The man who likes Mexico; the spirited chronicle of adventurous wanderings in Mexican highways and byways

Foreword

During my residence in Mexico City I made the acquaintance of a young officer in the Mexican army, Colonel Victor H , who was subsequently on mission in

the United States and in Europe. I was introduced to him as “ The Man Who Likes Mexico.”

“If that is so,” he said in English, “ then I like you.” And the acquaintance, thus begun, developed into an enduring friendship.

Americans who visit Mexico will not fail to discover much that is likable; and it seems only just to remark first on what is likable, deferring adverse comment until a careful observation of life and conditions shall have rendered intelligent criticism possible. For the rest, it is undeniable that we Americans are more favorably disposed towards the foreign visitor, who likes our country, than towards the one who begins by finding fault with us.

Mexico is proud of her civilization and of her culture ; of her builders, painters, sculptors, musicians and men of letters. Among her early writers, she is proud of such names as Vetancurt, Medina, Padilla, Lizardi, Clavigero, Navarrete, Quintana Roo, Bustamante and Lucas Alaman; and since her literary renaissance, which

FOREWORD occurred during the last half of the nineteenth century, of Roa Barcena, Orozco y Berra, Gutierrez Otero, Guillermo Prieto, Altamirano, Acuna, Romero, Gutierrez Najara, Juan de Dios Peza, Ruiz de Alarcon, Riva Palacio, Justo Sierra, Dias Covarrubias, Diaz Miron, Valenzuela, and Othon. Among the younger men are Gonzalez Obregon, Urueta, Nervo, Tablada, Campos, Davalos and a score of others. Mexico cannot understand the indifference to her culture on the part of the average American, within her gates, whose sole aim is apparently the acquisition of wealth. The educated Mexicans are familiar with the literary product of America, and our writers, especially our poets, are known, both in translation and in the original. An acquaintance with Mexican writers is highly desirable for resident Americans, and will be found of great value in the study of Mexican life and customs.

The journeys described in the following pages occurred during the first two years of a residence in Mexico of nearly six years. Mexico City was nearly always the starting-point, and it proved both pleasant and profitable to return occasionally to the Mexican Capital for rest and perspective. The traveler with leisure might well adopt a similar plan; and if the places here described are visited, the life and customs will be found but little changed.

The title of this volume is the name under which I wrote as correspondent for the Mexican Herald, and I desire to express my gratitude to the Editors, Man-

FOREWORD ager and Staff of that paper for their unfailing approval and assistance. I also wish to thank Mr. Jose Lupercio of Guadalajara, Mr. C. B. Waite of Mexico City, and the Mexican Herald for the use of photographs.

Chapter I Face

The Lure of Mexico: California a Stepping-Stone: Invitation to Visit a Mexican Mine: The Outfit: A Fortunate Meeting: Railroad Travel and Opinions of Fellow Travelers: The English Race Natural Fault- Finders: Arrival at Durango: A Vanishing Mexican Friend: Baths of Las Canoas: My First Bull-Fight: Preparations for a Long Journey: Over Mexico’s Mountains on a Mule 3

Chapter II

A Ride in the Dark: Misgivings: The Fiddler Guide: Wolf-Face: No Stop for Dinner: Beautiful Mountain Scenery: Ten Hours of Suspense: Wayside Crosses: Valley of Huahuapan: Reunion With Friends: Work and Play: Life in a Mexican Pueblo: A Beautiful Box : A Bad Peon 28

Chapter III

Stories of Lost Mines: “El Naranjal”: How Mines Were Lost: Fear and Strange Superstitions of the Indians: Story of the Man Who Says He Saw “El Naranjal”: Story of “La Providencia ” : The Foolish Compadres: The Life Search of Don Modesto ... 52

