“Go, tata, tell me what is this stone of the Magic Deer, that I may not play with it.”
“To play with that?” exclaimed Don José, in a tone of horror. “Child! That little stone is very precious. For no other hunter in New Mexico has the like; and if it were lost or broken, we should be ruined, since only with it is it possible to kill the deer which are enchanted, as are many. And to get that stone I passed a sad time.”
“How? Where? When? With the Enchanted Deer? Tell me, tatita!”
“Yes, with the Venado Encantado, and in many ways.” And Don José, the luckiest hunter in Rio Arriba, a gray-headed but sharp-eyed Mexican—whom I count a staunch friend and a brave man, even if he does believe some things I do not—nodded to me, as if for permission to tell the story. I had often heard of the Witch Deer, and knew that a very large proportion of the natives of New Mexico believe firmly in this and in many other forms of witchcraft. I knew, too, that Don José was a scrupulously truthful man. The years of our acquaintance had proved that beyond doubt. Whatever in his story might be supernatural would have to be charged to his faith, and not to any intention of deceiving.
“You must know, Don Carlos,” said he, “that while there are many witches here, there is one kind that delights most to vex hunters. Without doubt you also will have seen the Enchanted Deer, as much as you hunt.”
“No,” I answered. “I have never seen one, but I have heard of them all over New Mexico these five years.”
“Sure! For there are many; and many have lost their lives thereby, for the Witch Deer is more dangerous than bear or mountain lion. Only when one has the stone which they wear in the first fork of their horns is it possible to conquer them, for that makes one not to be seen.”
“But I can see you, Don José,” I interrupted, smiling, as he held up the magic stone.
“But, friend, that is different! For it is only in its use. Now I want you to see me; but when I carry this no deer in the sierra has eyes for me, and I could walk even up to them, taking care only that they scented me not.”
It is worse than useless to argue against these beliefs. Don José would never be convinced, and the incredulity of a friend could only hurt his feelings, and, besides being ill-mannered, further caviling would lose me a story, so I said, simply: