A.D. 1847.

Mr. Ruxton’s sweeping condemnation of the Mexicans is, unfortunately, confirmed by most reputable authorities, or we might hesitate to reproduce it here. “From south to north,” he says, “I traversed the whole of the Republic of Mexico, a distance of nearly ten thousand miles, and was thrown amongst the people of every rank, class, and station; and I regret to have to say that I cannot remember to have observed one single commendable trait in the character of the Mexican; always excepting from this sweeping clause the women of the country, who, for kindness of heart and many sterling qualities, are an ornament to their sex, and to any nation.” Whatever may be affirmed to the discredit of the people, it cannot be doubted that they inhabit a country which was at one time the seat of a remarkable civilization, which presents to the traveller a succession of remarkable and frequently romantic scenery, and a wonderful variety and luxuriance of vegetation.

From the southern frontier of the United States it stretches down to the isthmus which connects the northern and southern mainlands of the great American continent. On the west its shores are washed by the waters of the Pacific; on the east, by those of the Mexican Gulf and Caribbean Sea. Roughly speaking, its area is about 850,000 square miles; its population may number ten souls to a square mile. Its form of government is pseudo-republican; and for administrative purposes it is divided into twenty-five provinces. Its capital, Mexico, has 200,000 inhabitants: its only other important towns are Puebla, 75,000 inhabitants; Guadalajara, 65,000; Guanajuata, 50,000; and San Luis and Merida, about 45,000 each.

A glance at the map will show you that Mexico consists in the main of an elevated table-land, which in the south rises up into the Cordilleras of Central America, and on the east and west descends, by more or less gradual terraces, to the sea-coast. Owing to its geographical position, this table-land enjoys the profuseness and beauty of a tropical vegetation; on the other hand, its climate is so tempered by its various elevations, which lie between 5000 and 9000 feet, that it has been found possible to naturalize the European fauna and flora. A remarkable geological feature is the volcanic belt or chain that runs from ocean to ocean between the parallels of 18° 15' and 19° 30' north latitude, and is marked by several active as well as extinct volcanoes. Among them may be named Orizaba, Cittalapetl (“The Mountain of the Star”), Popocatapetl (“The Smoking Mountain”), 17,884 feet, Istaccihuatl (“The White Woman”), and Toluca. Most of the mountain chains that break up the table-land are of comparatively low altitude; the principal is the Sierra Madre, or Tepe Serene. The two chief streams are the Rio Santiago and the Rio Grande del Norte.

In company with a young Spaniard who was travelling as far as Durango, Mr. Ruxton quitted Mexico one fine day in September, 1847, bent on crossing the country to the United States. He passed at first through a mountainous district, covered with dwarf oak and ilex; afterwards he entered upon a tract of open undulating downs, dotted with thickets. Villages were few and far between, and when found, not very attractive, consisting only of a dozen huts built of adobes, or sun-dried bricks. Crossing a rocky sierra, he came to the town of San Juan del Rio; its one-storied houses of stone, whitewashed, with barred windows, looking out upon a fair expanse of vineyard and garden. Forty miles beyond lay Queretaro; a large and well-built town of 40,000 inhabitants, surrounded by gardens and orchards. Its chief trade is the manufacture of cigars. These, as made at Queretaro, are of a peculiar shape, about three inches long, square at both ends, and exceedingly pungent in flavour. Excellent pulque is another of its products. Pulque, the national liquor of Mexico, is made from the saccharine juice of the American aloe, which attains maturity at the age of eight or fourteen years, and then flowers. Only while it is flowering may the juice be collected. The central stem which encloses the coming flower is cut off near the bottom, and a basin or hollow exposed, over which the surrounding leaves are closely gathered and fastened. The juice distils into the reservoir thus provided, and is removed three or four times during the twenty-four hours, by means of a syphon made of a species of gourd called acojote. One end is placed in the liquor, the other in the mouth of the operator, who by suction draws up the sweet fluid into the pipe, and forces it out into a bowl. Afterwards it receives the addition of a little old pulque, and is allowed to ferment for two or three days in earthen jars. When fresh, pulque, according to Mr. Ruxton, is brisk and sparkling, and the most cooling, refreshing, and delectable drink ever invented for mortals when athirst. The Mexicans call it “vino divino;” but, admirable as may be its qualities, it needs to be very temperately used.

Between Queretaro and Celaya the traveller gradually descends from the table-lands, and the air comes upon him with a warm tropical breath. Nopalos, or prickly-pears, line the road; the Indians collect the fruit—which is savoury and invigorating—with a forked stick. At Silao striking evidence of the geniality of the climate is supplied by the variety of fruit exposed for sale: oranges, lemons, grapes, chirimoyas, batatas, platanos, plantains, cumotes, grenadillas, mamayos, tunas, pears, and apples—a list which would have delighted Keats’s Porphyro when he was preparing a refection for his lady-love Madeline. But if fruit be abundant, so are beggars and thieves; and Silao is not a comfortable place to live in! Mexico, according to its climatic conditions, is divided into three great divisions—the Tierras Frias, or Cold lands; the Tierras Templadas, or Temperate lands; and the Tierras Calientes, or Hot lands. From Celaya our travellers stooped down rapidly into the Tierra Caliente, and the increased temperature was every day more perceptibly felt. Jalisco, the most important town on their route, is situated on the western declivity of Anahuac, a Cordillera which unites the Andes of South and Central America with the great North American chain of the Rocky Mountains. Mr. Ruxton describes the table-land on the western ridge of the Cordillera as blessed with a fertile soil and a temperate climate. It is studded with the populous towns of Silao, Leon, Lagos, and Aguas Calientes. The central portion, of a lower elevation and consequently higher temperature, produces cotton, cochineal, vanilla, as well as every variety of cereal produce. While the littoral, or coast region, teems with fertility, and lies in the shadow of immense forests, unfortunately it is cursed by the ever-prevalent vomito, or yellow fever, and its climate is scarcely less fatal to its inhabitants than to strangers.

At La Villa de Leon, a town celebrated for robbers and murderers, Mr. Ruxton met with an adventure. About nine o’clock in the evening he was returning from the plaza, which with its great lighted fires, the stalls of the market-people, the strange garb of the peasantry, and the snow-white sarapos, or cloaks, of the idlers of the town, presented a stirring aspect, when, striking into a dark and narrow street, a group of vagabonds, at the door of a pulque shop, detected that he was a stranger, and, mistaking his nationality, yelled at him: “Let’s kill him, the Texan!” Having no weapon but a bowie-knife, and not desiring an encounter with such overwhelming numbers, he turned off into another street; but the rascals followed him, renewing their wild cries. Happily, a dark doorway invited him to seek its shelter, and while crouching in its obscurity, he could see them rush by, knives in hand. When he thought they had all passed, he stepped forth, to find himself confronted by three wretches who brought up the rear, and who, brandishing their knives and rushing headlong at him, cried, “Here he is, here he is; kill him!” As the foremost rushed at him with uplifted blade, he swiftly stepped aside, and at the same moment thrust at him with his bowie. The robber fell on his knees with a cry of “Me ha matado!” (“He has killed me!”), and fell on his face. One of his companions hastened to his assistance; the other dashed upon Mr. Ruxton, but, confused by his calm attitude of preparation, fell back a few paces, and finally slunk away. Mr. Ruxton returned at once to his quarters, ordered out the horses, and in a few minutes was on his road.

