They beat the tom-tom, they plucked the guitar,
The mandolin twanged for Dolores Salazar—
For her flashing teeth, for her midnight hair,
For her tiny shoes and brown legs bare,
Whirling red petticoat and thin white blouse—
The beauty and the terror of the Vale of Taos.
Young Dick Wooton was a mountain man,
A strappin' trapper with a skin of tan;
He stooped as he swung through the six-foot door,
His moccasins shuffled on the hard dirt floor:
“Look out, pelados, fur I'm on my spree!
This here fandango belongs to me!”
Then he saw Dolores smiling slow,
And he stopped like a gut-shot buffalo.
From Belly River to the Rio Grande
Grizzlies and Indians he had shot offhand;
But her eyes cut deeper than he'd ever been hurt—
Deeper than the scars beneath his buckskin shirt—
So he drank (for she scared him worse than death)
Three gourds of whisky 'fore he caught his breath.
Then he grabbed Dolores like an angry bear,
He pranced and shuffled and he smelled her hair,
While the whisky ran and the trappers howled,
And her Mexican lovers sulked and scowled,
She smiled at his chin and she smiled in his chest,
What he said she savvied, or else she guessed,
Until Dick, a-floating on a wave of bliss,
Lifted her up and gave her a kiss.
Then Don Cornelio began the fray—
His knife blade glittered in a wicked way—
And Dick, all paralyzed with fright,
Was happy again, for he loved a fight.
He yelped a war whoop, let Dolores fall,
He bashed Cornelio against the wall:
“Come on, pelados! Jine the spree,
Fur this fandango belongs to me!”
'Twas six to a hundred or thereabout—
Fists were flying and knives were out—
Kit Carson caught up the drummer's chair,
Gripped each leg and broke it off square,
Yelled as he handed them round to each one,
“Give 'em Green River!” and began the fun.
The women screamed and choked up the door;
Pelados were lying all over the floor;
The music stopped and the lights blinked out;
Kit and his comrades raised a shout,
Felled the men who blocked their path,
And left a trail like the day of wrath.
Back in the house where their rifles stood
They laughed and swore and wiped off the blood,
Jeered at the Prefect and the mob outside,
Paid blood-money for the man who had died,
Tipped the priest for the masses said
For the soul of the stabber who now lay dead,
Posted a sentry at either door,
Spread out blankets and lay down to snore.
But little thought Dick Wooton gave
To the broken heads and the new-made grave.
Melancholy as a bull in spring,
What to him could sunup bring
But a lonely ride on the trails afar
And dreams of the lovely Salazar?
For well he knew that her folks would ban
A match with a gringo mountain man.
The chill gray dawn was over all—
Mountain and meadow and 'dobe wall—
When Kit and his comrades took their way
Out of the town of Taos next day.
The streets were lined with a sullen throng,
Jealous, and smarting with sense of wrong;
But nobody stirred to do them harm,
For each one rode with rifle on arm.
Dolores stood by her father's house,
Quieter since last night's carouse;
But under her gay rebozo's fold
Her heart was pounding, her eyes were bold,
Though brothers and lovers on either side,
Bitter and scowling, watched Dick ride.
Kit saw what ailed Dick Wooton's heart;
Kit slapped him on the back right smart:
“Ho, Dick! Are you wantin' to trap a squaw?
Bent's Fort's a-waitin' on Arkansaw—
Hyar's the gal, and yonder's the trail,
If you ain't scairt of the Prefect's jail.”
Dick stooped from his saddle to say good-by,
Whispered her ear and looked in her eye;
She flashed him a smile like the break of morn,
Reached her hand to his saddle horn,
Placed her foot on his moccasin—
He caught her, and struck his spurs well in.
Her mother squealed, and her father swore,
Her lovers rushed past the open door—
But Kit rode there with his rifle, grim,
And nobody wanted to tackle him.
Dick and Dolores waved farewell
To her people crowding the streets pell-mell:
“Adios, pelados, fur I've had my spree,
And this here beauty belongs to me!”
