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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT:

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

The DESERT and the ROSE

BY
EDITH NICHOLL ELLISON

Author of
THE HUMAN TOUCH, ETC.

THE CORNHILL COMPANY
BOSTON

Copyright 1921 by
THE CORNHILL COMPANY
All Rights Reseryed

JUL 28 j99;

OclA622441

CON Auf Ww bd

CONTENTS

7 Chapter
in
. The Graduation of the Tender foot.

. The Rise of the Year.

. The Rio Bravo, Irrigation and Crops.
. Summer Days and Nights.

The Arrival of the Tender foot.

The Peon.

. The Indian, the Mexican and the Church.
. Minerals, Flora and Other Things.

. Noxious and Other Beasts.

bogs)

1 Calts;

. Small Potatoes and Thoroughbreds.

. The Wonderful Country.

. Healthseekers and Matters Pertinent.
. Dawn and Dark.

. Mountaineers.

. The High Ranges.

. Crossing the Desert.

We wish to acknowledge indebtedness to the Chi-
cago, Rock Island and Pacific Railway and The
Raymond and Whitcomb Co., for permission to use
several of the illustrations that appear herein.

THE CORNAILL ‘COMPANY.

FACING PAGE,
Frontispiece
I2

28

40

406

ILLUSTRATIONS

CAPTION
Cloudcroft

The Organ Mountains

An Acequia

Making Adobe Bricks

A Flooded Ranch

A Mule Team

Mexican Quarter, Las Cruces
Round Up

Snow on the Organs
Leasburg Diversion Dam

Scene in the Mesilla Valley

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THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

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, ot TUT AVA THREE FHT

NO MORE

Old homes left lonely ’neath a lonely moon,
Peopled with silent guests each named No More:
Familiar faces lost to us, or flown
Over the River to the Unknown Shore:
Things dear, things human, unforgotten hours:
Dawn on the peaks, songs in the midnight trees:
Eve’s brooding breast or noontide’s storming
showers,
Fragrance of Summer and the deep drone of bees.

Say not No More! Use any words but these!
Fool us with phantoms, cheat us and depart—
Say not No More! For none of Fate’s decrees
Harsher than this e’er wring man’s helpless
heart:
Death, merciless or kind, our birthright is:
Not in such melancholy haunting of our door
See we life’s saddest ghosts: not in this
Lurks the incomparable pang we call No More!

FOREWORD

THESE jottings from the journalofaranchwoman
in New Mexico bear date several years removed
from the present, therefore may appear at first
glance out of date. That such is not the case soon
becomes self evident. Comparatively few amend-
ments are needed to bring them up to date. Cli-
mate, ranching methods and so forth are not sus-
ceptible to drastic changes, even when abetted by a
Farm Bureau, an Agricultural College, farm clubs
of sorts and other aids to the agriculturist.

The writer came to the dry and sunny climate of
Southern New Mexico for the benefit of an almost
lifelong rheumatic disorder, and soon after reach-
ing her destination decided that the Mesilla Valley
was the appointed spot. She purchased a good
ranch in that fertile Valley, some forty miles north
of El Paso, Texas. Unfamiliar with the methods
of farming under irrigation, she yet contrived by
ceaseless mental rather than severe physical appli-
cation, above all by taking thought for the morrow,
not merely to avoid loss but to realize annually a
fair amount on her investment—enough, that is,
to make a tolerable record for a healthseeker unfit
for hard labor, and a tenderfoot into the bargain.

All this happened before the building of the
Elephant Butte Dam, the nucleus of the Rio Grande
Reclamation project undertaken by the Govern-
ment, but the cost of which is ultimately settled by
the ranching population of the Rio Grande Valley

above and below EI Paso. Statistics in regard to
the Dam and its works, together with masses of
information appertaining thereto, are widely circu-
lated and suffice for their purpose. Though by no
means the largest irrigation project in the world, as
claimed for it by those ignorant of the huge and long
established undertakings in distant lands, the Ele-
phant Butte Dam is entitled to rank among the
greatest of modern achievements.

The writer has been urged to set forth the suc-
cesses and failures of the Rio Grande project. Such
a task is obviously not to be considered. Allusion
will be made in the proper places to present and past
conditions compared one with the other, but the fol-
lowing pages aim to represent little beyond the per-
sonal experiences of a practical ranchwoman, ad-
vertise nothing, and endeavor to steer clear of more
or less acrimonious discussion. The skilled and
industrious rancher made money in the Valley long
ere the Rio Grande project came into existence and
his like continues to do so, only more of it owing to
a regulated water supply. The farming person the
world over must be a manager, not only a worker.
Unfortunately the combination is not as common
as it should be.

One comment may be permitted, as a matter of
justice and in the interest of the farmer, namely
this: had old residents—thoroughly acquainted as
they necessarily are with soil, climate and the
vagaries of the Great River—been consulted, some
costly blunders and not a little sore feeling would
have been avoided.

Last but not least: let not any person imagine
that he can pick some cap and fit it to any Valley
dweller’s head, for of this joy he is deprived. In
this book neither caps nor heads are found to match.

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CHAPTER I
THE ARRIVAL OF THE TENDERFOOT

As our train trailed up the Mesilla Valley from
El Paso there came into view alfalfa fields, or-
chards, vineyards, trees, homes palpably inhabited
by “white folks.” In short, the vaunted attractions
of the Valley were actually materializing.

After we had alighted at the little station the
prospect continued to please. It was midwinter, so
the earth was arrayed in shades of drab and brown,
but over all was the radiant high altitude sky, and
in the centre of the town the twin crimson domes of
the Catholic church; and there was mistletoe on the
cottonwoods, its berries pearl white against a back-
ground of sapphire, and none to warn the future
ranchwoman of its evil nature and its sins. Beyond
towered the awful steeps of the Organ Mountains,
their jagged spires and pinnacles casting sharp yet
aerial shadows in the rarefied atmosphere of nearly
four thousand feet above sea level.

I shall continue to use the term awful steeps in
regard to our beloved Organs despite the fact that
they are only a paltry ten thousand feet or so above
the sea, an elevation disdained by certain other New
Mexican mountains. But there is a great deal in
appearances, whatever may be adduced to the con-
trary. Contour, for example, counts for much and
in this respect these shining organ pipes piercing

10 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

the high sky are unique. Moreover, it is generally
conceded that Southern New Mexico and Arizona
can display the finest atmospheric effects on the
continent; also that for every gain in scenic grand-
eur northward bound just so much is lost in color.

Unimaginative indeed must that newcomer be
who can roam around this section of country, if
only bent on ranch hunting, without absorbing
something of its romantic history or being impressed
by the picturesqueness of his surroundings. Years
have slid by since the marvel alone of desert sunris-
es, sunsets and afterglows was first beheld, yet the
primal glory holds us yet in thrall. In winter and
early spring are all these at their best. Many an
evening may we watch, bewildered, the sunset
south, east and west; wherever we turn there it is
to confront us—a riot of color flinging itself up and
across the indescribably tender blue of the high sky,
a blue that defies description or imitation. They
linger long, these passionate rainbow hues,—spread-
ing tentacles of splendor, indefinable cloudlets edged
with rose—a pageant evidently not intended for
mere mortal vision, but part of the always detached,
immortal scenery in which by chance we find place.
And perhaps this is as it should be, for the majority
of human beings pay it slight heed. The hotel sup-
per has started, and to that important function all
but ourselves have fled. And when at length we fol-
low, we return later to behold a transparent rosy
veil drawn across the wide heavens through which
the star of evening shines undimmed.

One day we climb the eastern mesa and pass

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 11

through the Mexican town. To this day it has not
materially altered. Each of the mud-dauber’s nests
called home has a corral attached, fenced about with
wattled sticks, as often by the fouquera which
breaks in spring into gorgeous scarlet blossoms, or
sometimes by a mud wall. Everywhere live crea-
tures are roped according to the Mexican manner,
although the roping of the errant hen until her duty
for the day is performed is not seen in New as in
Old Mexico. Four posts stuck in the ground, a roof
of brush on which the corn crop is piled, walls, if
any, made of wattled sticks—such are the inex-
pensive and by no means to be despised barns still
common in this section, made possible by the short,
usually dry winters, and desirable in view of the
high cost of lumber. Such barns combine the ad-
vantages of warmth and ventilation, and if rein-
forced with adobe mud suffice even for blooded
stock after they are acclimated.

Here in the Mexican quarter signs of content and
cheer greet our eyes. The merciless aridity of the
land above the Valley is coaxed by many a flower
loving sefiora into producing oases of bloom, fenced
against the incursions of goats, cows and burros.
Even in this winter season notes of color run
through the browns and drabs like the notes of a
boy’s soprano above the deep voiced choir. And
everywhere bobbing along the levels, appearing and
disappearing, is the ubiquitous Mexican Hat—in
later days doomed alas! to permanent disap-
pearance.

From the eastern mesa the ester of the Valley—

12 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

the Rio Grande smitten by the sunlight gleaming |
here and there its length along—lies beneath us, a
Vale of Promise, protected by the western mesa and
far mountain ranges. Behind us rise the Organs,
rich in ore. In the centre of the Valley picture
crouches the town, boasting at this date only a few
of the brick buildings, including so-called bunga-
lows, in which those who prefer Progress to Com-
fort may be as uncomfortable as they please. A
mile or two to the southward we see the College of
Agriculture and Mechanic Arts, already equipped
with an experiment station, although destined to a
larger and more far-reaching future.

In another place the cultivation of this fruit-
ful Vale since prehistoric times will be spoken of
more in detail. Its later history is concerned with
its struggle for civilized settlement, beginning about
1825 and subsiding into tranquillity some time in
the 1880’s, when the Atchison, Topeka and Santa
Fe railroad was completed. Las Cruces has well
earned its name of The Crosses. In days not so
long past cross after cross dotted the soil, marking
the spots where each in his turn American or Mex-
ican settler succumbed to the tomahawk of the
Apache, and long after my first acquaintance with
the Valley one large cross in front of the Catholic
church bore the inscription TO THE UNKNOWN
DEAD. Haciendas, or fortified dwellings, still
exist, each built around a patio, its outer windows
missing or inconspicuous, and in one wall a great
arched gateway for the admission of wagons when
Apaches were a perpetual menace. A drive down

SNIVINNOJ. NVDUO AH]

Pie es

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 13

the Valley leads us past a projecting butte from the
shelter of which bands of savages leaped time and
again upon the stage coach following the long trail
from California, often murdering driver and pas-
sengers, leaving the terrified horses to swing the
bloodstained vehicle on to Las Cruces or Mesilla.
In after years mine was the privilege of meeting
again and again two Apaches—“Government Pets,”
as the Oldest Inhabitant somewhat bitterly styled
this type of Indian—boys from the Reservation. All
I can say is that if, so far as appearances went,
these chips of the old block resembled the block,
then the tales I have been told of the raiding of
ranches in the Valley were very far from over-
drawn. After thus anathematizing the Apache it
is but just to recur to the records of Government
folly, and worse, which were to some extent re-
sponsible for western massacres. “This wasteful
and bloody war,” writes Mr. Bancroft, alluding
to that waged with the notorious Apache chief, Vic-
torio, “was the result of the corrupt policy of the
United States Government and the greed of the
white settler.”’ Neither is there anything original
in the assertion that military leaders proved them-
selves alone competent to deal at once equitably and
firmly with the Indians. “’Tis an old tale and often
told,” that of ill informed civilians abrogating to
themselves knowledge and wisdom possessed only
by those on the spot—namely, the soldiers. Many
a nameless trooper in days of Indian raids offered
his life freely in defence of the helpless, even as
“unhonored and unsung’? nameless thousands of-

14 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

fered theirs during the great world war.

No long term of years, therefore, had elapsed on
my first settling in the Valley since the Apaches
had made life frightful for its inhabitants, protect-
ed though the Valley was by two army posts. In
another place it will be told from whence this tribal
nation obtained its frightfulness. Neither was the
Mexican, bred up in mortal terror as he was of the
Apache, an entirely collected and reliable person.
When full of red wine occasions arose—nay, still
arise—on which his feelings were too many for
him. Ponies are scarce and feed high in these later
days, or no doubt he would still on Saturday nights
be racing in dozens instead of in twos and threes
along the country roads, screeching, and maybe fir-
ing a six shooter into empty air. An innocuous
method of blowing off superfluous emotions, it may
be said, so long as sheriff or deputy prefers not
to hear him, but it robs the householder of the sleep
of peace. But there was a time when the youthful
peon was not quite such a harmless idiot; for the
first thing a Mexican of the least intelligent variety
does when scared or excited is to shoot, and
this unpleasant habit often got him into trouble with
his more wily and self-controlled Indian kinsman.

Nevertheless it is the Indian in the Mexican
which preserves in him, not only his picturesque
qualities but others more desirable yet. To this sub-
ject allusion will be made later. Our first powerful
impression of the Indian touch was received one
Sunday afternoon when without warning we came
on a scene seething with a primeval something that

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 15

stirred the blood. It was a Mexican horse race. The
animals provided for this then favorite pastime—
still popular but not so easy of. attainment—were
graded and therefore lending grace and beauty to
the wild scene. The road was lined with vehicles,
caballeros, pedestrians—both races represented,
every white or brown face tense with excitement.
The Mexican jockeys were bare footed and bare
headed, their swarthy locks bound Indian wise,
white cotton shirts and drawers their racing attire.
The frantic steeds reared and plunged, their riders
sticking to them like centaurs; for the horses were
neither saddled nor blanketed, and the bridles were
just hair ropes looped around the muzzles.

A shot was fired, and amid the yells of the crowd
away they went, vanishing in a storm of dust, while
we sank back with ejaculations of delight.

“That was fine!”

It was.

The Mexican inherits from the ages a certain
supple quality of limbs and body, and provided he
is anything of a horseman is in his element on the
back of a horse, although for ornamental purposes
he prefers the splendor of silver mounted saddle
and tasselled bridle. You are in high favor with him
when he presents you with a beautifully braided
bridle. The Far Western American, generally
speaking, is more or less helpless when deprived of
his cumbrous and weighty saddle in which he sits
as ina deep chair. Probably he has never rounded
up a steer in his life, yet he adopts the cowboy
equipment and the cowboy style of riding—both

16 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

seemly and necessary in their place but altogether
ludicrous when acquired by the plain citizen. When
affected by women it is in very truth worse than
grotesque!

Indians were sequestered in reservations and
raids things of the past when the home question
for this writer was finally decided. Not only so, but
it can be proved that for many, many years exist-
ence in Southern New Mexico has been more peace-
ful, serene and secure than in many an eastern
community, and this despite occasional alarms in
recent times of border raids—alarms which so far
have never materialized. And what was it that de-
cided the home question? Must it be confessed
that it was not wholly the rich if neglected land,
the fruit trees in bearing, a magnificent cottonwood
spreading sheltering arms over a spacious, solidly
built adobe dwelling, the admirable possibilities of
the ranch from a farming point of view that turned
the scales? What was it, then?

An attractive drive bordered with china, poplar
and paradise trees, rose bushes before the door—
and bounding the horizon, a perpetual yet variable
vision of beauty, the soaring heights of the Organ
Mountains. Poor reasoning this, no doubt, for a
prospective farmer, and yet not without its proven
worth.

Many contingencies, otherwise unbearable, if
there be such a word in Life’s merciless dictionary,
can be endured when the eyes may be lifted to the
Eternal Hills.

Chie mi Ti
THE GRADUATION OF THE TENDER-
FOOT

It 1s a truism to remark that what a man learns
before he makes his home in a given section and
what he learns afterward are wide as the poles asun-
der and none could realize this more profoundly
than one who journeyed from New York to make a
home in a far country. For the first few years
every year finds the alert person still learning, views
and opinions constantly widening and becoming
more worth while. Therefore when settled inhabi-
tants read or hear of some author tarrying with us
for a few weeks for the purpose of “writing up the
country,” quiet smiles have been known to give
place to yells of derision.

If the farmer works his own land with the aid
possibly of a growing son or two, thus dispensing
with hired labor, his sky should be as unclouded as
that of any farming person here below—-only more
so. Even that question of hired labor (until these
war days) need not be overwhelming ; but the Mex-
ican laborer will be attended to later. At least the
farm hand in New Mexico brings his dinner pail
with him, and the farmer’s wife is not overburd-
ened with cooking for outsiders. Not only so but
provided she be in good health and accustomed to
work, and has no young babies, she may carry ona
profitable egg and butter business, attend to her

18 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

house and still have leisure for “social advantages.”
All the better for her if she is not besieged by pre-
dilections other than social. She has her buggy or
even motorcar, and as compared with her prototype
in the east she should not be overworked. A Mex-
ican woman for the washing and heaviest drudgery
is not a rare visitant in the ranch home. As for
the children—the eastern mother soon learns a
salutary lesson. The independence of the wee New
Mexican-born tots is in marked contrast with the
helplessness of the nurse-or-mother-herded flock
further east or west. Take a New Mexican child
by the hand and lead him or her round? Not on your
life! Either sex is amply able to proceed without ac-
cident to school or elsewhere along country roads
or automobile infested streets. Tiny mites below
school age may often be seen “out on their own.”
So it goes with the children. One may be driving,
and behold rushing upon buggy or car comes an
apparently runaway steed, riderless at that. Not
at all. As the wild animal approaches a little boy,
or possibly two such midgets, comes into view on its
back, urging or controlling at his own good pleas-
ure. Exceptions to the rule of juvenile indepen-
dence there are, of course, but they are exceptions.

And yet for the Tenderfoot there must always be
a first day, a nightmare of a day, when the conten-
tion with novel conditions begins. Recollections
of certain forlorn hours, when too disheartened to
appreciate the uniqueness, the artistic values, of
my environment I inwardly lay down and died, en-
able me to sympathize with the fledgling Tender-

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 19

foot—unless he be robust and surrounded by a fam-
ily. On him or her I do not squander pity. Nor in
all the present up-to-dateness is compassion really
obligatory.

But when a woman is far from robust, has an
embarrassing (yet occasionally cheering) diversity
of tastes, looks after her own ranch, has periodic
calamities in her home which often necessitate night
as well as day work, existence has its wearing side.
Every variety of live stock must receive personal
supervision if it is to prosper. Stock cannot be
abandoned to the untender mercies of Mexican help,
although as will be told there are Mexicans who
prove themselves infinitely more trustworthy than
Americans in this respect—and in some others too.

And in addition to these trifles there was—nay
is often to this day where the older and usually more
reliable peon is concerned—the language to be rec-
koned with. Ah, if it were a language! But it is
not. It is a patois. Frantic appeals are made to
Spanish dictionaries and grammars but to discover
that in cases too numerous to mention the Spanish
and the Mexican word have scarcely even a blood
relationship. Then out of window go those exasper-
ating volumes, and the stranger in a strange land,
settling into a strange home, must banish more im-
portant concerns from the harassed mind and
gather up stray weeds of Mexican speech from the
wayside—finding them after all sufficient for the
daily round. A simple receipt for fluency seems to
be the following: Sit down hard somewhere near
the tail end of every sentence and bawl. Or, as was

20 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

once pithily remarked: Shout in scallops, and swal-
low the lower point of every scallop.

As for neighbors—they are helpful or the re-
verse. In my earliest tenderfoot days I had one
uncommonly gifted; she had commonsense. To her
I flew for advice—not on farming matters, for with
those she troubled herself no whit, but when other
problems yet more vital pressed for wise solution.
When she said: If I were you I would do thus or
so, her suggestion presented itself at once as the
one right thing to do, and a load rolled from my
overburdened shoulders. Such persons are rare
as well as priceless friends, and when they fail to
live out their allotted span the world is left the poor-
er for their departure. There is such a thing as
seeing too much of both sides, and these good coun-
sellors hold the balance true; each one revolves
around his or her axis, never straying away to in-
vestigate the axes of other individuals or speculat-
ing as to how these axes may look to them, yet view-
ing quite enough for their own particular good and
for ours—for us, who see altogether too much.

And so we come to the weightiest of all matters
for the ‘Tenderfoot—the selection of competent
advisers. For in the times of which I write the
Farm Bureau and other like aids to ranchers had
no existence. On the whole, however, practical ex-
perience, intelligently applied, is hardly to be sur-
passed in value.

I was mercifully preserved from the loss and
pain incurred by many newcomers to the Arid Belt,
who are satisfied that they know it all. Farmer or

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE PAN

no, the Tenderfoot has it all to learn. From the out-
set of my ranching career I have cherished two
quite inconspicuous virtues: first, I do know what
I don’t know, and thus protected hasten to sit at the
feet of some accredited Gamaliel: second, I have
cultivated the habit of close observation while ap-
pearing to observe nothing. The individual whose
agricultural belongings, animate and inanimate, are
in sorry plight may talk “all he has a mind to” with-
out affecting me in the faintest degree. By his fruits
do I know him—or her. For information, there-
fore, I hied me to those who had made good in the
departments wherein I needed counsel, and the
empty chatter of the failures beat on my ears as the
crackling of thorns under a pot.

Some eager advisers remind me of a man |
stumbled on not long since in a city garden. He
was telling the lady of the garden how to tend her
flowers and while thus engaged was permitting a
full head of water from the hose to drown her
delicate seedlings. So is it well to take note of the
ranchman offering counsel, to mark well his ways
and what manner of man he be.

Some of the most helpful advice I ever received
was given me by a woman who even in “bad years”
never failed to make her ranch pay. She was too
busily engaged in working to make it pay to join the
“curb-warmers’” on the street.

For reasons, then, alleged earlier I stood calm and
unafraid whilst, during the setting out of a peach
orchard, a neighbor notoriously unsuccessful drew
rein at my fence more than once for the purpose of

22 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

assuring me raucously that them peach trees wa’n’t
a-goin’ to do no good in that there soil and that I’d
best listen to advice. It happened that both the
variety of peach and the corner of land had been
selected for me by a money making orchardist, and
that the two year old trees were being planted ac-
cording to his directions, in large holes twenty-one
or more feet apart to allow for the diameter of the
twelve or eighteen feet often attained by three year
old trees in the Valley. Two men held each tree
while a third spread the roots, the hole being after-
ward filled with fine soil. My neighbor looked on
derisively, and when the orchard was set and in
process of being irrigated, he shouted as he struck
his horse with the quirt and loped upon his way—

“All right! Go ahead! River’s goin’ dry this sum-
mer, and you'll see what you will see in that there
land!”

What I saw was a thrifty orchard passing gal-
lantly through a perilous season of drought and
coming into bearing the following year. Other
young orchards were wholly or in part lost, but mine
flourished because the advice of an expert had been
asked and taken. Constant cultivation was the
preachment—dry farming, in short.

After the retreat of one calamity howler another
arrived to inform me that I should never, no never,
find a market for a small orchard. Thanks to the
ranchwoman before mentioned I did find a market,
and a good one.

So much for advice. Next in order comes the
education of a weather eye. Nature makes mock

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE Zo

daily of the dull and blind, and every locality hangs
out signs of its own, for us to read or pass by as we
will. Naturally there occur seasons when Nature
flouts even the keenest observer, but not often.

Certain Tenderfooters who land in our midst
with more cash than sense, bragging that they will
show the Valley farmers how to do things, may be
dismissed with few words. Sooner or later they
shake the dust of our rich Vale from feet which
naturally enough have never lost their tenderness,
swearing that farming in this section is No Good.
Or else, merely wearying of an avocation for which
they are unfitted, conduct themselves like children
who abandon a toy as soon as it has lost its novelty.
The good ranching person, even as the good phy-
sician, must be born as well as made.

And it is not just the backward look, the days
that are no more look, that shows the hours of bless-
ing to exceed in number, or at least equal, the hours
of banning.

Worry? Of course! Exasperation, poignant anx-
iety? Assuredly. Nevertheless the born ranching
person sticks until removed by ironhanded circum-
stance.

And after all ranching provocation arrives inter-
mittently, owing its presence, in the era before the
Dam, largely to the scuffle for water. The labor
problem, needless to say, was comparatively easy of
solution in those days before a brief period of war
drained the labor supply.

CHAPTER III
THE RISE OF THE YEAR

In New Mexico early in February the alfalfa
is greening here and there, and is not quite so crack-
ly under the feet. But it is still too crackly for
Cortes. The pads of Chihuahua dogs are tender,
and like the wise little old man he is he takes a seat
on the edge of the irrigating ditch and watches me
wistfully on my passage up the ranch. Jealousy
also agitates his snowy shirt bosom because lazy
Betsinda, ever on the lookout for indulgences, has
approached me in her most engaging manner, with
the result that I am carrying her. That Cortes con-
siders such a performance absolutely despicable
makes no difference in his feelings; or that never
does he consent to being borne aloft unless when
crossing a crowded street, and even at that he sighs
woefully. Betsinda’s manners are admired of all
beholders, and it is she who attends to the social end
of their existence—coquettishly, and assisted by
the lavish use of large melting orbs, and always
with that air of nerves-on-the-jump characteristic
of the truebred Chihuahua.

Despite a mitigating quality or two February can
scarcely be called a softening month; in fact the
Oldest Inhabitant believes it to be the most unplea-
sant month of the New Mexican year. For the rheu-
matically inclined it surely is. A chill damp breeze

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 25

from south or east frequently annoys, rain or snow
drape the mountains and sometimes descend on the
valleys. The typical winter of this section is dry
and sunny; or if not, why the presence of health-
seekers and tourists? December may be cold
enough to freeze water in open vessels nights—
outdoors, that is—and occasionally waterpipes.
Nevertheless robust visitors from sterner climes
laugh at well wrapped residents, and are inclined to
parade in the sunshine without overcoats. Every
travelled person, however, knows that to lay down
the law about any climate is nothing but a tempting
of the high gods, who disarrange weather schedules
to suit themselves. Dare to make an assertion, and
promptly the weather gods slap you in the face.
February is the one exception; it is pretty safe to
assert that it is shifty and unreliable. And the birds
may be counted on. The yellow breasted, fat lark
we have always with us, whistling optimistically
every day; and now brilliant blue patches appear on
bare boughs, on fence posts, or attached—bunches
of them— to pump or faucet, and the full water pail
is encircled with a sapphire ring; and anyone who
ever notices anythine exclaims: “The bluebirds
are back! Soon we shall have Spring!’ Glossy
blackbirds too, handsome fellows flashing with
scarlet or orange, swoop down upon the winter
wheat, screaming about irrigation being delayed,
and brown woodpeckers, also touched up with scar-
let or orange, are quarrelsome and restless, and
somewhat unintelligent, as it seems toa mere human
person. Why, for instance, do they drum on the

26 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

metal sides of the water tank, which of a surety can
supply them with no meaty nourishment; or glare
at each other from either side of a post of dressed
lumber, which is also lacking in nourishing qualities,
once in a while catching the other fellow a smack
over the head, an assault returned with interest?
But all these winged things are mere heralds of the
gorgeous red and orange and amber gentlemen still
on their way to us, and are on a par with tentative
bulb fingers poking upward through the drab earth,
with nascent buds on bushes and such wee signs
and signatures of the uprising year. And just now
the amateur gardener who defied prophecy and
sowed his little patch of lettuce and radish in a
sunny corner may reap his modest harvest and
scoff at the wiseacres an’ he will. For he sowed
outdoors in the Fall, rashly dispensing with cold
frames or other protection.

The orchards too were cared for in the Fall—
deep plowed, and now have just been pruned and
harrowed, either already irrigated or about to be
so. The previous Summer’s abnormally heavy rains
have brought wild grass into a corner of the alfalfa
so I decide to fence instead of plowing and re-
seeding the marred acre, so that later on the cows
may be turned on it—cautiously, and for very brief
periods. Jerseys running at large in green alfalfa
are doomed to death, or escape but by a freak of
fate. Scarcely a ranchman in the Valley has failed |
to lose purebred or graded cows from bloat, which,
by-the-bye, is not to be confounded with colic. If
Jerseys graze but a half hour on weedy or grassy

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 27

alfalfa, access to water is forbidden for two hours
thereafter, as also before; indeed opinion tends to
the belief that it is the combination of water and
green alfalfa which is fatal, especially in the case
of Jerseys, whose stomachs are small and habits vor-
acious. But the season of bloat is yet afar off, al-
though the cows must be corralled because they have
a mania for nibbling swelling peach buds. The
horses, less mischievous, may enjoy their liberty
awhile longer.

As for plowing alfalfa—once a man has been
driven to this task he will not hanker to repeat it;
yet much of this heart and backbreaking labor was
witnessed in days of war and wheat shortage, with
tractors yet on the horizon. Alfalfa roots seem to
penetrate to the centre of the earth, and there is a
stand down in Mexico which is reported to. be three
hundred years old. The crop varies in merit ac-
cording to location. Alfalfa from this Valley ranks
higher than that of Colorado, for the reason that
the latter is often “bastard” alfalfa; the Valley
horses will not touch it, although we obtain our best
seed from Colorado.

Occasionally the resident is amused by some new-
comer, professor or otherwise, who condescendinely
informs him that alfalfa enriches the soil. He is a
poor farmer who is ignorant of a fact so lacking in
novelty.

The burning subject of when to begin irrigating
this crop is already in our midst. The advantages
of early irrigation are counterbalanced by the pos-
sible setback of a late frost; and night frosts, which

28 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

have been experienced as late as the first of May,
and which naturally are harder on the advanced
than on the backward crop, read us annually the
old story of the hare and the tortoise. For my part
I took the advice of one who had made exceeding
good with alfalfa, and curbed my impatience in re-
gard to early irrigation. It may be added that the
first is usually the best crop, as it should be ready to
cut before the middle of May, thus avoiding the
danger of Summer rains and the impairment by
Summer weeds.

But the darkening evening interrupts ranching
meditations and I turn toward the lighted kitchen.
Cortes, rather shivery but relieved, jumps as I
reach what is to him dry land, and endeavors to
bite Betsey’s tail. Being somewhat bashful he
would not venture on such a liberty were it not that
the excitement of our safe return has gone to his
head. She growls, and I put her down to adjust
her own affairs, and away both little dogs frisk to
the open door, Hilda, the big St. Bernard, gambol-
ling cumberously after them and making believe to
gobble them up.

Spring, with its rapidly increasing cares, advanc-
es rapidly— Spring, when the aceqiuias brim with
the brown and rushing flood, and the orchards flush
with color on the wing and on the branch, and re-
sound with song to match the dazzling plumage of
the varied choir. The winter world casts off its
mantle of drab and springs to greet the ever rising
year. Yet Nature still uses her lightest touch, scat-
tering emeralds upon the cottonwoods so warily

OUIA

An Ac!

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 29

that the rugged outline of the Dofa Ana mountains
is hardly broken.

But now too we have the winds to reckon with—
the warm west winds which from time to time go
bellowing through our midst. Through our midst
is no mere old-fashioned figure of speech; it is only
too painfully accurate. Consolation, oft grievously
needed, may be found in the knowledge that these
Spring gales act as a purifier and disinfectant;
further, that while blowing when and where they
list, the damage they effect is wholly out of pro-
portion to their noise. Their velocity indeed does
not in actual fact compare with that attained by
gales in other sections of country, and blizzards,
cyclones and northers are unknown. I have
watched a winter norther romp and rage through
my heavily weighted orange grove in Southern
California for nearly a week at a time; whereas our
worst winds arrive before peach, apple and other
orchards are mellow. My California kinsman com-
ing in after a day’s attention to my New Mexican
ranch, remarks that a good shake disposes of
Mesilla Valley dust but that California dust re-
quires strenuous treatment—which by personal
experience I know to be true. Now and then a
lamb-like March and April blusters out into a rowdy
May, and the May winds are of all the most unde-
sirable, even though they are apt to stir things up
in the east, from which quarter our rains may be
looked for.

But now at last the long Spring day draws to a
close, and the wind has dropped exhausted over the

30 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

Organs. Strewn from the western desert’s wild
wings across the unpaintable blue of the twilight
sky stream rose-red pennants, tender yet resplend-
ent—not the washed out hue of other sunset skies
but the soul satisfying glory of color the desert sky
alone can show.

And then when morning dawns after one of these
obnoxious winds, you look up to meet, as it were,
the blue, innocent eye of a little child, quite igno-
rant of having given offence. ‘What have I done
that you should be angry with me?” a voice as in-
nocent as the eye seems to say. What indeed!
Nature is impenitent, but you forgive her, and go
forth to inhale the clear-blown, life-giving atmos-
phere without more words.

With what completeness in these southern lands
are soiled pages turned! One Christmas I was
journeying across Louisiana after a season of piti-
less rains. Most of the sugar cane was cut and lay
sodden in the fields. In the dense woods trees stood
knee deep in water, gray moss dripping from their
branches. Palms thrust stiff green fingers upward,
and from time to time, as we passed, a crimson
flower flashed at us. Rank and decaying vegetation
crowded, and through it miserable cattle splashed.
And then, suddenly, the train rumbled out from
beneath the low clouds; small towns appeared, front
yards bloomed, people rocked serenely on porches,
and the uncut cane glittered, a wide green plain,
in the blaze of a westering sun. Then a bayou dis-
played limpid waters, on the opal face of which
steamboats and live oaks were reflected—bright

THE DESERT AND THE ‘ROSE Sk

similitude of peace. Here Nature seemed repentant
of her outburst; not so in New Mexico!

