No change had taken place in the ordinary raiment of my friend. The fringed hunting-shirt and leggings, the belt, the bowie, and the pistols, were all before me. "Yes, my dandy; this is my ball-dress: it ain't anything shorter; and if you'll take my advice, you'll wear what you have got on your back. How will your long-tailed blue look, with a broad belt and bowie strapped round the skirts? Ha! ha! ha!" "But why take either belt or bowie? You are surely not going into a ball-room with your pistols in that fashion?" "And how else should I carry them? In my hands?" "Leave them here." "Ha! ha! that would be a green trick. No, no. Once bit, twice shy. You don't catch this 'coon going into any fandango in Santa Fe without his six-shooters. Come, keep on that shirt; let your leggings sweat where they are, and buckle this about you. That's the _costume du bal_ in these parts." "If you assure me that my dress will be _comme il faut_, I'm agreed." "It won't be with the long-tailed blue, I promise you." The long-tailed blue was restored forthwith to its nook in my portmanteau. Saint Vrain was right. On arriving at the room, a large sala in the neighbourhood of the Plaza, we found it filled with hunters, trappers, traders, and teamsters, all swaggering about in their usual mountain rig. Mixed among them were some two or three score of the natives, with an equal number of senoritas, all of whom, by their style of dress, I recognise as poblanas, or persons of the lower class,--the only class, in fact, to be met with in Santa Fe. As we entered, most of the men had thrown aside their serapes for the dance, and appeared in all the finery of embroidered velvet, stamped leather, and shining "castletops." The women looked not less picturesque in their bright naguas, snowy chemisettes, and small satin slippers. Some of them flounced it in polka jackets; for even to that remote region the famous dance had found its way. "Have you heard of the electric telegraph?" "No, senor." "Can you tell me what a railroad is?" "Quien sabe?" "La polka?" "Ah! senor, la polka, la polka! cosa buenita, tan graciosa! vaya!" The ball-room was a long, oblong sala with a banquette running all round it. Upon this the dancers seated themselves, drew out their husk cigarettes, chatted, and smoked, during the intervals of the dance. In one corner half a dozen sons of Orpheus twanged away upon harp, guitar, and bandolin; occasionally helping out the music with a shrill half-Indian chant. In another angle of the apartment, puros, and Taos whisky were dealt out to the thirsty mountaineers, who made the sala ring with their wild ejaculations. There were scenes like the following:-- "Hyar, my little muchacha! vamos, vamos, ter dance! Mucho bueno! Mucho bueno? Will ye?" This is from a great rough fellow of six feet and over, addressed to a trim little poblana. "Mucho bueno, Senor Americano!" replies the lady.