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The Natanes from the Río Puerco
I remember as if it were only yesterday the first time I heard of Gil Gómez. One sunny October morning in 1850 a group of Indians, riding their mustangs, headed up the steep, narrow street that stretched from the corrals south of the city to the main plaza of Santa Fe, the capital of the Territory of New Mexico,
The city of Santa Fe was located-and I don't believe it has changed location-on a hill that overlooks the high plateau to the east and south. Above the flat rooftops of the adobe houses looms the silhouette of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range, a name given to it by the Spanish because of the snowcap summit that takes on a reddish glow at sunset resembling blood droplets drawn by the penitente 's whip. In the center of the plaza, directly in front of the Palace of the Governors, once the seat of the Spaniards' government and where only a few years back the flag of the Mexican Republic was also raised, the Stars and Stripes of the United States now flew under a blue sky.
At that time I had been at the Fort Marcy military garrison, close to the capital, for a couple of weeks, having spent the better part of a year in small military detachments on the northern frontier, surrounded only by snow, bears, and Indians. My tour of duty at Fort Marcy turned out to be fortunate for me. Although the streets of Santa Fe were as filthy as those in other settlements in the outlying area, it was the closest thing to a city in that uncivilized territory. As I came to the end of my military duties for the day, the nearby town could offer more than enough entertainment with its gambling halls, saloons, and fandangos .
It was market day, and vendors were setting up their colorful merchandise under the pine columns. They came from all four points of the compass. Peones from ranches near the capital were carrying strings of onions and vegetables; hunters had come down from the mountains to sell sides of deer meat, bear haunches and thighs, and wild turkey strung between the portal columns. Pueblo Indians from the Río Grande basin offered polished black pottery, buckskin tunics decorated with glass beads, and polished silver set with uncut turquoise.
That morning I was to stand guard at the main entrance to the Palace of the Governors, and I must confess that when I saw the band of Indians on horseback come into the plaza, I was startled. At the frontier posts where I had been stationed before, a group of mounted Indian chiefs would have aroused panic among the entire garrison. I knew that these Navajos were not mere traders, especially since their dress was typical of the natanes , or heads of the tribes, with their beaded shirts, their rich embroidered blankets, and their rifles sheathed in buckskin scabbards draped across their saddle trees.
Two of the Indian mares were followed by colts, whose muzzles were trying to reach their mothers' belly. Upon seeing the hordes of people gathered for market, the colts were startled, threw back their ears, and reared up a few times, almost knocking over the peddlers' makeshift stands. Without paying much attention to the commotion provoked by their arrival, the eldest of the Navajos, Chief Kiatanito, who wore a leather bonnet adorned with owl feathers, came up to me and, without dismounting, made it clear in correct Spanish that he wished to meet with Colonel Andrew F. Washington.
I ran along the exterior pathway of the palace, stumbling over the knickknacks that the vendors had spread out over their blankets on the floor, and burst into the colonel's office in such a hurry that I forgot about protocol. The commander looked up from the papers that he had been perusing and with his index finger slid his glasses to the tip of his nose, under which his grayish sideburns blended into his red moustache. When I explained why I had broken in on him, the colonel instructed me to have the visitors come into the zaguán while he finished reading his dispatches,
A little while later, when the colonel appeared, the Indian leaders were waiting for him wrapped in their blankets, some leaning against the hall columns like caryatids. He was accompanied by Lieutenant Peter F. Stanton, the Navajo interpreter Hilario Tafoya, and me. My presence had been requested because I had devoted myself to learning Spanish ever since my arrival in the territory, and I often acted as an interpreter with Indians who spoke Spanish. After the customary welcoming remarks, and after Lieutenant Stanton offered the visitors a plug of chewing tobacco, the white leader called upon the eldest Navajo, the solemn-looking Chief Kiatanito, to speak.
"Two parts of his body are divine, one part is human," the Indian leader began saying, as if reciting a prayer, and went on, "Gil Gómez is like a wild young bull from the mountains, his strength is unmatched, the clatter of his armor has no rival, and at the beat of the drum he rallies his companions."
