Chapter XXIV: Steamer Mascot--Conclusion, 270 (3)

My companions for the journey are three. There is “Tio,” as we have familiarly named him, who is leader of our company. He is a giant-framed mountaineer of the middle west, who has spent a life-time in prospecting the Rocky Mountains and the Cordilleras from Canada to Central America. Like all those of that fast disappearing race, the lone prospector, he is visionary and sanguine of temperament, and a delightful companion for a plunge among the wild and lonely regions of the Cordilleras. His imagination is eternally fired by the _ignes-fatui_ of mineral wealth, and he has discovered, exploited and lost a hundred fortunes with no lessening of the gold-silver-copper hunger which incessantly gnaws his vitals. His muscles are of iron, his voice is deep and resonant. Kindly by nature, his solitary life has made him reticent and self-contained. Only incidentally do I learn of his past. A slight scar upon the back of his right hand is all that witnesses the smashing of a _mescal_-infuriated Indian who once went up against him with murderous two-bladed _cuchillo_; a bullet graze upon his brow is his only reference to a duel-to-the-death, where, it is whispered, the black eyes of a _señorita_ were once involved. Grim and rugged and silent he declares himself to be a man of peace, and none there are who care to disturb this tranquility. But despite his austerity, Tio has a weakness. He is not a little vain of his mastery of the idiomatic intricacies of the Iberian tongue. Nothing delights him more than to dismay a humble _peon_ by the sonorous bellowing of a salutation put in vernacular Spanish or Tarascon. He rides beside me and acquaints me with the history, geography and probable mineral riches of the land we traverse.

Then there is “El Padre” as we call him, who joins our party as our guest and for the pleasure and profit of seeing the wilder, remoter sections of the great state of Michoacan. He is virtually the Presiding Bishop of the Baptist Missionaries of Mexico, for as General Secretary he visits their different stations, handles the funds sent down by the General Board from Richmond, Virginia, and does invaluable work in organizing and directing the common propaganda. He is a native of Tennessee, a graduate of the University of that state, a cultivated, scholarly man who speaks classic Spanish and is master of local dialects as well. I find him greatly respected by the leading Mexicans whom we meet, and withal a most delightful and intelligent comrade. He is an adept at adjusting all those little comforts of the camp which only the practiced traveler can know, and by his bonhommie and courtesy wins the good will of _señor_ and _peon_ alike, while even the Roman _padres_ we fall in with return his salutations with friendly greeting.

Izus Hernandes, our _mozo_, completes the party. He lives in Patzcuaro, where _Señora_ Hernandes brings up his numerous brood, for he is father of eleven living children. He is short and slender, with dark black beard covering his face. His color is pale brown, and like most of the population hereabouts, he has in his veins much Tarascon blood. His manners are gentle and courteous, even suave to Tio and El Padre and myself, but his orders are sharp and peremptory to the horseboys and stablemen of the _ranchos_ and _fondas_ where we stop. He has spent his lifetime traversing these trails between Patzcuaro and La Union and Acapulco, driving bands of pack animals and acting as escort for parties of _Dons_ and _Doñas_ when trusty guards have been in demand. He supplies his own pack animals, is past master in cinching on a load, and makes all bargains and pays all bills in our behalf. He is our courier and valet of the camp combined. And he proves himself worthy of his hire--two silver _pesos_ (80 cents United States) per day--for he never fails us throughout the trip.

Our horses have been picked with care and newly shod. Tio bestrides a mettlesome white mare, while El Padre rides a chestnut sorrel, lean and toughened to the trail and gaited with giant stride, a famous horse for fatiguing days of mountain travel. For myself has been reserved the choicest of the mount, an iron-limbed black mule--the mule is the royal and honored saddle-beast in all Spanish lands--a beast well evidencing Isus’ discerning choice.

Our coming being expected, arrangements had been made for our further journey to the South. Our _mozo_ was awaiting us in the courtyard of the Fonda Diligencia with the four saddle-beasts and two pack animals, a black bronco and a stout white pack mule. We carried snug folding cots, which rolled up into compact bundles, and extra food against short rations, when we should reach the borders of Guerrero. We are provided with immense Mexican _sombreros_, of light woven straw, which cost us fifteen _centavos_ apiece, the high, peaked crown and wide-reaching brim protecting head and neck completely from the sun.

We have with us heavy clothing and flannels for our journey along the highlands of the _Tierra Fria_ and also the thinnest of linen and wool garments to save us from the scorching sun, when we descend into the hot levels of the _Tierra Caliente_. I have purchased a pair of immense Mexican spurs and my mule’s mouth is choked with a mass of wicked iron, calculated to break the jaw with little effort, should I pull hard enough on my rawhide bridle rein. A rawhide goad hangs upon one side of my saddle-pommel and my long barreled Colt’s revolver, loaded and ready for instant use, hangs on the other. We are all armed and our _mozo_ has a formidable and ancient sword strapped along the left saddle-side beneath his leg.

We dined in the low-ceilinged eating hall of the Colonia, upon a well-served dinner of boiled rice, boiled chicken, yams and peppers, and cups of strong black coffee, drunk with sugar, but no milk. Our city clothes are left behind in a room, the rent of which we have paid a fortnight in advance, and the large iron key of which we take along.