Chapter IV

Leaving the Mines: A Last Ride: The Thoughts of a Mozo: A Meeting on the Train: A Man is Known by his Shoes: Pleasant Experience in Zacatecas: Ar-

rival at Mexico City: Kindness of Mexicans to Strangers: The Best Way to Learn Spanish: The Plaza

CONTENTS

Mayor: Cathedral Towers: Thoughts of the Conquest: The Paseo de la Reforma: A Meeting with Diaz 82

Chapter V

Peaceful Morelia: Lake Patzcuaro: Tzintzuntzan : Uruapan and Its Boom: A Fortunate Washout: Progress Comes to Him Who Waits: Products of Uruapan: Ideal Climate in the Tropics: Something About Saddle- Horses: Michoacan and the Tarascos: Burial of a Tarasco King: Solemnity of the Indians: Their Festivals: Their Arts and Crafts 126

Chapter VI

Return to Mexico: Mexicans True Friends : Queretaro the Beautiful: The Works of Tres Guerras: The Aqueduct: A Visit to The Hill of The Bells: The Country Remained at Peace: Guadalajara the Pearl of the West: The City’s Evening Life: In Beauty’s Ranks:

The Charro Horseman : Things that are Different : Social Customs: An Inquisitive Shopkeeper . . . .158

Chapter VII

Visit to Lake Chapala: A Race for Dinner: A Pleasant Swimming-Pool : Indian Fisherman : “ El Presidio ” :

A Ride on a Mexican Coach: Trite Truths About Silao: Sights Worth Seeing in Guanajuato: Savage Dogs : A Method of Warfare : The Cross on the Mountain : A Man ’s a Man For A’ That 184

Chapter VIII

Busy Leon: Pleasant Visit at the Home of Don Juan: Golden Days in Lagos : Aguascalientes, the Land of Hot Waters, Genial Climate and Warm Hearts : Its Foreign Colony : Baths al Fresco : “ Mochte ” : Barber’s Versatility: An Antique Zarape : Puebla, the City

of Angels : Its Churches : Its Monuments : Birthday of Uncle Sam: Difficulties of English: Abundio . . 203

CONTENTS

Chapter IX Page

Fair Jalapa: New Scenes and Customs: A Strange Plant:

The Stone Monkey : The Cathedral : The Market :

The Plaza: Longing for Old Friends: Ancient Tlaxcala: Historical Reminiscence: Convent of San Francisco : Meeting the Governor : El Santuario : Romance and Tragedy 231

Chapter X

The Fiest of Covadonga : Gayety of the Spaniard : His Mexican Cousin Helps Him Celebrate: Epifanio’s Tip:

His Version of the Spanish Conquest: The Eve of Mexican Independence : Quaint Folk Songs : Dancing in the Streets: Viva Mexico 258

. CHAPTER XI

Anticipation : Pleasures of Mexico City : Second Visit to Durango : Over the Mountains with Manuel : A Rainy Day : The Voice of the Sea : Don Lucio : Snow, Sunshine and a Camp Under the Pines : A Lonely Maid : Manuel’s Diplomacy : Snow in the Mountains : Oranges Keep Cold: The Ideal. Camp 288

Chapter XII

A Night at Hotel Japones : Fear of a Storm : An Early Start : A Mountain Rancho : Mountain Hospitality : Recreant Mules: Forlorn Indian Family: Charm of Mountain Travel: The Last Descent: “El Capitan”: Manuel Sings As the Journey Ends: Magnolias: A Meeting With Bob: Home Again: The Holidays at the Mines : Serenade and Midnight Mass : The First Wheelbarrow: Isidro’s Request: Christmas Dinner:

A Mexican Ball : The Bandit Eracleo Bernal .... 308

Chapter XIII

Seeing the Mine: Testing a Tenderfoot: Open Cut to Lower Level : Exploring Ancient Tunnels : Mysterious

CONTENTS

PAGE

Voices : Castles in Spain : Something About the Peon :

The Company Store: El Diablo and the Talking Machine: Marriage an Expensive Luxury: The Peon’s Fondness for Children: Quaint Songs Heard in the Durango Hills: The fdost Interesting Thing in the World 330

Chapter XIV

A Mountain Floor: Swimming the Arroyo: Dangers of Mountain Travel: Arrival of the Mail: The Life of Don Bias : The Silent Horseman : A Night at “ Pig Gulch ” : Electric Storm in the Mountains : A Dream City : It’s a Long Ride That Has No End 358

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

A Mexican charro Frontispiece

Photographed by C. B. Waite, Mexico City.

