days. The
pride of this man was to strut through the Mexican towns and gloat
over his many crimes. To the gazing crowd, he would point out the
trophies of his murders, which he never failed to have about him. To
his fringed leggins were attached the phalanges (or finger bones) of
those victims whom he had killed with his own hands. On the one side,
he proclaimed to his auditors, were the fingers of the Mexicans, while
on the other, were the same tokens from the Americans; and it gave him
great delight, ironically, to dwell upon the latter name. With whip
in hand, he struck out right and left when anything displeased him.
He met one day more than his match in the person of the famous Mexican
hunter, Armador Sanchez, of whom we have previously spoken. The
circumstances of this rencounter were as follows: The bold Indian,
with but few followers, was on a visit of pleasure to the Mexican
town of Culebro. He had agreed to a temporary peace, to suit his
convenience and ends; and, taking advantage of it, he made his
appearance in the settlements, to lord it over the peaceable
inhabitants. After indulging in a little fire-water, his wicked
propensities could be controlled no longer, and broke forth in minor
cruelties. At last he found himself in the house belonging to Sanchez,
who was quietly conversing with his aged father, for whom he had great
veneration, and also with his son. The Indian peremptorily demanded
that some whisky should be given him. He was informed by Sanchez that
he did not keep the article. A second demand was now made, with the
threat that if it was not forthcoming immediately, he would whip the
person who refused him. This had the effect of bringing Sanchez to
his feet, when the following colloquy, in Spanish, between him and the
Indian transpired: "Chico Velasques, you have long been accustomed to
treat our people almost as you please. You have robbed and murdered us
at your will, notwithstanding we have given you no cause thus to act.
Had you asked for bread, I would have given it to you, for the door of
my house is always open to the friendly red man; but, as for whisky,
you can have none from my hands. Raise that whip but once to strike
me, and I will dash your brains out with this mass of lead." Suiting
his actions to his words, Sanchez drew forth from the pocket of his
hunting-shirt a slung shot that weighed nearly four ounces, which
he always carried to dispatch his game with when it was in the last