It was a struggle between Aurora and the moon which of them should rule the sky, when our bugle rang its clear réveillé, rousing the rangers from their slumber, and startling their steeds at the stall. The goddess of morning soon triumphed, and under her soft blue light, men and horses could be seen moving about, until the bugle again sounded—this time to “boot and saddle”—and the rangers began to form in the piazza, and prepare for the route.
A single wagon with its white tilt and long team of mules, already “hitched up,” stood near the centre of the square. It constituted the whole baggage-train of the corps, and served as an ambulance for our invalids. Both baggage and sick had been safely stowed, and the vehicle was ready for the road. The bugler, already in his saddle, awaited orders to sound the “forward.”
I had climbed to my favourite “smoking-room,” the azotea. Perhaps it was the last time I should ever set foot on those painted tiles. My eyes wandered over the piazza, though I little heeded what was passing there. Only the salient points of the picture were noted by me—steeds under saddle and bridle; men buckling on folded blankets, holsters, and valises; a few already in the saddle; a few more standing by the heads of their horses, and still another few grouped round the door of the pulperia, having a last drink of mezcal or Catalan with their swarthy Mexican acquaintances.
Here and there, in front of some adobe hut, might be observed a more tender leave-taking. The ranger fully equipped—with arms, haversack, and canteen—leaning against the heavy bars of a window, his face turned inward, as though he was talking to some prisoner through the grating of a jail. But he is himself the real captive, ensnared during his short sojourn, and still held in chains by the olive-skinned poblana, whose dark liquid eyes may be seen on the other side of the reja, flashing with love, or melting with sad tenderness at the prospect of parting.
Others, again, are bidding their adios in retired corners, under the shadow of the church walls, or in groups of four or five more openly in the piazza itself. Early as is the hour, the people have all arisen; and not a few of the brown, rebosa-clad, short-skirted wenches are already on their way, jarro on crown, to the fountain. There the pitchers are filled, and lifted on their heads—perhaps for the last time—by the rangers, who perform the office with all the rude grace in their power. Then follows a profusion of smiles and bows, and a dialogue, on the ranger’s part extending to the whole of his Spanish, which consists of the phrase—
“Mucho bueno, muchacha!”
The usual reply, accompanied with a display of pretty white teeth, is—
“Mucho bueno, cavallero! mucho bueno, Tejano!” given in like ungrammatical phrase, in order that it may be intelligible to the person to whom it is addressed.
I have often been surprised at the success of my great uncouth followers with these petite dark-eyed damsels of Anahuac; but, indeed, many of the rangers are not bad-looking men. On the contrary, there are handsome fellows among them, if they were only put into clean shirts, and a little more closely shaven. But woman’s eye is keen-sighted in such matters: she easily penetrates through the disguise of dust, the bronze of sun-tan, and the shaggy mask of an ill-kept beard; and no eye is quicker in this respect than that of the fair Mexicana. In the big, apparently rude, individual, called a “ranger,” she beholds a type of strength and courage, a heart that can cherish, and an arm that can protect her. These are qualities that, from all time, have won the love of woman.
It is evident they are not all friends whom we are leaving behind us. Hostile faces may be observed, many of them peering from open doors or windows. Here and there a sulky lepero swings about in his blanket, or cowers by the corner of the street, scowling savagely from under his broad-brimmed hat. Most of this class are absent—as long since ascertained—with the guerrilla; but a few still remain to give shadow to the picture. They regard the approaches towards their women with ill-concealed anger; and would resent this politeness if they dared. They confine the exhibition of their spite to the dastardly meanness of ill-treating the women themselves, whenever they have an opportunity. No later than the night before, one of them was detected in beating his sweetheart or mistress for the crime, as was alleged, of dallying too long in the company of a Tejano. The Tejano, in this case, took the law into his own hands, and severely chastised the jealous pelado.