Chapter XXIV

After having at last succeeded in getting men, I continued my journey to the northwest, over the very broken country toward the town of Morelos, inhabited almost entirely by pagan Tarahumares. There were, of course, no roads, only Indian trails, and these in many places were dangerous to travel with beasts of burden. The barrancas during the month of May are all but intolerably hot, and it was a relief to get up now and then on the strips of highland that intersperse the country and look as fine as parks. At the higher altitudes I noticed a great number of eagle ferns, and the Indians here plant corn in the small patches between the ferns, merely putting the grains into the gravelly red ground without tilling the soil at all.

Lower down were groves of big-leaved oak-trees. Their leaves are sometimes over ten inches long and of nearly the same breadth, and are frequently utilised by the Indians as improvised drinking-vessels.

On the summits of the barrancas, and on the slopes over which we descended into the valleys, an astonishing number of parasites and epiphytes was observed, especially on the pines and oaks. The round yellow clusters growing on the branches of the oaks sometimes give the entire forest a yellow hue. In the foot-hills I saw a kind of parasite, whose straight, limber branches of a fresh, dark green colour hang down in bunches over twenty feet in length. Some epiphytes, which most of the year look to the casual observer like so many tufts of hay on the branches, produce at certain seasons extremely pretty flowers.

In the valleys of the western inclines of the sierra there is nothing suggestive of tropical luxuriance or romance in the landscape, which impresses one chiefly with its towering mountains and vast slopes. Grass is plentiful enough among the stones and rocks, and groups of fresh green trees indicate where ground is moist and water to be found. The country is dry, and from January to June there is no rain. Yet an aloe, which smells like ham, is so full of juice that it drips when a leaf is broken. This, too, is the home of the agaves, or century-plants, and I know of nothing so astonishing as the gigantic flower-spike that shoots upward from the comparatively small plant called amole. One fine day in May I came upon one, which I measured. It was by no means the largest one to be found, but the spike itself, without the stalk, was 15 feet 8 inches in height, and 31 inches in circumference at its thickest part. It seemed a pity to cut down such a magnificent specimen, but, as I wanted to count the flowers, I had one of my men fell it with a couple of blows of an axe. After counting the flowers on one section, I estimated that the entire spike bore at least 20,000 beautiful yellow blossoms, each as large as a tulip. It required two men to carry the spike, and as they walked they were followed by a multitude of humming-birds, which remained fearlessly at work among the flowers of what they evidently considered their own private garden. They might have to fly miles before finding another like this. The flower-stalk of the maguey is eaten before it flowers. It looks like a big bamboo stick, and when roasted in the hot ashes is very palatable, sweet, and tender.

Below the Indian village of Coloradas stands an isolated peak 400 to 500 feet high, in regard to which the Tarahumares have the following legend: A Tepehuane once cut bamboo reeds and tobacco, down on the river, and being followed up by the Tubars changed himself into this stone. The man’s girdle can still be made out.

At the village my interpreter asked me for the cover of a copy of London Truth, and for the wrapper on my photographic films, that with these pictures he might adorn the altar of the old adobe church.

The country is but thinly populated east and north of Morelos, and the steepness of the valleys through which the Indians are scattered, makes it difficult to reach them. At the time of my visit these Indians had absolutely nothing to sell us but the sweet mescal stalks. In the end of May I reached Morelos, an old mining place, about 1,800 feet above sea-level.

