In the midst of the desert lies a chain of
salines, accursed lakes of Tigua folk-lore. Beyond them the
plain melts and rebuilds itself in the shimmering sun.
To the south and southeast spectral peaks tower to the clouds.
Northward the blue shadows of the Sante Fe fall upon the
pine-clad foot-hills.
Along the lower slopes of the Manzano are the ruins of the
ancient pueblos. Abo and Cuarac are mounds of fallen buildings
and desert-blown sand. Solemn in their grandeur, they dominate
the lonely landscape in a land of adobe shacks.
Thirty miles from Cuarac, to the southeast, lies Tabiri, the
"Grand Quivira." Huddled on the projecting slopes of the rounded
ridges, access to it is a weary, dreary march. The nearest water
is forty miles away. Toiling through sand ankle-deep, the
traveler plods across the edge of the plains, through troughlike
valleys, and up the wooded slope of the Mesa de los Jumanos. A
mile to the south a whale-back ridge springs from the valley,
nosing northward.
No sound breaks the stillness of the day. From the higher ridges
the eye falls upon the pallid ghost of the city. Blotches of
juniper relieve the monotony of the brown, lifeless grass. Grays
fade into leaden hues, to be absorbed in the ashy, indeterminate
colors of the sun-soaked plains. No fitter setting for a
superstition could be found. Once a town of fifteen hundred
inhabitants, the topography of ridge gave it an unusual shape.
Ruins of three four-story terrace houses face one another across
narrow alleys.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173