“Holy Mother!—htch-tch! Yez may rub—tch-itch!—till yez fetch-tch the skin aff—atch-ich-ich! an’ it won’t—tscztsh!—come out. I tell yez—itch-ch! it’s in the grain—itch-itch! It won’t come out—itch-itch!—be me sowl it won’t—atch-itch-hitch!”
But the poor fellow’s expostulations were in vain. The scrubbing continued, with fresh applications of the yucca, for ten minutes or more; and then the great olla was lifted, and its contents dashed upon his head and shoulders.
What was the astonishment of the women to find that instead of modifying the red colour, it only showed forth, if possible, more vivid than ever!
Another olla of water was lifted, and soused about the Irishman’s ears, but with no better effect.
Barney had not had such a washing for many a day; at least, not since he had been under the hands of the regimental barber.
When the squaws saw that, in spite of all their efforts, the dye still stuck fast, they desisted, and our comrade was again staked down. His bed was not so dry as before; neither was mine, for the water had saturated the ground about us, and we lay in mud. But this was a small vexation, compared with many others we were forced to put up with.
For a long time the Indian women and children clustered around us, each in turn minutely examining the head of our comrade. We, too, came in for a share of their curiosity; but O’Cork was “the elephant.”
They had seen hair like ours oftentimes upon their Mexican captives; but, beyond a doubt, Barney’s was the first red poll that had ever been scratched in the valley of Navajoa.
Darkness came on at length, and the squaws returned to the village, leaving us in charge of the guards, who all the night sat watchfully beside.