Mexican mozo 6

Getting supper 15

Don Alfredo 15

A long journey 25

Hunting in Durango 25

Over Mexico’s mountains on a mule 36

Sharpening the drills . 36

The pet burro 42

An old church made into an American home 42

The living-room 47

The table was covered with enamel cloth 47

The foolish compadre 61

“ He kept his peons at work in the mines ” 67

The funeral procession 78

Prayers in the little church 78

West side of Plaza Mayor, Mexico City 90

Zacatecas cathedral 95

Church of Guadalupe, Zacatecas 95

Paseo de la Reforma, Mexico City 104

Porfirio Diaz no

Castle of Chapultepec 114

Corridor of Chapultepec 114

Garden of Chapultepec 119

Gate to Chapultepec military college 119

San Ipolito, Mexico City, the first church built after the conquest 123

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

Cathedral of Morelia X29

Photographed by C. B. Waite, Mexico City.

The blacksmith 138

The road to Uruapan 143

Falls of Tzar£racua, Uruapan 143

A Tarasco fiesta 154

Los gallos (cock-fight) 154

Fountain in Mexico City; monument to Cuauhtemoc in the

distance 159

Two views of the patio in the federal palace, Queretaro . . 166

The road to the hot country 171

Moonlight on Lake Chapala 192

In a Mexican garden 209

The convent 215

In a convent garden, Puebla 215

Monument of Independence, Puebla ........ 220

Church of Our Lady de los Remedios, on the great pyramid

of Cholula 225

Bird’s-eye view of Puebla, Mexico 230

Photographed by C. B. Waite, Mexico City.

On the Viga Canal 238

View east from Cortes’s Palace, Cuernavaca, Mexico . . . 244

Photographed by C. B. Waite, Mexico City.

Tower and cypress-trees 249

Ixtacalco 255

Churchyard gateway 255

The Discovery of Pulque 264

Azucarilleros who sell tiny sugar figures for a few cents and

play a tune for the buyer 268

Two portraits of Epifanio — in working and gala array . . 273

Approach to Paseo de la Reforma, Mexico City 277

Street kitchens 277

National palace, Mexico City 284

Jockey Club, Mexico City, during flower carnival .... 284 Mexican rurales 301

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

Manuel with pack-mules on the snow. Altitude, about 10,000 feet 315

El Capitan 315

In the valley 326

Feeding the pack-mules 326

Peon on ore dump rolling a cigarette 335

Water-carrier for the mine 335

Weighing the bead 342

The beginning of a mine 342

American mine-owners 351

The camp mascots 351

The foreman of the mine 361

The storekeeper 361

The singer 369

Dona Marciana on the trail 369

. . . Land of the Sun, —

Of palm, and pine, and blood-red cactus flower, — Mysterious land, — I love thee : —

THE

MAN WHO LIKES MEXICO

Chapter I

The Lure of Mexico: California a Stepping-Stone: Invitation to Visit a Mexican Mine: The Outfit: A Fortunate Meeting: Railroad Travel and Opinions of Fellow Travelers: The English Race Natural Fault-Finders : Arrival at Durango : A Vanishing Mexican Friend: Baths of Las Canoas: My First Bull-Fight: Preparations for a Long Journey: Over Mexico’s Mountains on a Mule.