Spring is closing her open book and it is early
May when one Sunday we drive to a neighboring
village—to find that in this more primeval settle-
ment the world has stood still. The exact date of
the (Mexican) settlement of Mesilla is uncertain,
occurring probably in the first years of the nine-
teenth century, but its era of prosperity did not set
in until the Valley came into the possession of the
United States by purchase in the fifties. An army
post was established, and the dust of sleepy streets
was stirred by the passing of mail and freight
coaches and wagons. Its day of decadence dawned
when it turned with loathing from the offer of a
railroad. To this day the village remains much as
it was, though shorn to some extent of its pictur-
esqueness.

As we tie the horses to a tree in the plaza, in
front of the patched and timeworn church (at this
later date too blatantly ‘“‘restored’’), the entire com-
munity appears to be slumbering. Then unex-
pectedly double doors are flung wide, color and
radiance stream forth, and one of us cries—‘“‘O, for
a painter’s brush!’ Within is the patio indigenous
to the life of both Mexicos. Above the environing
walls burns the blue May sky. In the centre of the
patio a locust tree waves its fresh, frail leaves and
scented blossoms, scattering shadows too over a
mud-walled tank, from which spring spires of pink
and crimson against the soft and varied browns of
the background. On the step beneath the archway

oe THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

sits a vandyke brown child, the crimson of whose ~
garment repeats the tints of the flowers behind her.
The child runs out to embrace Cortes, who loathes
Mexicans, particularly the young of the race—a
loathing inherited from the ages, no doubt—so
shows his gleaming teeth balefully, and she retreats.
A kodak is brought forth, but what is a mere kodak
confronted with such a scene as this? And while
we hesitate a smiling and portly Sefiora steps forth.
Her in our best Mexican we salute, requesting per-
mission to take a picture of her lovely patio and
equally lovely muchachita. With alacrity she con-
sents, re-arranges the child to less advantage, dives
into the recesses of her dwelling, from whence she
emerges with more flowers, but when asked to pose
in the picture, genially but definitely declines. Soon
we part, with mutual smiles and bows.

On we drive, leaving the distinctly Mexican quar-
ter but feeling more and more as if we were rolling
through the gardens of a Sleeping Beauty. For
the streets have become shadowy lanes, embowered
in such a wealth of greenery as causes the stranger
to rub his eyes and murmur: Is this indeed the Arid
Belt? Giant china trees shower perfume from their
violet sprays, their dense shade illumined by the
lighter and more dancing shadows of cottonwood
and locust. On either side, screened by high hedges
of osage orange, vine-covered trellises and balconies
and orchards, we catch glimpses of the palaces
themselves, some in partial decay yet glowing
warmly brown or silvery white through their veils
of green. Upon them poetic fancy had something

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 33

whereon to feed, however absurdly, but where are
they in these later days?

So as we went winding in those earlier days along
silent by-ways, rounding corners which afforded
peeps of azure mountains set in a framework of
foliage, it was easy to forget that we were living
in a wideawake world—that this old, old world,
wrapped in enchanted slumber, was not ours for all
time.

Idle dreams, in truth, and to them succeeded, in
swift and due course, the practical.

GEAUPT ER: 1;
THE RIO BRAVO, IRRIGATION AND CROPS

ONCE IT was my good fortune to stand close
beside the River when it was starting out on one of
its rampages. A neighbor had business concerned
with a bosque, one of many bordering our ca-
pricious stream, and suggested that I should ac-
company him on the long drive, and see for myself
what “ was doing.”’ By the time we reached our
destination the growling of many waters was plain-
ly audible and the horse’s feet already making
splashy noises. However, the river bank rose safe-
ly upward, and on this he left me while he proceeded
to transact his business. My part was to unpack
the lunch, but the fascination of the scene was too
great for such trivialities.

This at last was the Rio Grande, the Rio Bravo;
no longer a lick and a promise but a full flood, dark
and angry, muttering, roaring even in places—hur-
rying, hurrying, with a threat in its voice and in the
shifting quicksands over which it rolled. Already
its swirling eddies were eating into the bank on
which I stood, and a little higher up a tree fell with
a crash, either undermined, or cut down by shouting
men engaged in strengthening the river’s boun-
daries. The wind sang gaily in the swaying cotton-
woods overhead, their young children swinging
tender branches in the brown flood.

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 35

And it was well that I had ignored the lunch, for
the buggy came squelching and rocking back
through water now knee deep, and I was enjoined
to throw the lunch basket ahead of me and speed
down the bank, as it was only regaining the buggy
with the aid of a strong arm and a strong branch.
Two or three days after this delightful little adven-
ture I had occasion to go to the city, but taking wise
advice returned that same night, the train sometimes
crawling through water so deep that the crew sound-
ed it with long poles. And that was the last through
train for many, many days.

The Indians had one resource when the fickle
stream played tricks on them—a resource which has
somehow failed us of a later generation. For them
no sitting down in resignation, no folding of the
hands to sleep, but they uprose as one man, and hav-
ing slain a young virgin to propitiate the god of
waters confidently awaited results. At this point
history provokingly stops short, leaving the rest to
our imagination. Yet to this day in some portions
of New Mexico and Arizona Mexicans carry the
image of San Ysidro, the agricultural saint, to bless
their crops, but though the firing of guns, inevitable
concomitant of all exciting events, is scrupulously
observed, and only water is drunk, except possibly a
light corn wine, we hear of no particularly striking
reform on the part of our old river. A whole day
is (or not long since was) given up in the Mesilla
Valley to invoking and blessing the slippery Rio
Grande, who is liable to give his reverent worship-
pers the go-by just the same.

36 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

The American resorts to what, on the whole, are
more practical measures. On the high lands and
mesas where rainfall is more assured than in the
valleys he takes to dry-farming, which is really only
intense cultivation, such as I was taught to practise
in the case of the young peach orchard mentioned
in an earlier chapter. Moreover in the high lands
gramma grass flourishes, and makes a better winter
feed for grazing stock.

But on this rare June morning the Rio Grande is
conducting itself with decorum—or at least I pre-
fer to think it is as I step forth at nearly seven of
the clock. Breakfast is fizzling on the range, the
aroma of Java and Mocha floating through open
doors and windows. The flock of ebony hens, lately
released and heralded by a gay chanticleer, scarlet
combs glowing in the sunshine, are grazing in the
alfalfa, crooning their satisfaction. The cows in the
corral chew the cud of bovine ease. Up and down
the drive, round and round in the meadows, kicking
up her heels in the joy of living, races a blooded
colt, the hope of the ranchwoman to whom the plug
of the Far West is the abomination of desolation.
Meanwhile the mother tugs at her rope in all the
futility of maternal anxiety.

Equally anxious, though from a different cause,
I stand at the kitchen door, shading my eyes from
the blinding radiance without.

“Juan, have we got the water?”

“Si, Sefiora!’”’ cheerfully.

“Good! Now hold on to it!”

“Muy bien, Senora!”

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 37

And the bare brown legs, big sombrero and clum-
sy hoe disappear among the peach trees. If there
is any more entrancing sound than the hissing of
water into cracked and thirsty land, a more refresh-
ing sight than that of the murky torrent spreading
cool fingers over the face of heated meadow and
orchard, the ranchwoman is not acquainted with
either.

And beautiful indeed upon the mountains as the
feet of those bringing glad tidings is early morn in
New Mexico. Each day is a new birth, a new
heaven and a new earth. When dawn steals along
the Valley and morning leaps in glory on the por-
phyry peaks, the heart leaps with it; for the new
day is ours—not to do with it what we will, perhaps,
but to do with it the best we can. The night may
have been one of dread and watching and the hours
to come burdened with tasks, but never can those
tasks become sordid to the nature lover. The “glory
of the dream” is reborn, day after day, even though
it be sullied in an hour... .

THERE ARE some arts of which a man becomes
master in the course of three hundred years or so.
Levelling land is one, irrigation is another. In both
these arts the Mexican is at his best. Not that the
progressive American fails to get ahead of him at
times, even in his own game, but the progressive
farmer is not yet as plentiful in our Valley as the
eastern blackberry upon the wayside bush; there-
fore the Mexican, with his big hoe and inherited
lore, continues to be a valuable person.

38 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

Land to be irrigated must present an absolutely
flat surface. Alfalfa will not thrive in water-logged
soil. Now comes in our friend Juan or Jesus, who
with plow and scraper reduces the land to a uniform
level. Then he blocks it out in squares until the
whole affair looks like a gigantic chessboard. The
sides of each square are heaped sufficiently high to
retain the water for thorough saturation of the soil.
As soon as one square is soaked a hole is made in
the “‘border” with the ubiquitous hoe, and the stream
eushes forth into the next square, and so on. This
is irrigating after the Mexican manner, and even if
some American farmer prefers a more elaborate
method, it comes to much the same thing in the end.

Nevertheless, the American who makes his ir-
rigating ditches deeper and wider and his borders
higher is the man who gets ahead.

Many Americans irrigate before sowing and not
again until the crop is well above ground. Personally
I have had indifferent success with this plan, and so
have done as the natives do. The Mexican sows
his seed before repairing to the Community acequia,
or ditch. He raises the water gate, and lets the wa-
ter flow into the private ditches of the ranch, and
then following up with his hoe, proceeds as here-
tofore described. This is the simple yet effectual
flooding system. It seems as if the fine seed of the
alfalfa, sown near the surface and only brushed
over and not harrowed into the ground, must in-
evitably be swept away and drowned, but somehow
or other it survives, and soon greets our eyes with
a brave show of green. It is usually sown here in

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 39

March or April and with a nurse crop of wheat,
oats or barley, for the double purpose of keeping
the weeds down and sheltering the young alfalfa
from the burning rays of the sun. This method
bears reason on its face. The crop is ready for its
first cutting by the time the nurse crop is high
enough to be cut for fodder.

A prettier spectacle than a meadow of well
established alfalfa ripe for the harvest, rippling like
a purple sea before a gentle breeze, it would be dif-
ficult to picture, even for the man who cares nothing
for farming. The first cutting of such an estab-
lished crop occurs early in May, and at intervals
from six to seven weeks during the season.

In nutritive and muscle forming qualities alfalfa
has no equal. Work horses fed alfalfa only keep
in fine shape and spirit, always provided that they
are fed enough and given sufficient time in which
to eat it. It is the owner and not alfalfa who must
be blamed for his bony steed. This assertion has
been proved correct by years of actual experience.
Cows fed alfalfa hay, supplemented in winter by a
nightly ration of bran, produce butter unsurpassed
both in quality and quantity. On some fourteen
acres a few head of stock can graze from November
to March, thus eking out the baled hay. But alfalfa
will not endure too close grazing or any other in-
tensive ill treatment; it must be watched and cared
for, whilst yet remaining “the lazy man’s crop.”
Hogs and chickens eraze it also, and with little
additional food during the growing season are
remunerative to their owners. Two hundred and

40 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

fifty hogs throve and grew fat spending the spring
and summer months on a two and a half acre alfalfa
pasture, and ten hogs turned into a one acre pas-
ture for eight months had increased seventy-five
pounds per head at the end of six months. Of
course movable fences were used to permit of
thorough irrigation. Into the more up-to-date
methods of fattening hogs I do not propose to enter,
my own experience not having been in that line, but
I do know that it is quite common for sows in this
climate to raise two litters per annum.

The flooding system already described is em-
ployed in the cultivation of the majority of crops—
for wheat, corn, certain varieties of vegetables, and
usually speaking, for orchards. But should the pro-
gressive farmer flood his orchard in warm weather
he will protect the trunks of his trees from contact
with the water, thus avoiding what is termed sun-
scald.

The furrow system of irrigation is theoretically
the superior of the flooding system, but when put to
the test in the case of orchards does not necessarily
prove infallible. The reason for its occasional fail-
ure is not obvious, for its advantages would appear
to be unanswerable and in other localities stands the
test of trial, not only for vegetables and such crops
as canteloupes and the like, but also for orchards.
In the latter case the farmer plows deep furrows on
either side each row of trees, and into these ditches
runs the water instead of spreading it broadcast.
Thus the growth of rank weeds is discouraged, every
drop of moisture is utilized, seeping slowly down

suoluq ad0dy DNINVIV

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 41

to the trees’ roots, and there is no possibitity of sun-
scald. One thorough plowing during the season is
sufficient, a harrow of any up-to-date make keeping
the land in fine tilth. Nevertheless some orchard-
ists have abandoned an apparently rational system
and have fallen back on ancient ways. For this
there must be some good reason; although it must
be repeated that peach orchards, with which I have
had the most intensive experience, are no longer
what they were in number or perfection, and pear
orchards have to a large extent taken their place.
The necessity of breaking up the soil in some
manner after each irrigation and keeping the or-
chard land like a seed bed is still not universally ap-
preciated. When the time arrives for cultivating
the careless orchardist floods again. The funda-
mental cause of too much loose farming with us is—
or perhaps I may soon have to say was—the almost
unparalleled fertility of the soil in combination
with a beneficent climate. The newcomer’s idea is—
or was—as often as not that lounging on his porch
and ordering his peon around comprises all that is
necessary to his farming salvation. He beholds
luxuriant crops and orchards laden with fruit, and
believes he can enjoy the like blessings minus
thought and toil. Just there he falls down hard,
to employ the vernacular. For centuries this kind
corner of the earth has rewarded man far beyond
his just deserts, but now he must awake from sloth.
And after all, and at its worst, ranching in Southern
New Mexico is not so arduous as in the east; hours
are comparatively short, and climatic rigors prac-

42 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

tically unknown, or such as they are would scarcely
count as such in the estimation of the eastern farm-
er. It may be supposed that even in prehistoric days
there existed ranchers of sorts—those who made
good in their business, and those who branded it
with a big “N. G.”

The “two-story” method of farming has long
been practised in this Valley, though written up in
later years as something entirely novel. Wherever
the soil is sufficiently rich to carry two crops or
more in one season such a method is good, the sole
objection being that when practised in an orchard
it interferes with the thorough cultivation absolute-
ly necessary to the production of first class fruit. In
a young orchard, however, corn is beneficial, for
not only must corn itself be cultivated but as it
grows it affords shade.

The Valley soil is composed of adobe (clay) and
sandy loam, in alternation or blended; and where
sand occurs it is either what the Mexicans call “good
sand” or could be irrigated into fertility. Alkali,
found in my ranching days only in spots, was some-
times the reverse of harmful when well mixed by
deep cultivation, or it could be eliminated by repeat-
ed irrigations. In those days, too, it was quite pos-
sible to find land too rich and heavy for fruit trees.
Fertilisers were then not merely unnecessary but
actually harmful, and the Egyptian Plague of
wormy beasts is put down by some to the present
use of barnyard manure. Every reform has its
initiatory drawbacks, and “the beautiful clear wa-
ter,’ of which the Reclamation Service is so proud,

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 43

may be accounted one of them, as will be seen by
the analysis here presented of the once muddy wa-
ters of the Rio Grande:

Phosphate Acid 0.14 per cent
Potash i.21 per) Cent
Nitrogen O13) per cent

Could fertilising properties furnished gratis further
go? The costly drawbacks accompanying the Re-
clamation Project, however, form subjects for so
many animated arguments that I prefer to steer
away from rather than into them.

And always must there be water. Any ranching
person who has striven with the exasperating an-
cient methods of obtaining this life giving necessity
could not do otherwise than welcome law and order
as administered under the present regime, even with
its drawbacks. Yes—even if he has to watch the
beloved and mysterious acequias stripped bare by
the ruthless hand of Progress; to behold the tall
canes and cottonwoods, threaded by whispering,
meandering paths, laid low; to be able to follow no
longer those secretive ways within sight and sound
of brown and swirling waters and indulge in weird
jungle dreams—even so, he must perforce submit;
- and after all is said, and thought, he is in the small
minority, that very small minority which would do
better to harbor no tastes but the material. For
that which represents to the artistic eye ruin and
despair, is to the eye of the practical ranchman Im-
provement writ large.

In former days the law of the acequia was a by-
word in the market place—not, let me hasten to add,

44 THE DESERT AND' THE ROSE

that it is by any means certainthattheaverage white
man acting as majordomo would have shown him-
self less corrupt or corruptible. The system itself
was to blame, and the worst enemy of the old-time
majordomo was forced to acknowledge that his was
a position difficult indeed to fill to the satisfaction of
all concerned. But the lone woman lost nothing—
as she loses nothing—by keeping on good terms
with Mexicans, official or otherwise; for on the
whole they must be credited with more chivalry or
good nature, or both, than the white man. Above
all was it necessary for the ranchwoman whose land
was watered by means of a contra acequia, or cross
ditch, to be well considered by her neighbors; for
it was so attractively simple for said neighbors to
steal the water on its way from the main acequia,
and thus a whole day might be wasted in walking
to and fro and expostulating with a variety of empty
words. Of course the neighbors could be terror-
ized, but that proceeding had its drawbacks. Should
peaceful means fail, however, which was rarely the
case, the reward of being on pleasant terms with
the majordomo then materialized. In short, though
past days were sometimes troublous, they seldom
lacked a certain humorous aspect. As for the “bad
years,” when the river went dry for any length of
time, they were few; and in fourteen years my
ranching journal notes but one season in which
only two cuttings of alfalfa were harvested.

To return to the subject of peach orchards:
phenomenal is the Spring that comes round without
the accompanying wail that “the Valley fruit has

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 45

gone up!” One learn through the passing of many
Springs to rest undisturbed by such outcries; and
presently even the most hysterical compose them-
selves and find that in at least seven or eight cases
out of ten no harm has been done. Here and there
one lights on a newcomer who turns a deaf ear to
calamity howlers and having raised a peach orchard
waxes eloquent in praise of the unusually fine
flavor, size and beauty of the Mesilla Valley peach.
And well he may; for though apple and pear or-
chards are fruitful and remunerative, they come
into bearing later than the peach, and lack also the
distinctive traits of the Valley peach which won
laurels for itself all over the West, even to bearing
home the Gold Medal from the Chicago World’s
Fair. But with the passing of the great orchard-
ists passed also the fame of the Valley peach; sel-
dom is it to be seen now in its old time perfection.

When I arrived in the Mesilla Valley there ex-
isted several noteworthy orchards of this fruit, one
in particular beinga ‘show’ place, withshaded drives
for the enjoyment of strangers within its gates.
There are no such places now. One orchard I visit-
ed contained about one hundred acres, and shipped
from eighteen to thirty-five carloads of fancy fruit
per season to eastern markets. The thinning of this
typical orchard had provided employment for some
forty or more men, and the pruning was also an ex-
tensive affair. One heard of trees in bearing when
a quarter of a century old. and I myself have seen
twelve year old trees cut down to the fork, renew
their youth and with it their productiveness. Soil

46 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

and climate specially favor the peach, both as to
fruitfulness and long life. Despite up-to-date ter-
ror of late frosts never but once in my ranching
years did I have to resort to buying imported
peaches. After sampling them one after the other
on my homeward road all were finally consigned to
the wayside dust. Thus easily are we spoiled by
the “gilt-edged” things of life!

Fruit drying has been tried in a small way with
success; as why should it not be successful in a
climate so pre-eminently adapted to drying by natu-
ral means? Everything exposed to the sun and air
desiccates rather than decays. A gay plumaged
bird shot and lost was found weeks later in a perfect
state of preservation, and carcases of dead animals
permitted to adorn our highways turn at once into
innocuous mummies.

All vegetables grown in the Valley are well fla-
vored, whether due to altitude, climate or soil can-
not be told. The crisp melt-in-the-mouth celery
makes a person look with disgust on the tough,
stringy shipped-in stuff. But expert gardeners are
not evolved in a day, and unfortunately celery grow-
ers are all too few in the Valley. Canteloupes, cab-
bages, onions and tomatoes all thrive. The report
for 1918 shows a yield to canteloupe growers of
between $125,000 and $150,000. Fifty acres of
cabbage sold for more than $20,000. But statistics
are dull reading, and figures uninteresting to all
but farmers. It is well to add, nevertheless, that
citrus fruits are not included in the Valley reper-
toire, eastern pamphlets, together with east-

HONVY duadooly V

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 47

IIE Eola en aa ee eta tea ep en
ern doctors who send healthseekers to shiver in
our Valley without winter clothing, to the contrary
notwithstanding. Further, in selecting his crop the
prospective ranchman must take into account the
amount of labor required for the crop of his choice,
the ready cash he possesses to pay the rising cost
of labor, taxes and so forth. Many do not pause to
consider ways and means but hurry joyously to
paper profits—futures, that is. In talking with a
highly successful ranchman recently I was interest-
ed to learn that he viewed cotton as the coming ban-
ner crop of this section; not having a head for fig-
ures unless promptly written down I will not pre-
sume to specify the number of bales he raised to
the acre. There is ample proof that in ancient
times Indian races were successful with cotton, but
this crop is only now making a fresh start in both
Valleys. My informant pleased me by rating my
favorite alfalfa next in order to cotton as a money-
maker, although as already told it will not stand
arrant neglect.’ It needs comparatively slight labor
or care, is not pestered with modern bugs of sorts,
is easy to market and so forth. And in these days
of water abundance let not the humble berry be
overlooked. Strawberries have always been ex-
ceptionally fine and well flavored and were I now
in the farming business a large slice of land would
be given up to berry culture of every description.
Our neighboring Texan city has been slow to show
hospitality to Upper Valley products as every house-
keeper in that city knows, compelled as she too
often is to supply her household with unripe or half

48 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

rotted fruit from California or elsewhere. If it be
true that our city is undergoing a slight change of
heart, it is full time that she did.

To go backward once more: driving one after-
noon across a strip of unreclaimed land | came un-
expectedly upon a wheat field. There had been
phenomenally early thunder showers, for it was yet
June, and the air held a dewy softness character-
istic only of the rainy season with us. Clouds were
trailing giant shadows over the bright rainwashed
face of the mountains, and the varying greens from
emerald to bronze, the play of light and shade which
renders the Arid Belt so enchanting yet so exas-
perating to the brush artist, made a picture unsur-
passed in rural loveliness. The eastern mesa wore its
gentlest, most emotional aspect. I use the word emo-
tional for the reason that nearer the Coast moun-
tain and valley, especially in summer time, strike the
artist eye as stupidly unemotional in their dull, un-
varyingly olive green habiliments, in comparison
with the astonishing effects produced here by roll-
ing summer clouds, or by the wind clouds
of spring. This afternoon the red domes of
the Catholic church shone richly through the
bower of greenery in which the town nestles,
and the foreground was consummately effected
by the ruddy patch of wheat and _ stubble,
stooping figures of Mexicans, a man in blue over-
alls and jumper erect against a harmonious sky.
Some of the belated harvest had been reaped, but
there were no shocks. Instead the crop was being
gathered in handsfull and armsfull from the

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 49

ground, or the wheat heads were chopped off the
standing straw, and in such manner carried in dolls’
bundles to a rickety wagon. The reaping, if so it
could be called, was done with miniature reaping
hooks dating from bygone ages. All futile and in-
adequate, of course, but from the artistic viewpoint
not to be improved upon.

I chanced to be on my way to visit an expert
North Western wheatgrower, not long established
in the Valley. His harvest was already gathered,
but he scorned the idea of having lost an hour’s sleep
in “water worry’! His forty bushels to the acre
were raised because he had plowed and sown deep
instead of scratching the soil and scattering the
seed broadcast. Thus the abundant spring irriga-
tions went in and stayed in. Now he was preparing
the same acreage for corn, a double crop working
no injury to such rich land. Corn is a more trouble-
some and thirsty crop than wheat, but succeeds well
in the Valley. As for wheat, though yielding profit-
ably under good cultivation, I have heard farmers,
whose triumphs entitle them to a respectful hearing,
maintain that wheat will never bring fortune in its
train in the Rio Grande Valley, because the climate
is neither cold nor damp enough.

My neighbor, the wheatgrower of that date, is
the father of two rosy little girls, constant visitors
to my ranch, either bent on raking my hay with
horses broken by themselves, or aiming for social
pleasures only. They do all the household work at
home, occasionally aided by their busy father, and
with joy apply themselves to outdoor duties as well.

50 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

At a pinch they have flown to my rescue, spending
nights with me, and cooking such breakfasts as lead-
ers of the simple life are more than glad to praise.
Followed by their piping farewells, and after Bet-
sinda has been kissed to repletion, I start for home.

The sun has set, yet earth, air and sky are lumin-
ous with a quality which is not radiance but rather
its ethereal counterpart. The mountains, unlit,
thrust silvered shafts out of the violet gray of can-
ons, themselves as indefinite yet distinct as half
remembered dreams. The straw of the shorn wheat
fields lie like lakes of unclouded amber set in the
twilight of alfalfa meadows. Gold there is none.
Amber is everywhere, lustrous, pervasive, faintly
tinting the very backs of the sheep, as with bleats
of remonstrance they tread the circle of the thresh-
ing ground—laid out almost in the centre of the
highway—and lighting the sheaves beneath their
feet. Behind the circling flock walks a young boy
clad in sober blue, his straw sombrero pushed back
upon his dusky head, the seriousness of responsi-
bility in his agate eyes, and over his shoulder an
emerald cottonwood branch, borne as the boys of
Holy Writ bore their branches of palm. The weird
cry, wailing across wide reaching lands as the la-
ment of some abandoned soul, quivers on its sus-
tained note, then drops, as the men outside the circle
raise or lower their arms. Into the land of the
Northern Mystery my mind unbidden drifts—into
centuries dead and gone.

Driving onward I find threshing at an end, and
in the light breeze fanning earthward men toss the

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE Al

wheat over their heads, thus letting Nature do their
winnowing. Later, in the Fall days, women may yet
be found, grinding the corn between the upper and
the nether millstone.

But all these things pass away, all relics of the
past primeval.

Nearing home I come to a flat roofed town in
miniature, a bee-town. Lucrative as such settle-
ments are to their owners, fifty pounds of comb
honey per hive being considered a moderate esti-
mate and ambrosial as is the Valley honey, I prefer
not to engage in this industry. I do not like bees,
and, far more important, they do not like me. At
one time I gave them credit for being at least hard-
working, but I have learned that in New Mexico
they are sometimes disgracefully lazy and have to
be urged into doing business. The bee is due to
work for from three to five months in the year here,
but does not always live up to his schedule.

So doth the little busy bee.

Furthermore, owing to the smaller acreage of
alfalfa sown in later years this nominally industri-
ous insect has to be fed more plentifully than of old,
and sugar is no longer a cheap commodity. Ergo,
honey is no longer cheap.

And now the long respected bee is accused of
spreading pear blight. Clearly the vogue of the
Bee is passing.

CHAPTER 'V:
SUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS

SunpAY Morninc. My first cutting of alf-
alfa is safely out of the way and the irrigation of
the shorn fields is completed, and for the passing
hour I am at peace with the whole world. It is only
right, mete and proper that I should be in this
beatific state of mind, for the early hours have been
most unsabbathically employed.

Juan was irrigating all night, and when at the
Sunday hour of eight or thereabouts I stepped forth
arrayed in whitest white with the ultimate intention
of attending church, I was confronted with a
spectacle which caused me to snatch my hoe from
the porch and hurl myself.into a singlehanded strug-
gle with waters all too swift and strong. Far up the
ranch Juan was still racing back and forth, but
around the house one of the ditches had broken, the
drive was submerged and the insidious wave was
threatening my mud mansion. Sunday and snowy
raiment immediately became things of naught, and
for two mortal hours, the sun grinning ever wider
and wider overhead, I strove with weeds, lumps of
clay and finally gunny sacks ere I succeeded in stop-
ping the perilous leak. When Juan appeared an-
nouncing the completion of his task he stared open-
mouthed at the Sefora, bedaubed as she was with
symbols of victory.

A Mute TEAM

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 53

“Why did you not call me, Sefiora?” Then be-
thinking himself he shrugged his shoulders and
spread his hands. “The Sefiora did well not to
wait,” he conceded.

Thus at last I am as free from ranching agita-
tions as the little dogs reclining in the garden—re-
clining, but not “relaxed’’ according to modern
instructions. It is worthy of observation that they
have disposed their small persons at a discreet dis-
tance from a lilac bush already pre-empted by but-
cher-birds for purposes of their own. Not only
are they butchers but warriors of the most agegress-
ive type, and should any dog, large or small, stroll
carelessly within six feet of their nest, out they
dash, and in the parlance of the country give that
dog fits. Howls and groans, deep or shrill, proclaim
that a sharp bill has penetrated some canine back.
Beautiful and bloodthirsty, these winged monsters
leave a trail of death all through the orchards, in
the shape of insects impaled on twigs and left there
to die. Murder, bloody murder, is the slogan of
the butcher-bird. A canary hung outdoors in its
cage is doomed. By some unknown means the gay
plumaged terror entices the canary close to the
bars, and then off goes its head. But as I do not
keep canaries I am spared one form of worry.

Scarcely had I got myself into a clean frock than
Mrs. X. called by to engage a pint of Jersey cream
for her bridge party the following afternoon, and
incidentally to tell me of a night spent in a house of
mourning. She is now on her way home, and con-
cludes her recital by saying that she intends to take

54 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

along nap. She is one of the best of women, Mrs.
X., at the same time I am led to speculate whether
her type—for she represents a type—is not curious-
ly insensitive? This probably heretical surmise
persists. The benevolent ministrations of such
women leave them unperturbed, appetite and ca-
pacity for sleep normal. It has been my lot to have
been mixed up with horror, grief and tragedy—not
constantly after the manner of my kind neighbor,
but often enough, God wot. Such experiences do
not slide so easily into the limbo of forgetfulness
but abide to haunt one’s dreams, torture one’s wak-
ing hours, urge one to fretting, and often vain, en-
deavor to mitigate cruel circumstance. Of all
forms of suffering vicarious suffering presents it-
self to me as the least endurable. With kind, use-
ful Mrs. X. the case is otherwise.

“Of course you won’t come to my bridge party?”
she observes as she lifts the reins. ‘You are ab-
solutely impossible!”

“Incompetence like mine is impossible!’ I retort.
“Instead of spoiling a pleasant game I am better
employed in putting my chickens to bed and dispos-
ing of the evening’s milk.”

She departs with a neighborly sniff, quite un-
convinced, and I am abandoned to my reading, or
what I believe to be reading. As a matter of fact
I am soon gazing idly out of the eastern window of
my big, cool den. Who would not, given the same
outlook?

The roses that have run riot in my garden for
weeks all too brief are now over, the midsummer

THE DESERT AND ‘THE ‘ROSE 55

ones still dormant in their green sheaths. Spring
has folded her bright wings; but white and crim-
son hollyhocks rise proudly against the silvery blue
of peaks yet shining with the—entirely mythical—
dews of morn. Cottonwoods fresh with promise of
eternal youth frame the picture, already flinging,
with refreshing untidiness, their snowy feathers up
into the azure sky or down upon my garden paths.
What of it? Sordid and Martha-like is that spirit
which cumbers itself with such trifles as the dis-
orderly habits of summer snows, or fusses about
summer heat or winter cold when sheltered from
both by a spacious, high-ceilinged adobe house—
built, too, not only on one floor but by those who
knew how to build. There are adobes and adobes,
of course. The bricks are fashioned of mud and
straw, run into a mould and then laid out in the sun
todry. Mine is a real old-timey adobe mansion. Let
those who worship the little tin god called STYLE
roast or freeze in lesser houses of frame or brick,
and suffer and be still. If they prefer a row of
west windows, too, letting in the roystering wind
of Spring and the burning sun of Summer, that al-
so is their choice; and few realize, indeed, that with
us a southern or eastern exposure is the best, the
cool breezes coming from one of those quarters. As
a tenderfoot I was once sceptical, but learned my
lesson very soon. Some never learn, nor even know
from which direction the wild winds or gentle
zephyrs blow.

The well built adobe house, then, is an adobe for
the very gods—until maybe the rains come along

56 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

about the last of June, or later, and trickles of mud-
dy water find their way through the flat roof and
splash upon the noses of workers enjoying well
earned slumbers. But abuse and violence can be
forever quelled by the simple expedient of planting
on the Mexican roof an American roof, and paint-
ing the same a rich crimson. Thus may one be simul-
taneously American and picturesque—a feat not to
be sneered at.

