And, in any event, you\nmust know that I talk not lumber, but truth. I cannot make your pictures.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen, then,\u201d muttered the Bolivian angrily, turning to his\nfellow-mask, \u201chow hard-headed are these gringos! Come,\u201d addressing\nthe traveler again, \u201cyou are too dear. But we will say two hundred\n_bolivianos_,\u201d and he held up a huge roll of small red bank bills.\n\nBy now there was a considerable wrinkle in the traveler\u2019s brow. \u201cGod give\nyou good evening, cavaliers,\u201d he said, curtly. \u201cI am of one yes and one\nno. If you want _retratos_ I know no place nearer than La Paz where you\ncan get them. _Adios._\u201d\n\nHe set spurs to his mule and rode off down hill. The two maskers looked\nblankly at one another a moment, and then their mules began to plod up\nthe slope amid a volley of Spanish expletives. Andr\u00e9s had prodded the\npack-beast to a lurching trot, and ran easily at its heels.\n\n\u201c_Mps, viracocha_,\u201d he said, in a loud whisper, taking off his hat\nagain as he drew alongside the traveler. \u201cBut those are the Ja\u00faregui,\nand it would be better to please them. They are most powerful, and very\nhard-headed, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen let them butt against a harder head. I can\u2019t\u2014_hola!_ Vicu\u00f1as, no?\u201d\n\nThe frown had smoothed out, and he was snatching the rifle from its\nholster strapped along the saddle. Away over on an opposite slope a\nlittle brown cloud was drifting.\n\n\u201c_Si!_ But they go!\u201d cried Andr\u00e9s.\n\nThe cloud was, indeed, breaking up in a score of wee brown dots that\nscudded like so many shadows.\n\n\u201cToo far! And I wanted some pelts for a little girl I know. To try,\nanyhow!\u201d The traveler jerked the rifle to his shoulder and fired.\n\u201cNothing,\u201d he sighed. \u201cOf course not\u2014it was a shot thrown away.\u201d But\nAndr\u00e9s cried: \u201cYou touched! See yonder, how he makes lame!\u201d\n\n\u201cYour eyes for it\u2014mine don\u2019t reach so far. But one does look to have\nfallen behind. Too bad! Now it is to run him down\u2014a man even in a hurry\ncan\u2019t leave the poor wounded brute to be gouged piecemeal by the condors.\nGo on thy best with the pack-beast, Andr\u00e9s, and I\u2019ll catch thee at the\n_tambo_, or sooner.\u201d\n\nThe arriero ambled on, with now and then a reminding cudgel to his\ncharge. A funny man, this\u2014no? But then, no doubt all gringos were a\nlittle wrong in the head. To refuse two hundred _bolivianos_ for a\npicture, and then go ramping off to kill a wounded vicu\u00f1a! Smart are the\nYanquis, yes\u2014but of reason, not much. As if the condors were to blame\nif they could catch a thing injured! And it can be that they will have\nmule as well as vicu\u00f1a for supper. The _viracocha_ evidently forgets that\nhe is on the ground of the mountain sickness. Pity if it should catch\nhim\u2014since he is very good, unbrained though he be.\n\nBut at a turn in the trail Andr\u00e9s found other matters to be thought of\nthan the general follies and occasional virtues of the Yanquis. Other\nears than his had heard the rifle, and other eyes noted the traveler\u2019s\ntangent; and now the young Indian gave a start very like one of fear at\nthe rattle of wheels behind him and an imperious call of \u201c_Alto!_\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\nAndr\u00e9s glanced over his shoulder and faced about in his tracks. It was\nonly for an instant that he thought of running. He might make a break\ndown the rough hillside, where the carriage could not follow, yes. But\nthe pack-mule, sagging under those boxes, of which the _viracocha_ was so\ntender! The boy\u2019s thick lips drew tight across his large, white teeth.\nHe would stay. The instant he ceased to beset its heels the fagged beast\nstopped too, and there they stood like two shabby statues, while the\ncarriage drew alongside.\n\n\u201cSo the gringo hunts, eh?\u201d spoke one of the maskers, briskly, stepping\ndown from the buggy. \u201cBut he is very high priced, it seems\u2014as much as\nunamiable. Come, tell us how much he does get\u2014for in truth I thought we\noffered enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho knows, your excellency?\u201d stammered Andr\u00e9s. \u201cIt is a month that I am\nwith him as arriero, and until now he pictures only the monuments. And\neven of those I have not yet seen the _retratos_, for he says he is to\nfinish them when we shall reach La Paz. Of people he always refuses\u2014as\nyour excellency saw. Except that once, in Copacabana, he pictured an\nancient beggar at the gate, taking no money.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, but these gringos are many sorts of fools\u2014and this one _all_ sorts.\nCome, then, these _vistas_ he has made, they will be in the _chipas_. To\nsee them!\u201d\n\nThe speaker\u2019s air and tone were plainly those of one who has no dream\nof not being obeyed, and he fairly stiffened with astonishment when the\narriero, rather pale and very much embarrassed, stammered:\n\n\u201c_P-pero_, excellency, I\u2014I\u2014cannot!\u201d\n\n\u201c_Mira!_ Another who \u2018cannot!\u2019 It is contagious, then, this \u2018_no puedo!_\u2019\n_Oyez!_\u201d and now the command was sharp and stern, \u201cOpen me those boxes!\u201d\n\nAndr\u00e9s backed off a step. His brown cheeks were unmistakably gray, and\nhis voice faltered as he replied, humbly, but stolidly: \u201cDo not shame\nme, Excellency. This _viracocha_ hires me, treating me kindly. For\narriero, yes\u2014but even more, he has me to guard the machine when he is not\nbeside it. For so many wish to peep in, and he has things in little flat\nboxes which he opens only at night in a room without candles, and not\neven smoking his _cigarro_. He says that to let in a so-little of light\nwould destroy all. For that I am promised, that no one shall open them\nnor touch them. Do not ask me, then, excellency.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Ask_ thee, cannibal! A Ja\u00faregui asking thee? _Vaya!_ I _order_ thee.\nAnd between winks, too, lest thou taste the quirt!\u201d He snatched from his\ndriver the short, leaden-butted bull whip.\n\nAndr\u00e9s backed away still farther, till he ran up against the pack of his\ndejected mule, which stood as if petrified there.\n\n\u201c_No puedo, taita!_\u201d he repeated, with an appealing glance. Then, as the\nman reached forth to pluck the knot of the cinch rope, Andr\u00e9s extended\nhis arm as a barrier, crying, \u201c_Haniwa!_ Your excellency must not!\u201d\n\nAt this actual obstruction the personage in the white hood clearly lost\nan already ruffled temper. He drew the quirt whistling around those\nsturdy, bare calves, and a blue welt stood up there. Another cut, and\nanother. The stolid face changed little, but the legs shifted uneasily.\n\n\u201c_Haniwa_, is it?\u201d The ambushed eyes seemed fairly outside the mask now,\nso angrily they shone. \u201cThen we will see! To beat a little more manners\ninto that thick skull.\u201d He shifted the quirt in his hand, clubbing the\nloaded end over Andr\u00e9s\u2019s head. The arriero flung up his hands. He was\na sinewy young man, very probably much more powerful than his tall\nassailant. Nor was he thinking of the odds of those two more in the\ncarriage. It was tradition, not cowardice, that stayed his hands\u2014how\ncould this arriero and son of arrieros think to strike a don? For he\nwas born and bred in a country where there is still such a thing as\nrespect\u2014sometimes misapplied, as now; but broadly so honorable that I\nwish some reciprocity treaty might enable us to import some of it for\nnorthern use.\n\nThe leaden butt fell across his guard, and one hand dropped to his side.\nThe other he drew before his eyes.\n\n\u201cCome! Will thou open, or shall I crack that foolish squash-head?\u201d\n\nAndr\u00e9s did not move. \u201c_Haniwa!_\u201d he muttered in the same slow, stupid\nway, shutting his eyes as the club rose again. But just then a voice\ncalled from the carriage:\n\n\u201cTo what use, brother? They are no more than clods. Beat one to death,\nand you shall not change him. Let Pepe tie him and then we can verify the\nboxes.\u201d\n\nThe one with the quirt hesitated a moment. His blood was hot, and the\nbrute in him ached to beat away at this maddening stupid. His hand\ndropped reluctantly, and he growled:\n\n\u201cAs thou wilt. Rope him then, Pepe.\u201d\n\nBut if the arriero had stood dumb under the lash of his superior, it\nwas another page in the almanac when a brown fellow of his own blood\nand station caught him by the arms and started to pass a reata around\nhim. Andr\u00e9s doubled forward at the waist, clumsily but resistlessly. His\ntousled head struck Pepe on the mouth, and that too-ready henchman rolled\nheavily in the road. Andr\u00e9s sprang upon him and flung fistfuls of dust in\nhis face, shaking him as a terrier does a rat.\n\n\u201cPig! Who lent thee a candle in this funeral? Thy master I could not\nfight. But thou, barbarian\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201c_Socorro!_\u201d bawled Pepe, quite helpless in the clutch of his exasperated\nrider. \u201cTake him off!\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll take him off!\u201d growled the master, and he ran forward, swinging the\nclub about his head. Woe is me for thy skull, Andresito, if that ounce of\nlead befall it squarely from behind!\n\n\nIII.\n\nWhen the \u201cgringo\u201d and his laboring mule pitched down the side of a very\nconsiderable _barranca_, their quarry was plainly visible four or five\nhundred yards up the opposite hill. The rest of the flock had long ago\ndisappeared, and by now was miles away\u2014for they run almost like antelope,\nthese airy beauties of the Andes, the tiniest camels in the world, and\nthe only graceful ones. But when mule and rider struggled up the farther\nbank, the wounded vicu\u00f1a was nowhere to be seen.\n\n\u201cPlague! But I must not kill _thee_, in trying to be merciful to him,\u201d\nmuttered the rider, and he sprang to the ground. It was high time. The\nmule stood gasping in his tracks, head down, chin hanging and knees\nquaking violently. The traveler looked up and down him, remorsefully but\ncritically.\n\n\u201cWith a rest, thou\u2019rt all right. But I ought to beg thy pardon for giving\nthee a fool for a rider! Now, my legs for it\u2014and rest thou here.\u201d\n\nThe involuntary object of all this trouble was certainly inconsiderate.\nHaving been so foolish as to go and get wounded, he should have waited\nat least for the Samaritan to come up and give him the blow of mercy.\nBut, instead, he hobbled bleating on in pursuit of his fellows, even long\nafter they had vanished. It was astonishing how this delicate, fawn-like\ncreature could run so far with a broken leg, and his well-meaning\npursuer began to find it more than astonishing. Plague take the little\nimbecile\u2014he was bound to make it as hard as possible to do him a good\nturn! It is odd how our minds can contradict themselves\u2014how we sometimes\nstart out on a thoroughly praiseworthy errand, and fall into very\nunamiable moods by the way.\n\nThe pursuer was by now decidedly angry\u2014which is a very unwise luxury to\nbe indulged in, at least among the Andes. His temper was by no means\ncalculated to soothe the stampeding gallop of his heart; and to see him\ngasping up yonder _cumbre_, with a purpling face and protruding tongue,\nand a scowl on his brow, probably no stranger would have dreamed that he\nwas really on a generous errand.\n\n\u201cBelike the condors will have to have thee!\u201d he groaned inwardly\u2014since\nnot for his life, now, could he have articulated the words: \u201cI\u2019m done up!\nThis one more ridge and it must end.\u201d\n\nBut as he reached the top of that last ridge, there was a tremendous\n_swoosh_ of wings past him, and then, from the hollow beyond, a scream\nalmost human in its agony. At that he plucked new vigor, and went racing\ndown the slope in a surprising spurt. The truth was that, once started,\nhe had no longer the strength to stop on that stiff pitch, and must keep\non till he should fall or fetch up against some obstacle. His sight was\nblurred, his head roaring, his legs numb, and where his heart should be,\na strange, suffocating emptiness seemed to have come\u2014and still he spun\non. Then, in a reeling way, he swung the six-shooter thrice, firing as\nfast as finger could pull the trigger; in the same second, sprawling\nheadlong in a confusion of bleats and silken fur and beating wings. A\ntremendous blow from one of the latter cut his scalp clear across the\nocciput. The revolver blazed again, and, after a wild thrashing, all was\nstill.\n\nIt was some minutes before the hunter sat up, gazing about him in a dazed\nway. The rest and the chilly air and the loss of blood were beginning to\ncounteract the effects of his imprudent chase.\n\n\u201cWell! The next time I shoot before I think, I won\u2019t shoot!\u201d he informed\nhimself without expense of breath, and with the ghost of a smile. \u201cWonder\nI hadn\u2019t killed myself with such a race, up here. But if you start,\nfinish!\u201d and he looked complacently down at the little dead vicu\u00f1a\nagainst which he leaned; and not a rod away the huge vulture sprawled\nupon its back, its wings outstretched a full dozen feet, its feet\nclenched in the empty air.\n\n\u201cHe got only one swipe at thee, it seems. It\u2019s all right, so that I came\nin time to give thee a more merciful death. So we won\u2019t grudge the breath\nit cost me. But the least thanks thou canst give me is that precious\npelt.\u201d Drawing his knife, the hunter soon removed that very softest and\nmost exquisite of all furs. Then with an uneasy glance at the clouds he\nturned away, walking as briskly as his protesting lungs would allow.\n\nGood! There was the mule all right. It had not budged a foot; and now,\nthough still in an attitude of utter dejection, was clearly out of\ndanger. Directly, master and mule were jogging off toward the trail at a\nmost doleful gait\u2014which doubtless would have been mended, if they could\nhave seen through the rounded hill just ahead. But the hill was opaque,\nas hills and circumstances ahead are so prone to be; and they pottered\nalong lazily, until, at a turn over the ridge, the spurs went drumming\nsuch an unexpected tattoo upon his echoing ribs that the mule quite\nforgot himself, and went pitching down the hill at a pace he had not\ntaken in a month.\n\n\nIV.\n\nAway down yonder, a superannuated buggy and its team stood in the trail.\nA few rods ahead of it, and just at the heels of a wilted pack-mule,\ntwo men were scuffling in the dust; and over them a hooded figure was\nbringing down a heavy club. At that instant the pack beast wakened enough\nto turn his head interrogatively, cocking one ear forward and the other\nback. Even as he did so, his nigh hind leg could be seen to gather itself\nand suddenly lunge out behind. A long, linen-shrouded form, white capped\nat one end, thereupon doubled in half, and rose in the air and went\nwhirling like a boomerang. It fell a full rod away and did not rise. Then\na similar figure sprang from the buggy and rushed at the wrestlers; but\nmidway went down all at once in a loose heap, as if struck by a bullet.\nNo wonder the stranger up yonder drummed with his heels, and jockeyed,\nand whooped; and, finding his charger still too slow, leaped from its\nback and came bounding down the hillside like a loosened rock.\n\nAndr\u00e9s was sitting placidly astride his prostrate foe, breathing rather\nhard, but looking stupidly good-natured as ever. One of his fingers was\nbroken, and blood from a gash on his forehead trickled down his nose.\n\n\u201c_Mps, viracocha_,\u201d he answered to the breathless traveler\u2019s glance of\ninquiry, \u201cthe _caballeros_ were set to see the inside of your boxes, and\nbecause I refused they went to beat me. But when this cannibal here came\nupon me, then it was to fight. The blows of a gentleman, yes\u2014but not of\na _chuncho_.[31] So I measured him, thus. And when the gentleman went to\ncrack me the squash with his quirt, then did Big-Ears here, forgetting\nrespect to the powerful, set heel to his stomach and lift him until over\nyonder.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd this? I saw him fall as he ran at you,\u201d the _viracocha_ mustered\nbreath to say.\n\n\u201cHe? _Mps_, but it will be the _sorojchi_\u2014see you not how the blood falls\nfrom his mouth? And you see, _viracocha_, how strong is the coca! Because\nI sacrificed at the _apacheta_, as one should, to the spirits of the high\nplaces, it has all come as the mouth would ask. Without that, then, the\ngentlemen would have left me here, of no more use to your grace, and the\nmagic boxes would be emptied in the light.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen night came down on the Quimca-chata, a gusty snowstorm, with howling\nintervals of hail, beset the pass. It roared at the hills, it swooped\ndown the ca\u00f1ons as if in search of some living thing it might turn to\nice before morning. But inside the low, dirty _tambo_, they only laughed\nat its rage. The bald stone hut in a little nook under the shoulder\nof a hill had neither window nor chimney; and a heavy poncho of llama\nhair was the temporary door. It was a fair type of the _tambos_ of the\nAndes\u2014those tenantless, cheerless wayside shelters that save the traveler\nin those bleak lands from perishing. On the sooty hearth a faint blaze\nof _taqui_ wavered, and the smoke wandered out as best it could or made\nitself at home in the bare room. Upon the rough stone bench along the\nwalls sat five men, and in the farther corner six mules nosed wistfully\nin a rubbish heap for casual straws. Of the men two were Indians, and\nboth wore bandaged heads. The third guest of this inn without a landlord\nappeared to be an American, and he also had a handkerchief bound about\nhis skull. The two others were handsome, swarthy men in costly vicu\u00f1a\nponchos. They sat on linen dusters, from the pockets of which peeped the\ntasseled ends of two white caps.\n\nOne member of the party cast now and then a sly glance at these. So,\ninstead of clowns going to some feast, these were two wealthy Bolivians.\nAnd those astonishing head masks which had so mystified him were merely\nto save their faces from that trying mountain air\u2014so Andr\u00e9s had informed\nhim, with an evident effort not to pity his ignorance. And looking at\nthose coffee complexions he had serious work to keep from smiling at the\nthought of trying to keep them from sunburn.\n\n\u201c_Pues_, it is as well the _tambo_ was near, for none of us were in shape\nto go much farther to-night, even forgetting the storm. _Ea!_ But how it\nhowls, as if disappointed!\u201d\n\nIt was the American who broke the silence, though he spoke, of course, in\nSpanish\u2014the only common possession of the five tongues.\n\n\u201cYou have reason, _caballero_,\u201d answered the taller of the two dons,\ncourteously. \u201cAnd even more am I glad that we make ourselves pardoned. Of\na truth, we were most ignorant that to open your cases would spoil all;\nnor could we have thought to take the liberty, but that we believed you\na\u2014a seller baiting us for higher pay. But we were well answered. Your so\nobstinate arriero made me forget myself, and I give you a _caballero\u2019s_\napology. But that mule\u2014_ay de mi!_ I thought Illampu itself had tumbled\nupon me!\u201d\n\n\u201cVerily, se\u00f1or! I saw it from the hill, and it was so prettily done as I\nnever could have believed. Why, se\u00f1or, he shut you at the waist like a\nknife with a strong spring!\u201d\n\nThe cavalier smiled a trifle weakly at the description, but he said\nfrankly:\n\n\u201cHe did but justice. I have shame to think how I lost a gentleman\u2019s\ntemper. And so little more and I could have broken your man\u2019s head. But\nsince you have the fineness to hold no malice, it is well.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I know curiosity and temper both. Only that it is Andr\u00e9s\u2019s head and\nnot mine. But his need not be too sore\u2014for you have caused me to double\nhis wages from to-day. An arriero that will stand a broken head to guard\nthe _amo\u2019s_ load\u2014well, I haven\u2019t found him very abundant in Bolivia, nor\nanywhere else.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have reason always. And\u2014er\u2014understood that\u2014_pues_, you know that\nDon Juan de Ja\u00faregui cannot say to an arriero, \u2018pardon\u2019! But in purity\nof truth, he is faithful, and I would be glad to give him a well paid\nposition on the _chacra_.\u201d\n\n\u201cEh, Andr\u00e9s? The cavalier offers justly. What sayest thou?\u201d\n\nAndr\u00e9s\u2019s face beamed simply, and he twisted his skull cap as he rose with\na clumsy bow.\n\n\u201cI shall be glad,\u201d he stammered. \u201cBut only if\u2014until\u2014when that the\n_viracocha_ shall have no more need of an arriero. For while the\nmagic boxes have to ride on the ribs of a mule, it is safer that I be\ndriver\u2014since the _viracocha_ has shown me, and I know how they must be\ntreated. \u2018Gently! Gently! And for the life of you, let no light come into\nthem!\u2019\u201d\n\n\n\n\nOur Yellow Slave.\n\n\n\n\nOur Yellow Slave.\n\n\nThe only metal in the world that is yellow is the most precious of them\nall\u2014gold. Brass is not a metal, but an alloy, a compound. And the color\nwhich gold shares with the sun has a great deal to do with its value. I\ndo not suppose it would be possible that we should ever have come to love\nand admire any metal so much as to choose it for our highest currency and\nour ornaments, no matter how rare or ductile it might be, if it were of a\ndark, dull, gloomy color. The human eye never gets too old to be pleased\nwith very much the same things which pleased it in childhood; and no eye\nis insensible to that precious yellow.\n\nI like sometimes to think back to the first man of all men that ever\nheld that rock of the sun in his savage hand, and to imagine how he\nfound it, and how it made his sharp eyes twinkle, and how he wondered at\nits weight, and pounded it with one smooth rock upon another and found\nhe could flatten it. All these things come by accident, and gold was\nan accident that befell when the world was very young. No doubt there\nhad been a great rain, that washed the heavy lump from its nest in some\ngravelly stream bank, and the prehistoric man, in his tunic of skins,\nchanced that way and found it. Mayhap it was the very rain of the Flood\nitself, and the poor barbarian who picked up the yellow nugget sank with\nit still in his swarthy fist.\n\nWe do not even know the name of the man who first discovered gold, nor\nwhere he lived, nor when. But it was very, very long ago. Before the\ntime of Joseph and the coat of many colors, gold had already become not\nonly a discovered fact, but a part of the world. The early Egyptians got\ntheir gold from Nubia, so very likely the discovery was first made in\nAfrica. At all events, it dates back to the very childhood of the race;\nand before Cadmus had found those more important nuggets of the alphabet,\nmankind had achieved the prettiest plaything it ever found.\n\nIn the very first chapter of the first and noblest of poems, Homer tells\nof the priest who came with a golden ransom to the camp of the Greeks\nbefore Troy, to buy his daughter free; and the sunny metal figures\neverywhere in the oldest mythology we know. You have all read\u2014and I hope\nin Hawthorne\u2019s \u201cTanglewood Tales,\u201d where the story is more beautifully\ntold than it was ever elsewhere\u2014of Jason and the Argonauts and of how\nthey sailed to find the Golden Fleece. That was a fabulous ram-skin,\nwhose locks were of pure gold. No wonder the deadly dragon in the dark\ngroves of the Colchian king guarded it so jealously. Of course the myth\nis only a poetic form\u2014as stories generally assume in the folk-lore of\nan undeveloped race\u2014of saying that Jason and his bold fellow-sailors of\nthe Argo sailed to the gold fields of Asia, and found them. The mines\nwhose fabled richness tempted them to that adventurous voyage in their\novergrown row-boat of fifty oars, were in the Caucasus mountains, and\nproduced a great deal of the gold which was used by the ancients. They\nwere doubtless among the first gold mines in the world, and their product\ngilded the splendor of many of the first great monarchs of history. As\nlate as 1875 an attempt was made by Europeans to work these mines, but\nnothing came of it.\n\n\u201cRich as Cr\u0153sus\u201d has been for more than two thousand years a proverb\nwhich is not yet supplanted; and that last king of Lydia\u2014and richest\nking of all time, according to the ancient myths\u2014got his wealth from\nplacer mines in the river Pactolus, whose name has been as synonymous\nwith gold as Cr\u0153sus\u2019s own. One of the strangest and wisest of the\nfolk-stories of ancient Greece tells how that little river in Asia Minor\nfirst gained its golden sands. Some seven hundred years before Christ,\nthere was a king of Phrygia who had more gold than Cr\u0153sus ever dreamed\nof\u2014so much gold that it made him the poorest man in the world! It was\nKing Midas, son of Gordius, who earned this strange distinction. He had\ndone a favor to Dionysus, and the god said gratefully: \u201cWish one wish,\nwhatever thou wilt, and I will grant it.\u201d Now Midas had already caught\nthe most dangerous of all \u201cyellow fevers\u201d\u2014the fever for gold\u2014and he\nreplied: \u201cThen let it be that all things which I shall touch shall be\nturned into gold.\u201d\n\nDionysus promptly granted this foolish prayer; and Midas was very happy\nfor a little time. He picked up stones from the ground, and instantly\nthey changed to great lumps of gold. His staff was gold, and his very\nclothing became yellow and so heavy that he could barely stagger under\nits weight. This was very fine indeed! He touched the corner of his\npalace\u2014and lo! the whole building became a house of pure gold. Splendid!\nHe entered, and touched what took his fancy; and furniture, and clothing,\nand all, underwent the same magic change. Better and better! \u201cI\u2019m the\nluckiest king alive,\u201d chuckled Midas, still looking about for something\nnew to transmute.\n\nBut even kings who have the golden touch must sometimes eat, and\npresently Midas grew hungry with so much wealth-making. He clapped\nhis hands, and the servants spread the royal table. A touch of the\nroyal finger, and table and cloth and dishes were yellow gold. This\nwas something like! The exhilarated king sat down and broke a piece of\nbread\u2014but as he lifted it, it was strangely heavy, and he saw that it,\ntoo, was of the precious metal! A doubt ran through his foolish head\nwhether even the golden touch might not have its drawbacks; but he was\nvery hungry, and did not wait to weigh the question. If his fingers\nturned the bread to gold, he would take something from a spoon\u2014and he\nlifted a ladle of broth to his mouth. But the instant it touched his\nlips, the broth turned to a great yellow button, which dropped ringing\nback upon the golden board.\n\nThe disquieted king rose and walked out of the palace. At the door he met\nhis fair-faced little daughter, who held up a bright flower to him. Midas\nlaid his hand gently upon her head, for he loved the child, foolish as he\nwas. And lo! his daughter stood motionless before him\u2014a pitiful little\nstatue of shining gold!\n\nHow much longer this accursed power tormented the miserable monarch the\nmyth does not tell us; but he was cured at last by bathing in the river\nPactolus, and the washing away of his magic power filled the sands of the\nstream with golden grains.\n\nThe Midases are not dead yet\u2014for the one of ancient fable there are\nthousands to-day, at whose very touch all turns to gold. Their food does\nnot become metal between their lips\u2014but often it might as well, for all\nthe joy they have of it. And the little Phrygian princess was not the\nonly child to be changed and hardened forever by the \u201cGolden Touch.\u201d\n\nGold figures largely through all the quaint history-fables of the\nancients; and history itself is full of tales hardly less remarkable.\nThe early history of America was _made_ by gold\u2014or rather, by golden\nhopes which achieved wonders for civilization, but very little for the\npockets of the most wonderful explorers the world has ever seen. Had it\nnot been for the presence of gold here\u2014and the supposed presence of even\nmore than has yet been dug\u2014the western hemisphere would be very much of\na wilderness still. It was the chase of the golden myths which led to\nthe astounding achievements that opened the New World; and since then,\nalmost to this day, civilization has followed with deliberate march only\nin the hasty footprints of the gold seekers. No tale was too wild to find\ncredence with the early adventurers.\n\nThe fabled ransom of Montezuma is _all_ a fable; but it is a fact that\nAtahualpa, the head Inca of Peru, did pay to that marvelous soldier\nPizarro a ransom of golden vessels sufficient to fill a room twenty-two\nby seventeen feet to a height of nearly six feet above the floor! While\ngold was not much in use in Mexico, there was a great deal of it employed\nin Peru for sacred utensils and idols and for personal ornaments; and to\nthis day the \u201cmummy miners\u201d are taking it out there. The early Spanish\ndiscoveries of gold in North America were unimportant, despite the gilded\nmyths which have surrounded them. In Columbus\u2019s time the gold fields\nof the known world were so \u201cworked out\u201d that their product was barely\nenough to meet the \u201cwear and tear\u201d of the precious metal in use; so there\nwas crying need of new finds. But they came slowly.\n\nBy 1580 there were vague rumors of gold in what is now California. Loyola\nCasallo, a visiting priest, saw placer gold there, and tells of it in his\nbook written in 1690. In the last century Antonio Alcedo speaks of lumps\nof California gold, weighing from five to eight pounds. But though its\npresence was known, and though the rocky ribs of the Golden State hid\nfar more millions than were dreamed of\u2014and perhaps than are dreamed of\nyet\u2014there was little mining, and that little with scant success.\n\nThe first gold discovery in the American colonies was in Cabarrus\ncounty, North Carolina, in 1799; and up to 1827 that state was the only\ngold-producer in the Union. In 1824 Cabarrus county sent the first\nAmerican gold to the mint in Philadelphia. The Appalachian gold field,\nwhich embraces part of Virginia, and stretches across North Carolina,\nSouth Carolina and Georgia, touching also parts of Tennessee and Alabama,\nwas once looked to for great things; but it long ago dropped from all\nimportance.