"The genízaro descends upon our villages with his young chieftains and he abducts our women and forces them to weave blankets on his hacienda or sells them as slaves at the fairs," old man Sandoval, the cacique from the ranchería in Cebolleta, said indignantly.
"If he at least left us our horses," added the first to have spoken, Kiatanito, "we could then venture out to find new wives or slaves. But whenever Gil Gómez comes into our villages the first thing he takes with him is our herd of horses, leaving us defenseless against our enemies."
"The tyrant from the Río Puerco has no respect either for the wife of the warrior or the daughter of a prominent person," concluded Chief Barboncito, who showed off the sparse hairs of his beard as though it were flourishing.
The task of interpreting was clumsy since Tafoya-even though he understood some English-preferred to translate from Navajo to Spanish and let me translate his Spanish into English for the officers. Colonel Washington allowed the natanes to vent their anger. "This is not the first time you have come to me with complaints about the behavior of the Río Puerco cacique," said the commander-in-chief in his deep voice. "But with all due respect for the truth, I must say that since Gil Gómez settled in Cabezón, the settlers have gone back to their old farming ways, and as a result they are now using the pastures that since time immemorial had been a bone of contention between your warriors and the Mexicans."
"It is true that Gil Gómez has established his peace in the Río Puerco Valley," responded Barboncito, "but it's a peace based on violence. Besides, we know that many of the horses he steals from our pastures are soon sold to the army."
When he heard this accusation, the colonel's expression tensed, but before answering, he took a pinch of snuff from a little silver box and, after sneezing into a Spanish lace handkerchief that he pulled from his sleeve, he continued. "It may be that the genízaro has sold to the army horses stolen from your rancherías, but it would be worth finding out if some of these animals didn't already have the army's brand. In any case, Gil Gómez's acquaintance with the mountain passes and the watering holes in the desert has served us. In exploring unknown regions, he has been our guide, hence permitting civilization to reach these remote territories."
When Hilario Tafoya had finished translating the speech, Chief Sandoval from Cebolleta raised his hand indicating that he wished to say something. "Of course Gil Gómez knows our lands, for he is one of us. As a child he was a shepherd roaming those valleys. But many moons have come and gone since then and he who once served as our shepherd has become a thorn in our side."
The chiefs didn't look very happy with the colonel's responses. After milling around and chewing tobacco for some time at Uncle Sam's expense, they deemed the conversation ended and left the same way they had come in as the reddish dusk began to fall upon the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
Seventy Miles from Babylon
A few days after the visit of the natanes to the Palace of the Governors, news reached Fort Marcy that a caravan crossing the southern plains on the way to California had been attacked by a band of Indians that, after killing the men, had taken the women and children captive. Lieutenant Stanton took charge of organizing a column of soldiers to go in pursuit of the bandits, and I was among those lucky ones who would have to hastily pack our equipment, say good-bye to our friends, and depart on the double, headed for an uncertain destination.
To increase our mobility the army tried not to weigh us down. Our field equipment consisted of: 1 cap, 2 flannel shirts, 1 tunic, and 2 pairs of pants. Footwear: 2 pairs of socks, 1 pair of riding boots. Bedding: 1 blanket. Cutlery: 1 tin cup, 1 tablespoon, 1 knife. Toiletry: 1 comb, 1 towel, and 1 bar of soap. As complete as it was compact!
The night before our departure, I had been to a fandango, as they call a party in that part of the world. Anyone who has never traveled to the Southwest territory cannot begin to imagine the wild and jolly atmosphere at these rendezvous. To be sure, they do not correspond to what we in the East refer to as a dance. In a fandango women of all ages and from all social classes participate, in colorful clothing, some with pretty faces (if they weren't covered with a layer of red ochre) and beautiful figures. I must admit that overall they exceeded most American women in grace and charm, although I couldn't say the same for the modesty and good manners of the women who, after a few minutes of getting to know you, treated you with the confidence and ease of a childhood friend.
