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Updated: May 28, 2025
"Oh, monsieur! la Mexicaine, with von mule, has robb, and run vay. Allons, monsieur, allons!" I followed the Canadian to the stable with a feeling of anxiety. My horse but no thank Heaven, he was there! One of the mules, the macho, was gone. It was the one which the guide had ridden from Parida. "Perhaps he is not off yet," I suggested. "He may still be in the town."
My wound began to pain me afresh, and the hot sun, and the dust, and the thirst, with the miserable accommodations of New Mexican posadas, vexed me to an excess of endurance. On the fifth day after leaving Santa Fe, we entered the wretched little pueblo of Parida.
We sent and went in all directions to find him, but to no purpose. We were relieved at length from all doubts by the arrival of some early market men, who had met such a man as our guide far up the river, and riding a mule at full gallop. What should we do? Follow him to Parida? No; that would be a journey for nothing. I knew that he would not be fool enough to go that way.
It was my intention to have remained there all night, but it proved a ruffian sort of place, with meagre chances of comfort, and I moved on to Socorro. This is the last inhabited spot in New Mexico, as you approach the terrible desert, the Jornada del Muerte. Gode had never made the journey, and at Parida I had obtained one thing that we stood in need of, a guide.
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