Our foreign looks and ways attracted much attention in the town. A crowd gathered in the courtyard of the _fonda_ to see us off. Our coming and our going were events. Nor was it altogether a simple matter to pack our equipment safely and balance it properly upon the beasts. But Izus was an expert, and with many yards of palmetto rope finally cinched fast the loads. At a word from him the pack animals trotted forth from the _fonda’s_ court, he following behind, while we brought up the rear. “_Adios, adios, señores_,” shouted the crowd. “_Adios, adios_,” we replied.

Our animals knew the road perfectly. They had traveled it many a time before. We wound and twisted through narrow streets, we passed several wide _plazas_, and then turning up a street wider than the rest, began the ascent toward the hills which lie back of the city.

IX

A Journey Over Lofty Tablelands

ARIO, MICHOACAN, MEXICO,
_November 26th_.

As we wound higher and higher toward the summit of the hills, the town nestled below us half-hidden among umbrageous trees, and groves of orange and apricot and fig, while stretching beyond it, toward the northeast, lay the light green expanse of lovely Lake Patzcuaro. The panorama before me as I turned in my saddle to gaze upon it, presented a vista of wood and water, of fertile, cultivated, well populated country, delighting the eye on every hand. We were traversing a land enjoying one of the most salubrious climates of the world.

We had started about four o’clock in the afternoon, and before we had ridden many miles the shadows began to creep across the landscape, and then, sudden as the drop of a curtain, down fell the fullness of the night. This absence of twilight is always a perpetual surprise to me. I do not yet become used to this immediate extinction of the day. The sudden banishment of the sun did not cause me uneasiness, however, despite the frightful condition of the labyrinthine paths along which we threaded our way, for the moon was at its full. It shone with the splendor and potency which our altitude and tropical latitude assured. We were more than seven thousand feet above the sea and rising higher at every league. The thin, translucent atmosphere gave to the moon a wonderful quality of illumination. It shone white and radiant, with a brilliance which permitted the reading of a newspaper with ease. The landscape, the wide expanses of cultivated fields, the thousands of acres of corn and wheat and rolling grass land, the dense copses and thorny vine-woven thickets, the miles of maguey plantations, the orchards of apples, of apricots, of lemons and of limes, lay illuminated and distinct in the strange white light, revealed with almost the same vividness as in the day. Only the shadows were dark, were sharp and black and solid. For several miles we rode through forests of oaks and pines, our little caravan appearing and disappearing into the blackness of the shadow and then into the lightness of moonbeam, in perpetual hide and seek. We passed multitudes of pack beasts, in droves of a score or more, generally led by a bell-mare, and followed by two or three _’cherros_ in _zerape_ and flapping _sombrero_, as well as many _burros_, these generally driven by Indians. Here and there, we came upon a blazing fire by the wayside, where were camping for the night the _cargadores_, roasting _tortillas_ and boiling _frijoles_, or wrapped in their _zerapes_, their chins between their knees, asleep before the flickering embers.

It was nine o’clock when the white walls of Santa Clara gleamed before us. We saw a long paved street, ending in a little _plaza_ filled with great anciently-planted trees. Along the street were only high, bare, white, adoby walls, rarely the glimmer of a light shone through a small and high-up window. Midway along this street, we turned into a wide doorway and, passing through the low encircling building, entered a large stone-paved courtyard. The backs of thirty or forty pack mules, from the lowlands of the Pacific, were here being unloaded of cocoanuts, and salt and dried palm leaves for rope and mat-making. Drivers and stableboys were swearing melodiously in Spanish and Tarascon. There was everywhere great stir and nobody paid us the slightest heed. We halted and dismounted. Our _mozo_ Izus, took charge of our animals. A swarthy, burly Mexican bade us put our personal belongings in a little room, where was also soon set our baggage. He then locked the door and gave us a big iron key as evidence of possession. In another house, further along the street, we found an old Indian dame who gave us boiled rice, peppers, and a dish of stewed chicken, setting before us cups of boiling hot water and a small earthen pitcher of black, strong essence of coffee. A couple of spoonfuls of this, put into the water, gave me a delightful cup of fragrant drink, and a lump of the brown native sugar sweetened it perfectly. This method of making coffee I commend. Every housewife in Mexico roasts, grinds and drips through little flannel bags her own coffee essence. She keeps it always on hand. There is always hot water simmering on the clay oven, and it is only a moment’s care to provide the traveler with as much of the fragrant, vivifying drink as he requires.

In another house, across the street, we were bedded for the night. A single, large, high-ceilinged room off a big, airy court was assigned to us. The iron bedsteads were narrow, each with one thin mattress and no springs, but there were home-woven blankets to roll ourselves in and in the morning basins of beaten copper were brought us to wash in, with water poured from graceful ewers of like metal; evidences of the survival yet of a native industry for which this region and town have been famous ever since the days of Tarascon dominion. I endeavored to buy these handsome copper utensils, but my hostess would take no price, although I really offered her a great sum in my eagerness to possess them. They were heirlooms, she said, and too precious for money to avail.

The night was cold, almost frosty. On these high tablelands, a mile and a half above the sea, the radiation of the sun’s heat is rapid and, the year round, by morning the thermometer is usually close to thirty-nine degrees (Fahrenheit).

We were up betimes, out of the town, and among cultivated fields and orchards and pine and oak woods again, before the sun became at all oppressive.

As yet, I have not seen many birds in Mexico, only the waterfowl along the lakes and a few finches in the thickets along the way. To-day we have traveled in company with many ravens. Tame and companionable they are, so usual is the sight of mules and men along this frequented highway.