By way of Aguas Calientes, a very pretty town, and Zacatecas, a populous mining town, he proceeded towards the Hacienda (or farm) of San Nicolas, with the view of traversing that singular volcanic region, the Mal Pais. Down to a comparatively recent period, it would seem to have been the theatre of plutonic phenomena of an extraordinary character. The convexity of the district enables the traveller to judge very readily of the extent of the convulsion, which has spread to a distance of twelve or fourteen miles from the central crater. The said crater measures about fifteen hundred feet in circumference, and its sides are covered with dwarf oaks, mezquito, and cocoa trees, which find a rich nourishment in the chinks and crevices of the lava. At the bottom stagnate the green and slimy waters of a small lake, which is fringed with rank shrubs and cacti, growing among huge blocks of lava and scoriÆ. Not a breath of air disturbs its inky surface, save when a huge water-snake undulates across it, or a duck and her progeny swim out from their covert among the bushes.

“I led my horse,” says Mr. Ruxton, “down to the edge of the water, but he refused to drink the slimy liquid, in which frogs, efts, and reptiles of every kind were darting and diving. Many new and curious water-plants floated near the margin, and one, lotus-leaved, with small delicate tendrils, formed a kind of network on the water, with a superb crimson flower, which exhibited a beautiful contrast with the inky blackness of the pool. His Mexicans, as they passed this spot, crossed themselves reverently, and muttered an Ave Maria; for in the lonely regions of the Mal Pais, the superstitious Indian believes that demons and gnomes and spirits of evil persons have their dwelling-places, whence they not unfrequently pounce upon the solitary traveller, to carry him into the cavernous bowels of the earth. The arched roof of the supposed prison-house resounding to the tread of their horses as they pass the dreaded spot, they feel a sudden dread, and, with rapidly muttered prayers, they handle their amulets and charms to drive away the treacherous bogies who invisibly beset the path.”

From the Mal Pais Mr. Ruxton travelled onward to the rancho of La Punta, a famous cattle-breeding station.

In the preceding autumn it had been harried by a party of Comanche Indians, who, one day, without warning, rode across the sierra and swooped down upon it, killing, as they passed, the peones, or labourers, whom they found at work in the road. On their appearance the men made no attempt to defend the rancho, but fled at full speed, abandoning the women and children to their terrible fate. Some were carried away captives; some pierced with arrows and lances, and left for dead; others made the victims of unspeakable outrages. The ranchero’s wife, with her two adult daughters and several younger children, fled from the rancho at the first alarm, to conceal themselves under a wooden bridge, which crossed a neighbouring stream. For several hours they escaped detection; but at last some Indians drew near their hiding-place, and a young chief took his station on the bridge to issue his commands. With keen eyes he examined the spot, and discovered the terror-stricken fugitives; but he pretended not to have seen them, playing with them as a cat might with a mouse. He hoped, he was heard to say, that he should find out where the women were concealed, for he wanted a Mexican wife and a handful of scalps. Then he leaped from the bridge, and thrust his lance under it with a yell of exultation; the point pierced the woman’s arm, and she shrieked aloud. She and her children were forthwith drawn from their retreat.

“Alas, alas, what a moment was that!” said the poor woman, as she told her painful story. The savages brandished their tomahawks around her children, and she thought that the last farewell had been taken. They behaved, however, with unusual clemency; the captives were released, and allowed to return to their home—to find it a wreck, and the ground strewn with the dead bodies of their kinsmen and friends.

“Ay de mi!” (“Woe is me!”)

While at La Punta, our traveller was witness of the Mexican sport of the “ColÉa de toros” (or “bull-tailing”), for the enjoyment of which two or three hundred rancheros had assembled from the neighbouring plantations.

A hundred bulls were shut up in a large corral, or enclosure, at one end of which had been erected a building for the convenience of the lady spectators. The horsemen, brave in their picturesque Mexican costume, were grouped around the corral, examining the animals as they were driven to and fro in order to increase their excitement, while the ranchero himself, and his sons, brandishing long lances, were busily engaged in forcing the wilder and more active bulls into a second enclosure. When this had been effected, the entrance was thrown open, and out dashed, with glaring eyes, tossing head, and lashing tail, a fine bull, to gallop at his topmost speed over the grassy plain before him, followed by the whole crowd of shouting, yelling horsemen, each of whom endeavoured to outstrip the other, and overtake the flying animal. At first they all kept close together, riding very equally, and preserving excellent order, but very soon superior skill or strength or daring began to tell, and in front of the main body shot forth a few of the cavaliers. Heading them all, in swift pursuit of the rolling cloud of dust which indicated the bull’s track, rode the son of the ranchero, a boy about twelve years old; and as he swayed this way and that when the bull doubled, the women made the air ring with their shrill vivas. “Viva, Pepito! viva!” cried his mother; and, dashing his spurs into his horse’s streaming flanks, the brave lad ran the race. But before long the others came up with stealthy strides; soon they were abreast of him. The pace quickened; the horses themselves seemed to share the excitement; the men shouted, the women screamed; each urged on her favourite—“Alza!—Bernardo!—Por mi amor, Juan Maria!—Viva, Pepitito!” A stalwart Mexican, mounted on a fine roan, eventually took the lead, and every moment increased the distance between himself and his competitors. But Pepito’s quick eyes detected a sudden movement of the bull, and saw that, concealed by the dust, he had wheeled off at a sharp angle from his former course. In an instant Pepe did the same, and dashed in front of him, amid a fresh outburst of cheers and vivas. Getting on the bull’s left quarter, he stooped down to seize his tail, and secure it under his right leg, so as to bring him to the ground. But for a manoeuvre which requires great muscular power, Pepe’s strength was not equal to his spirit, and, in attempting it, he was dragged from his saddle, and thrown to the ground, senseless. Several horsemen had by this time come up, and the bold rider of the roan galloping ahead, threw his right leg over the bull’s tail, and turning his horse sharply outwards, upset the brute in the midst of his fiery charge, rolling him over and over in the dust.

Another bull was then let loose, and the wild ride recommenced; nor, until the corral was empty, and every horse and horseman completely spent, did the game cease. It is a rude game, though full of excitement; a rude game, and, perhaps, a cruel one; but we must not be harsh in our judgment, remembering that our English sports and pastimes have not always been exempt from a taint of ferocity.

A less manly and much more cruel equestrian game is called “el Gallo” (“the Cock)”. Poor chanticleer is tied by the leg to a post driven into the ground, or to a tree, his head and neck being well greased. At a given signal the horsemen start all together, and he who first reaches the bird, and seizing it by its neck, releases it from the fastenings, carries off the prize. The well-greased neck generally eludes the eager fingers of him who first clutches it; but whoever gets hold of the prize is immediately pursued by the rest, intent upon depriving him of it. In the mÊlÉe the unfortunate rooster is literally torn to pieces, which the successful horsemen present as gages d’amour to their lady-loves.

