Which I doubts some if I’m a proper party to be a historian of Mexicans. Nacherally I abhors ’em; an’ when a gent abhors anything, that is a Caucasian gent, you-all can gamble the limit he won’t do it jestice. His prejudices is bound to hit the surface like one of these yere rock ledges in the mountains. Be white folks ag’in Mexicans? Gents, the paleface is ag’in everybody but himse’f; ag’in Mexicans, niggers, Injuns, Chinks—he’s ag’in ’em all; the paleface is overbearin’ an’ insolent, an’ because he’s the gamest fighter he allows he’s app’inted of Providence to prance ‘round, tyrannizin’ an’ makin’ trouble for everybody whose color don’t match his own. Shore, I’m as bad as others; only I ain’t so bigoted I don’t savey the fact.

Doc Peets is the one white gent I encounters who’s willin’ to mete out to Mexicans a squar’ deal from a squar’ deck. I allers reckons these yere equities on Peets’ part arises a heap from his bein’ a scientist. You take a scientist like Peets an’ the science in him sort o’ submerges an’ drowns out what you-all might term the racial notions native to the hooman soil. They comes to concloosions dispassionate, that a-way, scientists does; an’ Mexicans an’ Injuns reaps a milder racket at their hands. With sech folks as Old Man Enright an’ me, who’s more indoorated an’ acts on that arrogance which belongs with white folks at birth, inferior races don’t stand no dazzlin’ show.

Mexicans, as a herd, is stunted an’ ondeveloped both mental an’ physical. They bears the same compar’son to white folks that these yere little broncos does to the big hosses of the States. In intellects, Mexicans is about ’leven hands high. To go into one of their jimcrow plazas is like retreatin’ back’ard three hundred years. Their idees of agriculture is plenty primitive. An’ their minds is that bogged down in ignorance you-all can’t teach ’em nothin’. They clings to their worm-eaten customs like a miser to his money. Their plow is a wedge of wood; they hooks on about three yoke of bulls—measley, locoed critters—an’ with four or five Greasers to screech an’ herd an’ chunk up the anamiles they goes stampedin’ back’ard an’ for’ard on their sandy river-bottom fields—the same bein’ about as big as a saddle blanket—an’ they calls that plowin’. They sows the grain as they plows, sort o’ scratches it in; an’ when it comes up they don’t cut it none same as we-all harvests a crop. No; they ain’t capable of sech wisdom. They pulls it up by the roots an’ ties it in bundles. Then they sweeps off a clean spot of earth like the floor of one of these yere brickyards an’ covers it with the grain same as if it’s a big mat. Thar’s a corral constructed ‘round it of posts an’ lariats; an’ next, on top of the mat of grain, they drives in the loose burros, cattle, goats, an’ all things else that’s got a hoof; an’ tharupon they jams this menagerie about ontil the grain is trodden out. That’s what a Greaser regyards as threshin’ grain, so you can estimate how ediotic he is. When it’s trompled sufficient, he packs off the stalks an’ straw to make mats an’ thatches for the ’dobies; while he scrapes up the dust an’ wheat into a blanket an’ climbs onto the roof of his casa an’ pours it down slow onto the ground, an’ all so it gives the wind a openin’ to get action an’ blow away the chaff an’ dust.

But what’s the use of dilatin’ on savageries like that? I could push for’ard an’ relate how they makes flour with a stone rollin’-pin in a stone trough; how they grinds coffee by wroppin’ it in a gunny sack an’ beatin’ it with a rock; but where’s the good? It would only go lowerin’ your estimates of hooman nature to no end.

Whatever be their amoosements? Everything on earth amooses ’em. They has so many holidays, Mexicans does, they ain’t hardly left no time for work. They’re pirootin’ about constant, grinnin’ an’ chatterin’ like a outfit of bloo-jays.

No; they ain’t singers none. Takin’ feet an’ fingers, that a-way, a Mexican is moosical. They emerges a heap strong at dancin’, an’ when it conies to a fandango, hens on hot griddles is examples of listless abstraction to ’em. With sech weepons, too, as guitars an’ fiddles an’ a gourd half-full of gravel to shake an’ beat out the time, they can make the scenery ring. Thar they stops, however; a Greaser’s moosic never mounts higher than the hands. At singin’, crows an’ guinea chickens lays over ’em like a spade flush over nines-up.

Most likely if I reelates to you-all the story of a day among the Mexicans you comes to a cl’arer glimpse of their loves an’ hates an’ wars an’ merry-makin’s. Mexicans, like Injuns when a paleface is about, lapses into shyness an’ timidity same as one of these yere cottontail rabbits. But among themse’fs, when they feels onbuckled an’ at home, their play runs off plenty different. Tharfore a gent’s got to study Mexicans onder friendly auspices, an’ from the angle of their own home-life, if he’s out to rope onto concloosions concernin’ them that’ll stand the tests of trooth.