The surrounding hills and mountains were covered with the typical Mexican vegetation of the warm regions. The many odd-shaped cacti form a strong contrast to the light and pinnate leaves of the numerous leguminous shrubs, acacia, sophronia, etc. The chilicote, or coral-tree (erythræa), with scarlet flowers, is seen everywhere; also palo blanco, with a white stem, looking like an apple-tree. The year 1893 was an exceedingly dry one throughout northern Mexico. My mules, obliged to travel under a scorching sun, sometimes had to be without water for twenty-four hours. Still, in those hot barrancas, I saw no difference in the vegetation. The trees and plants did not seem affected by rain or no rain. The only exception I noticed was that the fiat, leaf-like joints of the nopal cactus shrivelled up a little on the surface, but the fleshy inside seemed as juicy as ever. Even during the dryest season the trees and shrubs here blossom and bear fruit, and mornings and evenings the air is filled with the perfume of acaciæ, cacti, and other plants. One is at a loss to understand how the cattle can subsist on these shrubs, but they have adapted themselves to circumstances, and are able to chew up the thick stems of the cacti, in fact the whole plant, with the result, however, that their stomachs are so filled with spines that the Mexicans cannot utilise the tripe. The frugal Indian is the only one who does not reject it, but manages to burn off the biggest spikes while toasting the tripe on cinders.

Near Morelos are ancient house ruins, some round and some square, and also traces of circular fortifications built of loose stones. Several of the latter were from sixteen to twenty yards in diameter and located on the top of mountain ridges. The remains are attributed to the Cocoyomes.

The commonly accepted idea that in southern latitudes anything may be easily cultivated is often proved by actual observation to be fallacious. Sometimes there may be too much rain, sometimes not enough. The worst enemies of plant-life in the warm countries are the many pests. One evening my host, Don Manuel Perez, showed me some of the foes he had to combat in order to maintain his garden. Certain kinds of ants bite off the flowers and leaves and carry away the pieces. The insects come out at night and may strip a tree of its leaves and fruits before morning. It was an astonishing sight to see the dark stem of an elder looking .as if it were green, on account of the multitude of ants, each of which carried a bit of green leaf half an inch long. Every evening a man went around to burn them off with a torch of resinous pine-wood.

Some Tubar Indians were induced to come to Morelos to be measured and photographed. The few representatives of the tribe I saw had good figures and small hands and feet. They seemed to be shy, but rather kind-hearted, jolly people, resembling the Tarahumares in appearance. They are found from the village of San Andres, three miles from Morelos, as far as the village of Tubares. According to tradition their domain extended in former times much higher up on both sides of the river, to where Baborigame is now. But they were gradually restricted to the locality on which the remnant of the tribe at present resides. They are said to have been fierce and constantly fighting the Tarahumares. There are now not more than a couple of dozen pure-bred Tubars left, and only five or six of these know their own language, which is related to the Nahuatl. The name of the tribe as pronounced by themselves is Tuvalím.

Most of the Tubars are found in the pueblo of San Miguel, seventeen miles from Morelos, down the river. An old woman told me that she did not know what the Tubars had done that they were disappearing from the world. The few remaining members of the tribe were related to one another, and the young people had to marry Mexicans. The customs of the Tubars evidently resembled much those of their neighbours, the Tarahumares, who until recent years invited them to their dances. The Tubars danced yohe, and the dancers accompanied their singing by beating two flat sticks, like two machetes. They did not use hikuli. In the sacristy of the church in the old Tubar village of San Andres, I found a complete tesvino outfit, jars, spoons, etc., the vessels turned bottom up, ready for use. The saints, too, must have tesvino, because they are greedy and exacting, and have to be propitiated. The Tubars are said to have worn white girdles.

Mr. Hartman, whom I left in San Miguel to conclude some investigations, returned a few weeks later to the United States. On the small plateaus near San Miguel, two hundred feet or more above the river, he found interesting old tombs, which were well known to the inhabitants under the name of bovedas. The presence of a tomb was indicated on the surface by a circuit of stones from three to five feet in diameter set in the ground. There were groups of ten or twelve circuits, and the tombs underneath were found at a depth of five or six feet. They consisted of small chambers excavated in the clayey soil, and were well preserved, though they contained no masonry work; still at one place a yoke of oxen while dragging the plough had sunk down into the subterranean cavity. The entrance to such a tomb is from one side, where a large slab, placed in a slanting position, protects the inside. Nothing was discovered in the four tombs that were opened but some curious slate-coloured beads of burnt clay. People of the district reported, however, that small jars of earthenware had been found in the bovedas. No doubt the absence of skeletons was due solely to the length of time that had elapsed, for even in the cemetery of the church Mr. Hartman found similar tombs that contained several skeletons. These tombs were indicated by the same kind of stone circuits as the rest, but were only about three feet down in the hard clay, and had no slabs in front of the entrance. In one of them Mr. Hartman found six corpses more or less decomposed, the sepulchre having evidently been used for a long time. In the same cemetery the Mexicans buried their dead.

