The White Chief: A Legend of Northern Mexico

by Mayne Reid

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

  Rosita knelt upon the floor, passing her little hand-shuttle through thecotton-woof. Now she sang--and sweetly she sang--some merry air of theAmerican backwoods that had been taught her by her mother; anon someromantic lay of Old Spain--the "Troubadour," perhaps--a fine piece ofmusic, that gives such happy expression to the modern song "Love not."This "Troubadour" was a favourite with Rosita; and when she took up herbandolon, and accompanied herself with its guitar-like notes, thelistener would be delighted.

  She was now singing to beguile the hours and lighten her task; andalthough not accompanied by any music, her silvery voice sounded sweetand clear.

  The mother had laid aside her pipe of _punche_, and was busy as Rositaherself. She spun the threads with which the rebosos were woven. Ifthe loom was a simple piece of mechanism, much more so was thespinning-machine--the "huso," or "malacate"--which was nothing more orless than the "whirligig spindle." Yet with this primitive apparatusdid the old dame draw out and twist as smooth a thread as ever issuedfrom the "jenny."

  "Poor dear Carlos! One, two, three, four, five, six--six notches I havemade--he is just in his sixth day. By this time he will be over theLlano, mother. I hope he will have good luck, and get well treated ofthe Indians."

  "Never fear, nina--my brave boy has his father's rifle, and knows how touse it--well he does. Never fear for Carlos!"

  "But then, mother, he goes in a new direction! What if he fall in witha hostile tribe?"

  "Never fear, nina! Worse enemies than Indians has Carlos--worse enemiesnearer home--cowardly slaves! they hate us--both _Gachupinos_ and_Criollos_ hate us--Spanish dogs! they hate our Saxon blood!"

  "Oh, mother, say not so! They are not _all_ our enemies. We have somefriends."

  Rosita was thinking of Don Juan.

  "Few--few--and far between! What care I while my brave son is there?He is friend enough for us. Soft heart--brave heart--strong arm--wholike my Carlos? And the boy loves his old mother--his strange oldmother, as these _pelados_ think her. He still loves his old mother.Ha! ha! ha! What, then, cares she for friends? Ha! ha! ha!"

  Her speech ended in a laugh of triumph, showing how much she exulted inthe possession of such a son.

  "O my! what a _carga_, mother! He never had such a carga before! Iwonder where Carlos got all the money?"

  Rosita did not know exactly where; but she had some fond suspicions asto who had stood her brother's friend.

  "_Ay de mi_!" she continued; "he will be very rich if he gets a goodmarket for all those fine things--he will bring back troops of mules.How I shall long for his return! One--two--three--six--yes, there arebut six notches in the wood. Oh! I wish it were full along bothedges--I do!"

  Rosita's eyes, us she said this, were bent upon a thin piece ofcedar-wood that hung against the wall, and upon which six little notcheswere observable. That was her clock and calendar, which was to receivea fresh mark each day until the cibolero's return--thus keeping herinformed of the exact time that had elapsed since his departure.

  After gazing at the cedar-wood for a minute or two, and trying to makethe six notches count seven, she gave it up, and went on with herweaving.

  The old woman, laying down her spindle, raised the lid of an earthen"olla" that stood over a little fire upon the brazero. From the potproceeded a savoury steam; for it contained a stew of _tasajo_ cut intosmall pieces, and highly seasoned with _cebollas_ (Spanish onions) and_chile Colorado_ (red capsicum).

  "Nina, the _guisado_ is cooked," said she, after lifting a portion ofthe stew on a wooden spoon, and examining it; "let us to dinner!"

  "Very well, mother," replied Rosita, rising from her loom; "I shall makethe tortillas at once."

  Tortillas are only eaten warm--that is, are fit only for eating whenwarm--or fresh from the "_comal_." They are, therefore, to be bakedimmediately before the meal commences, or during its continuance.

  Rosita set the olla on one side, and placed the comal over the coals.Another olla, which contained maize--already boiled soft--was broughtforward, and placed beside the "metate," or tortilla-stone; and then, bythe help of an oblong roller--also of stone--a portion of the boiledmaize was soon reduced to snow-white paste. The metate and roller werenow laid aside, and the pretty, rose-coloured fingers of Rosita werethrust into the paste. The proper quantity for a "tortilla" was takenup, first formed into a round ball, and then clapped out between thepalms until it was only a wafer's thickness. Nothing remained but tofling it on the hot surface of the comal, let it lie but for an instant,then turn it, and in a moment more it was ready for eating.

  These operations, which required no ordinary adroitness, were performedby Rosita with a skill that showed she was a practised "tortillera."

  When a sufficient number were piled upon the plate, Rosita desisted fromher labour, and her mother having already "dished" the guisado, bothcommenced their repast, eating without knife, fork, or spoon. Thetortillas, being still warm, and therefore capable of being twisted intoany form, served as a substitute for all these contrivances ofcivilisation, which in a Mexican rancho are considered superfluousthings.

  Their simple meal was hardly over when a very unusual sound fell upontheir ears.

  "Ho! what's that?" cried Rosita, starting to her feet, and listening.

  The sound a second time came pealing through the open door and windows.

  "I declare it's a bugle!" said the girl. "There must be soldiers."

  She ran first to the door, and then up to the cactus-fence. She peeredthrough the interstices of the green columns.

  Sure enough there were soldiers. A troop of lancers was marching bytwos down the valley, and not far off. Their glittering armour, and thepennons of their lances, gave them a gay and attractive appearance. AsRosita's eyes fell upon them, they were wheeling into line, halting, asthey finished the movement, with their front to the rancho, and not ahundred paces from the fence. The house was evidently the object oftheir coming to a halt.

  What could soldiers want there? This was Rosita's first reflection. Atroop often passed up and down the valley, but never came near therancho, which, as already stated, was far from the main road. Whatbusiness could the soldiers be upon, to lead them out of their usualtrack?

  Rosita asked herself these questions; then ran into the house and askedher mother. Neither could answer them; and the girl turned to thefence, and again looked through.

  As she did so she saw one of the soldiers--from his finer dressevidently an officer--separate from the rest, and come galloping towardsthe house. In a few moments he drew near, and, reining his horse closeup to the fence, looked over the tops of the cactus-plants.

  Rosita could just see his plumed hat, and below it his face, but sheknew the face at once. It was that of the officer who on the day of SanJuan had ogled her so rudely. She knew he was the Comandante Vizcarra.