Santa Clara is close to the height of land. Seven thousand two hundred feet above the sea, my aneroid declared, and from that altitude we began to descend. The thirty miles to Ario is one steady decline, a gradual fall of twelve hundred feet.

This whole country hereabout is held in vast _haciendas_ of thousands of acres, and is chiefly owned by nonresident landowners who rarely, if ever, visit their possessions, but trust entirely to overseers to manage and work them and wring an income from the hapless peon. It is a land of great fertility. Only the most primitive methods of agriculture are employed, and work is done in the most inefficient way. Yet huge incomes are withdrawn from the land, and spent by the distant _haciendado_ in his city home in Mexico, or in Paris, or Madrid. These lands are said to be marketable (buyable) at about ten dollars (Mexican) per acre, say four dollars in United States money. As I have been riding along, viewing mile after mile of this superb fertility in a climate temperate all the year around, I have pondered much on what a garden it might have been, and it yet may be, if ever the thrifty American shall have it in possession.

Toward noon we began to gain a wider view of the landscape opening before us toward the south and west. Our altitude was steadily lessening and, many miles distant, seemingly, there was a sudden falling away of the land to profound and indefinite depths, whence came the impression of tropical verdure, the whole expanse backed on the horizon by blue and jagged lines of lofty mountain chains, peaks and summits which sometimes pierced the zenith, far to the southwest. They were the mighty Cordilleras of Guerrero, a hundred miles away and barring from view the Pacific Ocean just beyond. On a day wholly clear, it is said, the snow-capped cones of Colima may be seen, also, far to the northwest, but gaze as we might we could catch no glimpse of the mighty volcano.

Thousands of cattle are raised in Mexico, and we passed many extensive herds being driven toward Patzcuaro. They were urged on by vociferous _vaqueros_, swearing musically the immense and cumbrous Spanish oaths--yet have we seen almost no milch cows and the few we saw were those gathered in a _corral_ hard by a wide thatched-roofed building, known as a “milk ranch,” an establishment where milk is gathered and shipped to nearby Ario, and butter and cheese are made for immediate sale. A cross upon the gable denoted it to be under the protection of the Virgin and I hope assured milk unadulterated to its patrons. From my saddle I caught a snap shot of the ranch and send you the pretty picture.

Our road now showed signs of being in better repair. Finally, the maze of intricate paths along which we had traveled, coalesced, and the ancient pavement now appeared intact. On either hand, tall wide-spreading ash trees arched over the perfect road, carven stone benches stood beneath them, and we found ourselves entering the important town of Ario. It is a place of more than five thousand inhabitants, the county seat of the District, the home of the _Jefe Politico_ (the “political chief,” mayor, governor, boss and judge), through whose iron-handed rule the central government of Diaz maintains its firm control.

We passed an ancient church, turned to the right, entered a wide doorway and halted in a well-flagged court, in the center of which a fountain played amid many flowering plants and cages of gay-feathered birds. It was the hotel Morelos. We were at the end of our journey in the Highlands. We were come to the last town in the _Tierra Fria_. We were on the brink of the hot country, the _Tierra Caliente_, which lay stretched out beyond us, one short day’s ride and below us six thousand feet.

X

A Provincial Despot and His Residence

CUYACO, MICHOACAN, MEXICO,
_November 28th_.

Day before yesterday, I wrote to you from the curious and most ancient town of Ario, but did not tell you all I might, for lack of time. The city stands upon the verge of the highlands, the _Tierra Fria_. When the Spaniards founded it, several centuries ago, they placed it, with strategic judgment, at that point which would enable it to command the several trails which here descend to the lowland hot country and lead on to the Pacific. They placed it on a sloping hillside, as was their wont, the better to insure more perfect drainage, for, in those days, the sanitary engineers of old Spain knew better how to assure healthful cities than did the more barbarous English and the less civilized peoples of North Europe.

The streets of Ario, including every alleyway, are paved with sharp, flat stones, set on edge, wedged fast, the pavement running from wall to wall with a low stone gutter in the middle, into which open all the drains from the houses on either side. Along these central gutters are turned streams of ceaselessly flowing water, keeping the city constantly clean. This same sort of street paving and drainage prevails wherever possible in every Mexican city. To every town of consideration, water is carried, anciently, by substantial and often costly aqueducts; modernly, through pipe lines carefully laid. During the centuries of Spanish dominion these towns and cities have enjoyed a supply of water, pure, abundant and free to the poorest inhabitant. There are no water rates in Mexico. Water is regarded as one of the gifts of God to which every man and beast has an inalienable right. To charge for it, would be regarded as indecent and criminal. At the Rancho Tejemanil, I offered a boy a _centavo_ for bringing me a cup of cold water. He refused to take the coin and let it drop upon the ground, rather than disgrace himself by so much as touching it. He turned away, the coin lying where it fell. I apologized to the master of the house for having done such a thing as offer money for a drink of water. He answered, saying, “_Si, Si Señor!_” “Water is indeed a gift of God, for which no man should be asked to pay.”

Although Ario is in the neighborhood of extensive forests of pine and oak, yet all the buildings are constructed of stone and cement, mortar and adoby sun-dried brick. Indeed, I have seen no wooden buildings in Mexico. Consequently, there pervades Mexican cities, towns and even villages an air of substantial solidity, quite lacking in American wooden towns.

We brought letters to the Jefe Politico, _Señor Don_ Louis Salchaga, the despot of the county and governor of the iron hand. He was of large physique; tall, broad-shouldered, firmly knit, with strong, square chin and commanding eye. His hair was gray almost to whiteness; and a sweeping mustache, re-enforced the general impressiveness of his countenance. He was clad in a linen undress military uniform. He greeted us with courtly Spanish graciousness. He lives in a two-storied stone house at the intersection of two streets, one of which leads from the _plaza_. Entering through a narrow doorway, at the side, we found ourselves in a small, cement-paved room, whose stone walls perhaps, in years gone by, were white with lime. Don Louis sat at a table scrutinizing papers handed him by a dark-faced youth, who stood at his side. As we entered he hastily signed them, pushed them toward the clerk and rose to greet us. We learned afterwards what the documents were, one of them a decree settling a lawsuit, the other an order that a prisoner be transferred from one jail to another some miles distant. Such an order is equivalent to a death warrant in this land of the iron hand. On the way, the prisoner is said to have “tried to escape.” Necessarily they have been forced to shoot him. He is buried where he falls.

_Don_ Louis pressed us to dine with him that evening at seven o’clock, having first politely inquired of my Spanish-speaking friends whether “_El Señor de Estados Unidos tiene dinero?_” (Does the gentleman from the United States possess money?) My friends replied, “_Si, Si, Señor, mucho dinero_,” (“Yes, yes, sir, much money;”) so we were asked to dine! Probably, of all people upon this planet none are more expert in extracting the _dinero_ from the American pocket than are the gracious Latins of the south. If you have money, the laws open wide their gates, and all government officials pat you on the back, meanwhile filching just a little from your unsuspecting pocket. Even the _Padre_ and the Archbishop, for the proper toll of gold, will shove you through the quicker to the gates of Paradise.

At seven o’clock it was dark; the stars glowed big; the moon was not yet up. The city was ablaze with electric lights. On this second visit we did not go to the office door, but entered the wide-arched entrance for man and beast. We came into the usual square _patio_, where waters plashed and tropical plants, many of them in flower, were set about in pots. _Don_ Louis greeted us as we entered. He shook hands twice all round. He led us across the court to the far side and into the dining room, a stone and cement-walled chamber with stone-flagged floor, wholly without adornments. No cloth covered the plain wooden table. There were wooden benches along the wall on either side. He introduced us to his wife, _Doña_ Maria, and a little grandson of twelve years. The _Doña_ was tall, for a Mexican woman, and stout. Her hair was white, parted in the middle and brushed smoothly back from her forehead. She wore a light muslin of white. She displayed no jewels, although undoubtedly possessing them. _Don_ Louis wore an immense diamond on his left middle finger, while a heavy gold chain about his neck secured a big gold watch.

Our hostess could speak no English, but our host said he could read it and understood it “spoken very slow, a leetel;” “but the grandson,” he said, “had a tutor who was teaching him English,--a young man who had lived six months in Texas at San Antonio and there mastered the northern tongue!” The meal was simple. A very good soup, redolent of garlic and peppers, was followed with boiled rice and stewed chicken, a _dulce_, some really delicious preserved guavas, and cheese. Then cups of hot water and the small pot of coffee essence were set before us, and we “coffeed” the water to suit our taste. Just when I presumed we were at an end, a servant entered and set before each of us a soup plate of _frijoles_, with a big spoon. No Mexican considers a dinner properly concluded without _frijoles_. I had heard of _frijoles_. I had been told that _tortillas_ and _frijoles_ were the staff of Mexican life. Now the _frijoles_ were before me. What were they? My plate contained nothing but large black beans floating in a thin soup. Perhaps the water should have been poured off, I do not know, but the beans floated and the liquor was thin. And _Don_ Louis ladled them into his mouth with evident relish! _Vivan frijoles!_

_Don_ Louis had resided in Ario three years. He came from the state of Toreon. How long would he remain in Ario? He did not know. _Quien sabe?_ El Presidente Diaz sent him here and there, into such States and Districts as might be in need of a trusted lieutenant whose smile was beneficent, whose hand was proven steel.

In response to the letters we bore, _Señor Don_ Louis gave us other letters to the chief men of the _Distrito_--a sort of circular blanket letter--and hinted that he would go part of the way with us next day, which, it came to pass he did.

Later in the evening, we also called upon _Señor Don_ Juan Rodrigues Tarco, one of the leading citizens of Ario, a lawyer of distinction, and who gave us letters to the superintendent of the Mina El Puerto, at Churumuco, on the river Balsas. We met him at his house. Through an unpretentious doorway, which you might drive through, we came into a _patio_ with many flowering plants and palms and a fountain. Near the entrance, on the left, we entered the reception room. This was a large high-ceilinged chamber with handsomely tiled floor, palmetto rugs, modern French furniture of cane, walls and ceiling frescoed in good taste. There were some good pictures on the walls, a new upright piano, and several mahogany book-cases, whose shelves were well filled with books, mostly in Spanish, a few in French and English. There were porcelain vases and handsome modern lamps. In any city, this would be regarded as a room of elegance, and to think that every luxury we looked upon had been carried more than fifty miles over frightful trails, upon the backs of men and mules!

_El Señor_ was a small dark man, alert in his movements and quick of mind, a gentleman, having wide knowledge concerning the mineral wealth of Michoacan. He studied in the Universities at Morelia and Mexico City. He was a liberal in politics, and spoke with enthusiasm of modern Mexico, her mineral resources, the awakening of her industries, the growth of her commerce. He read French and English, but spoke only Spanish. His sons were away at school, in Toluca, and were learning English. It is the great desire of the young men of Mexico to learn to speak English, he said. The language is already taught in all the principal schools of Mexico. It is becoming the language of business and commerce. Before many years it will be the chief language of Mexico, and he regretted that he had not himself, while young, been able to master the difficulties of the tongue.

The ancient inn, the Hotel Morelos, where we put up, was built by the Spaniards more than two centuries ago. When we arrived we rode all our six mules and horses right through the big doorway into the interior paved court. Here we turned to the left and stopped at a flight of stone stairs, which went up to the second floor. All our baggage was carried up. A large square room was assigned to us. The walls and floor were of stone. Three narrow iron bedsteads were brought in, each having good woven wire springs, a thin mattress, a sheet, a blanket and a small pillow. Our baggage which the two pack mules had carried was piled in a corner. A table and three commodes, one next each bed, a basin and pitcher of enameled iron, and four chairs completed the furniture, all brought in after our arrival. Big double doors opened on the inner, tile-floored piazza, overlooking the _patio_, and casemented windows opened on the little balcony overlooking the street. On our left was another similar chamber, then round the corner, a dining room, then the kitchen, then another large room, the water-closet, with a dozen seats all in a row, used freely by both sexes and no lock to the door! A whole company might use it simultaneously. These places, in Mexico, are always close to the kitchen. I then understood the reason for constant yellow fever in less lofty altitudes.

In the town is a very old and large church with two towers and a great clock. Many women were kneeling along the dusty floor, saying their vespers, when we entered.

An artistic fountain (whose waters are said to be “Holy”) carved with lions’ heads, plays in the center of the _plaza_. From the _plaza_ one can look over the lower town and far to the southwest, over and into _La Tierra Caliente_ (the hot country) in which we now are. But Ario was cool, and at night I slept in flannel pajamas under two blankets.

We were early astir! and enjoyed an excellent breakfast of coffee, eggs, chicken, rice, _tortillas_--in fact, I may remark that all meals I have thus far eaten off the beaten track of travel in Mexico, are quite as good as any I would get in the mountains of West Virginia. We had the two pack animals loaded, paid our bill, about forty cents each, (one dollar Mexican), mounted into our saddles and filed out of the _patio_ into the street by seven-twenty o’clock. There we found _El Jefe Politico_ superbly mounted, astride an elegant saddle with red trappings and tassels. He was accompanied by six cavalrymen on handsome black chargers, in white and blue uniforms, and a company of foot soldiers in white uniforms. With them was the prisoner, a tall dark man, his left hand in a sling and his right hand tied behind to the small of his back. All were lined up awaiting us, to be our escort till late in the day. So we left Ario with dignity and pomp. Whether the prisoner would reach the day’s end was an open question.

XI

Inguran Mines--Five Thousand Six Hundred Feet Below Ario

INGURAN MINES,
_November 29th_.

From Santa Clara to Ario we had descended one thousand two hundred feet in thirty miles. Now we were again going down. Each mile the country grew more tropical. A fine, rich, rolling land it was, a soil black and fertile; guavas, bananas, coffee, and other like trees began to be common along the road; long lines of monstrous century-plants (maguey), supplying an unfailing source of _pulque_, bordered the roadway on either hand, serving as impenetrable hedges. The _camino_ (road) showed signs of having once been graded and on the slopes it had been paved from curb to curb. Now, as yesterday, all the road is gone, or nearly so. Chasm-like ruts, vast holes, diverse and many paths, give the traveler a varied choice.

Again we met hundreds of loaded horses, mules and _burros_ and scores of men also, bearing crates and heavy burdens upon their backs. They were transporting cocoanuts, and sugar, and brown ocean salt, and palm leaves, and tropical products even from the distant Pacific shores, seven or eight days’ journey across the gigantic summits of the Cordilleras far to the southwest. Also, we met trains of pack mules loaded with bags of concentrated copper ore from the mines of this great mineral belt, wherein now I am.

I took many kodaks of these travelers as well as of passing incidents. The Jefe Politico stopped his whole “army,” or would have done so, if I had not waved him to come on, for the picture had been taken while he gave his order, “_Instantemente_,” greatly to his surprise.

By 11:00 A. M., we reached the Rancho Nuevo, and entered through the big white wall into an extensive courtyard. Here, were already several pack trains, some from the mines, one going on beyond the Balsas River into Guerrero. The journey is from dawn to midday. Then a halt is made, the packs are taken off, the animals cooled,--led slowly about by boys,--then later, the saddles and _aparejos_ (Mexican substitute for pack-saddle) are taken off and, finally they are watered, and given “roughness” (the stripped dried leaves of maize) to munch, but are not fed with grain till night.

Nothing differentiates the Spanish-Indian civilization of the Mexican--mediæval and Roman as it is--from the twentieth century civilization of our own modern life, more than the attitude of the two peoples in regard to the suffering of dumb creatures. This I see everywhere and at all times. For example: The Spanish-Mexican knows no other bit to put upon his horse than a cruel combination of rough steel bars and pinching rings sufficient to break the jaw. No horse nor mule, nor _burro_, wearing this cruel device, will pretend to drink a drop of water, nor can he, until it is removed. When you would water your beast, you must dismount, take off the bridle and remove the harsh mass of iron from his mouth.