FROM boyhood I felt the lure of Mexico. Reared in California, where the romance of early Mexican days still lingers, and where the prodigality of nature and of life are in keeping with Mexican tradition, I ardently dreamed of this Spanish-American southland. California is a good stepping-stone to Mexico — at least it proved so for me. I had been living for several years in New England, when I received an invitation from an old California friend couched in the warm phraseology peculiar to Californians, asking me to visit him and his wife at his mines in Mexico. The mines were located, he informed me, in the State of Durango. To reach them from San Francisco, they took the boat for Mazatlan, and from Mazatlan rode on horses or mules for three days in the mountains, ascending as high as ten thousand feet above the sea. In his letter he 3 referred in a matter-of-fact way to mozos (guides), saddle-animals, pack-mules, army-saddles, rifles, fishingtackle and other attractive impedimenta, — to sleeping on pine boughs by the camp-fire, to the delicious night air of the sierra, and to the delectable dishes prepared by the aforesaid mozos, who from all accounts were ubiquitous and useful persons.

My friend then went on to prescribe the route by which I should journey to this mysterious silver mine, which lay concealed in a remote and beautiful valley, in the heart of the Sierra Madre. It seemed that I must approach it from the opposite direction, for he was then on the Pacific coast and I on the Atlantic, with the mountains between us. I was to proceed immediately to Tennessee and there join a young Southern mining man, who after visiting his home was about to return to the famous mine La Candelaria, in San Dimas, Durango — about a day’s ride from my destination.

My friend also advised me as to my outfit, which included a khaki riding-suit, a pair of high laced boots, a pair of wading-boots, heavy and thin underwear, several suits of overalls, woolen gloves, army blankets, a cloth cap, a rifle, a revolver, fishing-rod and flies, and a medicine-kit. All these I secured and the clothing and blankets I packed in a pair of horse-hide trunks, weighing about 150 pounds each. These proved useful throughout my journeys in Mexico, making a fair load for a pack-animal, and being easily adjusted and not hard on a mule’s back. A well-chosen if abbreviated library of favorite authors, while it added to the railroad charge for excess baggage, proved an inestimable solace, not only during the year I passed in the isolated mining region, but throughout my five years’ stay in Mexico.

Mexican mozo

I found my traveling companion an alert, able and kindly young Southerner, and after a few days’ delightful hospitality in both Tennessee and Georgia, where he had numerous farewell visits to make and where he insisted on my accompanying him, we proceeded via New Orleans to Eagle Pass, crossed the Rio Grande to Ciudad Porfirio Diaz, and .went from there by rail across the northern State of Coahuila and a strip of Zacatecas to the junction city of Torreon, and thence to Durango, a fine city of about 32,000 inhabitants, the capital of the state of the same name, and situated at the foot of the eastern slope of the Sierra Madre.

There were numbers of English-speaking men on the train, several being Americans, all of whom were returning to the mines. The concensus of opinion seemed to be that Mexicans did not like Americans, and my companion, whom I now addressed, at his request, as Bob, shared this opinion. My upbringing in cosmopolitan California had made me distinctly hopeful as to human friendliness, and while I listened to what was said, I kept my mind open for actual experience. I had known many Mexicans in California, and I fancied the same kindly nature I had recognized in them would be found in their cousins across the border.

As yet I scarcely could believe that I was in the land of Heart’s Desire. The country was flat and uninteresting, not unlike New Mexico and Arizona, as seen from the car windows. English was spoken by my fellowpassengers; and, what was even more familiar, it often was employed in disparagement of Mexico and the Mexicans. Fault-finding is natural to the English race. When I inquired why they were returning to Mexico, they related fabulous tales of wealth and adventure that were quite past belief. I decided that I would believe only what I saw, and I venture to counsel the reader, when visiting a foreign land, to do likewise.

At the railroad station in Durango we hired a coach drawn by a pair of sleek, black mules, and after turning our luggage over to a couple of cargadores or porters, drove to the hotel, where we were lodged in a spacious, sunny room, with French windows opening on the street, red-tiled floors, and three single iron beds placed in a row ; the apartment having been retained by a Mexican associate of Bob’s, who was to join our cavalcade and who now occupied one of the beds. Bob said the first thing to do was to go for a bath and accordingly led the way to the hotel entrance, where the coach was waiting for us. We got in, the coachman lashed the sleek mules into a gallop, and we set out for the baths of “ las Canoas,” which are housed in a long, low, white building, about ten-minutes’ drive from the center of the city. The proprietor, a portly, benign-looking man, who was seated in the porch, greeted Bob affably. He then called a mozo (this term is generally applied throughout Mexico to a male servant), and the latter led us to a large room, with a window opening into a garden, where we could see orange trees and flowers. In the center of the room there was a huge tank, perhaps eight feet square and four feet deep, empty and spotlessly clean, with steps leading down to the bottom. The mozo brought fresh straw mats, two large cotton sheets, rough towels, a little toilet glass with fittings, soap and zacate (fiber), which does service as a sponge. The soap and zacate were in small, tin dishes which float on the water, and are thus near at hand when required. He next pulled out a wooden plug in the side of the tank and a torrent of water gushed in, filling the tank to the height of a man’s waist ere we could divest ourselves of our clothing. Bob jumped in without ado ; but I paused on the top step and dipped in a wary toe to try the water. Finding it only a trifle cooler than body temperature, I too made the plunge and reveled in the soft, greenishclear water, which carries iron and sulphur. All the cities of Mexico are favored with fine baths, but for delightful water and arrangements I commend “ las Canoas ” of Durango.

Returning to our hotel, where the small mules drew us at a gallop, we were in an excellent mood for dinner ; and while it was good enough and everything deliciously flavored, I was amazed at the numberless meat courses and the great lack of vegetables. First came a soup, then rice with a meaty flavor, this being called “ dry soup,” next eggs in any style one preferred, and then meat, meat, meat, with different colored gravies and well-cooked, to be sure, but scarcely what one would expect in a hot climate and in the midst of prolific vegetation. Dinner ended with delicious frijoles (black beans), coffee, a sweet, and, I am glad to record, oranges and bananas.

The next day being Sunday, we went to the bull-fight. I was not consulted, our seats, like our beds, having been engaged weeks ago by this same obliging but disappearing friend of Bob’s, who never retired until after we were asleep, nor awoke until long after we had arisen. I finally met him and was glad to thank him for his forethought and careful arrangement for our comfort; but beyond one or two fleeting conversations, our acquaintance progressed no further. Bob excused his constant absence by explaining that he was a calavera (sport).

And now for my first bull-fight : it was a strong, fierce, tense experience that comes back as vividly to-day as it did — say the week after. It took m£ quite a week to recover a normal sense of discrimination. The Durango plaza was large and massively built. When we entered we found an immense crowd of people, from every social grade; the aristocrats, elegantly attired, agreeable in looks and manner, filled the boxes ; the occupants of the first-class benches, characterized as la Sombra, or shady side, included hosts of Americans and Europeans; while the multitude thronged the sunny side of the arena called el Sol, and it was el sol indeed with all the blaze of a cloudless afternoon. And there, beneath the intense blue of the Mexican heavens, the sport that in more senses than one is tragedy was enacted. The band struck up “ El Toreador,” the pageant entered, and the fight began. A savage little black Mexican bull made his entrance, flaunting a gaudy ribbon from the tiny steel dart jabbed into his shoulder as he cleared the gate. The picadores on their wretched, blindfolded hacks began prodding him with lances. With his sharp horns he caught one of the shambling horses and disemboweled him. The picadores retired and the banderilleros performed graceful and daring acts, luring the bull to charge, then lightly swerving, to avoid his onslaught, and planting the banderillos in his neck as he lurched past. The multitude in el Sol, highly pleased, began shouting. The little bull made a swift rush, sprang into the air, all feet off the ground, got his forelegs over the first paling — at least five feet high, and plunged over it into the narrow lane between it and the audience, scattering the attendants in every direction. But he was driven back into the ring, and there he received the death-thrust from the sword of the matador, the star of the performance. A spike-team of white mules adorned with ribbons and bells then dashed in and ii as rapidly out again, drawing the dead bull. The music struck up, another bull sprang into the arena, and the show went on. Seven bulls were killed. I can describe my state only as one of dazed excitement. What happened after we quitted the bull-ring I cannot recall. I felt exhausted and retired early, only to wake repeatedly with a sense of nightmare. The next morning, on waking, I had much difficulty in realizing that the scenes of the previous day were not a dream.