The mandolin twanged for Dolores Salazar—
For her flashing teeth, for her midnight hair,
For her tiny shoes and brown legs bare,
Whirling red petticoat and thin white blouse—
The beauty and the terror of the Vale of Taos.
Young Dick Wooton was a mountain man,
A strappin' trapper with a skin of tan;
He stooped as he swung through the six-foot door,
His moccasins shuffled on the hard dirt floor:
“Look out, pelados, fur I'm on my spree!
This here fandango belongs to me!”
Then he saw Dolores smiling slow,
And he stopped like a gut-shot buffalo.
From Belly River to the Rio Grande
Grizzlies and Indians he had shot offhand;
But her eyes cut deeper than he'd ever been hurt—
Deeper than the scars beneath his buckskin shirt—
So he drank (for she scared him worse than death)
Three gourds of whisky 'fore he caught his breath.
Then he grabbed Dolores like an angry bear,
He pranced and shuffled and he smelled her hair,
While the whisky ran and the trappers howled,
And her Mexican lovers sulked and scowled,
She smiled at his chin and she smiled in his chest,
What he said she savvied, or else she guessed,
Until Dick, a-floating on a wave of bliss,
Lifted her up and gave her a kiss.
Then Don Cornelio began the fray—
His knife blade glittered in a wicked way—
And Dick, all paralyzed with fright,
Was happy again, for he loved a fight.
He yelped a war whoop, let Dolores fall,
He bashed Cornelio against the wall:
“Come on, pelados! Jine the spree,
Fur this fandango belongs to me!”
'Twas six to a hundred or thereabout—
Fists were flying and knives were out—
Kit Carson caught up the drummer's chair,
Gripped each leg and broke it off square,
Yelled as he handed them round to each one,
“Give 'em Green River!” and began the fun.
The women screamed and choked up the door;
Pelados were lying all over the floor;
The music stopped and the lights blinked out;
Kit and his comrades raised a shout,
Felled the men who blocked their path,
And left a trail like the day of wrath.
Back in the house where their rifles stood
They laughed and swore and wiped off the blood,
Jeered at the Prefect and the mob outside,
Paid blood-money for the man who had died,
Tipped the priest for the masses said
For the soul of the stabber who now lay dead,
Posted a sentry at either door,
Spread out blankets and lay down to snore.
But little thought Dick Wooton gave
To the broken heads and the new-made grave.
Melancholy as a bull in spring,
What to him could sunup bring
But a lonely ride on the trails afar
And dreams of the lovely Salazar?
For well he knew that her folks would ban
A match with a gringo mountain man.
The chill gray dawn was over all—
Mountain and meadow and 'dobe wall—
When Kit and his comrades took their way
Out of the town of Taos next day.
The streets were lined with a sullen throng,
Jealous, and smarting with sense of wrong;
But nobody stirred to do them harm,
For each one rode with rifle on arm.
Dolores stood by her father's house,
Quieter since last night's carouse;
But under her gay rebozo's fold
Her heart was pounding, her eyes were bold,
Though brothers and lovers on either side,
Bitter and scowling, watched Dick ride.
Kit saw what ailed Dick Wooton's heart;
Kit slapped him on the back right smart:
“Ho, Dick! Are you wantin' to trap a squaw?
Bent's Fort's a-waitin' on Arkansaw—
Hyar's the gal, and yonder's the trail,
If you ain't scairt of the Prefect's jail.”
Dick stooped from his saddle to say good-by,
Whispered her ear and looked in her eye;
She flashed him a smile like the break of morn,
Reached her hand to his saddle horn,
Placed her foot on his moccasin—
He caught her, and struck his spurs well in.
Her mother squealed, and her father swore,
Her lovers rushed past the open door—
But Kit rode there with his rifle, grim,
And nobody wanted to tackle him.
Dick and Dolores waved farewell
To her people crowding the streets pell-mell:
“Adios, pelados, fur I've had my spree,
And this here beauty belongs to me!”