I continued my journey down the river through the country once inhabited by the Tubars. As the heat was intense, I availed myself of the light of the full moon and travelled at night. Now and then the read touched the big river where the croaking of the frogs was intensely doleful and monotonous, but withal so loud that on a quiet night like this they could easily be heard two miles off.

Warm winds fanned me to sleep, and only when my mule ran me against some spiny branch, did I wake to find myself in a fantastic forest of leafless, towering cacti, that stood motionless, black, and silent in the moonlight, like spectres with numberless arms uplifted. The overwhelming noise of the frogs seemed to voice their thoughts and forbid me to advance farther. But the mule accelerated its pace, the shadows glided quicker and quicker, up and down the stony, slippery path that wound its way through this ghostly forest.

In the daytime there was a disagreeably strong, warm wind blowing, making it difficult even to get the saddles on our mules, but the nights were calm. At the pueblo of San Ignacio nobody speaks the Tubar tongue. Blue herons have a permanent breeding-place here on an almost perpendicular rock, four to six hundred feet high, where I counted twenty nests.

In travelling down to Tierra Caliente there is one place at which one must leave the river and ascend to the pine region. This is below the village of Tubares. The river narrows here and forms rapids, and it has been calculated that the water in flood-time rises sixty-five feet. Alligators do not go above these rapids. In two days’ journey from Morelos one may reach the undulating country of Sinaloa, la costa, which is warmer even than the barrancas.

At San Ignacio I left the river, and turned in a northeasterly direction to Batopilas. After five days’ pleasant sojourn at Mr. Shepherd’s hospitable home there, I again ascended the sierra, and, after visiting the Indians of Santa Ana and its neighbourhood, arrived at Guachochic. Leaving my mules here in charge of my friend Don Carlos Garcia, I soon started again toward the northeast on my way back to the United States, passing through the Indian ranches, and finally arriving at Carichic (in Tarahumare Garichi, “where there are houses,” probably ancient) on July 31st. At less than an hour’s distance from the place I was overtaken by a thunder-storm, the heaviest my Mexicans or I had ever experienced. In a few minutes the almost level fields were flooded as far as the eye could see, and the road we followed began to run with brown water. As we advanced through the mud, the small arroyos were rapidly filling. The rain did not abate, and the force of the currents steadily increased. When only three hundred yards from the town we found ourselves at the edge of a muddy stream, running so rapidly that it tore pieces from the bank, and carried small pines and branches of trees with it. As it was impossible to cross it, we had to wait, however impatiently, for the rain to subside sufficiently to allow us to wade through the water. And all the next day was spent in drying my things.

One year later I was again in Carichic, and from there I made my way to Guachochic. One night I had to spend in the house of a civilised Indian, as it rained too heavily for us to remain outdoors. The house was made of stone and mud, without windows, and the door had to be closed on account of the dogs. There was no way for air to get in except through the chimney, over the fireplace. There were nine people and one baby in the small room. Strange to say, I slept well.

My mules and outfit had been well taken care of at Guachochic, and I now arranged with Don Carlos Garcia to take most of my belongings to Guanazevi, a mining town in the neighbouring State of Durango, while with a few of the best mules I crossed Barranca de San Carlos near Guachochic, and pursued my way through regions inhabited by Tarahumares and Tepehuanes. A stammering Tarahumare was observed, the only Indian with this defect that has come to my notice.

