Chapter 21 - The White Chief by Mayne Reid
Rosita knelt upon the floor, passing her little hand-shuttle through the cotton-woof. Now she sang—and sweetly she sang—some merry air of the American backwoods that had been taught her by her mother; anon some romantic lay of Old Spain—the “Troubadour,” perhaps—a fine piece of music, that gives such happy expression to the modern song “Love not.” This “Troubadour” was a favourite with Rosita; and when she took up her bandolon, and accompanied herself with its guitar-like notes, the listener would be delighted.
She was now singing to beguile the hours and lighten her task; and although not accompanied by any music, her silvery voice sounded sweet and clear.
The mother had laid aside her pipe of punche, and was busy as Rosita herself. She spun the threads with which the rebosos were woven. If the loom was a simple piece of mechanism, much more so was the spinning-machine—the “huso,” or “malacate”—which was nothing more or less than the “whirligig spindle.” Yet with this primitive apparatus did the old dame draw out and twist as smooth a thread as ever issued from the “jenny.”
“Poor dear Carlos! One, two, three, four, five, six—six notches I have made—he is just in his sixth day. By this time he will be over the Llano, mother. I hope he will have good luck, and get well treated of the Indians.”
“Never fear, niña—my brave boy has his father’s rifle, and knows how to use it—well he does. Never fear for Carlos!”
“But then, mother, he goes in a new direction! What if he fall in with a hostile tribe?”
“Never fear, niña! Worse enemies than Indians has Carlos—worse enemies nearer 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 some friends.”
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—who like my Carlos? And the boy loves his old mother—his strange old mother, 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 in the possession of such a son.
“O my! what a carga, mother! He never had such a carga before! I wonder where Carlos got all the money?”
Rosita did not know exactly where; but she had some fond suspicions as to who had stood her brother’s friend.
“Ay de mi!” she continued; “he will be very rich if he gets a good market 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 are but six notches in the wood. Oh! I wish it were full along both edges—I do!”
Rosita’s eyes, us she said this, were bent upon a thin piece of cedar-wood that hung against the wall, and upon which six little notches were observable. That was her clock and calendar, which was to receive a fresh mark each day until the cibolero’s return—thus keeping her informed of the exact time that had elapsed since his departure.
After gazing at the cedar-wood for a minute or two, and trying to make the six notches count seven, she gave it up, and went on with her weaving.
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 pot proceeded a savoury steam; for it contained a stew of tasajo cut into small pieces, and highly seasoned with cebollas (Spanish onions) and chilé Colorado (red capsicum).
“Niña, the guisado is cooked,” said she, after lifting a portion of the stew on a wooden spoon, and examining it; “let us to dinner!”
“Very well, mother,” replied Rosita, rising from her loom; “I shall make the tortillas at once.”
Tortillas are only eaten warm—that is, are fit only for eating when warm—or fresh from the “comal.” They are, therefore, to be baked immediately 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 brought forward, and placed beside the “metate,” or tortilla-stone; and then, by the help of an oblong roller—also of stone—a portion of the boiled maize was soon reduced to snow-white paste. The metate and roller were now laid aside, and the pretty, rose-coloured fingers of Rosita were thrust into the paste. The proper quantity for a “tortilla” was taken up, first formed into a round ball, and then clapped out between the palms until it was only a wafer’s thickness. Nothing remained but to fling 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 performed by Rosita with a skill that showed she was a practised “tortillera.”
When a sufficient number were piled upon the plate, Rosita desisted from her labour, and her mother having already “dished” the guisado, both commenced their repast, eating without knife, fork, or spoon. The tortillas, being still warm, and therefore capable of being twisted into any form, served as a substitute for all these contrivances of civilisation, which in a Mexican rancho are considered superfluous things.
Their simple meal was hardly over when a very unusual sound fell upon their 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 peered through the interstices of the green columns.
Sure enough there were soldiers. A troop of lancers was marching by twos down the valley, and not far off. Their glittering armour, and the pennons of their lances, gave them a gay and attractive appearance. As Rosita’s eyes fell upon them, they were wheeling into line, halting, as they finished the movement, with their front to the rancho, and not a hundred paces from the fence. The house was evidently the object of their coming to a halt.
What could soldiers want there? This was Rosita’s first reflection. A troop often passed up and down the valley, but never came near the rancho, which, as already stated, was far from the main road. What business could the soldiers be upon, to lead them out of their usual track?
Rosita asked herself these questions; then ran into the house and asked her mother. Neither could answer them; and the girl turned to the fence, and again looked through.
As she did so she saw one of the soldiers—from his finer dress evidently an officer—separate from the rest, and come galloping towards the house. In a few moments he drew near, and, reining his horse close up to the fence, looked over the tops of the cactus-plants.
Rosita could just see his plumed hat, and below it his face, but she knew the face at once. It was that of the officer who on the day of San Juan had ogled her so rudely. She knew he was the Comandante Vizcarra.