The Rifle Rangers | Page 7

into three regions, known as the "hot"
(caliente), "temperate" (templada), and "cold" (fria).
Note 6. Carbonero is charcoal-burner.
Note 7. Arriero is mule-driver.

CHAPTER TWO.
AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE CREOLES OF NEW ORLEANS.
In the "fall" of 1846 I found myself in the city of New Orleans, filling
up one of those pauses that occur between the chapters of an eventful
life--doing nothing. I have said an eventful life. In the retrospect of ten
years, I could not remember as many weeks spent in one place. I had
traversed the continent from north to south, and crossed it from sea to
sea. My foot had pressed the summits of the Andes, and climbed the
Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre. I had steamed it down the Mississippi,
and sculled it up the Orinoco. I had hunted buffaloes with the Pawnees
of the Platte, and ostriches upon the pampas of the Plata: to-day,
shivering in the hut of an Esquimaux--a month after, taking my siesta
in an aery couch under the gossamer frondage of the corozo palm. I had
eaten raw meat with the trappers of the Rocky Mountains, and roast
monkey among the Mosquito Indians; and much more, which might
weary the reader, and ought to have made the writer a wiser man. But, I
fear, the spirit of adventure--its thirst--is within me slakeless. I had just
returned from a "scurry" among the Comanches of Western Texas, and
the idea of "settling down" was as far from my mind as ever.
"What next? what next?" thought I. "Ha! the war with Mexico."
The war between the United States and that country had now fairly
commenced. My sword--a fine Toledo, taken from a Spanish officer at
San Jacinto--hung over the mantel, rusting ingloriously. Near it were
my pistols--a pair of Colt's revolvers--pointing at each other in sullen
muteness. A warlike ardour seized upon me, and clutching, not the
sword, but my pen, I wrote to the War Department for a commission;
and, summoning all my patience, awaited the answer.
But I waited in vain. Every bulletin from Washington exhibited its list
of new-made officers, but my name appeared not among them. In New
Orleans--that most patriotic of republican cities--epaulettes gleamed
upon every shoulder, whilst I, with the anguish of a Tantalus, was
compelled to look idly and enviously on. Despatches came in daily

from the seat of war, filled with newly-glorious names; and steamers
from the same quarter brought fresh batches of heroes--some legless,
some armless, and others with a bullet-hole through the cheek, and
perhaps the loss of a dozen teeth or so; but all thickly covered with
laurels.
November came, but no commission. Impatience and ennui had fairly
mastered me. The time hung heavily upon my hands.
"How can I best pass the hour? I shall go to the French opera, and hear
Calve."
Such were my reflections as I sat one evening in my solitary chamber.
In obedience to this impulse, I repaired to the theatre; but the bellicose
strains of the opera, instead of soothing, only heightened my warlike
enthusiasm, and I walked homeward, abusing, as I went, the president
and the secretary-at-war, and the whole government-- legislative,
judicial, and executive. "Republics are ungrateful," soliloquised I, in a
spiteful mood. "I have `surely put in strong enough' for it; my political
connections--besides, the government owes me a favour--"
"Cl'ar out, ye niggers! What de yer want?"
This was a voice that reached me as I passed through the dark corner of
the Faubourg Treme. Then followed some exclamations in French; a
scuffle ensued, a pistol went off, and I heard the same voice again
calling out:
"Four till one! Injuns! Murder! Help, hyur!"
I ran up. It was very dark; but the glimmer of a distant lamp enabled me
to perceive a man out in the middle of the street, defending himself
against four others. He was a man of giant size, and flourished a bright
weapon, which I took to be a bowie-knife, while his assailants struck at
him on all sides with sticks and stilettoes. A small boy ran back and
forth upon the banquette, calling for help.
Supposing it to be some street quarrel, I endeavoured to separate the

parties by remonstrance. I rushed between them, holding out my cane;
but a sharp cut across the knuckles, which I had received from one of
the small men, together with his evident intention to follow it up,
robbed me of all zest for pacific meditation; and, keeping my eye upon
the one who had cut me, I drew a pistol (I could not otherwise defend
myself), and fired. The man fell dead in his tracks, without a groan. His
comrades, hearing me re-cock, took to their heels, and disappeared up a
neighbouring alley.
The whole scene did not occupy