None of our seasons come so much amiss to those
who seek the deepest Heart of Things, and live in
closest fellowship with Nature’s moods and note her
changing face and listen for her faintest whisper,
but it is in winter that the healthseeker visits our
sunbathed land. Winter is our trump card, then?
Granted. But give me the early summer too, when
my brown house veils itself, day by day, in flowers
and greenery, sinking lower and lower into the arms
of cottonwood, locust and umbrella trees, and the
drone of bees and perpetual cooing of wild doves
wakes memories of far off lands; when the June
orchards thrust fruit all aglow into hands ready for
the gathering, and the mocking birds, noisy rascals,
shout night and day; and the ultramarine of the
sky takes on a paler, tenderer hue, into which azul
bath as the heat wave surges along the Valley the
mountains plunge their phantom spires, retiring
further and further into the land of dreams. Then
it is that, noontide drawing near, the olive mesa
decks itself transiently in ribbons of gold and black
as the summer clouds roll across high heaven—fore-
runners of a rainy season yet to come—leaving in

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE sh

their passing swift fading afterthoughts on those
mountains’ rockbound sides.

And morning after morning, under the climbing
sun, and evening after evening when the moon
swims up from behind the lonely peaks or the stars
creep out solitary, a breeze like the cool foam “of
perilous seas” in some “fairyland forlorn” scatters
its vivifying drops upon the heated face of the
Valley, and we breathe the veritable breath of life
as those who abide at sea-level never can do. Ours
is the dewless Arid Belt indeed, but ours too is the
keen, pure air of untrodden desert and mountain.

It is the habit of the prosperous to declare that
everything has its compensations, and for once it
must be allowed that the prosperous are right,
though prating after their manner of that of which
they know nothing.

There is little neighborliness in Nature here,
nevertheless. Even at her fairest she retains her
remoteness, her indifference. Yet somehow we
feel that it is here, just here, that she, in spite of her-
self enters into our heart of hearts. She who would
not appeal has appealed. In her often wild and al-
ways solemn beauty she is the embodiment of all the
sorrows of the world. We turn from her in vain;
it is but to look and look again.

Much is bruited around concerning the “terrific
heat” of our Valley. At once, without fear or
favor but with ample opportunities for comparison
at my command, I brand such yarns as arrant non-
sense. Women, proverbially inaccurate and unob-
servant where Nature’s manners and customs form

58 THE 'DESERT AND THE ROSE

the basis of discussion, are prominent among the
yarners.

“Would I were back with you!” writes one health-
seeker of the male sex, healthseekers being wont to
flee from us the moment Summer shows her glow-
ing face—“You in New Mexico are fortunate in be-
ing spared our eastern “heated spell.”” Why did I
grumble and complain and ignominously take flight?
Woe is me!”

Did we of the Arid Belt possess but one tithe of
the boosting capacity exhibited by our Californian
neighbors, or rather possessed the million or so to
spend annually on a big Boost, such stuff as is used
against us would never reach a human ear or eye.

“Tsn’t this a beautiful morning!’ ejaculates your
Californian as he passes you, sitting shuddering in
wraps and praying the laggard sun to pierce the
clammy fog.

If you are a moral coward, as most of us feel we
have to be in California, you take up the joyous cry
and pass it on. If you still retain some modicum
of self respect, or bear in mind that back in New
Mexico speech concerning the weather is very free
indeed and we abuse it when so disposed, you stand
pat; or you retort that you love fogs—some people
do—or possibly venture timid disapproval and are
promptly squelched.

For we of the Arid Belt—in which, by-the-bye,
the Government establishes its health and rest re-
sorts—are the champion grumblers of the United
States. The more calculating Californian keeps
his troubles to himself, or at least out of the news-

1°?

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 59

papers, whereas we at every climatic mishap burst
hysterically into print, and see to it that our moans
resound through the halls of civilization. Naturally
our climate has its drawbacks and will continue to
have until Paradise opens its doors, but to the ex-
perienced traveler—or rather to the observant trav-
eler, the latter being in the minority—it has not a
rival here below; or not, that is, in these United
States.

There are many portions of this vast country
which should be shunned by those yearning for the
dubious joys of fires and blankets in summertime,
as there are many persons mentally and physically
unfitted for warm and sunlit days. Mentally, be-
cause they fuss and fret and fume themselves into a
semi-boiling condition long ere the heated term ar-
rives, for the reason that it should have arrived;
physically, because they consult an unreliable ther-
mometer every few minutes and if it reads 90 in-
stead of the desired 80, groan and fan and borrow
trouble generally, 80 as a matter of fact being a
pleasant temperature at this altitude and go not so
bad; such persons neither eat, dress nor live ac-
cording to the dictates of common sense. They per-
sist in their heavy winter diet, clasp winter clothing
to melting bosoms, and imagine that open doors and
windows in abundance during the heat of the day
will keep the house cool. In New Mexico one can
keep cool indoors if one will; in much traveling
elsewhere in summer I have often been unable to
achieve this desired consummation. Our rainy sea-
son to the contrary notwithstanding, the humid

60 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

heaviness of low altitudes rarely comes nigh us.
Sunstrokes and heat-prostrations are unknown, and
no matter to what height the thermometer may rise
later, the morning hours are as the very Dayspring
from on high, and around our rural retreat sings
all night the tempered breeze from east or south. I
have stood even at noon watering stock in the broil-
ing sun—and no one devoid of practical knowledge
is ‘acquainted with the leisurely habits of the drink-
ing animal—having to mark time with my thinly
shod feet to keep them off the redhot gr ound, when
suddenly up has sprung the vivifying ‘breeze of the
country, and at once I am cool, almost cold! Conse-
quently the same given temperature at high altitude
and low altitude implies perhaps twenty degrees of
difference in one’s feelings.

As July approaches it behooves the farmer to
keep that weather eye, of which mention has been
made, very wide open. Let him pay no heed to the
man minus the aforesaid eye, or to the city dweller
whose mind is akin to a sieve. The Tenderfoot
in particular must beware of the latter, who may as-
sure him that there has been no rain for two or
three years. Watch the knowing ranchman’s face
when such assertions are made by those whose
memories are of sieve-like quality. He has lost, and
he knows. Too vividly his mind recalls many a
downpour of the previous summer, ruined
alfalfa and sodden cane—and grimly he smileth.
Therefore is it incumbent on the ranching
person to take note. For instance. I sally
forth some clear, exquisite July or August

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 61

morning and perceive upon the Organ peaks a
cloud no larger thana man’s hand. I took upon my
second crop of purple alfalfa and sigh, but what
must be, must be, and I send the grumbling mowers
away—who proceed to cut their own crop instead of
mine, and while it lies helpless down comes a raging
thunderstorm. But it is not my hay.

One summer I was compelled to abandon my
ranch at the date of that second cutting. For the
first time, and the last, in my ranching history I
lost the entire crop. Why? Because the men in
charge, who not only were to share the expected
harvest but were older residents than I, had kept
their weather eyes closed. In return for such losses
and muddy roads and sometimes leaky roofs, a
luscious green which climbs high up on the
granite peaks delights the Arid Belt habitant—such
green, such a wealth of rampant wild flowers, as is
rare elsewhere in midsummer—rare, because this
green is so fresh and young, and abides with us for
months. The earth and all that is therein has
turned backward, and there remains.

Occasionally the too credulous Tenderfoot is
entrapped. Maybe, attracted by the abnormally
fertile soil, whose reasonable reason he does not
suspect, or beguiled by a real-estater, he has bought
and built and settled himself in the Valley, unmind-
ful of a dry arroyo at his back. His crops are fine,
and he is a happy man—for the nonce. Then one
dreadful day the storm descends, the arroyo fills
and sweeps down upon his land; it is a lake and his
house stands alone in its midst. He has come to

62 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

the Arid Belt to be ruined by an overplus of water.
What irony of fate is this! A fate from which
some charitable soul might have saved him, provided
he had been willing to accept counsel. But charity
and real-estating seldom walk hand in hand; neith-
er is the newcomer to be consoled by the information
that it may be four, five or more years before to his
like catastrophe is repeated. He returns to his
own wet country, shaking the mud of the dry coun-
try from his feet.

But in mid June the rainy season is still on the
horizon, and this particular Sunday is_ typically
warm and dry. As the day grows the cows seek
the shade of the sheds, the hens that of their brush
arbors, or else walk around with lifted wings and
open beaks like tentative dancers—but then hens
are absurd creatures anyhow. The roosters com-
port themselves in a more seemly manner. The
horses, with apparent inconsistency, are inclined to
seek the sunshine, for the reason that flies prefer
the shade. Hilda, the big St. Bernard—or Bravo,
the mongrel collie of dearer memory—extends her-
self in the yet damp acequia, and emerges there-
from a drab, queer, clipped being, unrecognizable
as one of high degree, or when Ricardo arrives sub-
mits unwillingly to cooling showers from buckets.

And now by the tail wagging of all the dogs, the
Chihuahuas uttering their characteristic note of
welcome, and by the nickering of horses in corral
or pasture and the faint lowing of cows, Ricardo
has appeared upon the hitherto silent stage. Anon
he will bring my buggy, and I and the little dogs

THE, DESERT AND THE ROSE 63

will bury ourselves in the recesses of its top and
hie us to dine with friendly neighbors.

Sometimes, for weeks at a time, it chances that
the days only can be spent at the ranch, and in win-
ter at set of sun we betake ourselves for the night
to our healthseekers’ ranch resort, as sure of our
welcome as anyone can be who passes much of a
limited leistire with invalids and their relatives far
from home and friends.

When in summer it is deemed desirable that I
should thus abandon my adobe home, we prefer—
at least I do—to first meander in the twilight adown
the Valley road, over which hangs close and low
a cloud of dust not there by day, to right and left
of which smile superior green meadows and patches
of corn, further yet the dark mesa sharply outlined
upon the coppery west, and in the east the solemn
violet peaks of evening. Self contained and re-
mote, Nature watches us groping along our blinded
course.

But at the end of the road there are lights and the
patter of young feet hurrying to meet us, and a
scramble to climb in where we all are, and boy
voices—and we are no more alone.

Best of all does it seem, when possible, to remain
beneath one’s own roof tree, to partake of a primi-
tive supper of bread and milk, and then mount and
ride away into a world all one’s own, into which no
man, or woman either, ever enters. Here all is
still, silent, mysterious with the mystery of the
Great South West. Nature stands aloof as always,
but now with her finger on her lip. ‘‘Hush!” she

64 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

breathes to the few who lift their eyes unto the
hills. Deep, rich, subdued are the hues of her early
night, from the brown of the acequia whispering
beneath the olive of tall weeds and rustling cane
and arching trees, to the profound yet pellucid ul-
tramarine of the mountains and the mystic sweep
of heaven. Ss

Homewardbound my unshod pony steals rhyth-
mically up the drive, through a dusk heavy with the
fragrance of china trees and blossoming meadows.
The embowered house sits dumb, solitary and un-
welcoming—not physically empty but heart and
soul empty. By day it and the surrounding ranch
may have rung to the shouts of happy boys, but now
a sense of loneliness unspeakable, indescribable—
nay, of abandonment—hovers around my brown
mansion. I divest my pony of saddle and bridle and
open for her the pasture gate. In an instant she
and her constant companion are nickering on each
others’ necks, while I, still with that strange sense
of homelessness, walk slowly to my home. The
screen door of the illuminated kitchen flies wide,
and with weird strains of rapture, neither howls
nor whines, two white specks flash toward me
through the dusk.

Who said there was no welcome for me? Nay,
forsooth, it is a royal welcome!

Rising in the night watches, slumber hard to be
entreated, I look forth on the changeful and now
moonlit spaces overswept by wide winged shadows,
stealthy visitants from the Great Unknown. Silence
reigns but for the rarely hushed sigh and murmur

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 65

of the southwestern summer night. Then, rushing
fearlessly into the stillness, ring out the exultant
notes of the mocking bird in his prime—lord of
Love and Life, challenging, as it were, the Im-
mutable, the Eternal, which answer not. His voice
breaks, droops, dies away in a long questioning
whisper. The swift cool breeze tosses the cotton-
wood leaves in the face of the silver moon, and
swings away across the desert to where the untrod-
den spires of the mountains cleave the sky, them-
selves as unheeding, as indifferent.

The moments pass solemnly. The bird lifts his
wild voice no more. The winds pause in their flight.
The darkest hour before the dawn is at hand.

“The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
And the weary winds are silent, and the moon is in the deep;
Some respite from its restlessness unresting ocean knows,

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.
Thou in the grave shalt rest. 3

CHAPTER Vi
THE PEON

For THE first few months of my career as an
employer of Mexican labor in New Mexico I re-
ceived the pardonable impression that the attitude
most affected by our fellow citizen and fellow voter
was that of his head in a wine barrel and his legs at
right angles thereto. This impression, even as
many others, underwent modifications. Neverthe-
less it cannot be denied that the Mexican peon is,
more often than not, fond of his drink. In these
later years the training camp, with its discipline and
enforcement of the liquor law, found favor with
the very parents of the Mexican boys themselves;
and it should be added in common justice that the
number of young Mexicans who volunteered with-
out waiting to be drafted exceeded that of Ameri-
cans. This fact, creditable as it was, had its draw-
backs at first because of the language difficulty, a
considerable proportion of the new arrivals being
unable to speak English. But to return to former
days.

The ranchero who was not the owner of a vine-
yard was a rarity. The feet of the native had not
forgotten how to tread the wine-press, and the skin
of a steer swelled with new wine was yet to be seen
suspended outside the dwelling of the landowner—
may yet be seen in remoter portions of the State.

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 67

The shiftless type of peon, crawling along a road
on some bitter, brilliant winter morning, crouched
on the seat of his ramshackle wagon behind a team
of dejected ponies, a blanket pulled over head and
shoulders, the point where his nose might presum-
ably exist buried in his knees, came in well as a
figure for a middle distance. If not in his wagon
or on his horse he might—nay may—be observed
squatting by the dozen in winter against a sun
warmed wall—‘“the Mexican fireplace’’—smoking
the perennial cigarette, gambling possibly at monte
or chusas, or better still, simply chattering, and us-
ually about nothing whatever ; for it is a garrulous
race even when hardworking. But the Mexican is
seldom a hobo or a beggar, and is not addicted to
tramping the country without an object. When he
walks, he walks rapidly. He does not stroll. But
then neither does he walk if he can get out of it,
thus resembling all Southern races as I have known
them. Yet watch a gang of Mexicans going to or
from work in some city; their gait approaches the
dogtrot of the pure Indian.

The peon is also akin to the negro in one respect,
if not more: the life of the ranchwoman is largely
consumed in gathering up his leavings; yet if a long
apprenticeship has been served with the happy-go-
lucky darkey, the inevitable is submitted to with
reasonable philosophy. Everything, in short, on the
ranch is just where it ought not to be and never
where it should be. Work presses, and some indis-
pensable article is missing. ‘Where is it?” “Quien
sabe!” accompanied by a shrug which is the soul

68 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

of amiability. The retort courteous but unsatisfy-
ing.

Now there was Ascencion, who wore somewhat
the air of a peacable Spanish hidalgo, and who was
“not used to being hurried.” He was ornamental,
his manners were pleasing, his English fair to mid-
dling, and he was not unkind to animals, so long
as their demands upon him were not too exacting.
Sober and honest, he was therefore agreeable in
every capacity save that for which he was hired, i. e.
work. Had I been ina position to give wages in re-
turn for a few trifling chores our pleasant relations
might have longer endured; as it was we parted at
the end of six months, several weeks of which were
absorbed by the duties attendant on getting mar-
ried—an affair which for the peon bridegroom
making an alliance somewhat above his station ap-
pears to be beset with difficulties. New relatives
had to be courteously entreated—chiefly fed, and
thirst assuaged—lavishly and numerously: wedding
garments had to be provided for bride as well as
groom by the groom, and my wagon and team were
in constant request on the strength of wages yet on
the dim horizon. For me also was the privilege of
presenting an adobe home to the newly weds. But
then I could subsist meanwhile on the cheap fare
of hope—which proved, as is not uncommon, a
delusion. Whether Ascencion found the effort of
living up to his bride too great an effort, or whether
I was merely reaping the everyday fruits of kind-
nesses bestowed, is uncertain, but it was certain
that the toil of my peon became more intermittent,

TUE DESERT AND THE: ROSE 69

if possible, and that better than ever he loved to
sit in the shadow of his own fig-tree and gaze with
primeval calm upon stationary horses hitched to a
stationary plow. Thus we parted. And as Ascen-
cion belonged to my tenderfoot days he has never
been duplicated on my estate.

As an experienced employer of labor—and here
is it amiss to question if the employer has not some-
thing to learn in this employing business even as has
the employed ?—I have never believed in demonstra-
tive supervision. Wiser is it, mayhap, to “keep eyes
in the back of the head.” Thus: one day I stood
on the mounting block in front of my Southern
home, waiting for my husband. As men usually
have to be waited for, I was unperturbed. (Here
it is best to pause and nail my colors to the mast ere
some indignant masculine hand tears them down.)
Our faithful William stood at the heads of the
blooded team, and my roving glance lit casually on
the silken quarters of the near mare. ‘Now Mis’,
now Mis’!” ejaculated William, stammering in his
haste as his custom was—‘Dat ain’t no dust on
Lemma! Sw’ar to gracious dat ain’t no dust on
dat mah!’ My husband joining me at the moment
we both laughed, but on my return to Aunt Hannah
in the kitchen she delivered herself as follows:
“William, he come in mah kitchen and says ‘Mis’,
she got eyes in de back of her haid!’ An’ ef dat
ain’t gospel truf too!”

In New Mexico, also, many words may prove de-
leterious rather than helpful in that matter of labor.
I prefer to abstain from hovering over my workers,

70 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

but instead have a way of appearing quite unex-
pectedly, and if the job is not being done to suit me
have the difficulty rectified without unpleasantness
on either side. It seems to me that labor of every
color has a weakness for being trusted—up to a cer-
tain point. But if I have two or more men working
I see to it that they are widely separated, though to
arrange Mexicans beyond the limits of shouting
distance in our thin atmosphere is scarcely possible.
But shouting makes a noise, and the Senora is
known to possess ears as well as eyes.

Juan, my champion worker, never fails to find
me men who are middling to good as to industry;
and he always serves me first when laborers are in
demand. One day, having already engaged him-
self to a newcomer before I put in my plea, he pro-
mised to send me a good man to clean my acequias.
Early the next morning I sallied forth to find that,
as usual, he had kept his word. An hour or so later,
ereatly to my surprise, I discovered Juan himself,
shoveling out dirt and weeds at express speed. Nat-
urally I exclaimed.

“Si, Sefiora. That Sefior Z. knows nothing. I
will not work for any man who stands over me and
watches all the time—no, Sefiora!”’

Thus was merit rewarded. I did not watch Juan,
and for me he accomplished marvels.

Ricardo, the boy, who served me loyally many
years, had more than a touch of poco tiempo in his
make-up. Should my pent emotions suddenly ex-
plode in the loud remonstrance—“O, hurry, hurry,
hurry, Ricardo, or I shall go crazy!” the sense of

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE Al

humor so often possessed by his race causes this
exhibition of speed mania to appeal to him as a
good joke, and he snatches up the handles of the
wheelbarrow and goes off at a round trot, continuing
thus to trot until the work is done.

The peon’s forbears at the coming of the Span-
iards were not only skilled but industrious, as all
history proves, and any laziness evinced by the mod-
ern peon is set down to mismanagement by govern-
ment and church. The effect of climate it surely is
not! The very idea is ludicrous, and not borne out
by facts.

Let us turn from personal experiences with the
peon to read the words of an American long resi-
dent in Mexico; and neither is he alone in his opin-
ion, being upheld by several residents in both New
and old Mexico. I myself have heard those who
have employed peon labor in numbers and for half
a lifetime declare that the Mexican will give his
very life for white men who know how to win his
esteem and confidence.

“The Mexican peon is naturally a faithful, loyal
associate and helper ; he is trustworthy; he believes
it to be a priceless honor to be confided in.... All
men, however, irrespective of nationality, if dis-
trusted and watched will frequently let the watcher
have what he is looking for.”

In respect to business arrangements, verbal con-
tracts and so forth I myself have found the peon
more to be depended upon than many a person of
other nationality. On first coming to this Valley I
was assured by Americans, who understood the

v2 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

Mexican as well as any white men can understand
the soundless depths of alien and colored races, that
this would be the case. As for the common accusa-
tion that Mexicans never keep their promises, for
a number of years I was in a position to state that
Mexicans kept their word as often as Americans
did; unfortunately since being brought into contact
with the youthful “educated” peon I have mis-
givings on that score. In regard to paying their
debts, our resident in Mexico has more to say:

“T have trusted hundreds of Mexicans in small
accounts.... Some have not paid; some could not
pay and continue to eat. In hundreds of cases the
debtors would appear sooner or later and take from
their bosom the petty slip of account, where they
had guarded it with religious care for months until
in their narrow lives the small sum would be saved
for payment.”

At this point it may well be quoted: He that is
without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.

Furthermore I have been assured by those in
charge of hospitals, and also by medical men, that
the Mexican, rich or poor, pays his bills far more
promptly and willingly than does the American;
and here again the numerous exceptions do but
prove the rule.

The unspeakable conditions prevailing in Mexico
—the cruelties, the outrageous oppression, vouched
for by competent witnesses, the,long bondage of
peonage—could result but in one way: Revolution.
It is one of the tragedies of modern times that re-
volt, though absolutely unavoidable, has done noth-

SHONAD SV] WaLavaAG NVvoIxayy

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 73

ing for the once desirable peon but transform him
into a lawless bandit dreaded and even hated by our
New Mexican peons, yet how profoundly to be pit-
ied! Sentimentality plays no part in such compas-
sion; for it has its source in knowledge of facts.

Not long ago I heard Mexican labor lauded by
South Eastern Texans and greatly preferred to
that of (southern) Italians.

“The disparagement of the Mexican character
so commonly indulged in was long ago concentrated
in the typical designation of them as ‘greaser’, a
term intended to be disparaging and insulting.” The
like spirit of intolerance toward the peon, taking it
for granted that he is “no good,” prevails overmuch
in our Valley, and the newcomer would find it to his
advantage to meet the peon at least half way. He
will lose nothing by so doing and may possibly gain
something.

As for the peon’s thievish propensities, I regret
to be unable to join the loud chorus of accusation
against him. Perhaps I have suffered in small
measure because of a lengthy acquaintance with the
darkey and his little ways, although neither Mexi-
can nor darkey has so far equalled the “swiping”
accomplished by fairer “help.”’ And thief or no, it
must never be forgotten that the peon is the ever
convenient Cat-that-steals-the-cream; of course no
one but a Mexican would steal! Possessions of
great or little value have, I admit, passed beyond my
ken, but without exception the abductor in the case
of valuables has been a white person. It should be
added, nevertheless, that the peon has a well nigh

74 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

uncontrollable passion for blankets—Navajos for
choice—but a stable blanket will serve. On cold
nights when my horses were free to leave their
shelter and roam the fields if they preferred, each
horse wore a blanket made fast with surcingle and
strap, and more than once, the animals being used
to handling, there appeared in the morning a strip-
ped horse. But Ricardo, on his own suggestion, soon
settled this matter by “laying for” the thief, armed
with my shotgun.

In my ranching years there could be no question
as to the desirability of Mexican labor for the lone
woman. The “I’m much better than you are” of
the white man or woman made a sorry showing be-
side the peon’s courtesy to the Sefiora for whom he
worked; he carried himself, in short, and generally
speaking, with the courtesy of the gentleman born,
poor and uneducated though he was. He would
also work more faithfully for the Unprotected Fe-
male than he would for the Protected—generally
speaking again. It may further be affirmed that no
woman could have passed weeks and months alone
on a farm in the Black Belt without molestation.
Yet this I did, and without near neighbors, though
I did not remain alone in my house at night, that not
being deemed quite wise. Another ranchwoman,
living a couple of miles beyond me, drove herself
home for years after dark if so disposed, and was
never so muchas startled. Even in later times, with
its alarms of border raids, the general opinion in
our Valley inclined to absolute faith in our Valley

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 75

Mexicans, and up to date this faith has not been
found wanting.

In using the past tense in regard to the peon, this
is not to say that there are no good peons left, or
that the “educated” peon is invariably inferior. But
neither education—if it can be called such—nor
mission schools have affected in the slightest degree
the Mexican’s partiality for following the line of
least resistance: he is a better liar, especially in his
youth, than the very darkey himself. This may be
saying much, yet not too much. The latter is ham-
pered by the knowledge that any Southerner, or one
who has lived long in the South, is capable of dis-
criminating and eliminating even whilst lending a
kindly ear to African eloquence. This is not to say
that a beneficent tolerance checks the eloquence,
but the slightest expression of disbelief may
cause a certain embarrassment. The Mexican,
on the contrary, is mever embarrassed; he
either entertains a faith absolutelv sublime
in the American’s credulity and so glides unper-
turbed upon his errant course, or he is more stupid
than our old friend the “cullud pusson’’: the latter,
I incline to believe. The American’s sole hope lies
in a firm but silent disregardof the peon’sassertions.
I have known truthful Mexicans, but not many. To
differ from the average peon is vain; with the dark-
ey, as aforesaid, some effect may be produced. For
instance: after listening for long minutes to a ran-
dom flow of words from an intelligent and faithful
colored servant, I sighed wearily—“O, William,
why will you lie so!’ In a moment William’s gait

76 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

broke, he stammered—‘Now Mis’, now Mis’, I
doan’ know why I lies! I jes’ lies!”

An Australian of mark and prominence has re-
cently declared “that it would be better for the fut-
ure world if each race should develop along its own
distinctive lines.” Never was there a truer word!
Provided, of course, that every and each race has
its distinctive lines. The Mexican race down to the
humblest peon is distinguished by the fact that it
possesses artistic tendencies and often talents far
in advance of the race which is in most other re-
spects its superior. The same may be said of other
foreign races, but we are dealing now with the
Mexican. To Americanize him in the highest sense
is one thing; cheap Americanization quite another.
Unfortunately the ignorant and not often over alert
young peon is inclined to imitate the Citizen Genet
type of American—that outrageous offshoot of so-
called civilization severely rebuked time and again
by Washington himself. Of Citizen Genéts we al-
ready possess a surplus without adding to their
number with the erstwhile courteous Mexican,
whose up-to-date manners are enough to make their
angels weep; indeed it is permissible to wonder in
one’s darkest hours if they have any angels? On
the Citizen Genét model then “educated” Mexican
youth too often models itself—a double aggravation
because in the case of the peon bad manners are
such an ostentatious demoralization. Native cour-
tesy, untampered with, is so balmy and blessed a
thing, holding also the additional charm of being
inbred and guiltless of either servility or fawning.

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 77

One of two wellbred young Americans, discus-
sing a certain incident in my presence, concluded the
recital with a comprehensive wave of the hand and
the ejaculation—‘‘Well, you know what the educated
Mexican girl is!’

Pity’ tis, ’tis/true!

The peon, not unlike the negro, who has benefited
to any marked extent, or who has “been made over”
by the superficial and overcrowded instruction
thrust upon him by the public school, is “different,”
i. e. is not a representative specimen. All through
the pedagogic world the idle struggle to force the
round ball into the square hole persists, although
the trenchant criticisms, prompted by the early fail-
ures in training camps for American officers and
which failures were in large measure laid to our
public school system, have aroused that noble dis-
content which makes for the only progress worth
while. Illiteracy, it is discovered, is far from being
confined to aliens and still have we to learn, or dis-
cover, that instruction is not education—distinctly
not—and that it is just here that the Home must
supplement the School. How often does it? So far
as the peon is concerned, it stands to reason that he
must learn to read and write our language, but to
educate him “azay from’ (as has been aptly re-
marked) his natural bent is surely a blunder. The
Mexican public school child discards the useful lore
of his parents handed down through the ages, their
skill in ways he wots not of, their capacity for
loyalty and affection, their courtesy aforementioned,
and with a head not conspicuous for brilliancy woe-

78 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

fully crammed with perfectly useless lumber, leaves
school with his native tastes undeveloped or utterly
swamped—in other words, he is neither fish, flesh,
fowl nor good red herring. This may be considered
an extreme case, but such extreme cases are quite
common. If Education for Citizenship, and the
Worthy Use of Leisure, often cry vainly for a hear-
ing where American youth is in question, how much
more so is this the case with an alien race?

The Mexican girl, whatever may be said to the
contrary by those who do not know how to
approach her, has an undeveloped talent for
home-making; her inherited love for the beauti-
ful renders her, I have been told by heads
of dressmaking establishments, an invaluable seam-
stress; in the florist line she is born to excel. Train-
ing would make her a good nurse, and among her
feminine elders expert masseuses of a skill inherited
from the Indians, may still be found. Both sexes
are almost passionately musical, though one regrets
to perceive a decline in this passion among the “‘edu-
cated” young peons. A correct ear, however, and
a love of good music—when not perverted by cheap
associations,—are still constantly to be met with.
A young peon who could neither read nor speak
Enelish was helping me clean house one Spring day,
and his eves lighting on my Victrola, he exclaimed—
“Oh, and do you love Caruso? How many of his
records have you? I saved my money and bought
with it a Victrola for my mother, and with every
cent more I save I buy Caruso!” And then lend a
shrinking ear to the raucous and terrible outcries

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 79

projected into the open by many an American’s
“talking machine!’

Yet even those who entertain the kindest feelings
toward the Mexican must perforce acknowledge
that the race possesses certain trying character-
istics. (What of our own race? Is it free from
human blemish?) To me, personally, the Mexican
girl, and in a lesser degree the boy, is but in one
respect exasperating beyond endurance. No matter
how dependable, intelligent and sensible one’s hand-
maiden may be as a soloist, let company in the shape
of visiting girl friends arrive, and she drops every-
thing, throws courtesy and decency to the winds
and becomes for the nonce a gigeling, nay gibber-
ing idiot. The house may burn down for all she
cares, this dependable maiden, and she runs shriek-
ing off with her friends, to return only when the
crazy spell has spent itself. It is well, therefore, to
accord her gratefully all the “afternoons off” she
desires, for thus may you be sure of peace in your
home. This stricture applies solely to the “edu-
cated’”’ Mexican; in former days home training pre-
vailed in the Mexican adobe, and such discourtes-
ies were unknown.

It must be persistently repeated, for it is so often
forgotten, that in ancient and alien races there are
depths that no mere modern white person can ever
hope to sound, subconscious memories and heritages
which shape our efforts to their ends, not to ours.
But when time, opportunity and financial conditions
permit, the mass of Mexican peons with whom we
are so closely associated will undoubtedly become

80 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

better American citizens by having their special
needs considered, their special tendencies developed,
whether by technical schools, manual training or
whatever form of genuine education may be deemed
by the best authorities suitable.

And now to dip once more into the past as rep-
resented by some dozen or more years ago.

There came a summer in which Juan brought his
little family to dwell in the rear of the big ranch
house for my protection. Juan is the owner of a
temper, though never “turning it loose” in my pres-
ence, near as he shaved that catastrophe on one oc-
casion. He is quick to resent from an American
any treatment not in accordance with his own
notions of etiquette, but toward me his unaffected
courtesy never failed. And it is fair to add that
in the six or seven months he had his abode beneath
my roof I never heard his voice raised in anger eith-
er when addressing wife or children or the old
woman temporarily his guest.

The agricultural Mexican—and agriculture is
the avocation in which he is at his best—is for the
most part a good husband and father, relative and
friend, unless he is in his cups. an event which takes
place too often. But Juan is never in them, and the
strong family affection characteristic of the peon
unspoiled by city life is in his family very much in
evidence. With justifiable pride Juan remarks—
“T used to drink like those others do, but it doesn’t
pay. I drink a little—s:, a very little—every day.
Now Luciano, he keeps a pitcher of wine by his
bedside. If he wakes in the night he takes a drink

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 81

eager aa eared hc OR OSES
therefore you see how things are with him!” I do
see, every week.

It is pretty to watch the two small boys run to
meet Juan returning from work, and while each
little hand is clasped in that of the father to hear
him question them thus:

“Have the muchachitos been good today? Have
they gathered wood for la Mama?”—and so forth.

It should be further adduced that Mexicans in
general are good to each other in trouble or sick-
ness.

The vicious drop in the blood where domestic
animals are in question crops out, however, even in
pleasing families like that of Juan. Pancho, the lit-
tlest boy, is a terror! No sentient thing escapes his
diabolical handling. Ricardo, who adores animals,
is bitter in his denunciations of the small sinner.

“T cannot leave my pony tied to a tree when
Pancho is around!”

One day I took Pancho under advisement, his
father standing by, tolerant and amused, and in
awesome words described the tortures I would in-
flict upon him if ever again he tortured Ricardo’s
pony or his mother’s chickens (for some reason he
kept his infamous paws off my livestock) and thus
temporarily cured him. Several years after this
incident I chanced to come upon Pancho, a grown
boy, working for friends of mine. He recognized
me immediately, and lifting his hat in the courteous
peon manner, held out his hand. As.we ‘“‘shook”’
and exchanged greetings, a blush rose to his some-
what fair countenance, and he made it clear that he

82 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

had not forgotten another interview of a less agree-
able character.

