Having no ice, and no
place away from the terrific heat, the meat was hung out under
the ramada with a piece of netting over it, until the first heat
had passed out of it, and then it was cooked.
The Mexican, after selling what meat he could, cut the rest into
thin strips and hung it up on ropes to dry in the sun. It dried
hard and brittle, in its natural state, so pure is the air on
that wonderful river bank. They called this carni seca, and the
Americans called it "jerked beef."
Patrocina often prepared me a dish of this, when I was unable to
taste the fresh meat. She would pound it fine with a heavy
pestle, and then put it to simmer, seasoning it with the green or
red pepper. It was most savory. There was no butter at all during
the hot months, but our hens laid a few eggs, and the
Quartermaster was allowed to keep a small lot of commissary
stores, from which we drew our supplies of flour, ham, and canned
things. We were often without milk for weeks at a time, for the
cows crossed the river to graze, and sometimes could not get back
until the river fell again, and they could pick their way back
across the shifting sand bars.
The Indian brought the water every morning in buckets from the
river. It looked like melted chocolate. He filled the barrels,
and when it had settled clear, the ollas were filled, and thus
the drinking water was a trifle cooler than the air. One day it
seemed unusually cool, so I said: "Let us see by the thermometer
how cool the water really is." We found the temperature of the
water to be 86 degrees; but that, with the air at 122 in the
shade, seemed quite refreshing to drink.
I did not see any white people at all except Fisher, Abe Frank
(the mail contractor), and one or two of the younger merchants.
If I wanted anything, I went to Fisher. He always could solve the
difficulty. He procured for me an excellent middle-aged
laundress, who came and brought the linen herself, and, bowing to
the floor, said always, "Buenos dias, Senorita!" dwelling on the
latter word, as a gentle compliment to a younger woman, and then,
"Mucho calor este dia," in her low, drawling voice.
Like the others, she was spotlessly clean, modest and gentle. I
asked her what on earth they did about bathing, for I had found
the tub baths with the muddy water so disagreeable. She told me
the women bathed in the river at daybreak, and asked me if I
would like to go with them.
I was only too glad to avail myself of her invitation, and so,
like Pharoah's daughter of old, I went with my gentle handmaiden
every morning to the river bank, and, wading in about knee-deep
in the thick red waters, we sat down and let the swift current
flow by us. We dared not go deeper; we could feel the round
stones grinding against each other as they were carried down, and
we were all afraid. It was difficult to keep one's foothold, and
Capt. Mellon's words were ever ringing in my ears, "He who
disappears below the surface of the Colorado is never seen
again." But we joined hands and ventured like children and played
like children in these red waters and after all, it was much
nicer than a tub of muddy water indoors.
A clump of low mesquite trees at the top of the bank afforded
sufficient protection at that hour; we rubbed dry, slipped on a
loose gown, and wended our way home. What a contrast to the
limpid, bracing salt waters of my own beloved shores!
When I thought of them, I was seized with a longing which
consumed me and made my heart sick; and I thought of these poor
people, who had never known anything in their lives but those
desert places, and that muddy red water, and wondered what they
would do, how they would act, if transported into some beautiful
forest, or to the cool bright shores where clear blue waters
invite to a plunge.
Whenever the river-boat came up, we were sure to have guests, for
many officers went into the Territory via Ehrenberg. Sometimes
the "transportation" was awaiting them; at other times, they were
obliged to wait at Ehrenberg until it arrived. They usually lived
on the boat, as we had no extra rooms, but I generally asked them
to luncheon or supper (for anything that could be called a dinner
was out of the question) .
This caused me some anxiety, as there was nothing to be had; but
I remembered the hospitality I had received, and thought of what
they had been obliged to eat on the voyage, and I always asked
them to share what we could provide, however simple it might be.
At such times we heard all the news from Washington and the
States, and all about the fashions, and they, in their turn,
asked me all sorts of questions about Ehrenberg and how I managed
to endure the life. They were always astonished when the Cocopah
Indian waited on them at table, for he wore nothing but his
gee-string, and although it was an every-day matter to us, it
rather took their breath away.
But "Charley" appealed to my aesthetic sense in every way. Tall,
and well-made, with clean-cut limbs and features, fine smooth
copper-colored skin, handsome face, heavy black hair done up in
pompadour fashion and plastered with Colorado mud, which was
baked white by the sun, a small feather at the crown of his head,
wide turquoise bead bracelets upon his upper arm, and a knife at
his waist - this was my Charley, my half-tame Cocopah, my man
about the place, my butler in fact, for Charley understood how to
open a bottle of Cocomonga gracefully, and to keep the glasses
filled.
