who knelt before him attempting to pluck the morsels from the water before they sank into the mud.
* * *
Above the Ojo del Perrillo (Little Dog Spring), where the members of the caravan had found the Jumanos, the caravan continued its northward journey across a harsh, partially denuded landscape of awesome silence and immeasurable distances. It stretched before them, a desert plain with thickets of withered cactus and patches of wild pumpkin, the foliage of which consisted of long, sharp, arrow-shaped leaves, matted clumps of scrubby brush frosted over with silver and greasewood.
* * *
The distances from one paraje, or official campsite, to another were well known, for at some earlier time a soldier had been assigned the unenviable task of counting the steps or paces in each day’s march. The camping sites offered in weary progression included La Cruz de Aleman, Las Penuelas, La Laguna del Muerto, El Alto del Cerrillo, La Cruz de Anaya, El Alto de Las Tusas, and El Paraje de Fra Cristobal. The last site metioned, located six leagues below the inhabited district, should have offered some promise of relief, but it did not. For above it—above the southern pueblos of Senecu, San Pasqual, Teypana, and Alamillo—the Rosas train still had to negotiate “las vueltas.” These were “the turns” where the river doubled back upon itself, making travel extremely difficult.
* * *
Above the turns, the caravan began at last to see daylight. The river, presenting sharply cut embankments, rolling hills, and a widening valley, now offered tiny, greening fields across its flood-plain. And, areas of Spanish habitation were also found. The train stopped briefly at the wine and brandy-producing vineyards of the Gomez estancia at San Nicolas de las Barrancas. Here the governor refilled the leather flask that was always with him. The train stopped for a lengthier period at the Pueblo of Puaray to repair their equipment, badly damaged by the road, and by deterioration resulting from the arduous journey. Then it was on to Sandia, San Felipe, and finally, the Pueblo of Santo Domingo, the ecclesiastical capital of New Mexico.
5
Custos Juan de Salas and Santo Domingo
We’ll go ahead of the train and leave our livestock here,” Gomez said in explanation of his plan to approach the pueblo with only the small contingent of individuals with whom he rode. “We’re forbidden to have our livestock within three leagues of the village.”
“Forbidden?” the governor asked. “Forbidden by whom, I’d like to know? I’ll run my stock wherever I damn well please!”
“You could do that, Governor,” Gomez responded as they rode along a ridge in the vicinity of the pueblo, “but it’s one of the few rules we have that actually makes sense. We could take our animals into the village as you’ve stated, but then my men and I would have to spend our time here keeping our stock out of the villagers’ fields. We’ll take the wagons in, the ones carrying supplies for the missions, but it’s best to leave the rest of the train here where the livestock can find other forage,” he concluded as he, the governor, and Fray Manso broke away from the train and headed toward the village.
As the three rode toward the pueblo, set beyond clean gravel hills, its rich irrigated lands lying below in the valley of the Great River, Francisco Gomez lagged behind with the governor who was surveying the adobe village, viewing its corrals, its extensive orchards, and its produce gardens greening behind adobe walls.
“The pueblo might look like it’s always been here,” Gomez remarked of the village whose brown hulk loomed on the edge of the river, “but, like many of the pueblos on the river and elsewhere, it’s been moved several times. This, I believe, is at least their third village,” he said. “Previous villages built on the banks of the Galisteo and the Great River were destroyed by flood. And there’s something else here which you may wish to make note of,” Gomez added, pointing to structures which appeared physically and psychologically removed from the life of the village. “Notice the location of the churches,” he said. “They’re at least three hundred varas from the edge of the pueblo. They were placed there for strategic purposes,” Gomez added. “It’s a simple formula which you’ll see repeated again and again at each of the pueblos you’ll visit. The distance of the church from the center of the pueblo is in direct relationship to the resistance by Indians there to Spanish rule. As you can see, the Indians here are very resistant, and the structures themselves, their placement and fortifications, attest to the presence of enemies against Spanish authority both within and without the village.”
Rosas nodded in understanding as he examined the three structures that rose before them. Adjoining the south wall of the principal church, a large structure with a central bell-tower and a balcony over its main entrance, was a modest multi-room adobe convento. Its rooms were arranged around an interior courtyard. A covered walkway encircling the interior of the enclosure secluded a claustro, or square court. On the west, the convento itself was of two stories.
Parallel to the main church and abutting it on the north was a smaller church with a window above a large doorway. Fronting the three parallel structures was an atrio, a walled and fortified enclosure of large size, which appeared to double as an exterior chapel and cemetery. Taking a large swig from his leather wine skin, Rosas and Gomez, dismounted and walked through the atrio, where they were met by Custos Juan de Salas, principal of the Santo Domingo church and convento and dean of New Mexico’s ministry. An individual with an attractive face topped by a high forehead, he stood there with Fray Manso who had ridden ahead of the two men. Formal greetings followed, after which the four walked through the convento’s archive room which was finished with wood—and, Rosas thought, set with remarkably fine furnishings—to a small table that had been placed in the patio by an Indian porter. Additional Indians, cooks, gardeners, and waiters, could be seen in the patio and through the open doorways of interior rooms as the Salas party, passing through a dimly lit labyrinth of passageways, made its circuitous way to the patio. Upon entering the interior court, they were surrounded by birds of every description, flitting over, underneath, and through the covered walkway, landing to eat seed that had been spread for them and for a beautiful wing-clipped parrot hopping happily about the flagstone court. A large garden, grape arbor, two peach trees, and a stone-lined well graced the southern end of the compound. Fray Salas bid the group sit on the chairs the Indian porter had also carried there.
When they were seated, Rosas provided the opening salvo saying, “Two churches and an atrio! You must have an enormous number of worshipers, Father.”
“Yes, we do,” Salas responded with pride, “we’ve been very successful in our conversions here and at our visita of Cochiti, and, also, among the Jumanos of the plains where our work was assisted by the Mother of Agreda. We use the atrio as an accessory chapel from which to administer the sacraments on Sundays and on other occasions when the faithful cannot be accommodated within the church.”
“Facing the mihrab, I assume,” Rosas remarked disrespectfully smiling first at Fray Manso and then at Custos Salas.
“Not Mecca,” Salas responded, answering the taunt, “but God. Outdoor worship violates the idea of the mystical body of the Church, but it’s what’s required here by our circumstances.” He smiled first at Fray Manso, and then at Francisco Gomez and the governor. “We’ve had to make many accommodations here,” he added. “Undoubtedly, he said, speaking directly to the governor, “your Lordship will find that he must do the same.”1
“I’ll do whatever’s required to place civil government and secular authority on a secure footing, even if I have to find a demented nun to assist me in my pursuits,” Rosas said, smiling again but getting no response to his irreverent comments.
* * *
Bread and ripe
