I straightened up, listening. The low wailing sound that seemed to pronounce a name came again.
“Juan, what makes that noise?” Juan did not answer, and I turned in the seat to look at him. He was terrified. His eyes were stretched wide open, and he gasped out something about praying to the Virgin.
“What’s the matter, Juan? Tell me!”
“Oh, señor, that noise! The Virgin protect us!” he exclaimed. He began whipping the horses.
“Juan, stop! The road is rough. Be careful. There, give me the reins.”
He began saying his prayers, and I could occasionally distinguish the word “espiritus.”
I was very curious to know why he was so excited, but I thought I would wait until he calmed down a little before I asked him. Finally he became more calm, and I handed him the reins.
It was a cold, rainy night in the late fall. The big, piled-up mountains, at one side of the road, were barely visible through the rain. The creek, which ran on the other side, made a subdued, rustling sound. I could scarcely distinguish the road, and knew when we went up or down a hill only by the movement of the vehicle. We ran over a rock in the road, and the jolt seemed to loosen Juan’s tongue.
“You saw those big piles of rocks back there, señor? They are all that’s left of old Fort Stockton. Long time ago, in Indian times, there were a lot of soldiers here, and they lived in those houses. I’ve heard the padre tell tales of them. That one with the walls still standing is what was the church, and that’s where Ferenor”—here he interrupted himself to say some prayers.
“Well, Juan?” I said encouragingly. [[158]]