At Durango, the capital of Northern Mexico, popularly known as “the City of Scorpions,” the traveller was shown a large mass of malleable iron, which lies isolated in the centre of the plain. It is supposed to be an aerolite, because identical in physical character and composition with certain aerolites which fell in some part of Hungary in 1751. Durango is 650 miles from Mexico, and, according to Humboldt, 6845 feet above the sea. At the time of Mr. Ruxton’s visit, it was expecting an attack from the Comanche Indians, of whose sanguinary ferocity he tells the following “owre true” story:—

Half-way between Durango and Chihuahua, in the Rio Florido valley, lived a family of hardy vaqueros, or cattle-herders, the head of whom, a stalwart man of sixty, rejoiced in the sobriquet of El Coxo (“The Cripple”). He had eight sons, bold, resolute, vigorous fellows, famous for their prowess in horsemanship, their daring and skill at the “colea” or “el Gallo.” Of this goodly company, reminding us of the Nortons in Wordsworth’s “White Doe of Rylstone”—

“None for beauty or for worth
Like those eight sons—who, in a ring
(Ripe men, or blooming in life’s spring),
Each with a lance, erect and tall,
A falchion and a buckler small,
Stood by their sire,”—

the handsomest and most skilful was, perhaps, the third, by name Escamilla, “a proper lad of twenty, five feet ten out of his zapatos, straight as an organo, and lithesome as a reed.” Having been educated at Queretaro, he was more refined than his brothers, and had acquired a taste for dress, which enabled him to set off his comeliness to the best advantage, and made him the cynosure of “the bright eyes” of all the neighbouring rancheras. Next to him came Juan Maria, who was scarcely less skilful, and certainly not less daring than his brother, and by good judges was reputed to be even handsomer, that is, manlier and more robust, though inferior in polish of manner and picturesqueness of appearance. Until Escamilla’s return from Queretaro, he had always been victor at “el Gallo” and the “colea,” and had laid his spoils at the feet of the beauty of the valley, Isabel Mora, a charming black-eyed damsel of sixteen, called from the hacienda where she resided, Isabel de la Cadena. It was understood that she accepted them with pleasure, and rewarded the suitor with her smiles.But the course of true love never does run smooth, and in this instance it was fated to be interrupted by fraternal treachery. Escamilla contrived to win the fickle beauty’s affections from his brother, who, however, instead of resenting the deceit, magnanimously forgave it, and withdrew all pretensions to her hand. Escamilla and Isabel were duly affianced, and a day was fixed for their marriage, which was to take place at the bride’s hacienda; and in honour of the occasion a grand “funcion de toros” was proclaimed, to which all the neighbours (the nearest of whom, by the way, was forty miles distant) were duly invited.

Two days before the appointed wedding-day, El Coxo and his eight sons made their appearance, extorting an admiring murmur from all beholders as, mounted on superb steeds, they rode gaily into the hacienda.

On the following day, leaving Escamilla at home El Coxo and the rest of his sons accompanied the master of the hacienda into the plains, to assist him in the arduous work of driving in the bulls required for the morrow’s sport; while the other rancheros were busy in constructing the large corral intended to secure them.

Evening was drawing near; the sun dropped rapidly behind the rugged crest of the sierra, investing each ridge and precipice with a luminous glory of gold and purple; while the cold grey shadow of the coming night was swiftly creeping over the plain beneath. The cry of the cranes was heard in the silence, as, wedge-shaped, like the Macedonian phalanx of old, they pursued their aerial flight; the shrill pipe of the mother quail summoned together her foraging progeny; the brown hare stole from its covert and prowled about in search of food; and the lowing cattle assembled on the bank of the stream to quench their thirst before they were driven to their stalls. The peones, or labourers of the farm, with slow gait were returning from the scene of their day’s work; while at the doors of the cottages the women, with naked arms, were pounding the tortillas on stone slabs in preparation for the evening meal. Everything indicated that the hours of labour had passed, and those of rest and refreshment come.

Escamilla and Isabel were wandering among the hushed pastures, where the last rays of the sun still lingered with a soft subdued radiance, building those airy castles in the construction of which happy youth is always so eager and so dexterous. In the distance they saw a little cloud of dust rising from the plain; in another direction they heard the shouts of the returning cowherds, and the heavy hoofs of the bulls they were driving towards the corral. In advance rode a single horseman, swiftly making for the hacienda.

Meanwhile, the cloud of dust rolled onwards rapidly, and out of it emerged several cavaliers, who suddenly dashed towards the two happy lovers. “Here come the bull-fighters,” exclaimed Isabel; and with natural modesty she added, “Let us return.”

“Perhaps they are my father and brothers,” answered Escamilla. “Yes, look; there are eight of them. Do you not see?”

Ay, she did see, as her gaze rested on the group of horsemen, who, thundering across the mead, were now within a few yards of them. She did see, and the blood ran cold in her veins, and her face turned white with fear; for they were Comanche Indians, naked to the waist, horrible in their war-paint, and fierce with brandished spears. Escamilla saw them, too, and shrieking, “Los barbaros! los barbaros!” he fled with rapid foot, and, like a coward, abandoned his affianced to her fate.

A horseman met him: it was Juan Maria, who, having lassoed a little antelope on the plains, was riding in advance of his company to present it to the fickle Isabel. Glancing around, he saw her imminent danger; flung down the animal he was carrying in his arms, dashed his spurs desperately into his horse’s sides, and hastened to her rescue. “Salva me, Juan Maria!” she cried, “salva me!” (“save me”). But the bloodthirsty savages were before him. With a ferocious whoop, the foremost plunged his spear into her heart, and in a moment her scalp was hanging from his saddle-bow. He did not long enjoy his triumph. A clatter of hoofs caused him to turn; and, behold, Juan Maria, with lasso swinging round his head, and his heart beating with the desire of vengeance, rode fiercely towards the murderer, heedless of the storm of arrows that rained upon him. The savage shrank from the encounter; but the open coil of the lasso, whirling through the air, fell over his head, and dragged him to the ground with a fatal crash.

The odds, however, were against Juan Maria, who, surrounded by Indians, had no other weapon than a small machete, or rusty sword. Bating not one jot of heart or hope, he rushed on the nearest Indian, and dealt a blow at his head, which cleft it open; the savage fell dead. Daunted by the Mexican’s surpassing courage, the others kept at a distance, discharging their swift arrows, and piercing him with many wounds. Spurring his horse towards them, he fought on bravely, cheered by the shouts of his father and brothers, who were galloping full speed to his support. Before they could reach him, an arrow, discharged at but a few paces’ distance, penetrated his heart. He slipped heavily from his horse, and one of the Comanches rode away in triumph, with the heroic Mexican’s scalp as a trophy.

