The lariat tightened, I felt my body moving, and the next moment experienced a wild delight, a feeling I cannot describe, as I found myself dragged out of the sand!
I sprang to my feet with a shout of joy. I rushed up to my steed, and throwing my arms around his neck, kissed him. He answered my embrace with a low whimper, that told me I was understood.
I looked for my rifle. Fortunately, it had not sunk deeply, and I soon found it. My boots were behind me, but I stayed not to look for them, being smitten with a wholesome dread of the place where I had left them.
It was sundown before I reached camp, where I was met by the inquiries of my wondering companions. “Did you come across the ‘goats’?” “Where’s your boots?” “Whether have you been hunting or fishing?”
I answered all these questions by relating my adventures; and that night I was again the hero of the camp-fire.
Chapter Six.
Santa Fé
After a week’s climbing through the Rocky Mountains, we descended into the Valley of the Del Norte, and arrived at the capital of New Mexico, the far-famed Santa Fé. Next day the caravan itself came in, for we had lost time on the southern route; and the waggons, travelling by the Raton Pass, had made a good journey of it.
We had no difficulty about their entrance into the country, with the proviso that we paid five hundred dollars of “Alcavala” tax upon each waggon. This was a greater extortion than usual; but the traders were compelled to accept the impost.
Santa Fé is the entrepôt of the province, and the chief seat of its trade. On reaching it we halted, camping without the walls.
Saint Vrain, several other propriétaires, and myself, took up our quarters at the Fonda, where we endeavoured, by means of the sparkling vintage of El Paso, to make ourselves oblivious of the hardships we had endured in the passage of the plains.
The night of our arrival was given to feasting and making merry.
Next morning I was awakened by the voice of my man Gode, who appeared to be in high spirits, singing a snatch of a Canadian boat-song.
“Ah, monsieur!” cried he, seeing me awake, “to-night – aujourd’hui – une grande fonction – one bal – vat le Mexicain he call fandango. Très bien, monsieur. You vill sure have grand plaisir to see un fandango Mexicain?”
“Not I, Gode. My countrymen are not so fond of dancing as yours.”
“C’est vrai, monsieur; but von fandango is très curieux. You sall see ver many sort of de pas. Bolero, et valse, wis de Coona, and ver many more pas, all mix up in von puchero. Allons! monsieur, you vill see ver many pretty girl, avec les yeux très noir, and ver short – ah! ver short – vat you call em in Americaine?”
“I do not know what you allude to.”
“Cela! Zis, monsieur,” holding out the skirt of his hunting-shirt; “par Dieu! now I have him – petticoes; ver short petticoes. Ah! you sall see vat you sall see en un fandango Mexicaine.
“‘Las niñas de Durango
Commigo bailandas,
Al cielo saltandas,
En el fandango – en el fan-dang – o.’
“Ah! here comes Monsieur Saint Vrain. Écoutez! He never go to fandango. Sacré! how monsieur dance! like un maître de ballet. Mais he be de sangre – blood Français. Écoutez!
“‘Al cielo saltandas,
En el fandango – en el fan-dang – .’”
“Ha! Gode!”
“Monsieur?”
“Trot over to the cantina, and beg, borrow, buy, or steal, a bottle of the best Paso.”
“Sall I try steal ’im, Monsieur Saint Vrain?” inquired Gode, with a knowing grin.
“No, you old Canadian thief! Pay for it. There’s the money. Best Paso, do you hear? – cool and sparkling. Now, voya! Bon jour, my bold rider of buffalo bulls I still abed, I see.”
“My head aches as if it would split.”
“Ha, ha, ha! so does mine; but Gode’s gone for medicine. Hair of the dog good for the bite. Come, jump up!”
“Wait till I get a dose of your medicine.”
“True; you will feel better then. I say, city life don’t agree with us, eh?”
“You call this a city, do you?”
“Ay, so it is styled in these parts: ‘la ciudad de Santa Fé;’ the famous city of Santa Fé; the capital of Nuevo Mexico; the metropolis of all prairiedom; the paradise of traders, trappers, and thieves!”
“And this is the progress of three hundred years! Why, these people have hardly passed the first stages of civilisation.”
“Rather say they are passing the last stages of it. Here, on this fair oasis, you will find painting, poetry, dancing, theatres, and music, fêtes and fireworks, with all the little amorous arts that characterise a nation’s decline. You will meet with numerous Don Quixotes, soi-disant knights-errant, Romeos without the heart, and ruffians without the courage. You will meet with many things before you encounter either virtue or honesty. Hola! muchacho!”
“Que es, señor?”
“Hay cafe?”
“Si, señor.”
“Bring us a couple of tazas, then – dos tazas, do you hear? and quick – aprisa! aprisa!”
“Si, señor.”
“Ah! here comes le voyageur Canadien. So, old Nor’-west! you’ve brought the wine?”
“Vin délicieux, Monsieur Saint Vrain! equal to ze vintage Français.”
“He is right, Haller! Tsap – tsap! delicious you may say, good Gode. Tsap – tsap! Come, drink! it’ll make you feel as strong as a buffalo. See! it seethes like a soda spring! like ‘Fontaine-qui-bouille’; eh, Gode?”
“Oui, monsieur; ver like Fontaine-qui-bouille. Oui.”
“Drink, man, drink! Don’t fear it: it’s the pure juice. Smell the flavour; taste the bouquet. What wine the Yankees will one day squeeze out of these New Mexican grapes!”
“Why? Do you think the Yankees have an eye to this quarter?”
“Think! I know it; and why not? What use are these manikins in creation? Only to cumber the earth. Well, mozo, you have brought the coffee?”
“Ya, esta, señor.”
“Here! try some of this; it will help to set you on your feet. They can make coffee, and no mistake. It takes a Spaniard to do that.”
“What is this fandango Gode has been telling me about?”
“Ah! true. We are to have a famous one to-night. You’ll go, of course?”
“Out of