Bob now devoted himself to securing a mozo and animals for our journey. The friend, it seemed, could not tear himself away from the charming night-life of Durango; and while he continued to occupy his bed by day, I did not again meet him, clothed and in his right mind, so to speak. I cherish memories, however, of an affable and obliging man. Our preparations for the mountains I found intensely interesting. In the first place I must buy a mule for myself. Then my California friend, who will figure in these pages as Don Alfredo, that being his name in the Mexican mining regions, had commissioned Bob to purchase for him the best saddle-mule he could find, the Durango mules being famed for their easy pace. Bob, who was a judge of mules, secured a prize for $100 Mexican money. She was coal-black, slender as a thoroughbred, with an easy trot, a good running gait, and as gentle as the proverbial kitten. Her name was “ Queen.” The beast I chose was the next best to be had in the market. She was fairly good-looking, dark brown in color, and had an excellent gait, half-pace, half-singlefoot. She cost me $70 Mexican money. She had no name, it appeared, and though I called her “ Rhea,” and tried to cultivate her friendship, she seemed endowed with native distrust of the “ Gringo ” ; and while she carried me patiently for a year, she was as reserved at parting as when I first acquired her. These two mules were as unlike in character as any two human beings could possibly be. Bob now engaged as mozo a somewhat saturnine-looking party, who was reputed to be a good guide, a mule for the mozo to ride, another to carry our grub-box and blankets ; and after purchasing our provisions and necessary cooking outfit, we were at last prepared to invade the fastnesses of the impregnable Sierras, which loomed purple in the distance, the white clouds floating about their summits, beyond which lay mystery and adventure.

Have you ever ridden over the mountains of Mexico on a mule? If not there is joy before you — provided that you love the mountains, and long days of brilliant sunshine, and cloudless, starlit nights. It goes without saying that the time for such a ride is the dry season, which begins in October and with few variations lasts until the ensuing May.

Choose a mule by all means — a mare makes the best saddle-animal — and after you have ridden her a day, you will feel absolute confidence in the creature. A Mexican mule takes no chances. She springs lightly over a heap of dead leaves on the trail, rather than risk a possibly concealed pitfall, and leaps from one boulder to another with the agility of a cat. If overtaken by darkness, you may drop your bridle-rein on your mule’s neck, and be perfectly secure in her caution and judgment. With her nose close to the narrow and often dangerous trail, that you no longer see, she will follow it as unerringly as a dog follows the scent.