To behold the typical peon handling a work team
and to remain unmoved, one must be either a stoic
or—well, something worse. Yet I have found by
experience that the peon can be vastly improved in
this respect—by example, by appealing to his pride
and by yet other means. But the peon comes by
his cruelty by right of inheritance; this cannot be
said of the white man. That the highest form of
civilization is not compatible with hardness of heart
toward animals is a truth which takes long to im-
press itself on new communities, and consideration
for the welfare or susceptibilities of dumb and
dependent creatures is even to this day often looked
on askance by the majority, be they white or brown.
Therefore it may be opined that the “cruel” Mexican
has a scarcity of what are styled “good examples”
by which to benefit.

To go back to Juan as an inmate of my house. On
such evenings as I rested quietly on my front porch,
a little dog on either side and a big one at my feet,
peace reigned, despite the proximity of seven per-
sons. Through the brown tranquillity of twilight
the cheap jew’s-harp at the father’s lips blended
harmoniously with the low songs of mother and
children, seated on the hard adobe ground back of
the house. This mode of spending the evening after
the day’s work might be that queer, somewhat in-
definite thing “un-American”, but it struck more
sweetly on the ear of the solitary listener than the
whoops of civilization at play. Not that I have any

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 83

objection to the noise of “kids” in its place, but it
is peculiarly out of place in the hush of evening
characteristic of our Land of Mystery.

And now to tell of the solitary instance of Juan
coming near to losing his temper with me; because
he has been in my employ a long time he begins to
believe he may control certain matters, after the
manner of faithful servitors. But Ricardo has al-
so worked long for me—the half Yaqui boy of the
cameo-like profile, whose mother is of the breed of
whom it has been said that one such Indian is equal
to three Mexicans. -Ricardo’s (Mexican) attacks
of poco tiempo are outweighed by his excellent men-
tal equipment and, most surprising trait of all, de-
votion to animals. The father of Ricardo is a little
sawed-off Mexican peon of limited brain power.

One afternoon arrived Juan on my stage, very
evidently “seeing red’.

“Sefiora, that boy must go this night! By morn-
ing I will find you a better boy.”

“What is the trouble, Juan?”

“He meets Jesuscita at the pump!”

Jesuscita is Juan’s thirteen year old daughter in
short frocks and pigtail, who is already considered
too old to travel to town unless accompanied by one
or both parents. Also she is comely. By chance I
had witnessed that brief primal meeting at the
pump, a piece of noonday innocence; for Ricardo
lives on his father’s ranch.

“And what of that, Juan! Ricardo lifts his som-
brero to a pretty child and wishes her a respectful
Good Day.”

&4 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

“He must go, Sefiora! I will drive him off this
ranch with my gun!’

Juan’s voice is raised with a threat in it, so I rise
to my feet and the occasion: iust here forbearance is
not the better part. To lose Juan would spell calam-
ity, but as with the negro so with the peon: face the
music and take chances!

“Juan! I shall not send Ricardo away because he
has once spoken with Jesuscita at the pump! Neither
do I permit you to drive him off my ranch with
your gun! My ranch, Juan—sabe?”’

Seconds of agonizing suspense! Would Juan
“fire” himself? He was looking down, shuffling
his moccasined feet in the dust. Finally he spoke,
sullen but submissive.

“Si, Sefiora.... But will you speak to Richardo >”

I will. Ido. And as Ricardo, his Yaqui blood
to the contrary, is not precisely daring, all goes well.

To close with one more anecdote.

Manuel is a good neighbor, but he has a wild
craze for water gates. As nothing availed to curb
it I devised a method for chaining the gates in the
ditches. Thereafter I slept in peace. Manuel is
a good farmer, owns moreover many head of stock,
and greatest of treasures a bosque; he cannot be in
pressing need of firewood.

It is an error of judgment to inquire of pilferers
of whatsoever color whether they took this or the
other. Be very sure of your facts—then go ahead!

“Manuel” IT remarked mildly one morning, “Why
do you take my water gates ?”

Assailed thus unawares, and having believed

THE DESERT AND) THE ROSE 85

maybe in common with some of my whiter neigh-
bors that the Sefiora is an Easy Mark, Manuel
shuffled his feet in the dust, looking silly and sheep-
ish. Now Manuel being the homeliest man in New
Mexico sheepishness is not becoming to his peculiar
style.

“Well, don’t do that any more. Come, and let
me take your picture! One of our healthseekers
wants it.”

Ignorant of the motive for that desire Manuel
grinned approvingly, and for a period of weeks left
my water gates severely alone. But the day arrived
when, as mentioned above, they had to be chained.
Yet Manuel is no common thief.

Having alluded earlier in this chapter to the num-
ber of volunteer or drafted Mexicans who could
neither speak, read nor write English, it is but fair
to take note of the proposed attack by Congress “‘up-
on the national disgrace of illiteracy’ —an illiteracy
which is far from being confined to aliens, nor even
to certain sections. Many of the illiterates are
nativeborn whites, a fact long familiar to me, per-
sonally, but disregarded in the waving of flags and
shouting of shibboleths. Training camps have dis-
closed much, very much, that is lacking in our so-
called educational methods; the wonder is that such
disclosures were necessary? For not only is il-
literacy revealed, but the vital necessity for “a
broader policy of public education”—so that, in
fact, it may be worthy of the name Education and
cease to stand complacently beneath the poor little

86 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

banner of Instruction. How many “good’’ Amer-
icans, fluttering proudly that insignificant banner,
can write their native language intelligibly or speak
it without sending shudders down the backbone of
the educated American? As for the mode of speech
a fair percentage of teachers—but here the curtain
must be dropped in haste.

CHAPTER Vit

THE INDIAN, THE MEXICAN AND
PRET CEURE Et

“During the lifetime of the adventurer called Don Ruy Sandoval
the province of New Spain along the Rio Grande Del Norte was
locked and barred against the seeker of gold or of souls—it was
the closed land of mystery; the province of sorcerers, where Mother
Earth hid beneath her heart the symbol of the Sun Father... .Fires
were lit as they have been lighted for centuries that the god Po-
seyemo might know that their faith in the Valley of the Great River
was yet strong for the ancient gods. Three centuries of the re-
ligion of the white strangers have not made dim the signal fires
to those born of the sky.”—The Flute of the Sky.

Is there anything new under the sun? Now in
place of lighting fires on the mountain in honor of
the great god Po-se-yemo, the Mexicans and In-
dians, encouraged in superstition of another variety
by the Church, light these fires to show Our Lady
of Guadalupe the way down the Valley of the Great
River. Of course she has been to visit us once,
innumerable years ago, but it is presumed she has
forgotten the trail. The Church makes handsome
use of many an ancient heathen tradition, and this
represents just one. But it is eminently pictur-
esque, not to say beautiful. For days previous to
this sacred December night the devoutly inclined
native gathers whatever combustible material offers
itself, and when darkness falls dozens of little
flames rise into the star-studded sky. There is no
fear that Our Lady’s feet may stumble. But alas!
she never comes. When bedtime hour arrives we

88 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

step out on the porch, and lift our eyes to the high
mountains. The fires still burn.

Professor Bandelier, the noted Santa Fé arch-
eologist, once expressed an opinion in regard to the
Indian which applies almost as well to the Mexican.

“It is vain to deny that the Southwestern village
Indian is “not an idolater at heart,” but it is equally
preposterous to assume “that he is not a sincere
Catholic.’ Only he assigns to each belief a certain
field of action and has minutely circumscribed each
one.”

At the same time, there are ceremonious occa-
sions in which Catholic and Pagan ideas are com-
mingled naively enough, such for instance as that
alluded to in a former chapter, when a statue of
the Virgin is carried around during the green-corn
dance, her guard of honor consisting of naked and
bedaubed individuals beating tom-toms and firing
guns, all this being intended to propitiate the Rain-
God. Their dancing before the Catholic Church on
feast days presents itself also as a composite rite.

It is claimed on good authority that all the Indians
are believers in magic and witchcraft, and the bulk
of the Mexicans in witchcraft. In the large Indian
pueblos in close touch with Americans nothing but
the near presence of white people has more than
once prevented wholesale uprisings against “witch-
es;’ and even as it is isolated specimens of the
craft, male and female, are occasionally, though se-
cretively, killed according to the ancient and pre-
scribed Indian method of dealing with witches. Yet
it by no means follows that these believers in super-

THE DESERT AND: THE ROSE 89

stitions are barbarous any more than were the pious
New Englanders who used to indulge in equally
barbaric practices. In most other relations of life
the witch-persecutors are sufficiently harmless and
worthy. The Mexican does not often punish for
witchcraft, partly because the Mexican witch is a
person of lively and retaliatory character and has
an unpleasant habit of turning on the persecutor.
Even in our civilized Valley the Mexican does not
discourse freely of his real and genuine witch—un-
less in the guise of a falling star she may be per-
ceived scurrying to some baleful interview, or the
house-cat on its nightly prowl may caterwaul the
information that the witch has found lodgment in
its furry form.

The superstitions of the Mexicans have, in cer-
tain instances, a familiar ring to one who has spent
many years in the heart of the South. For instance,
there is the moon whose proceedings govern sowing
and planting, pruning and reaping, and all the daily
actions of the Southern farming man. Lately I
said to Valentina, that it was sad that in my flock of
thoroughbreds the eagerly awaited pullets should
have proved to be merely an overplus of cockerels.

“Ah,” replied Valentina, “when you set the eggs,
you did not watch the moon!” Valentina has lived
with me, or rather worked for me, on and off, a
matter of two years, but still stoutly refuses to speak
a word of English, and indeed pretends she under-
stands none—which is an imposition. “La luna
chiquita—oh, chiquitilla!—poco gallinas, mucho
gallos! La luna gra-a-a-nde” (spreading arms and

90 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

hands and opening mouth cavernously), “mucho
gallinas, poco gallos!”

So many Mexicans applied for slips from my one
rosemary bush to keep off the Evil Eye that ere long
myself was bereft of that desirable protection.

Not long before I established myself in the Val-
ley of the Great River, our peaceable Mexican popu-
lation strayed unexpectedly from the straight path
of ecclesiastical virtue. A saint’s day, on which
for generations it had been their pleasure to dance,
relic probably of some ancient rite, although but
few Mexicans join in the Indian dances, had been
interfered with by the priest. Now it is not well
for even a holy padre to exceed his rights. His
flock maintained for the nonce a passive obstinacy.
At night-fall, however, the priest received a press-
ing call to a dying bed; but that was no dying bed
to which he was hurried through the deep sand of
the desert, through whispering cottonwood bosques,
under a moonless sky! When at last he was es-
corted homeward by a band of silent men, a very
sore padre climbed alone upon the porch of his
comfortable house and no doubt sought consolation
for chastisement received in a brimming goblet of
the wine of the country, of which it is affirmed that
he always keeps a sufficiency and of the best. In
such cases, rare as they are, the culprits are as easy
to find as the proverbial needle in the haystack.

The march of progress has not infallibly proved
a blessing in disguise. With the Spaniard came
greed and corruption, though for the former vice
he surely paid a heavy price. The work of the

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 91

Franciscan Friars in the sixteenth century belongs,
nevertheless, to the age of miracles. Torn by
thorns of cactus and mesquite, stumbling with bleed-
ing feet over rocky mountains, wandering under the
burning sun of the desert or lost in pathless forests
uncertain whether life or death was to be their
portion when by chance they lighted upon some set-
tlement, they hurried on, succeeding or failing, but
always going forward, losing their lives if need be—
although it must be said that at this, the initial ap-
pearance of the white man, the Pueblo tribes en-
treated him gently and hospitably.

The cruelty of the Spanish soldiery, the enslave-
ment of a free people and the exactions of the
Church provoked the first rebellion. A conical hill—
one of numerous extinct voleanoes—above the river
back of my ranch is distinguished by the legend that
on it the Spaniards made their last stand when they
were being driven out of the country, not to return
for a decade or more.

But the rebellion was yet undreamed of when the
Holy Inquisition held its initial Santo Officio in the
palace at Santa Fé. Without doubt those infernal
rites had not a little to do with the explosion of
1680, although it is by no means certain that up to
that date the natives had suffered in person. More
probably they were excited by rumors emanating
from the relatives of Spanish victims. Now this
ancient palace of priests and governors stands not
only as one of the landmarks of history, but as the
home of perhaps the finest archaeological collection
in the United States, as well as of linguistic and his-

92 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

torical libraries. New Mexico does well to treasure
and be proud of her Palace of the Governors. It
was within its adobe walls and towers that the
Spaniards took refuge before fleeing from the Val-
ley of the Rio Grande; and here one may pause to
speculate whether the Spanish coins unearthed from
time to time in our vicinity may not have been
buried during that desperate retreat from Santa
Fé to El Paso del Norte.

To return to the Friars Minor of the Franciscan
order—the pioneers of the new religion—they go
down to posterity for what they actually were;
faithful, self-effacing and heroic workers, often
humble and lowly men, devoid of sophistry and
pride. The priests who succeeded them were
Jesuits, and whatever may be said of the splen-
did work done by this order in New Mexico,
by priests and sisters alike. the fact remains
that their political meddling, here as_ else-
where, combined with their attempts to control
legislation, as also their opposition to free educa-
tion, wrought much evil, and delayed statehood con-
siderably longer than would otherwise have been
the case.

It may be questioned whether the Franciscans
under Spanish rule were altogether responsible for
the pest of fiestas, although these ever recurring
holidays and fiestas which afflict the ranchman and
woman were originally introduced by the Friars in
the first half of the Sixteenth Century as a means
of attracting*and holding the Indians, and some
students of Southwestern history go so far as to

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 95

declare that these devoted parish priests induced
an idleness not natural to the industrious Pueblos
and their tribal connections. History proves that
at the first coming of the Spaniards the Puebloswere
engaged in tilling the soil. They were also expert
workers in silver and gold and other and various
handicrafts, besides being accomplished builders in
stone and wood, as the Friars discovered somewhat
to their cost.

For even the harsh lot of the intrepid Franciscans
is not without its touch of humor, and the story
of Fray Marcios de Nica in search of the fabulously
rich city of Cibola—represented at this date by
the town of Caquinico on the Zuni Mesa—evokes
a smile, for the reason that his negro companion,
Estevanico of the sixteenth century, bears an amus-
ing resemblance to the negro of the twentieth. It
may be mentioned in passing that Cibola proved to
be no “hidden treasure” city, but simply an impos-
ing and admirably built pueblo of rock and timber,
inlaid with turquoises and other native precious
stones. The Pueblos, to which tribe the Zunis be-
long, still assert that the Emperor Montezuma was
born at Acoma, north of Albuquerque, and that
they are his descendants; furthermore that before
going south he taught them how to build their great
stone houses and estufas and to kindle their sacred
fires, which were kept alight by priests appointed
to guard them.

Estevanico, therefore, being sent ahead by the
Friar in command of three hundred Indians, and
receiving en route liberal gifts from hospitably in-

94 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

clined natives, acquired the ‘‘swelled head’’ charac-
teristic of his race, and proceeded to seal unto him-
self many—too many—of their women in tempor-
ary marriage. Then as he strolled proudly on his
way, arrayed like Solomon in all his glory but lack-
ing the wisdom of Solomon in that he paraded his
wives as well as his jewels, he met a fate tragic yet
to be expected. A black man hung with precious
stones and followed by native women held in bond-
age, who furthermore proclaimed himself the em-
missary of a great white King, proved in the end too
big a pill for the wise men of Cibola to swallow, so
poor Estevanico was violantly eliminated like the ne-
gro of later days under circumstances not wholly
dissimilar. Fray Nica, following after, judiciously
tarried outside the pueblo, and made short work of
his tarrying too, taking time only to plant the ban-
ner of Spain on a nearby mountain and then fleeing
southward “with more fear than victuals.”

And like Fray Marcos I too must hurry on, lest
the fascination of New Mexican history should en-
trap me—merely remarking that the two oldest
Missions in the United States, although unfortu-
nately in partial or total ruin, are to be found in
New Mexico on the site of ancient towns or pueblos
which are yielding valuable rewards to archaeolo-
gists and excavators. These Missions are at least
one hundred and fifty years older than the Missions
in California.

Hatred of the Spaniards culminated early in the
nineteenth century, as again in the twentieth, in the
Mexican revolution, and the Spanish priests were

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 95

largely replaced by natives, the Spaniards flying
before the wrath of an oppressed race. Religious
institutions and buildings saw hard times, even
the native priesthood gradually vanishing; and al-
though they indubitably added to the superstitions
of their flock, they at least maintained some kind
of religious order. But they went, and the govern-
ment swallowed the church property in great gulps
until the Jesuits under American rule took posses-
sion of New Mexico.

To revert to our own day; the large fees demand-
ed by the priests for all sacred ceremonies still
exists, though in lesser degree. It is claimed for
the Pueblo tribes that (left to their own religious
rites and ceremonies and secret societies of sun-
worshipers still in existence) their communities
from earliest times compared favorably in some
respects with those of many white communities.
Marriage was one of the Christian ceremonies
which, during the most corrupt era of the Catholic
priesthood was made so expensive for the natives
that it was often disregarded. Thus the native fell
between two stools; he was neither moral according
to his ancient manner, which, it must be remem-
bered, included as constant an increase of the tribal
population as could be compassed; nor moral in his
comparatively Christian manner. Our valley Mex-
icans still suffer somewhat from priestly exactions,
as before mentioned.

For instance Adelado comes to me.

“Sefiora, will you advance me five dollars?”

“But, Adelado, you are already overdrawn!”

96 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

“Si, Sefiora, but the padre,—it is to pay the
padre.”

“The padre, Adelado? Again?”

“Si, Sefiora, Tomas, he has asked me to be god-
father to his muchachito, and to be godfather one
pays the priest ten dollars.”

Now I happen to be in a position to ascertain that
Adelado speaks the truth; otherwise—but the Sefi-
ora is experienced in the ways of liars.

“Juan,” I said some time later. “Do you have
to pay the padre much?”

Juan who had been laughing at the puppy antics
of Montezuma, turned on me a lowering coun-
tenance.

“Sefiora, I am a poor man. I work hard. My
children are many. The padre does not work. He
is fat. He lives well, and has all he desires. I give
to him—when I must, yes! I put a dime in the box
when I go to mass on Sunday, but I do not go too
often. The padres rob the poor.”

The Mexican, even when a genuinely devout
Catholic, is hospitable and courteous in his attitude
toward other religious denominations.

An individual styling himself a Christian worker
was mildly active for some months amongst my
Mexican neighbors, all of whom were Catholic. I
observed that they took his tracts, printed in Span-
ish, and gave ear to his discourses with a semblance
of appreciation. After his departure I was prompt-
ed to inquire if he had made any converts.

“Ah no, Sefiora! But’—here an expressive
gesture—\“this poor little queer Sefior! He did us

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 97

no harm, and it pleased him so much that we listened
to him and took his little books! What of it? We
dropped them in the acequia and went on to mass
just the same!”

And if it be true that Mother Church gets a good
deal out of her children, they get out of her some-
thing in return—their money’s worth in fiestas for
those who choose to enjoy them. Juan despises
these holidays, and rarely observes them. On such
days wagons roll by from dawn till dusk laden with
loud voiced peons, all in gala attire, the women with
the inevitable black shawl, sorry aftermath of the
mantilla, drawn over their heads, and in later days
dubiously adorned with the American made hat. It
should here be mentioned that the Mexican youth
prefers a purple suit and a red tie, whereas the girls
still cling for the most part to sombre shades. They
go to mass, visit friends, talk endlessly, drink wine
—at night perhaps hold a baille.

On the Eve of the Feast of St. Genevieve our
Mexicans treat the town to an illumination. All day
the householders are engaged in placing rows of pa-
per bags filled with sand along the edges of the flat-
roofed houses. In the sand they plant candles.
_ When the hour for lighting up arrives the effect
is bizarre and charming. The band thumps on the
plaza, rockets whiz heavenward in honor of the
patron saint; the scene, with all its adjuncts, is com-
plete. When the morrow arrives. with perhaps a
winter wind at its heels, reaction setsin. The paper
bags tip over and spill their contents down the necks
of unwary passersby. Naturally the bags do not

98 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

all tip over at once, and the results are at once inter-
mittent and protracted. But as time goes on and
American Progress despoils our towns one by one
of its picturesque qualities, qualities which made me
on first coming hither rush madly for color-box and
brushes on all sorts of inconvenient occasions, the
inconveniences caused by St. Genevieve must van-
ish also. For she cannot be duly honored except from
the flat roof of adobe houses.

Color-box? What mockery! I push aside my
papers as the light within doors waxes dim, and go
to the window. All this February afternoon a cold
southeast wind has been whining around the house,
and now, after sunset, the stormy magnificence of
sky and mountain beggar all attempt at description.
Tone that magnificence down to the uttermost, re-
produce it thus tempered in oil or water-color, and
still will you invite but the scoffs of a world more
ignorant than it knows. Painting such unearthly
sky and landscape simply can’t be done—or isn’t
done—either one. And yet how perfectly it “be-
longs” in that adventurous and romantic past with
which my mind has busied itself!

Crimson smoke swishing across the face of some
far off mountain range is just a snow flurry. That
mighty pipe organ sizzling redhot above the bat-
tered and sombre Valley stands for our own Organ
Peaks, in their condensed fury scarcely recognizable
as the rose pink, peaceful heights irradiating most
winter gloamings. Earth and heaven have gone
color-mad. Wild indigo clouds alternately blot out
and frame sky-pictures fantastic as dreams. The

Tie DESERT AND THE, ROSE 99

western welkin resembles nothing so much as the
tumultuous red ravings of a lunatic.

And yet—after such near-vituperation we, being
only human, turn aside because it is all too gor-
geous, too beautiful. It would appear that the re-
ceptiveness of the mortal mind has its limits, that
it can comfortably absorb just so much and no more.
Or, if this be not so, why the inexpressible yearning,
the vain half conscious reaching after these “‘trail-
ing clouds of glory” long left behind, the mournful-
ness, the restlessness, call it what you will, when
Nature overcrowds her scenes?

CHAPTER VIII
MINERALS, FLORA AND OTHER THINGS

STANDING at the entrance of the Pass which
bores eastward through the Organs the contrast af-
forded by the lonely dream of landscape before and
the busy mining town behind is not only striking in
itself but characteristic of this entire section.

In strong relief against the intense blue of the
sky uncanny desert growths give the foreground
the aspect of a huge botanical garden; and sloping
gently valleyward toward the brink of the mesa the
high country shows no sign of human life, except
that here and there a tiny cloud of dust like a puff
of smoke rises into the clear air, betraying the pre-
sence of some ore wagon, auto truck or car on its
way to or from range or town. Isolated mountains
float like turreted and battlemented islets in the
emeralds and azures of the valley. To the right the
San Andreas range runs northward, while to the
left and southward the precipices and porphyry
spires of the Organs block the sky line.

To our rear is another scene. Shacks and houses
dot the rising slope to the Pass, and with steam and
horse power men are forcing the rocky heart of the
mountain to yield her treasures. We stand upon
what is in fact part of “the great mineral backbone
of the American continent.”

In a state embracing seventy-nine million acres

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 101

the following natural resources are found in paying
quantities: gold, silver, copper, iron, zinc, lead,
mica, coal, marble, fire-clay, alum, sulphur, soda,
salt, asphalt, gypsum, not to mention tin, of recent
discovery. Two thirds of the whole State are moun-
tainous, and nearly all the mountains are full of
minerals. Besides the above-mentioned resources
precious stones of rare beauty are to be found. Of
the extraordinary mineral wealth of the State not
enough is known, even in quarters where knowledge
is to be expected. The New Mexico turquoise—
with which ancient tribes adorned themselves and
their houses ere the invasion of the Spaniards—
was prized in Europe as the equal of the Persian
stone long before it excited remark on this side,
though at last so well appreciated in New York that
single specimens were at one time held there at a
price ranging from four to six thousand dollars. In
1893 one mine sold for $250,000, and has since paid
the purchaser a million and a half per annum. Of
oil, in the existence of which in quantity many be-
lieve, the time has not arrived to write confidently.

For that form of the picturesque, however, which
appeals as strongly to the imagination as it does to
the eye such a rock-bound cafion as we visited
yesterday possesses a fascination more complete.

It is mid-May and the summer rains have not yet
come to lift the withered grasses and dip them in
their annual bath of emerald green. I find myself
alone at the still hour of noon. Behind and on
either side tower tremendous walls of rock, and far
beneath, spread like a blue sea rippling to a fresh

102 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

ocean breeze, lies the broad valley wherein we sow
and reap and gather in the crops. Further yet is a
dream of azure peaks. Here there is neither sowing
nor reaping; the cafion is too narrow, the soil too
thin. But Nature is at workin her own way. From
the bare brown arms of the cacti fingers white and
scarlet and golden point to the sunlit sky, and here
and there from the stern face of the precipice the
crimson blossom of some unknown flower bends a
bright head toward me; on either side of the rocky
path by which we have climbed the steep ascent
Chiotes lay their gray-helmeted brows in the sand,
or shoot triumphant spears of snowy white hung
with glistening bells high above the hand of the
rare wayfarer.

There is a solemnity in the grandeur of this iso-
lated spot which finds no response in the loud-voiced
campers who later find their wav hither, attracted
by the cafion’s well-known springs. The sun-
warmed yet keen wind whispers mysteriously in
the stunted juniper trees, rustles through the dry
crass; otherwise there is not a sound. The inhabit-
ed valley is so far away that, seen through its jagged
frame of rocks, we forget that we ever lived there
or ever thither can return. Sand raised by the
breeze becomes the smoke of vessels on an unknown
sea; the silver thread of the Rio Grande a calm be-
twixt drifting winds; a sparse scattering of dim
white houses a fleet of white-winged ships. Weare
afloat upon a nameless ocean, and know not whence
we come or whither we sail.

Over the knees of the mountains rolls the “bald

dQ) INM0y

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 103

prairie” of the high ranges, but from Spring until
Fall this term is a misnomer. Miles on miles, acres
on acres, of gay flowers, painted every tint the brush
of Nature can produce, nod in the mountain wind,
and spread a brave carpet beneath the passing hors-
es’ feet. From whence the tiny roots of these flower-
ets draw their life-giving moisture no man knows.
At this height above the valley, and on the western
slope of the range, few trees are found. But the
flowers we have with us all the same long before
the summer storms arrive to submerge them in bil-
lows of verdure. Our Arid Belt affords an endless
variety of surprises, and in all portions of it can
change from desert to oasis and back again with
unexampled abruptness.

Amongst the botanical curiosities the chiote, to
which allusion has been made, must surely be rec-
koned. From its spiny leaves the Mexican obtains
the tough twine with which he binds his shocks of
corn; and he who desires to wash can findinthe roots
of the Amole soap galore. In more recent days suc-
cessful experiments have been made with Soap
Weed, chopped by machinery for cattle feed. Its
near kinsfolk the Spanish Dagger and the Bear
Grass are also found equally valuable when proper-
ly prepared. All the way across the high ranges, or
alone the lonely mesa, men set fire to the great
torches of the chiote to light them on their home-
ward way, and morning dawns upon many a charred
and tottering giant.

A business man from an eastern city visits our
country from time to time, and when he does so

104 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

takes his day off in a manner unique—for a bus-
iness man. He drives his car into the desert unpro-
vided either with food or drink, thus proving that
desert-craft is not confined to Indians, Mexicans or
the Western born and bred. Once he invited me
to accompany him and only a piece of ill luck inter-
fered to prevent. It would have been a day replete
with interest and enjoyment for the desert-lever!
He gets his drink from the water-storing cactus,
which puts out its green shoots every spring and is
said to hold moisture at least twenty years. For
fruit he seeks various desert plants familiar to him,
one of which is said to bear a kind of bread.

Then there is the creosote plant, one of Nature’s
many free medicines to those unlearned in books.
Should the old Indian squaw be crippled with rheu-
matism, her friends dig a deep hole in the ground,
and heating rocks place them within it. Then they
gather the leaves of the creosote plant and strew
them on the stones. Upon these they pour cold
water, and picking up the squaw they wrap her in
blankets and place her in a chair over the steam.
There they leave her until she is cooked and cured.
Such is the simple economic vapor-bath devised by
the sage and ignorant Indian—the ignorant Indian
who years and years ago recognized the virtues of
massage, and so well handed down his knowledge
that even to this day many a Mexican woman raised
in a jacal can so handle and manipulate a sick person
that the results equal those produced by some high-
priced masseuse.

Amongst other singular growths of this region

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 105

we find the loco-weed and sleepy-grass. The loco-
weed has a pinnate leaf, sweetish to the taste, and
remains green all the year round. Some persons
think that the crackly pods adhering to it contain
the subtle poison, but for this statement I am not
answerable. At all events, if eaten, it has a peculiar
effect on man and beast—so much so that in our
section if anyone “acts queer” it is immediately af-
firmed that he or she is “‘loco’d.” Horses are par-
tial to this plant, and if allowed to get to it, lose
their reason and sometimes their lives. I do not
mean that they necessarily become incurable luna-
tics, but both time and trouble must be employed
to cure them. Many and often ludicrous, are the
adventures of mountain travelers with “‘loco’d”
steeds.

“What’s the trouble with vour horses?” enquires
one passing teamster of another, struggling with
a refractory team.

“Oh, they’re plumb crazy! Ate some loco-weed on
the range in the night.”

“Tie them up and feed them grain and wait till
they come round,” is the advice of the mountain
wiseacre.

“Stop beatin’ that team!” he shouts to another
exasperated driver, “that ain’t no manner of use.
Them horses has been eatin’ Sleepy-Grass, and ain’t
a-goin’ to budge till so be as they get ready.”

Which saying of the sage is true enough. Round
and round as if on a pivot they go under the lash of
the whip, their forefeet planted deep in the ground
and only their hind feet revolving. They are in

106 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

truth sound asleep, and will continue to sleep for
twenty-four hours, possibly even for three days, or
quite possibly expire. The god of horses alone
knows. So their owner ties them up beneath a tree
and goes to sleep himself in the shade of another—
if there be any trees.

But perhaps of all the curiosities within reach,
the White Sands are among the most beautiful as
wellas singular. Imagine scaling a mountain in the
Arid Belt, wherein lakes and rivers of any impor-
tance—here we pause to bow an apology to the
Rio Grande and to the immense lake at this date
holding storage water above the Dam—are scarce,
and beholding against the cloudless blue of the hor-
izon a line of silver breakers running beneath a fine
head-wind. These foaming waves are in truth a
vast and glittering bed of gypsum, resembling on a
nearer approach some mountain region, broken into
deep gorges and cafions of indescribable beauty and
variety and clothed in eternal snows. Nearer yet,
and the snow resolves itself into sand sparkling
like crystal in the sunlight. The extent of this gyp-
sum bed is variously stated, but the “Mountains”
are never more than twenty-five feet in height,
though wearing the air of mountains just the same.
The gypsum is said by some to measure sixty by
twenty miles, by others much less. This discrepancy
in statement is owing partly to the exclusion of one
hundred miles of old lake bed adjoining the sand
hills, the surface of which is gemmed with crystals
of great size and beauty. The desert wind keeps
the sand in such constant motion that nothing grows

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 107

within its radius, though about its edge trees and
plants thrive in the soil which, strange to say, is
always moist. Experiments made with this strange
sand prove it to be a wonderful fertilizer, and it is
also of value for glass making and plastering. In-
dividuals have long used it, but only lately has its
serious exploitation been attempted.

During and after the rainy season, or much
earlier in irrigated corners, our own Valley is alight
with flowers. In regard to the dozen or more of
garden flowers growing wild but a single writer*
has alluded to them. The pink lantana is just one
of several varieties swarming in fence corners. As
for genuine wild flowers, an eastern visitor gathered
of yellow ones alone, and that long ere the rainy
season, twenty-one varieties, though of course many
were what we ranching folk designate as weeds;
for a rich land favors weeds, and the gorgeous sun-
flower is in some ways the most noxious of all. As
we drive along we note entire regiments of these
troublesome fellows, whose faces, when the summer
breeze blows them backward, resemble nothing so
much as round-headed and bald old men, with fly-
ing fringes of hair and cherubic smiles. My primal
raptures over the artistic effect of golden sunflowers
upon a background of blue mountains soon gave
way before the practical ranchwoman’s struggle
with the fittest that survive ; and sometimes it looked
as though I were decidedly not the fittest. Sun-
flower enthusiasm passed as swiftly as mocking bird
enthusiasm is apt todo. One morning a lady at our
healthresortarrivedatthe breakfast table in ecstasy.

7H ©) badd;

108 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

“Oh!” she ejaculated, “I have been sitting at my
window for hours listening to those beautiful,
beautiful birds! What a joy they are!”

Some one responded courteously, but a covert
smile was noticeable here and there. The next
morning it was a slightly plaintive and jaded lady
who seated herself at the table.

“Do mockingbirds sing all night, every night?”

