PHANTOM CURVE.
PHANTOM CURVE.
The lava-caps away down the valley were glowing golden as we rode back to Fernandez. Thought was busy with the strange events of the day. During how many centuries had these onlooking hills witnessed the gathering throngs of such festivals, since were laid the foundations of those dusky piles, now bathed in sunset glory, where tradition says the cultured hero Montezuma was born, and whence he set out on his prophetic career? And can this ancient people long withstand the civilization that is fast bearing down on them; or will it not soon engulf them and fill with modern life the sacred valley?
On our arrival at Embudo we found the Madame in much tribulation. Not that any harm had befallen her; but the cook, from being an assistant after a fashion, had immediately on our departure developed into an absolute dependent. This personage had for some time been a subject of much solicitude and serious discussion in our family circle. We could sympathize with his infirmities, but when they became the ever-present shield to the most aggravated laziness, our philosophy weakened. And so, when the Madame had explained his apparently total collapse, our decision was speedily reached. In spite of his protestations and his phenomenal physical improvement, we lifted him by main force on to the first train, and shipped him northward without our blessing.
Concerning this Amos, the Madame wrote as follows to her friend, Mrs. McAngle: “He was the ‘Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance,’ in our vocabulary of nicknames. His face was a suggestion of martyrdom done in coffee-color, for he was a darkey of uncertain and speckled hue; and his religious possessions, a couple of books of devotion of the most melancholy kind, kept him up to his model. Everything had been put into our kitchen-car before leaving Denver, pell-mell; and when, at our first evening’s halt, I went out to investigate, I found Amos sitting on a soap-box, in the midst of a chaos of utensils and packages of provisions, almost weeping at the water-splashed confusion, without making the least movement toward straightening matters. He brought with him two encumbrances,—a fifteen years’ experience on the Sound steamer Bristol (so he said), and his Rheumatism, with a very big R.
“He was a good enough cook when he tried to be, but wholly averse to neatness. Becoming tired of seeing things that bore no relation to one another on an intimate acquaintance, as the bacon and flour, for instance, I undertook, with fear and trembling, some mild expostulation. But I had not gone far before he raised himself to all his dignity, and exclaimed, ‘I have served fifteen years as first cook on board the Bristol,’ and then turned his back upon me. Somewhat stunned, but persevering, I continued meekly to tell him the things I wished him to attend to. Instantly his tone changed from indignation to supplication, and he described in feeling terms his rheumatism. ‘He enjoyed a neat kitchen as well as anybody, but what could he do, having his joints all knotted up with this terrible disease?’ and his face grew sadder than ever. I retired from the field vanquished, and reported progress.
“The gentlemen were not so easily silenced, however, and that very day began a little investigation. ‘Amos, can you make a tapioca pudding?’ cried one, at lunch. ’I have been fifteen years chief cook on the Bristol,’ came the answer, with an upward roll of the prayerful eyes. A little later: ‘Amos, bring up a pail of fresh water from the creek.’ Very glad to oblige you, sir (a groan), but I’ve the rheumatics.’ When one excuse wouldn’t answer the other would. So we sent him off, and got Burt in his place,—a youth without rheumatism or record,—who proved to be a very bright, willing, and useful boy.”