It’s one time when I’m camped in the Plaza Chaparita. It’s doorin’ the eepock when I freights from Vegas to the Canadian over the old Fort Bascom trail. One of the mules—the nigh swing mule, he is—quits on me, an’ I has to lay by ontil that mule recovers his sperits.

It’s a fieste or holiday at the Plaza Chaparita. The first local sport I connects with is the padre. He’s little, brown, an’ friendly; an’ has twinklin’ beady eyes like a rattlesnake; the big difference bein’ that the padre’s eyes is full of fun, whereas the optics of rattlesnakes is deevoid of humor utter. Shore; rattlesnakes wouldn’t know a joke from the ace of clubs.

The padre’s on his way to the ’dobe church; an’ what do you-all figger now that divine’s got onder his arm? Hymn books, says you? That’s where you’re barkin’ at a knot. The padre’s packin’ a game chicken—which the steel gaffs, drop-socket they be an’ of latest sort, is in his pocket—an’ as I goes squanderin’ along in his company, he informs me that followin’ the services thar’ll be a fight between his chicken an’ a rival brass-back belongin’ to a commoonicant named Romero. The padre desires my presence, an’ in a sperit of p’liteness I allows I’ll come idlein’ over onless otherwise engaged, the same bein’ onlikely.

Gents, you should have witnessed that battle! It’s shore lively carnage; yes, the padre’s bird wins an’ downs Romero’s entry the second buckle.

On the tail of the padre’s triumph, one of his parishioners gets locoed, shakes a chicken outen a bag an’ proclaims that he’ll fight him ag’in the world for two dollars a side. At that another enthoosiast gives notice that if the first parishioner will pinch down his bluff to one dollar—he says he don’t believe in losin’ an’ winnin’ fortunes on a chicken—he’ll prodooce a bird an’ go him once.

The match is made, an’ while the chickens is facin’ each other a heap feverish an’ fretful, peckin’ an’ see-sawin’ for a openin’, the various Greasers who’s bet money on ’em lugs out their beads an’ begins to pray to beat four of a kind. Shore, they’re prayin’ that their partic’lar chicken ’ll win. Still, when I considers that about as many Greasers is throwin’ themse’fs at the throne of grace for one as for the other, if Providence is payin’ any attention to ’em—an’ I deems it doubtful—I estimates that them orisons is a stand-off.

As the birds goes to the center, one party sprinkles something on his chicken. At that the opposition grabs up his bird an’ appeals to the padre. He challenges the other’s bird because he says he’s been sprinkled with holy-water.

The padre inquires, an’ the holy-water sharp confesses his guilt. Also, he admits that he hides the gaffs onder the altar cloth doorin’ the recent services so they’ll acquire extra grace an’ power.

The padre turns severe at this an’ declar’s the fight off; an’ he forfeits the doctored chicken an’ the gaffs to himse’f a whole lot—he representin’ the church—to teach the holy-water sharp that yereafter he’s not to go seizin’ onfair advantages, an’ to lead a happier an’ a better life. That culprit don’t say a word but passes over his chicken an’ the steel regalia for its heels. You can bet that padre’s word is law in the Plaza Chaparita!

Followin’ this fiasco of the holy-water chicken the Mexicans disperses themse’fs to pulque an’ monte an’ the dance. The padre an’ me sa’nters about; me bein’ a Americano, an’ him what you might call professionally sedate, we-all don’t go buttin’ into the baile nor the pulque nor the gamblin’. The padre su’gests that we go a-weavin’ over to his own camp, which he refers to as Casa Dolores—though thar’s nothin’ dolorous about it, the same bein’ the home of mirth an’ hilarity, that a-way—an’ he allows he’s got some Valley Tan hived up that’ll make me forget my nationality if stoodiously adhered to. It’s needless to observe that I accompanies the beady-eyed padre without a struggle. An’ I admits, free an’ without limitation, that said Valley Tan merits the padre’s encomiums an’ fixes me in my fav’rite theery that no matter what happens, the best happens to the church.

As we crosses the little Plaza on our way to Casa Dolores we passes in front of the church. Thar on the grass lays the wooden image of the patron saint of the Plaza Chaparita. This figger is about four foot long, an’ thar’s a hossha’r lariat looped onto it where them Mexicans who gets malcontent with the saint ropes him off his perch from up in front of the church. They’ve been haulin’ the image about an’ beatin’ it with cactus sticks an’ all expressive of disdain.

I asks the padre why his congregation engages itse’f in studied contoomely towards the Plaza’s saint. He shrugs his shoulders, spreads his hands palm out, an’ says it’s because the Plaza’s sheep gets sick. I su’gests that him an’ me cut in an’ rescoo the saint; more partic’lar since the image is all alone, an’ the outfit that’s been beatin’ him up has abandoned said corrections to drink pulque an’ exercise their moccasins in the baile. But the padre shakes his head. He allows it’s a heap better to let the public fully vent its feelin’s. He explains that when the sheep gets well the congregation ’ll round-up the image, give him a reproachful talk an’ a fresh coat of paint, an’ put him back on his perch. The saint ’ll come winner on the deal all right, the padre says.