“Not quite all night, but spring is here, you know,
and spring is the birds’ musical season.”

By the third morning the eastern visitor was al-
most in tears, pleading with her host that he must,
could and should shoot the pests; which he en-
deavored to do; but what were two or three among
so many?

Thus did I conduct myself on the subject of sun-
flowers.

And sunflowers are not invariably weeds and in-
deed sometimes find place in silos. Cultivated in
highbred Russian variety for highbred Minorca
fowls they are once more things of beauty; also of
utility. Nevertheless hens pick the seeds from the
ground in their most finnicky, feminine manner,
drop them with an air of elegant disgust, squawk
as only silly hens can, and finally have to be starved
into partaking of the unwelcome fare, the seed of
the Russian sunflower being warranted to produce
that sheen of feathers approved by poultry judges.
But a few weeks of fussing with opinions of hen-
ladies was too much for this henwoman, especially

THE DESERT, AND THE ROSE 109

* as growing alfalfa produced the same results, only
better.

Sunflowers? Stand just once with me some early
June morning at the head of a long, five deep row
of Russian sunflowers, all with radiant faces turned
eastward. The gold-flecked vista closes in a wealth
of green—the heavy, rounded masses of the umbrel-
la tree, the airy feathers of the tree of paradise—
birds, scarlet flames and scimitars of blue, or once
in a while a yellow flaxbird, leap and dart hither
and thither. And beyond and above all is the
azure—the unutterable, unpaintable azure—of
southern sky and mountain.

Have we no soft loveliness, no depth of color in
the Arid Belt?

On first landing in the Valley I was warned that
flowers, garden flowers, “do not do well in this coun-
try.” Why not? quoth I to myself—the same note
of interrogation as when informed that thorough-
bred chickens would not pay. They paid me 40%.
But that little tale can wait. |

In the day ere water was lavishly bestowed one
had to take trouble to ensure a blooming garden.
Soil and climate are peculiarly favorable, especially
to roses who, as everyone knows, delight in rich
land. But right here we bump against that ancient
and untruthful adage about genius and trouble. I
am no genius; therefore it behooves me to take
trouble. A couple of my acquaintances possessed of
flower-genius labor little and are rewarded beyond
their deserts by the spendid floral displays for which
I have to toil, yet of which I am so proud, not to

110 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

say vain. In later days the gardens of the valleys
improve, yet still the eye perceives lack of intimate
knowledge regarding flower habits and fancies, the
spots they love best and so forth. The pioneer
spirit yet lingers—that spirit which deems thought
and care for mere sweetness and light “not worth
while.”

I believe that we should have more winter bloom-
ing flowers if we did not cease watering with the
first frost. I have kept tender annuals blooming
all through the cold season, frosty nights and sunny
days, by packing barnyard soil around their roots
and supplying them with water. Violets, verbenas,
sweet alyssum and carnations, all in sheltered spots
of course, often do well, and I once had scarlet sage,
very scarlet, and ricinus stately and red, until after
the New Year.

Every Fall the numerous rose bushes in my gar-
den are banked with soil dug up in the horse and
cow corrals. One year Jesuscita insisted that Ri-
cardo must cut them all down to within two feet of
the ground. Aghast and trembling I looked on,
coming near to shouting Bloody Murder! But the
following Spring brought a glorious mass of color
to my door, each separate rose larger than ever be-
fore. So much for the Mexican method of horti-
culture.

During my Tenderfoot days another, yet more
alarming event, confronted me. The garden was to
be irrigated, and when the brown waters rushed in
a flood through the break in the ditch and spread
madly over big and little indiscriminately, I ad-

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 111

journed to my house to mourn alone. It was even-
ing, and when morning dawned upon my woe, be-
hold there was no woe! The floods had sunk into
the earth and from tall lilac bush to tiny seedling
all alike had burst forth into a pean of praise. The
little creatures were rushing heavenward, the big
creatures tossing flowers on high and revealing
round fat buds invisible until now. All was well
with the garden!

One cannot repeat too often that ours is no tropi-
cal climate and that citrus fruits do not grow in the
Valley. Also that at an altitude of 4,000 feet sen-
sible winter clothing, nay even furs, are accept-
able.

Having referred to the absurd notion that “‘flow-
ers do not do well in this climate,” further mention
of another absurdity will not be out of place.

For several years I was the sole poultry expert
in this whole region, my birds being sold in other
states and winning Blue Ribbons everywhere. When
a Poultry Association was formed in the city the
first subject advertised for discussion was ‘The
diseases peculiar to this climate.” Though no long-
er in the business, for reasons unconnected with
these jottings, such an announcement was more
than I could bear, so seizing pen and pad I wrote as
follows to one of the papers:

“There are no diseases peculiar to this climate
other than those induced by the laziness, neglect,
lack of intelligence and cleanliness of the henman
and henwoman.”

(Signed) An Old Henwoman.

112 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

To the appeals that the old Henwoman would rise
to explain no reply was vouchsafed. For if there
is any greater waste of time than bestowing advice
on “the general,’ I do not know it.

CHAPTER TX
NOXIOUS, AND OTHER BEASTS

Noxious beasts are not numerous, venomous
ones rare. In former days the mosquito was heard
only when the river waxed riotous and water lin-
gered long in the acequias, but with an abundance
of water mosquitoes and other pests have come to
stay. Snakes are common enough, but though they
writhe and hiss and stand up on their hinder parts
and give us bad dreams, they are for the most part
harmless if hot tempered. The big brownery-green-
ery snakes are fine mousers, and as mice of the fat
thriving sort figure among our noxious beasts, I
allowed myself to be persuaded into accommodating
one in my storeroom. Some persons might have
found both instruction and amusement in the as-
sociation. I did neither. I endured.

A combine formed by Juan and Ricardo resulted
in this snake boarder. When winter and the house-
mouse season came along together I was glad that
I had yielded, yet my summer tenant was a trial.
The store-room’s adobe walls were punctured with
mouse holes, and many a time as I shood shuddering
on the step, skirts gathered around me, I perceived
a writhing tail protruding from a hole, or maybe
a dangling horror overhead, a mouse gripped in its
fangs. But in all fairness it must be acknowledged
that no cat ever born can compete with a guaranteed

114 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

mouse snake, and trying as was his companion-
ship I was conscious of a sneaking satisfaction
when he (or another—most snakes look alike to
me) engaged a lodging under my roof the following
summer. But satisfaction was shortlived. One
evening I opened the door to behold him, as I be-
lieved, extended across the grain bin.

“O, come, Ricardo!” I exclaimed. ‘Push that
thing out of my way!”

“He won’t hurt you, Sefiora.”

Nevertheless I gave place to the more valiant
Ricardo. In another moment he was shouting ex-
citedly to the sefiora to bring the hoe that this was
not our culebra but una culebra muy mala. Mean-
time he had seized a rake close to the door. Personal-
ly I should have preferred a hurried exit, but that
being hardly fair play I ran for the hoe and ven-
tured into the heart of the fray.

Never have I seen a snake fight as that one
fought. But I draw a veil over the bloody scene.
Suffice it to say that my part was to hold the furious
monster as best I could with the rake, Ricardo striv-
ing to beat down the striking head with its forked
tongue. At last it was over, and the boy tossed the
loathly body out on the grass—not to die until sun-
set, however, according to tradition.

“That snake has a nest somewhere,” he cried,
“and we must find it.”

He drew the rake across the grass, then hurried-
ly made for the pump, overturned the water tub, and
away scurried wriggling nightmares in every direc-

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE V5

tion. For me, I had had enough and done my full
duty. And Ricardo was young and active.

In many years spent in New Mexico this was the
second—and last—poisonous snake of which I had
ocular proof. But as climatic conditions seem to
revolve in circles, so apparently do snakes, as this
brand of vicious reptile re-appeared for a time
seasons later.

Lizards and horned toads abound. The latter
are amusing fellows, and enjoy having their backs
scratched with a stick, but if too rudely accosted
are past masters in the art of simulating death. They
are also useful in reducing insect pests and in later
years abide under the protection of the law. The
tarantula, on the contrary, is a terrific beast. Cer-
tain learned professors, however, insist that neither
the bite of tarantula nor the disgusting feet of centi-
pedes are dangerous. That is as it may be. No
Texan could be found to conform to this degree,
but then it is acknowledged that the Texan species
of reptiles and insects are more venomous than
those of New Mexico. A rattlesnake I have never
encountered, although until recently when some
kind of epidemic decimated their ranks rattler
stories in abundance trickled down to us from their
mountain home. The hunter bewails this decrease
in the snake population, as to him it means financial
loss, but the cowboy no doubt is glad that the new
hair rope encircling his lowly couch is no longer ab-
solutely indispensable. For he who sleeps within
the charmed circle of a new hair rope sleeps se-
curely. For several nights I slumbered thus, the

116 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

rope arranged by Juan for my reassurance. A
snake had dared to show himself in my house during
the day, and though innocuous he was a snake just
the same.

Whip-snakes, which an excited fancy measures
by the mile rather than by the foot, trail across the
landscape with a velocity truly appalling. They also
are harmless, unless the Mexican legend that they
milk cows is to be counted against them. At the
same time when Juan called on me once to help him
corner one, I retreated into the house. Juan’s
young daughter flew to his assistance, and her sly
smiles at the sefiora who was afraid worried me no
whit.

And while on the subject of revolting creatures,
bats must not be omitted. Instead of being lucrative
assets, as in their own caves, they are in our dwel-
lings natural enemies. After the wood-peckers
have drilled holes in the mud walls then enters in
the bat and makes night hideous and sleepless. The
ceilings of old houses are made of canvas stretched
tight and whitewashed or painted, so the bat swoop-
ing in and out between roof and canvas makes of

night one mad, pvolonged orgie. Then with daylight
comes Ricardo and daubs wet clay over the holes,
and repose is sought in some remote chamber until
the unwelcome visitor is dead and dry—a_ brief
process in this climate. One novel and successful
remedy for the bat nuisance is worth relating.

At our health resort on a summer evening we
were discussing this nuisance. The healthseekers
had fled to their Eastern homes, cursing the bats

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 17

both loud and deep. Suddenly the head of the house
hurried away, returning with a large rat trap. As
we have few rats in our country the existence of a
rat trap was somewhat of a puzzle, but we had no
time to worry over so small a matter. With the
enthusiastic assistance of two young sons he affixed
the contraption to the bat hole in the wall, and we
adjourned for supper—a meal abbreviated by the
excited shouts of the boys. Their father scaled the
ladder, shoved down the door of the trap next the
wall and descended with caution—as well he might,
for in that trap were one hundred and fifty bats!
To say that the disgusting pests were inconvenient-
ly crowded is to say nothing. Now what were we
to do with our prisoners? Oh, that’s easy, was the
cry—sulphur and a sack! Sulphur and a sack were
tried exhaustively, and at the end of an hour or
more the creatures were still hopping up and down
in as lively a manner as close quarters would admit
of. The evening slipped away in futile endeavor.
At last by some lucky chance the acequia filled up,
and total immersion made an end of our troubles
and those of the bats.

Nevertheless bats have their uses. At intervals
in both mountain and valley occur caves of all
depths, sizes and formation, a few of which remain
impenetrable mysteries alike to antiquarian and
geologist. Through some one may walk as through
a series of “banquet halls deserted,” others are mere
holes in the ground whose depths no man _ has
plumbed. But about the bat caves there is no
mystery; they are productive only of filthy lucre.

118 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

True, they are most cunningly concealed, have been
inhabited for centuries and are found only by ac-
cident. To anyone versed in fertilizer lore bat
guano is a word to conjure with, and this despite
the fact that an encyclopedia of international repu-
tation informs its readers that “bat guano is not
commercially valuable.” A singular piece of infor-
mation in truth! Having owned a small orange
grove in California simultaneously with a New
Mexican ranch I can understand the difference with
which the New Mexican regards the discovery of a
bat cave in his vicinity (unless it has been his good
luck to have discovered it himself) as compared with
the excited interest of the Californian. The soil of
California requires perpetual enrichment, whereas
that of New Mexico is—or rather in my ranching
days was—sufficient unto itself. Three bat caves
have been found in our vicinity, one a mile long,
and thousands of tons of guano almost worth their
weight in gold shipped to the orange growers. Thus
in one night, so to speak, a lucky find makes of a
plain man a millionaire. Over and above the guano
the caves contain masses of phosphatic rock—the
remains of bat bodies, bones and all—which also
is of great value. A remarkable feature in connec-
tion with the opening up of the largest cave was
that the bats were not driven away by the workmen,
and although the entire front of their dwelling was
torn down they continued to pass in and out through
the narrow slits as of old.

And speaking of caves other than bat caves—
just across the Texan border, in which State curious

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 119

rock formations only belong arbitrarily, there is
a collection of caverns in or between which are
deep hollows filled in the rainy season with water.
An ardent cactus collector was the first person to
tell me of the Tanks. She and her son had camped
there often, and she told me that grass and trees
grow around the edges of these pools, and that the
caves are in some instances labyrinthine and the
walls covered with Indian picture writing and in-
scriptions left by pioneers and soldiers of the past,
but that even at the date of her visits many years
ago city barbarians were already doing their best
to deface historic relics they are too ignorant to
value. The overland stages mentioned in an earlier
chapter crossed the Rio Grande some five miles
north of my ranch and went on to the Tanks to ob-
tain water and probably fresh horses, the grazing
being good there; and just because of the water and
the grazing many a struggle with Indians took place
at that point. It seems a pity that our country can-
not take care of its comparatively few historic
spots, and, yet worse, destroy for commercial rea-
sons interesting and picturesque corners of our
cities, which have for generations attracted trav-
elers. A short-sighted policy indeed, considering
how little of the historic and artistic our cities have
to bestow!

In view of the enormous size of New Mexico and
its as yet imperfectly settled condition, its criminal
record is not startling.

“If there were more rain in this country there

120 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

would be more murders,” quoth a sheriff to me
once.

“How sop”

“Because in this arid territory, with its wide ex-
panse of desert, criminals are forced to return to
civilization for water. More water holes, more
chime! peer’

Gophers are a plague throughout the southwest.
Their tunnels are disastrous in orchards and al-
falfa, and under old adobe houses unprotected by
cement foundations. Bravo, the loyal guard dog of
early ranching years, a Mexican with the courage
of his opinions, was an expert on the gopher situa-
tion and a flood inspired him with joyous anticipa-
tions. When the rising tide drives the animals out
of their holes then arrives Bravo’s hour. Silent
and zealous he speeds from hole to hole, and with
one snap of his strong white teeth breaks the back
of the emerging rodent. His successor, Hilda, the
huge St. Bernard, plays the craven before the for-
midable tusks of the gopher. Not so little Betsinda.
She is a true sport. The report of a gun sends her
into ecstasies, and the privilege of accompanying
a hunter is her idea of heaven. Cortes, on the con-
trary, goes into retreat if I even handle a revolver
in his presence. Betsinda retrieves with neatness
and despatch until her plump little body and short
legs give out. She can crack a gopher’s back with
a dexterity equal to that of Bravo himself.

One irrigating day Juan brings a slightly dis-
abled gopher into the garden. Betsinda hustles off
the porch in a hurry.

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 121

“Now,” says Juan, “watch the perrita!”

Having sized up her enemy she has her young
son, Montezuma, out on the porch in a _

“Attention!” she cries.

Then quick as a cat she is behind the foe, and in
another second his spine is broken and he is down
and out.

“I told you she knew the trick!” exclaims Juan
triumphantly.

And Betsinda, addressing the eager and curious
puppy in her own lancuage, remarks,

“There! That’s the way to do it. And don’t you
forget it!

And Monte did not forget. A year or so later,
when fate had separated the three little dogs, Juan
once more brought a gopher to the porch with a
view of training Hilda in the art of killing. But
again she showed the white feather. We were pay-
ing no heed to Monte, for as he took no interest in
mousing or any of the sports in which his mother
had excelled we counted him out of the game. Sud-
denly he slipped under Hilda’s hesitating head and
in a flash had the gopher by the back. In his ardor,
however, he had missed the right spot by a fraction
of an inch and a furious battle was on. Up and
down the path it raged, the gopher snapping at the
little dog with some effect, Monte’s grip being firm
enough ‘but too near the tail, until Juan, watching
for a favorable opening, put an end to the gopher
with his every ready hoe.

“Gopher bite not good!” he asserted solemnly.
“Monte muy chiquito! carry him in the house,

122 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

Sefiora, wash the bites and cover them with carbo-
lated vaseline.”

Though indomitable as a warrior and, like his
father, swift to resent the meddling ways of dogs
ten times his size, Monte never tackled a gopher
again.

And while on the subject of gophers, I wonder
where and how the notion that Mexicans are in-
different marksmen originated? The men who
worked on my ranch were all good shots. Crossing
the orchard on business bent I perceived one morn-
ing a mother gopher and three young ones sitting
up on the edge of their hole. To Juan I flew with
my news. Down went his hoe, into the house he
hied him for the loaded shotgun, and in faster time
than it takes to relate he had let fly with both barrels
and four gopher corpses fell back into their home.

Then there is the roadrunner, who is far from
being a pest, and devours mice and snakes and all
such superfluous vermin. Not only so, but he is a
beautiful and graceful bird, and many a time I
have reined in my horse to watch him skim along
the trail, leaping or running, his short wings held
close to his slender body and high crest erect. Rat-
tlers are a favorite item on his bill of fare, and he
goes to infinite trouble to obtain them. It is said
that on finding a sleeping snake he will softly build
a fence of sharp thorns around his prey. The snake
on awakening is excusably enraged and strikes and
beats himself against the thorns until exhausted,
when the roadrunner kills and eats him at his lei-
sure. Having once been on fairly intimate terms

tHe DESERT AND THE) ROSE 123

with this quaint and clever bird, I lend an open ear
to the yarn vouched for, as it is, by credible eye-
witnesses.

Eastern magazines inform us that the roadrunner
is hopelessly unsociable and will not come within
hailing distance of a human being. I can personally
refute this as a libel. Early one winter a roadrun-
ner leaped over my fence into the flower garden, and
remained there until spring, going in and out as it
suited his good pleasure. Neither I nor the dogs
seemed to annoy him. On the contrary, I some-
times sat down on the edge of the porch and waited
for him. Presently from the cover of the bushes
he would come leaping and bounding, approaching
eradually nearer and nearer until he looked me
saiare ia) the eye. Uhen)) fora few «seconds, he
danced—literally danced—opening and closing his
wings and executing movements so graceful and en-
chanting that I regretted the close of the per-
formance and his exit from the scene. At night I
often put out chopped meat and presume he ate it.
When springtime came he brought a mate to share
his home, but apparently it was too cultured for her
taste, for the pair disappeared.

CE AP TER a.

DOGS

He was very happy but he missed the little dog. He
had everything that a man can possibly want in this
world but a dog. . . . There are moments in every
man’s life when no human being can help him, divert
him, and stimulate him, and he needs the oldest and
most faithful friend that he has in the world.

Gouverneur Morris.

It MAy at once be seen that the reader who cares
nothing for animals would do well to skip this, and
the following chapter.

Turn now, the hot day waning, from the moun-
tains, and gaze from the back of my brown house
athwart the long shadows of the levels. Why is the
landscape so sorrowful? Peace stepping quietly
should come as an oft-bidden, long delaying guest
across these tranquil meadows. One beyond the
other they spread, a carpet of varied greens—the
ever fresh greens of our midsummer—the gay
shimmer of barley, verdurous weeds turning the
wheat stubble into a pageant, alfalfa purpling here
and there to another blooming, the emerald green of
cottonwoods and of springing crops of different
sorts. The eye wanders on and on to the river’s
bank marked by wavering lines of woods, on and
on to where the still and solemn mesa leans upon
the deep burned sky.

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 125

Why is this landscape so sorrowful?

Close at hand, against the western glow, moves
sedately the profile of Evangelista, who eschews
mental effort*and leads the simple life in large let-
ters. Yet her masque is eloquent of tragedy historic
and prehistoric, of interminable desert marches, of
flight and capture, of murder and _ outrage.
Evangelista cares for none of these things. That
her inherited aspect provides the Senora with food
for thought would astound her.

TO THE UNKNOWN DEAD

Thus is the stage set for peace, yet in past and
present very human emotions trail their length
along, and just now swell the breasts of the two
little dogs seated on either side of me on the porch
step. They also possess a past wrapped in some
mystery.

On a cloth spread at my feet a pair of wee pups,
offspring of said dogs, make merry, regardless of
the raging jealousy of one parent and the agoniz-
ing anxiety of the other. Each pup is tiny enough
to sit in the palm of the hand, and to sit up comes
by right of birth to the true bred Chihuahua. There-
fore these little chaps are as erect upon their hinder-
ends as tenderness of age permits, and they are
cuffing one another’s ears with the like permissible
vigor, emitting small fiendish sounds intended to
be growls of wrath and falling backward after each
buffet given and received. Betsinda, on my right,
trembles, and seeks my countenance for reassurance
with her immense dark gaze. Not so Cortes. His

126 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

emotions are of a different order, though agitating
in equal measure his finely ruffled shirt bosom.
Never does he bend his own sombre gaze upon those
contemptible pups but surveys the scenery with an
air of detachment, or reaches forth one long-
fingered, long-clawed—hand, I was about to say,
so unlike paws are the curving extremities of his
breed—and gently presses my cheek as if to turn
my face too from the silly spectacle.

“Don’t pay so much attention to those wretched
brats!” he says. ‘“They’re not worth it. Look at
me instead!’

Admonition failing, he steps gingerly into my
lap—he who despises laps !—but still in vain. I pull
his silken ears and smile into his appealing eyes.
But this is beside the question; neither is he in a
smiling mood. Haughtily he withdraws to the
further end of the step, and with a profound sigh—
for sighing is his trump card—presents a rear view
of himself to the maddening imps. Sincere as is
his devotion to Betsey, and though courageous out-
side the domestic circle, he is afraid of her and so
refrains from more open remonstrance. It may be
that he hates the pups more than is seemly because
when together we visited Betsinda at the home of
her birth and he ventured on tiptoe to peep into the
basket containing her and the pups, she flew at him
and chased him from the scene.

At last we are all quiet in our several ways. Their
little bodies aweary of this great world Montezuma
and his sister fall limply to sleep, but not before
the former, who is particularly diminutive, has

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 127

avenged himself for the falls to which he has been
subjected. Wobbling to his feet he seizes Marina
by the throat and by the fury of his onslaught
throws her and stands snarling horribly over her
prostrate form. Then I gather both exhausted war-
riors into my lap and Betsinda, after giving each a
brisk going-over with a pink tongue, allows them
to slumber undisturbed. Monte receives the larger
share of all her attentions, perhaps because he is
so little, and the stronger pup is often thrust away.
Now she too subsides, and Cortes, not to be out-
done but unwilling to stoop, pushes himself in be-
hind me and abandons himself to the great consoler.
As before mentioned he does not like laps and only
resorts to them when he desires to be nearer than
any other dog to the object of his devotion. Should
he lie down at a distance he keeps a watchful eye,
nevertheless, on the beloved’s every movement,
ready to laugh in the dog manner or wag his tail
at the slightest encouragement. A sneeze brings
him with a bound to investigate or sympathize—in
short, his attentions are embarrassing. Such
anxious supervision of the scant few who are to him
the elect occasionally provokes treachery. A cal-
ler approved by Cortes produces a handkerchief
and makes believe to weep into it. In a second the
little fellow is on the knees of the mock mourner,
pulling with soft, claw-sheathed paws the handker-
chief from the face, and on perceiving the smile
awaiting him drops his head with a satisfied sigh
on his betrayer’s shoulder. Thus is the trusting
heart deceived.

128 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

From the abstemious viewpoint of Cortes, or
Chappie as he is often called for short, Betsinda is
disgustingly greedy, and if separate dishes are not
provided for the couple he will stalk away dinner-
less. He should pause to consider that not the most
delectable morsel will tempt even the more socially
gifted Betsey to a stranger’s hand unless that
stranger is attractive to her personally. She may
sidle and coquette, but the candy or cake are not
for her.

But it is Cortes who looks after a certain side of
the family deportment. The morning train may not
pass ungreeted. If the family are backward he
rounds them up, including for this ceremony the
gigantic Hilda, trotting between them and the gate,
howling tentatively, until all are in place and the
train is in sight. Never for him does the far off
whistle sound in vain! Then, his band now in full
swing, a chorus of canine melody startles the un-
accustomed ear. At the place where he was born
IT have many times beheld him execute a more re-
markable feat—that of assembling some score of
small dogs and inducing them to take part in the
family concert, not once but often, as trains pass
continually.

And while alluding to so many little dogs of one
breed, an observer cannot fail to be struck with a
peculiarity common to all Chihuahuas even half
worthy of the name—that of their extreme wari-
ness. For instance, the little follows assemble at the
summons of their owner to be inspected by a pur-
chaser. They spread themselves in a semicircle,

THE DESERT, AND THE ROSE 129

submissive as always to the handling of their
owner. But mark the difference when the customer
approaches! Not that they snap, or run rudely
away—oh, no! A certain degree of courtesy 1s
unfailingly maintained. A hand is extended to, let
us say, the father of Cortes, who promptly executes
a graceful sidestep and the admiring stranger
grasps empty air. Again and again this manoeuvre
is repeated. In elusiveness the Chihuahua is not
to be excelled. ‘Dogs love me!” exclaims the
grieved visitor. ‘‘What is the trouble?”

The “trouble”’ is that the legend of the Chihuahua
dog’s origin bears truth on its very face.

Years ago a Frenchman in the city of Chihuahua
experimented with a small unpedigreed terrier and
a prairie dog. Pleased with the result the French-
man continued on the same lines, finally evolving
the Chihuahua Dog. In support of this story are
several incontrovertible facts. The wild strain in
the blood is not to be denied, showing itself not
merely in the shyness born of the wild but in quali-
ties that partake of the psychic and to be mentioned
later. A friend who kept a pair of prairie dogs for
pets, and to whom my touch-me-not dogs took an
immediate fancy, pointed out Monte’s predilection
for curling himself up at the back of my neck as
did his pets at home: the fact that every genuine
Chihuahua sits up by nature but with the fore-
paws hanging straight down, just as sit up his
kinsmen on the edge of their holes, the gentle cares-
sing ways of the two varieties of dogs—last but
not least the crooked forepaws, abnormally long

130 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

toes and curving claws capable of being sheathed
like those of a cat—also needing clipping if the dog
is kept too much in the house. In short, the Chihua-
hua is built for a burrowing animal, even the lazy
Betsinda digging for hours at a time if the notion
seized her. Another and by no means negligible
proof of ancestry is insisted on by Chihuahua
breeders: the pups are more or less of a gamble:
one of a litter may sport back to some ancestor of
whom nothing is known. But litter is a misnomer ;
the mother who presents her owner with three pups
is rare. In these comments the imitation animal
bought by Tenderfooters at fancy prices finds no
place. Tiny terriers can be evolved by inbreeding
or liquor doping, but they seldom boast a single
truebred point or characteristic. Mexicans, or
Americans long resident in Mexico will have none of
these fakes, to which however, find a ready market
owing to the increasing scarcity of the genuine Chi-
huahua—scarcity induced, perhaps, by unsettled
conditions in Mexico of such long standing.*
Montezuma was considered by competent judges
a perfect specimen, though as he stood eight inches
high, a trifle oversized. Dog fanciers offered big
prices for him, and nothing but his wariness and
my watchfulness prevented him from being stolen
again and again. Even Cortes, not so perfect, had
his narrow escapes, and once indeed was kidnapped
and would have been spirited across the border had
he not been recognized and regained by an acquain-

tance.

*So little is known in the Eastern States of the Chihuahua dog,
its points, breeding and so forth that one may see even in periodicals
of high standing quite amusing travesties of the little animal.

Dae DESERT AND THE ROSE 131

Monte, despite the large soft eyes of his kind,
walked the earth with that incomparable swagger
and style which was his by right of birth. High set
quarters, a tail with a double kink and tightly curled
make for style. He possessed also the other char-
acteristics already mentioned. Furthermore the
judges of the shorthaired Chihuahua insisted on a
broad chest, narrow flanks, narrow jaw with a black
roof, high domed head wide over the eyes, and ears
capable of standing out like those of a bat but by no
means to be fixtures in that position. It is the im-
movable batlike ears which are among the worst
blemishes of the “fake” Chihuahua. Monte’s per-
fect ears excited the admiration of all connoisseurs.
The markings of the shorthaired dog are also of
primary importance; they may be liver, tan or black,
or black and tan, but they must be duly placed on
the white body; or the entire body may be tan, liver
or black. The white dogs, properly marked, carry
off the palm for beauty. A set of strong teeth com-
plete the equipment deemed necessary for the wear-
ing of the Blue Ribbon.

These little fellows make admirable pets for chil-
dren provided the latter do their part, and some
of the boys who disported themselves on my ranch
got a lot of fun out of them. They will guard
a baby, or anything indeed left in their care al-
most with their lives. But though courageous and
lively, they are abnormally sensitive and will if
roughly treated either defend themselves with their
strong teeth, or shrink into a corner and forsake
the ways of playfulness. Some, like Cortes, are

132 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

born trick dogs—no teaching is required. But
Cortes was easily offended, and when things did not
suit him at home would depart, kicking up his hind-
legs as he trotted with an inexplicable effect of a
warhorse scenting the battle from afar, only with
that double kink in his tail with which warhorses
are unprovided. Much as he hated gadding, he pre-
ferred on such occasions to seek the companion-
ship of a certain healthseeker on whom he had be-
stowed his carefully selected friendship. In this
case his choice resulted in his own untimely death
by chloroform; for, as has been told, this breed of
dog is extraordinarily susceptible to tubercular in-
fection.

That Chihuahuas are intelligent goes without
saying; of course every canine, or for that matter
equine, breed produces an occasional idiot, but not
as often as does the human race. Monte, for in-
stance, was trained and disciplined by his parents,
and according to unanimously expressed opinion
they made a very neat job of it. An undisciplined
dog is an unmitigated pest to owners, neighbors and
euests. Yet the fascinations of Monte were so
overpowering that even as it was he ran the risk of
being spoiled by the adulation of outsiders, and in
his very early years he permitted himself liberties
which considerably startled the authors of his being.
If by some rare chance it became necessary for me
to reprove him, his behavior was apt to excite the
unseemly mirth of visitors. He would make no
reply except to revolve violently on his own axis
and sniff, surveying his mistress with head askew

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 133

and tail wrapped in a double knot. Having been
told to take a seat this form of retort was not al-
together satisfactory; yet his obedience was other-
wise uniformly prompt.

Between the tiny Monte and the huge Hilda ex-
isted some secret understanding. They were pups
together, and spent their large leisure in chasing one
another up and down the driveway or running after
a ball and quarreling as to whose was the right to
bring it back to the thrower. But one unlucky day
a monstrous paw descended on a wee back and a
sorrowful little dog came creeping for human con-
solation—not yelping, but crying softly after the
manner of the breed. Never again did Monte run
after balls with Hilda. But the strange tie was not
broken, only grew more secretive in its manifesta-
tions. Once I succeeded in shooting them with the
camera during the performance of their mystic
rites. The immense St. Bernard lay on the edge of
the porch, her intent gaze fixed on the scrap of a
dog a few yards distant. Step by step, touching the
ground as though it were redhot, his tail so tightly
curled that it seemed surely as if it must snap in
two, Monte slowly approached his friend. Gradual-
ly the dogs were close enough to rub noses. This
ceremony was no doubt intended for an expression
of affection, but whatever it may have been, never
was it performed before eye witnesses—that is, if
either dog was aware of a witness.

Passing allusion has been made to the psychic
qualities of the breed—possibly an inheritance from
the wild. Little Betsinda, for instance, who during

134 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

my brief absence from home was sojourning with
the adoring children of whom I have spoken, took
it into her head one early dawn that I had returned,
and forsaking her puppies came back to the ranch
literally through bush and briar—Betsinda who nev-
er walked abroad !—to whine softly at my door, be-
hind which I actually was. How did she know that
a night train had brought me home? Cortes was an
infallible prophet of evil; his actions warned us of
certain conditions in the household which no human
power could foretell, and he was never mistaken.
When he deviated from his customary habits and
pursued an altered course, we learned in time to
accept his warning. Both he and Monte, however,
were subject to panics for which no cause, so far as
we could discover, existed. Flinging themselves
upon their human protectors they clung trembling
with beating hearts, and distended eyes glaring at
some object invisible to our mere human vision, their
long toes curving about our arms like the hands of
agonized children. On one occasion Monte’s panic
lasted so long that a visiting physician administered
an opiate, declaring that otherwise the little fellow
would die of terror of the Unknown! I make no at-
tempt to explain these phenomena.

