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Updated: June 30, 2025
It was now mid-day, and the sun shone with more heat than I had felt in the tropics. Indeed, everything around us reminded one so vividly of a tropical climate, that it required some resolution to keep imagination in subserviency. The thermometer was at 80 on deck; and our good-tempered pilot told us it was "manga varm" in August.
The chiefs consulted in their own tongue, and then replied, "The way is long." "How much?" Manga Colorada held up five fingers. "Five hundred?" A unanimous grunt. "It is all I have," said Coronado. The chiefs made no reply.
He wore a purplish-coloured manga, that covered his whole body, and his feet were cased in the red leather boots of the country, with heavy silver spurs strapped over them. A black sombrero, with its band of gold bullion and tags of the same material, completed the tout ensemble of his costume. Such was the Padre Jarauta.
Grundy in civilized cities and villages is nothing to the despotism which she exercises among those slaves of custom, the red men of the American wildernesses. Manga Colorada, bereaved and with blackened face, lay in wait for the first step of the emigrants outside of their city of refuge. We must return to Coronado.
Somewhere or other, within the next day or two, there was a grand council of the two tribes. We know little of it; we can guess that Manga Colorada must have made great concessions or splendid promises to the Navajos; but it is only certain that he obtained leave to traverse their country.
The sudden appearance of this splendid horseman for, hanging in the rear with folded manga, he seemed not to have been noticed before, caused unusual attention, and many were heard inquiring his name. "Carlos the cibolero!" cried a voice, loud enough to satisfy all at once. Some evidently knew who "Carlos the cibolero" was, though by far the greater number on the ground did not.
The chiefs turned their ill-favored countenances on each other, and talked for a while in their own language. Then, looking at Coronado, they grunted, nodded, and sat in silence, waiting for his terms. "Send that boy away," said the Mexican, pointing to a youth of twelve or fourteen, better dressed than most Apache urchins, who had joined the little circle. "It is my son," replied Manga Colorada.
His beautiful manga had been left behind, partly to save it from the rough wear of such an expedition, and also that it might not excite the cupidity of the prairie Indians, who, for such a brilliant mantle as it was, would not hesitate to take his scalp.
In this painful position, with a Jarocho standing over each of us, we passed the remainder of the night. Griffe, a cross-breed between a negro and a Carib. Manga, a jacket with loose sleeves. It was a long night the longest I can remember a night that fully illustrated the horror of monotony. I can compare our feelings to those of one under the influence of the nightmare. But, no worse than that.
There was variety in their habiliments, yet the national costume of Mexico was traceable in all. Some wore leather calzoneros, with a spencer or jerkin of the same material, close both at front and behind. Some carried, instead of the pictured serape, the blanket of the Navajoes, with its broad black stripes. Suspended from the shoulders of others hung the beautiful and graceful manga.
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