The road I followed to Guanazevi from Guadalupe y Calvo leads through a part of the Sierra Madre which is from nine to ten thousand feet high and uninhabited, and for two days we met nobody. In winter the region is dreaded on account of the heavy snowfalls that are liable to occur here. Several people are said to have perished, and one freighter on one occasion lost twenty-seven mules. In the wet season bears are numerous, and, according to trustworthy information, have attacked and eaten several Tarahumares.

We camped one night at a place where a man had been killed by robbers some time before, and one of the Mexicans shudderingly expressed his fear that we should probably hear the dead man cry at night. This led to a discussion among the men as to whether the dead could cry or not. The consensus of opinion was that the dead could cry, but they could not appear. This, by the way, is the common Indian belief. My Tepehuane servant took an intense interest in the arguments. His face became suddenly animated with fear, and the thought of the dead changed him from an indolent fellow into a valuable aid to my chief packer in watching the animals at night. His senses became so keen as to be quite reassuring in regard to robbers at night, and from that time on he was really a valuable man, active and alert.

There is a small colony of Tarahumares living a few miles north of Guanazevi, near San Pedro. Here I excavated some corpses that had been buried several years before on a little plain. The graves were about four feet deep. In Guanazevi a silver “bonanza” was in full blast and much activity prevailed.

We were now outside of the sierra proper; but on the route south, which I followed for several days, I was never farther away from the mountain range than thirty miles. At Zape, about twenty miles to the south, there are some ancient remains. As the principal ones have been described by E. Guillemin Tarayre, who explored Mexico under Maximilian, it is not necessary for me to dwell on the subject. Suffice it to say that walls constructed of loose stones are commonly seen on the crests of the low hills and are attributed to the Cocoyomes. Circles and squares made of stones set upright in the ground may also be seen, and nicely polished stone implements are frequently to be found near by.

Outside of Zape are a number of ancient burial-caves, which have been disturbed by treasure-seekers. As a curiosity, I may mention that a Mexican once brought to light a big lump of salt that had been buried there. It was given to the cattle.

One afternoon a gay little procession of men and women passed my camp, some on horseback, others walking. One of the riders played the violin, another one beat a drum. An old woman who just then stepped up to sell something explained to me that “an angel” was being buried. This is the designation applied to small children in Mexico, and I could see an elaborate white bundle on a board carried aloft by a woman. My informant told me that when a child dies the parents always give it joyfully to heaven, set off fireworks and dance and are jolly. They do not weep when an infant dies, as the little one would not enter Paradise, but would have to come back and gather all the tears.

The way southward led through undulating country devoid of interest. To judge from the clusters of ranches, so numerous as to form villages, the land must be fertile. There were no more Indians to be seen, only Mexicans. All along the road we observed crosses erected, where people had been killed by robbers, or where the robbers themselves had been shot. A man’s body is generally taken to the cemetery for burial, whether he was killed or executed, but a cross is raised on the spot where he fell. The crosses are thus mementos of the reign of terror that prevailed in Mexico not long ago. Most of the victims were so-called Arabs, or travelling peddlers, sometimes Syrians or Italians, but generally Mexicans.

The most important place I passed was the town of Santiago de Papasquiaro, which is of some size, and situated in a rich agricultural country. The name of the place means possibly “paz quiero” (“I want peace”), alluding to the terrible defeat of the Indians by the Spaniards in the seventeenth century. There is reason to believe that before 1593 this central and western part of Durango had been traversed and peopled by whites, and that many Spaniards had established haciendas in various parts of the valley. They held their own successfully against the Tepehuanes until 1616, when these, together with the Tarahumares and other tribes, rebelled against them. All the natives rose simultaneously, killed the missionaries, burned the churches, and drove the Spaniards away. A force of Indians estimated at 25,000 marched against the city of Durango, carrying fear everywhere, and threatening to exterminate the Spanish; but the governor of the province gathered together the whites to the number of 600, “determined to maintain in peace the province which his Catholic Majesty had placed under his guardianship.” He routed the enemy, leaving on the field more than 15,000 dead insurgents, without great loss to his own troops. The Indians then sued for peace, and after their leaders had been duly punished, they were dispersed to form pueblos. The insurrection lasted over a year, and many bloody encounters between the natives and their new masters occurred in the course of the following centuries, the result being that the Indians in the State of Durango have not been able to maintain themselves, except in the extreme northern and southern sections.