\n\nIn 1828 the New Placers were discovered in New Mexico, some fifty miles\nsouth of Santa F\u00e9, and for a great many years produced richly. Even\nto this day they are far from unproductive. Gold had been found in New\nMexico many generations before, but never in quantities to come anywhere\nnear paying. A decade later, placer gold was discovered in Santa Barbara\ncounty, California, in the vast rancho of that gallant old hidalgo whose\nhome was described by Mrs. Jackson as the home of \u201cRamona.\u201d These placers\nhave been worked steadily though clumsily by Mexicans ever since; and I\nhave a waxy nugget which was washed out in Piru creek in 1838.\n\nWithin half a century the world\u2019s supply of gold had long been\ninadequate to the growing demand. Russia was the chief producer; and her\nmines\u2014discovered about 1745\u2014kept the nations from a \u201cfamine\u201d which would\nbe most disastrous. There were old mines in China, but little worked;\nand though Japan\u2019s gold output was large, it was but a drop in the\ncosmopolitan bucket. Russia at present, by the way, produces an average\nof twenty millions of gold a year.\n\nThe wonderful gold fields of Australia were discovered in 1839 by Count\nStrzelcki; but the priceless find was concealed, for a curious reason.\nAustralia was already England\u2019s out-door prison; and it was feared that\nif the golden news were known the 45,000 desperate convicts there would\nrise in rebellion and annihilate their keepers\u2014as they could well have\ndone. So for a dozen years the mighty secret was jealously guarded; and\nthousands walked unsuspecting over the dumb gravel that held a million\nfortunes. In 1848 Rev. W. B. Clark again stumbled upon the dangerous\nsecret, but again the discovery was suppressed; and it was not until\nCalifornia had set the whole world on fire with excitement which nothing\ncould bottle up, that Australia threw off her politic mask. In 1851 E. H.\nHargreaves, who had just come from the new mines of California, saw that\nAustralia was geologically a gold country; and his prospecting proved his\nsurmises correct. The news spread in spite of cautious officials; and the\nwild epidemic of fortune seekers pitted the face of the island-continent,\nand watered its thirsty sands with blood. Even yet, Australia is\nproducing over $45,000,000 gold a year.\n\nThe rich gold fields of New Zealand were first found in 1842, but were\nnot extensively worked until 1856, when the swarming gold hunters had\noverrun the Australian fields, and the restless sought still easier\nwealth.\n\nAs I have told you, gold was mined spasmodically in California much more\nthan two centuries ago, and steadily mined for more than a decade before\nthe \u201cgreat discovery\u201d which was to change the face of an empire and bring\nabout what was in many ways the most remarkable migration in the whole\nhistory of the human race. But these early diggings of the precious metal\nmade little stir. The swarthy miners delved away quietly, exchanged their\nglittering \u201cdust\u201d for rough food and other rude necessaries, and made no\nnoise. They were very much out of the world. The telegraph, the railroad\nand the printing press were far from touch with them. There were a few\n\u201cAmericans\u201d in California, and even one or two newspapers, but neither\npaid attention to the occasional rumors of gold, save to ridicule them.\n\nBut on the ninth day of February, 1848, a little girl held in her\nunknowing hand the key of the West\u2014the wee yellow seed which was\nto spring into one of the most wondrous plants in history. On the\nAmerican fork of the Sacramento river, in what is now El Dorado county,\nCal., stood a shabby little mill, owned by an American named Sutter.\n(Californians, by the way, pronounce the name \u201cSoo\u00b4-ter.\u201d) The mill race\nbecame broken, and three men were hired to repair it. Two were Mormons,\nand the third, the overseer, was named Marshall. As the men worked,\nMarshall\u2019s little daughter played about them\u2014dreaming as little as did\nher elders that she was to upset a continent.\n\nA yellow pebble in an angle of the sluice caught her eye, and picking\nthe pretty trifle from the wet sand, she ran to her father with, \u201cPapa!\nsee the pitty stone.\u201d It was indeed a pretty stone, and Marshall at\nonce suspected its value. Tests proved that he was right, and gold was\n_really_ found. The discovery made some little noise among the few\nAmericans in that lonely, far land, but nothing was known of it to the\nworld until Rev. C. S. Lyman, who saw some of the nuggets which further\nsearch yielded, wrote a letter to the _American Journal of Science_,\nin March, 1848. As soon as the news was in type, it spread swiftly to\nthe four ends of the earth, and already by August of the same year four\nthousand excited men were tearing up the sands of the American Fork, and\ncoaxing them to yield their golden secrets. And well they succeeded,\nfor every day saw from $30,000 to $50,000 worth of gold washed out and\ntransferred to rude safes of bottles or buckskin sacks. How long and\nhigh that gold fever raged; how it patted the fearful intervening desert\nwith the weary footprints of tens of thousands of modern Jasons; how\nit brought around the Horn a thousand heavy ships for every one that\nsailed before; how it overturned and created anew the money markets of\nthe world; how it turned a vast wilderness into the garden of the world,\nand pulled the Union a thousand miles over to the West, and caused the\nbuilding of such enormous railway lines as mankind had never faintly\ndreamed of, and did a thousand other wonders, you already know\u2014for it has\nmade literature as well as history. Our national history is crowded with\ngreat achievements, but its chief romance was\u2014\n\n    \u201cThe days of old,\n    The days of gold,\n    The days of \u201949.\u201d\n\nCalifornia produced $5,000,000 gold in 1848, and crazed the civilized\nworld. The output grew to $60,000,000 by 1852. To-day the state yields\nbetween eleven and twelve million dollars\u2019 worth of gold a year, and it\ncreates no excitement whatever; for its people are more occupied with\nmining the safer gold of agriculture.\n\nOf late years South Africa has entered the field as one of the great\ngold countries. Its annual \u201ccrop\u201d is over forty millions. There is a\npossibility that hereafter Alaska will have to be added to the list.\nThis summer of 1897 between $3,000,000 and $4,000,000 in \u201cdust\u201d and\nsmall nuggets came out of the region generally and loosely called \u201cThe\nKlondike.\u201d I saw in the San Francisco mint 152,000 ounces the returning\nminers poured out from their buckskin bags. Over 3,000 people left\nCalifornia under the excitement caused by the exhibition of these\ntreasures, in a \u201cgold-rush\u201d which recalled the old days, by its fever and\nits follies; but the Klondike rush will probably be remembered, whatever\nits results in gold, as the most disastrous in history. Instead of the\nmild climates of California, Australia and South Africa (and thousands\nlost health and life even there) the gold seekers upon the Klondike will\nhave to do with the cruel winters and inhospitable wildernesses of a land\nalmost under the Arctic Circle.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOf the various methods of liberating our Yellow Slave from the hard\nclutches of the earth it would be too long to speak in detail here; but\nthey are broadly divided into two classes, according to the surroundings\nof the gold itself. Free or \u201cplacer\u201d gold\u2014which was for centuries the\nfirst known to mankind, and which was the sort that started the great\n\u201cfever\u201d in California and Australia\u2014is found in beds of sand and gravel,\ngenerally the present or former bed of a stream. It is extracted\u2014this\nprecious needle from an enormous and worthless haystack\u2014by means of its\nown weight; water being applied in various manners to give that weight a\nchance to assert itself. The mixed gravel is given up to the mercies of\nrunning water, which wets it through, and causes its heaviest parts to\nsink to the bottom, where they are held by artificial obstacles, while\nthe lighter particles of sand are swept away by the natural or artificial\ncurrent. In this manner the vast mass of soil is water-sifted until but\nlittle is left; and from that little it is easy to hunt out the coy\nyellow grains.\n\nThe placer gold was not formed in the gravel banks where it is found, but\ncame there by the death of its mother rock. All gold began in \u201cveins\u201d in\nthe earth\u2019s rocky ribs; but Time, with his patient hammers of wind and\nrain and frost, has pounded vast areas of these rocks to sand; and the\ngold, broken from great bands to lumps, has drifted with the bones of the\nmountains into the later heaps of gravel.\n\nThe processes of mining gold which still remains in its original home in\nthe rocks are far more complicated. There is a vast amount of boring to\nbe done into the flinty hearts of the mountains, with diamond-pointed\ndrills and with blasting; and then the rock, which is dotted with the\nprecious yellow flakes, has to be crushed between the steel jaws of great\nmills. Much of the gold that is mined, too, is so chemically changed\nthat it does not look like gold at all, and requires special chemical\nprocesses to coax it out. In gold (and silver) mining mercury is one\nof the most important factors. It is the mineral sheriff, and swift to\narrest any fugitive fleck of gold that may come in its way. The sluice\nboxes in extensive placer mines, and the \u201csheets\u201d in stamp mills are all\ncharged with quicksilver, which saves a vast amount of the finer gold\ndust that would be otherwise swept away by the current of water\u2014for water\nis equally essential in both kinds of mining.\n\nThere is no such thing as pure gold, often as we hear the phrase.\nNature\u2019s own \u201cvirgin gold\u201d is always alloyed with silver; and the very\npurest is but 98 or 97 per cent gold. California gold averages about the\nfineness of our American coin\u201490 per cent pure. As a general rule, the\nlighter the color the purer the gold. The beautiful red gold gets its\ncolor from a large alloy of copper.\n\nIt is an odd fact that the sea is full of gold. No doubt at the bottom\nof that stupendous basin which has received for all time the washings of\nall the world, there is an incalculable wealth of golden dust; but the\nstrange ocean mine is not all so deep down as that. The sea water itself\ncarries gold in solution\u2014a grain of gold to every ton of water, as a\nfamous chemist has shown.\n\nAmong the historical big nuggets found in various parts of the world,\nthere have been some wonderful yellow lumps. In Cabarrus county, N. C.,\none was found in 1810 which weighed thirty-seven pounds Troy. In 1842 the\ngold fields of Zlatoust, in the Ural, gave a nugget of ninety-six pounds\nTroy. The Victoria (Australia) nugget weighed one hundred and forty-six\npounds and three pennyweights, of which only six ounces was foreign\nrock; and the Ballarat (Australia) nugget was thirty-nine pounds heavier\nyet. The largest nugget ever found was also dug in Australia\u2014the \u201cSarah\nSands,\u201d named for a far-off loved one. It reached the astonishing weight\nof two hundred and thirty-three pounds and four ounces Troy! I wonder\nwhat Miner Sands felt when he stuck his pick into that fortune in one\nlump!\n\nThe quality which makes gold commercially the most valuable of the metals\nis its docility. The cunning hammer of the smith can \u201cteach\u201d it almost\nanything. The more stubborn metals crumble after a certain point; but\ngold can be hammered into a sheet so infinitely fine that 282,000 of\nthem, piled one upon the other, would be but an inch thick! And a flake\nof gold tiny as a pin-head can be drawn out, a finer thread than ever man\nspun, to a length of five hundred feet!\n\nThere is no end to the uses of gold. They broaden every day. In some one\nof its many forms our Yellow Slave helps us in almost every art and walk\nof life. It has become as indispensable as its red fellow-slave, fire\u2014and\nlike fire can be as bad a master as it should be a good servant.\n\n\n\n\nThe Peak of Gold.\n\n\n\n\nThe Peak of Gold.\n\n\nThe most remarkable myths that appear in American history are those\nwhich were so eagerly listened to by the early Spanish conquerors, who\noverran two-thirds of the two Americas long before the Saxons so much as\nattempted a foot-hold in the New World. There was the famous myth of El\nDorado in South America\u2014a living man covered from head to foot with pure\ngold dust and nuggets. In Mexico was the fable of Montezuma\u2019s untold tons\nof gold and bushels of precious stones, and many other impossible things.\nPonce de Leon, the gallant conqueror of Puerto Rico, paid with his life\nfor the credulity which led him to the first of our states ever entered\nby a European, in quest of an alleged fountain of perpetual youth\u2014a\nbutterfly which some of the world\u2019s learned doctors are still chasing\nunder another form. And all across the arid Southwest the hot winds have\nscattered the dust of brave but too-believing men who fell in the desert\nthrough which they pursued some glittering shape of the American golden\nfleece. When Alvar Nu\u00f1ez Cabeza de Vaca, the first American traveler,\nwalked across this continent from ocean to ocean, over three hundred and\nfifty years ago, he heard from the Indians many gilded myths, and chief\nof them were those concerning the famous Seven Cities of C\u00edbola. So\nenormously abundant was gold said to be in these Indian cities, that it\nwas put to the meanest uses. When Vaca got to the Spanish settlements in\nMexico and told this wonderful report it made a great commotion, and soon\nafterward that great explorer, Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, came to the\nSeven Cities of C\u00edbola\u2014which surrounded the site of the present Pueblo\nIndian town of Zu\u00f1i in the extreme west of New Mexico. But instead of\nthe dazzling cities he expected, Coronado found only seven adobe towns,\nwithout an ounce of gold (or any other metal, for that matter)\u2014towns\nwhich were wonderfully curious, but which sorely disheartened the brave\nSpanish pioneers. A little later Coronado heard equally astounding tales\nof a still more golden aboriginal city\u2014the fabulous Gran Quivira\u2014and\nset out to find it. After a marvelous march which took him almost to\nwhere Kansas City now is, he found the Quivira\u2014but no gold, of course.\nAnd it has been the same ever since. Coronado\u2019s footsore men ran down\ntheir fables in 1541. Certainly not a decade, and very likely not a\nyear, has passed since then in which some equally preposterous story\nof incalculable treasures has not been born and found followers in the\nSouthwest.\n\nI know of but one thing in the world more remarkable than that the\nSpaniards should have believed such self-evident myths; and that one\nthing is that so many, many Americans believe them to-day. Not long\nago I visited the most remote and inaccessible ruins in the Southwest,\nand found there the work of these sanguine dupes, who had actually\ndug through solid rock in search of buried treasure. And even while I\nwrite a party is digging, a hundred miles to the west, for a treasure\nas mythical, and as palpably so, as that at the end of the rainbow. The\nstories of golden mountains, of buried millions and of mysterious \u201clost\nmines\u201d\u2014far richer, of course, than those which any one can find\u2014in New\nMexico alone would fill a volume.\n\nI had once the good fortune to run across some old and fragmentary\nSpanish manuscripts of the last century and the beginning of this,\nwhich are extremely interesting. It is not often that we get so much\ndocumentary evidence concerning the golden will-o\u2019-the-wisps which\nhave lured so many to disappointment and death. The writings all bear\nthe stamp of implicit belief, and the old soldier, in particular, who\nis the hero of the fragmentary story, is often unconsciously eloquent\nand sometimes pathetic in his recital. I translate all the documents\nliterally.\n\nThe first manuscript is a certified copy (certified in the City of\nMexico, March 5, 1803), of the \u201crelation\u201d and petition of Bernardo de\nCastro, a copy for which the Spanish governor of New Mexico had sent.\nBernardo\u2019s story and appeal are as follows, rendering as closely as\npossible the quaint language of the day:\n\n\u201c_Most Excellent Sir_: Bernardo de Castro, retired sergeant of the\ncompany of San Carlos [St. Charles] of the government of the City of\nChihuahua, in the Provinces of the Interior, admitted to citizenship in\nthe City of Santa F\u00e9, capital of the kingdom of New Mexico, and resident\nof this capital, goes on and before Your Excellency says: That having\nserved our Royal Monarch for the space of nine years and eight months\nas sergeant of the said company in the countless combats at which I\nassisted against the nations of the ynfidels [Indians], I came out\nwith a lance-thrust in one leg, of the which it resulted that I was\nplaced in the Ynvalid corps by the Sir Commander Don Juan de Ugalde. But\nconsidering that with time and medicines I recovered and gained strength\nto seek my subsistence free from the hardships to which the frontier\ntroop is exposed from the Mecos [probably the Apaches], I gave up for\nthe benefit of the royal exchequer my pay as invalid sergeant, and have\nfollowed working in the same kingdom of New Mexico. There I have suffered\nvarious fights\u2014as it befell in the past year of 1798, that while I was\nconducting a multitude of large cattle and other effects, the whole\nvalued at more than $14,000, from New Mexico to El Paso del Norte, the\nbarbarous Mecos assailed me, and after a long battle, in which flowed\nmuch human blood, they carried off all I had in the world. And we gave to\nGod thanks for having saved us even the life.\n\n\u201cThis continual contact with the savages has contracted me a friendship\nwith the Cumanche nation, which is at peace with the Spaniards, and\nunderstanding their idiom facilitates me in trading with them to gain my\nlivelihood.\n\n\u201cIn the past year, 1798, I arrived in Santa F\u00e9 and presented myself to\nthe Sir Governor Don Fernando Chacon. His Lordship informed me that there\nhad come a Frenchman and had shown him a piece of metal of fine gold,\nassuring him he knew the spot where it was produced, and that it was\na peak which the ynfidel nations called Peak of the Gold, where there\nwas such an abundant breeding-place of this precious metal that all the\npeak and even its surroundings could with propriety be said to be pure\ngold. That he offered to show the spot if his Lordship would guard him\nwith three hundred men of troops, and this he was bound to grant for the\nbenefit of our monarch. That the distance, he considered, would be a\nmatter of eight or nine days\u2019 journey. The faithful love to our Sovereign\nanimated the Sir Governor, and he supplied the escort which had marched\ntwo days before, and his said Lordship informed me that if he had found\nme in the city he would have made me one of the commanders. This offer\ninspired me, and I offered to follow after the expedition, and the love\nwith which I have always served my lord, the King, enabled me by the\nutmost exertion to overtake the expedition, with which I incorporated\nmyself on the third day.\n\n\u201cAnd journeying on our course, on the ninth day the French guide slipped\naway from us, leaving us in the plains without knowledge of the road\nto our desired peak. At the which it was resolved by the leaders of\nthe expedition to return to Santa F\u00e9. But I, not suffering from the\nshort march, separated from the expedition and went on alone to verify\nthe report. And in the rancherias [villages] of the Cumanches, where I\nwas entertained, when I told them the trick and the mockery that the\nFrenchman had put upon us, they assured me with one accord that the\nsaid Frenchman did not know the location of the peak at all, and that\nhe had never been there, for the gold which he took to New Mexico they\nthemselves had given him in exchange for various trinkets of coral, belts\nand other trifles. But that they knew the peak of gold, that was indeed\nwith an abundance never seen before, and if I would go with them they\nwould show me it, and I could pick up all I wished, and if we met any\nother nation [of Indians] I should not be harmed if with them, for they\nwere all friends.\n\n\u201cIndeed, most illustrious Sir, only by my fidelity and obedience to\nmy superior could I contain myself not to march to the peak without\ndelay; and I told my friends the Mecos Cumanches, that I was going to\nseek permission of that Sir Governor of the New Mexico, and with it\nwould return. I arrived in Santa F\u00e9 and sought that permission, but it\nwas denied me. But continuing my visits to the Mequeria [I find that]\nso strong a desire have they formed for the granting of that permission\nand the development of this treasure, and the facility there is that the\nSpaniards enjoy it and that their Sovereign make heavy his royal coffers,\nthat I resolved to make a walk of more than seven hundred leagues to seek\nthe aid and encouragement of Your Excellency. [The brave sergeant so\nfully believed in his Peak of Gold that he actually walked nearly 2,200\nmiles alone through a most dangerous country to lay the matter before the\nViceroy in Mexico.]\n\n\u201cMy plan being approved, it is undeniable that the Royal treasury will\nbe swelled by the tithes and dues to the Royal crown; new interest will\nanimate men to follow up the discovery, and there will be civilized (with\ntime and the friendship which is contracted with the nations of the\nCumanches, Yutas and Navajosos) more than three hundred leagues of virgin\nand powerful lands\u2014that being reckoned the distance from the city of\nSanta F\u00e9 to the Peak of Gold. The inhabitants of the internal provinces,\nwho now live under the yoke of the assaults of the hostile Indians, will\nrevive; it will be easier for the Sovereign to guard the frontiers of\nthese his vast dominions. Settlements will be made, and insensibly will\nfollow the conquest and pacification of the ynfidels, who will easily\nembrace the holy Gospel and come under the faith of Jesus Christ. What\nresults to religion, to the monarch and to his vassals are presented,\neven by this clumsy narration!\n\n\u201cI do not intend to burden the Royal treasury with the slightest\nexpense, nor do I think to involve the Royal arms in actions which might\nimperil the troops. My person is declared past its usefulness for the\nRoyal service, and I count myself as a dead man for entering matters of\nimportance. But my military spirit does not falter, and I only desire\nto manifest, even at the foot of the tomb, my love to my Sovereign.\nWith only one faithful companion I intend to go among my friends, the\nCumanches, and, with the protection and guidance of them, to enter and\nexplore the land, silently, without noise or preparation, to force a\npassage. Quietness, the gray shadows of the night and our own courage\nare the only preparations I make for the difficult undertaking, and,\nabove all, the divine aid. Having found the desired Peak of Gold,\ncharted the roads to it, made the due surveys, and gathered so much of\nthe precious metal as we can transport without making danger (and under\nthe divine favor), I will present myself again to Your Excellency, and\nby your Superiority will be taken such steps as the state of the case\ndemands.\n\n\u201cUnder which considerations, and the solid arguments which I have\nexpressed, of which Your Excellency can receive full confirmation\nfrom the most excellent Se\u00f1or Don Pedro de Nava, commander-in-chief\nof the interior provinces, and Don Joseph Casiano Feaomil y Garay,\nlieutenant-captain of dragoons of San Lu\u00eds Potos\u00ed, I humbly beg of Your\nExcellency that in use of your Viceroyal powers, you deign to grant me\nyour superior permission to go in search of the Peak of Gold; being kind\nenough to send to the Se\u00f1or Don Fernando Chacon, actual Governor of the\nNew Mexico, that he put no difficulty in my path, and giving orders to\nthe captains and chiefs of the friendly nations\u2014Cumanches, Yutas and\nNavajosos\u2014that they accompany and guide me in this expedition.\n\n\u201cAnd I respectfully say that my delay in getting to this Capital [the\nCity of Mexico] was because I had to come nearly all the way on foot,\nmy horse having given out in that great distance, and that now I am\nsupported here by alms, such is my great anxiety for the benefit of the\nmonarch, and beg that I be excused for this paper. [He was too poor to\nbuy the stamped and taxed paper on which petitions to the Viceroy must be\naddressed.]\n\n\u201cFor so much I pray Your Excellency\u2019s favor.\n\n                                                        BERNARDO CASTRO.\u201d\n\nHe had the real spirit of the Argonauts, this crippled old soldier, to\nwhom poverty and danger and 2,000-mile walks were trifles when they stood\nbetween him and his Peak of Gold.\n\nThe Viceroy evidently gave the desired permission\u2014without which, under\nthe strict Spanish laws, no such venture was to be thought of\u2014and\nthere were one or more expeditions, but unfortunately we have left no\naccount of them. It is clear that the Viceroy ordered Governor Chacon,\nof New Mexico, to assist Castro in his undertaking, and that the matter\naroused a good deal of interest throughout the provinces of New\nSpain. Don Nemecio Salcedo, military commandant at Chihuahua, seems to\nhave interested himself in the matter, for the next document in this\nfragmentary series is a draft of a reply to him from Governor Chacon, as\nfollows:\n\n\u201cAccording to that which Your Lordship advises me in communication of the\n16th of September of the current year, I repeat that as to the expedition\nof Bernardo Castro to the discovery of the Peak of Gold, I will help him\nand the others who accompany him, that they may have no difficulty with\nthe General of the Cumanches, whom, however, I have not yet seen, since\nhe has not yet returned with the ransom he offered me when he was last in\nthis capital.\n\n\u201cGod, etc. Santa Fee, 25th of Fber, 1803.\n\n\u201cTo Se\u00f1or Don Nemo. Salcedo.\u201d\n\nThere was other correspondence between these two on the same matter, for\nnow we come to an original letter from Commandant Salcedo to Governor\nChacon, replying to a late one of his. It says:\n\n\u201cThe communication of Your Lordship, No. 36, of the 18th of last\nNovember, leaves me informed of all the assistances you gave Bernardo\nCastro, that he might undertake the second journey [so he had already\nmade one] from that city, with the object to discover the Peak of Gold,\nwhich he has described in the territory of that province. And of the\nresults I hope Your Lordship will give me account.\n\n\u201cGod guard Your Lordship many years.\n\n\u201cCHIHUAHUA, January 5, 1804.\n\n                                                        \u201cNEMECIO SALCEDO.\n\n\u201cTo the Sir Governor of New Mexico.\u201d\n\nPoor brave, misguided Bernardo de Castro! I wish we might have more of\nthe documents about his venturesome wanderings in quest of the Peak of\nGold. He must have gone far out into the wastes of Texas; and at last\nhe, too, yielded up his life, as did countless of his countrymen before\nhim, to that deadliest of yellow fevers. We lose all track of him until\nGovernor Chaves writes from Santa F\u00e9, in 1829, to his superior in the\nCity of Mexico, who had written to ask him about these and other matters.\nHis letter says:\n\n\u201c_Most Excellent Sir_: In compliance with that which Your Excellency\nrequests in your official letter of the 19th of August last, that I make\nthe necessary verifications upon the mineral reported by the Rev. Father\nCustodian of these missions, Fray Sevastian Alvares, to be found among\nthe gentile Comanches, I have investigated the matter, and place in the\nknowledge of Your Excellency that which various of the citizens of this\ncapital\u2014and all of them most veracious\u2014say. They all agree in that it is\na fact that Don Bernardo de Castro [the old soldier had evidently won\nhonorable recognition, else a Governor of New Mexico would not speak of\nhim by the respectful title of \u201cDon\u201d] entered this territory with the\nobject of seeking the said mineral; that he made various expeditions with\nthis object, until in one of them he was slain by the heathen Apaches.\n\n\u201cPassing to information received from the travelers to that nation, all\nagree in the statement that the Comanches offer to sell them pouches\nfilled with a metal which appears fine and of great weight, which they\nsay they get from the neighborhood of the Ash peaks (which are very\nwell known to our people, but not explored or charted, because they are\ndistant from the trails).\n\n\u201cThe citizen Pablo Martin has been he who expressed himself most fully.\nHe, knowing that the said Don Bernardo de Castro sought a mineral in the\nComanche nation, has procured them to look for the said mineral. The only\nresult was that one Comanche named Pa\u00f1o de Lienso [\u2018Cloth of Linen\u2019], who\nmade himself his companion, gave him information that beyond the Ash\npeaks, in some round hills, were stones with much silver, whereof the\nsaid Comanche had carried some to the province of San Antonio de Bejar\n[Texas], where they made buttons for him. He who made the buttons charged\nthe Comanche to bring him a load [of that metal], but he did not do so,\nbecause in that time came the war of his people with that province. Other\nComanches also have told him [Pablo Martin] that in said spot were stones\nwith silver.\n\n\u201cThis is all I have been able to find out as the results of my\ninvestigations, the which I place in the knowledge of Your Excellency,\nthat you may put it to the use which you deem best.\n\n\u201cSANTA FEE, 30 of 8ber of 1829.\n\n                                                                \u201cCHAVES.\u201d\n\nAnd there, so far as we know it now, is the story of the Peak of Gold.\n\n\n\n\nPablo\u2019s Deer Hunt.\n\n[Illustration: IN TA-BI-R\u00c1]\n\n\n\n\nPablo\u2019s Deer Hunt.\n\nA PUEBLO FAIRY TALE TOLD OVER.\n\n\nThe yellow cottonwoods above the Rio Grande shivered in the fresh October\nmorning as the sun peeped over the Eagle Feather mountain into the valley\nof his people. Above the flat, gray pueblo of Shee-eh-hu\u00edb-bak the bluish\nbreath of five hundred slender chimneys melted skyward in tall spirals.\nUpon here and there a level housetop a blanket-swathed figure stared\nsolemnly at the great, round, blinding house of T\u2019hoor-\u00edd-deh, the Sun\nFather.