CHAPTER XVI
THE LAND OF AFTERNOON
"Dreaming once more love's old sad dream divine."
Los Banos de Santa Eulalia Del Norte, otherwise known as Mud Springs, isa Mexican hamlet with one street of about the same length. Los Banos andCo. lies in a loop of the Rio Grande, half of a long day from El Paso,in mere miles; otherwise a contemporary of Damascus and Arpad.
Thither, mindful of the hot springs which supply the preliminaries ofthe name, Mr. Bransford made his way: mindful too, of sturdy old DonFrancisco, a friend twice bound by ancient service given and returned.
He climbed the slow long ridges to the high _mesa_: for the river benthere in a long ox-bow, where a bold promontory shouldered far out to barthe way: weary miles were to be saved by crossing the neck of thisox-bow, and the tough horse tired and lagged.
The slow sun rose as he reached the Rim. It showed the wide expanse ofdesert behind him, flooded with trembling light; eastward, beyond theriver, the buttressed and fantastic peaks of Fray Cristobal; theirjutting shadows streaming into the gulf beyond, athwart the silveryribbon of gleaming water, twining in mazy loops across the valley floor:it showed the black Rim at his feet, a frowning level wall of lavacliff, where the plain broke abruptly into the chasm beneath; the irondesolation of the steep sides, boulder-strewn, savage and forbidding:
"_A land of old up-heaven from the abyss._"
Long since, there had been a flourishing Mexican town in the valley. Awagonroad had painfully climbed a long ridge to the Rim, twisting,doubling, turning, clinging hazardously to the hillside, its outer edgea wall built up with stone, till it came to the shoulder under thetremendous barrier. From there it turned northward, paralleling the Rimin mile-long curve above a deep gorge; turning, in a last desperateclimb, to a solitary gateway in the black wall, torn out by flood-watersthrough slow centuries. Smallpox had smitten the people; the treacherousriver had devastated the fertile valley, and, subsiding, left the richfields a waste of sand. The town was long deserted; the disused road wasgullied and torn by flood, the soil washed away, leaving a heaped andcrumbled track of tangled stone. But it was the only practicable way asfar as the sand-hills, and Jeff led his horse down the ruined path,with many a turning back and scrambling detour.
The shadows of the eastern hills drew back before him as he reached thesand-dunes. When he rode through the silent streets of what had beenAlamocita, the sun peered over Fray Cristobal, gilding the crumblingwalls, where love and laughter had made music, where youth and hope andhappiness had been.... Silent now and deserted, given over to lizard andbat and owl, the smiling gardens choked with sand and grass, springingwith _mesquite_ and _tornillo_; a few fruit trees, gnarled and tangled,drooping for days departed, when young mothers sang low lullaby beneaththeir branches.... Passed away and forgotten--hopes and fears, tears andsmiles, birth and death, joy and sorrow, hatred and sin and shame,falsehood and truth and courage and love. The sun shone cheerfully onthese gray ruins--as it has shone on a thousand such, and will shine.
Jeff turned down the river, past the broken _acequias_, to where amassive spur of basaltic rock had turned the fury of the floods andspared a few fields. In this sheltered cove dwelt Don Francisco Escobarin true pastoral and patriarchal manner; his stalwart sons anddaughters, with their sons and daughters in turn, in clustering _adobes_around him: for neighbors, the allied family of Gonzales y Ortega.
A cheerful settlement, this of Los Banos, nestling at the foot of thefriendly rampart, sheltered alike from flood and wind. South and westthe close black Rim walled the horizon, the fantasy of Fray Cristobalclosed in the narrow east: but northward, beyond the low sand-hills andthe blue heat-haze, the high peaks of Organ, Guadalupe and Rainbow swamacross the sleepy air, far and soft and dim.