In the mountains, the heat is seldom oppressive save at midday. Then your mozo finds a cool spot, near a stream if possible, for your luncheon and siesta. Your mozo is nearly always a cheerful, obliging individual, of sanguine temperament, trained to servitude and hardship, expecting little, yet accepting without effusiveness any little luxuries you may care to bestow. After a long day’s ride, he unsaddles the animals, has a fire blazing in a jiffy, and cooks your supper; while you lie on the ground and stretch your tired legs, inhaling the grateful fumes of meat on the coals. You are ravenous, and for the moment supper is of more importance than anything else in life. If you have provided well, you are soon devouring a steak, broiled as only a mozo can broil, hot tprtillas (corn cakes), frijoles (beans) and perhaps tamales. Then comes a steaming cup of black coffee, and with pipe or cigarro for company, you roll yourself in your blankets and lazily watch the stars, the camp-fire,— and listen to the wind in the trees until — you stretch yourself luxuriously with the feeling that you have been asleep and behold your mozo calmly preparing breakfast, while the animals, near at hand, are munching their corn. It is four o’clock. You have slept eight solid hours and must be off at the crack of dawn, in order that you may rest when the heat comes. You may have rolled in, more tired than ever before in your life. You awake, rested in every limb, feeling that you could run, leap, sing — so wonderful is this mountain air.

Then too — the pine woods, through which you ride for hours, frequently for days — there is magic in their balm for weary bodies and tired nerves. You will try to analyze the peculiar charm that pervades your entire journey. Perhaps it partly lies in the endless vista of mountains beyond, in the feeling that this free existence must go on forever. You gain a cumbre or summit, ten thousand feet above sea level, and gazing over miles of forest and meadow, you behold another mountain, itscrest enveloped in white mist, and you know that tomorrow you will tread its height. When it is gained, there are still more mountains before you, more beautiful in contour and color, and the charm never fails.

You may ride for days without meeting a human being, but now and again you hear your mozo singing, as he follows with the pack-animals, and you are never lonesome. Should you pass a rancho, you will find there fresh eggs, milk and delicious cheese and a roof for the night if you desire. The house and all it contains are at your service while you remain, and you have a struggle to make the owners accept a cent in return. Though almost invariably poor, these mountain folk have hospitality bred in the bone and a gentle, innate courtesy. I often found that a gift of coffee, tobacco, sugar and such luxuries were more acceptable and less mortifying to them than money. It seemed more like an exchange of kindnesses.

But mountain journeys, like all pleasant experiences, must end. Perhaps your goal is some ancient Spanish mine, long since abandoned, from which fabulous wealth was taken centuries ago, and which will yet make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. Such mines have been bought in Mexico for a song, and many more remain. But whether you gain a fortune or not, one good you have had past losing — the joy of long, health-giving days and restful nights; and their memory will remain with you and haunt you, till some fine day will see you again in the saddle, astride your nimble mule, bound for the mountain heights of sunny Mexico.

The inevitable delays which alwa.ys attend the beginning of a journey in Mexico were not lacking in Durango, and it was ten o’clock before we were ready to start. Finally our mozo appeared with his pack-mule.

Getting supper

Don Alfredo

1 7 the grub-box and light traveling baggage were loaded and lashed in place with rawhide reatas or ropes, and Bob, mounted on the black mule, headed our cavalcade, with myself next and the mozo and pack-animal bringing up the rear.

The ascent began at the outskirts of the city, where the foot-hills led up gradually to the mountains. The beginning of the ride was hot and dusty, and by noon the heat was intense. At one o’clock we crossed a shallow barranca with a sluggish stream, and Bob called a halt for luncheon. As there was no shade, we sat on the banks of the stream in the broiling sun, while the mozo started a fire, and cutting off a huge chunk of beef, he impaled it on a pointed stake and began singeing it in the flames. I was just owning to an inward feeling of disappointment at the inept culinary efforts of the mozo, when Bob began openly to express his disapproval, and declared that he himself could cook far better. He accordingly produced some bacon and a frying-pan, and also brewed some excellent coffee. With the addition of rolls we made a meal, while the mozo, left to his own devices, devoured the beef to the last morsel. His bloodshot eye and sullen manner now excited Bob’s suspicion, and coming on him unexpectedly, while feeding the mules, he found him drinking mescal from a quart bottle. As it was nearly empty, there was nothing to do but make the best of a bad bargain — and this he proved. A more surly dog I never encountered ; indeed all the other mozos I subsequently knew were quite up to what I had heard of them in excellence.