In the spirit of the dance, customarily a Spanish waltz, some women began by getting rid of their rebozos , a kind of fine cloth shawl that is draped over the bare shoulders. Then they would take off their shoes, dancing with great ease on a hard-packed dirt floor, sliding to and fro as though it were the smooth parquet of a ballroom. As the evening progressed, those who were wearing bodices proceeded to unbutton them, giving out a sigh of relief when they freed themselves from the tightness of these garments.
I must confess that this wasn't the first time that I had attended one of these wild parties, which could degenerate into brawls and riots over a trifle. The Mexican gentlemen were easily aggravated, for a typical characteristic of those who are descended from the Spaniards is an inclination toward deceit and violence. At moments like these I was glad that my mother and sisters were far away. I would not have allowed my family to see me in such undesirable company for all the gold in the world!
The day after that binge, my mind still blunted by the effects of alcohol and tobacco, I had to stand in formation in the patio of the garrison next to the other soldiers who would accompany Lieutenant Stanton in the search-and-capture expedition. By two-thirty in the afternoon we were all on horseback with our own equipment and weapons ready and by three o'clock sharp we were on our way out through the large door, in rows of five, singing "Old Friend." As if the heavens were protesting the lack of harmony in our voices, the clouds that had been hovering over the hills of Santa Fe opened up, causing a good-size downpour on the column of soldiers.
Taking advantage of the officer's permission to break formation, Timothy Baltasar came up to me, holding a blanket over his head to protect himself against the rain. He had also been selected for the expedition, which showed how little our superiors knew. He was a living example of how a man of innate abilities in civilian life can turn out to be completely useless in the army.
"I'm glad to see you here, Burdette, to comment on this mad expedition!" said Baltasar, getting his mount so close to mine that the stirrup plates clanked against one another. "I trust that our horses at least have an idea of where we're headed, because I assure you that our officers don't have an inkling."
"Are you joking?" I asked Baltasar, who was prone to exaggeration.
"I can assure you, it's the blind leading the blind. They say the raid was probably the work of the Mescalero Apaches who have their hideout in the Sierra Blanca, but we don't control that region. Our officers don't even know where the Indians who attacked the caravan went, and they certainly don't know the area where we're headed. I got a look at a map that was on the colonel's table and practically the entire region southeast of the Río Grande is marked in red letters as Terra Incognita ."
"Well, I doubt that we'll be able to find the Indians without knowing their territory; in these badlands locating these elusive bandits is like finding a needle in a haystack," I replied.
"You're right, Burdette. These Indians are like the nomad warriors who used to raid the caravans from the East: they emerge from the desert, attack, and disappear again."
"So to decide our route Lieutenant Stanton will probably toss up the staff of command like the staff of Moses, and wherever it points, that's the way we'll head," said I, taking up Baltasar's metaphor. We had a good laugh in spite of the rain.
Before enlisting in the army, my friend Baltasar, aspiring to become an evangelist minister, had been a student of the Bible, and for him the wide barren plains of the West were a reincarnation of the deserts of the ancient Near East. Timothy liked to compare our posting in that wild territory to the Jews' captivity in Babylon. He was continually drawing parallels to the Holy Scriptures, comparing the Río Grande with the Euphrates River and the Río Puerco with the Tigris. The different savage tribes whom we had to face for him were like the enemy nations of the Jews: the Chaldeans, Assyrians, and Philistines.
I was never able to understand why Baltasar enlisted in the army as a volunteer, for it would be nearly impossible to find anyone whose mentality and disposition were less military. But I knew from my own experience that one does not make the wisest of decisions during times of tribulation. In any case, thanks to his outlandish ideas, Baltasar's conversation never ceased to be stimulating in the midst of that intellectual wasteland.
But Sergeant Sweeny was in a foul mood, and he didn't like our chatter and laughter. All of a sudden we heard his hoarse voice behind our backs, ordering Timothy to return to his place in line. To reassert his authority, the sergeant delivered such a whack with his riding whip to the rump of Baltasar's horse that it reared up and almost dumped its not-so-expert rider.
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Excerpted from West of Babylon by EDUARDO GARRIGUES Copyright © 2002 by Eduardo Garrigues
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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