\n\nThen a burro, heavy eared and slow of pace, rattled the gravel on the\nhigh bluff, gazed mournfully on the muddy eddies, and broke out in\nstentorian brays. Apparently Flojo[32] felt downcast. Across these\ntreacherous quicksands the grass was still tall in the _vega_\u2014why did\nnot Pablo take him over too? And mustering up his ears, he trotted\nalmost briskly down the slope to the water\u2019s edge, where a swart young\nApollo was just stepping into the swift current. Tall, sinewy, lithe as\nKeem-e\u00e9-deh, the mountain lion that lent its tawny hide for the bow-case\nin his hand; his six feet of glowing bronze broken only by a modest clout\nof white at the supple waist, his dense black hair falling straight upon\nbroad, bare shoulders, and his dark eyes watchful of the swirling waters,\nthe young Pueblo strode sturdily in, paying no heed to the forlorn\nwatcher upon the shore. In a moment he was in the channel swimming\neasily, one hand holding the bow-case above the red bundle upon his jet\ncrown. _Sush-sh! sush-sh! splosh! splash! splash!_ and Flojo heaved a\ngreat sigh as his master went spattering across the farther shoals, and\nat last climbed the sandy eastern bank.\n\nPablo unrolled the bundle from his head, wriggled, wet-skinned, into the\nred print shirt and snowy _calzoncillos_, wrapped their flapping folds\nabout his calf with the buckskin leggings of rich maroon; belted these at\neither knee with a wee, gay sash from the looms of Moqui, fastened the\nmoccasins with their silver buttons, and, with the tawny sheath of bow\nand arrows slung across his back, started at a swift walk. Once only he\nstopped, after a scramble up the gravel hills that scalloped the plateau,\nto look back a moment. The long ribbon of the valley, now faded from its\nsummer green, banded the bare brown world from north to south, threaded\nwith the errant silver of the river, whose farthest shimmer flashed back\nfrom under the purple mass of the Mountain of the Thieves. Midway lay\nthe pueblo, dozing amid its orchards below the black cone of the K\u00fa-mai,\nand Pablo shook his head sadly, as he turned again and strode across the\nbroad, high _llano_.\n\n\u201cIt is not well in the village,\u201d he muttered, \u201cfor it is full of them\nthat have the evil road. The Cum-pah-hu\u00edt-lah-wen have told me that\nthe half of those of Shee-eh-hu\u00edb-bak are witches; but not all can be\npunished. But it is in ill times for us. _Tio_ Lorenzo is twisted by\nthe Bads so that he cannot walk; and many die; and did not \u00c1mparo and\nJos\u00e9 Diego marry the prettiest maidens of the Tee-wahn, only to find\nthem witches? How shall one take a wife when so many are accursed? It is\nbetter to hunt and forget the women, as do the warriors; for we know not\nwho are True Believers, and who have to do with the ghosts.\u201d\n\nAcross the wide, sandy plateau the young Indian walked with undiminished\npace; and as the house of the Sun Father stood in the middle of the sky,\nhe entered a rocky ca\u00f1on of the Eagle Feather mountain and began to\nclimb a spur of the great peak. The huddled dry leaves under a live oak\ncaught his eye, and he turned them with deft foot. \u201cHere Pee-\u00edd-deh,\nthe deer, slept last night,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cfor the fresh earth clings\nto their under side. And here is a hair, and here the footmark. If only\nKeem-e\u00e9-deh will help me.\u201d\n\nKneeling by the tree, he broke off a twig and stuck it in the earth in\nfront of the footprint, the fork pointing backward, that Pee-\u00edd-deh might\ntrip and fall as it ran. Then, drawing the Left-Hand Pouch from his\nside, he opened it and reverently took out a tiny parcel in buckskin,\nwhose folds soon disclosed a little image of the Mountain Lion, chief\nof hunters, carved from adamantine quartz. Its eyes were of the sacred\nturquoise; and in the center of the belly was inlaid a turquoise heart\nover the hollow which held a pinch of the holy corn meal. On the right\nside was lashed a tiny arrow-head of moss agate\u2014one of the precious\n\u201cthunder knives\u201d which the Horned Toad had made and had left for Pablo on\nthe plains of the Hollow Peak of Winds. Putting the fetich to his mouth\nand inhaling from the stone lips, the hunter prayed aloud to Keem-e\u00e9-deh\nto give him true eyes and ears, and swift feet to overtake; and rising,\ngave a low, far roar to terrify the heart and loosen the knees of his\nprey. Then, restoring the image to its pouch, with bow in hand and three\narrows held ready, he pushed rapidly up hill, with keen eyes to the\ndim trail. Here a trampled grass blade, there a cut leaf or overturned\npebble, and again a faint scratch on the rocks, led him on. At last, just\nwhere the flat top of the mountain had been wrought to a vast arrow-point\nby the Giant of the Caves, he saw a sleek doe standing under a shabby\naspen. Down on his belly went Pablo, and with a new breath-taking from\nthe stone lips of the prey-god, crawled snake-like forward. The deer\nmoved not, and within fifty yards Pablo tugged an arrow to its agate head\nand drove it whirring through Pee-\u00edd-deh\u2019s heart. The doe turned her\ngreat, soft eyes toward him, sniffed the air and went bounding up the\nrocky ledges as if unhurt. Yet on the left side the grey feathers of the\nshaft touched the skin; and once on the right Pablo caught the sparkle of\nthe gem tip.\n\nThere was a curious ashen tint in the bronze of his cheeks, as the hunter\nsprang to his feet and began running in pursuit. \u201cTruly, that was to the\nlife,\u201d he whispered to himself. \u201cAnd why does she not fall? Will it be\nthat they of the evil road have given me the eye?\u201d And stopping short,\nhe fished out a bit of corn husk and a pinch of the sweet _pee-\u00e9n-hleh_\nand rolled a cigarette, lighting it from his flint and steel. The first\npuff he blew slowly to the east, and then one to the north, and one to\nthe west, and one south, one overhead, and one downward, all about, that\nthe evil spirits of the Six Ways might be blinded and not see his tracks.\nWhen the sacred _weer_ was smoked, he rose and took up the trail again.\nIt was easy to be followed, now, in the soft wood soil of the mountain\ntop; and in the very edge of the farther grove of aspens he saw the doe\nagain, grazing in unconcern. Worming from tree to tree, Pablo came close,\nand again sent a stone-tipped shaft. It struck by the very side of the\nfirst, and drank as deep; but the doe, pricking up her ears as if she had\nbut heard the whizz of the arrow, trotted easily away and disappeared\nover the eastern brow of the mountain, amid the somber pines.\n\nPablo was very pale now, but not yet daunted. He smoked again to the Six\nWays and prayed to all the Trues to help him, and with another arrow on\nthe string, pushed forward.\n\nWhere the tall pines dwindled to scrubby cedars he came again to his\nquarry. But now the doe was more alert and would not let him within\nbowshot. Only she looked back at him with big, sad eyes and trotted just\naway from range. And soon Night rolled down the mountain from behind him\nand filled the whispering forest and drowned the great, still plains\nbeyond, and he lost her altogether.\n\n\u201cThis is no deer,\u201d said Pablo, gloomily, as he stretched himself under a\ntwisted _savino_ for the night, \u201cbut one who has _wahr_, the Power. And\nher eyes, how they are as those of women sorrowing, large and wet! But\nI will see the end, even though I die.\u201d And weary with the rugged forty\nmiles of the day, he was soon asleep.\n\nAs the blue flower of dawn bloomed from the eastern gray, Pablo rose,\nand smoked again the sacred smoke and inhaled the strengthful breath of\nKeem-e\u00e9-deh, and started anew on his awesome hunt. Soon he found the\ntrail marked with dark blotches, and all day long he followed it. Just as\nthe sun-house stood on the dark western ridges he came to the foot of a\nhigh swell, on whose summit gleamed the gray of strange, giant walls.\n\n\u201cIt will be the bones of Ta-bi-r\u00e1,\u201d thought Pablo aloud, \u201cfor my father\noften told me of the great city of the Pi-ro that was beyond Cuaray in\nthe First Times, before the lakes of the plain were accursed to be salt,\nbefore Those-of-the-Old came to dwell on the river that runs from the\nDark Lake of Tears. But how shall a deer come thus into the plains, which\nare only of the prong-horns?[33] Yet I have walked in her road all day,\nand here are her marks, going\u201d\u2014and he stopped, for his sharp ear caught\na faint, far-off chant. It seemed to come from the ruins that crowned\nthe hill; and, dropping to the earth, Pablo began to crawl from cedar\nto cedar, from rock to rock toward it. At the very crest of the rounded\nridge was a long line of jumbled stone\u2014the mound of fallen fortress\nhouses\u2014and beyond, from the gathering dusk, loomed the ragged, lofty\nwalls of a vast temple. Under the shadows of the mound he crawled far\naround to the rear end of the gray wall, and then along the wall itself\ntoward the huge buttresses that proclaimed its front. The chant was close\nat hand now\u2014the singer was evidently within the ruined temple. But the\ntongue Pablo did not know. It was not so musical as his soft Tee-wahn,\nnor was it like the guttural of the Qu\u00e9res\u2014for that he knew also\u2014and\nyet it was some voice of the Children of the Sun, and not the outlandish\nbabble of the Americanoodeh, nor of the Spanish Wet-Head. It was not,\nthen, some new _tonto_ come to dig for the fabled gold of Ta-bi-r\u00e1\u2014whose\nshafts yawned black in the gray bedrock and here and there through the\nvery base of the great wall\u2014but some Indian, and probably a medicine man,\nfor the song was not as those of the careless. Pablo crouched in the\ndarkness against the eastern end of the wall, listening, forgetful of\nthe bewitched deer and of all else. Once in a wild swell of the song he\nthought he discerned a familiar word.\n\n[Illustration: \u201cTHE BONES OF TA-BI-R\u00c1\u201d]\n\n\u201cHoo-m\u00e1h-no?\u201d he kept repeating to himself. \u201cSurely, the grandfather\nDesid\u00e9rio said me that word when he told of Them-of-the-Old, when\nThey-with-Striped-Faces dwelt on yonder mesa. But they are all dead these\nmany years.\u201d\n\nA swift, short flash split the darkness, and a growl of far thunder\nrolled across the ruins. Pablo glanced at the heaven. It was sown thick\nwith the bright sky-seeds that flew up when the Coyote disobeyed the\nTrues and opened the sacred bag. From horizon to horizon there was not a\ncloud; but again the flash came, and again the mighty drum-beat of Those\nAbove. Pablo crept to a breach in the wall, and peeped into the gloomy\ninterior of the temple. Even as he looked, the zig-zag arrow of the Trues\nleaped again from ghostly wall to wall; and its blinding flight showed\nhim that at which he caught his breath. For squat by a corner in the wall\nwas a white-headed Indian waving his bare arms; and facing him and Pablo\na dusky maiden, with drooping head. But her face was burned into his\nheart.\n\n\u201cSurely, such are precious to the Trues! For she is as the Evening\nStar, good to see!\u201d and Pablo craned forward eagerly. \u201cThe _viejo_ will\nbe a Shaman,\u201d he added, mentally, \u201cfor so our own Fathers make the\nlightning come at the medicine dance.[34] But she! If there were such in\nShee-eh-hu\u00edb-bak, then one might take a wife\u2014for her face is no face of a\nwitch!\u201d\n\nJust then there came another flash; and then a soft, girlish cry. The\nmagic lightning of the conjurer had betrayed Pablo; and before he could\nspring away a heavy hand was upon his shoulder.\n\n\u201c_Hi-ma-tu-k\u00fa-eh?_\u201d demanded a deep voice in an unknown tongue.\n\n\u201c_Nah Tee-wah_,\u201d said the abashed hunter, trying in vain to shake off\nthat strong grasp.\n\n\u201cTee-wah?\u201d said the stranger, speaking in Pablo\u2019s own language. \u201cI, too,\nhave the tongue of Shee-eh-hu\u00edb-bak, for my wife was of there. But now\nshe has gone to Shee-p\u2019ah-po\u00f3n, and there lives for me only my child, and\nshe is hurt. But what hast thou here, peeping at our medicine?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is by chance, Kah-b\u00e1y-deh,\u201d answered Pablo. \u201cFor yesterday when the\nsun was _so_, I wounded a deer, and unto here I have followed it in vain.\nFor, perhaps, it has the Power, and I could not kill it. And when I heard\nthy song I came, not knowing what it was.\u201d\n\n\u201cSince yesterday when the sun was _so_, thou hast followed the road of a\nwounded deer? And how wounded?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn truth, I gave it two arrows through the life, but it minded them not.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, then, and thou shalt see thy hunting,\u201d and he drew Pablo into the\ntemple. In a moment a dry arm of the _entra\u00f1a_ (which the Trues gave for\nthe first candles) was burning; and by its smoky, flaring light Pablo\ncould see his strange surroundings. Beside him, that breakless hand\nstill on his shoulder, stood an aged Indian. His hair was white as the\nsnows of Shoo-p\u2019ah-to\u00f3-eh, and his undimmed eyes shone from deep under\nsnowy brows. He was naked but for the breech-clout, and upon his left arm\nwas a great gauntlet from the forepaw of Ku-a\u00ed-deh, the bear, with all\nits claws. But at his wrinkled face Pablo stared in affright, for all\nacross it ran long, savage knife-stripes, so old that they, too, were cut\nwith wrinkles. \u201c_Rayado!_\u201d flashed through the young hunter\u2019s mind, \u201ceven\nas were They-of-the-Old who dwelt in the mesa of the Hoo-m\u00e1h-no! But they\nare all dead since long ago.\u201d\n\nBut even his superstitious terror could not keep his eyes from that\nmodest figure crouched in the angle of the strange wall. Truly, she was\ngood to look at. In the soft olive of the cheeks a sweet, deep red was\nspreading. Under the downcast eyes the lashes drew dark lines across the\ntranslucent skin. A flood of hair poured into her lap, and from under\nits heavy waves peeped a slender hand. It was plain from her dress that\nshe was none of the _b\u00e1rbaros_, but a Pueblo. There was the same modest\nblack _manta_ of his people, the same fat, boot-like leg-wraps of snowy\nbuckskin, the same dainty brown moccasins. Even the heavy silver rosary\nwas about her neck, and from her ears hung strands of precious turquoise\nbeads from the white, blue-veined heart of Mount Chalchihuitl. But even\nthe white silver, and the stone that stole its color from the sky were\nnot precious beside that sweet young face from which Pablo could not turn\naway.\n\nAnd as he gazed with a strange warm tickling at his heart strings, the\nlong lashes lifted timidly toward the handsome stranger, and on a sudden\nthe bright face turned ashen, and the girl sank back upon a heap of\nfallen stones. Pablo stared with wide eyes, and a dizziness ran from head\nto knee, for there were dark drops upon the rocks, and amid the flowing\nhair he saw the notched ends of two arrows\u2014his very own, feathered from\nthe gray quills of Koor-n\u00edd-deh, the crane. He reeled, to fall, but the\nstrong hand held him up and the strong voice said:\n\n\u201cTake the heart of a man, for it is not yet too late. Thou hast done\nthis, unknowing; for the witches filled thine eyes with smoke, to fool\nthee. But we will yet make medicine to heal my daughter\u2014for I am the\nwizard T\u2019b\u00f3-deh, the last of the Hoo-m\u00e1h-no, and precious to Those Above,\nwho will help us. But thou hast still arrows in the quiver\u2014go, then,\ntill thou come to the first cliff on the west, and shoot three arrows\nstrongly into the sky. And bring to me that which falls\u2014for it needs that\nthou who hast shed her blood shouldst bring it again. Nay, tremble not,\nfor the Trues will help thee; and with this amulet of the striped stone\nthe witches cannot come nigh. Take the heart of a man, and go!\u201d\n\nPablo looked at the pitiful little heap in the corner, and turning,\nmanfully strode out through the broad portal and went stumbling westward\nin the darkness, over mounds and hollows and fallen walls. Down the long,\nsteep ridge, across the undulant plain, knee-deep in dry and whispering\ngrass, and up the western slope of the valley he trudged; and at last in\nthe darkness ran up against a smooth, straight face of rock. \u201cIt is the\ncliff,\u201d he shivered\u2014for he feared greatly. But plucking up his soul, he\nbacked away a few paces from the rock and notched a shaft and drew it to\nthe head and sent it hurtling to the sky, and another and another. For\na long time he waited, and then there was a soft _whish!_ and an arrow\nstood in the earth at his feet. He groped and found it and drew back\nhis hand quickly, for shaft and feathers were wet\u2014with that soft, warm,\nticklish wetness that never came from water yet. Another arrow fell and\nit was so, and so also was the third.\n\nShaken as are the leaves of the shivering tree,[35] Pablo put to his lips\nthe amulet of the wizard and drew a long breath from it. Then, gingerly\nplucking the standing arrows one by one, he started running from the\nhaunted spot, not resting in his stumbling flight until he found himself\nat the foot of the hill of Ta-bi-r\u00e1. In a few moments he was groping\nalong the great wall, and at last stood again within the roofless temple.\n\nNow there was a tiny fire there, and the old man was squatted by it\nchanting and snapping two long feathers together in rhythm with his wild\nrefrain. And in the corner was the same dark, limp heap, which seemed to\ndrift near or farther away on the waves of the firelight.\n\n\u201cIt is well!\u201d said the old man, rising; \u201cfor already I have blown away\nthe evil ones, that we be alone. And I see that thou hast brought blood\nfrom above to pay for that which is lost.\u201d\n\nTaking from Pablo\u2019s hand the arrows, still red-wet, he broke one over\nthe fire and one he thrust upright in the hard earth at the maiden\u2019s\nfeet. Then he rubbed his hands with ashes and laid them upon her breast,\nchanting:\n\n    \u201cBlood, water of life,\n    Come back in the brooks of the heart!\n    Blood, water of life,\n    Give it to drink again\u2014\n    For the red field is dry\n    And nothing grows.\u201d\n\nAs he rubbed and sang the maiden stirred and moved and sat up. And taking\nthe third arrow he put the notch to his lips and the barb to her side and\ndrew with a strong breath, and the buried shaft grew long and longer from\nher side, until it fell upon the ground. So he drew the second shaft,\nand it, too, came away and left her.[36] Then he laid the arrow of power\nagainst her side and the wounds were no more there; and she rose and took\nthe hand of Pablo to her little mouth and breathed on it, and looked up\nat him with timid eyes, but Pablo sank down and knew nothing, for his\nstrength was done.\n\nWhen he woke, the Sun-Father was high over the gray ruins. Pablo found\nhimself upon a bed of dry grass, in the shadow of the wall; and near him\nsat the old man who was last of the Hoo-m\u00e1h-no, watching him with clear\neyes. A low, sweet voice was crooning a sleep-song in his own tongue;\nand from behind a jutting wall peeped forth a little moccasined foot.\n\n    \u201cSleep! Sleep! It is good!\n    Sleep the Moon-Mother gave\u2014\n    She that bought us the night,\n    Paying her sight to buy!\n    Sleep! For so She is glad!\u201d\n\nPablo sat up, bending forward if he might see the singer; but there was\nonly a gleam of soft eyes around the wall, and then they were gone. The\nold man eyed him kindly. He was dressed now like Pablo, with the garments\nof the Pueblos; and the stern, quiet face, with its strange scar-stripes,\nseemed after all very good.\n\n\u201cThou hast slept well, son,\u201d he said at last, \u201cfor we have been here many\nhours. But it is hard to fight them of the evil road, and for that thou\nwast tired. But rise now, eat and be strong, for other days come.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke the maiden came bringing a steaming earthen bowl and set\nit down timidly before the stranger, at whom she dared not look, and\ndisappeared again in her nook. The hot broth revived the young hunter,\nand a new heart came in him and he was strong. When he had eaten, the old\nman said:\n\n\u201cNow thou art a man again. Tell me how goes with the village of the\nTee-wahn? For in fifty winters I have not seen Shee-eh-hu\u00edb-bak\u2014since my\nwife had come from there to P\u2019ah-que-to\u00f3-ai, where I loved her. Is it\nwell with the town? Do they keep the ways of the Old?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are many True Believers,\u201d answered Pablo slowly, \u201cbut many have\nforgotten the ways of the Old and taken the evil road, so that it is hard\nto know who are good, there are so many witches. For that, the young\nmen that believe in the Olds are afraid to make nests, lest they find\nfeathers of the accursed birds therein\u2014for many that look to be snowbirds\nare inwardly owls and woodpeckers.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd thou hast no nest?\u201d asked the old man with a keen glance.\n\n\u201c_In-d\u00e1h-ah!_\u201d replied Pablo emphatically\u2014and from the corner he caught a\nbright gleam of eyes.\n\n\u201cIt is well! For if the nest be bad, how shall the young birds grow up\nclean? And thy parents?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy father was War Captain of the Tee-wahn,\u201d said Pablo proudly, \u201cand\nhe taught me the ways of men, and the sacred stories of the Old. But\none gave him the evil eye, and he was slain by the Cumanche in war. My\nmother was a True Believer, and soon she went after him, to make his\nhouse good in Shee-p\u2019ah-po\u00f3n. So there is left only my grandfather, who\nis cacique, and my uncle. And with my uncle I live, for we are both of\nthe Eagle clan.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is well! But now it is to stay here for a time; for in this place is\nmighty power of the Olds. But if thou wilt hunt for us, that Deer-Maiden\nmay eat well while I fast and talk with Those Above, then we will go\nwith thee to Shee-eh-hu\u00edb-bak; for my people are no more and my child is\nlonely to be with the people of her mother. But show me the _wahr_ with\nwhich thou huntest, for perhaps the witches have blinded it.\u201d\n\nPablo fished out the little stone image, which he had never shown to man\nbefore, and T\u2019b\u00f3-deh inhaled from its lips.\n\n\u201cIt is so!\u201d he said angrily; and prying out the turquoise heart he showed\nthe hunter that from beneath it the sacred meal was gone, and in its\nplace a tiny black feather. \u201cIt is no wonder that thy hunting was ill,\u201d\nhe cried, \u201cfor the witches have changed the heart of Keem-e\u00e9-deh! But\nI will give thee a strong _wahr_ that none can kill,\u201d and breaking the\npolluted image with a rock, he covered the fragments with a cloth and\nchanted a sacred song. In a moment the cloth moved, and the wizard drew\nfrom under it a bright new Keem-e\u00e9-deh, carved from the sunlight-stone,\nthe yellow topaz, and bound to its side was an arrow-head of transparent\nemerald. Its heart was turquoise and its eyes red garnets.\n\n\u201cTake it, son, and fear not,\u201d said the aged conjurer, \u201cfor it is stronger\nthan the ghosts. But now go and hunt, for there is no more meat.\u201d\n\nWhen Pablo toiled up the hill of ruins at sundown a noble antelope was\nbalanced upon his shoulders and a fat wild turkey dangled from his belt.\nHe threw them down proudly, and was paid with a shy glance from the eyes\nthat now lived in his heart, and the old man said:\n\n\u201cThe new _wahr_ is good! And thou art a hunter like Keem-e\u00e9-deh himself.\nVerily there will be no lack of meat in thy house.\u201d But at this the\nmaiden ran away with a red face, and Pablo\u2019s heart was glad.\n\nFor three days they were there while the old man made medicine; and every\nday Pablo brought back much game. And every day his eyes grew deeper\nand those of the maiden drooped lower. On the fourth day they started,\nthe three, to the northeast; and with three journeys they came to\nShee-eh-hu\u00edb-bak. There Pablo brought the strangers to his grandfather,\nthe cacique; and when old Desid\u00e9rio knew that this was the great wizard,\nthe last of the Hoo-m\u00e1h-no, he was very glad, and gave him of the common\nlands, that his home should be always there.\n\nWhen the people of Shee-eh-hu\u00edb-bak were making clean for the Noche\nBuena, Pablo came to the cacique, and said: \u201c_Tata_, there is another\nyear, and I am tired to be alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut canst thou keep a wife?\u201d\n\n\u201cThou knowest, _tata_, that none kill more game. As for my fields, they\nare good, and the careless-weed never grows there.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is truth, my son. And who is good in thine eyes?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is only one, _tatita_, and that is Deer-Maiden, the child of the\nHoo-m\u00e1h-no. She is very good.\u201d\n\n\u201cI like her,\u201d answered the withered cacique, slowly, \u201cfor her father has\ngiven her a good heart, and they are both precious to Those Above. It is\nwell.\u201d\n\nIn four days the cacique and the Hoo-m\u00e1h-no brought Pablo and the\nDeer-Maiden to the cacique\u2019s house and gave them to eat two ears of raw\ncorn\u2014to him a blue ear, but to her a white one, for a woman\u2019s heart is\nalways whiter. Pablo looked at her as he ate, but she could not look.\nAnd when both had proved themselves by eating the last grain, the elders\ntook them out to the sacred running-place and put them side by side, and\nmarked the course, and gave them the road. Then Pablo went running like a\nstrong antelope, but the girl like a scared fawn; and up the sacred hill\nthey flew, and turned at the Stone of the Bell, and came flying back.\nBut now Pablo was slower, for it is not well to surpass one\u2019s bride in\nthe marrying race, as if one would rob her of respect; and if they come\nin equal, there is no marriage. So she was first; and all the people\nblessed them, and they were one. No witch could ever harm their house,\nfor He-that-Was-Striped gave them strong _wahr_, and they were happy.\n\n\n\n\nCandel\u00e1ria\u2019s Curse.\n\n\n\n\nCandel\u00e1ria\u2019s Curse.\n\n\nWhat a snip-click! snip-click! snip-click! of the big steel shears, till\nthe corral rang like an exaggerated telegraph office! Hoarse voices kept\ncalling out \u201c_Numer\u2019 uno!_\u201d \u201c_dieziseis!_\u201d \u201c_veintetres!_\u201d and tall,\nhandsome Lorenzo, standing in a corner with the tally card in his hand,\npenciled a mark opposite No. 1, No. 16, No. 23, and so on as each man\ncalled out the number by which he was known. The calls came fast, and\nfor each one a shabby gray shadow, looking like the ghost of a boy with\na home hair-cut, \u201conly more so,\u201d went scurrying into the ranks of his\nyet unshorn fellows. The big corral was full as it could hold. Fifteen\nhundred sheep were there, so tightly packed that a mouse tossed upon\ntheir backs could hardly have found its way to the ground between them.\nOnly in the triangular corners of the fence (which was built of logs laid\nup in zigzags) was there a trifle of room; and it was from these that all\nthe noise came. In each was a fast-swelling heap of dirty, gray wool,\nand just in front of it the shearer. Each, as he turned a victim loose,\nyelled out his number, to be tallied one, and running upon the huddled\nmass of sheep, caught one by the fleece with each hand, dragged it to his\ncorner, flopped it upon its side, knotted its four sharp feet together\nwith a dextrous movement, and, snatching the shears from his belt, fell\ninstantly to work. It was a scene to bewilder an Eastern sheep-grower.\nThere were no shearing tables. Each man bent over, as though there were a\nhinge in his waist, until his hands were within six inches of the ground,\nand thus worked all day long. Holding and turning the sheep with the left\nhand, with the right he drove the sharp blades snipping through the wool\nwith startling rapidity\u2014till, almost before one knew it, the whole fleece\nrolled off to one side, very much as if it had been an unbroken pelt.\nAs quick a motion freed the feet again and the shorn creature scrambled\nup and ran to hide his confusion, while the shearer was already playing\nbarber to the \u201cnext gentleman.\u201d\n\nSo it was no sleepy work, tallying for the thirty-seven swart fellows\nwho were doing Don Roman\u2019s fall shearing, and any one less practiced\nthan Lorenzo might have lost count now and then. Every one seemed to\nbe working his best, but the two cries that came oftenest of any were\n\u201c_trece_\u201d and \u201c_diezisiete_.\u201d Number thirteen was a short, thickset\nMexican from Los Lunas, known (because of his unusually dark complexion)\nas Black Juan, and number seventeen was that two-fisted Pedro of Cubero.\nThey had been for several years the two best shearers in Valencia county,\nand therefore, very naturally, rivals\u2014though in some way they had never\ncome together before. But now finding themselves, on the eve of the fall\nclip of 50,000 sheep, face to face each with a man he had never seen, but\nhad disliked for ten years, neither could refrain from a slight curl of\nthe lip. That fellow such a _guapo_? Huh! He might make a noise among the\nslowpokes down in the valley, but beside a real shearer there wouldn\u2019t\nbe enough of him to make a shadow! It was not long before their thoughts\ncame to speech, and soon they had made a wager for a sheep-shearing\nrace on the morrow. The ponies upon which they had come, their tattered\nblankets and a large proportion of their prospective wages were staked on\nwhich should shear the more fleeces between sunrise and sunset.\n\nFor eleven hours, now, the race had been in progress. Lorenzo had given\nthe word when the first rim of sun peered above the yellow mesas. At noon\nthe other shearers had taken the usual half hour to swallow the rude\nmeal of tortillas and roasted sheep-ribs, but Juan and Pedro had worked\ndoggedly on. The crunch of their shears seemed never to stop, and against\nthe numbers thirteen and seventeen the little slanting marks (each fourth\none crossed) had crept clear across the tally card and Lorenzo had to\nstart a new line for each of them.\n\nFive o\u2019clock\u2014five-thirty\u2014six\u2014and suddenly the timekeeper shouted \u201c_Ya\n\u2019st\u00e1_!\u201d The noise redoubled for a moment as each man hurried to finish\nhis present sheep, and then stopped. Bent backs straightened slowly amid\na general sigh of relief. A hard day, truly. Not a man in the corral,\neven down to young Blea, who had not sheared his sixty or seventy sheep.\nBut the rivals? All crowded around Lorenzo as he began to count up.\n\n\u201cM\u2014m\u2014m\u2014twenty-four, twenty-five\u2014twenty-five tallies and three. Pedro\nhas one hundred and twenty-eight sheep!\u201d And Juan? \u201cM\u2014m\u2014m\u2014twenty-seven\ntallies and one\u2014one hundred and thirty-six! Bravo! _Que guapo!_\u201d And the\nevening air rang with shouts.\n\n\u201cThou couldst not have done it fairly!