“Besides,” argues the padre, “it is onneces-sary for pore blinded mortals to come pawin’ about to protect a saint. These yere images,” he insists, “can look after themse’fs. They’ll find the way outen their troubles whenever they gets ready.”

At that we proceeds for’ard to Casa Dolores an’ the promised Valley Tan, an’ leaves the wooden saint to his meditations on the grass. After all, I agrees with the padre. It’s the saint’s business to ride herd on the interests of the Plaza Chaparita; an’ if he goes to sleep on the lookout’s stool an’ takes to neglectin’ sech plays as them sheep gettin’ sick, whatever is the Greasers goin’ to do? They’re shore bound to express their disapproval; an’ I reckons as good a scheme as any is to caper up, yank the careless image outen his niche with a lariat, an’ lam loose an’ cavil at him with a club.

This yere fieste at the Plaza Chaparita is a day an’ night of laughter, dance an’ mirth. But it ends bad. The padre an’ me is over to the dance-hall followin’ our investigations touchin’ the Valley Tan an’ the padre explains to me how he permits to his people a different behavior from what’s possible among Americanos.

“I studies for the church in Baltimore,” the padre says, “an’ thar the priest must keep a curb on his Americano parishioners. They are not like Mexicanos. They’re fierce an’ headlong an’ go too far. If you let them gamble, they gamble too much; if you let them drink, they drink too much. The evil of the Americano is that he overplays. It is not so with the Mexicano. If the Mexicano gambles, it is only a trifle an’ for pleasure; if he drinks, it is but enough to free a bird’s song in his heart. All my people drink an’ dance an’ gamble; but it’s only play, it is never earnest. See! in the whole Plaza Chaparita you find no drunkard, no pauper; no one is too bad or too good or too rich or too poor or too unhappy.”

Then the priest beams on me like he disposes of the question; an’ since I’ve jest been drinkin’ his Valley Tan I don’t enter no protests to what he states. From what ensoos, however, I should jedge the padre overlooks his game in one partic’lar.

As me an’ the padre sits gazin’ on at the dance, a senorita with a dark shawl over her head, drifts into the door like a shadow. She’s little; an’ by what I sees of her face, she’s pretty. As she crosses in front of the padre she stops an’ sort o’ drops down on one knee with her head bowed. The padre blesses her an’ calls her “Chiquita;” then she goes on. I don’t pay no onusual attention; though as me an’ the padre talks, I notes her where she stands with her shawl still over her head in a corner of the dance hall.

Across from the little Chiquita is a young Greaser an’ his sweetheart. This girl is pretty, too; but her shawl ain’t over her head an’ she an’ her muchacho, from their smiles an’ love glances, is havin’ the happiest of nights.

“It looks like you’ll have a weddin’ on your hands,” I says to the padre, indicatin’ where the two is courtin’.

“Chiquita should not stay here,” says the padre talkin’ to himse’f. With that he organizes like he’s goin’ over to the little shawled senorita in the corner.

It strikes me that the padre’s remark is a heap irrelevant. But I soon sees that he onderstands the topics he tackles a mighty sight better than me. The padre’s hardly moved when it looks like the senorita Chiquita saveys he’s out to head her off. With that she crosses the dance-hall swift as a cat an’ flashes a knife into the heart of the laughing girl. The next moment the knife is planted in her own.

It’s the old story, so old an’ common thar’s not a new word to be said. Two dead girls; love the reason an’ the jealous knife the trail. Thar’s not a scream, not a word; that entire baile stands transfixed. As the padre raises the little Chi-quita’s head, I sees the tears swimmin’ in his eyes. It’s the one time I comes nearest thinkin’ well of a Mexican; that padre, at least, is toler’ble.

“That is a very sad finale—the death of the girls,” observed the Sour Gentleman, reaching for the Scotch whiskey as though for comfort’s sake. “And still, the glimpse you gave would move me to a pleasant estimate of Mexicans.”

“Why then,” returned the Old Cattleman, becoming also an applicant for Scotch, “considered as abstract prop’sitions, Mexicans aint so bad. Which they’re like Injuns; they improves a lot by distance. An’ they has their strong p’ints, too; gratitoode is one. You-all confer a favor on a Mexican, an’ he’ll hang on your trail a hundred years but what he’ll do you a favor in return. An’ he’ll jest about pay ten for one at that.

“Speakin’ of gratitoode, Sioux Sam yere tells a story to ’llustrate how good deeds is bound to meet their reward. It’s what the squaws tells the papooses to make ’em kind.” Then to Sioux Sam: “Give us the tale of Strongarm an’ the Big Medicine Elk. The talk is up to you.”

Sioux Sam was in no sort diffident, and readily told us the following: