Witch Winnie: The Story of a "King's Daughter"

by Elizabeth W. Champney

The climax of their tour was reached in the Black Cañon. The scenes here are awful, even in broad daylight, for the sombre crags tower to the height of several thousand feet. Our travelers passed through the chasm at night. Far overhead the stars were shining in the little rift of sky, which was all that they could see between the walls; and in the mysterious half-lights of the illumined portions, and the utter blackness of the shadows, the grotesque shapes of the crags took on strange forms and awful suggestions. At times it seemed as if the train was about to dash itself against a wall of solid masonry, which opened, as though thrown back by genii, as they approached. At one point, catching the moonlight, a silvery cascade swept over the rocks like a bow of crystal; and at another, a mighty monument of rosy stone, the Curricanti Needle, towered far above the cliffs, like the sky-piercing spire of some grand cathedral.

"The people who live here must be very good," Jim gasped, as they emerged from the valley of enchantment, "one is so much nearer to God out here!"

"Nobody lives in the cañon now," Mr. Armstrong replied; "Indians lived here not very long ago. They used to hold their councils on that shelf of rock where the pines grow, the last accessible spot on the Curricanti pinnacle, but the settlers in the neighborhood did not have your idea about their being such very good men, and as the cañon was the best pathway through the mountains for the railroad, they were driven out."

"I am sorry for the Indians," Jim said, simply. "If I had owned that cañon I wouldn't have liked to have given it up, would you?"

Mr. Armstrong evaded the question. "You will not have so much pity for them when you know them better," he replied. "They are a low lot, and if they do not know enough to improve the advantages which they possess, it is only fair that they should be appropriated by those who will make a better use of them."

Jim did not quite understand what Mr. Armstrong meant by appropriating the Indians' advantages, but he was to learn more in relation to that word before the journey was over. Returning to Denver, Mr. Armstrong took the boy with him on a tour through some of the pueblos of New Mexico. The word "pueblo" signifies town, and the Pueblo Indians are those who build houses instead of tents and wigwams, and live from generation to generation in towns and cities, instead of wandering about the plains and mountains like the other tribes. There are twenty-six of these communities in New Mexico, and some of the cities were old when the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth.

When New Mexico was ceded to the United States by Mexico, the right of the Pueblo Indians to their towns and to certain tracts of land surrounding them was confirmed by treaty, so that these Indians are better off in many ways than any others. Mr. Armstrong had a special reason for visiting the Pueblos. He had purchased several large herds of cattle, and wished to rent land of the Indians for pasturage. A man by the name of Sanchez, who traded among the Pueblos, could speak the language, and had gained the confidence of the Indians, happened to be on the train, and recognizing Mr. Armstrong as a wealthy capitalist, who had large interests in cattle, as well as in railroads, at once guessed pretty nearly the nature of his errand in the Indian country.

He introduced himself, and, learning that Mr. Armstrong intended to visit the pueblo of Taos, to witness the celebration of the Festival of San Geronimo, offered his services as interpreter and courier. These Mr. Armstrong was very glad to accept, for he had heard of the man, and knew that he had considerable influence among the Indians. There was something repellent, however, in his insinuating, cringing manner which made one feel that here was a man who was not to be trusted. The party was increased by an army officer and a Catholic priest, who were also going to Taos to witness the festival. The pueblo lies at a distance of twenty miles from the railroad station, but an Indian was found waiting for Mr. Sanchez with a rough wagon, and that gentleman invited the others to ride with him. They crossed the Rio Grande River and drove along beside it in a northeasterly direction, through a not very interesting country. The coloring was all yellowish brown—the sandy earth, the crisp parched grass, the distant hills, even the water when taken from the turbid river, were all of a like monotonous tint. Now and then they met or passed an Indian, wrapped in a striped blanket and mounted on a small shaggy pony. Toward evening they came in sight of the pueblo. The first view was very picturesque. The houses of adobe, or sun-dried brick, were built in ranges one above the other, like a great stairway, the roof of the lower house serving as the dooryard for the one above. Ladders were placed against the walls, and up and down these, nearly naked Indian children scrambled like young monkeys. They parted their long elf-locks with their hands, and stared at the strangers with wild, black eyes. Mr. Sanchez conducted them to an unoccupied house, which he said would be at their service during the festival for quite a good sum. There was no hotel, and this seemed the best thing to be done. It had evidently been suddenly cleared for the unexpected guests, and some of the utensils and furniture remained. The priest pointed out with pleasure a gaudy print of the Virgin. There were strings of red peppers drying on the outer wall, and a great olha, or decorated water-pot, within, but there was no bedding or food. The gentlemen, however, had each brought with them army blankets, and Mr. Sanchez offered to act as their commissary and skirmish for provisions. He presently returned, followed by a woman carrying a bowl of stewed beef and onions, and a boy driving a donkey, whose panniers were filled with melons. This, with some coffee, which the officer made over a spirit-lamp, and some crackers contributed by Mr. Armstrong, constituted their supper, which hunger made palatable.

After this refreshment they mounted to their roof and watched the preparations for the festivities of the next day. Mr. Sanchez pointed out the entrance to the estufa, or underground council-chamber, into which the young men of the tribe were disappearing for the celebration of mysterious pagan rites.

"I thought the Pueblos were Roman Catholics," Mr. Armstrong remarked.