Pack-animals are rarely shod and are often driven until their hoofs are worn to the quick and their backs are raw and the flesh is chafed away even to the bone. When they can travel no further they are turned out to die or to get well as best they may, no one caring what may be their fate. Horsemen ride the ponderous leathern saddles of the country in the fierce heat of the _Tierra Caliente_ as well as upon the highlands of the _Tierra Fria_. And no one would think, for a moment, of pausing in his journey for the mere reason that his horse’s back had become galled and sore, however grievous the wounds might be. The gigantic spurs with their big blunt points are perpetually rolled with pitiless insistence and an incessant jabbing heel motion along the animal’s bloody sides.

The same cruelty which we saw practiced in the bullring, where horses were ripped open, sewed up twice and thrice and ridden back into the arena to be ripped open just once more, amidst the plaudits of vociferating thousands, is equally apparent along this traveled highway where we constantly meet animals overloaded to their death, animals turned out to die, animals fallen beneath their loads and unable to rise.

At the Rancho Nuevo, the Spanish-Indian ladies of the kitchen promised us boiled chicken with our rice for the midday meal. One of the ladies, a stocky, swarthy Indian, with her agile son, started in hot chase after a long-legged active hen. The bird seemed to know its fate. Several short-haired dogs joining in the pursuit, the hen was captured. The mother brought it to me holding it up showing it to be fat and well-fed, and then, as she stood beside me, watching a caravan of pack animals on the moment just entering the courtyard, she calmly broke the thigh bone of each leg and the chief bone of each wing, so that escape became impossible, and proceeded right then and there to pick the chicken alive. She was evidently unconscious of any thought of cruelty. The legs and wings were broken in order that the bird might not run or fly away. It was picked alive as a matter of course. The sentiment of pity and tenderness for dumb things had never yet dawned upon her mind. The fowl destined for the pot, was as little considered as the wounded prisoner with his wrists tied tight to the neck and back, whom _Don_ Louis’ soldiers that day were “transferring” to another jail.

Our _Jefe Politico_ had been joined by two Spanish (Mexican) gentlemen, managers (_superintendentes_) of _haciendas_ and we all dined together. We had the hen cooked with rice and then _frijoles_, and I gave them of my precious old Bourbon, which--“_La agua de los Estados Unidos_”--they pronounced “_mas excellentemente_” than their own _mescal_.

Here we rested until about 3:00 P. M., when we got away for the final descent into _La Tierra Caliente_. We came down very gradually for about an hour and then found ourselves at Agua Sarpo, a collection of a few huts on the brink of the plateau, whence we looked out over an aggregation of mountain peaks and ridges, valleys and deep plains, much as though you stood at the “Hawk’s Nest” in West Virgina, and looked out for a hundred miles over a country five thousand feet below, all that distant region bathed in lurid heat, verdant and luxuriant with tropical vegetation.

The summits below me were volcanic and the flat cone of Mexico’s last created volcano, Jorullo, thrown up to a height of nearly two thousand feet in a single night, September 29, 1759, and so graphically described by Humboldt, stood at our very feet--the extraordinarily clear atmosphere making the volcano and neighboring peaks and ranges look as though crowded hard against each other, although they were many of them miles apart.

My first herald of the approaching tropics was a _paraquita_ gorgeous in emerald and scarlet and gold, sitting on a stump watching me intently, and then I noticed a flock of parrots tumbling in the air.

The road, a mere trail, was as steep as some of those which lead down from our Kanawha mines. We let the _Jefe_ and his soldiers follow us, we taking the lead. Down we went and down, and down, hour after hour. We passed palm trees, multitudes of bananas, and coffee trees. There were many Indian huts by the wayside,--for we were on a famous, much traveled thoroughfare,--and at most of them a bottle or gourd of _pulque_ and fruit were set out to tempt the traveler to buy.

When almost down we came to the _hacienda_ Tejemanil, a great sugar estate, with an ancient mill run by water conveyed many miles from the plateau. Here we rested half an hour, the _Jefe_ transacted some business, and we ate delicious oranges, small, in color a light yellow, and bursting with slightly acid juice.

We were now on a level of palm orchards, whence the dried palm leaves are shipped to the highlands in great bales. Then we came to another _hacienda_, a farm of a hundred thousand acres, La Playa, where the Jefe and his company with their doomed prisoner took the diverging road to La Huacana. Finally, we came to a broad valley, the valley of El Rio de la Playa, black with volcanic sand, called the _mal pais_ (bad land), this being the immediate region once devastated by the terrible eruption of volcano Jorullo. Here were extensive banana groves, strange tropical trees quite new to me, orchids and palms and a stretch of several miles of indigo and watermelon cultivation. We then crossed another divide and came down again just as the big hot sun dove behind the mountains and precipitated the night. It was pitch dark when we entered the _hacienda_ La Cuyaco and dismounted, four thousand eight hundred feet below Ario, six thousand feet below Santa Clara and yet some one thousand two hundred feet above the sea.

This night we slept on rawhide springs, a piece of matting for a mattress. We were in the tropics. I was forbid to touch water, even to wash. Our supper was chocolate, (delicious), _tortillas_ and eggs. Parrots and two large gray doves and a gold finch hung in cages in the _patio_ where we ate. All were new to me. A baby swung in a cradle suspended from the ceiling and the father, Izus, the keeper of the courtyard, held another. He had thirteen children.