There was an epidemic of typhoid fever in some of these ranch-villages, and in one place I saw two dogs hung up in a tree near the road, having been killed on account of hydrophobia. A strong wind was blowing day and night on the llanos along the river-course, which annoyed us not a little. It was a real relief to get up again on the sierra, about fourteen miles south of Papasquiaro, and find ourselves once more among the quiet pines and madroñas.

Having passed for several days through lonely, cold, and silent woods, now and then interspersed with a slumbering snow-field, it was a real pleasure to come suddenly, though only in the beginning of February, upon plants in full bloom on the high crest that faced the undulating lowlands of Sinaloa, which spread themselves out below, veiled in mist. The warm air wafted up from the Hot Country brings about this remarkable change in the flora of the precipitous inclines toward the west. The air was filled with perfume, and it was lovely to be on these high, sunny tops. Foliage trees, especially alders, began to appear among the pines, basking in the dazzling sunshine. I also noticed some fine ferns spreading out their graceful fronds.

A few miles farther and much lower I made camp above the Indian pueblo of San Pedro, as far as I could make out the most eastern extension of the northern Aztecs (Mexicanos or Mexicaneros, as they are called here). From here southward I found them in many of the warm valleys of the Sierra intermingled with Tepehuanes and Coras.

There is an excellent road zigzagging down to the mining place of Ventanas (“Windows,” from the formation of a rock) for the greater part of the distance; but at the outset the way, at two places, is so narrow that parties coming from opposite directions could neither pass nor turn back, which is not pleasant with a yawning chasm of a couple of thousand feet so close at hand.

I was anxious to secure men to go up again into the sierra and farther south; but the people were afraid of the cold, and nobody seemed to know anything about the country except the postmaster, and he only in a vague way. Mazatlan is not much more than 100 miles off and Durango 125 miles. There are here a great many dykes of porphyry of different ages, but neither slate nor granite in the immediate vicinity, though there is some granite farther up the river.

Among the mine-owners who lived in Ventanas I was surprised to find a Swedish gentleman. They all received me hospitably, providing me also with two men, whom I badly needed. We had to ascend on the other side of the barranca as high as we had been north of this place, and for a day we travelled through snow and rain. Corn does not grow here. From one point the Pacific Ocean can be seen. We then descended again a couple of thousand feet to the village of Chavaria, which is the only Mexican village I have seen where the houses had gable roofs covered with shingles. The walls of the houses were adobe, but I was told that the earth at this place is not suitable for making the usual flat roofs.

While camping here I saw, on the 15th of February, a flock of six giant woodpeckers pass by in the morning. Except in the pairing season these birds are not seen in such numbers. The journey over a high part of the Sierra Madre to the Mexican village of Pueblo Nuevo requires two days. On the second day I obtained a magnificent view toward the east and southeast. The high peak towering in the distance is Cerro Gordo, very broad at the base and conical in shape. Patches of snow were visible on it, and snow lay in the crevices wherever we travelled.

I descended through magnificent groves of cedar-trees to Pueblo Nuevo, making my camp on top of a hill, from which I overlooked the little settlement and the valley in which it nestles. As every house is surrounded by its little garden of orange-trees, aguacates, and guayahas, the landscape presented a mass of verdure of different shades, the ugly, often dilapidated houses being almost lost in the green. Lemons grow wild, and therefore there is no sale for them. Lemon juice mixed with milk is in many parts of Mexico considered a remedy for dysentery.