\u201d growled Pedro, with rage in every\nline of his dusty face.\n\n\u201cHow, fairly, sleepyhead? Have I not worked openly before all?\u201d\n\nBut Pedro went over the fence sullenly and walked away, muttering to\nhimself. Only when a couple of other shearers joined him at his camp-fire\ndid he give further vent to his feelings.\n\n\u201cThrice fool that I was,\u201d he snarled, \u201cto make a bet against that! For\nclearly to-day my shears were bewitched and would not cut well. And you\nknow well the why\u2014it is that old _bruja_ of a Candel\u00e1ria who has given\nthem the evil eye! For yesterday, as she passed, my dog ran at her,\nwhereat I laughed, and in the act she turned and cursed me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou didst ill,\u201d said one of his companions. \u201cAll know that she is a\nwitch, and works all manner of evil to them that offend her. Why, there\nwas Marcelino, who refused to give her meat when he killed a sheep, and\nstraightway she made a mouse to steal into his stomach, so that it was\nnear to kill him.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I am not Marcelino, then, to go pay a horse to another witch to cure\nme. No, I will have-me-them with her. She shall pay me for this loss and\nfor the laughter they have put upon me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is that, Pedro?\u201d said young Alonzo, coming up just then and\nsquatting by the fire. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t hurt the poor old woman?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho gave you a candle in this funeral?\u201d snapped the defeated shearer.\n\u201cThat is what I will do. There are too many of these _brujas_ putting\nspells on innocent folks, and there\u2019s only one way to cure them\u2014the way\nthey did in San Mateo last year. We\u2019ll stone her for a witch. And much\ncare thou, that thou get not hurt also!\u201d\n\nThe two others made no serious opposition to Pedro\u2019s plan. They had\nnothing against the old woman themselves, but every one knew that such\nwitches were a great pest to the community\u2014perhaps it would be a public\nservice to put her out of the way. Besides, they were rather used to\nbeing led around by the nose by Pedro, who, in addition to his prowess\nas a shearer, was so powerful and reckless that he had become the\nacknowledged leader of a certain class.\n\n\u201c_Pues_, understood! We will go over presently and give the old hag a\nshower of St. Peter\u2019s tears! And thou\u201d\u2014turning to Alonzo, who was rising\nto go\u2014\u201cthe less tongue, the less sore bones, eh?\u201d\n\nCandel\u00e1ria lived across the arroyo in a miserable little _jacal_ of\npi\u00f1on[37] trunks chinked with mud, right up against the side of the great\nlava flow. She was a sorry-looking hag; and, on seeing her, the first\nthought of much better educated people than Pedro would very likely\nhave been: \u201cWhat an old witch!\u201d She was tall and gaunt and incredibly\nwrinkled, but with such keen black eyes that almost every one shrank at\nher gaze.\n\nAlonzo himself was certainly not fond of her, and probably it would\nnot be too much to say that he was secretly a bit afraid of this grim,\ndark figure in greasy tatters, despite his year of school in the little\nmission at San Rafael. But at thought of her being stoned to death he\nfelt a sudden revulsion.\n\n\u201cBut what to do?\u201d he muttered to himself as he slouched away from the\ncamp-fire. \u201cPedro is bad to meddle with, and no one here will help me;\neven Don Roman is afraid of the witches, and hates them. _Ea!_ I will go\nwarn her, so she can hide till the shearers have gone.\u201d\n\nIt was already very dark as he stumbled over the rocky ground and\nturned west along the bank of the arroyo. This was a deep ravine plowed\nthrough the meadow by the intermittent brook from the snows of the Zu\u00f1i\nmountains. In summer there was no stream, but here and there were pools\nenough for the thirsty sheep and cattle. Now there had been rains, and\na narrow rill connected the brimming pools. He found the white, peeled\nlog which served as a footbridge from bank to bank, and started to walk\ncautiously across it. Midway he stopped suddenly with an audible chuckle,\nturned, came back and shambled toward the corrals. Something seemed to\namuse him mightily, for at every few steps he paused to laugh softly.\nCamp-fires burned all about the corral, and even far up the rocky mesa,\nwhere the sheep were being herded for the night; but Alonzo had eyes\nfor but one. Near an angle of the enclosure stood a stout post, and not\nfar from its foot was a bed of embers surrounded with sooty kettles and\nfrying pans. It was Telango\u2019s slaughter house and kitchen, where that\ngreasy gentleman turned twenty sheep a day into soups and joints for the\nshearers.\n\nTelango was at the moment absent, and when he returned to his post a\nkettle of mutton tallow that had been trying out over the embers was\nmissing. That should have made a pretty row, for the cook was a touchy\nautocrat; but, supper being over, Telango was so sleepy that he would\nscarce have noticed it had his whole kitchen been carried off.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cWell, are we ready?\u201d asked Pedro in a low tone of his allies a little\nafter 8 o\u2019clock. Every one else was asleep, apparently. The camp-fires\nhad all died down and no one was moving. Pedro rose quietly and stole\noff into the darkness, followed by Pepe and \u2019Lipe. \u201cClose behind me,\u201d\nhe whispered, \u201cand with care, for if she hears us she can hide in the\nmalpa\u00eds, where no one could find her.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut perhaps she would not run,\u201d broke out \u2019Lipe uneasily, as they neared\nthe arroyo. \u201cSince she is a witch she might rather throw a spell on us.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuiet you the mouth, stupid! We have only to take care that she does not\nhear us.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I have heard that they need not the ears, for the evil spirits tell\nthem.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet the evil one tell her, if he will!\u201d growled Pedro. \u201cI would like to\nsee him keep _this_ from her,\u201d and he picked up a jagged lava fragment\nover which he had stumbled. \u201cBe not sheep! Close behind me, now.\u201d\n\nPedro stepped out upon the log whose white length stretching into the\ngloom seemed to rest upon nothing. His teguas made no noise upon the\nwood, and he was midway across when suddenly there came a stifled oath.\nHis feet flew right and left and he dropped astride the log with a\nviolence that shook the breath out of him, and in the same instant began\nto slip to one side. In vain he clutched at the log. It gave no hold,\nand lurching over he dropped twenty feet. There was a tremendous splash;\nand then another and another. Pepe and \u2019Lipe had followed their leader\ndownward without even stopping to sit down first.\n\nThe shores here were steep and rocky, cut deep in a lava flow millenniums\nolder than that whose jet black miles lay along the pretty meadow. In the\nmiddle was a long, deep pool wherein the few boys of Alamitos were wont\nto swim in summer. Just now it was not particularly attractive. During\nthe shearing several thousand sheep were watered daily at the head\nof this pool and at the shallower one above, and at such times no one\nthought of bathing in the odorous mess.\n\nAny one listening might have heard for some seconds after the splashes\nnothing but a faint gurgle, as of bubbles breaking. Then there were\ncurious snorts and plashings, as if that invisible black abyss had\nsuddenly become the home of a hippopotamus family, and then a laborious\nthrashing about. Presently there was a rattle of pebbles, mingled with\ncoughs and angry mutterings, as if some one were trying to scale the\nbanks.\n\n\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you come this side, stupids?\u201d Pedro whispered across when he\nhad done choking and sputtering. \u201cThe _bruja_ lives over here\u2014not yonder.\n_Vamos!_\u201d\n\n\u201cBut man! We are not crazy! Seest thou not that she has the power and so\neasily has bewitched us? If we go further we shall find worse.\u201d\n\n\u201cFour times fools! It was only that I slipped, and you, being scared,\nfell also. Come on!\u201d\n\n\u201cThanks,\u201d answered Pepe and \u2019Lipe in a breath. \u201cBut even fools know\nbetter than to defy the evil one.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome over or you answer to me!\u201d snorted Pedro, forgetting his caution.\n\u201cCowards that you are, I\u2019ll show you,\u201d and he started back across the log\nto get in arguing reach of the deserters.\n\nBut four steps from the bank his feet again suddenly leaped out from\nunder him and the log smote him in the back with a loud thump, and a wild\nsplash flung a dirty rain in the faces of his terrified companions.\n\n\u201cUh, uh!\u201d he gasped, coming to the surface at last. \u201cKff! Tchoo!\u201d for he\nhad swallowed a most unsavory pint.\n\n\u201cAh, ha-ha!\u201d rang a weird, shrill laugh from the southern bank. Pepe and\n\u2019Lipe crossed themselves and took to their heels, without thought of\nwaiting for their leader. It struck a chill through Pedro, too, as he\nfloundered to the shore and clambered up the jagged rocks frantically,\ncutting his hands and knees. But he hardly noticed that\u2014all he could\nthink of was the mocking laugh. Candel\u00e1ria\u2019s laugh! After all, she was\ntoo strong! There was no use fighting against these witches\u2014just see\nhow easily she had undone his strength and wit! No more witch hunts for\nhim\u2014and he scrambled up the bank in utter rout. Just then a dark form\nreached out overhead. Pedro did not see it; but in an instant came a\nwarm, suffocating avalanche which choked his cry of terror and half\nblinded him.\n\n\u201cMurder!\u201d he managed to sputter at last. \u201c_So-cor-r-r-ro!_\u201d and he fled\nto the camp like one chased by wolves.\n\n\u201cSo, thief! Shameless! It was thou that stole my tallow, then!\u201d roared\nTelango, who had discovered his loss just now. \u201cTo anoint that dirty\nhead, eh? Then take this!\u201d and with a stout cudgel he belabored the\nluckless Pedro till the latter broke away and fled into further darkness.\nNo wonder Telango had found him out\u2014his great shock of hair and beard\nwere matted in a gray, greasy mask, like the runnings of a cheap candle.\n\nPedro did not finish the shearing season. Next morning he was missing\nfrom Alamitos, and a few days later news came that he was in Cubero. His\naccomplices had no explanations to offer for his disappearance or for\ntheir wet clothing, and as for Alonzo, he \u201ctold nothing to nobody.\u201d Only\nat times he was observed to drop his shears and double up as though he\nhad a pain in his stomach, while his face would become suspiciously red.\nFurthermore, he came carelessly up to Telango at noon with:\n\n\u201cOh, here\u2019s your lard bucket\u2014I picked it up by the arroyo. And say\u2014if you\nwant to make candles, you\u2019d better go scrape the foot-log. Somebody has\ngreased the whole middle of it!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat thing?\u201d grumbled Telango. \u201cOf the witches, no doubt. And _quizas_\nthe same who anointed Pedro.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Quizas_,\u201d answered Alonzo solemnly, and he walked off without cracking\na smile.\n\n\n\n\nThe Habit of the Fraile.\n\n\n\n\nThe Habit of the Fraile.\n\n\nI.\n\nThe end drew near of the longest siege that was ever in any of the\nthree Americas. More than a year ago the red field of Ayacucho had\ncrowned the triumph of the rebel colonies. The mother-nation that\nfound the New World, and tamed it and gave it to her sons, no longer\nhad sons there, for the very last had disowned her. Mexico, the first\ngreat Spanish kingdom in America, had turned republic; and so had the\nneighbor provinces. South America had followed suit; for the cry of\n\u201cIndependence,\u201d premature as it was among these peoples, then and still\nso unripe for self-government, carried contagion, and Peru itself, the\ngem of the conquest, the land of riches and romance, had thrown off the\nmerciful \u201cyoke\u201d of home to stagger for generations under the ten-fold\nworse yoke of her own corrupt sons. Of all the Americas that had been\nSpain\u2019s by discovery, by conquest and by settlement, there now remained\nto her on the continent only the space boxed by the four walls of\nCallao[38]\u2014a space a mile and a half square. There the red-yellow-and-red\nflag still flaunted defiance to the victorious insurgents; for there\nRodil,[39] \u201cthe second Leonidas,\u201d was making the last heroic stand for\nSpain.\n\nIt was hopeless odds\u2014this fiery loyalist against all rebel South America.\nThere was no possibility of reinforcements from anywhere; no chance of\nretreat. Cooped up in what was then the largest fort in the New World,\nhe saw the land fenced with the flushed armies of Bol\u00edvar,[40] the bay\nblocked by the allied fleets. For twenty-one months he had repulsed their\nalmost daily attacks and outwitted their ceaseless stratagems; and for\ntwenty-one months, too, had baffled the still more dangerous foes within\nhis walls. Of the two thousand eight hundred men at his hand when the\nsiege began, March 1, 1824, over seven hundred had been killed and more\nthan twice as many had died of the pestilence. Of the eight thousand\ncitizens first within the fort\u2014for all Callao was included by those huge\nramparts\u2014two thousand four hundred had been sent out to avoid famine,\nand over five thousand had fallen by the plague. The survivors had no\nheart left. Almost daily some new plot to betray the fort was discovered,\nand almost daily the \u201ciron general\u201d gave a row of conspirators to the\nmusketeers. To war, disease and treachery, famine added its terrors.\nHorse meat and rats were already delicacies; and only yesterday, a noble\ninvalid had given a plate heaped up with gold for three lemons.\n\nIt was New Year\u2019s eve. That, down here, twelve degrees below the equator,\nmeant high summer. All day long the tropic heat had beaten mercilessly\nupon Callao, and now the wan defenders lay sprawled along the ramparts\nbeside their guns, drinking the grateful dusk. Here and there sounded the\nuneven tramp of the patrol down the cobble-paved streets, and their sharp\nchallenge, \u201c_Alto! Quien vive?_\u201d to every one they met. It rang out now,\nand the soldiers crossed their muskets before a tall, gray-robed figure.\n\n\u201cIt is I, my children,\u201d was the quiet answer. \u201cDelay me not, for I go to\nthe sick.\u201d\n\n\u201cPass, father,\u201d said the _sargento_, and all lifted their caps, stepping\nfrom the narrow sidewalk to make room for the priest.\n\n\u201cBut what is this?\u201d cried the officer, suddenly thrusting out his long\narm and clutching something which was about to fly right between them. It\nwas a thin, pale girl of ten, hooded in the black manta of her people.\n\n\u201c_Que es esto?_\u201d repeated the _sargento_ more gently. \u201cDost thou not know\nthe orders that none shall move upon the street after dark, since so many\ndrop letters over the walls to the rebels? Get thee in, for even children\nare not exempt,\u201d and he pushed her back into the doorway from which she\nhad just burst.\n\nBut the child made no motion to obey. \u201cThe padre!\u201d she panted. \u201cThe\npadre! For my brother is very sick.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Si, pues?_ Well, go thou and catch the fraile, then. But much eye that\nthou come not near the walls.\u201d And the kindly old Spaniard led his men\noff down the street.\n\nBy this time the priest had turned the corner; and when the child came\nflying to that street, lo! he was far ahead. But she kept running\nbreathlessly and at last, where the dark bulk of the castle of San Felipe\noverhung them, she plucked the gray robe from behind. Her bare feet\nhad drawn no noise from the stones, and the priest started violently,\nchoking back what sounded like the beginning of a cry.\n\nHe wheeled sharply about with a stern \u201cWhat is this?\u201d\u2014but his voice was\npinched.\n\n\u201cMy brother\u2014very sick\u2014padre! Please, your grace, come!\u201d she panted.\n\n\u201cTo the devils with your brother!\u201d he growled, flinging her off.\n\u201c_V\u00e1yate!_\u201d and he was gone before the dumbfounded child could speak\nagain. She stood a moment looking stupidly after him, and then, sobbing,\nlimped wearily homeward.\n\n\nII.\n\nThe house, like most of Callao in those ill days, was little better\nthan a wreck after twenty-one months of the rebel cannonading. The dark\nstairway teetered and groaned dismally as she scrambled up, and overhead\nthe Southern Cross blinked hazily at her through a tattered frame\u2014the\ninsurgent shells had left little of the flimsy roofs of the city where\nit never rains. Long, ragged strips of bamboo lathing dangled here and\nthere, and at her childish tread dribbles of the gravel covering came\npattering about her like uncanny footfalls. She was trembling all over\nwhen she pushed open a broken door and entered the room, the rude\nMoorish balcony of which overhung the street. There was a hole in the\nroof here, too, and the doors of the balcony had been splintered by a\ncannon ball. A twisted rag flared smokily in an iron plate of grease on a\nbroken chair, and where the vagrant shadows began to stand their ground\nagainst its feeble rays, some one was bending over a tattered mattress\nupon the floor.\n\n\u201c_No hay cuidado_,\u201d said a strange voice as she stopped short, in alarm.\n\u201cThe _sargento_ bade me bring a cup of _caldo_ for thy brother, seeing\nthee so much a woman. For now that there is nothing to eat, he said,\nperhaps that would be the best medicine.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod pay you!\u201d cried the child nervously. \u201cAnd my brother?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe drank the broth as one greedy, and in a moment fell asleep. How many\ndays makes it that he is sick?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo, se\u00f1or. Since four days there was nothing to eat but two crusts of\nbread, and those he made me eat.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Pobrecito!_ He has no more than hunger. To-morrow I will bring another\n_caldo_\u2014for even broth of horse gives strength\u2014that ye may not starve.\nBut have ye no fathers?\u201d\n\n\u201cPapa fell in San Felipe; and our mother was sent from the city with\nmany. But us she hid in the house, saying that the enemy had no mercy\neven to the weak. And so it was; for the women that tried to pass to Lima\nthe _insurjentes_ fired upon. And she never came back.\u201d\n\n\u201cDogs of rebels! But now I go, little one. Have heart, for I will look to\nyou. _H\u00e1sta luego._\u201d\n\nWhen he was gone the child crouched down by her brother and slipped her\ntrembling hand into his. The shadows were so crawly! They seemed to draw\nback and then come stealing at her. And it was so still\u2014only the hail of\nthe sentries, breaking across such a silence as if they stood guard over\na city of the dead.\n\n\u201c_Que hay_, little sister?\u201d said the boy, starting up wide awake with the\nsuddenness of those that are fevered. \u201cThe father? Couldst not find one?\nBut it is all the same, for God sent us a friend with food.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd he comes to-morrow also,\u201d she added eagerly. Then she told how she\nhad followed the priest, but he had shaken her off with rough words.\n\n\u201c_Ea?_ How is that? For the fathers do not so. And how is it thou\nfollowedst him even to the castillo?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Pues_, for that he went very fast and I could not catch him. He was at\nthe corner even when the _sargento_ let me pass; but when I came running\nthere he was almost at the next _cuadra_, as if he too had run.\u201d\n\nVicente suddenly sat up on the squalid mattress. The smoky wick flung\ndeep shadows in his hollow cheeks, and he looked so pale and wild that\nLina almost cried out at him.\n\n\u201cI tell thee, \u2019manita,\u201d he whispered earnestly, \u201cI believe not in that\npriest! Running so, and so rough to thee! And thou sayest that at touch\nof thy hand to his robe he started and was to call out? There is a\ndanger, I tell thee!\u201d he repeated vehemently, striking his thin fist upon\nthe floor till the impish shadows danced again. \u201cAll is crooked now, when\nthey say the very captains wait to sell our general. And if the priests\nbe traitors too\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what to do?\u201d asked the girl, in awe of this fierce young brother.\n\n\u201cAy! What to do? For we know nothing. But something there _is_, my heart\ntells me. _Oyez!_ Wouldst thou know the padre again, seeing him?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Como no?_ For it was near the _farol_, and I saw under the hood his\neyes, how shining they were.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd his voice, too\u2014no? Come, then, and we will see who is this father\nthat curses his children!\u201d And the boy rose eagerly, though his legs\nshook under him.\n\n\u201cBut how canst thou go out, _hermano_, being so sick?\u201d\n\n\u201c_No hay cuidado._ For now it is for our king against the rebels, and\nstrength I shall have for that. The _caldo_ also gives me new life.\n_Vamos!_\u201d\n\n\nIII.\n\nWeak as he was, he drew her down the tottering stairs and into the dark\nstreet; and there they stood a moment, not knowing whither to turn.\n\u201c_Claro!_\u201d exclaimed Vicente, \u201cwe will follow as he went\u2014perchance we may\nmeet him returning.\u201d\n\nBut at the very corner some one turning in hastily from the next street\nstumbled fairly over them; and Vicente and Lina and the stranger went\ndown in a heap.\n\n\u201cLittle animals!\u201d snarled an angry voice. \u201cAre you blind? For a so-little\nI would break your bones. Eh? He is _who_?\u201d he hissed, catching them by\nthe arms\u2014for he had heard Lina\u2019s excited whisper, \u201c_Es \u00e9l_.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe says you are the priest that would not go to her sick brother,\u201d\nanswered Vicente in a steady voice, \u201cand I believe it, for you are rough\nto the weak. But we will find a padre who is not so.\u201d\n\n\u201c_M\u00e1rchanse_, brats!\u201d said the stranger in a tone of relief. \u201cBut,\u201d he\nadded, turning and shaking his finger at them, \u201cno more running after me,\nor I throw you over the wall.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave no care, se\u00f1or padre,\u201d said Vicente, with sarcastic politeness;\nand taking Lina by the hand he hurried around the corner. In a moment he\nturned his head and caught a glimpse of some dark object peering past the\nwall. \u201c_Es!_\u201d he whispered, squeezing the slender fingers, and a few rods\nfarther on drew Lina into a recess of the wall. He was trembling all over.\n\n\u201c_Es!_\u201d he repeated. \u201cCanst thou not see that _he_ is no fraile, though\nhe wears the habit? It is the voice of a soldier and not of the church.\nAnd here! This fell to my very hand when we all went to the ground\ntogether\u201d\u2014and he held up a crumpled paper. \u201cBut first it is to see\nwhither goes this father of rebels. Come so far as the house and there\nwait me, for it is better that I go alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Vicente\u2014I\u2014I\u2019m afraid of the _du\u00e9ndes_!\u201d\n\n\u201c_Epa!_ Fear not, sisterling, for the goblins touch not those that are\ntrue. Remember, it is for Spain!\u201d And pushing her gently inside their own\ndoorway, and stooping to kiss her, he hurried down the street.\n\nLina dared not climb the noisy stairs to the deserted rooms. She crouched\nin the hall, shivering, drawing the manta about her shoulders as if with\ncold, but shutting her teeth bravely. The shuffle of Vicente\u2019s broken\nshoes had already died away; and it seemed as if the whole world had\nslipped past with him. Ages and ages she waited, till she was ready to\nscream with fear; and then she sprang nervously to the door at a sound in\nthe street. It was only a patrol shambling over the crazy cobblestones,\nbut as it drew nigh she was seized with a sudden access of fear. Between\nthem stumbled Vicente, a heavy hand on either shoulder.\n\n\u201cLet him go!\u201d she cried, rushing upon the soldiers as if to strike them\ndown. \u201cHe is my little brother, and has done nothing. Only we found the\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201c_C\u00e1llete_, Lina!\u201d spoke up Vicente sharply. \u201cIf only the se\u00f1or official\nwill be so good as to take her with me to the general\u2014for she is quite\nalone, se\u00f1or.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is well\u2014come on, little Amazon!\u201d said the officer, from whom war and\nstarvation had not dried up all Andalusian humor. \u201cSnails! But I thought\nshe was to capture us! March!\u201d\n\n\nIV.\n\nGeneral Rodil pushed back his chair from the table, and his grave face\ntook on a puzzled look as the officer and his odd prisoners were ushered\ninto the room. \u201cThe general who never sleeps,\u201d they called him\u2014for at\nwhatever hour of day or night, he was always appearing suddenly here,\nthere, everywhere. Well masked was the faint heart into whose depths\nthose gray eyes did not bore; tiny indeed the slackness that escaped\nthem. Well might the ignorant invest him with a superstitious terror\u2014this\nman who was really the garrison of Callao.\n\n\u201c_Que cosa?_\u201d he demanded in a low, clear voice.\n\n\u201c_Pues, se\u00f1or gener\u00e1l_,\u201d said the officer, still standing at \u201csalute.\u201d\n\u201cThis boy we found in the Street of the Pelicans, as if waiting for some\none. And when we searched him _this_ was in his shirt.\u201d\n\nRodil uncrumpled the paper and bent to read it by the flickering candle.\nSuddenly his haggard face turned even paler, and then a dark flush rose\nas he sprang to his feet and took two steps forward. As suddenly he\nstopped, and threw at the children a glance that seemed fairly to burn\nthem.\n\n\u201cAre there none but traitors?\u201d he cried, with a choke. \u201cEven to the\nbabies! And now, my Ponce de Leon!\u201d for the smuggled note read:\n\n\u201c_Todo listo. No mas se espera al comandante r\u00fabio. Arregla todo de San\nRafael._\u201d\n\n[All ready. Only waiting the blonde commander. Fix everything in the\ncastle of San Rafael.]\n\nThe \u201cblonde commander\u201d could be none other than Rodil\u2019s dear friend and\ntrusted officer, in charge of one of the twin castles\u2014a man whom he had\n\u201cmade\u201d in rank and fortune. The general\u2019s face seemed of stone as he\ndemanded:\n\n\u201cBoy! From where is this letter?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Vues\u00e9ncia_, I picked it up from a fraile who fell over us in the\nstreet; and because he had been rough to my little sister, I followed to\nsee where he would go.\u201d\n\n\u201cCarefully! For when it is between the king\u2019s honor and traitors, even\nyouth counts not! What should a fraile be doing with letters of the\ninsurgents?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor _that_, I think he was no fraile,\u201d answered Vicente sturdily,\nholding his head erect, though his knees wavered; and he told all the\nhappenings of the evening, while Lina nodded an earnest corroboration.\nBefore he was done, something of the hardness had faded from Rodil\u2019s face.\n\n\u201cYour _cuenta_ runs well,\u201d he said at last. \u201cGive me proof and I will\nfill your hat with gold. But if not\u2014if you are old enough to be a\ntraitor, you are old enough to die one!\u201d\n\nVicente\u2019s ragged shoulders squared still straighter. \u201cWhen I _ask_ you\nfor money, se\u00f1or _gener\u00e1l_!\u201d he replied proudly. \u201cWe are of Spain, and\nfor _that_ I do it. He that made as priest went not to the convento, but\ninto the house 74, Street of the Viceroy.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Hola!_ _Se\u00f1or teniente_, take twenty men in the instant and round-up\nthat house, bringing hither all that are in it; and that everything be\nsearched. And send the teniente Ochoa with another file to bring hither\nprisoner the Comandante Ponce de Leon. _Corriendo!_\u201d\n\nFor twenty minutes \u201cthe sleepless general\u201d walked the room\u2014sometimes\napparently unconscious of the children, and suddenly flinging at them\nsome question, sharp and searching as a javelin. Then there were\nreluctant feet upon the stairs.\n\n\u201cIt has to report, your Excellency,\u201d said Lieutenant Ochoa, \u201cthat the\nSe\u00f1or Comandante Ponce de Leon is not to be found. Since the first dusk\nno one has seen him.\u201d\n\nRodil struck his forehead; but before he seemed able to command his\nvoice, there was another commotion outside, and a group of officers\nbustled into the room.\n\n\u201cWhat is this, _mi gener\u00e1l_?\u201d cried one of them angrily. \u201cHere we are\ndragged from the house like criminals! What means this rat-catcher of a\nlieutenant?\u201d\n\n\u201cLittle by little, gentlemen mine!\u201d answered Rodil in a suspiciously\nquiet tone. \u201cYou will excuse the molestation for my sake, since I ordered\nit. And now, I beg you, have the goodness to tell me of a fraile who\nentered your house half an hour ago.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Fraile_, se\u00f1or _gener\u00e1l_? No priest has entered the house,\u201d answered\nthe first speaker, sharply. He was a tall, handsome officer, upon whom\neven the shabbiness of a uniform that had seen twenty-one months\u2019\nfighting sat becomingly. \u201cI think your Excellency might have asked the\nquestion with less violence to us.\u201d\n\n\u201cIll it fits me to show discourtesy to such loyal gentlemen,\u201d Rodil\nreplied, with an added dryness. \u201cAnd I am glad to learn that no priest\nhas been among you\u2014for I fancied, my Se\u00f1or Captain Baca, that he might\nbe converting you to the brotherhood. You would half pass for a fraile\nyourself, now that I see\u201d\u2014and in spite of himself the general\u2019s voice\nrose ever so little\u2014\u201cthe moustache which was the pride of the company is\nshorn off since midday.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Pues_\u2014your Excellency,\u201d stammered the tall captain. \u201cFor the\nheat\u2014and\u2014and\u2014since time hangs heavily on our hands, I shaved for a joke.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell edged is thy humor, captain mine!\u201d The ironic respect had given\nplace to the contemptuous _tu_. \u201c_\u00d3jala_ we had earlier guessed thy wit,\nto ease the weariness of the siege. Tell me, boy\u2014_is this thy fraile?