“There must be something almost as good as hu-
manity in some dogs”’ opines a sage newspaper man,
“that women—and men too—often weep when they
die.” 7m

“What’s a dog, anyway!” exclaims the typical
Far Westerner. A dog, my dear sir, or madam, has
not uncommonly as much intelligence as you have,

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE £35

and sometimes more heart, conscience, loyalty and
gratitude than you know anything about! That’s
a dog. But these qualities are wasted on you—
the most of you, that is—who trample on his feel-
ings, despise his faithfulness, neither train nor de-
velop him who down thro’ the ages has been hon-
ored as man’s best friend, and celebrated in song
and story. However, the dogs of war on the battle-
fields of Europe must surely have opened the blind
eyes of the roughest and most indifferent of mortals
—even here in the West where animals are so ill
considered, nay too often ill treated. Horses too
on the battlefields—British gunners have many a
splendid record of their courage, intelligence and
faithfulness, and the Blue Cross hospitals, a British
institution established early in the great war for the
care of wounded horses, could tell much more.
To return to Chihuahuas—their one drawback
is that of other breeds of small dogs. In their af-
fections they concentrate overmuch. They may in
fact be considered as a One-Man dog. They may
appear to be attached to some outsider, but let their
owner leave them in that outsider’s kind, nay de-
voted, care, surrounded by a circle of admirers in
addition, they may continue lively and playful but
not a day passes that does not find them at some
hour watching from door or window, crying a little
after the gentle manner of their breed. Months
elapse yet this custom continues to be observed. And
then behold one day enters their owner and a scene
of such rapture ensues as bars description. Worse
still, the kind friends are bidden once and forever to

136 THE DESERT. AND THE ROSE

take a back seat, irrespective of their naturally
injured feelings. And yet—a small black and tan
terrier died of joy on seeing me once more after
nearly a year of separation. The French author
of The Story of a Too Little Dog does not exag-
gerate when she makes him say: “‘My heart, large
as the heart of a nightingale, beats and consumes
itself with loving.” Writes also a Frenchman: ‘Man
has not looked for the divine spark in animals. The
soul of a dog is not as obscure as it is believed to
be.” Of some dogs, let us say; not all dogs have
souls.

Speaking of the big dogs on the ranch, for in-
stance—Peter had neither courage, heart nor soul.
Bravo, on the contrary, had all three. Bravo, the
Fierce One, was brought to me on the saddle of a
Mexican with the assurance that he came of fear-
less stock and would fight to the death. True, he
died in the defence of my property, as Monte died
for love of me. When I received the furry, protest-
ing ball already named Bravo I did not realize what
a treasure became mine. He developed into a hand-
some mongrel, with a dash of shepherd in his make
up but minus the latter’s exasperating habit of
senseless barking. Quiet as the neighborhood was
tramps and pilferers were not unknown, and to
their kind Bravo early posed as a Holy Terror. He
could slip in under a man’s stick and drive his teeth
home so efficiently that flizht was the sole resource,
nor was he to be shaken off until the intruder was in
the road where he belonged. He made very little
noise but was always where he was wanted. Bark-

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 137

ing at night, except for cause, however, was the
unpardonable sin on my ranch, and even the rather
stupid Hilda, the lamented Bravo’s successor, had
to learn her lesson.

About the time Bravo arrived at my home Peter,
another Mexican pup, was brought to me, also with
a flaming character. But Peter was from the first
just Cur, and Bravo loathed him with loathing in-
expressible except by violent action. As for Cortes,
he would not even look at the creature, but tiptoed
away with snarling lip and tight curled tail; it was
a case of Dignity and Impudence reversed. The
relations between the two guard dogs were mutually
unpleasant, even in puphood. For some hours of
each day they were tied as part of their training, but
the moment they were loosed they flew to battle,
and instantaneously two wrestling fuzzy objects
were rolling on the ground. For a time the enter-
tainment was a harmless and amusing one, but when
it developed into the perennial dressing of wounds
mnie aftair ceased*to ‘be a -joke. /[f Peter was’ tied
Bravo was too much of a gentleman to molest him;
not so Peter, who would spring upon his chained
enemy—and receive a thrashing from me for his
pains! But when in addition to these currish man-
ners he took to sneaking up behind my visitors and
gripping them by an ankle, the time came when the
ugly mongrel had to be painlessly disposed of—a
deed performed during my temporary absence from
home. At this point Bravo deserves further men-
tion as a person of character.

Peter was suitably interred far up the ranch. On

138 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

the evening of my homecoming some weeks later
Bravo suddenly cut off his boisterous greetings to
tear away across the alfalfa. While we still waited
and speculated he came bounding back, bearing his
sheaves with him—in the shape of the mummified
head of his enemy, which he laid at my feet. With
waving tail, and dancing eyes fixed alternately on
my face and on the one-time head of Peter, he cried
plainly enough—‘Behold! What do you think of
this?” In the end the remains of Peter had to be
removed, for it was impossible to predict at what
hour Bravo might not unearth portions of Peter
and lay them at my feet—which was never agreeable
and sometimes embarrassing

Let us close with the story of the Indian who
sought the Happy Hunting Grounds. He started
on his long journey accompanied by his squaw, his
two sons and his dog. One by one the family de-
serted him all save the dog. At last, weary and
footsore, the master and his four footed friend
neared the Happy Hunting Grounds. Then the
watchman at the gates asked:

“Where are those who were with you at first?”

“The way was long. Their feet were weary.”

“Who is this that stands watching you with eyes
that show tears they cannot shed?”

“THe who loves me best,” said the Indian.

The watchman put his hand on the head of the
dog, who gave a joyful leap; and through the gates
of the Happy Hunting Grounds shot both the Indian
and his friend—into the Land where there is no
parting and no tears.

eA AEGIS OX
COLTS

On glancing through these Journal scraps I can
well see that from them the impression may be
gathered that Valley life is destitute of social joys,
as also unacquainted with that intensive culture of
Amusement per se, that not-a-moment-unprovided-
with-diversion programme, deemed by the many
necessary to existence. This lamentable state of
affairs does not apply to our condition. But one
cannot be a good ranchwoman and many other kinds
of a woman all in the same breath, and, I must also
confess that, unless shelved (and bored) by illness,
I have been able to occupy and even amuse myself
sufficiently without hunting things wherewith “to
pass away the time.” In the Valley my ranch, my
household and its human (or other) contents, the
healthseekers and a few chosen friends made time
appear as a rather valuable commodity.

And there was certainly one diversion which
never palled, and that was the training of colts.
Mine are sent out into the world absolutely fearless,
and every horseman knows what that means and
how tiresome a shying horse can be. Further, no
colt of mine has ever failed to pull true, no matter
how trying the circumstances. Of course I was ex-
ceedingly lucky in my helpers, first a neighbor boy

140 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

and later Ricardo, both of whom were abnormally
fond of horses.

We begin with the mare, who receives if possible
more kindly and rational treatment than the other
creatures on the ranch. She must have perfect con-
fidence in those who care for her. Prenatal influence
is an enormous factor in the colt’s disposition, and
as all those know, or should know, who handle dumb
beasts, occasionally asserts itself in a manner either
startling or funny. For instance I owned at one
time a fine, spirited horse who was so ultra mis-
chievous that I had reluctantly to part with him.
An ill conditioned range horse called Jeff, retained
solely because he was fast to buggy, was Major’s
special aversion, and there were times when we be-
lieved he would kill the range horse if permitted.
Anyway, even when hitched up with the mare, his
team mate, Major had to be muzzled, not that he
would hurt her but he loved to scare her out of her
senses. He was so full of tricks that he could not
wisely be driven single. He might cover several
miles in splendid style without a jar, then suddenly
arise on his hindlegs and fall back on the buggy
and its occupants, which was a bit disconcerting. It
was difficult to keep him either in shed or corral, so
resourceful was he, and when led to water it was
his delight to twitch off the Mexican’s sombrero as
he stooped to pump and throw it as far as he could.
Strange to say no Mexican who ever worked this
troublesome horse disliked him; on the contrary they
would walk grinning after missing hats or catch
the truant without so much as a passing grouch.

THE DESERTVAND THE ‘ROSE 141

Now comes in the prenatal question. The mother
of Nina, my star colt, regarded Major with feelings
compounded of admiration and terror. Nifia’s sire
was a handsome gaited saddler of Southern pedi-
gree, a rich dark bay. Nifia turned out to be an
ordinary sorrel, the same color as Major, and had
not a gait to her name—was merely a good roadster
—poor luck for a person who craved a Southern
saddler! As Nifia developed she, who had never
looked on Major’s face, was fully his equal in clever-
ness and in mischief too, although never combative.
The first time she snatched off Juan’s hat at the
water tub he rushed to my window, insistent that I
should come out and witness the repetition of Ma-
jor’s favorite trick. The Mexicans viewed this
escapade in the light of witchcraft and continued to
treat it with respect. It certainly was not a case
of mimicry. Of this Nifia more in its place.
When the colt of either sex is some two weeks old
his training begins—at least, the feminine method
of training which has been proved good enough. He
has already been handled and petted, and feels in us
the same confidence that his mother does. The
adjustable halter is produced, he runs up to my out-
stretched hand and the halter is arranged without
any fuss on his downy head. At this point I hand
over the lead rope to Ricardo, acquainted as | am
with the amazing strength of equine babies. The
boy starts with coaxing—in vain, of course. Mr.
Colt plants his slender forelegs firmly, the light of
battle in his eyes; no human being shall lead him
against his will. The boy could easily lift him in

142 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

his arms and carry him, but todav we are not play-
ing: we mean business: so does he. Furiously he
shakes his head, and the boy squats, taking a double
hold on the rope, for were the colt to break loose
now all would be lost. The midget sits back too, and
for awhile it is a case of pull-devil-pull-baker, varied
by the colt’s strenuous tugs on the rope. We remain
firm, all of us. Gradually the little fellow ceases
his efforts to break away, and cautiously the boy
gets to his feet and moves slowly backward. Instant-
ly the fight is on again. but the colt is weakening,
and provided he be intellizent and well bred, as are
all my colts, and is not hampered by distrustfulness
on the part of his mother, in another hour or less
we are leading him whither we will; but it is de-
sirable to lead him for a few minutes daily. Then
comes the more critical hour when he must learn to
stand tied, first alongside the mare but soon alone.
Two or three days should suffice for the learning
of this very important lesson, but patience on the
part of his teachers must be inexhaustible; the high-
ly developed nervous system of the horse in com-
bination with a tenacious memory renders pardon-
able the repetition of this trite remark. Ina few
months we begin to place pieces of harness on him,
one at atime. He has been handled so much that
no other emotion but intense interest is evoked, even
when the breeching is first adjusted. He is then
led around until he is thoroughly accustomed to
the feel of the harness, and until the dragging of
the traces—purposely allowed to drag so that any
future disarrangement of these or any other por-

THE.DESERT AND THE ROSE 143

tions of the harness may not precipitate panic—
ceases to excite even curiosity. One ironclad rule
prevails on the ranch: the colt is never to be struck
or scared, but neither is he to be given his head.
Discipline is maintained.

“How do you manage to raise such bold colts?”
a prospective purchaser inquired of me one day,
after driving one of mine through crowded city
streets for the first time in its experience, and that
without any emotion on the part of the youngster
beyond extreme inquisitiveness.

To which | replied in my heart, but not aloud.
Where would have been the use?

The next step is to make the colt bridlewise. By
dint of coaxing and determination the bit is finally
inserted. Once safely in place this new toy seems
to afford amusement, judging by the gusto with
which it is chewed. Then picking up the reins he
is induced to walk upon his way, I going ahead at
first to encourage his progress. Gradually he learns
to twist and turn according to the pull upon the bit.
Now he is ready for the crowning test. The cart,
warranted to make no agitating noises, is brought
out. We go to work very quietly, and soon every-
one is prepared for the real crisis; for I own that
the first revolution of the wheels never fails to send
my heart into my mouth, though nothing startling
ever occurred. The boy walks behind holding the
reins firmly and I walk ahead. The colt takes a few
dubious steps, looking back at the odd contraption
he appears to be dragging but soon satisfied that
whatever it is it must be all right, as his friends are

144 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

so calm and confident, and in a minute or so he is
marching along, unperturbed but decidedly interest-
ed.

The breaking of the first colt to harness had its
amusing side. Two young men who made a busi-
ness of breaking horses were kind enough to prof-
fer their assistance and arrived on the ground with
ropes and other paraphernalia commonly used in
that business. To their unbounded amazement they
beheld the above untroubled incident; further ad-
vanced, however, as the boy and I were by that
time seated in the cart being drawn along by a
pleased and spirited colt, head and tail carried in
an airified manner but otherwise “nothing doing.”
For some days, acting on the advice of an ex-
perienced Southern horseman, the colt was held
down to a walk, kept well up to the bit but not al-
lowed to break, this being the Southern way of de-
veloping a rapid walker; and of all things slow
walking is the most intolerable to the Southern
horseman, more especially if he hail from a section
of bad roads where good time must be made yet
fast trotting is impossible.

Meantime my colt has been ridden barebacked to
water many times. When Nina, the “boldest” colt
of all, was some fifteen months old—or in other
words “rising two’—came along the Fourth, and
with it the boy, imploring permission to “saddle her
up” for the first time and ride her in to town so
that she might acquire experience with firecrackers
and the like exciting adventures. ‘“‘She won’t scare
with me!’ he persisted. Having yielded somewhat

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 145

reluctantly to his importunity the next event was
a small crowd eager to witness the cinching up of
the saddle. Again disappointment was the out-
come. Nina displayed her customary curiosity but
nothing more, and walked off, bearing boy and sad-
dle without a tremor. When colt and rider reap-
peared the former wore an air of pleasurable excite-
ment ; evidently for her it had been a case of “‘a per-
fect day.” “Well?” I queried. The boy exclaimed
—‘“Nothing doing! She just seemed to think the
whole show was got up for her amusement. Scare?
Not she!”

On the other hand, and on the ranch, Nina was
the star entertainer. To say she was smart is to
say little. The man who bought her sent me a
message a year or so later that he would not take
any money for his purchase: that this mare, raised
and broken by a woman and a boy, was the best
and cleverest animal he had ever owned.

But she was irrepressible. One morning, when
she had almost arrived at the dignity of a two-year-
old and I was busy in my den, she spent something
Jike an hour trying to shove her soft muzzle through
the screen of the only window accessible to her.
Why did she act in this annoying manner? For the
reason that she desired to enter and play with me,
and was mad because I was attending strictly to
the business of the hour and not to her. At length
with an angry snort and a wicked toss of the head
she made off. For awhile peace reigns. Presently
unusual sounds proceed from the end of the long
hall running through the old house. I rush forth.

146 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

Someone has left the back door screen open, and
in the hall stands Nina, too absorbed with the tasty
contents of the icebox to observe her mistress. Non-
chalant and undismayed by novel surroundings she
has climbed the steps and is sampling a pan of
cream—trich Jersey cream—and not finding it to
her liking is sneezing it over walls and floor, and
ends by throwing the pan out of the box. While I
still stand at gaze, uncertain how to act, she se-
lects a cake, and finding it more to her taste begins
to munch it contentedly, although spitting out the
filling whenever so disposed. A nice mess!

Noiselessly I turn about, and flee for Ricardo.
He will be equal to a decidedly delicate situation;
for a panic must be avoided at all costs, and Nifia
might lose her self control if ejected forcibly from
a dwelling in which she distinctly does not belong.

“Nina in a la casa!” ejaculates the boy.

“Yes! And the icebox was left open because there
iS no ice, and—”

But Ricardo is already running for his life.

Arrived at the house, he strolls serenely up to
the naughty one and in dulcet tones represents to
her the larger joys of the outdoor life. Perhaps
she is sick of cake, or else her predilection for
Ricardo’s society prevails over the desires of the
palate; at all events she allows him to lead her
out of my house. She will consent to any innova-
tion on her privileges so long as human companion-
ship be thrown in.

We who lead the simple life are in the habit of
going after our own laundry. One day I drove up

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 147

to the house with the big bundle and went in to
summon aid. When I came out a sad spectacle
greeted my eyes. I had forgotten Nifia, loose on
the ranch, and that colts are more mischievous than
puppies. The bundle had been twirled out of the
buggy, shaken violently until it burst open, and all
around, in field and orchard, lay once snowy gar-
ments, and far in the distance swept at high speed
the very incarnation of deviltry, worrying in her
teeth my Sunday-go-to-meeting white dress! And
the worst sting of all was that colts cannot be chas-
tened as pups are chastened! One must bear one’s
geriefs in silence. Preventive measures—more
easily named than applied—are the sole resource.
Nifia started out in life with the manifest inten-
tion of keeping herself in the limelight. As a two
day old baby she squeezed out of the shed inhabited
by herself and mother, and contrived to suspend
her small person across a barbed wire fence. The
hour was midnight, and but for the lamentations
of the forsaken mother the occupants of the
house would have remained in ignorance of the
tragedy. But on a ranch watchfulness is a good
working quality, good ears in particular, so Nina
was rescued without injury to any part of her ex-
cept her dignity, being hoisted up under a woman’s
arm and restored where she belonged. This sum-
mary procedure was resorted to quite often during
the first weeks of this abnormally mischievous little
creature’s existence. Of all the colts, she took the
cake in more senses than one. She took a veritable
delight in foiling us. Heedless of her mother’s

148 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

shrill adjurations she would slip past the boy open-
ing the gate for the buggy to pass through and insist
on trotting alongside Jeff, the mean buggy horse,
who hated her yet more bitterly than he hated every
living thing; her adoration of this unpleasant beast
was incomprehensible, for if he could bite or kick
her he would. Anyway, if she could accompany
the buggy she would trip along by his side, pay-
ing no heed to nips and laid back ears. Our outfit
often afforded amusement, although the public soon
became acquainted with Nifia and her wilful ways.
Once she was repaid in her own coin—stolen—but
contrived to outwit her captors and flew like a hom-
ing pigeon straight to the place of her birth.
Neighbors who had assisted in the search for the
missing one declared that she must have covered
many miles as she was thick with dust and sweat,
and the broken rope dangling from her neck told
its own tale.

Debarred from entering the house a second time,
she yet seemed to feel that some entering wedge
of her own had been inserted in life’s common day,
and:to keep her in her place became a problem. The
kitchen was her favorite stamping ground. Should
the screen door be left unwisely ajar Nifa pushed
in. To tear open a sack of meal or flour and freely
scatter the contents afforded her joy unspeakable.
When I went into the outside store room to collect
food for the chickens all Ricardo’s strength and per-
suasion was necessary to prevent her from follow-
ing me, and when, as I fondly hoped, I was safely
on my road to the corrals she would get ahead of me

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 149

if she could and hold me up in a corner until she
had extracted her percentage from the full pans.
If necessity compelled me to stoop in her presence
her greatest delight was to nibble the back of my
neck. Of course the unknowing told me again and
again that some day she would bite me, but equally
of course she never did. Few horses are naturally
vicious, and even Jeff’s detestable traits were un-
doubtedly due as much to ill treatment in youth as
to a bad strain in his blood. Did space permit more
than one amusing anecdote could be related con-
cerning Jeff's hatred of Nifa. With all her tricks
Nina was a lady—loyal and true, never failing a
friend—but in Jeff the cur streak predominated
over the good in him. All efforts to induce him to
pull a wagon or buggy with Nifia failed; he would
put us to any inconvenience and the poor young
Nifia to the severest pulling tests rather than pull
with her; he was against her from the first hour
she stood on four feet. So when the mare was old
enough for regular duty I disposed of him. But
not before a visiting kinsman had, under extreme
provocation, tested the old horse to the limit after
Nifia, hitched with him, had been obliged to pull
the wagon home alone—a rigid try-out for a colt,
to which she responded nobly.

“The old brute!” exclaimed my kinsman, after
a long absence with Jeff. “I couldn’t get a balk out
of him, single or double, with all kinds of horses,
and yet look at the way he acted this morning with
Nina! He simply does not intend to work with her,

150 THE DESERT AND THEVROSE

and he’ll maim her in the corral one of these days.
Sell him!’

Despite the ubiquitous automobile of later days,
the skipping “road flea” largely in evidence, horses,
buggies and wagons still exist; likewise slovenli-
ness and neglect, especially where the buggy horse is
concerned. As it was of old, so is it now. At one
time there were just two or three of us who attend-
ed to the decencies—that is, we sallied forth behind
a sleek, well cared for team, harness and buggy
both alike in order. Now it is but by a miracle such
a pleasant sight greets the eye. Yet there are al-
Ways men on the ranch who can, maybe, wash a
buggy once a month, clean harness perhaps twice a
year, and see to it that they are not represented in
public by rough, bony, neglected horses; this does
not sound like a very large order. As for work
horses—not overmuch time need be consumed in
seeing that collars and pads fit, that harness is strip-
ped off at noon, that these laborers worthy of their
hire are allowed ample time for refreshment, that
eyes showing the effects of dust are washed at night
with salt and water, tender shoulders—though such
should not be—also washed and tender hoofs
greased. How much time does this supervision
consume? A few minutes—and often days saved,
days on which the horses of careless owners literally
cannot work; and when a New Mexican, white or
brown, rests his beast, one may be very sure that
the animal is incapable of putting one foot before
the other! Needless to add that there are several
good ranchmen who realize that care of their teams

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 151

puts money in their pockets, but the buggy outfit
would, in most instances, disgrace any community.
It is claimed that a Mexican cannot be taught to
care for a horse; I can disprove that assertion.
Mexicans whom I instructed in this line during my
ranching days take to this hour a proper pride in
their teams, and Ricardo in particular has brought
his horses to me that I should admire them. I
have had work teams in former times offered me for
their keep—fine animals but in wretched condition,
sore shouldered; ill nourished, and at the end of the
allotted month have returned them almost unrecog-
nizable by their owners—gay, sufficiently fat, living
refutations of the doctrine that work in itself is bad
for man or beast. Accused of not having worked
the team, I had only to point to acres of freshly
plowed land. The introduction several years later
of fine stallions into the Valley did much, but much
more remains to be done, even though the settle-
ment in the Valley of Eastern farmers has also
helped.

Probably no animal rewards a little intelligent
care so much as the horse—not pampering, for that
is unintelligent. But how satisfactory to know that
you or your peon can lead out of the pasture, with-
out waste of time in chasing, the horse you stand
in need of. How pleasant to hear at early morn
the horses heralding the arrival of their caretaker
with joyful sounds, or if at large thundering to
greet him and rub their heads against his arm; and
this not because they are hungry or thirsty but be-
cause affection prompts this haste. With what

152 THE DESERT, AND\ THE ROSE

pride Ricardo leads my saddle mare to the door and
tells me how she ran to meet him, nickering and
holding out an injured foot, sure that he would re-
lieve her distress. How good to watch the horses
going readily to their work because in return for it
they are considerately treated. And this is not
sentimentality, but plain horse-sense.

Did space permit, more than one characteristic
anecdote could be related of horses and their grati-
tude—horses sold months before finding their own
way back to the ranch and greeting and being greet-
ed by their four footed comrades of old with en-
thusiasm, and running to their former owner’s
hand—but here a halt must be called.

CHAPTER x1)

SMALL POTATOES AND
THOROUGHBREDS

Just what connection exists between the two
may not be at first apparent, but it is to be hoped
will become so. As I linger before arising this
Spring morning my mind reverts to the development
of my small potatoes into large potatoes. My small
potato business chances to be the poultry business, _
but the same concentrated counsel applies to all
beginnings—Go Slow! Especially go slow if you
are a novice, if you cannot afford to be in the losing
class, if your ready cash with which to gamble is
limited in amount. For of course the whole thing
is a gamble, or at least calls for extreme caution.
Many beginners, whether with hens or what not,
labor under the delusion that big expenditure spells
big profits. Never was there a more egregious
error! Women are less liable to err in this respect
than men but on the other hand rarely keep accurate
books, so that their ideas of Profit and Loss are, to
say the least, hazy. But of this more later.

On rising just before ‘“‘sun-up” I take a glance
out of the window, as behooves a careful rancher,
and am immediately possessed of the spirit of evil—
or, to put it more decorously, with a sense of futile
irritation. Painted ribbons stretching in placid,
parallel lines across a sky of unpaintable azure

154 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

should not irritate a person, yet they do. It is go-
ing to blow, and between wind and myself exists a
mutual, though vain, antipathy. So I ride on my
way early, in the fond hope of escaping the in-
escapable. My errand leads me to the home of a
rather distant neighbor, who is reported to be
favorably considering my plan of putting a setting
of thoroughbred Minorca eggs under one of her
“ornery” hens and receiving in return for the favor
a cockerel and a pullet. This method of improving
common stock at practically no cost I have already
found acceptable in the neighborhood.
_ The practice of borrowing setting hens, when my
own supply of Langshans runs short, has on the
other hand not proved satisfactory, inasmuch as
buggy-riding seems to upset the plans and pros-
pects of a setting hen. Having worried her em-
ployer almost sick by setting on anything—a white
door knob in a dry acequia, for instance—she dis-
embarks at my home in an altered frame of mind.
In short, she is pettish and stand-off. If I can
persuade her to take a seat on beauteous Minorca
eges, so far superior to those to which she has been
accustomed, I am in luck.

My business is transacted amicably and success-
fully, but I return still in somewhat ruffled mood.
I declare that it is the wind, already strong enough
to toss my little mare’s mane skyward and beguile
her into unseemly capers, but the wind is not wholly
to blame.

Hitherto I have always named distance as an ob-
stacle to intimacy with this neighbor, whereas as a

THE DESERT | AND THE ROSE 155

matter of fact I am afraid of her. She poses asa
goodnatured, motherly woman, and sad to say I
have learned to beware of such—in the general,
not in the particular, I hasten emphatically to add.
In her vicinity I step lightly and avoid treading on
her corns; for her sort never forgets or forgives.
The impulsive, look-out-for-yourself, outspoken
kind does; one dwells in no fear of that species,
male or female. I also am surprised that so tact-
ful a lady should blunder into trying a dose of gos-
sip on me. Few make that mistake, although no
doubt the majority regard such an attitude as a
symptom of ‘“queerness.”’ Assertions bearing im-
probability on their very face were this morning
offered as a pill to be swallowed whole, without
question. In rejecting the dose I was tempted to
retort that everything Arcadian has forsaken Ar-
cadia except its stupidity: fortunately prudence
intervened, and as aforesaid we parted on the
pleasantest of terms, though my departure was
hastened not merely by the rising gale. Provincial
society is abominably lacking in simplicity. Friend-
ship, for instance—that blessed tie uniting man and
woman—it declines to acknowledge as a possibility,
going so far as to besmirch it with foul names—
for the reason probably that such a helpful and
gentle sentiment cannot long exist unmarred within
its boundaries. Civilization in its finest flower—
which is Simplicity—alone represents friendship be-
twixt man and woman. It would not be a bad idea
for the Modern Woman, who we are assured is to
“Uplift” Mere Man, to try her hand first on en-

156 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

couraging the more prolific growth of that fine
flower, instead of being too often the leader in the
dragging down and besmirching process. And in
hurrying back to my thoroughbreds—such a wide
embracing term, me seems!-—TI fled also from my
neighbor’s propensity to peck at my cherished
friends of either sex, of the feminine gender this
morning, acutely sensible of this too common dis-
courtesy and perhaps pardonably speculating and
ponderine—well, I alighted from my restive steed
and visited for a few minutes with my thorough-
breds, to find them too somewhat ruffled. Two hens
were facing one another, engaged apparently in
harmless gossip. All of a sudden they sprang up
on their toes, and started a wordy encounter which
soon proceeded to blows. A majestic Minorca
gentleman who had been watching the ladies ask-
ance, evidently anticipating trouble from overmuch
indulgence in scandal-mongering, now stepped for-
ward, and interposing his lordly person between the
combatants at once put an end to the affray. But
his expression, as he turned his high, red-topped
head from one to another was inimitable.

“Ladies! I am surprised at you!”

So I go into my den and bend my mind to the
pleasant task of examining my poultry books, pleas-
ant because the Credit page is so well filled.

Pleasant also would it be for a successful hen-
woman to enter into a lengthy dissertation con-
cerning the whys and wherefores of her success.
But we are not all poultry fanciers, any more than I
was when I embarked in the business, and present-

THE DESERT, AND, THE ROSE BSZ

ly, after submitting my books to searching investi-
gation, found that my estimate of 40% on my in-
vestment was absolutely correct. I will by omitting
many details contrive to keep myself within bounds
on this poultry question. Good adobe houses suf-
ficient for a beginning were already on the ground,
and whatever may be said to the contrary, adobe
houses gave me no trouble; on the contrary, for they
provided warmth in winter and being kept clean
never harbored vermin. So good did I find them
that in due course I built more. Large corrals,
divided for future necessities, had to be erected.
Usually, though not invariably, the fowls had the
run of the ranch.

Disgusted with a job lot of feathered objects
left on my hands, and guided by some modicum of
working sense, I at once committed numerous night-
mares of roosters to the fleshpot and then sought
light to illumine my hen darkness. But alack! light
was there none in my vicinity. And my soul craved
thoroughbreds.

“Thoroughbreds?! shrieked the neighbors in
chorus. “Thoroughbreds won’t do any good in
this climate!”

Why not? quoth I to myself. I was ignorant,
yes; but a dry sunny clime, whose rainy season oc-
curs mostly in summertime—what was the matter
with it for thoroughbreds? Nothing, I decided, and
promptly set to work, but with modest initiatory
outlay. That first spring I sent away to a big east-
ern fancier for two young, large-eight pounders—
to be accurate—Black Minorca roosters, acting on

158 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

advice of a far-off sister who had triumphed with
Minorcas and Black Langshans. These gorgeous
beings I introduced to my very common hens. For
the benefit of those unfamiliar with the Minorca
in all his glory, I will add that a Minorca rooster is
the proudest fowl that steps. There are moments
when our lowly earth is too lowly for him judging
by his magnificent progress, the arching of his bur-
nished neck and symmetrical tail, the air with which
he carries his tall scarlet comb and shakes his long
wattles. He can outbrag the turkey gobbler him-
self! And the Minorca’s lordly airs are further
heightened by a larger silence than belongs to
roosters of lesser majesty; he does not find it neces-
sary to crow inanely and incessantly for themainten-
ance of his dignity: noblesse oblige does not work
that way with him. It is to be hoped that in time
the nerve devastating shrieks of roosters may be
altogether abolished now that a way has been found
to put a stopper on the mule’s bray.

Imagine, then, the expression of insulted dignity
with which these two imported lords of creation
regarded the plebeian creatures with whom they
were expected to consort! After a prolonged sur-
vey, both stalked away, giving voice to deep notes
of displeasure. In the aristocratic seclusion from
whence they had emerged never had it been their
lot to look upon such vulgar travesties of ladies,
much less suffer an introduction to them!

But time soothes disappointments grievous even
as this one. By the Fall I had a lot of vigorous half
bred chicks, so sightly that many of them were the

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 159

equal in appearance of those exhibited to me by
proud but ill-advised owners as “genuine Mi-
norcas.” This was my sole piece of luck—the pre-
potency of the two birds I had purchased; for every
breeder who knows anything knows that prepotency
is luck and nothing more. By this time I felt my-
self equal to launching out a little further, and again
sent East, this time for Minorca and Langshan
hens, or rather pullets, making away with the barn-
yard fowls as rapidly as feasible with the exception
of two or three good mothers. But the time arrives
for me to call a halt, or my hobby will carry me too
far.

