The Scalp Hunters Part 7

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE FANDANGO.

In the evening I sat in my room waiting for Saint Vrain. His voice reached me from without--

"'Las ninas de Durango Commigo bailandas, Al cielo--!'

"Ha! Are you ready, my bold rider?"

"Not quite. Sit down a minute and wait."

"Hurry, then! the dancing's begun. I have just come that way. What!

that your ball-dress? Ha! ha! ha!" screamed Saint Vrain, seeing me unpack a blue coat and a pair of dark pantaloons, in a tolerable state of preservation.

"Why, yes," replied I, looking up; "what fault do you find? But is that your ball-dress?"

No change had taken place in the ordinary raiment of my friend. The fringed hunting-shirt and leggings, the belt, the bowie, and the pistols, were all before me.

"Yes, my dandy; this is my ball-dress: it ain't anything shorter; and if you'll take my advice, you'll wear what you have got on your back. How will your long-tailed blue look, with a broad belt and bowie strapped round the skirts? Ha! ha! ha!"

"But why take either belt or bowie? You are surely not going into a ball-room with your pistols in that fashion?"

"And how else should I carry them? In my hands?"

"Leave them here."

"Ha! ha! that would be a green trick. No, no. Once bit, twice shy.

You don't catch this 'c.o.o.n going into any fandango in Santa Fe without his six-shooters. Come, keep on that shirt; let your leggings sweat where they are, and buckle this about you. That's the _costume du bal_ in these parts."

"If you a.s.sure me that my dress will be _comme il faut_, I'm agreed."

"It won't be with the long-tailed blue, I promise you."

The long-tailed blue was restored forthwith to its nook in my portmanteau.

Saint Vrain was right. On arriving at the room, a large sala in the neighbourhood of the Plaza, we found it filled with hunters, trappers, traders, and teamsters, all swaggering about in their usual mountain rig. Mixed among them were some two or three score of the natives, with an equal number of senoritas, all of whom, by their style of dress, I recognise as poblanas, or persons of the lower cla.s.s,--the only cla.s.s, in fact, to be met with in Santa Fe.

As we entered, most of the men had thrown aside their serapes for the dance, and appeared in all the finery of embroidered velvet, stamped leather, and shining "castletops." The women looked not less picturesque in their bright naguas, snowy chemisettes, and small satin slippers. Some of them flounced it in polka jackets; for even to that remote region the famous dance had found its way.

"Have you heard of the electric telegraph?"

"No, senor."

"Can you tell me what a railroad is?"

"Quien sabe?"

"La polka?"

"Ah! senor, la polka, la polka! cosa buenita, tan graciosa! vaya!"

The ball-room was a long, oblong sala with a banquette running all round it. Upon this the dancers seated themselves, drew out their husk cigarettes, chatted, and smoked, during the intervals of the dance. In one corner half a dozen sons of Orpheus tw.a.n.ged away upon harp, guitar, and bandolin; occasionally helping out the music with a shrill half-Indian chant. In another angle of the apartment, puros, and Taos whisky were dealt out to the thirsty mountaineers, who made the sala ring with their wild e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns. There were scenes like the following:--

"Hyar, my little muchacha! vamos, vamos, ter dance! Mucho bueno! Mucho bueno? Will ye?"

This is from a great rough fellow of six feet and over, addressed to a trim little poblana.

"Mucho bueno, Senor Americano!" replies the lady.

"Hooraw for you! Come along! Let's licker fust! You're the gal for my beaver. What'll yer drink? Agwardent or vino?"

"Copit.i.ta de vino, senor." (A small gla.s.s of wine, sir.)

"Hyar, yer darned greaser! Set out yer vino in a squ'll's jump! Now, my little un', hyar's luck, and a good husband!"

"Gracias, Senor Americano!"

"What! you understand that? You intende, do yer?"

"Si, senor!"

"Hooraw, then! Look hyar, little 'un, kin yer go the b'ar dance?"

"No entiende."

"Yer don't understan' it! Hyar it is; thisa-way;" and the clumsy hunter began to show off before his partner, in an imitation of the grizzly bear.

"Hollo, Bill!" cries a comrade, "yer'll be trapped if yer don't look sharp."

"I'm dog-gone, Jim, if I don't feel queery about hyar," replies the hunter, spreading his great paw over the region of the heart.

"Don't be skeert, man; it's a nice gal, anyways."

"Hooray for old Missouri!" shouts a teamster.

"Come, boys! Let's show these yer greasers a Virginny break-down.

'Cl'ar the kitchen, old folks, young folks.'"

"Go it hoe and toe! 'Old Virginny nebir tire!'"

"Viva el Gobernador! Viva Armijo! Viva! viva!"

An arrival at this moment caused a sensation in the room. A stout, fat, priest-like man entered, accompanied by several others, it was the Governor and his suite, with a number of well-dressed citizens, who were no doubt the elite of New Mexican society. Some of the new-comers were militaires, dressed in gaudy and foolish-looking uniforms that were soon seen spinning round the room in the mazes of the waltz.

"Where is the Senora Armijo?" I whispered to Saint Vrain.

"I told you as much. She! she won't be out. Stay here; I am going for a short while. Help yourself to a partner, and see some tun. I will be back presently. _Au revoir_!"