_\u201d\nThe question came like a bullet.\n\n\u201cI know not, Excellency,\u201d said Vicente, hesitatingly. \u201cOf that size he\nwas, but his face I saw not well.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it is his voice!\u201d cried Lina impetuously. \u201cAnd had he the hood, I\nwould know if it is his face\u2014for the _capucho_ covered him well.\u201d\n\n\u201cLittle animals!\u201d growled the captain, starting as if to spring at them.\nBut then, commanding himself, he said sullenly: \u201cUntil what will your\nExcellency carry this farce? Am I to be _burlado_ by lying brats of the\nstreet? With these gentlemen I have passed the time since I came off\nduty.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true, se\u00f1or _gener\u00e1l_,\u201d declared the others, who had nervously\nwatched their spokesman, the ranking officer among them. \u201cWe have all\nbeen together since\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201c_Alto!_\u201d interrupted Rodil sternly. \u201cYou must bring me better witnesses\nthan your tongues. For by my faith, I would see this joke of the\nmoustache played through. _Sargento_, search this captain of the wits.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor pity, _mi gener\u00e1l_! Shame me not thus!\u201d And the officer fell on his\nknees.\n\nFor answer, Rodil only stretched his lean finger grimly. The sergeant,\nawkward at disrespectful approach to his superior, laid his hand upon the\narm of the risen captain, and in another moment lay sprawling upon the\nfloor. Baca was a young and muscular man; and almost in the same motion\nwith the blow he sprang at the window.\n\nThe dumbfounded privates had no time to reach him; but Vicente, in a\nflash of rage, flung himself at his legs, and the tall officer crashed\nupon the floor. Before he could rise a dozen soldiers were upon him, and\nRodil, his slender sword quivering at half-arm, faced the four other\nofficers.\n\n\u201cThere is nothing in his pockets, Excellency,\u201d announced the sergeant.\n\n\u201c_Claro!_ For he who changes his face so soon can as well change his\nclothing. In his shoes, then.\u201d\n\nThere was a renewed scuffle; but in a moment a cry of exultation\u2014and the\nsergeant dragged a thin, soiled paper from Baca\u2019s stocking.\n\n\u201cStill given to jests, _capitan mio_\u2014that you walk on the mines which are\nto blow the rebels up at the next assault. It is a clever diagram, and\nSalom would have paid thee well for it, I warrant. _Hola!_\u201d\n\nFor the door let in four soldiers and their petty officer; and over the\narm of the latter hung the long gray-brown habit of a Franciscan friar.\n\n\u201cIt was between the mattresses of the se\u00f1or _capitan_ Baca,\u201d announced\nthe sergeant. \u201cAnd as for these little ones, I am their witness\u2014for to my\npatrol passed first a tall fraile, and soon came running this womanling\nafter him for her brother, who was very sick.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the boy is he to whom I carried a cup of broth\u2014and I found him well\nfevered,\u201d spoke up one of the soldiers, scared at his own thick voice\nbefore the grim general.\n\n\u201cIt is enough,\u201d interrupted Rodil. \u201cI give thanks to God that there are\npatriots yet\u2014and eyes in them, too. These children stay with me. For the\nSe\u00f1or Captain Baca, and for these gentlemen who \u2018were with him all the\ntime,\u2019\u201d he continued with grim terseness, \u201csunrise against the wall of\nSan Felipe. Until then, your heads answer for theirs!\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat is all there is to tell of the habit of the fraile\u2014except that it\nserved for a shroud to the traitor who had masqueraded in it.\n\nBut already was the beginning of the end. The desertion of the Comandante\nPonce de Leon, who had dropped over the wall and fled to the enemy, gave\nto the insurgents plans and information of fatal importance. Then Riera,\nthe other comandante, turned traitor too, and delivered to the foe the\ncastle of San Rafael.\n\nResistance was no longer possible, even to \u201cthe Spartan of Peru.\u201d On\nthe 11th of January he entered into correspondence which ended with the\nhonorable and advantageous capitulation of Callao, January 23, 1826. Of\nthe original 2,800 soldiers only three hundred and seventy-six remained,\nand a scant seven hundred citizens of all the former thousands. There was\nlittle left save glory\u2014but of that so proud a share as was earned by no\nother man of either side in the war of the colonial rebellion. For that\nmatter, history has few pages like the resistance of Spain\u2019s last fort in\nAmerica.\n\nWhen Rodil, in full uniform, boarded the English frigate \u201cBriton\u201d to\nsail away to the long years and high honors that awaited him in Spain,\nhe carried with the banners of his favorite regiments a boy and girl who\nseemed less embarrassed by their fine new dress than by the attention\nwhich everywhere greeted \u201cthe little orphans of Callao.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Great Magician.\n\n\n\n\nThe Great Magician.\n\n\nReally know one? Well, I should say so\u2014better than I know any one else\nalive. No, it was not Herrmann, nor Signor Blitz before him; though each\nin turn seemed to my young eyes the most marvelous conjurer possible,\nand the latter remained for years a haunting wonder. But I was already\ngetting acquainted with a magician to whom both of these put together\nwere a fool. For that matter, we had always been neighbors; but for\nyears I never really knew him well, nor was even aware that he was in\nthe conjuring business at all. Had we boys realized that we were growing\nup next door to the greatest living prestidigitator, he doubtless would\nhave got a little more attention from us; but he was very quiet, and\nnot at all given to \u201cshowing off;\u201d and, to tell the truth, we left him\npretty much to himself. Even in our games he was hardly ever asked to\ntake part; though I can see now where he could have given us a good\nmany points on three-old-cat and follow-my-leader, or any of our other\nsports. It makes one feel cheap to find that one has been living so long\nnext door to such a genius without ever getting on intimate terms with\nhim, or fairly discovering who he is. It was not his fault, either, for\nthere was never anything stuck up about him, despite his wonderful gifts.\nWith some people, it is true, he never was known to associate; but that\nwas merely because he did not push himself. To any one who gave him to\nunderstand that his company was agreeable he was always cordial. That I\ncall downright obliging in one who has got so high up in the world\u2014for he\nis known and respected everywhere, and has been invited to appear before\nkings and queens when even their prime ministers were shut out. You see,\nhe has been a great traveler. Perhaps there is not a place in the whole\nworld that he does not know. But, then, it\u2019s easy to travel when one has\nplenty of means and leisure, and a free pass everywhere. Possibly he\nwould not get around quite so much if he had to pay fare.\n\nThough it took us so long to get acquainted, we rather \u201ccottoned to\u201d one\nanother after the ice was broken, and for the last twenty years have\nbeen great chums. In that time we have knocked about the world a good bit\ntogether. _Really_, I mean, not like our first travel. In the younger\ndays he used to drop in on me every now and then with a serious air, and\nremark:\n\n\u201cSay, want to go to Shanghai this evening? Well, shut your eyes. Presto!\nchange! here we are! Now, come around, and we\u2019ll see the sights.\u201d\n\nAnd there we were in Shanghai, using our eyes and holding our noses. But\nall that, you understand, was one of his sleight-of-hand tricks. It was\nvery pleasant and inexpensive travel, and I learned a good deal from it;\nbut the grind of it was that I could not bring back any of the wonderful\nthings we saw in the bazars. I\u2019d just about as soon not travel as to be\nunable to collect trophies from the country I am visiting. It was really\nnot his fault, of course. He is the most accommodating fellow in the\nworld; but even jugglery has its limits; and after a friend has given you\na trip to any part of the world you choose, and brought you back safe and\nsound, and paid all your expenses out of his own pocket, no well bred\nguest could have the face to ask him to bring also a cargo of all sorts\nof truck. When I used to groan at coming away empty-handed, he would\nsay frankly: \u201cSorry my boy, but it really can\u2019t be helped. I\u2019m glad to\ntake you anywhere, and make it as pleasant for you as I can; but my pass\nis for passengers only, and the baggage business is strictly prohibited.\nIt is too bulky; and then think what trouble I should get into with the\ncustoms officers if we went to bringing in such cargoes outside the\nregular channels.\u201d\n\nIn later years we have pretty thoroughly made up for that aggravation;\nfor nowadays I am the host, and wouldn\u2019t think of starting on a journey\nwithout inviting him to come along; and we bring back all sorts of\ninteresting plunder from everywhere, until the house we occupy together\nlooks more like a museum than anything else. He himself admits that it\u2019s\na good deal ahead of the old way; but even the delight of collecting\u2014and\nno boy or man half knows what life is until he \u201ccollects\u201d something,\nand earnestly\u2014even that pleasure would not compensate me for the loss\nof his company. He is the very best traveling companion I ever found;\nso ready to do whatever you wish, so full of information, so helpful in\nemergencies of any sort. Some people who have traveled with him have\ntried to tell me that he cowardly deserted them in time of danger; but\nthere must be two sides to this story, for I have seen him in a great\nmany tight pinches, and he was clear-headed and quick as a wink to do the\nright thing. To tell the truth, he has saved my life a score of times,\nall by his dexterity; so you may be sure that when people talk of his\nrunning away and leaving them in the lurch, I resent the imputation,\nand conclude they were the ones really to blame. In knocking about the\nfrontiers I have found a good many men, of several different colors,\nwho make you feel, \u201cWell, if it came to a fight for life, with my back\nagainst a rock, _that_ would be a good fellow to have beside me.\u201d But\namong all those brave men\u2014all of whom I admire, and some of whom I love\u2014I\nwould rather have him by me, in a pinch, than any other one.\n\nYou must not think from this that my friend is a desperado, or a\nprofessional fighter, or anything of the sort. On the contrary, his\ndisposition is as peaceful as his habits are quiet, and he hates any sort\nof a row. It is only in the crises which any man may meet, and every\nman must sometimes meet who travels outside the beaten tracks, when it\nis necessary and manful to fight, that he suddenly turns combative and\npitches in. Ordinarily, he is a plain, practical business man, who, for\nhis own part, might have retired long ago, but remains in the firm for\nthe sake of the junior partners. He works harder than any of them\u2014and\nthen, when business hours are over, diverts himself and his friends by\nlittle exhibitions of his matchless skill as a conjurer. At such times\nhe likes to forget work and worry altogether, and to be jolly and free\nof care and full of pranks as a boy. I have seen people so inconsiderate\nas to insist on boring him by \u201ctalking shop\u201d out of office hours, but he\nalways resents it. He is rather nervous and very impressionable, apt to\nfall into the mood of those who are with him; and he sometimes gets so\ntired and confused as to show very little of his usual wisdom. Indeed,\nI have seen him, when very weary, make a flat failure of some trick at\nmagic, which ordinarily he could do with astounding cleverness.\n\nUndoubtedly his greatest claim to public respect is in the quiet,\nevery-day wisdom of his practical career; but his gifts as a magician are\nso brilliant and so fascinating that one naturally thinks of them first.\nAnd, in spite of his long business training, there isn\u2019t a mercenary\nstreak in him. Some of his most wonderful performances are given gratis,\nand he even seems to prefer an audience of one to what the managers would\ncall \u201ca paying house.\u201d\n\nEh? You would like to know what he can _do_ that is so much bigger than\nthe tricks of the wizards that get their $200 a night? Well, if I were to\ntell you all I\u2019ve _seen_ him do, we wouldn\u2019t be done this side of 1900;\nbut here are some few things, and if you do not admit that Herrmann and\nall the rest are mere greenhorns to him, I\u2019ll agree never to go near\nanother of his performances.\n\nI never knew him to fry eggs in a stove-pipe hat, nor to pick\ntwenty-dollar gold pieces out of people\u2019s eyes, nor to chop off a man\u2019s\nhead and then stick it on again, nor any of those threadbare sensations,\nthough he sometimes practices simple illusions like making things\nappear where they are not, or causing them to seem not to be where you\nreally know they are. But those are trifles, just to keep his hand in;\nhis claim as champion conjurer of the world rests on very different\naccomplishments. For instance, one of his favorite tricks is to take a\ncareless fly-away boy and turn him into a strong, wise man\u2014turn him \u201cfor\nkeeps,\u201d too. I\u2019ve seen him do that a hundred times, and you will agree\nthat that is a very useful trick, as well as a very difficult one. When\none sees how smoothly he does it, one is doubly sorry that he doesn\u2019t get\n_all_ the boys up on the stage and experiment on them; but, of course, a\ncomplete change of personality is a serious thing, and he would not be\njustified in taking any such liberties without the full consent of the\nsubject.\n\nAn almost equally remarkable trick, and one he is equally fond of, is\nto take a thoroughly homely girl and put a brand-new face on her. Not\nexactly a beautiful face, for he says that is none of his business, but a\nface that every one likes to look at. Yet I know girls so foolish as to\ndecline treatment by this great specialist, and to think cosmetics better.\n\nMy friend\u2019s hobby for experimenting upon young people, and his innate\nfondness for them, as shown by his patience with their frequently\nslighting treatment of him, made me remark one evening: \u201cHow is it you\nare so good-natured with these rattleheads? Nobody else would have the\npatience. Even when a fellow has snubbed you in the most discourteous way\nyou seem to bear no grudge, but to be always ready to do him a good turn\nif there is a chance.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said my friend, slowly, dropping a new sleight-of-hand he was\npracticing, \u201cyou see, I was once young and a fool myself, and had to grow\nand develop; and the process was so tedious that I\u2019m not apt to forget.\nAnd, somehow, I feel as if I should always keep young in spite of the\nyears. There is always something to interest me, and that keeps me from\ngrowing old.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy the way,\u201d I put in, \u201cwhen did you begin conjuring? Such marvelous\nproficiency as yours can have been attained only by lifelong practice.\nDid you take it up deliberately, or drift into it by chance?\u201d\n\nMy friend gazed soberly for a moment at the crackling cedar sticks in my\nadobe fireplace\u2014he had come out to visit me in New Mexico\u2014before replying.\n\n\u201cDo you know, this reminds me very strongly of my own early life. These\nIndians who are your neighbors, this simple way of life, recall old\ntimes. You might not believe it, but my own folks were nomad savages, and\nmy infancy was passed among scenes compared to which your surroundings\nhere are highly civilized. Yes, I don\u2019t wonder you are astonished;\nin sober earnest, you cannot imagine how brutal and squalid were the\nsurroundings. Nothing to wear, very little to eat, and that little always\nraw; in fact, not one of the conveniences which even an Indian now deems\nnecessary to his existence. Why, we hadn\u2019t even a way to warm ourselves;\nand as for houses or clothing, they were quite unknown. Education? Not a\nbit more than the monkeys have. I was nearly a grown man before I learned\nto read and write.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, you have risen even further than from rail splitter to president!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Lincoln got as high as man can get. We were very dear friends, and\nI believe I helped him materially in the great crises through which he\nwas called upon to lead the nation. At any rate, he always consulted me\nbefore taking any important step.\u201d\n\nNow in any one else, this would have seemed the end of impudence and\nmendacity, if not half blasphemy. But when my friend the magician said\nit, I knew it must be true. He went on in his quiet way:\n\n\u201cBut we were talking of my youth. You asked how and when I first took up\nconjuring. To tell the truth, I can hardly remember. I was certainly very\nyoung, and the discovery of my powers was quite accidental. One of my\nfirst tricks was very simple; but perhaps it was most important of all.\nIt lifted my people from a lower plane than any savage now occupies, to\nhigh civilization. Every person every day uses that little invention of\nmine\u2014and 99 per cent of them without stopping to thank the inventor. By\nsimply taking two sticks and rubbing them together\u2014this way\u2014I produced\na substance which had never been seen on earth before, but which is now\nthe first absolute necessity in every household. If it were abolished,\nthe world\u2019s progress would stop. It\u2019s a very curious substance. The\nmaterials of which it is composed are invisible and intangible; but\n_it_ can be seen further and felt more than anything else in the world.\nYou can\u2019t touch it; and yet, here, if you could not sometimes _almost_\ntouch it you would perish. You have to feed it as carefully as you would\na horse, and much oftener; and, unlike any other laborer I know of, it\nwill never work between meals. But while it eats, it will work like mad.\nAnother queer thing about it is that it would live forever if you fed\nit forever; but it dies as soon as it stops eating. But you can bring\nit to life again in a minute, strong and active as ever. It is terribly\nmischievous, too; if you give it proper attention, it cuts up no pranks;\nbut if you are careless, it sometimes sneaks off and does more damage in\none short romp than a hundred men could replace by a lifetime\u2019s earnings.\nThen it\u2019s curious what a hatred it has for a still commoner substance\nwhich I _didn\u2019t_ invent. Bring the two together and there is a noisy and\ndesperate fight, and one or other of the combatants is annihilated. Yet\nif you place them just near enough to each other, but so confined that\nthey cannot grapple, they work together with an energy which I saw move\na hundred buildings once\u2014each building over thirty feet long. Ah, you\nwonder more at some of my other tricks, probably because you are less\nfamiliar with them; but I tell you that is just about the biggest single\nthing I ever did. There would have been neither geography nor history;\nwe should never have heard of C\u00e6sar or Napoleon or Washington or much of\nanybody else, if I hadn\u2019t stumbled on that little secret of rubbing the\nsticks, while I was still what you might well call a green, awkward boy.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d I admitted, \u201cI guess, after all, your fire trick is about the\ngreatest thing of all\u2014though I hadn\u2019t just looked at it in that light\nbefore. Really, about every single thing we depend on depends on that.\nAnd that was about your first turn in magic?\u201d\n\n\u201cYe-es, perhaps the first important one. It was a great start, too, for\nafter that I advanced pretty rapidly in proficiency, until I became, as\nyou know, able to do pretty nearly whatever I try.\u201d\n\nThat is not putting it too strongly\u2014he _can_ do almost anything he\nseriously turns his hand to. After what I have seen him accomplish, there\nare few things I would deem it hopeless for him to attempt. Our stage\nmagicians are at their wits\u2019 end to devise some new trick; but he invents\na thousand a day\u2014the poorest more wonderful than their masterpiece. Now\nthere\u2019s his own life preserver, for instance\u2014a ridiculous little affair\nin something like thirty pieces; the simplest thing, yet of almost\ninfinite uses. It is, among many other remarkable qualities, the greatest\npreservative known. An article so ephemeral that a breath of air would\nwhisk it away, so perishable that not all the Arctic ice could save it,\ncan by this means be kept a thousand years\u2014aye, or ten thousand, for\nthat matter\u2014as good as new. Yes, a man\u2019s very speech may become visible\nand eternal\u2014all because my friend once did a little conjuring for a\nGreek, who raised most remarkable harvests from seed our florists never\nhandle. I don\u2019t know just where it _does_ come from nowadays\u2014for we still\nsee that sort of crop once in a while. Perhaps Cadmus himself was a\npolitician, and the dragon\u2019s teeth are an heirloom in the family.\n\nThose early conjurings are not more astounding than the new ones he is\nconstantly devising. Nowadays he can sit down in Washington or London\nor Berlin, and, by a few taps on a table, turn a million men into a\nmachine for destruction. He will take your ear in New York and hold it\nto the lips of your friend in Chicago, and then make it as easy for the\nChicagoan to hear what you say in reply. Your voice, which, so far as any\nability of yours goes, is lost forever as soon as spilled, he can bottle\nup so perfectly that your great-grandchildren\u2019s great-grandchildren shall\nlisten to what you said two hundred years before they were born, and hear\nit in your very tones. You see, my friend is making life a good deal\nlarger, and death a good deal smaller\u2014and he is not done yet!\n\nBut I should be. There is simply no use trying to enumerate his magic,\nfor it has no end. Besides, you can get a much better notion of his\npowers by watching him than thus at second hand from me. But how are you\ngoing to find him, when he doesn\u2019t advertise? Why, of course! How stupid\nof me to have forgotten to tell you that his name is\u2014Thought.\n\n\n\n\nThe Silver Omelet.\n\n[Illustration: THE PATIO PROCESS AT GUANAJUATO]\n\n\n\n\nThe Silver Omelet.\n\n\nDoubtless you should not be blamed for a sniff of incredulity when I come\nto mention the size of it, though you certainly have not made as many\nomelets as I did in the years of keeping house on the frontier \u201call by my\nlonesome,\u201d and though you probably could not turn one now by flapping it\nto within six inches of the ceiling and catching it, t\u2019other side up, in\nthe frying pan, as every fit frontiersman should. But blink as you will,\nit is a solemn truth that we are now sitting down to an omelet two feet\nand a half thick and a little matter of one hundred and ten feet across!\nAnd worth more than all the food your whole household could eat in a\ngeneration.\n\nThe worst of it was that the _chef_ was away. Don Ygnacio, who had served\nup these gigantic dishes for thirty years, and had the knack of them, was\nto-day in Dolores; and in charge of the range was a fuzzy-faced lad of\neighteen who had never turned a Guanajuato omelet in his life.\n\nGuanajuato, you must know, is one of the oldest and richest silver-mining\ndistricts in the world. Founded over three hundred and fifty years ago,\nthis picturesque Mexican city has produced more than a billion dollars\nin bullion, and not tired yet. In 1527 a Spanish miner invented in\nMexico the cheapest and simplest method yet known for reducing silver\nores\u2014the so called \u201cpatio process\u201d\u2014by which the great bulk of the silver\nof Mexico and Peru has been extracted for so many centuries. To this day\nthe haciendas for patio reduction are among the most interesting features\nof the great silver camps of Spanish America. Each hacienda is a little\nwalled city\u2014with its strong ramparts, and corner towers loop-holed for\nmuskets; its huge sheds for the primitive ore-grinding; its pleasant\noffices and home for the _administrador_; its quarters for employes; its\nstables for hundreds of mules; and its enormous stone skillets wherein\nthe hugest omelets in the world are \u201ccooked.\u201d\n\n_Torta_ in Spanish America is the usual word for omelet. It is literally\na \u201ccake,\u201d and \u201cof eggs\u201d is implied. But the miners use it specifically\nfor the omelet of wet-ground ore seasoned with the necessary chemicals\nto assemble the silver. In looks it is simply a stupendous mud pie.\n\nIn the hacienda of the Cypresses one of these omelets was even now\ncooking. Patient burro caravans had packed down from the wonderful old\nbonanza mine of the Valenciana enough _cargas_ of that broken gray rock\nto make forty-six \u201cheaps\u201d of 3200 pounds each. The ore had been fed\nto the great trundling _molina_, whose ponderous, upright, iron-bound\nwheel grudgingly followed the straining mules round and round its pivot,\ncrunching the rock finer and finer, till the particles sifted through\nthe screen to the bins below. Thence it had been shoveled into the\nwet-grinding _arrastras_\u2014thirty big stone tubs, around which the mules\ncircled with their \u201cwhims,\u201d dragging granite blocks which scrubbed the\nwet gravel into fine paste. Then the mud went to the great _cajete_\n(tank), where the surplus water was \u201cwept away,\u201d as they say; and finally\nto the stone-walled, stone-paved patio, to become a torta.\n\nAlmost anyone with eyes could crush rock, dry or wet; but when it came to\nsampling that precious mud, deciding precisely how much silver it carried\nto the ton and how refractory it was, and therefore just how much salt\nand just how much mercury must be put in for seasoning, why, then was no\ntime for a greenhorn. Fifty thousand dollars is no joke, any way you look\nat it; and when you come to hunting for $50,000 by the invisible atom in\na hundred and fifty tons of mud, it is as serious as anything well can be.\n\nBut Don Ygnacio had had to go, and with four of the trustiest servants,\nall armed; for in those days, a generation ago, the brigands were a fear\non every highway of Mexico. And there was no one to leave in charge\nexcept Alberto, his nephew.\n\nLuckily there had been time to set a recipe for the torta just turned\ninto the pan. \u201cSo much salt and so much _azogue_,\u201d[41] said Don Ygnacio;\n\u201cthat, I think, will suit. But watch it well; and if not, season it by\nthe formula. Care, then, and much luck!\u201d\n\nEvery day of the seventeen since then, Alberto had paced the flagging by\nthe patio, and the passages of the great sheds where dry mill and wet\nmill were chewing their noisy mouthfuls for a new torta, now and again\nturning his eye covertly to the last room on the administrador\u2019s porch,\nbehind whose heavy door he had heaped the forty-pound bars of massy\nsilver from the last omelet. The washing and concentration and smelting\nhe had superintended without much difficulty, and had seen that $49,000\nworth of metal safely stored.\n\nSo far as the present torta went, his assays indicated that Don Ygnacio\u2019s\nhasty estimate had been precisely right. But he certainly hoped the old\nmanager would be back in time to decide if the usual eighteen days had\nbeen enough \u201ccooking\u201d\u2014and, doubly, to fix the seasoning for the next\nomelet. And in all, it was a heavy responsibility for a boy who had\nstudied a hundred tortas, but never been charged with one before; and\nit was to be noticed that his shoulders were not quite so miraculously\nsquare as on the first day, nor his chest so thick, now that he came down\nfrom the arrastras to the patio.\n\nIn this quarter-acre mud omelet the beating and the cooking went on\ntogether. A score of barelegged men and grown boys waded thigh-deep in\nthe mess, driving their mules (blindfolded, poor beasts, to protect their\neyes), and holding down the drag-boards, to mix the mercury and its prey.\n\nIt was close to noon. In five minutes the wading mules would be done with\ntheir exhausting day\u2019s work of six hours. Alberto walked down toward the\nwell-tower beside the patio, and something drew his eyes to an overgrown\nlad slouching behind one white mule at the edge of the mud. Poor dullard!\nIt was one thing to wade in mud at eighteen cents a day, and quite\nanother to manage mud which was worth a comfortable year\u2019s salary per ton.\n\n\u201cS-s-t!\u201d\n\nAlberto started. Surely it could not be! Well, it _was_! This\nperambulating mudlark was actually \u201cs-s-t\u201d-ing to him!\n\n\u201cCare!\u201d whispered the Indian lad, as Alberto came alongside the stone\ncurb. He looked only at his mule, hauling at the tired beast and scolding\nit for some imaginary offence, and between his objurgations dropping\nwhispered \u201casides.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Arre_, ill-said brute! (_Young Excellency, the bandits!_) For how long\nmust I enshow thee to walk well? (_And some of those in the hacienda!_)\nMiserable! For what is the rein? (_They are making to rob\u2014to-night!_)\n_Arre_, lazy-bones!\u201d\n\nThe stolid face had not once changed; and now that another driver\napproached, he went sus-ushing off through the mud with never a sidelong\nglance.\n\nAlberto felt himself grown suddenly pale; but he was no fool. He glanced\nat the intruder. It was a new man from the country\u2014a tall, powerful\nfellow with a huge scar on his cheek, shifty eyes, and a beak which had\nalready earned him the nickname of Narigudo\u2014\u201cBig Nose.\u201d He in turn sent\na sly, sharp look first at the young Indian ahead, then at the young\nmanager. The latter was already walking quietly toward the well-house.\n\nThe silver bell in the old belfry clanged noon. The waders, of two legs\nand four, clambered out from the mud. In a moment blindfolds and harness\nlay on the flagging, and the mules, suddenly optimistic, went braying and\nscampering out through the great gate to bathe and drink by the highway\nin the little stream which has carried more precious burdens, doubtless,\nthan any other brook on earth.[42] A moment later there was a more\ndeafening clatter, as the hundred mules from the mills came gallopading\ndown the flags in a very avalanche. _They_ would have to work six hours\nmore; but they knew the noon hour. Resistless as a charge of cavalry,\nthey swept around the corners and out of the gate in a jam which seemed\nsure to kill some of them.