At that moment the Indians were reinforced by some thirty or forty of their tribe, and a desperate struggle ensued between them and El Coxo and his sons. The latter, burning with rage at the death of their brother, fought with such eager courage, that, outnumbered as they were, they slew half a dozen of the Comanches. It is probable, however, they would have been overpowered but for the arrival of the rancheros, who, coming up from the hacienda, put the Indians to flight. As night had darkened in the sky, they did not pursue; but returned to the hacienda with the dead bodies of Juan Maria and Isabel, who were buried the next day, side by side, at the very hour that had been fixed for the unfortunate Isabel’s marriage. As for Escamilla, ashamed of his cowardice, he was seen no more in the valley of the Rio Florido, but settled at Queretaro, where he afterwards married.

This tragedy occurred on the 11th of October, 1845.

From Durango Mr. Ruxton proceeded westward for Chihuahua and New Mexico. On the second day of his journey an unpleasant incident very sternly convinced him of the treachery and bloodthirstiness of the lower Mexicans. He was riding slowly ahead of his native attendant, whom he had hired at Durango, when the sudden report of fire-arms, and the whiz of a bullet close to his head, caused him to turn sharply round, and he beheld his amiable mozo [young man], pistol in hand, some fifteen yards behind him, looking guilty as well as foolish. Drawing a pistol from his holsters, Mr. Ruxton rode up to him immediately, and was about to blow out his brains, when his terror-stricken and absurdly guilty-looking face turned his employer’s wrath into “an immoderate fit of laughter.”

“Amigo,” said Mr. Ruxton, “do you call this being skilled, as you boasted, in the use of arms, to miss my head at fifteen yards?”

“Ah, caballero, in the name of all the saints, I did not fire at you, but at a duck which was flying over the road. Your worship cannot believe I would do such a thing.” Now, the pistols which Mr. Ruxton had given him to carry were secured in a pair of holsters tightly buckled and strapped round his waist. To unbuckle them at any time was difficult; to unbuckle them in time to get one out to fire at a flying duck, was impossible. Mr. Ruxton knew that the duck was an invention, and a clumsy one, and to prevent another treacherous attack, took from the fellow everything in the shape of offensive weapon, including even his knife. Then, after lecturing him severely, he administered a sound thrashing with the buckle-end of his surcingle, and promised him that, if he were suspected of even dreaming of another attempt at murder, he would be pistolled without a moment’s hesitation.After narrowly escaping a collision with a party of Indians, Mr. Ruxton reached a place called El Gallo, where he resided for a couple of days in the house of a farmer. He tells us that in a rancho the time is occupied as follows:—The females of the family rise at daybreak, and prepare the chocolate, or alde, which is eaten the first thing in the morning. About nine o’clock, breakfast is served, consisting of chile colorado, frijoles (beans), and tortillas (omelettes). Dinner, which takes place at noon, and supper at sunset, are both substantial meals. Meanwhile, the men employ themselves in the fields or attending to the animals; the women about the house, making clothes, cleaning, cooking, washing. In the evening the family shell corn, and chat; or a guitar is brought, and singing and dancing are continued until it is time to retire.

Riding onward from El Gallo, Mr. Ruxton turned aside from the regular route to kill an antelope and broil a collop for breakfast. He was descending the sierra to quench his thirst at a stream which flowed through a caÑon, or deep ravine, when a herd of antelopes passed him, and stopped to feed on a grassy plateau near at hand. He started in pursuit. As soon as he got within rifle-shot, he crept between two rocks at the edge of the hollow, and raised his head to reconnoitre, when he saw a sight which startled him, as the footprint on the sand startled Robinson Crusoe. About two hundred yards from the caÑon, and scarcely twice that distance from his place of concealment, eleven Comanches, duly equipped for war, each with lance and bow and arrow, and the chief with a rifle also, were riding along in Indian file. They were naked to the waist, their buffalo robes being thrown off their shoulders, and lying on their hips and across the saddle, which was a mere pad of buffalo-skin. Slowly they drew towards the caÑon, as if to cross it by a deer-path near the spot where Mr. Ruxton lay concealed. The odds were great; but he was advantageously posted, and he held in readiness his rifle, a double-barrelled carbine, and a couple of pistols. If he were attacked, he thought he could make a good defence; but, if unobserved, he had nothing to gain by attacking them. On they came, laughing and talking, and Mr. Ruxton, raising his rifle and supporting it in the fork of a bush which served as a screen, covered the chief with deadly aim. On they came, but suddenly diverged from the deer-path and struck across the plain, thereby saving the chief’s life, and probably Mr. Ruxton’s. As soon as they had disappeared, he recrossed the sierra, and returned for the night to El Gallo.

The next stage from El Gallo was Mapimi, situated at the foot of a range of mountains which teems with the precious metals. There he got rid of his mozo, or native attendant, and engaged in his place a little Irishman, who had been eighteen years in Mexico, and had almost forgotten his own language. He readily agreed to accompany him to Chihuahua, having no fear of the Indians, though they infested the country through which the travellers would have to pass. They reached Chihuahua, however, without misadventure. Its territory is described as a paradise for sportsmen. The common black or American bear, and the formidable grizzly bear, inhabit the sierras and mountains; and in the latter is found the carnero cimarron, or big-horn sheep. Elk, black-tailed deer, cola-arieta (a large species of the fallow deer), the common American red deer, and antelope, are everywhere abundant. Of smaller game the most numerous are peccaries, hares, and rabbits; and in the streams the beavers still construct their dams. There are two varieties of wolf—the white, or mountain wolf, and the cayeute, or coyote, commonly called the prairie-dog. Of birds the most common are the faisan (a species of pheasant), snipe, plover, crane, and the quail, or rather a bird between a partridge and a quail.

The entomologist would find much to interest him in the plains of Chihuahua, and especially an insect which seems almost peculiar to that part of Mexico. From four to six inches in length, it has four long slender legs. Its body, to the naked eye, seems nothing more than a blade of grass, and has no apparent muscular action or vitality except in the two antennÆ, which are about half an inch long. It moves very slowly upon its long legs, and altogether looks not unlike a blade of grass carried by ants. The Mexicans assert that if horse or mule swallow these zacateros (so called from zacato, grass), it invariably dies; but the assertion may well be doubted. The variety of spiders, bugs, and beetles is endless, including the tarantula and the cocuyo, or lantern-bug. Of reptiles the most common are the rattlesnake and the copper-head: both are poisonous; and the sting of the scorpion is fatal under some conditions. The grotesque but harmless cameleon abounds in the plains. On the American prairies it is known as the “horned frog.”

Vegetation is very scanty in Chihuahua. The shrub that covers its plains, the mezquit, is a species of acacia, growing to a height of ten or twelve feet. The seeds, contained in a small pod, resemble those of the laburnum, and are used by the Apache Indians to make a kind of bread, or cake, which is not unpleasant to the taste. This constantly recurring and ugly shrub, according to Mr. Ruxton, becomes quite an eyesore to the traveller who crosses the mezquit-covered plains. It is the only thing in the shape of a tree seen for hundreds of miles, except here and there a solitary alamo or willow, overhanging a spring, and invariably bestowing its name on the rancho or hacienda which may generally be found in the vicinity of water. Thus day after day the traveller passed the ranchos of El Sauz, Los Sauzes, Los Sauzilles—the willow, the willows, the little willows,—or El Alamo, Los Alamitos—the poplar, the little poplars. The last is the only timber found on the streams in northern Mexico, and on the Del Norte and the Arkansas it grows to a great size.