In their fields the _gente_ of Gonzales y Ortega and of Escobar raisedample crops of alfalfa, wheat, corn, _frijoles_ and _chili_, withorchard, vineyard and garden. Their cows, sheep and goats grazed thefoothills between river and Rim, watched by the young men or boys,penned nightly in the great corrals in the old Spanish fashion; as ifthe Moor still swooped and forayed. Their horses roamed the hills atwill, only a few being kept in the alfalfa pasture. They ground theirown grain, tanned their cow-hides at home. Mattress and pillow were woolof their raising, their blankets and cloth their own weave. There weregranaries, a wine-press, a forge, a cumbrous stone mill, a great _adobe_oven like a monstrous bee-hive.
Once a year their oxen drew the great high-sided wagons up the sandyroad to El Paso, and returned with the year's marketing--salt, axes,iron and steel, powder and lead, bolts of white domestic or _manta_ forsheets and shirtings, matches, tea, coffee, tobacco and sugar. Perhaps,if the saints had been kind, there were a few ribbons, trinkets orbrightly colored prints of Joseph and Virgin and Child, St. John theBeloved, The Annunciation, The Children and Christ; perhaps an Americanrifle or a plow. But, for the most part, they held not with innovations;plowed, sowed and reaped as their fathers did, threshing with oxen orgoats.
The women sewed by hand, cooked on fireplaces; or, better still, in theopen air under the trees, with few and simple utensils. The family atefrom whitest and cleanest of sheepskins spread on the floor. But, thewalls were snowy with whitewash, the earthen floors smooth and clean,the coarse linen fresh and white. The scant furniture of the rooms--apine bed, a chair or two, a mirror, a brass candlestick (with home-madecandles), a cheap print on the wall, a great chest for clothes, blanketsand simple treasures, the bright fire in the cozy fireplace--allcombined to give an indescribable air of cheerfulness, of homely comfortand of rest. This quiet corner, where people still lived as simply aswhen Abraham went up from Ur of the Chaldees, in the spring-time of theworld, held, for seeing eyes, an incommunicable charm.
When Jeff came at last to Casa Escobar, the cattle were already on thehills, the pigs and chickens far afield. Don Francisco, white-haired,erect, welcomed him eagerly, indeed, but with stately courtesy.
"Is it thou indeed, my son? Now, my old eyes are gladdened this day.Enter, then, _amigo mio_, thrice-welcome--the house is thine in verytruth. Nay, the young men shall care for thy horse."
He raised his voice. Three tall sons, Abran, Zenobio, Donociano, came atthe summons, gave Bransford grave greeting, and stood to await theirfather's commands. Fathers of families themselves, they presumed not tosit unbidden, to join in the conversation, or to loiter.
Breakfast was served presently, in high state, on the table reserved forhonored guests. Savory venison, chili, fish, eggs, _tortillas_, _etole_,_enchiladas_, cream and steaming coffee--such was the fare. DonFrancisco sat gravely by to bear him company, while a silently hoveringdamsel anticipated every need.
Thence, when his host could urge no more upon him, to the deepshading cottonwoods. Wine was brought and the "makings" of XXXXcigarettes--corn-husks, handcut; a great jar of tobacco; and a brazierof mesquite embers. At a little distance women washed, wove or sewed;the young men made buckskin, fashioned quirts, whips, ropes,bridle-reins, tie-straps, hobbles, pack-sacks and _chaparejos_ ofraw-hide; made cinches of horse-hair; wrought ox-yokes, plow-beams andother things needful for their simple husbandry.
Meanwhile, Don Francisco entertained his guest with grave and leisurelyrecital of the year's annals. Mateo, son of Sebastian, had slain a greatbear in the Pass of All the Winds; Alicia, daughter of their eldest, waswed with young Roman de la O, of Canada Nogales, to the much healing offeud and ancient hatred; Diego, son of Eusebio, was proving a bold andfearless rider of wild horses, with reason, as behooved his father'sson; he had carried away the _gallo_ at the _Fiesta de San Juan_, withthe fleet dun colt "creased" from the wild bunch at Quemado; the herdshad grown, the crops prospered, all sorrow passed them by, through theintercession of the blessed saints.