\n\nAlberto had laughed a thousand times at this daily avalanche; but now\nhe saw it with far-off eyes. He dipped his hand in a bucket of the\npump-wheel and bathed his head, wherein a thousand or more little\nprickles snapped. It was enough to make anyone\u2019s brain crackle\u2014robbers\nall about, accomplices in the hacienda itself, nearly fifty thousand\ndollars in the room at the head of the corridor, and he alone!\n\nThis boy had been carefully reared. He was unused to danger and to\nresponsibility; and now he was fearfully scared. And yet\u2014well, he had\ninherited something from the men who conquered that wilderness so many\ncenturies ago.\n\nIn five minutes the young _administrador_ was making his rounds as usual,\nnow and then stopping to pick up a sample of ore and examine it with\ngreat apparent interest. Among the groups of laborers he passed at lunch\nhe felt, with a little shiver, that some eyes were on him even more\nsharply than they are always on the _administrador\u2019s_ back; but outwardly\nhe gave no sign, as he figured away at very much the toughest problem he\nhad ever dreamed of.\n\nSuddenly he struck his head, and turned and walked down to the patio.\nIn full view of the men he took a careful sample from the mud omelet\nhere and there, scrutinized it critically, and carried it off to the\nassay-room. In ten minutes he was out again; and walking up among the\nlaborers, he said: \u201cA holiday for all, this afternoon. For to me the\ntorta looks to be cooked, and Don Ygnacio should be here to-night, who\nwill know. Go, then; but at dawn again.\u201d\n\nThat was an end of lunch, of course. The men sprang up with \u201cInfinite\nthanks, sir!\u201d and were already making for the gate, except Narigudo and\nfour others, who mumbled over their last enchilada, instead of throwing\nit away, and looked first at their mates and then at one another.\n\n\u201cSe\u00f1or, I do not think it done,\u201d broke out \u201cBig Nose,\u201d sullenly.\n\n\u201cWho gave thee a candle in this funeral?\u201d Alberto retorted, coolly.\n\u201cAnswerest thou to the owner whether there be loss or gain?\u201d\n\nNarigudo said no more, but rose to follow his comrades as Alberto\ndisappeared in the office. When the boy emerged, five minutes later, the\nplace was deserted.\n\nRather simple, after all! Only five traitors, apparently; and for the\npresent _they_ were gone. Now, just to lock and bar the big gate, and\nthink what next.\n\nIn much more comfortable mind after bolting the only entrance to the\nwalled hacienda, Alberto strolled up to the great shed, and halted a\nmoment by the big trundle-mill, pondering. So far, so good; and now\nwhat? Leave the place locked, and ride up to the city to warn the\nauthorities?\n\nA sound that you might hardly call a sound, so faint was it, startled his\ntense nerves; and as he wheeled the blood went from his face. Fifteen\nfeet away, barefoot, Narigudo stood in the door of the ore-shed, with an\nugly smile.\n\n\u201cYoung Excellency,\u201d he drawled, insolently, \u201cyou have locked me in. Give\nme the keys to go!\u201d\n\nAt this Alberto found his voice. \u201cIn this hacienda,\u201d said he, steadily,\n\u201cit is accustomed to obey the _administrador_, and not to command him. I\nwill let you out when I go to the gate.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, it\u2019s the _administrador_, is it? Then give me the keys before I eat\nan _administrador_!\u201d The tone had changed from insolence to rage, and the\nangry fellow sprang forward.\n\nAlberto wavered in his tracks, and then straightened with a snap. The key\nof the bullion-room? Never!\n\nHe plucked the heavy keys from his belt and flung them fiercely, just\nas that big hand clutched his shoulder. Narigudo hurled him against the\nwheel-post with a curse, and sprawled forward in a desperate effort. But\nthe keys, just eluding his fingers, clanked down into the deep drain.\n\n\u201cOnly wait!\u201d he roared. \u201cI shall have it just the same, and you shall pay\nthe trouble!\u201d\n\nHe plunged into the opening with a backward glare that made Alberto\u2019s\nheart stand still. It was no use to run\u2014he was locked in, too. Just to\nwait to be murdered!\n\nBut then the boy leaped forward with a new light in his eyes. A big\nwooden trough stood there\u2014uptilted upon one face. There was a muffled\nbellow; but he hunched his shoulder to the mass, and inched it forward,\nand sank upon it with a queer, sobbing laugh. A fine trap for the big rat!\n\nBut he had forgotten the difference between a strong boy\u2019s strength and\na powerful man\u2019s. His seat heaved under him; clearly, if his weight were\nremoved, Narigudo could lift it. The fellow had all his mighty back in\nplay, and seemed like to overturn his prison door, jailer and all.\n\nAlberto could not even groan. It was impossible to stay here, as great\ndangers were to be guarded against elsewhere. But he saw plainly that\nhe could not get far before Narigudo would be out, and\u2014\u2014! There was no\nweight nearer than the ore-sacks, and he dared not desert the trough long\nenough to go half-way to them. In a nightmare of terror he crouched on\nthe trough, trying to make himself heavy, and praying to all the saints.\n\nSuddenly he gave a wild shout. The whim! There stood the great vertical\nwheel; its pole, ten feet away, was two feet from the ground. _If\u2014!_\nThank God, there was no ore in its path!\n\nAlberto leaped up, dancing noisily on the trough. He sprang to the floor\nand back, ran off two strides, and rushed upon the trough again. _Now_\nhis head was clear as a bell.\n\nIn another dash he seized the ponderous pole and wrenched at it with all\nhis force. The mill creaked and gave an inch or two. Back he pounced\nnoisily upon the trough, and back again to the pole for another mighty\ntug; and again, and a dozen times again. Each time the reluctant wheel\ngroaned a few inches forward upon its circle, and now the end of the pole\nbarely overlapped the end of the trough.\n\nAll was quiet below. The prisoner, puzzled by these crazy antics\noverhead, was waiting for a clew to what it all meant. Now, indeed, he\nbegan to heave again; but Alberto, braced backward on the trough, was\nslowly, surely dragging the pole in. Another fierce jerk, and his task\nwas done. The great horizontal stick overhung the very middle of the\ntrough.\n\nThe boy rose with an effort and leaned against the wheel. A wan smile\ncame on his lips as the trough rose with a jerk\u2014just three inches. Then\nit thumped against the pole and went down with a bang. The trap was\nlocked, and Alberto never stopped till he sank breathless on the office\nsteps.\n\nIt was already turning dusk; there was no time to lose. Muskets plenty\nwere in the armory, but Narigudo had the key. However, there was one\ngun in the office, and Alberto loaded it with nervous fingers. Then he\nclimbed into the loop-holed turret which overhung the gate, and crouched,\nwaiting. But another thought seemed to come, for he chuckled and ran down\nthe court. When he came back to the tower, twenty minutes later, the\nstables were empty, and so was the office drawer from which Don Ygnacio\ndistributed _cohetes_ on the eve of a feast-day. On the other hand, a\nhundred sleepy mules were huddled in the entrance, with a rope stretched\ntaut behind them, and back of the rope a great many little heaps of\nsmall, red cylinders.\n\nAt nine o\u2019clock there was a faint tap at the gate. \u201cNarigudo!\u201d someone\nwhispered; and in a moment, louder and impatiently, \u201cNarigudo! Art thou\nasleep? Open!\u201d\n\nAlberto almost laughed. Then he drew back his shoulders and said,\nsharply: \u201cNot a shot till I say the word! As for you, stupids, you see\nthe gate! And your Narigudo\u2014he is well boxed up!\u201d\n\nThere was a quick scuffling below. Evidently the bandits had run back\nunder the bottom of the tower, puzzled by this turn of affairs. For half\nan hour there was a trying silence; then a sudden rush, and something\nsmote the gate with a tremendous crash.\n\n\u201cNot yet!\u201d cried Alberto. \u201cWait for the word!\u201d\n\nBut the robbers were not to be fooled. If there were really defenders,\nthey would have fired before now; and again the battering-ram made the\ngreat gate tremble.\n\nAlberto\u2019s finger itched on the trigger. Should he shoot? Before he could\nreload, they might have the gate down. And then\u2014\u2014?\n\nHe leaned the long musket against the wall and crept down into the\ncourtyard just as the thunderous crash came again. Evidently the gate was\nbeginning to give.\n\nAnother smash, and a leaf of the gate began to creak with that ominous,\ngrowing creak that goes before a fall. Just then there was a little\nflash in the courtyard, and a queer _s-s-sizz-sizz_, pop! bang! _Bang!_\n_B-b-b-b-ang!_ The gate reeled and fell outward, and with the roar of a\nlandslide a hundred terrified mules burst through the gap, trampling and\nscattering like chaff the knot of bandits gathered to burst in.\n\nAnd then from far up the cobble-paved highway came a stentorian yell,\nand pistol shots, and a new clamor of iron hoofs. Two minutes later Don\nYgnacio and his men swept into the courtyard, where a collapsed young\nhero lay beside a vast litter of bursted firecrackers.\n\n\n\n\nA Duel in the Desert.\n\n\n\n\nA Duel in the Desert.\n\n\nOf the innumerable tragedies of the wilderness\u2014the grim procession of\nlife and death, the irreconcilable conflict of the animals as bounden\nas we are to appetite and passion and self-preservation\u2014probably every\nhunter of considerable experience has seen the eloquent tokens; and\nevery reader has heard at least of the sensational cases. The wonder\nis, perhaps, that these latter are so few; that only one death out of a\nmillion is so far outside the vast inclusive rule as to be of interest to\nus dull-eyed observers. For the law of conflict is inexorable. Outside\nof man and his protected servitors, only a tiny fraction of a per cent.\nof the animals die \u201ca natural death\u201d\u2014that is, without violence. Of\nteeming sea and teeming forest, a vast majority of the denizens perish\n\u201cwith their boots on\u201d\u2014overwhelmingly a prey to that insatiate \u201chollow\nfeeling\u201d which Nature has put for warder of the feral population, lest\nit overwhelm the earth. The \u201cdefensive\u201d animals fall, as a rule, to the\nappetite of their predatory neighbors; the predatory beasts, in turn,\nhave a reasonable expectation of death at the \u201chands\u201d of their rivals in\nthe tribe, their foes outside, or the only unnatural killer, Man. Every\nacre of field and forest has had its myriad tragedies of the humble\nwild-folk\u2014though we are too unobservant to note the fact. A few bleaching\nbones, a wisp of fur or feathers, a dim scurry in the dust\u2014this and no\nmore is the chronicle of the snuffing out of a life as gladly lived,\nas hardly parted with as our own. Many authors have become famous by\ntheir skillful dissection of the Beastliness of Man; but we too seldom\nremember (unless while reading the Jungle Stories or Wahb) the Humanity\nof the Beasts, which is quite as true a part of natural history. This is\nmostly because in our civilized cushioning we know nothing real about the\nbeasts. They are very little more to us than so many forms of speech, raw\nmaterial for perfunctory literature or for \u201chunting,\u201d whose only serious\npenetration is put up in brass cylinders by the U.M.C. Co. It is nothing\nshort of astounding how little the average \u201chunter\u201d knows of the game\nhe kills, except so much of its habit as shall enable him to kill it.\nIndeed, the very name \u201cGame\u201d is perhaps significant of this blindness.\nIt _is_ a game, and a great game, if shrewdly played; but pity the man\nwho can see in it nothing but the killing! He is as far from being what\nI would soberly call a hunter as the fellow whose only notion of whist\nis to play trumps at every lead is far from being a whist player. One\nwho knows as well as anyone, and as well loves, the wild thrill of the\nchase, who has hunted and been hunted, and found the keenest \u201csport\u201d\nwhen the \u201cgame\u201d turned the tables and he had to fight hand-to-hand for\nhis own life, is not apt to be foolishly sentimental. But he is very\napt to pity those who have never learned the higher side of hunting.\nTo watch a beaver colony at work; or a vixen with her pups; or a bear\nfamily at play; or the wild stallion herding his flirtatious _manada_ and\nfalling like a thunderbolt upon some mustang Lothario; or partridge or\nwild turkey at mating time\u2014_experto credite_, it is quite as much \u201cfun\u201d\nand rather more woodcraft than trapping or killing or \u201ccreasing.\u201d Which\nis saying a great deal. And to such as mix the game with brains, these\nthings become more and more the refinement and expertness of it. As a\nmatter of fact, a fox is a much smarter hunter than any man who hunts\nonly to kill. His eyes and ears are far better, his nose is a genius of\nwhich no human has so much as an inkling, his foot-fall is infinitely\nsofter, his strategy far more competent. For that matter, more foxes\nescape the allied force and wit of a score of men and a half-score of\nhounds than partridges or quail escape the unaided campaign of one fox.\nAs to that, in the average foxhunt, at least (and leaving out of the\ncount the trapper and real wilderness hunter), one hound is worth in\neffectiveness half a hundred people. Without a single dog to lead them,\nthe whole chase could as soon stay at home.\n\nMore picturesque, perhaps, than the every-day sacrifice of a life to an\nappetite is the animal duel to the death; and particularly when both\nparties fall. Feral combats\u2014mostly deriving from sexual jealousy, for it\nis comparatively rare that predatory beasts shall fight outside their\nkind\u2014are innumerable, though in a small minority of cases fatal to either\ncombatant; perhaps fifty times as rarely to both. Even in the extreme\nevent, there is generally little visible record left, and that of a sort\nthat shamefully few of our hunters can identify. The best known\u2014because\nthe most unmistakable\u2014is the entanglement of buck deer by their horns in\nsuch inextricable fashion that the duellists starve to death. This is not\nso extremely rare. I have found such grappled skulls thrice\u2014in Maine, in\nthe Sierra Madre of Mexico, and in Colorado so noble a duo of elk heads\nlocked in this Chinese puzzle of death that the inaccessibility of the\nrange and the impossibility of bringing out these ponderous relics have\ngiven me a standing grievance these seventeen years. The swordfish pinned\nby his beak to starve beside the pierced hull; the rat in the fatal nip\nof a big clam; the buffalo and the cinnamon bear fallen together dead\u2014all\nthese I believe to be authentic; and of the mutual Pyrrhic victory of two\nrattlesnakes I have seen the proof.\n\nBut beyond reasonable comparison, the most extraordinary \u201cdocument\u201d I\nhave ever seen or heard of in this sort is the absolutely unique relic\nfound in 1900 by Edwin R. Graham in the desert county of Inyo, Cal., near\nCoalingo, and now in the museum of the Leland Stanford Jr. University.\nThere is no possible question of its authenticity. All the ingenuity of\nman could not make a tolerable counterfeit of it. Nor do I believe there\nis any reasonable doubt that it is the most remarkable record ever found\nof a fight to the death.\n\nIt is unflattering but typical of our civilized observation that\nthousands of people\u2014including a great many \u201chunters\u201d\u2014identified\nthese mummied protagonists as \u201ca coyote and an eagle.\u201d Even the\nphotograph shows what they are, as well as the vindictiveness of their\ndeath-struggle.\n\nA prowling wildcat (evidently too hungry to be fanciful) finds a great\nhorned owl blinking upon the brink of a cliff, and pounces upon it,\ncatching a wing hold. The owl, somewhat armored, even against those\nterrible teeth and claws, by its quilting of feathers, flings itself\nupon its back; pounding fiercely with its free wing, tearing with its\nhooked beak, and clenching its talons into the flesh with that peculiar\nmechanical lock-grip of its kind\u2014a grip which death does not loosen,\nas more than one hunter who picked an owl up unripe has learned to his\nsorrow. That even this large owl could not kill a full-grown wildcat in\nany ordinary combat, probably every hunter knows. But this owl chanced to\nget a clutch on the wildcat\u2019s open fore paw, one of his claws clinched\nbehind a tendon\u2014and there it still is, traceable even in the photograph.\nPerhaps he could not have withdrawn it himself, had he been the survivor\nof the struggle. The cat\u2019s jaws are still locked upon the broken bone\nof the owl\u2019s left wing. Neither is otherwise very badly mangled; and\ndoubtless the cat would have torn to shreds \u201cthe body of this death\u201d and\ngone about his business with no more handicap than that ineradicable\ntalon in his paw.\n\n[Illustration: WILDCAT AND OWL IN DEATH-STRUGGLE]\n\nBut in their wild and blind m\u00eal\u00e9e they overstepped the verge of the\ncliff, and down they went together. The 40-foot fall does not seem to\nhave broken their clinch at all. If it did, they renewed it. But, though\nno fractures were sustained, the stumble doubtless stunned the cat; and\nthere, irretrievably grappled in immortal hate, they died together of\nthirst and loss of blood. There at the foot of the cliff they were found;\ndesiccated by the furnace airs of the desert, light as mummies, but\nunbroken; their very eyeballs dried in their sockets; the plumage of the\nowl practically complete, and enough fur of the wildcat\u2019s muzzle and paws\nleft by the moths to identify it even to those who could not recognize\nits unequivocal anatomy.\n\n\n\n\nA \u2019Rastle with a Wildcat.\n\n\n\n\nA \u2019Rastle with a Wildcat.\n\n\nOne of my very first experiences in the West was a midnight tussle with\na fifty-four pound wildcat in a lonely cabin in the Greenhorn Mountains\nof Colorado. I shall never forget my horror at the sight of that huge\npuss on a beam over my head; for I had had a serious experience with the\nwildcat of the Northeast, and supposed that this fellow, who was twice as\nbig, was likewise twice as much to be dreaded.\n\nI did not know that the Rocky Mountain wildcat is not nearly so fierce,\nand that he never attacks man as does sometimes his cousin of the Maine\nand New Hampshire forests; and I had very slight hopes for the outcome\nof a struggle twice as severe as that which a furry freebooter in the\nPemigewassett wilderness gave me a good many years ago. I need not have\nworried. The Colorado Cat was easy game; and when the last charge in my\nsix-shooter had brought him to the floor, his life was soon ended.\n\nThat first encounter, in New Hampshire, was more than thirty years\nago\u2014years filled with roving adventure and many other things which are\napt to crowd the past back into forgetfulness. But I remember it as\nthough it had been yesterday. Small, white \u201cexclamation-points\u201d on my\nchest, with several other scars, occasionally call it to mind.\n\nI had grown from a consumptive boy to a small but thoroughly athletic\nyoung man. Wrestling, boxing, canoeing, hunting and fishing had brought\nme into good condition, and every muscle was hard as wire. But for that\nfact, I should not be writing this; for the fight took my utmost ounce of\nstrength. Had it come a year earlier, my grave would be in the wilderness\nto-day.\n\nOf the yearly thousands who visit the great summer hotels of the White\nand Franconia Mountains, extremely few ever penetrate the Pemigewassett\nwilderness. The wild ranges wall its sides, and between them is a huge\nand virgin forest, full of game, dotted and seamed by lakes and brooks\nthat swarm with trout. In this almost untrodden wild rises the east\nbranch of the Pemigewassett, the beautiful little river which later\nbecomes the Merrimac.\n\nI was hunting and fishing that spring on the head waters of the east\nbranch. My canoe swam a lovely but nameless lakelet, and my camp, roofed\nwith birch-bark, was near the shore. There were three brooks running into\nthe lake noisily; and at the south end the clear young river slipped\nsilently out through the dark trees.\n\nIt was the last day of May, and still cold in that mountain bowl. I had\na fat deer hung high beside my shelter; so there was meat for some time.\nIn a little while the fishing would be very tame, for there the trout\nhave not fully learned what a deceiver man is, and there is little sport\nin standing almost astride a rill, and with a five-foot willow pulling a\ndozen or twenty fish out of one pool. But now I knew the big fish were\naround, and I determined to spend the day with my rod.\n\nBy ten o\u2019clock I was well over toward Mount Lafayette, on the largest of\nthe brooks which came into my lake from the west; and, descending the\nsteep banks to the bed of the stream, prepared to fish down toward camp.\n\nThe brook fell very rapidly here, in a series of short falls, at the\nbottom of each of which was a deep, lovely pool of water, so clear that\nit seemed only air with a light tinge of green. I could see pebbles ten\nfeet below the surface, and the brown flashes of the sportive trout.\n\nIn five minutes I was landing my first fish, a game half-pounder, and\nothers bit as fast as I could attend to them.\n\nThere was no need of covering much ground. I could have caught in fifty\nyards all I could eat in a week. But I kept moving homeward, taking\nonly one or two of the largest fish from a pool and throwing back any\naccidental small ones.\n\nIn this way I had gone down, perhaps, half a mile, when I came to the\nlargest pool I had found on that brook. Here it seemed likely that there\nmight be some particularly large trout. In fact, the first one I struck\nseemed to be much larger than any on my string; but he snapped the hook\nand was gone with a splash.\n\nI had drawn an extra hook from my box and was \u201cganging\u201d it upon the line,\nwhen some impulse caused me to look up. As I did so, the tin box fell\nclattering upon the rocks and my rod at my feet.\n\nThe brook here had cut a narrow gorge through a ridge, and the pool at\nwhose head I stood touched on each side the very foot of a rocky wall\nnearly forty feet high. I was standing on a ledge whence the brook\ndropped, perhaps, ten feet into the pool, and the banks were not nearly\nso high there. Still, I presume the tops were fifteen feet above my head.\n\nA giant pine had fallen across the gorge from bank to bank, making a\nknotty bridge, which was almost over me, but a little in front; and upon\nthat great log was the Something which had brought my heart up into my\nmouth with such a bump.\n\nOn the dark side of the tree, behind the stump of a huge limb, flat and\nmotionless as you could press your hand upon the table, lay almost the\nlast thing in the world that I desired to see there\u2014a wildcat.\n\nWhether it was crouching there when I came, or, as is more likely, had\ncrawled out from the bank to surprise me, I never knew; but there it was\nconfronting me.\n\nI could just see the fierce glints in its eyes; and when its gaze met\nmine, the tip of the ears, outlined on a patch of sky, seemed to flatten.\nMy rifle was in camp, for it was too long a walk to bring it when I\nwished to fish. I had not even a revolver\u2014nothing but a keen-edged,\nclip-point hunting-knife, which hung in its sheath on my left hip.\n\nI hardly dared move, but that knife I must have. Slipping my right hand\ncautiously behind my back, I reached far around, till at last it touched\nthe welcome hilt, and I began to slip the sheath slowly around my belt to\nthe right side, where the knife could be drawn less ostentatiously.\n\nAll this time I had never taken my eyes from those of the unwelcome\nintruder, and I kept scowling at him with a savage expression which was\nmeant to alarm him, but which sadly flattered my real feelings.\n\nHow long we stood eyeing each other thus, I do not know. It seemed an age\nand must have been several minutes. Neither of us moved. He lay crouched\nand menacing; I stood outwardly defiant, with my hand on that precious\nbuckhorn handle. And then my wet feet, chilled with the icy water of the\nbrook, betrayed me. I felt a sneeze working toward the surface.\n\nNow, when _I_ sneeze, it is no gentle _tschoo!_ but half a dozen or more\nwild and uncontrollable explosions, which never fail to bring tears to\nmy own eyes, if they are lucky enough not to scare some unsuspecting\nstranger.\n\nI struggled to choke that sneeze, to hold it back; but I might as well\nhave tried to hold the foaming brook.\n\n_Ker-cheooo! Ker-cheooo! Ker-cheooo-oo!_ With each eruption my head flew\ndown and my body shook; and as I straightened up after the fifth burst,\nI saw\u2014through the mist that filled my eyes\u2014something dark descending upon\nme like a great, hazy bird.\n\nI had not once changed my position since first seeing the wildcat. He\nwas a trifle to my left, and my left foot and shoulder were pointed\nup-stream. Our lives hang on such trifles as that! Now, with the trained\ninstinct of the boxer\u2014who has first to learn to act without stopping to\nthink how to act\u2014I threw my left hand up and out! Half-way to arms-length\nit met that furry avalanche, and broke its force. The cat landed full\nagainst my side.\n\nIts sharp hind claws sank into my thigh, and the sharper fore\nclaws clutched me in the pectoral muscles in front and between the\nshoulder-blades behind. The pain was cruel, but I had no time even to cry\nout. At the instant I expected to feel those merciless jaws on my neck,\nand that would be the last.\n\nThe wildcat knows where the jugular vein is as well as the best surgeon\nof them all; and it is for that that he invariably jumps. Animals killed\nby these cruel ambuscaders are sometimes left whole and unmangled, save\nfor that wicked little gap at the side of the throat.\n\nBut my boxing lessons had saved me. As my left hand went out in that\n\u201cstraight counter,\u201d it struck full in the throat of the cat; and with the\nswift inspiration of desperate men, I clutched the folds of fur there\nwith all my might.\n\nThe cat strained hard to pull-in to me\u2014and that was a cruel leverage it\nhad in my own flesh. But my arm, never a weak one, was doubly strong now;\nand, though I could not force him from his hold, I kept his head well\naway from mine, which I \u201cducked\u201d to increase the still unsatisfactory\ndistance.\n\nThen, drawing the keen six-inch blade, I drove it against his side. His\nleft side was, of course, the one exposed to me; but we were so \u201cmixed\nup\u201d that I could take no accurate aim at his heart, and just thrust\nblindly and madly at that stretch of mottled fur.\n\nNothing will ever dim my recollection of that desperate struggle; and\nyet I seemed in a sort of trance. You have had nightmares, wherein some\nsavage beast pursued you, and you slammed vain doors on him which he\nbrushed open, and fired ineffective rifles at him whose diminished pop\ndid not affect him in the least; and, do what you would, nothing availed\nagainst that implacable danger. So it was with me. I seemed under a\nspell.\n\nThose awful claws were tearing me everywhere; that fatal head was\nstruggling to break down my tiring arm; and the desperate thrusts of the\nknife with all the force of my right arm seemed not even to penetrate the\ntough hide. They went deep enough, as I found later, but at the moment I\nwas sure they hardly scratched him.\n\nSince that day I have been through a great many of the things of whose\nsuspense we say, \u201cThey seemed eternities,\u201d but never one, I think, that\nseemed so endless as that. And yet it could hardly have lasted a minute.\nI was growing very weak. Blood was running down in my boots, and my weary\nleft arm was no longer rigid. My right was no longer fully under control,\nand once, when the knife glanced a rib, it nearly flew from my hand.\n\nOnce, too, I struck high, and the cat caught my right wrist between his\nsavage teeth and tore out a piece. Was he invulnerable? I began actually\nto believe so\u2014to fancy that, after all, it must be a hideous dream.\n\nYou may imagine from that into what a state my mind had come. But still\nI plied the knife, and still with cramped and trembling arm held off the\ncreature\u2019s jaws.\n\nAnd then, on a sudden, a great wave of joy swept over me, and I yelled\nmadly. The curving claws, set deep in my back and breast, relaxed. It was\nonly the least bit in the world, but I could feel the exquisite pain of\nthat slight withdrawal; and in another instant they came out altogether,\nand my foe fell limp upon the rocks beside me, where he never moved again.\n\nI looked at him once; my eyes grew dim, and I fell across him.\n\nWhen I recovered consciousness, we were lying in a heap, wet with our\ncommon blood. I crawled a couple of feet to the brook, and the icy water\nrevived me, so that at last I could rise and limp about the field of our\nstrange battle.\n\nThe cat was a mass of wounds; and as I counted the eleven fatal thrusts,\nI marvelled at his vitality and pluck\u2014and very heartily respected them,\ntoo. Any one of ten of them would have finally killed him, but he had\nkept his hold to the very last, which had sunk deep into his heart.\n\nAnd such a small beast to attack the lord of creation! I do not think\nhe weighed over thirty pounds; but what a model of compact strength and\nagility! His skin was so slashed as to be absolutely unsavable; but I\nkept his scalp a long time, till the moths destroyed it.\n\nAs for myself, I was in little more attractive shape than he. Of my stout\nduck coat and trousers only the right half remained. My duck vest and\nheavy flannel shirt boasted little but a few shreds two-thirds of the way\naround my body. I was half-naked, and my breast, back, left side and left\nthigh were laced with deep, bleeding gashes.\n\nThere is only one thing about that day which I do not remember; and that\nis, how I got back that ten miles to camp. But somehow I got there; for\nwhen I awoke next morning, very weak and stiff\u2014for of all wounds I know\nof none so painful as those inflicted by a cat\u2014I was under my roof of\nbirch bark, and a spotted scalp lay on the sand beside me.\n\n\n\n\nA Tame Deer.\n\n\n\n\nA Tame Deer.\n\n\nBuck deer, at certain seasons, or when wounded, may be very ugly\ncustomers; and in hunting East and West, I have had several unpleasant\nexperiences with them. The very first deer I ever killed, up in the New\nHampshire mountains, came wonderfully close to killing me\u2014after his hind\nleg was broken at the hip and I thought it was quite safe to close in to\nfinish him. How he literally \u201cwiped the ground\u201d with me!\n\nOthers of his kind have given me trouble and danger in varying degrees,\nand in a variety of ways; and I have known several persons killed by\nthem. But the \u201cclosest call\u201d a deer ever gave me, and one of the most\nterrible struggles in all my hunting and wandering, befell me in the\nheart of the city of Los Angeles; and the hero was a \u201ctame\u201d buck.