Leaving Chihuahua, Mr. Ruxton set out for the capital of New Mexico, escorted by three dragoons of the regiment of Vera Cruz, and carrying despatches from the governor to the commander of the American troops then posted on the frontier. At El Paso del Norte he entered a valley of great fertility; but this delightful change of scenery lasted only as far as San Diego, where begins the dreaded and dreadful wilderness significantly known as the Jornada del Muerto, or “Dead Man’s Journey.” Not only is it cursed by an absolute want of water and pasture, but it is the favourite foraging-ground of the Apache Indians, who are always on the alert to surprise the unwary traveller, to plunder and kill him. There is no vegetation but artemisia (sago) and screw-wood (torscilla). About half-way lies a hollow or depression called the Laguna del Muerto, or “Dead Man’s Lake,” but this is hard and dry except in the rainy season. Mr. Ruxton’s horses suffered considerably, but the “Dead Man’s Journey” of ninety-five or one hundred miles was performed, nevertheless, without accident in twenty-four hours.

At Fray Cristoval Mr. Ruxton came upon the river Del Norte, and thence pushed along its banks to the ruins of Valverde, where, encamped in the shade of noble trees, he found a trading caravan and a United States surveying party, under the command of a Lieutenant Abert. The traders’ waggons were drawn up so as to form a corral, or square—a laager, as the Boers of South Africa call it—constituting a truly formidable encampment, which, lined with the fire of some hundred rifles, could defy the attacks of Indians or Mexicans. “Scattered about,” says Mr. Ruxton, “were tents and shanties of logs and branches of every conceivable form, round which lounged wild-looking Missourians; some looking at the camp-fires, some cleaning their rifles or firing at targets—‘blazes’ cut in the trees—with a bull’s-eye made with wet powder on the white bark. From morning till night the camp resounded with the popping of rifles, firing at marks for prizes of tobacco, or at any living creature which presented itself. The oxen, horses, and mules were sent out at daylight to pasture on the grass of the prairie, and at sunset made their appearance, driven in by the Mexican herders, and were secured for the night in the corrals. My own animals roamed at will, but every evening came to the river to drink, and made their way to my camp, where they would frequently stay round the fire all night. They never required herding, for they made their appearance as regularly as the day closed, and would come to my whistle whenever I required my hunting mule.”

Mr. Ruxton remained several days at Valverde in order to recruit his animals. He amused himself by hunting. Deer and antelope were plentiful; so were turkeys, hares, rabbits, and quail on the plain, geese and ducks in the river; and he had even a shot—an unsuccessful one—at a painter, or panther. In some men the love of sport amounts to a passion, and in Mr. Ruxton it seems to have been equalled or surpassed only by his love of adventure. But about the middle of December the camp broke up, the traders departing for Fray Cristoval; while Mr. Ruxton resumed his northward journey, in company with Lieutenant Abert’s party. Crossing the Del Norte, he arrived at Socorro, the first settlement of New Mexico upon this river. Here the houses are not painted, but the women are; they stain their faces, from forehead to chin, with the fire-red juice of the alegria, to protect the skin from the effects of the sun. At Galisteo he met with a typical Yankee, of the kind Sam Slick has made us familiar with—a kind that is rapidly dying out,—sharp, active, self-reliant; a cunning mixture of inquisitiveness, shrewdness, and good nature. On reaching Mr. Ruxton’s encampment he unyoked his twelve oxen, approached the camp-fire, and seated himself almost in the blaze, stretching his long lean legs at the same time into the ashes. Then he began: “Sich a poor old country, I say! Wall, strangers, an ugly camp this, I swar; and what my cattle ull do I don’t know, for they have not eat since we put out of Santa FÉ, and are very near give out, that’s a fact; and thar’s nothin’ here for ’em to eat, surely. Wall, they must jist hold on till to-morrow, for I have only got a pint of corn apiece for ’em tonight anyhow, so there’s no two ways about that. Strangers, I guess now you’ll have a skillet among ye; if yev a mind to trade, I’ll jist have it right off; anyhow, I’ll jist borrow it to-night to bake my bread, and, if you wish to trade, name your price. . . . Sich a poor old country, say I! Jist look at them oxen, wull ye!—they’ve nigh upon two hundred miles to go; for I’m bound to catch up the sogers afore they reach the Pass, and there’s not a go in ’em.”

“Well,” remarked Mr. Ruxton, “would it not be as well for you to feed them at once and let them rest?”

“Wall, I guess if you’ll some of you lend me a hand, I’ll fix ’em right off; tho’, I tell you! they’ve give me a pretty lot of trouble, they have, I tell you! but the critturs will have to eat, I b’lieve!”

The aid asked for was given, and some corn added to the scanty rations which he put before his wearied and hungry oxen. When they had been fixed, the Yankee returned to the fire and baked his cake, fried his bacon, and made his coffee, while his tongue kept up an incessant clatter. He was all alone, with a journey of two hundred miles before him, and his waggon and twelve oxen to look after; his sole thought and object, however, were dollars, dollars, dollars! He caught up every article he saw lying about, wondered what it cost and what it was worth, offered to trade for it, or for anything else which anybody might be disposed to offer, never waiting for an answer, but rattling on, eating and drinking and talking without pause; until at last, gathering himself up, he said, “Wall, I guess I’ll turn into my waggon now, and some of you will, maybe, give a look round at the cattle every now and then, and I’ll thank you.” No sooner said than done. With a hop, step, and a jump, he sprang into his waggon, and was snoring in a couple of minutes.

Next morning, at daybreak, while he was still asleep, Mr. Ruxton resumed his journey, and before evening entered Santa FÉ, after a ride in all of nearly two thousand miles.

There was nothing in Santa FÉ to repay him for all he had undergone in getting there. The houses were built of sun-dried mud, and every other one was a grocery, that is, a gin or whisky shop, where Mexicans and Americans were drinking eagerly or playing montÉ. The streets were filled with brawlers, among whom Pueblo Indians and priests endeavoured to make their way. Donkey-loads of hoja, or corn-shucks, were hawked about for sale. It was noise everywhere; noise and filth, dirt and drink. The town contains about 3500 inhabitants, and lies at the foot of a summit of the eastern chain of the Rocky Mountains, about fourteen miles from the river Del Norte. As for the province, it covers an area of 6000 square miles, with a population of 70,000, divided among the Mexico-Spanish (descendants of the original settlers), the Mestizos (or half-castes), and the Indian Manzos or Pueblos (the aboriginal inhabitants).

Mr. Ruxton was so disgusted with Santa FÉ, that in a very few days he had packed his mules, taken his leave of its profanity, drunkenness, and squalidness, and, through the valley of Taos, continued his northward route. The landscape was now ennobled by the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, with cool green valleys and misty plains lying among them, through which the river had hewn its way in deep rocky caÑons. The scenery had assumed a new character of grandeur, and Mr. Ruxton surveyed it with admiration. At the Rio Colorado he crossed the United States frontier, and plunged into the wild expanse of snow, with towering peaks rising on every side, that lay before him; his object being to cross the Rocky Mountains by the trail or track of the Ute Indians, and strike the river Arkansas near its head-waters. The cold was intense, and when a cutting wind swept over the bleak plains or roared through the wooded valleys, the hardy traveller found scarcely endurable.