There are a few details which may, however,
prove of interest. It is brains that count in the hen
business, not mere manual labor. Also in this busi-
ness, as in ranching, willingness to take advice is of
great importance. Two healthseekers, former Blue
Ribbon winners in the East, were of service to me
when I began carrying off Blue Ribbons myself.
For the hen as such I care nothing; the fun of the
game lies in the scientific end. By this I mean read-
ing and eliminating, watching, studying; raising
birds which shall not only win premiums but pro-
duce eggs in quantity. I succeeded; but do not im-
agine, O beginner, that success rewards the person
who is not persistent. The climate of southern
New Mexico is ideal for the poultry business, yet
many there be who write themselves down as fail-
ures. Many too came to me for advice, hung
around gazing enviously at my healthy, shiny ebony
flocks, stood amazed at my first year record of six-

160 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

teen to eighteen eggs per diem from twenty hens
and that in our coldest winter months—then went
away and bought them a couple of hundred fowls
of two or three breeds, mixed them all together,
never segregated young and old—a vital necessity
usually overlooked—kept no hours for feeding, let
them roost out or leave the houses early on cold
winter mornings without breakfast, and so forth,
and then complained to me that my forty odd hens
(the greatest number I ever kept, as quality not
quantity was my object) supplied the family, the
markets and the fanciers, whilst their innumerable
hens produced eggs insufficient for the home table.
Such people one cannot help, as I have learned by
bitter experience. Mental application rather than
toilsome labor, regularity, keen eyes—all these
things and more are necessary if success is desired.
The actual work cannot be called exercise when
other ranch work receives its full meed of attention
also; furthermore every ranch must keep a boy, who
can clean the hen-houses and carry fresh water with-
out interference with his regular duties. In five and
one half years I lost one chick from disease. The
only disease which visited the grown birds was
roup, the first time contracted at a show. With the
help of one of the ex-fanciers afore mentioned I
contrived to save all my valuable pullets; but it was
hard, and often night, work. The second time a
splendid Minorca rooster—for of course the ever
risky hour in which one must buy new stock ar-
rived—was the guilty party. He came from one of
the famous eastern breeders, but had evidently had

=
®
. *
r A>

SNOW ON THE ORGANS

JHE DESER RAND THE ROSE 161

the roup, for he arrived snuffling. Called away
most inopportunely I went, leaving strict injunc-
tions for the immuring of the royally bred bird un-
til my return, when I would diagnose his case. I
returned, after an unexpectedly prolonged absence,
to find that half of the chickens running around be-
longed to the new comer and that fully two-thirds
of them had the snuffles. Their heads were prompt-
ly laid on the block, but not before that of the roy-.
ally bred author of my woe. The remaining third
came as near to perfection as Minorca may; yet I
had proved the truth of the saying that when com-
pelled by fear of inbreeding to seek outside stock,
the hen-person’s future trembles in the balance. As
for cholera and other diseases, all alike were stran-
gers to my hen home. I should make but a poor
physician for “diseases peculiar to this climate.”
Forcing or patent foods were banned. Alfalfa,
milk, and in winter ground green bone, amply filled
their place. In winter, too, pans of milk were put
in the houses at night for early morning refresh-
ment. Grain was fed with discrimination and fore-
sight. The chicks were raised largely on corn meal
and milk, enjoying a private lunch counter un-
molested by greedy hens. During the hatching pro-
cess I let the old hen severely alone in the specially
appointed quarters for setting hens, feeling that a
specialist should know more about her own business
than a rank outsider. I also threw to the winds the
red tape notion that chicks must not be fed until
they are twenty-four hours old. I would like to see
such a course pursued with the vigorous Minorca

162 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

chicks bred in our climate, who are squealing and
scratching soon after they get out of the shell! I
surely fed mine, and very soon too—hard boiled
eggs and cracker crumbs every two hours for a
day or so, and never leaving them to starve in the
house at night. Thus my stock was in demand in
distant States, because they were sturdy, active
and healthy, and never by any chance weak or
“leggy.”

A tragi-comic episode in relation to the un-
naturally maternal yearnings of Minorcas in this
climate is worthy of mention. A premium-win-
ning hen insisted on setting, so after vainly attempt-
ing dissuasion I gave way, and in due course she
hatched out. A Langshan following suit I pre-
sented her with the two broods, for I doubted the
reliability of a mother who was a member of the
fiery Mediterranean race. The despoiled hen I
turned loose with the flock. The highly capable
Langshan disposed of all the chicks beneath her
ample wings, and I considered the affair settled.
Not so the outraged Minorca. For days she fol-
lowed her triumphant rival around, clucking and
scratching and using every means in her power to
purloin the chicks. But they would have none of
her; their present mother was too feathery and
comforting. At last the bereft hen’s appeals found
their way to one heart, and a single chick abandoned
the comforts of home. But to see that hen gather
in her prize! She fussed and rustled and scratched
for that solitary chick as if she had at least twenty
to provide for, and by sheer pluck and energy

foe DESERT AND THE “ROSE 163

held on to it. Yet another episode: One of my
birds, after winning at a show the prize offered for
the best hen of any breed, decided to range herself,
and with my half-hearted consent spread her smart-
ly plumaged, leg-banded person over ten eggs of
her own laying—such eggs rarely weighing less
than four ounces. As setter and mother her con-
duct was exemplary, and all went well until one
fearsome day a hawk swooped down upon the scat-
tered poultry, and instead of fleeing for refuge as
did every other hen and chick on the place, she
held her ground, gathering her brood under her
wings. Before Ricardo could rush armed upon
the tragic scene she had lost both eyes in deadly
combat, although her chicks were saved. True to
her fighting blood she died; and the hawk died too.
But this was not the end. As correspondent to one
of the poultry papers I related the whole affair, and
at once the big eastern Minorca breeders rebelled.
A premium hen set and rear chickens? Nonsense!
She must have been a mongrel! I was called on to
furnish evidence, which was easy enough. My
Minorcas were well known in the West and the
testimony to the hen’s blue blood was soon forth-
coming and to the fact that she had indeed won
the great all-round premium. Minorca breeders
finally settled down to sheer amazement.

From one show I brought back a somewhat un-
dersized but highbred Langshan cockerel, acting on
the advice of the judge when he learned that I had
some Langshan hens very nearly as fine as the
Minorcas. For some weeks the cockerel lived a se-

164 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

cluded life, but when he had grown into a mag-
nificent bird tipping the scales at fourteen pounds
he well repaid me for the single dollar he had cost.
He was christened Jumbo, and he and his brought
home many a Blue and Red Ribbon. The cross be-
tween the Minorca and the Langshan is a very de-
sirable fowl, but my ambitions grew with every
year. Needless to say to the trained henman or
woman that roosters must not walk around with the
hens the long year through, therefore the time came
when Jumbo was put out to board. On the place of
his temporary sojourn no chickens were kept, but
for a while he managed to amuse himself by even-
ing strolls with the family, who caressed him as
they would a dog. Presently, however, this diver-
sion failed, and one morning he sallied forth alone,
returning just as his absence was beginning to
cause anxiety, but not alone. No more alone! He
had found somewhere a small brown hen and kid-
napped her, and supreme was the care he lavished
upon this insignificant person. No dainty morsel
was too good for her, and as she did not share his
taste for evening promenades he abandoned his
walks with the family.

I have not alluded to incubators, for though in
course of time a friend in the city went into part-
nership with me and raised incubator chicks, | ne-
ver found them to be as thrifty as the old hen-raised
babies. Neither did I achieve one up to Blue Rib-
bon standard, and as that standard was what I
worked for I stayed with the old hen. I have been
assured that incubators are a trifle hard to regulate

THE DESERT) AND THE ROSE 165

at high altitude, and I could not afford to add to my
daily cares. I aimed for the highscoring bird, not
for large quantities of passable birds. To realize
40% on my investment was good enough for me.

Naturally I evolved many and sundry methods
of my own which conduced to success, but back of
all was System. I am willing to acknowledge,
nevertheless, that an abundance of milk and alfalfa
are more than merely desirable.

GHA PT ER aL
THE WONDERFUL COUNTRY

I Look up from my writing. What kind of a
storm is this?

The sun has set, but the falling darkness is swift
and almost horrible. The deep brown earth seems
to close upon itself, shrinking, afraid. Angry
cloud masses sweep portentously across the expanse
of sky. Darker it grows, and cold. The landscape
is a sentient thing, awaiting annihilation from those
browbeating clouds, whose terrorstriking aspect,
even in this land of tremendous effects, I have never
seen equalled. Shuddering and inexpressibly lone-
ly the solitary watcher shrinks with the shrinking
earth. Then by sheer force of habit the eyes turn
toward the East; and there, against the yet clear
sky, dripped like dewdrops along the horizon—so
silvery, so translucent are they—trise those ever-
lasting hills, shining with a radiance that is of
heaven, not of earth. On this night no ecstasy of
color is theirs, but rather do they appear as disem-
bodied spirits breathing immortality. And in the
heart of the mortal enveloped in the gloom of the
Valley springs as unexpectedly the consolation of
the ages: There is no Death.

So does one return somewhat abruptly though
not inharmoniously from mental journeyings into
prehistoric times.

LEASBURG DIvERSION DAm

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 167

“A wonderful country” indeed this of New Mex-
ico and Arizona, to those who have eyes to see and
imaginations with which to dream backward—nay,
forward. Within its immense area the oldest civil-
ization in the United States had its birth—a civili-
zation dating not later than six hundred years after
the Christian Era, and brooding with the romance
of ages earlier.* To this day, despite the work
of archeologists and historical students the “marvel-
lous country”’retains much of the glamor of the
Northern Mystery—the glamor which led the
Spaniards, themselves belonging to the age of mir-
acles, to struggle on, again and again thwarted,
without guide, without actual knowledge, in the
bliss of an ignorance the age of science scorns—to
struggle, and to succeed!

Here in the Land of the Northern Mystery linger
traces of cities antedating that of Rome; amazing
tapestries, intricate and elaborate adornments of
gold and silver and precious stones decked men and
women who have vanished into the Unknown; even
their acequais were protected with a form of con-
crete hardly inferior to our own. Endless surmise
is the sole result, so far, of historical research.
Still do the mountains hold secrets in their deep
hearts. Fertile vale and flowerstrewn mesa, the
desert’s remorseless spaces covering generations
of men out of mind and forgotten, high ranges
through whose tall grass the wind whispers of that
mysterious past; the vast horizon, castellated or
pyramidal, flaming at dawn or sunset under an in-
comparable sky—all are dumb. Craters whose

*H. O. Ladd.

168 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

limit no human being may reach, beds and rivers
of lava cooled for unnumbered years, freaks of
Nature varied and various, ancient gold mines so
craftily concealed that many remain hidden to this
day—cave dwellings and cliff dwellings, traces of
cities and pueblos—signs of age-old tribes who set
their mark upon the land forever. Cafions green
with live-oak and fern and sparkling with eternal
springs, even our own familiar bosques bowing and
sighing the white nights through by our errant riv-
er’s bed—all reveal little, conceal so much. In this
lies part of the wonderful country’s spell—its preg-
nant silence.

“And here” wrote Mr. Bancroft, “we come still
upon a people. ... retaining many of their original
characteristics, and living on the same sites in
buildings similar to, or in some cases perhaps
identical with, those occupied by their ancestors at
the coming of the Europeans.”

Whether or no the claim put forward by the
Pueblos i. e. that they are the veritable aborigines
of the American continent be true, it is certain that
at the coming of the Spaniards various offshoots
of this great tribal people were well in advance of
European civilization, in some respects at least.
In the year of grace, 1914, an English writer came
with an old idea presented on a new dish. Con-
siderably over a quarter of a century ago New
Mexican archaeologists, patiently investigating the
Northern Mystery, gave it as their opinion that the
prehistoric tribes of the Western States, the Mis-
sissippi Valley and Mexico, were of Mongolian

THE.DESERT AND THE ROSE 169

origin, and that they crossed over from Asia by
way of Behring Strait which, according to geolo-
gists, was then dry land. Yet from a scientific
standpoint this opinion was not intended to be con-
clusive any more than the Englishman’s supposed
discovery is novel or original. The Mongolian cast
of countenance may often be observed, however,
both in New and Old Mexico. It is further deemed
probable that the mound builders were later driven
by some more barbaric race from the Mississippi
Valley to Central America, and it is very sure that
they were a methodical and orderly people, etuploy-
ing slave labor and possessing a form of govern-
ment.

But history, especially that of his own romantic
land, fails to interest the average reader, so here
the line must be drawn, fascinating though the story
of New Mexico be to the few. It may, neverthe-
less, be mentioned that the two oldest Missions in
the United States, although unfortunately in partial
or total ruin, are to be found in New Mexico, on
the sites of ancient cities or pueblos which are yield-
ing much of interest to archeologists. These Mis-
sions are at the very least one hundred and fifty
years older than any of the California Missions.

_ As the Tenderfoot extricates herself to some ex-
tent from the web of tiresome circumstance and
daily happenings, she surveys with mingled indig-
nation and amazement the stout-and strong and
presumably intelligent visitor who, with means at
his command, idles away his time within our bor-
ders, abusing the “uninteresting’—Heaven be

170 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

merciful to him!—country, and swearing that it
has nothing but Climate to recommend it.

Verily to him that hath naught shall naught be
given. Yet from time to time artists have visited
us, only to go away overcome, possibly, by desert
skies and mountains in combination with valleys of
a verdure so young and gay that its greenness is
as hard to depict on canvas as is the whole amazing
sky—and—landscape. At this writing a couple of
young artists are succeeding with the brilliant,
dazzling aspect of desert scenery—succeeding to a
charm. But scenery with us has so many and vary-
ing faces. It is not always brilliant and in color is
never hard. To one who for many years has
watched its varying emotions, its daring moods are
but one of many. In its soft depths lies often its
greatest beguilment to the desert lover.

It is not often that the ranchwoman can fare
forth, but when she finds herself at length upon an
overland train, it is to be stricken dumb by the com-
placent know-nothingness of the typical tourist.
Unless she watch well her ways, she may listen with
bulging eyes to the weird, bottomless yarns poured
forth by the ignorant—yarns purporting to describe
New Mexico, its climate, products and inhabitants.
(With its history, needless to say, the yarner does
not concern himself.) The very-know-it-all of the
talkative tourist inspires a vague alarm: do we the
residents live in truth in such a_horror-striking
land? It may well be made a subject of prayer that
the increasing variety in methods of transportation
may awaken the average American to some know-

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 171

ledge of his own vast country off the beaten tracks.
A rare treat is it to journey in company with one
who really merits the title of traveler!

While passing on one of the overland trains
through a valley some hundred miles removed from
-my own, a strident feminine voice abruptly penetrat-
ed every corner of the hitherto peaceful Pullman.

“Our Johnny went all through this section in
a wagon last year. He regained his health that I
must say, but the tales he told us of the lives these
people lead were something dreadful! Ranches
miles and miles apart, women dying of loneliness
and hard work, scarcely any churches or schools’—
Oh, Johnny, well it is for you that no New Mexican
lady got a grip on you ere you escaped to relate
such fables!—“‘and everything and everybody just
running wild. Yet I don’t quite see why people
we see on the station platforms look so rosy and
well satisfied. Then they do seem to make things
grow, too! Yet Johnny said that all crops depend
on the Spring rains, and if they don’t come the peo-
ple nearly starve.”

Spring rains! Spring rains, which are, or were,
represented by the raging Rio Grande roaring down
from the northern mountains like a tiger unre-
strained, and bestowing its fertilizing waters a
thought too profusely. Rains in the springtime
cause the Oldest Inhabitant to sit up and take mild,
even grateful, notice; if we had them often we
should lose our young chicks, but that is another
subject. It is not in the Spring that the thoughts of
the true sportsman turn yearningly to visions of

172 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

succulent mountain trout, or his ear greedily to
mountain lion and bear stories, or to game big or
little in the varied fastnesses of the New Mexican
mountains, north and south; rather is it in the
Fall, after the summer rains, when he sits before a
roaring fire of cedar or cottonwood, and cleans and
oils the weapons that are his.

And while yet on the overland train it may be
mentioned that the ranching district through which
we were passing whilst the loud voiced lecturer
held forth—she or another, what matters it ?—taps
by means of pumping plants the underflow of one
of those Lost Rivers of New Mexico—a fair sample
of the weird streams for which the State is no-
torious. They are always on tap, and are liable to
come to the surface again anywhere when so dis-
posed, or else they form underground lakes in
places where the mountains have created suitable
basins for their reception.

Not only on trains but in the sanctity of our
homes do we receive an immense amount of gratui-
tous information concerning our own far country.
Gratuitous it can afford to be for as information,
whether in the form of Wild West stories written
by some Pullman observer or hurried “chaser”
through our midst, or by optimistically accurate
newspaper or magazine writers of sorts, it does not
help us—much. That is, we can “make out,’’ gener-
ally speaking, by using our own eyes and ears dur-
ing a period of years. A decade or so ago a Boston
newspaper solemnly informed us that the Bad Man
and the cowboy, cattle and sheep feuds, were ex-

THE DESERT AND: THE} ROSE 173

tinct in our section. As it chanced a deadly feud
was at that date raging at no very distant point
between cattle and sheepmen. The Bad Man, East
and West, will be extinct when laws are justly ad-
ministered and human beings’ “angry passions”
cease to rise; just as lynchings will be unheard of
when the proper administration of justice comes in-
to its own. In New Mexico, at all events—which
is not Texas—lynchings are practically unknown,
or unknown in my experience. But when men are
permitted to commit murder, not once, but several
times, and by some quibble of the law, combined
with the financial ability to pay lawyers, escape pun-
ishment, sooner or later the people are tempted to
take the law as it is meant into their own hands—
law as it is written, not as it is too often applied.
Commonsense assures us that there is but one ob-
vious remedy for lynching; but into much bombastic
talk commonsense declines to enter. As for cow-
boys—they will continue to exist so long as “the
wonderful country” spreads before the cattlemen
leagues and leagues of high ranges unfit for cultiva-
tion. With every passing year more fences are erect-
ed, but cowboys, even if in diminished numbers, re-
main indispensable. Did space allow, I could relate
anecdotes of the Wild West cowboy, which would
place him a good deal higher in the scale of good
breeding and chivalry than many so-called educated
and superior men can lay claim to—in the experi-
ence of a lone woman, that is. And surely no one
is better fitted than the said lone woman to set the
truth before the uninformed reader.

174 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

But here I must abandon “the wonderful coun-
try,’ omit so much of its romantic story—even
where it trends on modern days—for fear of weary-
ing a reader who, like Gamaliel of old, cares for
none of these things.

CHAPTER XIV

HEALTHSERRKERS, AND MATTERS
PERTINENT

In writing of our climate, that perverse factor
which will give you the lie if it can, it was climate
that attracted to our Valley, during the course of
decades, innumerable healthseekers, not invariably
victims of tuberculosis but for the most part thus
afflicted. I employ the past tense, for the reason that
the number of such visitors has greatly declined.
The causes for such decline are several and will
find place later.

To go backward. The healthseekers who during
the winter season filled our ranch resort, dotted our
waste places with tents or sought refuge in our
valley homes, brought with them—they and their
healthy companions—much joy as well, alas! as
pain: friendships which endured until death did us
part or which endure unto this day. The memories
connected with these visitors are by no means all
sad; indeed close comradeship with some created
out of apparent nothingness many a festive hour.
And the best of them rounded out so to speak, the
mental atmosphere, enlarged the horizon by reason
of the ideas brought from the wider life of which
they had more recently partaken, and the perusal
of new books and reviews gathered around the

176 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

ranch desk was revivified by the red blood of dis-
cussion.

There are some in particular whose memories
those who knew them would do well to cherish in the
inner places of their souls, were the cherishing of
memories not so woefully out of date.

“Aren’t you tired of being asked every day how
you are?” I said, whilst filling a vase for one | loved
with crimson roses from my garden—the red, red
roses I always saved for her.

“T am!” she retorted, looking up at me with
blithe, smiling eyes. ‘““But I always say I am very
well. You understand, don’t you?”

Yes—I understood.

And men too—young, gifted men, perhaps, with
all the world before them where to choose, and who
instead have found strength to choose sacrifice,
abnegation, in one form or another; who might
have snatched from the hand of Fate happiness or
greater length of days, but who, because these could
only be had at cost to some other, have refrained.

Of the selfish who accepted one’s service as their
right, the querulous who complained because there
is too much sun or not enough, who lived poorly in
their homes yet carped at the good fare here pro-
vided for them, who prated everlastingly of “God’s
Country’—meaning thereby as likely as not some
obscure village or smoky city—and shut their eyes
to the actual God’s Country to which they were tem-
porarily exiled: who when I (myself exiled, though
for another cause than theirs) drive them up on
the mesa to behold the resplendence of the sunset

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 177

sky, can discourse of nothing but the amount of
milk or the number of raw eggs they have that day
consumed or sigh obstreperously for a New York
porterhouse steak—then in very truth I, who was
also exiled, found our healthseeker a burden heavy
to be borne—especially when weary and making the
hard, individual fight.

More healthful is it for the soul to give than to
receive, but there are times when the soul is un-
equal to the large part assigned to it, and personal
trials cannot always be forgotten in ministering to
those of the ungrateful and unappreciative. Such
ministry, long drawn out, drives the iron inward
once ina while. Also it gradually became apparent
that the sense of obligation, even the veriest frac-
tion, is carried gracefully and fitly only by those in
whom some noble quality exists. Dormant may be
this essence of nobility, or to the dull eye invisible.
but mortals through whose warp and woof runs a
thread of gold alone seem capable of keeping the
divine fire warm upon their hearth-stones.

Thus we approach one of the reasons for the de-
cline of the healthseeker in our Valley—the trans-
ient that is. Of resident healthseekers there are
many, the larger number carrying on without let or
hindrance various occupations, others for no suf-
ficient reasons not faring well or merely enjoying
a lengthening of their days. For any person who
endeavors to forecast the future when up against
the most unreliable and fickle of all mortal com-
plaints is a gambler indeed! Our winter visitors in
the past furnished us more than amply with that

178 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

type of invalid who was of the opinion that the
country, and most particularly the wild and wooly
West, owed him a living. Such individuals were
more or less dependent on the established residents,
as they looked to the latter to provide them with oc-
cupation which should at once support them in com-
fort and yet not be beyond their strength to per-
form. It is not too much to say that the residents
after many long years began to find these visitors
somewhat of a tax; not because our people are less
kindhearted than others but because the health-
seekers may with justice be accused of having worn
out their welcome. Sad it is to have to confess that
the sight of the usual advertisement beginning
“Healthseeker desires a position, etc.,” or the sound
of the words “I am here for my health and would
like to get work for my board,” sent a shudder down
the spine of the sorely tried and seasoned benefac-
tor of the invalid-who-is-willing-to-work. “No
healthseeker need apply,” were words only too often
heard, but the fault generally lay with the health-
seeker.

These men were not invariably Lungers; some-
times they were merely taking a vacation—clerks
in big city stores and so forth, who needed a dry,
bracing winter climate. Our people, though far
from poverty stricken, are or were seldom or never
rich; therefore in course of time the residents wax-
ed restive and the meritorious healthseekers suf-
fered. Neither were schemes for living on “these
Westerners” confined altogether to the poor and
needy.

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 179

He who can continue to give cheerfully and hope-
fully after a decade or so passed in such an environ-
ment is less human than divine, or perhaps merely
thickskinned.

After repeated disappointments I decided to try
again. During an entire winter one healthseeker
after another was given a fair chance. They were
not Lungers or if so but slightly affected, and feed-
ing and watering four or five head of stock morning
and night (the stock was running on the ranch most
of the time) harnessing, saddling and currying a
horse or two and keeping a buggy clean is not very
laborious work, as I know, who at a pinch have done
it myself. Decent interest was manifested in their
health and concerns generally, and decent measures
taken to spare their strength, but evidently such
interest was a mistake; for sooner or later, generally
sooner, each in his turn sat back, reduced his tri-
fling tasks to a minimum the moment he began to
“feel good,” and either fired himself or was fired.
Incompetence, from charitable motives, can be en-
dured, but shirking and characteristic ingratitude
soon grow wearisome.

The insolence toward a lone woman typical of the
class to which I refer was checked, though not
wholly squelched, by the moral support of a visiting
kinsman. This type curbs its Citizen Genet tongue
when a man is back of a woman, otherwise her ut-
most courtesy and kindliness may be exhibited a
good deal worse than in vain. Here is where the
star of the plain peon is in the ascendant.

Thus, if one is by training or temperament gener-

180 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

ous, many, both sick and well, are apt to take ad-
vantage of the sympathetic ear and ready hand, and
bearing one another’s burdens gradually takes on an
air of duty rather than pleasure. The joy of giv-
ing grows small by degrees and unbeautifully less.
If only we were really as dull as some persons choose
to believe, or were really only Easy Marks, we
should slip more smoothly along life’s vexed and
tortuous way. But we are not. When I give vent
to observations concerning the demoralizing effects
of long-continued poverty or dependence to one
more worldly-wise than I, they are greeted with a
melancholy nod of affirmation. Something goes
down in the struggle—a proper pride and several
lesser items. Also we descry causes for this long-
continued poverty. To name but one among many:
thriftlessness, nay destructiveness. Where I keep
a piece of property in speckless condition for years
the poverty howlers will ruin it in a month. So it
is with everything. They have little because they
are too careless, or too superior to petty cares; they
have never acquired the automatic, systematic habit
of taking thought for what they have; ergo, present-
ly they have nothing. Then comes the inevitable
whine—“TIf I had as much as you have it would be
worth while to bother!” To which senseless com-
plaint reply would be a mere waste of energy. There
was a day when extreme verdancy prompted a kind-
ly meant explanation, but verdancy has long since
been nipped by the bitter frosts of experience

The working-boarder proposition may be said to
have died a natural death. The he-come, haven’t-

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 181

came-yet, he-done, I-seen and you-was specimens of
the male sex, who sought the Golden West for rea-
sons quite other than that of the search for labor,
are no longer in evidence. Pointedly deficient in the
saying grace of humor they are “insulted” at every
turn. However humbly placed individually, good
breeding is not “touchy,” but neither does it enjoy
having the nutmeg-grater of illiterate speech drag-
ged hourly across its nervous system. Hence, large-
ly, the barriers of caste. Substitute Taste for Caste,
acknowledge that sensitiveness and touchiness have
nothing in common, and perhaps the problem is
half solved.

There are times when the snobbishness stalking
around even in the Free-and-Equal-West becomes
a good joke. For instance one evening I| arrived
late for supper at our ranch resort, which oc-
casionally entertained guests who were not health-
seekers but who lingered for the sake of good board
and attractive surroundings or for reasons of per-
sonal convenience. It was late Spring and busy times
on the ranch and consequently my excuses met with
ready acceptance. But a woman—to whom one
would never think of applying the now expiring
term Lady—lifted a “proud” head and stared at me
with an expression which was intended to be haugh-
ty and “exclusive.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m glad J have never been in
a position which compelled me to do menial labor!”

Position! Menial! Lord o’ Love! as a dear old
country friend was wont to exclaim when deeply
stirred. What did this woman mean by “position?”

182 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

And “menial?” So little did I know that I dropped
my napkin under the table and fell headlong after
it to conceal convulsions of laughter. Some present
were indignant but to me the woman was simply
irresistibly funny! Neither would she have under-
stood that I was not laughing at her because her
husband’s income was small and he in a small way
of business, but because—as the children say.

There are at least two other reasons for the com-
parative disappearance of winter healthseekers:
first, the lack of suitable accommodation ; second, the
dread of the consumptive, developed in recent
years.

It is interesting and occasionally instructive, to
note how the wheel of time revolves. Exaggerated
terror of the consumptive has simply come round
tousagain. Inthe days of Armijo, the last Govern-
or of New Mexico under Mexican rule, a careful
padre laid down regulations at once stringent and
absurd regarding the conduct of his flock should a
member of it pass the dwelling of a tuberculous
person. Amusing as some of these regulations were
they were scarcely more illogical than a few of
these prescribed by up-to-date alarmists. Discre-
tion is one thing, monomania quite another. Thus
revolves the eternal wheel; and there is nothing
new under the sun.

The advice given patients by eastern specialists,
or by physicians landing in our midst like ballons
inflated with imported theories—both ignorant alike
of our climatic conditions and so forth—was bad
enough, and in extreme cases exasperating to our

eae DESERT AND: THE: ROSE 183

own acclimated and experienced specialists and
general practitioners; but this contagious mono-
mania goes further yet in being little short of
heathenish! Pamphlets composed in hotbeds of the
disease—East Texas, for instance—are scattered
broadcast through the dry, sun-baked, aseptic at-
mosphere of West Texas and New Mexico, prompt-
ly producing pop-eyed hysteria in the hitherto tran-
quil inhabitants. Suggestion indeed! Pity ’tis that
the pendulum of human opinion takes so long to
settle into place! We who have risen up and sat down
these many years with the consumptive, we who
have taken sensible precautions in our intercourse
with him and we who have taken none, may have.
found such intercourse oftentimes very unpleasant
but would in all probability fail to present one soli-
tary case of tuberculosis, either contracted or spor-
adic, among Americans long resident in this section,
provided they did not settle here for cause, 1. e., for
tuberculous cause. The Mexicans, they and their
Chihuahua dogs, are acutely susceptible to the dis-
ease. If, by chance, an American is mentioned as
being tuberculous, searching inquiry proves that
the person in question is either a relapsed health-
seeker of long standing, or the offspring of health-
seekers. This, at least, has been my experience.

That our residential population should wake to
possible dangers is very right, mete and proper and
our bounden duty, if only this waking up be kept
within decent, nay Christian bounds. Hygiene is
wise and good; cowardly and insenate terror can-
not be thus classified.

184 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

As a matter of fact the Mesilla Valley, taking
as its central point Las Cruces, lies ready to the
hand for development into a pleasure resort for
wealthy tourists. But the hand is itself conspicuous
by its absence. Home talent, even if by chance am-
bitious, is incapable of such far-seeing, wide-em-
bracing work, and has neither the necessary exper-
ience nor the faintest idea of the up-to-the-minute
tourist’s demands. The Easterner in particular ex-
pects a good deal. whether he travel by railormotor-
car. A certain small community not a thousand
miles distant was several years ago either exploited
by outsiders or exploited itself, and now reaps a
golden harvest. Its natural beauties which are not
greater than those of the Mesilla Valley—indeed
are in one respect inferior as it has not the attrac-
tion of a river bordered with cultivated farms---
are made the most of. The large proportion
of the residents take pride in their homes
and one passes betwixt blooming gardens,
and houses, however small, architecturally taste-
ful, and rests in little parks, set out with shade-
trees carefully chosen for quick growth. The grav-
el trails which abound on all our western mesas are
widened into fine roads, and the scenic beauties
of the mountains are easily accessible either by pri-
vate car or public stage. There are hotels not only
run on up-to-date lines, but which please the eye
within and without. This pleasing of the eye is a
matter unwisely neglected in our section, rich
though it be in natural beauty. The tourist admires
mountain and valley, samples the small town with its

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 185

small town outlook, shakes his head and proceeds
upon his way—his way being the Borderland Route,
running from El Paso and past the Elephant Butte
Dam and so on and on. By this route pass numbers
of overland tourists, day by day, right through our
town. The eastern tourist’s first cost is costly, if he
is to be caught and held month after month as that
other community holds him, but he pays—richly,
full measure running over.

CHAPTER 25,
DAWN AND DARK

It 1s a very early train and high altitude nights
are apt to be frosty, but we take it nevertheless so
that we may have a long day in the border city.
And after it is over—the aggravation of arising in
the dark and eating a farcical breakfast by lamp-
light—we are glad about that senselessly planned
train. For we have beholden with eyes wide open
the dawn and sunrise glories of earth and sky, both
more daring and esoteric in winter than in summer.

We are also glad that a neighbor drives us to
the station thus permitting us to snuggle into our
furs while he pilots his ponies along the deserted
roads. Scarcely do we speak. Speech seems out
of place in this weird, unknown Valley of the Sha-
dow. Once a voice cries softly, as if fearing to
wake a sleeping child, ‘Look!’ And—‘“Do you re-
member the sunset last night?” murmurs another.
We all remember, common as those nightly pag-
eants are.

For above the Organ Peaks lingers yet the ros-
eate reflection of that sunset, though now at dawn
it is as if a full, wet brush of crimson lake had been
drawn lightly over a background of greenish blue—
the greener the colder. The eastern sky is thus ten-
derly dyed, whilst lower down behind the moun-
tain range smoulder the ashes of a gigantic bonfire.

AGTIVA VTIISaJ AHL NI ANOS

THE DESERT AND THE (ROSE 187

Every rock and hollow clear yet ethereal, the peaks
against that coppery glow rise delicately heaven-
ward in points of silver blue.

Yet the Valley still sleeps, frostbound, shrouded,
silent.

Beautiful visions come to at least one of us as
our gaze seems to dip, bathe, lose itself in the beauti-
ful sky—not all dreams as we idly term them but
visions which, if not wholly of heaven are surely
not all of earth—lofty aspirations, beatific flights,
tinging with rose color life’s duties and abnega-
tions, brineinge the unattainable within our reach,
the highest within our possibilities.

Then at last the eastern fires blaze up into a light-
er, brighter flame, devouring in their upward course
all tenderer hues. The wide Valley assumes the
garb of day, and then, joyous and dazzling, the
unclouded sun springs into a sky of now vivid blue.

“The wonders of the wonderful country!”

No one replies, and in silence we drive up to the
station platform and resume our mundane habits of
thought; for we have many errands, not omitting
those for the benefit of our friends, the health-
seekers. |

And on these brief forty-four mile trips to El
Paso—a large and ever growing city whose boast
is that it is up-to-the-minute, in all material things
at least—my mind projects itself rather into the
past than into present or future. Thus mentally I
journey into a past so dim that I find myself in pre-
historic ages, among forgotten peoples—pastoral
races who irrigated this fertile Vale by ways and

188 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

means from which we have not greatly deviated, as
is evidenced by the traces of irrigation plants re-
ferred to in an earlier chapter, plants destroyed un-
doubtedly by volcanic action. Throughout south-
eastern New Mexico the results of such action are
widespread—said indeed by competent authorities
to be the most extraordinary of their kind in the
world. Volcanic dams yet discernible prove to the
satisfaction of many geologists that the still wilful
Rio Grande once spilled itself over the brim of the
western mesa into the Mexican basin, but was
forced by the above mentioned eruptions to eat its
way through the rocky range to the south, thus
forming the present narrow canon leading into Tex-
as and finally to the Gulf. In our Valley are some
who believe in the existence of a Lost River flowing
in the depths of the earth to which it was consigned
by the same tremendous upheavals. That such
buried streams do exist in certain portions of New
Mexico is incontrovertible.