The year's trophies were brought. He fingered with simple pride thegreat pelt of the silver-tip. Antlers there were and lion-skins,gleaming prisms of quartz, flint arrowheads and agates brought in by theshepherds, the costly Navajo blanket won
by the fleet-limbed dun atCanada races.
Hither came presently another visitor--Florentino, breaker of wildhorses, despite his fifty years; wizened and withered and small, merryand cheerful, singer of forgotten folk-songs; chanting, even as he came,the song of Macario Romero--Macario, riding joyous and light-hearted,spite of warning, omen and sign, love-lured to doom and death.
"'Concedame una licencia Voy a ir a ver a me Chata.'
"Dice Macario Romero, Parando en los estribos: 'Madre, pues, esto voy a ver, Si todos son mis amigos!'"
And so, listening, weary and outworn, Jeff fell asleep.
* * * * *
Observe now, how Nature insists upon averages. Mr. Jeff Bransford was,as has been seen, an energetic man; but outraged nerves will have theirrevenge. After making proper amends to his damaged eye, Jeff's remnantof energy kept up long enough to dispatch young Tomas Escobar y Mendozato El Paso with a message to Hibler: which message enjoined Hibler atonce to carry tidings to John Wesley Pringle, somewhere in Chihuahua,asking him kindly to set right what Arcadian times were out of joint, ashe, Jeff, felt the climate of Old Mexico more favorable for his throattrouble than that of New Mexico; with a postscript asking Hibler formoney by bearer. And young Tomas was instructed to buy, at Juarez, acomplete outfit of clothing for Jeff, including a gun.
This done, the reaction set in--aided, perhaps, by the enervatinglassitude of the hot baths and the sleepy atmosphere of that forgottenvillage. Jeff spent the better part of a week asleep, or half awake atbest. He had pleasant dreams, too. One--perhaps the best dream ofall--was that on their wedding trip they should follow again the deviousline of his flight from Arcadia. That would need a prairie schooner--no,a prairie steamboat--a prairie yacht! He would tell her all the hideousdetails--show her the mine, the camp of the besiegers, the ambuscade onthe road. And if he could have Ellinor meet Griffith and Gibson for acrowning touch!
After the strenuous violence of hand-strokes, here was a drowsy andpeaceful time. The wine of that land was good, the shade pleasant, theAlician philosophy more delightful than of yore; he had all theaccessories, but one, of an earthly paradise.
Man is ungrateful. Jeff was a man; neglectful of present bounties, hisdreaming thoughts were all of the absent accessory and of a time whenthat absence should be no more, nor paradise be empty.
Life, like the Gryphon's classical master, had taught him Laughter andGrief. He turned now the forgotten pages of the book of his years.Enough black pages were there; as you will know well, having yourselfsearched old records before now, with tears. He cast up that longaccount--the wasted lendings, the outlawed debts, the dishonoredpromises, the talents of his stewardship, unprofitable and brought tonaught; set down--how gladly!--the items on the credit side. So men haveset the good upon one side and the evil on the other since Crusoe'sday, and before; against the time when the Great Accountant, Whosevalues are not ours, shall strike a final balance.
Take that book at your elbow--yes, either one; it doesn't matter. Nowturn to where the hero first discovers his frightful condition--longafter it has become neighborhood property.... He bent his head inhumility. He was not worthy of her!... Something like that? Those maynot be the precise words; but he groaned. He always groans. By-the-way,how this man-saying must amuse womankind! Yes, and they actually say ittoo--real, live, flesh-and-blood men. Who was it said life was a poorimitation of literature? Happily, either these people are insincere orthey reconsider the matter--else what should we do for families?
It is to be said that Jeff Bransford lacked this becoming delicacy. Ifhe groaned he swore also; if he decided that Miss Ellinor Hoffmandeserved a better man than he was, he also highly resolved that sheshould not have him.
"For, after all, you know," said Jeff to Alice:
"I'm sure he's nothing extra--a quiet man and plain, And modest--though there isn't much of which he could be vain. And had I mind to chant his praise, this were the kindest line-- Somehow, she loves him dearly--this little love of mine!"
Bransford of Rainbow Range Page 17