Stricken almost to the heart, he suffered the antelope that bounded past—hunter as he was!—to go unscathed. His hands, rigid as those of “the Commandant” in the statue-scene of Mozart’s “Don Giovanni,” dropped the reins of his horse, and allowed him to travel as he pleased. The half-breed who attended him, wrapped himself round in his blanket, and heaved a sigh at the thought of the fine venison that was being lost. At length, a troop of some three thousand swept almost over them, and Mr. Ruxton’s instincts as a sportsman prevailed over the inertness and deadness induced by the icy air; he sprang from his horse, knelt down, and sent a bullet right into the midst. At the report two antelopes leaped into the air, to fall prostrate in the dust; one of them shot in the neck, through which the ball had passed into the body of the other. While he was cutting up the prize, half a dozen wolves howled around, drawn to the spot by the scent of blood. A couple of these creatures, tamed by hunger, gradually drew nearer, occasionally crouching on their haunches, and licking their eager lips as if already partaking of the banquet. Mr. Ruxton flung at them a large piece of meat; whereupon the whole pack threw themselves upon it, growling and fighting, and actually tearing each other in the wild, fierce fray. “I am sure,” says our traveller, “I might have approached near enough to have seized one by the tail, so entirely regardless of my vicinity did they appear. They were doubtless rendered more ravenous than usual by the uncommon severity of the weather, and from the fact of the antelope congregating in large bands, were unable to prey upon these animals, which are their favourite food. Although rarely attacking a man, yet in such seasons as the present I have no doubt that they would not hesitate to charge upon a solitary traveller in the night, particularly as in winter they congregate in troops of from ten to fifty. They are so abundant in the mountains, that the hunter takes no notice of them, and seldom throws away upon the skulking beasts a charge of powder and lead.”

Mr. Ruxton pitched his camp at Rib Creek one night; at La Culebra, or Snake Creek, the next; at La Trinchera, or Bowl Creek, on the third. The cold continued excessive. The blast seemed to carry death upon its wings; snow and sleet fell in heavy showers; the streams were covered with a solid crust of ice. But the worst part of the journey was through the Vallerito, or Little Valley—the “Wind-trap,” as the mountaineers expressively call it—a small circular basin in the midst of rugged mountains, which receives the winds through their deep gorges and down their precipitous sides, and pens them up in its confined area to battle with one another, and with the unfortunates who are forced to traverse it. How they beat and rage and howl and roar! How they buffet the traveller in the face, and clasp him round the body as if they would strangle him! How they dash against the stumbling mules, and whirl the thick snow about them, and plunge them into dense deep drifts, where they lie half buried! This “Wind-trap” is only four miles long; and yet Mr. Ruxton was more than half a day in getting through it.

Once clear of it, he began the ascent of the mountain which forms the watershed of the Del Norte and Arkansas rivers. The view from the summit was as wild and drear as one of the circles in Dante’s “Inferno.” Looking back, the traveller saw everywhere a dense white pall or shroud of snow, which seemed to conceal but partially the rigid limbs of the dead and frozen earth. In front of him stretched the main chain of the Rocky Mountains, dominated by the lofty crest of James’s or Pike’s Peak; to the south-east, large against the sky, loomed the grim bulk of the two Cumbres EspaÑolas. At his feet, a narrow valley, green with dwarf oak and pine, was brightened by the glancing lights of a little stream. Everywhere against the horizon rose rugged summits and ridges, snow-clad and pine-clad, and partly separated by rocky gorges. To the eastward the mountain mass fell off into detached spires and buttresses, and descended in broken terraces to the vast prairies, which extended far beyond the limit of vision, “a sea of seeming barrenness, vast and dismal.” As the traveller gazed upon them, billows of dust swept over the monotonous surface, impelled by a driving hurricane. Soon the mad wind reached the mountain-top, and splintered the tall pines, and roared and raved in its insatiable fury, and filled the air with great whirls of snow, and heaped it up in dazzling drifts against the trees. Its stern voice made the silence and the solitude all the more palpable. For not a sound of bird or beast was to be heard; nor was there sign or token of human life. In such a scene man is made to feel his own littleness. In the presence of the giant forces of Nature he seems so mean and powerless that his heart sinks within him, and his brain grows dizzy, until he remembers that behind those forces is a Power, eternal and supreme—a Power that seeks not to destroy, but to bless and comfort and save.

With no little difficulty, Mr. Ruxton and his guide conveyed their mules and horses down the steep eastern side of the mountain into the valley beneath. Across Greenhorn Creek they pushed forward to the banks of the San Carlos; and fourteen miles beyond, they struck the Arkansas, a few hundred yards above the mouth of Boiling Spring River. There he was hospitably entertained in the “lodge” of a certain mountaineer and ex-trapper, John Hawkins.

The home and haunt of the trapper is the vast region of forest and prairie known as the Far West. He extends his operations from the Mississippi to the mouth of the western Colorado, from the frozen wastes of the north to the Gila in Mexico; making war against every animal whose skin or fur is of any value, and exhibiting in its pursuit the highest powers of endurance and tenacity, a reckless courage, and an inexhaustible fertility of resource. On starting for a hunt, whether as the “hired hand” of a fur company, or working on his own account, he provides himself with two or three horses or mules—one for saddle, the others for packs—and six traps, which are carried in a leather bag called a “trap-sack.” In a wallet of dressed buffalo-skin, called a “possible-sack,” he carries his ammunition, a few pounds of tobacco, and dressed deerskins for mocassins and other articles. When hunting, he loads his saddle mule with the “possible” and “trap-sack;” the furs are packed on the baggage mules. His costume is a hunting shirt of dressed buckskin, ornamented with long fringes; and pantaloons of the same material, but decorated with porcupine quills and long fringes down the outside of the leg. His head bears a flexible felt hat; his feet are protected by mocassins. Round his neck is slung his pipe-holder, generally a love token, in the shape of a heart, garnished with beads and porcupine quills. Over his left shoulder and under his right arm hang his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, in which are stored his balls, flint and steel, and all kinds of “odds and ends.” A large butcher-knife, in a sheath of buffalo-hide, is carried in a belt, and fastened to it by a chain or guard of steel. A tomahawk is also often added, and a long heavy rifle is necessarily included in the equipment.Thus provided (we quote now from Mr. Ruxton), and having determined the locality of his trapping-ground, he starts for the mountains, sometimes with three or four companions, as soon as the worst of the winter has passed. When he reaches his hunting-grounds, he follows up the creeks and streams, vigilantly looking out for “sign.” If he observes a cotton-wood tree lying prone, he examines it to discover if its fall be the work of the beaver; and, if so, whether “thrown” for the purpose of food, or to dam the stream, and raise the water to a level with its burrow. The track of the beaver on the mud or sand under the bank is also examined; and if the “sign” be fresh, he sets his trap in the run of the animal, hiding it under water, and attaching it by a stout chain to a picket driven in the bank, or to a bush or tree. A “float-stick” is fastened to the trap by a cord a few feet long, which, if the animal carry away the trap, floats on the water and indicates its position. The trap is baited with the “medicine,” an oily substance obtained from a gland in the scrotum of the beaver. Into this is dipped a stick, which is planted over the trap; and the beaver, attracted by the smell, and wishing a close inspection, very foolishly puts his leg into the trap, and falls a victim to his curiosity.

When “a lodge” is discovered, the trap is set at the edge of the dam, at the point where the amphibious animals pass from deep to shoal water, but always beneath the surface. In early morning the hunter mounts his mule, and examines his traps. The captured animals are skinned, and the tails, a great dainty, carefully packed into camp. The skin is then stretched over a hoop or framework of osier twigs, and is allowed to dry, the flesh and fatty substance being industriously scraped or “grained.” When dry, it is folded into a square sheet, with the fur turned inwards, and the bundle of ten to twenty skins, well pressed and carefully corded, is ready for exportation.

During the hunt, regardless of Indian vicinity, the fearless trapper wanders far and near in search of “sign.” His nerves must always be in a state of tension; his energies must always rally at his call. His eagle eye sweeps round the country, and in an instant detects any unusual appearance. A turned leaf, a blade of grass pressed down, the uneasiness of the wild animals, the flight of birds, are all paragraphs to him, written in Nature’s legible hand and plainest language. The subtle savage summons his utmost craft and cunning to gain an advantage over the wily white woodman; but, along with the natural instinct of primitive man, the white hunter has the advantages of the civilized mind, and, thus provided, seldom fails to baffle, under equal advantages, his Indian adversary.

While hunting in the Arkansas valley, Mr. Ruxton met with many exciting experiences; the most serious being that of a night in the snow. Suspecting that some Indians had carried off his mules, he seized his rifle, and went in search of them, and coming upon what he supposed to be their track, followed it up with heroic patience for ten miles. He then discovered that he had made a mistake; retraced his steps to the camp, and, with his friend, struck in another direction. This time he hit on the right trail, and was well pleased to find that the animals were not in Indian hands, as their ropes evidently still dragged along the ground. Carrying a lariat and saddle-blanket, so as to ride back on the mules if they were caught, away went the two dauntless hunters, nor did they stop to rest until midnight. Then, in the shelter of a thicket and on the bank of a stream, they kindled a fire, and thankfully lay down within reach of its genial influence. Alas! a gale of wind at that moment arose, and scattering the blazing brands to right and left, soon ignited the dry grass and bushes; so that, to prevent a general conflagration, they were compelled to extinguish their fire. To prevent themselves from being frozen to death, they started again in pursuit of the missing animals, following the trail by moonlight across the bare cold prairies. Next day their labours were rewarded by the recovery of the mules, and Mr. Ruxton and his Irish companion began to think of returning. The latter, by agreement, made at once for the trapper’s cabin; Ruxton, with the animals, turned off in search of some provisions and packs that had been left in their hunting encampment. Since morning the sky had gradually clouded over, and towards sunset had blackened into a dense, heavy, rolling darkness. The wind had gone down, and a dead, unnatural calm, the sure precursor of a storm, reigned over the face of nature. The coyote, mindful of the coming disturbance, was trotting back to his burrow, and the raven, with swift wings, laboured towards the shelter of the woods.

Lower and lower sank the clouds, until the very bases of the mountains were hidden, and the firmament and the earth seemed mingled together. Though neither branch nor spray was stirred, the valley rang with a hoarse murmur. Through the gloom the leafless branches of the huge cotton-wood trees protruded like the gaunt arms of fleshless phantoms. The whole scene was eery and weird, impressing the mind with an indefinable sense of awe, with an apprehension of approaching disaster. The traveller turned his animals towards the covert of the wood; and they, quivering with terror, were not less eager than himself to gain it. Two-thirds of the distance still lay before them, when the windows of heaven opened, and the storm broke, and a tremendous roar filled the valley, and thick showers of sleet descended, freezing as it fell. The lonely traveller’s hunting-shirt was soaked through in a moment, and in another moment frozen hard. The enormous hailstones, beating on his exposed head and face—for the wind had carried away his cap—almost stunned and blinded him. The mule he bestrode was suddenly caparisoned with a sheet of ice. To ride was impossible. He sprang to the ground, and wrapped himself in the saddle-cloth. As the storm beat in front of them, the animals wheeled away from the wood, turned their backs upon it, and made for the open prairies; still, through the intense darkness, whirled and buffeted in clouds of driving snow, Mr. Ruxton steadfastly followed them. His sufferings were indescribable; but he persevered. The wind chilled his blood; the sleet wounded his eyes; with difficulty his weary feet toiled through the gathering snow, which was soon two feet in depth; but he persevered. This quality of tenaciousness, without which no man can become a successful traveller, any more than he can become a successful musician, painter, sculptor, engineer, Mr. Ruxton possessed in an eminent degree. He pursued the frightened animals across the darkening prairie, until, suddenly, on the leeward side of a tuft of bushes, they stood still. Some vain attempts he made to turn them towards the wood; they would not move; so that at length, completely exhausted, and seeing before him nothing but inevitable death, he sank down behind them in the deep snow, covering his head with his blanket—far away from human habitation,—far away from all help, but that of God!

Ah, what a night was that! How the wind roared over the frozen plain! How the snow rolled before it in dense huge billows, that took in the darkness a sombre greyish colour! What horrible sounds surged upon the ear and brain of the benumbed watcher, as, with his head on his knees, pressed down by the snow as by a leaden weight, with the chilled blood scarcely flowing in his veins, and an icy torpor threatening to arrest the very motion of his heart, he struggled against the temptation of a slumber from which he knew that he should wake no more on earth! Once yield to that fatal sleep, and farewell to life! Yet how he longed to close his aching eyes, to rest his weary brain, to cease from the tumult of thought and feeling that confused and exhausted him! Every now and then the mules would groan heavily, and fall upon the snow, and again struggle to their legs. Every now and then the yell of famished wolves arose in the pauses of the storm. So passed the night, or, rather, to the hunter it seemed as if it were prolonging itself into day; each second was lengthened into a minute, each minute into an hour. At last, by keeping his hands buried in the bosom of his hunting-shirt, he so far restored their natural warmth, that he was able to strike a match and set light to his pipe, a large one made of cotton-wood bark, that chanced, by great good fortune, to be filled with tobacco to the brim. This he smoked with intense delight, and no doubt the stimulus it afforded saved his life.

He was sinking, however, into a dreamy drowsiness, when he was roused by a movement among the mules, which cheered him by proving that they were still alive. With some difficulty he lifted his head to get a look at the weather, but all was pitch dark. Was it still night? Suddenly he remembered that he was buried deep in snow, and thrusting his arm above him, he worked out a hole, through which he could see the sheen of stars and the glimmer of blue sky. After one or two efforts, he contrived to stand on his feet, and then he discovered that morning was dawning slowly in the east, whore the horizon was clear of clouds. By dint of constant exertion he regained the use of his limbs, and, springing on his horse, drove the mules before him at full speed across the prairie, and through the valley, until he reached the Arkansas, where he was welcomed as one who had risen from the grave. It took him two days, however, to recover from the effects of that fearful night among the snow.

