Yet they made grim faces when,
all too soon, the retreat call from the barracks sounded, and away they
would have to go on the double quick, to be at post by the time of roll
call, and in bed at sound of taps.
On those evenings when grandma visited the sick, or went from home on
errands, we children were tucked away early in our trundle bed. There,
and by ourselves, we spoke of mother and the mountains. Not
infrequently, however, our thoughts would be recalled to the present by
loud, wailing squeak-squawk, squeak-squawks. As the sound drew nearer
and became shriller, we would put our fingers in our ears to muffle the
dismal tones, which we knew were only the creakings of the two wooden
wheels of some Mexican _carreta_, laboriously bringing passengers to
town, or perhaps a cruder one carrying hides to the _embarcadero_, or
possibly supplies to adjacent _ranchos_. We wondered how old people and
mothers with sick children could travel in such uncomfortable vehicles
and not become distracted by their nerve-piercing noises. Then, like a
bird-song, pleasanter scenes would steal in upon our musings, of gay
horseback parties on their way to church feasts, or fandangos, preceded
or followed by servants in charge of pack animals laden with luggage.
We rarely stayed awake long enough to say all we wished about the
Spanish people. Their methods of travel, modes of dress, and
fascinating manners were sources of never-ending discussion and
interest.
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