The kitchen is the larger apartment and the more cheerful, because lighted by the open door. In it you will see a small “brazero,” or altar-like fireplace—half-a-dozen earthen “ollas,” shaped like urns—some gourd-shell cups and bowls—a tortilla-stone, with its short legs and inclined surface—some petatés to sit upon—some buffalo-robes for a similar purpose—a bag of maize—some bunches of dried herbs, and strings of red and green chilé—but no pictures of saints; and perhaps it is the only house in the whole valley where your eye will not be gratified by a sight of these. Truly the family of the cibolero are “hereticos.”
Not last you will see an old woman seated near the fire, and smoking punche in a pipe! A strange old woman is she, and strange no doubt her history but that is revealed to no one. Her sharp, lank features; her blanched, yet still luxuriant hair; the wild gleam of her eyes; all render her appearance singular. Others than the ignorant could not fail to fancy her a being different from the common order. No wonder, then, that these regard her as “una hechicera!”
Chapter Twenty One.
Rosita knelt upon the floor, passing her little hand-shuttle through the cotton-woof. Now she sang—and sweetly she sang—some merry air of the American backwoods that had been taught her by her mother; anon some romantic lay of Old Spain—the “Troubadour,” perhaps—a fine piece of music, that gives such happy expression to the modern song “Love not.” This “Troubadour” was a favourite with Rosita; and when she took up her bandolon, and accompanied herself with its guitar-like notes, the listener would be delighted.
She was now singing to beguile the hours and lighten her task; and although not accompanied by any music, her silvery voice sounded sweet and clear.
The mother had laid aside her pipe of punche, and was busy as Rosita herself. She spun the threads with which the rebosos were woven. If the loom was a simple piece of mechanism, much more so was the spinning-machine—the “huso,” or “malacate”—which was nothing more or less than the “whirligig spindle.” Yet with this primitive apparatus did the old dame draw out and twist as smooth a thread as ever issued from the “jenny.”
“Poor dear Carlos! One, two, three, four, five, six—six notches I have made—he is just in his sixth day. By this time he will be over the Llano, mother. I hope he will have good luck, and get well treated of the Indians.”
“Never fear, niña—my brave boy has his father’s rifle, and knows how to use it—well he does. Never fear for Carlos!”