\n\nIt was many years ago, at a time when my passion for pets, always strong,\nhad unusual opportunities for gratification in one of the moss-gathering\nintervals of a usually rolling stone. Behind the house (where a\nhalf-million dollar block stands to-day) was a good-sized yard, for a\ncity lot, well shaded with eucalyptus trees, and with a substantial shed.\nHere was plenty of room for pets, and we acquired a variety of them.\n\nFirst in our affection was my precious old cat Beauty, which had come\nwith the family from Ohio. There was also a horse, which boarded at the\nlivery stable; and a fine Danish hound that had adopted us. This did very\nwell for a while. But during a vacation run over New Mexico, I wounded a\nyoung eagle; and, seeing that his wing would soon heal under proper care,\nI brought him home and kept him in a leash on the back porch, where he\nthrove admirably.\n\nThen someone presented me with a barn-owl, and he kept the eagle company.\nRabbits have always pleased me; and presently I made some hutches, and in\ntime had them peopled with a dozen rabbits and guinea-pigs. In a cage in\nmy study lived a couple of handsome rattlesnakes; and one day I brought\nhome in a slatted box a tiny wildcat\u2014at which a patient wife cried:\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t get anything more, Charlie! We can\u2019t move now without stepping on\na pet; and they are too much care for me, with you gone at the office\nall day and almost all night!\u201d\n\nBut in spite of herself she grew very fond of the wildcat baby, which\nwould lie in her lap and purr with the most ridiculously disproportionate\nvoice. It could hardly have been a month old; and had I been the hunter\nwho found it in the Sierra Madre, it should never have been taken from\nits fierce mother at such an age\u2014for it had not been weaned, evidently.\n\nIts body was not as large as that of a lean house-cat, but its legs were\nquite one-half longer, so that it had rather the appearance of being on\nstilts\u2014and very uncertain, wobbly ones, too. Its feet were twice the size\nof Beauty\u2019s, and its voice, in growling, was so heavy and so savage that\none could scarce believe it issued from that ungainly little frame.\n\nIt was very gentle with its mistress, purred sonorously whenever she\npetted it, and went stumbling all over the house at her heels. Nor was it\nhostile to the young lady who completed our family, not half so afraid\nof Beauty as Beauty was of this wild cousin. But with me it would have\nnothing to do. As I was then city editor of the morning newspaper, and\nwas very little at home, it evidently looked upon me as an interloper,\nand at a glance of me would snarl and show fight as sincerely as a grown\nlynx. And it was an enemy not altogether to be laughed at, as there are\nstill scars to testify.\n\nOnce it climbed up and hid among the springs of my bed, and the heavy\nbuck gloves I put on for the task of dislodging it did not save me from\nugly tastes of those keen teeth and claws. Perhaps it is quite as well\nthat Tiger did not survive his infancy, but died of congestion at four\nor five months old. Had he grown up, without a change of heart, he might\nhave become troublesome.\n\nWith this much of a household on our hands, we might very reasonably\nhave been content; and so probably should have been but for one of those\n\u201cchances of a lifetime\u201d which are always befalling the enthusiast. A\nfellow down in the Mexican quarter of the city had a pet deer, and,\nlearning of my hobby, pestered me to buy\u2014\u201cdirt cheap, Sir!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I don\u2019t want any deer. Couldn\u2019t take care of him.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, but he is such a beauty, Sir, and tame as a sheep, and $10 is\nnothing. Just come and look at him!\u201d\n\nWell, it could do no harm to go and look at a pretty animal; so I\nwent\u2014with a virtuous resolve not to acquire another single pet.\n\nThe result was what might have been expected. He _was_ a beauty. There\nis almost nothing handsomer than a perfect Black-tail, and this was\nan excellent specimen\u2014full grown, though young, with one fork on his\ndagger-sharp antlers, and gentle as a kitten. The first look of those\nliquid eyes made my resolution tremble; and when the lovely creature came\nand nestled his face into my vest with perfect confidence, I was lost.\n\nI could not even wait to send an express-man for him. \u201cHere is your $10,\u201d\nsaid I; \u201cand now give me a rope to lead him home.\u201d\n\nThe rope was put around that graceful neck, and I started off in high\nglee. He followed me like a lamb through the back streets, paying little\nattention to people or wagons\u2014for he had passed most of his life in\nthe city\u2014and much less abashed than his new master by the sensation we\ncreated. Once safely at home, I gave him a strong leather collar and a\nlong steel chain, the other end of which hooked into a staple in the side\nof the shed.\n\nBonito, as we named him, seemed very content in his new home. At night he\nhad a comfortable bed in the shed, and by day his place outside. There\nwas plenty of alfalfa and young wheat, which we had cut for him from the\nrabbits\u2019 patch, and bread and sugar from the house; and every morning my\nhabit was to loose his chain and let him wander about the yard with me.\n\nHe had a great curiosity about the rabbits and the owl, a fair\nunderstanding with Giallo, the dog, a supreme contempt for the little\nwildcat\u2014which had been transferred to a big cage in the yard and roared\nat us whenever we approached. As for the three human members of the\nfamily, he was hail-fellow-well-met with us all. He kept putting himself\nforward to be petted, delighted to be scratched behind the ears, and\nwould rather eat from our hands than from his trough.\n\nFor five or six months Bonito was the pride of the family. He had grown\nvery fat, and was sleek and handsome as one could wish. But with the\nadvance of summer he turned misanthrope. He began to paw a considerable\nhollow by his post, and now and again stamped his hoof on the ground\nwith that peculiarly audible rap which with wild deer is an alarm-signal\nsufficient to stampede a quietly grazing herd. Then he began to show some\ncontempt for being petted, and several times pushed us away in a manner\nnothing short of rude.\n\nAt last I came home one night to find my wife much worked up. She had\ngone out that afternoon to feed Bonito and was giving him an apple, when\nsuddenly he lowered his head and sprang at her. Luckily the sharp horns\npassed either side the slender waist, pinning her against the shed, but\nnot hurting her; and with much presence of mind, instead of fainting or\nscreaming or struggling, she scratched beneath his ears soothingly, and\nhe at last let her escape unharmed.\n\n\u201cH\u2019m! Well, don\u2019t you go near him again,\u201d said I. \u201cI\u2019ll attend to him\nmyself, if that\u2019s his temper;\u201d and I forthwith procured a new chain.\n\nSeveral times in the next few weeks he made lunges at me, but again\nwould seem gentle and would enjoy a petting. Against my wife, however,\nhe appeared to have taken a sudden grudge, and would tug on his chain at\nsight of her.\n\nOne Saturday she went to visit friends at the beach, and I was to follow\non the half-past eight train next morning. It was four o\u2019clock in the\nmorning when I saw the paper to press and came home, and at seven\no\u2019clock got up to care for the pets before leaving.\n\nWhen I went out to the yard, the deer was not there. The staple was torn\nout, and the drag of the chain enabled me to find where Bonito had jumped\nthe fence and made off. I trailed him several blocks, and at last found\nhim impudently grazing on a handsome lawn on Hill Street.\n\nHe did not attempt to elude me, and when I took the end of the chain he\nfollowed as meekly as you please, only stopping now and then to nibble a\nbit of grass by the sidewalk.\n\nUnluckily just then I pulled out my watch. Seven-fifty! Time to hurry\nup\u2014and when Don Bonito stooped to graze, I leaned back on the chain and\nbrought him along. Five or six times this happened, and I fancied he was\nnot quite so meek. Hungry he could not be\u2014it was just his stupid notion\nto take a bite by the wayside; and my train would not wait for that.\nSo each time that he halted, a steady but resistless pull brought him\nsliding forward, brace his feet as he would.\n\nThe last time I pulled there was a surprise. For an instant he held\nback with all his strength, and then, suddenly hunching his body like\na panther, he gave a great bound at me. Losing balance at this sudden\nyielding of the weight, I sprawled on the sidewalk, and Bonito pounced\nupon me like a cat, cutting my leg with his sharp hoofs, and aiming his\nsharper horns at my ribs. It was as well that he had to do with no novice\nat catch-as-can wrestling, for without those years of keen practice I\nnever should have come out from the next fifteen minutes\u2014if, indeed, from\nthe first onslaught. As it was, I clutched a horn at the first pass,\nwithin six inches of my side; and then, capturing the other, readily got\nmy feet.\n\nThis head-lock counter-balanced his 20 pounds\u2019 superiority in weight, but\nthe very fact of being overpowered made him beside himself. He began to\nfight with inconceivable fury, twisting till he seemed like to break his\nneck in the effort to free his horns or get at me with his feet.\n\nIt began to appear that he had me in something like a \u201cbox.\u201d It was\nequally out of the question to let him go or try to lead him farther.\nEvery motion or snort of the infuriated animal showed that his one\nthought now was not escape, but revenge.\n\nStill, confident in my muscles\u2014like steel yet from a\nthirty-five-hundred-mile walk across the continent\u2014I had no\napprehensions. The only thing necessary was to take him home in such\nfashion that he could not hurt me; and once there, the chain would take\ncare of him.\n\nSo I got my left arm locked in a chancery hold around his neck, my right\nhand still firmly holding his right horn, which worked uncomfortably\nclose to my stomach, and thus, lifting him so that his fore feet were off\nthe ground, I started homeward.\n\nBut there had been a reckoning without the host. The first two blocks\nwent fairly, though in an unceasing violent struggle\u2014rather to the\nscandal of the two or three passers we met, so early for Sunday morning\nin that quiet part of the town. But when I came with my prisoner to Fifth\nStreet, it was with the consciousness that I was pretty well worn out,\nand that he, in spite of the strangle-lock, seemed to be growing fresher.\n\nEach moment he fought with new rage and vigor, sometimes driving me\nagainst the fence, sometimes over the curb; lunging fiercely with those\nsinewy hind-legs, and striking wildly with the pointed fore-hoofs, whose\ndangerous effectiveness every hunter knows.\n\nThe way we wrestled and fought over the next six or seven hundred feet\nmight have been amusing to bystanders, but became terrible to me. It\nwas not for the bruises and gashes I got, nor for the breathless thumps\nagainst fences and trees, nor for the being violently thrown several\ntimes. I kept his head in chancery, and these small hurts were not much\nmore than one expects to get in a good bout of catch-as-can with a human\nadversary.\n\nAs long as I could keep that deadlock on his neck I was perfectly safe\nfrom any serious injury, but the grim certainty confronted me that I\ncould not keep it much longer. My arm began to give at his fiercest\nlunges, my breath and heart were alike stampeding, and I felt creeping\nover me the dizzy faintness of utter exhaustion. Never had wrestler given\nme such tussle before\u2014though I have worked two hours \u201con the carpet\u201d at a\nbout.\n\nDown we went again at the last corner, and again a glancing hoof cut me\nas I fought back to my feet. I dropped the horn and clasped the left\nwrist with my right hand, drawing the arm tighter under the brute\u2019s\nthroat, at once to hold him surer and cut off his wind. But the broad\nleather collar seemed to save him. A burly fellow passed. \u201cHelp me with\nthis deer!\u201d I panted; but he looked at the savage struggles of Bonito and\nhurried on.\n\nAt the very gate the beast bore me down once more; but once more I\nstruggled up and dragged him in. We swayed and fought along, tearing up\nthe gravel-walks and flower-beds, and at last came to the shed. I could\nbarely stand, and Bonito dragged me hither and yon. My eyes were hazy,\nand the cramped arms began to slip. Would Virginia never come? I yelled\nagain, and just then she came running out.\n\n\u201cFasten\u2014his chains\u2014around the post!\u201d I had just breath to gasp; and, like\nthe brave girl she was, she did it\u2014in what seemed to me forever, while\nthe deer and I fought the last bout.\n\n\u201cRun!\u201d I cried, when the chain was at last secured; and when she was in\nthe back door, I dragged Bonito to the end of his chain, loosed my hold\nand fell backward. I am positive that I could not have held him twenty\nseconds longer to save my life.\n\nHe slacked back on the tether and hurled himself forward till the steel\nlinks cracked again, and his eyes fairly started with the pressure on his\nthroat. But the chain held, and his frantic efforts, which continued as\nlong as I was in sight, were in vain. Had a link parted then, he would\nhave had an easy victim. A few minutes\u2019 breathing-spell made me over, and\nby a bit of good fortune I caught the next train, and reached Long Beach\nnot far behind time\u2014though with various large rents and blood stains on\nmy clothing.\n\nThe next day a butcher was summoned to rid us of so dangerous a pet. He\ndealt Bonito a fearful blow on the forehead with a hatchet. The deer\ndropped as if shot, and lay motionless; and the butcher stepped forward\nwith his knife. But like a flash the brute was on his feet again\u2014and\non his assailant, whose coat was pierced front and back by the sharp\nantlers. It was a remarkable chance that they had not entered his abdomen.\n\nThe butcher\u2019s fat, rosy face turned a sickly gray. He kept his distance\nafter that, and with a long-handled ax made thrice sure of the game\nbefore he would venture again within the radius of that chain.\n\nBonito dressed one hundred and fifty-six pounds\u2014so you see he was no\nfeather-weight for a wrestler. He was fat, and they said very good\nvenison. At home we could not think of eating the meat of a former pet;\nbut after his exploits, our sentiment did not go so far as to make us\nsorry that someone else could.\n\nAnd since then I have never had an ambition to get another \u201ctame deer.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Rebel Double Runner.\n\n\n\n\nThe Rebel Double Runner.\n\n\nWhen I was a lad in a lonely New Hampshire village, in the memorable year\nof 1863, a great many fathers and uncles and older brothers were off at\nsome fearful and dimly-comprehended distance, dressed in blue, and, as we\nreckoned it, fighting battles daily.\n\nHow brave they had looked one morning, as they left town, marching with\nfife and drum along the crazy sidewalk, and off down the \u201cDepot Hill!\u201d\n\nAfter that, the games at school and after school took a decidedly warlike\ntinge. Wooden swords and muskets largely usurped the place of top and\nball; and proud was the small boy whose grand-dad would lend him a real\nsword of 1812, or an ancient militia shako.\n\nWhen the stern New Hampshire winter came on, with its sleighing and\ncoasting and skating, military evolutions were somewhat curtailed\u2014but\nnot altogether. There were snow forts and snow battles; white-blocked\nSumters that defied the assault of the enemy.\n\nPatriotic feeling ran riot; and when one young school-fellow, named Tip,\nespoused the Southern cause for fun, and began to press our ramparts\nsore, gaining recruits every day by his sheer audacity, there came to\nbe snow-balls slightly thawed and then left out over night to turn to\nice\u2014and, as a result, some dangerous casualties on the battle-field.\n\nThe very opposite of Tip in many ways was Mat Marks. Tip was restless,\nsometimes reckless, always full of mischief, but one of the squarest and\nleast self-conscious of boys. His sudden \u201cturning Rebel,\u201d when he could\nhardly draft rebels enough to make the holding of our forts against them\nhalf-way interesting, was from no lack of as good patriotism as ours.\n\nBut Tip liked excitement, and was less vain than most of us; and without\na second thought of any prejudice that he might excite because of\nthis boyish enterprise, he abandoned the fort and took command of the\nenemy\u2014\u201cjust to make it interesting.\u201d\n\nAnd, though he was always overwhelmingly outnumbered, interesting enough\nhe made it for \u201cUs Unions\u201d before he finished.\n\nMat, on the other hand, while in a way as active and enterprising as Tip,\nwas much bound to the traditions\u2014not from any principle or understanding\nof them, but because he liked to be on the popular side, and at the head\nof it, too; for he had a remarkably good opinion of himself.\n\nThanks to his diplomacy, he counted more followers than any other lad\nin town, and was fully satisfied of the justice of his pre\u00ebminence. He\nliked to deem himself \u201ca born leader of men,\u201d such as he read of; and\nI have often wondered, since, that we so long and so unquestioningly\nobeyed his smooth dictatorship. He was always \u201corganizing\u201d\u2014the snow-ball\nbattles were the outcome of his genius\u2014and we carried out his orders with\nremarkable fidelity.\n\nWith the twentieth of December came a three-foot fall of snow, and in\na few days it was hard packed on every highway, like a squeaky, white\npavement. No more skating now\u2014the sled was to be king for the next two\nmonths. For a few days everybody coasted, hit or miss; and the long slide\nswarmed like an ant-hill going crazy. But then the administrative mind\nof Mat began to work. Everyone sliding down hill on his own hook and\nstraggling back at will\u2014this was altogether too puerile and unorganized!\n\nSo Mat called a council of war.\n\n\u201cSay, boys,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019ll tell you what let\u2019s do! Instead of going\nhiggledy-piggledy at it, like a lot of girls, let\u2019s organize the coasting\nin good shape. We\u2019ll have our rules and signals and right of way, just\nlike a railroad, and a switch at the tannery corner so the small boys\ncan go on to the toll-bridge, carrying supplies for the army, and the\nexpress-trains can turn off to the depot and take troops to the front.\n\n\u201cThen, too, I think father\u2019ll let me have old Nell, and we can make her\nhaul back all the sleds in a string, and let fellows have turns riding\nher down to meet us again. So that\u2019ll get rid of the meanest part of\nit\u2014the pulling our sleds up hill. Besides, we\u2019re all the time having\ntrouble with teams now; but if they all knew we were coming down in a\nsteady string, they\u2019d keep out of the way, and do their sledding only\nwhen the coast was clear. What do you fellows think?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood enough!\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s the way!\u201d \u201cAll right!\u201d cried the crowd, in various\nvoices, but with one mind. But when the exclamations were over, Tip\ntilted his sharp face a bit and said:\n\n\u201cWell, what are you going to do while Nell is getting down hill? Sit in\nthe snow-drift there at the depot and rub your ears? Strikes me it\u2019s\nbetter to turn around and climb back, and keep warm, \u2019stead of waiting\nthere half an hour to freeze. And s\u2019posing some team that didn\u2019t know\nabout our all comin\u2019 down together was to get in the way? Then we\u2019d be\napt to get tangled up with each other and go to smash.\u201d\n\n\u201cHuh!\u201d retorted Mat, sharply; \u201cI guess you\u2019re scared. But you don\u2019t have\nto join us. If the rest say to go in, I guess we can get along without\nyou. What do you say, fellows? Shall we do it?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Course we will!\u201d was the chorus; and Mat looked triumphantly at\nhis rival\u2014for there was no denying that Mat reckoned as a rival, and\ntherefore a foe, anyone who didn\u2019t agree with him, as Tip generally did\nnot. Tip returned the glance coolly and answered:\n\n\u201cWhy, you fellows do as you like, of course\u2014I ain\u2019t bossing you. But you\ncan count me out from any such goose-tag as that.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe wouldn\u2019t have you anyhow!\u201d cried Mat, nettled at this comparing them\nto a flock of geese waddling one after the other. \u201cWe don\u2019t care to have\nany traitors in our crowd.\u201d\n\n\u201cYah, you old Rebel!\u201d piped little Bill Burpee, taking his clew as usual;\nand several others echoed what was then the most dreadful word in our\nvocabulary.\n\n\u201cI ain\u2019t a Rebel, and you know it!\u201d Tip answered, warmly. \u201cI guess my\nfather\u2019s fighting as hard as any of yours\u2014and he ain\u2019t staying home to\ntend grocery stores, like Mat\u2019s!\u201d with which parting shot he walked off\nscornfully and quite alone.\n\nI can hardly understand now why we were so unjust to Tip. He had more\nin him than any other boy among us, was less selfish, more trustworthy\nand a better friend than ten Mats, and had done each of us no end of\nboy-kindnesses, instead of using us as cat\u2019s-paws for his own ambition.\n\nBut just because he had \u201cplayed Rebel\u201d for a few days solely to put a\nlittle life into the war, the boys were \u201cdown on\u201d him. His followers in\nthat campaign we made no note of and harbored no grudge against.\n\nPerhaps there was wounded vanity in the recollection how nearly his\nsuperior generalship had routed our superior forces. So unreasoning are\nearly prejudices that I presume a few of us never did quite get the last\ngrain of grudge out of our heads\u2014unless, perhaps, fifteen years later,\nwhen Mat was clerking in his father\u2019s store, and word came of the death\nof Capt. Tip in Arizona. He was slain by the Apaches after an heroic\nfight which saved an immigrant party till the arrival of troops enough to\nscatter the red fiends.\n\nWell, Mat\u2019s plan progressed famously. A small army of us, with brooms and\nshovels, worked over that mile and a half of road till the coast was in\nsuch good shape as no one ever dreamed of before.\n\nThe weather stayed obstinately cold; so, under Mat\u2019s direction, we\nbrought water by the bucketful and wet down the safer parts of the slide.\nThere was some friction about this, for the older people objected to so\nmuch glare ice; but Mat compromised by not wetting the street crossings,\nand only a narrow track at the side of the road, so that sleighs had\nplenty of room without encroaching on our slide.\n\nAt the tannery corner we made a crescent of hard-packed snow, with\nsloping concavity, which rendered it rather easier to turn that dangerous\nangle. It was like the raised rail on the outside of the railway curve,\nor the \u201csaucer-edge\u201d of an automobile race-track.\n\nAnd then came the marshalling of the clans. Our embryo Napoleon, of\ncourse, was commander-in-chief, and his pride, the double-runner\n\u201cAvalanche,\u201d led the line. There were in those days but half a dozen\nother double-runners in town. These were owned by young men. Mat\u2019s was\nthe only one in \u201cour crowd.\u201d It was a very fancy affair for then and\nthere.\n\nRight-hand-man Hunt was privileged to manage the rear, and the coveted\nremaining seats were occupied by guests of passing invitation.\n\nIt was no small social power to control a double-runner, and Mat made the\nmost of it, giving rides to all his friends with great princeliness. But\nI remember that we never saw on Mat\u2019s \u201ctraverse\u201d any of the urchins from\nthe lower end of the village\u2014they had no \u201cinfluence.\u201d\n\nBehind the \u201cAvalanche\u201d came sleds of all sorts and sizes. As for Tip, no\none had seen him for several days. He lived up on the other hill\u2014a hill\neven steeper than Dolloff\u2019s, but coming in with such an ugly turn at the\nengine-house that no one coasted there since big Ned Green broke his neck\non a wood-pile around the bend.\n\nThe great Saturday came for the formal inauguration of the Cannonball\nRailroad. Sixty-odd boys were gathered at the top of Dolloff\u2019s Hill.\nSome girls were there, too, with their high, flat-runnered sleds, upon\nwhich we looked with supreme scorn. Kitty White and Annie Waters and May\nThurston were comfortably tucked up on the cushioned seat behind Mat on\nhis double-runner; and Hunt was holding back on the tail-board till the\nsignal.\n\n\u201cAll ready\u2014go!\u201d yelled Mat. Hunt sprang to his seat, and the sled slipped\naway, gaining momentum swiftly. Charlie White flung himself on his long\ncutter and was at its heels; and one after another, in continuous line,\nthe whole array of boys on their sleds went sweeping down the hill.\n\nJust as the last of us were whizzing by the engine-house, there was a\nshrill yell, and a dark flash from the other arm of the \u201cY\u201d of the roads\nshot alongside in a swirl of snow-flower, and was past almost before\nanyone could crack a wink.\n\nAll we were sure of was that Tip and a party had gone by us, but how, or\non what, no one knew. Anyhow, it was just like him. No one but Tip could\nhave turned that lopsided corner in that way, and grazed safely within\ntwo feet of us. And one after another of the brown line ahead, we could\nsee this astounding meteor picking up and passing them all.\n\nMat was right on the town bridge, steering his grandest to cut a fine\ncurve through the square, when he caught that odd singing of tempered\nrunners. Before he could turn his head, Tip streaked by without a\nglance, doubled the corner with a beautiful swing, and was out of sight\non the next pitch when the \u201cAvalanche\u201d turned into the square.\n\nTip on a double-runner! and one with wings, too, to judge by its speed!\nAnd Lou Berry and Kate Morris and Amy Belle and that pauper Okey boy with\nhim, and that big Brown behind\u2014it was altogether too much! When we got to\nthe bottom of Depot Hill, Tip and his party were starting back, dragging\nthe new craft. It was a very heavy double-runner, with a long, springy\nplank of ash, set rather low. There was no paint on runners or deck, but\neverything about the sandpapered wood had a clipper look, and the runners\nwere shod with steel rods of an odd spring.\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019d ye get it, Tip?\u201d \u201cAin\u2019t it a whaler?\u201d \u201cLemme go down once with\nyou, Tip!\u201d cried such of the boys as could catch up\u2014which was not so\ndifficult, as old Nell was dragging our sleds. Tip trudged on, answering\ncomposedly:\n\n\u201cOh, Mr. Brown and I got it fixed up. \u2019Course you can go, one at a\ntime\u2014we\u2019ve got room for just one more.\u201d\n\nBut just then Mat\u2014whose heavy sled went farther than our light\nones\u2014overtook us. No doubt he felt pretty sore over being so egregiously\nbeaten at his own game; and his look was anything but amiable as he\nobserved, loudly and in his most scornful tone: \u201cHuh! We feel pretty\nsmart with a Rebel double-runner, don\u2019t we?\u201d\n\nKate and Lou flushed up, and Brown stuck out his lip contemptuously, but\nTip only answered, drily:\n\n\u201cNo-o, not so awful smart\u2014just smart enough for what we need.\u201d\n\nThis was fuel to the fire. Mat, who was much the heavier of the two,\nstepped forward; and very likely there would have been a scene, except\nthat the good old minister just then stopped his sleigh for a chat with\nsome friends, the boys. But Mat had clinched a nickname, and Tip\u2019s\nturnout became in every mouth \u201cThe Rebel Double-runner.\u201d\n\nNor did it stop there. An organized movement\u2014in which Mat was far too\nshrewd to let himself be seen, leaving it to his younger followers\u2014was\nmade to cut (boycott, as we would say nowadays) everyone who had anything\nto do with Tip.\n\nBrown evidently didn\u2019t borrow much trouble about the scorn of boys so\nmuch younger than himself; and whatever Tip may have felt, he said\nnothing.\n\nBut Kate and Lou felt it keenly, for even the sisters of the camp were\nenlisted to make things unpleasant for \u201call who gave aid and comfort\nto Rebels.\u201d But, as they were loyal and plucky girls, they stuck to\ntheir friend in a fashion that was rather heroic, considering the heat\nand the meanness of youthful partisanship. I trust that for the many\nshabby turns done them they found some recompense in the regularity\nwith which, day after day and many times a day, they whizzed past their\nenvious persecutors. For Tip had left no gap in his plans. The Rebel\ndouble-runner was safe to win every time\u2014thanks partly to its superior\nconstruction, partly to the dangerous hill on which it got its headway,\nand partly to the tremendous send-off given it by that hatefully muscular\nBrown.\n\nBesides, Tip had a perfect genius as a steerer\u2014the genius of effort and\nfixity, which counts oftener than any other kind. He seemed afraid of\nnothing, because he really \u201csaw his way through.\u201d He had studied that\nslide in every inch, and knew how to give his sled every advantage of it.\n\nIt was an aggravation almost beyond endurance to have them flash by us\nso easily every time; but for all Mat\u2019s efforts and schemes and our wild\njockeying, they continued to do it. If the continued triumph of the\nRebel double-runner was aggravating to us, it was gall and wormwood to\nMat. The thing became a town joke; and older folks, who did not share our\ngrudge against Tip nor our awe of our \u201cNapoleon,\u201d poked all manner of fun.\n\nSuave, self-satisfied, Mat grew glum and snappish. Those of us who\nventured to ride with Tip\u2014and it must be confessed that our patriotism\nwas not always proof against the temptation\u2014were made to feel the weight\nof Mat\u2019s displeasure. Our \u201cleader of men\u201d had not quite learned to lead\nhimself.\n\nAs we trudged up with our sleds from the depot one afternoon, we caught\nsight of Tip\u2019s outfit whisking around the tannery corner and bearing down\nlike a streak of dark lightning.\n\nMat was ahead, talking hard to young Burpee, who had a long red-bark\nswitch in his hand. Just as the flying traverse was close, the young imp\nflung his stick down across the road.\n\nQuick as thought we saw the act\u2014and that Tip saw it, too. He slid back,\nwith feet braced hard on the crosspiece, and swung the sled a trifle to\nthe right.