A young priest, who exercised a supreme but judicious authority in this secluded spot, treated me with much consideration. He took an honest pride in the development of his little village, and showed me its sights, first the church, which he was embellishing in many ways, and then the spring which supplied the place with water, and where the women gathered to wash their clothes and gossip. We met many graceful figures carrying jars on their shoulders, as in ancient times.

In order to give me an opportunity to see the people, el Señor Cura allowed them to come and dance on his veranda. His organist was a musical genius, and a composer of no mean ability, and on the cabinet organ the priest had brought from Durango on mule-back he played not only hymns, but also excellent dance music.

The climate here was delightful, the valley fragrant with the perfume of oranges, and one felt reluctant to leave this restful camp. But I was soon reminded that nothing in this world is perfect, as one night a storm lifted my tent up and carried it several yards off, leaving me to sleep as best I could till morning. The wind was so powerful as to fell trees.

The Pueblo Nuevo was once inhabited by Aztecs. The present inhabitants, though amiable, are indolent and lazy, and there is a saying that in Durango not even the donkeys work. I therefore had considerable trouble in finding a guide, the difficulty being aggravated by the fact that nobody seemed to know anything about the country toward Lajas, the Tepehuane village I was making for.

The sierra to the south where the Tepehuanes live is not frequented by the people here, who maintain communication only toward the east, principally with the city of Durango, where they market their garden crops of chile and tomatoes. Nevertheless, some of the Tepehuane pueblos belong to the Cura’s parish, and he seemed to be the only one Who could give definite information about the country southward.

The track leading down to the San Diego River runs through an idyllic valley where picturesque brooks trickle down the slopes between groves of semi-tropical vegetation. In one of the limpid streams a couple of pretty girls were bathing and washing their clothes, as is the custom among the poorer classes of Mexico, who rarely possess more than the clothing they wear. As we appeared on the scene, they gracefully slipped into a deep pool, leaving nothing but their pretty faces, like water-lilies, floating above the crystal-clear water, and thus nodded a friendly greeting toward us.

Not more than ten miles’ travel brought us to the San Diego River. Its source is said to be in the sierra, apparently toward the north, and it flows in a southerly direction. It was not very difficult to cross, but in flood-time it must be large. Its elevation at this point was about 3,300 feet.

Here began the ascent into the sierra again. Although the road on the first day was very good, it required rather hard climbing to get to the top. I was anxious to reach my destination that day, which was Saturday, in order to be in time for the gathering of the Indians in the pueblo on Sunday. I therefore travelled on after nightfall, though the road was much longer than I expected, leading through extensive pine forests, the monotony of which was interrupted only once by the appearance of a couple of beautiful macaos.

Just as the moon rose, we entered on the “spine of the coyote,” as the Tepehuanes call a narrow ridge, six to eight yards broad, with yawning abysses on both sides. Then we came on grassy slopes covered with trees. What a magnificent view there must be here, by daylight, of this wild country! To the southeast could clearly be seen a sloping table-land among hills; I even could distinguish some small houses on it. That was Lajas. It appeared to be but a league off, but in reality it was still three times as far away.

We descended among oak-trees, when suddenly the track ran down a precipitous volcanic rock, utterly impracticable for the mules to follow. Evidently we had strayed on a side trail; and while we guarded the mules, a man was sent back to look for the main track, which luckily was found after a short time. The worst of it was that the animals had to be led back one by one, along the side of a dangerous precipice, and it was a wonder that none of them rolled down the steep sides. I was glad when we could safely proceed on our way.

It is disagreeable to travel with a pack-train after nightfall, even on a moonlight night like this, but particularly when without a guide and on an unfamiliar track. The journey seems interminable. The fear of losing one’s road, or having something happen to the animals, or dropping some part of the pack; the uncertainty regarding what camping-place one may find; and the anxiety lest the backs of the animals may become sore, while the men are getting hungry and in as bad a temper as one’s self,—all tend to demonstrate the advisability of going into camp when the sun is still well above the horizon.