We took off our thick clothes--(it had been difficult to endure them all the afternoon)--I put on a gauze underwear and linen, and slept without the burden of a blanket. In the morning we set out early, but the sun was fiercely hot by nine o’clock. For some fifteen miles we now traversed a wide valley. We were away from the neighborhood of Jorullo and its scattered volcanic sands, and had entered the mineral belt. A ledge bearing copper and silver ran through the courtyard of the _hacienda_. I tripped against it when going to supper.

And thereby hangs a tale: Not long ago, it seems, an itinerant American--one of those casual countrymen of mine who now and then retreat to Mexico, when the law at home gives too hot chase--dropped in at the _hacienda_ toward the close of a hot day and asked for lodging. He was hospitably received, as is the custom, and when the great bell clanged for supper, he left his sleeping room and made his way across the courtyard.

Walking carelessly, he stubbed his toe against the unruly ledge and limping into the dining room, his host apologized for the presence of so ill located a ledge of obtruding rock. The guest declared his hurt a trifling matter, and the incident was forgotten. The next morning, he was seen knocking the ledge with a hammer and he put samples of the rock in his pocket before he went away.

Many months passed by and all memory of the casual American had vanished from men’s minds. Recently, however, an officer connected with the Department de Mineria of the Mexican Government, dined at the _hacienda_ and politely informed the _superintendente_, that an American had “denounced” (i. e. filed claim to) the ledge of mineral running through the courtyard, and had received title thereto along with the right to occupy as much of the adjacent surface as might be necessary to work the mine.

Thus are the proprietors of the _hacienda_ most uneasy at the approach of any _gringo_ (contemptuous term for American) lest the newcomer turn out to be their casual guest or his representative.

After leaving Cuyaco, we met constant indications of minerals along the road. I also noted flocks of parrots, multitudes of jays, flycatchers, brown and black vultures and many Caracara eagles, all of these birds being new to me; and I saw also several fine butterflies, _Papilios_ and _Colias_, small white and orange and yellow ones. But nowhere did I see any wild flowers--the season was now too hot for these.

Toward ten o’clock, we stopped at an _hacienda_, that of San Pedro de Castrejon, where the Castrejon brothers live, owners of copper properties near those we go to see. They are the grand _señores_ of the Valley; they also gave us letters of introduction. Black birds, big boat-tailed grakles, grey and white jays, and scores of wild doves were here walking tamely among our horses. Swarms of parrots were clamoring in the trees. For a few _centavos_, we here bought delicious bananas, small finger size, and others three times as big, and oranges and cocoanuts.

By eleven o’clock we began to see the steam from the power house of the Inguran mines and were soon there. They are ancient copper mines, now being opened by the French Rothschilds, over four million _francs_ having been thus far spent. Extensive copper deposits are here exposed. The managers are all Americans; one is from Virginia, one from California. There is not a Frenchman employed.

We are installed in the private bungalow of the general manager, of Mexico City, from whom we brought a letter of introduction. We are half way up the foothills; we have a superb view, the beds are comfortable and the fare is good.

This morning we have gone through the mines. Fuel and transportation are here the two problems. This whole region of several hundred miles square is rich in copper and silver, is full of ancient mines, once worked by Indian slaves but now abandoned, since Spanish expulsion and the dawn of liberty.

XII

Antique Methods of Mining

MINA LA NORIA, MICHOACAN, MEXICO,
_December 4th_.

We left the mines of Inguran early Saturday morning. We were up at four-thirty, and by five-thirty had packed and breakfasted, _desayuno_, and _almuerzo_ combined. The traveling Mexican eats early and, while he may take a midday snack, it rarely rises to the dignity of the _comida_, and when the day’s journey is over, like the two morning meals, the _comida_ and _cena_, are united into one. Our breakfast consisted of fried chicken and rice--rice so delicately fried that each grain was encased in a crisp and dainty shell, and each mouthful cracked with relish between your teeth. Eggs are always to be had. In Spain and Cuba an egg is called _huevo_, in Mexico the refinement of language substitutes the word _blanquillo_ (little whitey). It is a courtesy to ask your hostess for _blanquillos_. It would be ill-bred to ask her for _huevos_. It is also a courtesy, to say, when you address her, _señorita_. If she protests she is a _señora_, mother of a family and long past the age of a _señorita_, you exclaim “it is impossible,” for since she looks so young, she must be a _señorita_. The blunt American manner which calls an egg a _huevo_, and a dame a _señora_, is regarded as unpardonably rude.

By 5:45 we were climbing down the three hundred feet of mountain side, through the mining village, over an ancient paved roadway about four feet wide, the paving stones set in so firmly between the curbs that the floods and wear of the centuries and seasons have left it as intact and solid as when first laid. The Spaniards built many such roadways to their mines, when they worked the Indians as slaves, centuries ago. The mining village was picturesque. The miner, when he goes to work, builds his own house and pays no rent. The walls are upright poles and the roof is a palm leaf thatch. When he quits his job he abandons his house, although he sometimes carries away the roof. Near each dwelling is built a sort of Dutch oven of clay, making an oven and stove combined. In it the bread is baked; upon it most of the cooking is carried on. Housekeeping is a simple process in this tropical land.