\n\nHe was pale\u2014but not half so white as Mat, who stood glaring at him like\none fascinated. It was right on the last bridge, over the big fall\u2014that\nold wooden bridge with its crazy railing!\n\nWe were too horror-struck even to cry out, and there was no sound\nfrom the white faces on the sled. I can remember yet how the great\nfalls roared, as out of a dead hush; how Tip\u2019s teeth showed, and that\nthe steering-rope was sunk deep in his wrists. How many things made\nthemselves seen and felt in that instant!\n\nThe sled struck the slender switch exactly square. We looked to see its\noccupants fly off into space; but, though Tip was snapped forward until\nhis knees bruised his face, those wiry legs saved him and the rest, who\nwere half piled upon him.\n\nThe flying ends of the switch told the story. Tip had steered upon the\nslenderer end, and the swift, high-tempered runners had chopped it in\ntwo, as was his hope, and without too great a shock.\n\nHad the switch resisted never so little! It seemed to us\u2014and does to me\nyet\u2014almost a miracle of escape. But for Tip\u2019s instant wit, the whole\nparty would have broken their necks on the hill, or crashed through the\nrail to the falls.\n\nThat day broke the back of the Cannonball Railroad. No one would so much\nas look at Burpee; but we felt that the responsibility rested further\nback.\n\nOf course, Mat had not told him to throw the switch, and doubtless made\nhimself believe that he had no blame in the matter. But the rest of\nus\u2014well, even boys sometimes know how to read between the lines.\n\nTip never opened his month about the matter, and promptly stopped any\nattempted reference to it. He had plenty of companions now, and treated\nthem in his square-toed boy way, as though nothing had ever happened.\n\nA week after the switch episode, the crowd, including Tip, was straggling\nup the hill as Mat and his few remaining satellites came down on the\n\u201cAvalanche.\u201d Just as they reached the grist-mill, a loaded wood-sledge\nstalled at the tannery corner\u2014the snow was soft that day. The sled was,\nfor the same reason, not going half so fast as usual, but quite fast\nenough. Seeing the dangerous passage thus blockaded, Mat began to get\npanicky, and the sled wobbled.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s going to jump!\u201d exclaimed someone. \u201cDon\u2019t!\u201d\n\nTip flung his sled-rope to me. \u201cHold to her, Mat!\u201d he yelled, standing at\nthe very edge of the slide and balanced, catlike. But Mat did _not_ hold\non. The \u201cAvalanche\u201d slewed to one side, and he leaped and went plowing\nand rolling fifty feet in the slush. Almost as he struck the road, Tip\nhad flung himself headlong upon the steering-seat and caught the lines.\n\nHe was just in time to \u201csnub\u201d the front sled before it could \u201cturn cross\u201d\nand make a wreck; and, steering through the narrow space between the\nwood-sledge and the bridge-rail, he fetched up safely with the traverse\nand its four frightened boys on the grade that climbs to Water Street.\n\nThat settled the business. From that day out, I think no one was ever\nheard to mention anything that sounded like \u201cRebel double-runner.\u201d It\nwas \u201cTip\u2019s Tornado,\u201d and there wasn\u2019t a boy in town, except one, but was\nglad to ride on it\u2014or to follow Tip in anything. It was the quietest of\nvictories, but complete.\n\n\n\n\nThe Balsa Boy of Lake Titi-Caca.\n\n\n\n\nThe Balsa Boy of Lake Titi-Caca.\n\n\nI.\n\n\u201cBut, _hombrote_, thou art a mouthful, and the lake is brave. Of me it\ncounts not, but much eye to this box. That is the far-looker that makes\nthe pictures, and if it went to the _bogas_ or were even wet, how couldst\nthou answer?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no care, Excellency. More than that I am small, in this lake I\nwas born, and now I am made to it. I will not drown your Excellency, nor\nmore wet ye than must be when the lake is so. Trust me, _viracocha_, to\nput you to the island safely. And if not then name me Bobo.\u201d\n\nWell, I had to get across, and that was all there was to it. The island\nwas there, I here, the miles of angry water between, and for bridge, only\nthis twelve-year-old Aymar\u00e1 boy with his water-logged _balsa_. I looked\nout at the whitecaps, then at the unlikely craft, then in Pablo\u2019s eyes.\n\n\u201c_Ba-le_, it is well. Thou hast the heart of a man. Hold her level for\nthe box.\u201d\n\nI waded out through the mud and rushes, waist-deep in the icy water,\nholding the precious camera box on my head, and between us we got it\nsafely stowed abaft the beanpole mast. Then I scrambled aboard as best\nmight be, with Pablo\u2019s helpful hand in my collar, for the mud had a\ntrap-like clutch on my legs. Bidding me squat forward, the boy settled\nback on his knees and began to ply his pole. The loftiest great lake in\nthe world has no timber on its shores, and with the mighty forests of the\nYungas five days off no one is going to think of paddles. Plain contorted\npoles of the iron _cupi_ are far more easily brought over the Andean\npasses, and they have to suffice.\n\nSlowly, with Pablo poling into the mud behind, the clumsy balsa slid\nthrough the _totora_, whispering as it went with its brother rushes\u2014for\nitself was simply a great bundle of _totora_, _totora_ bound, with\n_totora_ sail and sheets. There was no other thing about it; no nail\nnor cord nor wood, save only the cupi mast. The mossy tangle of yachu,\nwhich feeds the cattle of Titi-caca that graze all day shoulder deep\nin the lake, hampered the soggy prow and fastened upon Pablo\u2019s stick.\nSometimes, with that and the grasping mud, I looked to see him dragged\nback overboard. But he wagged the pole sharply and held fast with his\nknees, and always shook free. Decidedly his eyes were right\u2014the boy was\nno mouse.\n\nIn ten minutes we pushed our nose through the last _totoral_, and were\nin the open. The wind butted the harder in our face; the waves\u2014no longer\ntamed by the rushen breakwater of the inshore\u2014came running at us like\na stampede. The slow prow kicked them and stumbled on them and pounded\nthem into a coarse rain that pelted hard and icy. I wriggled out of my\ncoat of oiled horsehide and bound it over the camera box to protect that\nfrom the spray\u2014for it had been well strained by a fall of the pack mule\nin crossing the pass of Sorata, and was no longer so waterproof as might\nbe wished. Pablo could now no more touch bottom; and kneeling a little\nhigher and a little farther astern he kept his pole ish-ishing through\nthe water, paddle fashion.\n\n\u201cGive me,\u201d I said, after watching awhile the play of the round boy-chest.\n\u201cThou art too light.\u201d\n\nBut Pablo sent down his stick the harder\u2014so forcibly, indeed, that the\neffort pulled that corner of his mouth awry\u2014and grunted:\n\n\u201cNo, _viracocha_; leave me. Your Excellency knows the paddle\u2014that I can\nsee by the way you sit. But this is different. Only we of the lake know\nits ways, which are tricky. See, _pues_!\u201d he sputtered, as a bucketful\nof water slapped us in the face and left both gasping. \u201cFor here all the\nwinds quarrel from every way at once\u2014as if pushed by him who was once\n_alcalde_ of Paucarcolla.\u201d Pablo crossed himself, thereby \u201cdropping a\nstitch\u201d in his paddling.\n\n\u201cWhat? The\u2014er\u2014him that the Inquisition pursued?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Si, viracocha_, that same. And yonder headland is where he disappeared\nin the lake, for the which none care to tarry there, since it is well\nknown that he was the devil in person,\u201d and Pablo crossed himself again.\n\nAs we cleared the Punta del Diablo the wind smote us with renewed force,\nand with every dip a fresh deluge drenched us to the bone. But for a few\nmoments I did not think much of that. With the recession of the headland\nthe long line of the Bolivian Andes came marching into view, and I\nsuppose that just so wondrous a sight is nowhere else. Captained by the\npeak that overhangs Sorata, the giant file stood marshaled seemingly upon\nthe very beach of the vast blue lake, itself white with that unspeakable\nwhiteness such as befalls no other thing on earth than a far peak of\neternal snow high up a clear sky. Such a rank of Titans\u2014from incalculable\nIllampu and his 25,000 feet, off to where his rival, Illimani, seemed\nsoaring out of the lake a hundred miles away! It was enough to make one\nforget a wet skin\u2014and even the possibility of a wet camera box. How they\npossessed the firmament, these sublimated presences! And how the cumuli,\npuffing up from the tropic forests of the Beni, tangled about their feet\nand wreathed upward and dulled when their snow-whiteness lapped the\nwhiter snow of those proud crests!\n\nA sharp \u201c_Umpss!_\u201d from Pablo recalled me to shiver and to look back. A\nsudden flaw in the wind had caught his stroke with the full weight of the\nbalsa, and the ironwood pole had snapped under the cross strain. Pablo\nlooked anxious, but said very evenly:\n\n\u201c_Pss!_ We must break it off, _viracocha_, and use each an end; for in\nthis wind if we keep not our head, even a balsa will not last. Being\nangry, the lake pounds as one with his fist.\u201d\n\nIndeed, it was more like that than anything else\u2014and a most reiterant\nfist, too. Nowhere else is there such a \u201cchop\u201d as on Lake Titi-caca when\nthe winds awake; and I have seen those who have weathered every sea and\nwho laughed at the English channel turned deathly seasick on one of the\nwallowing little steamers that run from Puno to Chililaya. Now we were\nkicked about with battering thumps that seemed like to pound our bundle\nof rushes asunder. Pablo was straining and twisting at the broken pole,\nto part the wiry fibers. I chopped at it with my heavy, keen bowie, and\nat last the stubborn strands yielded; and so each had a stick some five\nfeet long. I knelt up and drove mine fiercely down the side while Pablo,\nastern, kept stroke. We were at it none too soon. At one time I half\nfancied that we never would get her head to the wind, for the soggy craft\nanswered slowly to our efforts with these pitiful paddles.\n\nFor some minutes we tugged in silence. At an altitude of 12,500 feet\nin Peru one needs all one\u2019s breath for work\u2014even the Serrano lad did.\nI glanced over my shoulder at him now and then. His lips were shut\nsquare, his serious dark eyes seemed to be taking note of everything, and\nthe slender muscles of his arms and chest\u2014clear drawn on the drenched\nshirt\u2014played smoothly. An athlete myself, and particularly taught in\nthe paddle, I began to feel a respect which was half awe for this manful\nstripling who toiled so soberly and shrewdly where only the best foreign\nlungs can endure any exertion whatever. And, at last, little as there was\nbreath to spare, I could not help grunting, \u201c_Est\u00e1s lo mas hombrote!_\u201d\n\nPablo\u2019s big white teeth shone for an instant in a sober smile.\n\n\u201cSo must we,\u201d he answered calmly. \u201cFor here is much to do, nor room for\nlazies\u2014for small though they be. When I was the half of this, my father\nhad me to help on the balsa; and once, even then, I took it to Puno, he\nbeing sick.\u201d\n\nThen silence fell upon us again for a time, and we poled away doggedly.\nBut presently there seemed to me something wrong in Pablo\u2019s quiet, and I\ntwisted my head to look. His stick was going steadily as a machine, but\nin his face was what made me call out sharply, \u201cWhat thing?\u201d\n\nHe thrust out his chin toward Illampu. I looked thither, and then back at\nhim, uncertain.\n\n\u201cMore wind,\u201d he said, concisely. \u201cEither to get to the island before it,\nor\u201d\u2014and the Spanish shrug said the rest for him.\n\nWe did not get to the island before it. Two hundred yards away the gale\nstruck us and flattened the balsa into the waves and the waves into the\nlevel, and was like to strip us bodily from our soaked craft. After that\nnothing was very clear, for the winds and waves washed us fore and aft,\nand it was hard to say which was the colder and more pitiless; and one\nsaw ill for that bitter pelting in the face, and the heart reeled with\noverwork to feed the leaping lungs. Bent forward till our heads almost\ntouched the balsa, our knees wedged hard on the tiny roll which served\nfor gunwale, we dug away mechanically with those nightmares of paddles\nthat would carry us nowhere. Once, when my heart would work no more, I\nturned idly to Pablo. His face was gray with effort, but so sweet and\ncomposed that I shouted out, half petulantly:\n\n\u201cEa! Hast thou not fear, _hijito_?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow not?\u201d he screamed back up the wind. \u201cAm I a fool, not to fear? We\nshall never come there, perhaps. Only if the saints will! Promise a\nsilver candlestick, se\u00f1or!\u201d\n\nBut in my eyes were a blue eyed baby and her mother, five thousand miles\naway, and for that, my temper was more to fight, with shut teeth, than\nto be vowing candlesticks. And just then it struck me to think, in that\nsilly maundering of the mind in stress, how peaceful Pablo would look\nwhen they should pick us up, and how they would add: \u201c_Umpss!_ But these\ngringos are of ill temper, no?\u201d\n\nFor half an hour, perhaps, we doubled to our sticks, and still the gale\nsmote us, and still our marrow ached with the chill of the spray. There\nwas no complaint of Pablo. He accepted fate, but still worked like a\nman\u2014poised and steady in the face of death. If we were to end there, he\nwould be found with the little chapped fists still clenching the stick.\nOnce a motion swept on me to spring back and hug him and say:\n\n\u201cSon, it counts not. Let us meet it in peace. Thou\u2019rt fit to die with!\u201d\n\nBut then again the blue eyes came up in the mist, and my fingers cracked\non the paddle and my teeth grated. And Pablo, as if he understood, gave\nme a grave, sweet nod. Further I noted that he drew some small object\nfrom his pouch and seemed to breathe on it.\n\nIt was so near! In a little eddy of the wind I shook the water from my\neyes and peered ahead. The northern point of the island was not fifty\nyards away\u2014and we were drifting past. It slipped and slipped, for all I\ndug savagely at the paddle and Pablo quickened his stroke with the first\ngroan I had heard from him. Our tired arms forgot their cramps, our lungs\ntheir \u201cstitches\u201d in a wild strain\u2014and still that dark shore kept drawing\nto our right. Ah, for the old paddle that used to spin the birch canoe!\nThese accursed sticks\u2014why, one might as well paddle with a poker!\n\n\u201c_Viracocha!_\u201d The boy\u2019s shrill voice split the wind like a fife. \u201cThe\nsail!\u201d\n\nI stared at him stupidly an instant. \u201cThou hast the power,\u201d he cried.\n\u201cBreak it! Break it!\u201d\n\nThen I knew, and leaped upon the ironwood mast as a wolf at the throat of\na fawn, and clenched it and wrenched and beat, and shoved and twisted and\ntugged, and with arms and knees tore it loose from its stepping in the\nbalsa. It well nigh racked the rushen raft in twain, and we noticed that\nthe impact of the waves no longer shook the balsa as a unit, but wabbled\nand see-sawed it.\n\nI caught the cupi under my left arm and clinched tight the \u201csheets\u201d of\nbraided _totora_ around the _totora_ sail, till that was bound in shape\nsomething like a closed umbrella, and springing forward to my station\nstood and plied this new paddle with frantic energy. It was unwieldy and\nfloppy, but it had more resistance than the pole, and slowly\u2014so slowly\nthat at first we dared not believe it\u2014the sullen craft began to answer.\nNew hope came in us, and we shouted \u201c_Arre!_ Drive!\u201d and bent till the\nmuscles creaked. Now, even in Pablo\u2019s face, was the fierce light of\ncombat.\n\nAnd so we made the shore. In the lee of the point the water was so still\nthat it seemed a yard lower than its surrounding level. A lone tuft\nof _totora_ grew near the shore, and when we came to it I fell on my\nface along the balsa and clutched the pithy stalks; and there we lay at\nthat frail anchorage till heart and lungs came back in me. Then, poling\nnearer, I stepped over the side and landed the camera; and came back and\ngathered in my arms a limp bundle, whose head drooped upon my shoulder,\nand so waded heavily up the beach of Sicuya.\n\n\nII.\n\nThere was nothing on the island for a good fire\u2014indeed, in all that\nvast plateau, so lofty and so cold, one learns the art of shivering to\nperfection, for fuel is enormously scarce. After an hour\u2019s work I had\nassembled a tiny heap of dry rushes from the beach, and bunch grass and\na few straggling bushlets. The tinder, in its oil-cloth pouch, with the\nflint and steel, was dry, and presently we had a swift, ephemeral blaze.\nIt was nothing to dry us, but served briefly to toast our hands and feet\nand take off a little of that ghastly chill. The camera was all right,\nand I resumed the horsehide coat, buttoning it to my chin to pay for the\nwoolen shirt which I had lent Pablo. As the darkness came on our poor\nlittle fire died away. We scraped a trough in the gravel and lay down in\nit spoon fashion, my arms around Pablo\u2019s chest, and so wore out the night.\n\nWe were chilled and stiff and half inanimate when the sluggard sun peeped\nover the far peaks of Apolobamba, and got up like old men. But even the\nlight was cheering; and presently a soft glow began to tame the bitter\nair and we ran clumsily and danced about and swung our arms till the\nblood went free again in its forgotten channels. Pablo was all right\nnow\u2014a boy is a hard thing to kill, and particularly an outdoors boy\u2014and\nchatted leisurely and calmly, as was his way.\n\n\u201cBut to eat!\u201d I broke in on one of his stories, when we were fairly\nlimbered up in body and mind. \u201cIs there _gente_ on the island?\u201d\n\n\u201cNobody. I think the Ancients were here once, for up yonder I have seen a\nstrong wall. But none come here now\u2014not even seeking treasure, which must\nbe here.\u201d\n\n\u201cBother the treasure! What we want now is food, even if it were only\nllama meat; for in purity of truth I\u2019m falling with hunger. Let us hunt.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere will be ducks, _pues_, over in the cove. _Vamos!_\u201d\n\nDucks there were, by the hundred; and mudhens, and dippers, and\nflamingoes, and almost every other aquatic fowl, among the rushes in\nthe eastern cove. With the shotgun we could have mowed down a bushel of\nthem\u2014but the shotgun was lying with my sleeping bag and rawhide muleback\ntrunks over in a hut on the mainland. Well, with the six-shooter we\ncould count on one bird, anyhow; and I drew it and began to rub off last\nnight\u2019s rust.\n\n\u201cBut wait me,\u201d said the little balsero. \u201cIt is better not to frighten\nthem, for we may need more than one. With this there is no noise.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke he unwound the braided sling which bound his long black\nhair. It was the immemorial weapon of his people\u2014even so I had taken\nit from the skulls of mummies of his ancestors far antedating the\nConquest. Pablo gathered some smooth pebbles from the beach and began\ncreeping toward the cove, sheltering himself whenever a bunch of _totora_\noffered. The water-fowl began to edge out, and a few nervous ducks rose.\nBut the boy knew his business and kept on at the same gait. Suddenly\nstraightening up, he whirled his right arm thrice around, and even from\nwhere I was I could hear a twang, and then the _sh-oo-oo_ of the hurtling\npebble.\n\nThere was a commotion among the birds, and a great white swan stretched\nand half rose from the water and dropped back in a shower of spray. Pablo\nwas already in the water, keeping out of sight all but his head, and in\na couple of rods that also disappeared. The swan suddenly redoubled its\nstruggles, beating one wing till the water foamed, but without progress.\nThen it began to drift shoreward, still fighting; and in a moment I saw\na dark object rise just in front of it. The swan saw, too, and aimed a\nstunning blow with its wing. But the head had already vanished and the\nscreaming bird kept moving shoreward despite his struggles. Then I waited\nso long that it seemed impossible that one should so endure under water,\nwhen the swan\u2019s violent pecking at his breast relieved me. Pablo, to\nkeep out of the way of that heavy wing and beak, was holding the great\nbird firmly down upon the crown of his head, and when it was needful to\ntake a breath he could thus get his nose out of water without seriously\nexposing himself. It was when he should come where the water was but a\ncouple of feet deep that trouble would begin, and already I judged that\nhe was lying upon his back and kicking along the mud. Time after time a\ndark fist came up to grapple that snake-like neck, but the bird was too\nsmart and the captor got only savage bites for his pains. I ran out to\nhelp, and the swan met me with a peck that took a morsel off my hand; but\na back sweep of the bowie sent the head flying twenty feet, and after a\nlittle more flopping the great fowl fell limp. The missile from the sling\nhad shattered his left wing.\n\nWell, when Pablo had warmed himself in the scorching sun, and we had\ngathered another bunch of dry weeds and more or less plucked the bird and\nhalf toasted thin strips of it in the embers, and devoured each a wolf\u2019s\nshare, we felt better. Perhaps we swallowed quite as much ashes as meat,\nand salt would have helped it\u2014but it was a wonderful banquet, anyhow.\nWe washed it down with drafts from the ill-tasting lake, and I dried\na brown-paper cigarette on a sunny rock until it was smokable, and for\na while we wallowed in the hot sun and watched the drift of shadows on\nIllampu, which had snared all the clouds from the sky.\n\n\u201c_Pues_, the pictures. And then, to get back to shore,\u201d I said at last,\ngetting up reluctantly. Pablo was greatly interested in that wonderful\nglass in its shining tube, and marveled at the unkinking of the tripod\nand how the whole artful box opened and swelled at a touch. We carried\nit to the top of the hill, and I made my pictures and showed him the\ninverted gem of color on the ground glass and explained it all to him in\nthe formula I learned long ago for Indian friends, to whom one has to\nadapt one\u2019s own point of view. Then he took me to the ruin\u2014some fallen\nhouses and a strong wall of great rocks wonderfully squared and carved,\nand we made a picture there, with tattered Pablo standing beside the\nnoble handiwork of his fathers. Unhappily, the plate fell a victim to the\nabominable dampness of Lima.\n\n\u201cIf we had but a spade,\u201d sighed Pablo, who went scuffing his toes in the\nrubbish of the forgotten rooms. \u201cWhat says the _viracocha_? Shall we\ncome back one day and dig here? For surely there will be treasure. Over\nyonder, toward that island, is where they say the Incas sunk the chain of\nHuascar, that the Spaniards might not find it. And many have looked for\nit, and some even talk to drain the lake.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can see them draining Titi-caca! But come, what was this chain of\nHuascar?\u201d I asked, as seriously as if this were all news to me.\n\n\u201c_Mppss!_ It was of gold, then\u2014pure gold. For when Huascar Inca was born\nhis father, Huayna Capac, ordered made this chain of gold, three hundred\npaces long and the fatness of my thumb, that the people might dance\nholding it. Ay, if one might find it! Sometimes, looking over the balsa,\nI have thought to see _that_ shining on the bottom, but then it was only\na _boga_ turning to the sun.\u201d\n\n\u201cEa, and what wouldst thou, _hijito_, finding this chain of Huascar?\u201d\n\n\u201cYo? _Mpps, Vues\u00e9ncia_, I would\u2014_mppss_\u2014I would buy the balsa of Jeraldo,\nwhich is very good; and three pigs and a cow for my mother, and a net;\nand\u2014and\u2014and\u2014boots like those of your Excellency\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cGood! And I hope thou\u2019lt find it. I mind me that an Inca, Don Garcilaso\nde la Vega, who wrote a book two hundred and ninety years ago\u2014_sabes_\nbook? Well, it is much paper tied together\u2014much spoiled paper, with words\non it. And this Inca said that the chain of Huascar was thrown into the\nlittle lake in the valley of Orcos, which the Spaniards did indeed try to\ndrain. But Garcilaso said many things\u2014particularly in December when the\ndays are long\u2014and I fancy thou\u2019rt as like to find the chain in this lake\nas in any other.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the paper, se\u2019or, how can it tell these things?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Pues_, because we make paper that talks\u2014not out loud, but telling you\nthings without a sound. And sometimes it knows how to lie, just like\npeople.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps it was not Don Garcilaso\u2019s fault, then\u2014it can be that he got\nthat kind of paper. For I know the chain is in this lake here, of\nTiti-caca, since my grandfather told me, and he knew from very long ago.\nHe was taught in all the stories of our fathers, and he gave me this\n_auqui_ of old for a charm. Perhaps for that we were not swallowed by the\nlake.\u201d\n\nSo saying, Pablo drew from his left-hand pouch a precious little fetich\nof silver, ages old, for there is no mistaking the prehistoric handiwork\nof Peru. It was in rude human form, and not cast, but hollow, beaten out\nand cupped and soldered so cleverly that one could scarce find the joint.\n\n\u201c_Hola!_ He was an _abuelo_ worth having. Come, I\u2019ll give thee ten\n_soles_ for it, for I shall need an _auqui_ myself if I am to stay in\nthese lands of ill luck.\u201d\n\nBut Pablo shook his head, though I am positive he never had seen so much\nmoney in one pile before as the ten silver dollars in my hand.\n\n\u201c_Ha-ni-wa!_\u201d he said. \u201cFor it is ill to sell these things, which are\nsacred.\u201d He breathed on the image and tucked it carefully back in his\n_chuspa_.\n\nThe balsa, still nodding at the rushen cable, was soon repaired by\nPablo\u2019s apt hands with a few withes of _totora_. We stepped the mast\nagain, as well as might be, in its torn socket, hoisted the rush sail,\nand drew slowly out in a light breeze. It was a very different passage\nfrom that of yesterday, and we sprawled lazily along the balsa, looking\nback now to the vast white peaks, and now to the weedy shore ahead. We\ncrept through the outer fringe of _totora_, passing far to the left of\na little stone hut that seemed built upon the very water a mile from\nshore. A few sad cattle lay about it, only their heads out of water; and\nnearer us, on a submerged bar, a gristly pig seemed undecided whether\nhe had better root or swim. It was Pablo\u2019s home, he told me\u2014a fair type\nof the pitiful swamp ranches of the lake dwellers. In the shoals they\nbuild their squalid huts and raise the unkempt cattle which know no other\npasturage\u2014as their owners no other world.\n\nWhen we came to the head of the bay and had waded ashore with the camera,\nwe stood a long time in the mud looking back at the blue lake and the\ndark island. I was sore and hungry, and with much to do; but, somehow, it\nwas hard to turn away. Pablo stood screwing his bare toes into the ooze,\nin as little haste to be off.\n\n\u201cAnd will your Excellency come again?\u201d he said at last, catching my eye\nand then turning away.\n\n\u201cWho knows, _hijito_? To-morrow I take mule for the Desaguadero. Perhaps\nsome day. But much eye that thou have a new balsa ready against then, for\nthis is too old. And here is wherewith to buy Jeraldo\u2019s, without waiting\nto find the chain of Huascar. _Adios_, then, and\u2014_un abrazo!_\u201d\n\nHe reached up to my shoulders and laid his head against me with a little\ntug, and suddenly broke away and started for the balsa. Midway he\nstopped and turned and came splashing back.\n\n\u201cHear, _viracocha_,\u201d he said, with a little uncertainty in his voice.\n\u201cI could not sell the _auqui_, for it is not honest to take money for\nsacred things. But one who goes so far as your Excellency, and in many\ndangers, ought indeed to have one to keep harm from him. And for that\nyou\u2014that\u2014that we were brothered in danger and you did not despise me, now\nI give you.\u201d And flinging the precious figure at my feet, before I could\ngather my wits he was spattering out to the balsa. Nor would he return.\nTen minutes later, when I looked back from the hut where my things were\nstored, the drab patch of his sail had quite faded in the _totoral_.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n[1] Ah-_say_-kee-ah. Irrigating ditch.\n\n[2] _May_-sah. Table land.\n\n[3] _Lay_-lo.\n\n[4] _Meel_-pah. Field.\n\n[5] _L\u2019yah_-no. Plain.\n\n[6] The quaint little Spanish-American donkey. Pronounced _Boo_-ro.\n\n[7] Ta-_hee_-ke.\n\n[8] Ho-_vay_-ro. Blaze-face.\n\n[9] Tor-_teel_-yaz. Unleavened cakes of corn meal.\n\n[10] Prairie dogs.\n\n[11] For that is what _cholo_ means.\n\n[12] Papa.\n\n[13] Pronounced ll-_yah_-mah.\n\n[14] The Peruvian silver dollar. Pronounced _soul_.\n\n[15] \u201cAll right. Come.\u201d\n\n[16] The Aymar\u00e1 and Quichua Indian word for father.\n\n[17] Ah-re-_kee_-pa.\n\n[18] Seel-_yar_. A very light volcanic stone quarried on the side of the\nvolcano. All Arequipa is built of it.\n\n[19] Por-_tal_. The Spanish veranda.\n\n[20] _Pah_-tee-o; courtyard.\n\n[21] Indian half-breeds.\n\n[22] Ho-_say_-fa.\n\n[23] Pronounced Abby-_kew_.\n\n[24] Tra-_pee_-che.\n\n[25] Administrah-_dore_; overseer.\n\n[26] Pronounced, An-_drayce_; and Arriero (arry-_ay_-ro), man in charge\nof a pack train.\n\n[27] Ll-_yah_-ma. Double l in Spanish always has the sound that it has in\nour word \u201cmillion.\u201d\n\n[28] Vee-_coon_-ya. The Spanish letter \u00f1 has always the sound of ny in\n\u201clanyard.\u201d\n\n[29] Chacra\u2014a farm.\n\n[30] The Bolivian dollar.\n\n[31] _Choon_-cho: literally, a \u201ccannibal\u201d\u2014the word used specifically of\nthe man-eating tribes of the upper Amazon, and in general as a term of\nreproach.\n\n[32] _Flo_-ho.\n\n[33] Antelopes.\n\n[34] These artificial storms are a favorite illusion of the Indian\nwizards of the Southwest.\n\n[35] Aspen.\n\n[36] This \u201cdrawing\u201d of objects from the patient is another stock trick of\nPueblo \u201cmedicine-making.\u201d\n\n[37] Peen-_yone_.\n\n[38] The proper pronunciation is Cal-_yah_-o.\n\n[39] Ro-_deel_.\n\n[40] This is properly pronounced not B\u00f3llivar, but Bo-_lee_-var.\n\n[41] Quicksilver.\n\n[42] It is estimated that five hundred million dollars\u2019 worth of silver\nand mercury have gone down it.","title":"The Enchanted Burro: And Other Stories as I Have Known Them from Maine to Chile and California","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":65378}