In more recent times, driven down to:the Valley
of the Great River by the ruthless and predatory
Athabascans, progenitors of the more modern
Apaches, came representatives of comparatively
peaceful and industrial races, from whom spring
the Pueblos, Zunis, Queres, Pimas and other allied
tribes. Many of these, however, took refuge in
cave or cliff dwellings or on the summits of lofty
monoliths a few hundred miles to the north of us.
On one such monolith stands, inhabited by the
~ Acomas to this day, perhaps the finest pueblo in the
South West. From these high vantage grounds the

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 189

industrious nations repelled their foes, cultivated
the rich lands below when permitted so to do, and
in many instances came off victorious from strug-
gles with those original robbers, for the reason that
they were fore-handed after the manner of care-
ful ranching persons and usually had a supply of
food and water laid by for stormy days. And not
only were they agriculturists but marvellous weav-
ers, and unsurpassed in craftsmanship with gold
and silver, which metals, together with precious
stones, they knew how to extract from the earth.
The Mexican of my ranching days wove ar-
tistically attractive rugs, which he brought to my
door and sold at a given price per pound. But he
was always careful to explain that it was he and
not his Indian kinsman who was responsible for
the ravishing shades of blue woven into the rugs;
for the Indian regards blue as a color of ill omen.
The bugbear of American Progress gobbled up this
artistic industry long ago.

I see El Paso del Norte and the Valley as they
were late in the eighteenth century and early in the
nineteenth—just as Humboldt saw them or as de-
scribed by a much more recent writer*—El Paso, a
pleasant settlement, from which carriages proceed-
ed easily up the Rio Grande Valley to Santa Fe, the
capital of the Spanish Province as it is of the
American State:

“The scenery was remarkable for its mountain-
ous features and groves of cottonwood, mesquite
and fresh poplars along the fertile banks of this
river, which assumes great size and volume when

*Horatio O. Ladd.

190 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

filled with the melting snows of the Rocky moun-
tains.”

The same old undependable Fierce River which,
ere the building of the Dam might fail us in our
hour of need, leaving only its bed across which a
man could walk dryshod, or rising might suddenly
engulf him before he had time to cry Peccavi! Or
almost as suddenly it might wash away part
of El Paso and leagues of railroad, leaving hun-
dreds of persons homeless and ourselves cut off from
communication with the outside world. Still do this
old river’s exasperating ways remain an enigma to
the stranger (unless he consult the Oldest Inhabi-
tant, which he is not like to do), piling up sand
where least expected and obliterating the labor of
months.

But Humboldt’s enthusiasm was unmarred, and
he proceeds:

“The environs of El Paso are delicious, and re-
semble the finest parts of Andalusia. The fields
are cultivated with maize and wheat, and the vine-
yards produce such excellent, sweet wines that they
are even preferred to the wines of Parras in New
Biscay.”

The “excellent sweet wines’ were the outcome
of Franciscan Friars’ energy and skill, when they
introduced the luscious Mission grape, now like
the wines sadly deteriorated in quality.

“The gardens contain in abundance all the fruits
of Europe—figs, peaches, apples and pears. As

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 191

the country is very dry a canal of irrigation brings
the water of the Rio del Norte to the Paso.”

Thus along this broad Vale, finding smooth and
easy traveling beside the Great River, the feet of
bygone generations “‘whose bones are dust” have
passed and passed again, within sight and sound of
my brown ranch house—nay even perhaps through
its orchards and meadows, so capricious has been
the River’s course.

But a few miles, too, from my ranch did ihe
Texas Invincibles leave their wounded, to be gath-
ered up when they returned, a draggled crew, adown
the Valley of the Rio Grande. During the Civil
War Texas looked confidently to New Mexico to
wave the Southern flag, but the sins of her own -
sons—white adventurers and “bad men’ from Texas
—made the very name of that State an evil odor
in the nostrils of both Indian and Mexican, and a
sullen silence answered her appeal. Without en-
thusiasm but likewise without wavering the Terri-
tory retained her grasp on the skirts of the Union,
and Texan dreams of conquest were forever buried
in the desert sands. To this hour the New Mexican
Mexican is not over fond of the Texan, though the
Mexican from Mexico is apt to find himself at ease
in the Lone Star State.

But the distrust of New Mexico dates further
back yet—back to 1841, during the Spanish occu-
pation when the Texans attempted to annex New
Mexico. It gathered strength in the war with
Mexico—that war denounced by such men as Web-
ster, Grant and their like as “unholy, unjust and

192 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

unprovoked!” And to this day the rightful bound-
ary between the two States is a subject of dispute,
and still before the Courts. At a date not too far
removed from the present to render the telling of it
inapt the following incident occurred: a prominent
New Mexico attorney was cross-examining a wit-
ness in a murder case. Having asked a few ques-
tions he suddenly put the one—“Where did you say
you came from?” “From Texas.” “That is all. You
can sit down,” said the lawyer. And in his argu-
ment to the jury he more than hinted that as the man
came from Texas he was not trustworthy! On the
other hand it may be remarked that as the Lone
Star State is large enough to absorb all the New
England States without winking, there is room for
variety in Texans. Despite such altogether reason-
able surmise, however, it was often asserted that
Texan jealousy and obstinacy not only hindered
the development of the Mesilla Valley but retarded
the building of the Dam. El Paso wanted the Dam
down the Valley instead of up, and on the Govern-
ment finally deciding for itself the hatchet was per-
force buried.

And now once again the present hour looms
large; for we are nearing El Paso. The last of the
Rockies are on the left, the ranges of Mexico on
the right, and so—inaccurately enough from a topo-
graphical, geological and geographical standpoint—
we are no longer in New Mexico. Here the rear-
guard of the Rockies make their final stand—senti-
nels resting on their arms after eons of restless-
ness, alternating periods of volcanism and_ sub-

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 193

mersion by forgotten seas. At their feet throbs
now the heart of a smoky modern city and a grim
river pushing its way through a rockbound cafion.
The pigmy, man, drives blasts into massive walls
piled up by the stupendous, secret labor of the ages,
and abstracts in pigmy wagons fragments of the
Eternal Hills.

CorTEs, who cannot well be left behind owing
to an inadequate partiality for human companion-
ship taken in the general, rises in his basket as the
brakeman yells the name of the last station and
vigorously shakes his collar. The brakeman grins
appreciatively.

“That’s a smart little feller!’ he whispers in my
ear. “Always lays low this way till I call this last
stop, for he knows it’s too late to put him off
now!”

But the ways of Cortes, like his mysterious an-
cestry, are often past finding out, as are those of
his son, Montezuma. Suffice it to say that he does
know, not merely this relatively simple matter of
stations but others hidden from our mere human
vision.

His table manners are so distinguished, also as
those of his son and contrary to those of the greedy
and grasping Betsinda, that cafés and restaurants
look the other way as he slips in and crouches at
my feet. When I rise to depart from a Chinese
resort a China boy hands me a package of scraps,
with the smiling observation—‘‘For the leetle dog!”
Cortes recognizes furthermore the fine distinction

194 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

to be drawn between eating places, and at an Ameri-
can café accepts discreetly and mutely the morsels
I “sneak” under the table, whereas he is liable to
advance boldly to meet the more kindly Chinaman.
For the custom of showing kindness to domestic
animals was for long viewed as a weakness in this
section.

By the toothpick waggling its way along the pub-
lic streets do we know that the normal dinnerhour
is nearly over and ours about to begin. In a private
dining room off the main room in which we take
our seats and await the attentions of handmaidens
more importantly engaged with the other sex, some
Business Man’s Club is concluding its monthly
luncheon. The men are typically Western, despite
the probability that many of them are Easterners.
Never except in the pure Gallic race may one behold
such a variety of expression, such speaking coun-
tenances and gestures, as in this portion of the Far
West. The Mexican is voluble and pantomimic,
but his range is limited. Once in Boston I watched
the elder Coquelin and another Frenchman play out
a little drama in absolute silence. It was perfectly
comprehensible though not a word was uttered.
And now, not for the first time, such a scene is re-
created for me by American business men. They
talk, but what they say is inaudible at this distance.
Absorbed in their own affairs they are dead to the
outside world. When one beyond my range of
vision speaks, the men within it lean forward, each
face a separate study, tense with its individual
emotions, opinions—nerves as keen as those of a

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 195

greyhound on the leash! One and all unconscious
Coquelins! Clearly some plan of action was being
discussed, of which approval, disapproval, enthusi-
asm on one side or the other occupied the entire
mentality of every man present. This is the kind
of transformation often effected by our Western
atmosphere. Ironed out of the faces of men are
restraint, neutrality, conventionality. We see the
real man without the mask, and can make a pretty
fair guess as to his thoughts.

Thus do I, after my manner, my companions with
magazines, while away one of those tedious inter-
vals which are the appointed lot of womankind.

THE SUN has already set when we disembark
at our home station, a merry party laden with bun-
dles suggestively feminine. Twilight broods ere
we are well started, but it is not the twilight that
precedes the dawn.

On the contrary, there is something in the swift
on-stealing of these nights, in face of the lingering
colors of the sunset sky, that has in it an element of
relentlessness. Day has hushed itself beneath a
dome the tint of a sparrow’s egg, gilt edged where
the huge orb has passed. The gray hand is once
more laid upon our Valley. Cottonwoods yet re-
taining their November fires pale from gold to
primrose. It is night; the bright day is over; we
must hasten homeward.

The sombre quiet of evening brings with it at
times a vague, crushing sense of finality, a nameless
apprehension—the heritage, it is to be supposed, of

196 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

impressionable natures. Fortunate are they who
have in such moments the comradeship of a com-
prehending heart; fortunate also they who have be-
fore their eyes, will they only raise them, the nightly
miracle of the resurrection!

For suddenly—unexpectedly to those who know
them not—the mountains flash upon the sight. This
is their final and consummating hour. Battlement
after battlement, peak after peak, catch the unearth-
ly radiance. Fastnesses of pink and pearl, castles
never reared by human hands—enchanted, evanes-
cent. From the night enfolded levels we watch with
suspended breath. The glory fades; already the
mountains’ feet wax dim. The shroud creeps up
SD ..)

All is over, and we fly to our brown ranch house
through nipping, frosty air.

CHAPTER XVI
MOUNTAINEERS

Our New Mexican mountains present for the
most part fronts built up into inaccessible preci-
pices. On fair days—and these too numerous for
the counting—the high heaven seems to have drop-
ped fragments of its azure self into the deep clefts
and hollows of the rocks, so blue are the shadows,
so glittering and withal so unreal the peaks of por-
phyry. With that indifference peculiar to our des-
ert scenery, so insistent that it forces reiterated
emphasis and which is mitigated no whit by its
orgies of color, it has looked unmoved upon every
form of human struggle and suffering. Yet even
to this day we raise our eyes unto the hills—to the
splendid hidden heart of them, which continues to
have neither part nor lot in us or our lives which
endure but for a day.

And jogging valleyward on his low headed ‘“‘son
of the sage brush” rides the denizen of mystic
peaks! Behold him and wonder! For he has as
little part or lot in them as they in him.

In memory we return to the soft tree-clothed
heights of the Virginia Blue Ridge ranging in alti-
tude to some 6000 feet above sea level, thus leaving
off at a point where the mountains of New Mexico
start; for the average elevation of this State is
around 5000 to 6000 feet. The narrow, broken val-

198 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

leys of the Blue Ridge—inhabited, and cultivated
in so far as the often exhausted soil permits—
have nothing in common with the broad, fertile
vales of Southern New Mexico. And not only the
valleys but those rounded Virginia mountains wear
an air of peace and home, of neighborliness, to
which our Western mountains make no claim, or
ever will if Nature has her way. The woods upon
the Blue Ridge glow with the colors of the Fall, fold
about them during the brief winters veils of rich
and varied brown, and in the Springtime toss silvery
stars of dogwood to the gentle, exquisite sky. The
leafy masses are spaced with verdant pastures, or
streaked in their descent toward the valleys with
the crimson ribbons of Virginia roads. And yet—
down from these peaceful, homelike heights rides
a “dark complected” silent person, his black slouch
hat pulled over his brows, his family following—
two, or maybe three, of them to a horse—the woman
probably smoking a corncob pipe in the depths of a
black sunbonnet, and the little towheads staring at
the stranger with eyes for whose forget-me-not blue
neither of the parents appear to be responsible.

Thus rides a man of mystery from the seemingly
kind heart of the Blue Ridge.

Yet even as the Virginia mountains secrete rocky
dens in their sheltering woods—to which woods
many a time we have climbed, carrying lunches tied
to our saddles, perpendicular ascents meaning noth-
ing to a Virginia bred horse—so does her man of
mystery expand on occasion—to some congenial
stranger, eager to take potluck with his host in a

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 199

rude log cabin so that he may whip the mountain
streams for trout, (lo this type of “furriner,’?:as
the mountaineer dubs him, the host will hold forth
lengthily over the chip fire at night or under the
stars, thus furnishing much racy material to the
auditor capable of appreciating and remembering it.
The mountaineer of the South is himself, and only
himself—“different,” as the saying is.

Not so the South Western mountaineer, though
he has his points. But the types have little in com-
mon. The Southerner, no matter how poor orplain,
will enthuse at the sight of a blooded horse. In-
numerable times have I reined in my thoroughbred
mare on some lonely woodland road that a man driv-
ing a sorry team to an old wagon may get down and
go over her exhaustively and judicially, discuss
every detail and demand her pedieree while handl-
ing her with positive adoration. “Howdy, Mam!”
was the usual greeting. “Whah’ you buy that fine
mah’?” The passion for a good horse is a passion
with everv trueborn Virginian, having its origin
probably in his English ancestry and fostered by
the old-time planters, whose constant custom it was
to import thoroughbreds and from such noble stock
build up strains of their own, each strain named for
the plantation responsible for it. The Western
mountaineer would look on such foolishness with
contempt, and boast himself solely on the utility
of the uncomely beast that drags or carries him six-
tv or so miles per diem, as also on its ability to en-
dure hardship or even ill usage. Good blood has
no appeal for him, and his horse eye is conspicuous

200 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

by its absence. Yet even as regards ordinary utility
I myself have known highbred Virginia horses who
could “hit the long trail and keep a-goin’ as tire-
lessly as any cow pony of them all, and that too
through bottomless Virginia mud such as is never
encountered on the mountain trails of New Mexico.

As for matching mountain ideas of honesty—
both are peculiar to themselves. For instance: we,
together with our Virginian neighbors, found it
impossible to turn our premium winning sheep out
to graze in the mountains, even though much of the
said pasture was our own property. The mountain
people held tenaciously to the opinion that pedigreed
sheep were as other sheep—just mutton. Conse-
quently the mountaineers killed and ate them. Yet
here follows another Blue Ridge incident, equally
typical and veracious: a man from the valleys met
a mountaineer driving a fat steer, and expressed
a wish to buy the animal, but added that he had not
the purchase price in his pocket.

“Best carry the critter right along now,” quoth
the owner.

“But I don’t have a dollar on me.”

“Wa-a-l,”’—indifferently—“that ain’t nothin’ to
worry over. Carry the critter home, and some day
when you-all’s ridin’ this-er way, set the money in
that thar holler tree.”

“But someone else may get it!”

“Tech anythin’ as belongs to me?’—this with
scorn inexpressible—‘‘No, siree-Bob! We-all ain’t
acquainted with sech lowdown, ornery ways 0’ doin’!

THE; DESERT (AND THE ROSE 201

You set the money thar, an’ it'll stay till I git ready
to come after hit.”

I wish that it were possible to relate some of my
personal experiences with our South Western
mountaineers; for though commonly accounted
lawless such experiences would be a bit astonishing
to their detractors. Such scraps of local history,
however, might prove tiresome to “furrin’ ” read-
ers. Suffice it to say that in all my dealings with
mountaineers, come down to the Valley for pur-
poses of their own, I encountered nothing but the
strictest honesty, and even in one special emergency
genuine chivalry. The emergency was such that
friends in town begged me, almost with tears, to
leave my ranch, part of the house being occupied by
a mountain family and temporary cowboy visitors,
and seek safety with them. I declined the invita-
tion, asserting that no matter what might happen—
and things were happening at that juncture— I had
never felt so secure, so well protected, in my usually
unprotected existence. These mountaineers might
be under suspicion—the story is too long to relate
here—but, rough and unlettered though they were,
I had received at their hands such chivalrous treat-
ment, such genuine courtesy as could not be ex-
celled, possibly not matched, elsewhere in that sec-
tion. The sequel proved that I was not mistaken;
I slept that night without fear, and my confidence
was more than justified.

In a sense, however, our mountaineers are un-
doubtedly lawless. They do not, like the Southern
mountain people, hold grudges from one generation

202 ||§|§#THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

to another, and when they commit murder do so for
what appears to them lawful and sufficient reason.
In any case, homicides are all too frequent through-
out these United States and too rarely punished.
But the mountaineers pursue a course of their own
in the customary evasion of the law, and when
sheriffs are sent after them they stand together to
a man, cattlemen included, and if they do decide to
give themselves up it is with the serene conscious-
ness that no mountain witness will be found to testi-
fy against them!

Were we to pursue those ethereally blue shadows
on our porphyry mountains to their deepest depths,
we should find that many of them are formed by
cafion diving into the apparently uninhabited
steeps—some green with wild grasses and oats, and
tinkling with tiny streams from which the casually
industrious mountaineer irrigates his crop patches
of potatoes or the like, and timbered with cedar,
pinon, juniper, and ash trees of various kinds. In
such pockets the intermittent labor of the mountain
man reaps reward in harmony with his sense of the
fitness of things. Where the streams are larger he
erects saw mills and becomes prosperous, also in
accordance with his simple requirements. [Further
north the woods transform themselves into forests,
filled with game—often also bear and mountain
lion—for the diversion of the hunter, and the moun-
tain creeks furnish sport for the lover of the rod and
fly. As time goes on, more and more of “the tired
business man” species from eastern cities will dis-
cover the enchantments and diversions of the New

Lit) DESERT AND THE: ROSE 203

Mexican mountains. Cloudcroft, a New Mexican
resort nearly 10,000 feet above the sea, with its
mountain climbing railroad, magnificent views un-
hampered by fogs, fine timber and masses of wild
flowers, is already dotted with the summer homes
of El Paso people and offers hotels and boarding
houses for the entertainment of the more distant
visitor from other sections.

CRAPPER 2MIit

THE HIGH RANGES

“Tf thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the hills !—”

WHEN I abandon my seat at the wheel of my
roadster in favor of R, I feel that I am out for the
Great Adventure, perhaps because he is so young.
Therefore when one winter Sunday, immediately
after midday dinner he called up to know if I would
like to take ‘“‘a little drive” I was a wee bit disap-
pointed. No “little drive’ for me!

We started, both in our ‘“go-to-meetings,”’ an-
ticipating no adventure. Up, up we bowled, round-
ing the curves of the excellent if somewhat danger-
ous road modern ingenuity has constructed up the
mesa, then spinning along the trail past our favorite
haunt where grow the amoles. But today we do
not pause to burn out possible rattlesnakes hiber-
nating in dead and fallen soapweed so that I may
say that at the long last I have beheld a rattler in
the flesh—and maybe they are all out walking in the
balmy sunshine.

On, on, the Valley on our left, the Dofia Ana
mountains ahead and on our right the blue Organs
streaked with glittering snow. We arrive at the
first gate of the 250,000 acre cattle range, and give

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 205

the car a chance to breathe; for it has been a long
pull and a strong pull. Here we sit, both of us con-
tent to revel in the beauty of the land we love, to
watch the changeful mountains, sometimes talking,
more often silent, listening to the murmur of the
scarcely perceptible wind in the tall grass of these
wide and solitary places.

At length the spirit of adventure starts to swell
within my breast.

“How far is it to the home ranch?” I 1 inquire.

“About seventeen miles further.”’

“Well, let’s go on! Jump out and open the gate
and I'll drive through.”’

This feat accomplished and my chauffeur once
more at the wheel his spirit too begins to rise.

“T tell you what we'll do—we’ll go around the
mountain instead !”—the mountain, being the huge
“tumble of rocks” yclept the Dofia Ana thrown up
by volcanic action from the Valley beneath and the
“bald prairie’ above—“It’s a long way round
_and I don’t remember the trail very well but will
you take chances?”

Would I!

“Well then,” pointing to an interminable line of
telephone poles walking off into the unseen, ““We
must go on five or six miles to the first spring and
ask the cowboy there which road to follow. It must
be one of these trails to the west and we shall be
obliged to come back on our tracks.”

And while we fly upon our way, opening more
gates and meeting the ranch manager driving his
family to town, R. explains that the so-called

206 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

springs on the range, six in number, are in reality
wells, dug at great expense and equipped with pump-
ing plants. At each spring dwells a cowboy in a
tent. No longer does he ride the range, except on-
special occasions such as rounding up for shipping
and so forth, for the range is fenced both within
and without and it is the business of the fence rider
to care for the fences. The tent cowboy looks after
and waters the stock inside his special domain, be-
tween which and that of his fellow several miles
intervene.

At last we come to the first spring. Some Texas
longhorns are standing around awaiting the local
market, tough stuff we unhappy locals are destined
to chew on, but the man in charge must be occupied
with the bunch of Durhams we descry penned in a
corral further on, for his cozy tent is empty. The
thoroughbreds, needless to add, are intended for
our eastern betters; the day is at hand, however,
when the Valley dwellers will arise in their might
and demand their rights as human beings. .

R. hunts up the cowboy, and returns with the in-
formation that the trail does in truth go around the
mountain.

Back we go, therefore, opening all gates again
with the exception of that in the line fence, and then
turning sharp west plunge into an up grade trail
whose ruts are worn so deep that it is a gamble
whether or no the fenders will clear the high places.
They do clear, and so do we emerge triumphant
from abysmal gullies criss-crossing our _ toil-

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 207

* some route; but this has been one of the times when
I leave my chauffeur to his reflections.

The range on either side of us is dotted now with
stunted trees and bushes, and from out of one, al-
most within handclasp, flits a mountain wren from
her nest.

‘A nest in the first week of February!” I exclaim.

“Ves. At this altitude, six to seven thousand
feet above sea-level, the birds keep house most of
the year. And look at the house!”

A home nest in very truth! Roofed and walled
snugly, with just a bit of a door for a bit of a bird!

Gradually we approach the tremendous wall of
rock which marks the eastern limit of “the moun-
tain.”

“Why is the shadow on it so velvety? Shadows
here are generally so sharp and distinct.”

“Wait, and you will see why,” enjoins my chauf-
feur.

I wait and I do see; for when we come to a halt
and look upward to the purple softness of it I per-
ceive that its sheer face is clothed with desert
erowths—dwarf cedars, Spanish Daggers, grease-
wood and bunches of gramma grass, and so
far as mortal eye can discern not an ounce
of soil to support this vegetation. And right
in the heart of this overwhelming “tumble of
rocks” nestles, my chauffeur tells me, a green glade,
real grass and a living spring—one, and perhaps
more, of such surprises. But it, or they, is far and
hard to seek and find, for in the desert country
Nature guards her secrets jealously.

208 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

We turn, and look back—eastward. The great
range swings its thousands of acres down the long
slope to the feet of the Organ and San Andreas
mountains—a shimmering sea, here golden, there
silver or pale amber, according as the sunlight
strikes or the soil is moist or dry. A vast, silent sea!
Yet eloquent enough to those who have ears where-
with to hear.

We move forward again, closer still to the giant
cliff which begins to show its northern edge ser-
rated like a saw—a grim volcanic rock setting off
to advantage the delicate, sunlit background of plain
and mountain—the colorful New Mexican land-
scape which mocks at cameras, eternally changing,
invisible clouds trailing over it phantom shadows—
violet, purple, heliotrope, pale lavender and cobalt!
Whence come they? Whither go they? And all
this beneath a sky the hue of a sapphire!

We pass through a gate in the line fence and find
ourselves on another cattle ranch. The trail down
which we swoop leads east once more instead of
west. We are not going around the mountain—
distinctly not. Mildly I comment on this fact.

“Don’t worry!’ Thus adjures my chauffeur.
“Tt will be all right. You see!”

Worry? I’m not worrying.

Presently we come to the home ranch. No one
at home, doors and windows closed. Modern facil-
ities have done away with the hermit life for cattle-
men and their families. A bunch of young stock
lines up to bar our course, blood in every individual

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 209

eye. The car hums steadily into their ranks and
one and all take to their heels.

“Yes, you’d better beat it!”

Now where are we? The cattle have tramped
the trail into nothingness.

“Watch me!” says my chauffeur.

I watch him. He describes a wide circle with the
car, then darts like a swallow into a trail at first in-
visible to me but soon developing into a grand nat-
ural road, down which we fly at some forty miles
an hour.

“Tsn’t this fine!” he cries. It is very fine, its sole
drawback being that it runs away from the moun-
tain instead of passing around it. But I sit back
and take the goods the gods provide.

Presently I note symptoms indicating that R. is
none too sure of the route, and he begins to discuss
possibilities—that we may, for instance, find it de-
sirable to take in the Elephant Butte Dam, or even
run on to Albuquerque, an afternoon drive of per-
haps two hundred miles. But the fun of the game
possesses us both, and we don’t seem to care much.

Far ahead another home ranch and a new range
loom up and a distant line of telephone poles, and
then of a sudden a Borderland Route post leaps up
alongside. “Whoa!” is the word, down goes the
brake and we reverse to read the lettering on the
white post. The backward finger points south and
reads, “Las Cruces—FEl Paso.”’ The one pointing
north concerns us no wit, for it suggests the end
of the earth.

“T was told we’d have to go north for several

210 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

miles before turning,” observes my chauffeur, as he
deftly swings the car around the arrowhead and
plunges south. “Now we’re on the old Santa Fé
Trak?’

Wellnigh bottomless are the tracks made by the
wheels of those prairie schooners of the sturdy pio-
neers, but the going is fair, and for awhile our con-
versation lingers with those toiling wagons and the
thrills of a vanished past absorb us. We behold
war-painted Indians dashing out from the shelter of
arroyos and buttes, and feel to our inmost souls the
solitariness of immense unpeopled spaces. We
dream backward only to the early eighties when the
railroad down the Valley was completed. In
imagination, too, we share the relief and joy of the
old-timers on catching sight of U. S. Troopers hur-
tying to the rescue from Fort Selden in the Valley.
Travelers then by stage or wagon had scant time to
bestow on the glory and beauty of the high ranges;
their business was to press on to the Fort, or to Old
Mesilla some nineteen miles further south. The
Old Santa Fe Trail was a warpath in bloody earnest,
whether it led across high range or desert, or pene-
trated timber clad walls of rocky canons in whose
depths strove together not only white man and In-
dian but Federal and Confederate, American and
Mexican.

As we start to climb I hold my peace, for now are
we verily up against it, and Don’t-speak-to-the-
chauffeur becomes the part of wisdom. This is
work, not play, for both driver and car.

THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 211

We worm our upward way, in and out, through
sand to the hubs—heartbreaking sand!

“How would you like to camp up here?” R. says
abruptly.

“Not bad,” I retort by way of encouragement.

“Warm enough now, but we’d freeze at night!”
And he speaks no more for a long time. Once
in a while I steal a glance at him; he looks some-
what careworn, though the car grinds steadily on.

“Pull, pull, little old car!” I break forth at last.
“Earn your keep!”

But criticism, even of the faintest, is not ac-
ceptable.

“It will. Don’t worry about this car!”

It does. We top the crest of the long ascent, and
with a shout my chauffeur hails the telephone poles
now close at hand.

“That’s the Government road!” Now we're all
right!”

Which goes to prove that we have not always
been all right.

And it is a road indeed, worthy of the great gods!
Away we go, down, down into the Valley, rounding
the corners exhilaratingly—all is smooth sailing.

“Let’s coast!” T rashly cry.

He mutters something and we coast. It is hea-
ven—until it is not, and we skid with haste and some
display of violence. A poor driver would have sent
us into the abyss below, but things being as they are
I remain calm and unmoved. My present chauf-
feur might conduct me up and down a precipice, and
T should remain ever calm.

212 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

“Just what I expected!’ he growls, and feeds the
gas again.

On, on, we rush, and alight in the Valley along-
side the Leasburg Diversion Dam on the river, lake
and western mesa brooding violet blue in the late
afternoon sun. We are yet seventeen miles north
of Las Cruces, but what is that after our extensive
wanderings? We race along the level, passing
ruined Fort Selden, our souls filled with scorn for
the humdrum Sunday outing folks, content to prowl
in their cars through the settled agricultural bot-
tomlands, while we have been exploring the wilds
and heights. One after another we hoot at the
flivvers and pass them by.

“Prythee why so fast?” I inquire. ‘‘We are short
of gas, and think how humiliating it would be if a
Tin Lizard overtook us and we had to plead with it
for food!”

“That’s why I’m making time,” is the retort. “I’m
going to get back before the gas gives out!”

Which he does—just! As we slow down at the
door the indicator on the tank marks only a hairs-
breadth from O.

But we had made sixty-five joyful miles on our
“little afternoon drive.”

CHAPTER XVII
CONCLUSION
CROSSING, THE DESERT

STILL—silent—as a world abandoned in the
fullness of its summer prime!

For the boundless plains—sliding into the dis-
tance like emerald waves doomed never to break on
any mortal shore, and uplifting here and there car-
pets of flowers no mortal will ever cull—breathe
the very essence of life. Renewed and cleansed by
the fire and fury of midsummer storms neither death
nor decay has part or lot in them. The mountain
ranges, split as they soar heavenward into fantastic
shapes, glow like jewels dropped from the Book of
Revelations by the Hand that knows not time but
eternity.

To the imagination awed by the solemnity of the
infinite a pillar of dust, created by some mimic
whirlwind and reddened by the westering sun, walks
as a pillar of fire, and involuntarily the ear attunes
itself to the sound of the Still, Small Voice.

Gazing from the window of the railroad car some
shining winter day we note the tiny tracks upon the
sand of the unpeopled country, tracks of tiny crea-
tures busied each upon his own life’s quest, and once
more the spell is upon us. We would that we could
say with Fabre: Tell of the intimate terms on which
I live with you, of the patience with which I record

214 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE

your actions. We would that for us it were pos-
sible, as for another desert lover, to pass weeks
alone beneath those jewelled peaks, and to have
given to the world as he has the story of the desert’s
teeming life, its mysterious ways, its enveloping
silences. The jangle of voices around us, the com-
monplaces of barrenness and monotony, are but as
the crackling of thorns under a pot. And the gates
of the soul open wide that the Spirit of the Desert
may enter in, there to abide for all time: to illumine
the darkness of troubled nights, to create stillness in
the centre of life’s driving storm, and to bestow
the peace which passeth understanding when the cry
of the Human, without and within, urges too
fiercely.

For it is good that man should sometimes tarry
far from the world that is too much with him, in the
immense solitudes of God’s country. As Christ
went up into the mountain to pray so it is well that
we should go out into a desert place alone, and there
pressed close to Nature’s breast, even were she nev-
er so aloof and self sufficing, watch and listen and
commune with our own hearts, and be still.

And thus it might be that at the long last all
things would be made plain.

The radiant day draws to its close. There, upon
the battlemented horizon where for uncounted ages
he has rested in his passing, the sun lingers now,
bidding farewell to the serried hosts which all day
long followed him in invisible array from the hither
brim to the further of the earth’s cup. Now flaming
in coats of many colors they range themselves above

THE DESERT AND’ THE ROSE 215

his sinking head, their rainbowed-hued pennants
fluttering across high heaven. A moment more and
he is gone. The rainbow hues gradually, very grad-
ually, fade. The sky’s deep sapphire melts into the
blue that elsewhere never is o’er land or sea. The
vast plain darkens. Day is dead.

And then it is that in “the wonderful country” the
miracle of resurrection may be seen by those that
have eyes to see. Slowly an amber light steals up
from the horizon, touches with unearthly finger
every bush and sand-hill upon the illimitable rolling
plain, then as slowly withdraws its radiance, and
concentrating behind the mountains burns and
deepens until the whole west is as the glowing em-
bers of some mighty conflagration.

Time passes. Then, hurriedly as it were, night
slips her translucent mantle pierced by a myriad
stars over earth and heaven. All is over.

Once in the clear small hours we look forth again,
whilst like some blustering invader our train roars
through the starlit mysteries and silences of the Un-
known Land. Undisturbed by our coming, indif-
ferent to our going, sphynx-like still the Desert
broods upon her voiceless wastes, her pyramids and
towers. But her spirit, the Spirit of the Great
Desert, has entered in. It is ours for all time.

THE END

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