The mines of Inguran are situated at an altitude of about two thousand feet above the sea, and the dry air, not too light nor too heavy, seems to agree perfectly with the Americans there at work, and restored me to a vigor which the thin air of the highlands had partly relaxed. We were entertained, of an evening, at the delightful bungalow of the superintendent of the inside work, a Mr. O’Mahondra, a member of the distinguished family of that name of Richmond, Virginia. Originally he began the practice of law in Chicago, when, his wife being threatened with consumption, he fled with her to El Paso. There she gained nothing and he carried her further south and, abandoning the law, took this post at Inguran. She was tall, fine looking and the picture of robust health. A clever American woman, she had acquired the art of assaying and, as official assayer of the mines, received a handsome salary. “The only drawback to living in Inguran,” she said, “is that I am so delightfully healthy.”

Our way lay down and then across the San Pedro valley toward the southwest. The valley is a mile or two wide. The trail we followed ran through dense tropical foliage. The air in the early morning was cool almost to coldness. The birds were everywhere astir and all their notes were new to me. There were many doves, the little brown ground dove that merely stepped out of our way; a bigger dove, slate gray in color, which flew among the higher branches of the thickets. The large gray jay was numerous and there were many magpies and rusty and yellow-headed grakles. Along the watercourses we again came constantly upon bands of the big brown and small black vultures, as well as Caracara eagles which were fishing in the stream. Parakeets, resplendent in green and scarlet and gold, were abundant, and flocks of gray and green parrots tumbled clumsily in the air. I saw also my first big green Military macaws,--birds as large as chickens or small turkeys, the body a brilliant green, the head capped with red and yellow. I have never seen these splendid birds in captivity, nor among those brilliant macaws from the Amazon and from Australia which are so often exhibited in collections. These macaws were very tame, and a flock of them settled upon a mimosa tree under which we drew rein. I might have shot them with my pistol, and should have brought some of them home with me, if I had had any way to preserve the skins. In the thickets I also noticed flycatchers and several sparrows I did not know, but I saw no ravens as I did the other day upon the highlands.

After five or ten miles down the valley, winding through the forest, crossing open clearings, passing here and there a native hut, frequently fording the river, we left the main trail and turned up a shaded ravine, following it to its head, where we passed through a low gap with high mountains on either hand, and then descended toward the river again, thus cutting off a great bend and saving fifteen or twenty miles. As we came down toward the main valley, the timber grew smaller, the persistent mesquit more and more possessed the land, and the sun fell full upon us. The heat was intense. No living thing now seemed anywhere to exist; only the multitudes of little brown lizards, countless thousands of them scurrying on the sand; and _iguanas_, black as night, sleeping in the crotch of a tree, or on the heated top of a stone near the wayside. Nor did any sound now stir the midday silence except the hum of millions of cicadas, which the fierce sun rays seem only to nurse into active life.

Six hours in the forepart of the day brought us to the Hacienda de Oropeo, on the borders of the Rio de San Pedro. Here we halted for the noontime rest, lying-by beneath an Indian shelter, a wide-thatched roof of palm leaves, under which we could tie our horses, and where we might ourselves repose. Here an old Indian woman cooked for us _tortillas_ and _frijoles_. We watched her make the _tortillas_, little cakes of corn meal as thin as sheets of paper. The dry kernels of the corn are first soaked in lime water until the enveloping shell readily comes off. It is then much like samp. The swelled and softened grain is then rubbed to a pulp between two stones, the moistened pulp is patted between the hands to the thinnest sort of a wafer, and these thin wafers are laid upon the top of the clay oven to be slowly dried. The _tortilla_ is said to be the most nutritious of all foods prepared from maize. It is the staff of life of the Mexican peon, and the making of _tortillas_ is the chief vocation in life of his wife and daughters. As soon as the little girls are big enough they begin to pat _tortillas_, and they continue to pat _tortillas_ throughout their lives. If you travel through an Indian village your ear will be struck by the pat, pat, pat, of hundreds of pairs of hands. The Indian women are patting _tortillas_. They are always patting _tortillas_, when not specially occupied in other toils.

Toward 4:00 P. M. Izus, our _mozo_, repacked the loads, again we mounted, and in an hour were across the river, where we ascended a small creek a couple of miles to these ancient mines. It was while resting at noontime, that we noticed a group of thirty or forty men bearing on their shoulders the palm-thatched roof of a moving mansion. Later, we rode past the new domicile, the roof was already set upon the corner posts, and the family were already moved into their habitation.

We are bivouacked in a building where once lived the lord of the mines,--mines now filled with water and abandoned, although none of the workings go down more than one hundred feet. The building is chiefly constructed, both the floor and walls, of sun-baked clay. High above the walls rests the palm-thatched roof. There are no frames in the window openings, no frames in the doorways. Walls and roof being only a protection from the sun heat, the air may blow through where it listeth. Our cots are taken from the back of “Old Blacky,” unrolled and set in the breezy chamber; upon them we sit and sleep.

Our only terrors are the ants, but we set the legs of the cots in little earthenware pans of water and are safe. An Indian family, living in the distant end of the rambling, abandoned buildings across the courtyard, provides us with boiled rice and stewed chicken. Izus has brought us an abundance of bananas and oranges, fresh, fragrant, and luscious. We buy several oranges for a _centavo_, and a _centavo_ is worth less than half an American cent. The Indian keeps poultry and also gamecocks. These latter are tied by the leg near his door. They are his pride, and he fights them on Sunday after church. When the priest has closed the services the neighbors, who have all brought their chickens, form in a circle, and there the week’s wages are staked and lost upon the issue of the fights. I send you a snap shot of a battle.