One of Mr. Ruxton’s most agreeable excursions was to the Boiling Spring River and the Boiling Fountains, which he found to be situated in the midst of picturesque combinations of wood and rock. These celebrated springs issue from round holes in a large, flat white rock, at some distance from each other; the gas escapes with a hissing sound, like that of water in a state of ebullition; and the taste is peculiarly refreshing, like that of, but seeming more pungent than, the very best soda-water. The Indians call them the “medicine” springs, and regard them with superstitious reverence as the haunts of a spirit, who, by breathing through the transparent fluid, causes the perturbation of its surface. As to this water-spirit the Arapahoes attribute the power of preventing the success or bringing about the failure of their war expeditions, they never pass the springs without leaving there some propitiatory offerings, such as beads, wampum, knives, pieces of red cloth, strips of deerskin, and mocassins. The country round about was formerly in the hands of the Shoshone, or Snake Indians, of whom the Comanches are a branch: the latter now dwell to the east of the Rocky Mountains; the former to the west, or in the recesses of the mountains themselves.

The Snake Indians connect a curious legend with these two springs of sweet and bitter water.

They say that, hundreds of years ago, when the cotton-wood trees on the Rio Colorado were no higher than arrows, and the red man hunted the buffalo on the plains, all people spoke the same language, and two parties of hunters never met without smoking together the pipe of peace. In this happy age, it chanced on one occasion that a couple of hunters, belonging to different tribes, met on the bank of a small rivulet, in which they designed to quench their thirst. A bright clear thread of water, trickling from a spring in a rock a few feet from the bank, it wound its silvery way into the river. Now, while one of the hunters threw himself at once on the ground, and plunged his face into the running stream, the other first flung from his back a fine deer, and then, turning towards the spring, poured some of the water out as a libation to the Great Spirit, who had rewarded his prowess with bow and arrow, and caused the fountain to flow, at which he was about to refresh himself.

And it came to pass that the other hunter, who had killed no fat buck, and had forgotten to make the usual peace-offering, felt his heart swell with rage and jealousy; and the Evil Spirit taking possession of him, he sought for an excuse to quarrel with the stranger Indian. Rising to his feet with a moody frown upon his brow, he exclaimed—

“Why does a stranger drink at the spring-head, when one to whom the spring belongs is content to drink of the water that runs from it?”

“The Great Spirit,” replied the other, “places the cool water at the spring, that his children may drink it pure and undefiled. The running water is for the beasts that inhabit the plains. Au-sa-qua is a chief of the Shoshone, and he drinks at the head of the waters.”

“The Shoshone,” answered the first speaker, “is but a tribe of the Comanche. Wa-co-mish is the chief of the great nation. Why does a Shoshone dare to drink above him?”

“He has said it. The Shoshone drinks at the spring-head; let other nations be satisfied with the water of the stream that runs into the fields. Au-sa-qua is chief of his nation. The Comanche are brothers; let them both drink of the same water.”

“The Shoshone pays tribute to the Comanche. Wa-co-mish leads that nation to war. Wa-co-mish is chief of the Shoshone, as he is of his own people.”“Wa-co-mish lies,” said Au-sa-qua coldly; “his tongue is forked like the rattlesnake’s; his heart is as black as the Misho-tunga (evil spirit). When the Manitou made his children, whether Shoshone or Comanche, Arapaho, Shi-an, or PÁ-ui, he gave them buffalo to eat, and the pure water of the crystal fountain to quench their thirst. He said not to one, ‘Drink here,’ or to the other, ‘Drink there,’ but gave to all the bright clear fountain, that all might drink.”

A tempest of fury swept over the soul of Wa-comish as he listened to these words; but he was a coward at heart, and durst not openly encounter the cooler and more courageous Shoshone. But when the latter, hot with speaking, again stooped to drink of the refreshing waters, Wa-co-mish suddenly threw himself upon him, pressed his head beneath the surface, and held it there, until his victim, suffocated, ceased to struggle, and fell forward into the spring, dead.

The murderer had satisfied his passion; but was he happy? No; as he gazed at the corpse of his victim, he was seized with a passionate sense of remorse and regret. Loathing himself for the crime he had committed, he proceeded to drag the body a few paces from the water, which, thereupon, was suddenly disturbed. The wave trembled to and fro, and bubbles, rising to the surface, escaped in hissing gas. And, as a vaporous cloud gradually rose and sank, the figure of an aged Indian was revealed to the murderer’s straining eyes, whom, by his noble countenance, his long sinewy hand, and his silvery beard, he knew to be the great Wau-kan-aga, the father of the Shoshone and Comanche nation, still remembered and revered for the good deeds and the heroic acts he had done in life.

Stretching out a war-club towards the shrinking, trembling Wa-co-mish, he said:

“Accursed of my tribe! this day hast thou snapt the link that bound together the mightiest nations of the world, while the blood of the brave Shoshone cries to the Manitou for vengeance. May the water of thy tribe be rank and bitter in their throats!” And, swinging round his ponderous war-club, he dashed out the brains of the treacherous Comanche, so that he fell headlong into the spring, which, from that day, has ever been nauseous to the taste, and an offence to thirsty lips. But at the same time, to preserve the memory of the noble Au-sa-qua, he struck a hard flint rock, higher up the rivulet, with his club, and called forth a fountain of crystal water, which, even in our own times, is the joy and the delight of men.

“Never,” says Mr. Ruxton, “never was there such a paradise for hunters as this lone and solitary spot. The shelving prairie, at the bottom of which the springs are situated, is entirely surrounded by rugged mountains, and, containing perhaps about two or three acres of excellent grass, affords a safe pasture to their animals, which would hardly care to wander from such feeding. Immediately overhead, Pike’s Peak, at an elevation of 12,000 feet above the level of the sea, towers high into the clouds; whilst from the fountain, like a granitic amphitheatre, ridge after ridge, clothed with pine and cedar, rises and meets the stupendous mass of mountains, well called ‘Rocky,’ which stretches far away north and southward, their gigantic peaks being visible above the strata of clouds which hide their rugged bases.”

But here our companionship with Mr. Ruxton ceases. His travels in the United States do not present any uncommon or remarkable feature; do not differ from those of the thousand and one sightseers who yearly cross the Atlantic, and survey the broad territories of the great Western Republic. With a small party he crossed the wide-rolling prairies to Fort Leavenworth; thence, passing the Kansas or Caro river, and entering upon a picturesque country of hill and dale, well wooded and watered, he penetrated into the valley of the Missouri. Down that noble stream he made his way to St. Louis, and afterwards traversed the prairies of Illinois to Chicago; not then, as it is now, the capital of the West, and the great corn depÔt of the Mississippi States. From Chicago he crossed Lake Michigan to Kalamazoo, where he took the rail to Detroit. A Canadian steamer conveyed him to Buffalo. Thence, by rail, he travelled to Albany, and descended the majestic Hudson to New York. His home voyage was swift and prosperous, and he arrived at Liverpool in the middle of August, 1847. [89]