Another harassing consideration, which, however, does not apply to this part of the country, is the possibility of arousing a suspicion that pack-trains which travel at night carry treasures.

After a continuous journey of ten hours and a half we arrived without further mishaps at Lajas at 9.30 P.M., the middle of the night in that part of the world. One of my men, who had a habit of singing whenever we entered a village, had been ordered to keep silent, that the people in this lonely place, susceptible as they are, might not become alarmed at the sudden arrival of such a party.

A few houses lay scattered about in the dim moonlight, and I with my chief man rode ahead. “Ave Maria!” called out Catalino, knocking at the door of a hut. “God give you a good night,” he continued, but there was no response. After having in this way tried several huts, we at last succeeded in getting an answer, and learned where Crescencio Ruiz lived, to whom the priest in Pueblo Nuevo had given me a letter of introduction, and who was a kind of secretary to the Indians. We now directed our steps toward his house, aroused him from his slumbers, and after some parleying brought him to the door. He was a small-statured, kindly-looking man, a half-caste, who displayed a friendly manner and showed me where I could camp near his house. As he was very talkative, it was late in the night before I could retire.

The name of the village is San Francisco de Lajas, the word laja (flat stone) referring to stones which abound in the neighbourhood. The Indian name, “Eityam,” has the same meaning. The next day many Indians came fearlessly and curiously up to see me. They wore the ordinary dress of the working-class of Mexico, except that their flat straw hats were trimmed with black and red woollen ribbons and some flowers. The women had flowers and leaves in their hair, which they wore in Mexican fashion, in two braids. Some of the men had their hair put up in one braid and fastened at the end with a narrow hair-ribbon, but most of them had it cut short. I was surprised to see many baldheaded men, some not over thirty years old. Surely it must be more healthy for the hair to be worn long.

Fortunately for me the Indians had just come into the pueblo for a week to repair the old adobe church, in which work Don Crescencio greatly assisted them. This man, nine years ago, was sent to the place as a teacher by the Mexican authorities in Durango. On his arrival he was met at the old curato by 140 children, none of whom had ever seen a Mexican before, and, of course, they did not understand a word of Spanish. They soon went back to their homes, and five days afterward the preceptor was left without a pupil. He induced the parents to make the children return, and 48 came back. Out of these, five remained with him for six months. At the close of that period they were able to read and to write their names. Of late years, however, teaching has been given up altogether. The fact is that the Indians do not want schools, “because,” as an intelligent Huichol afterward told me, “our sons lose their native tongue and their ancient beliefs. When they go to school, they do not want to worship the Sun and the Water any more.” The white teacher’s aim should be to incite the desire for instruction rather than to force his pupils to listen to his teachings; not to destroy the Indian’s mental world, but to clear it and raise it into the sphere of civilisation.

But Don Crescencio remained with the Indians as their “secretary” (escribano), attending to whatever correspondence they had with the authorities, and gradually becoming their factotum and adviser. As he was an honourable and straightforward man, his influence was all for their good. To swell his meagre income, he carries on a small trade, going twice a year to Durango to replenish his stores; and so invaluable has he become to the Indians that they send, some men along with him to watch that he does not remain with the “neighbours.” He has learned the language tolerably well, and has risen to such importance that the gobernador, as I saw myself, visited him every morning, asking his advice in every movement.

These Indians visited me all day long, accompanied by their wives and children, undauntedly seating themselves in front or outside of my tent. In response to my expressed desire to see and buy articles made by them, they brought me, during my short stay here, girdles and ribbons of wool or cotton, as well as a great variety of bags of all sizes, knotted from twine of maguey fibre.

The people here do business on a basis entirely different from that of the “neighbours,” inasmuch as they have a fixed price for everything. There is no bargaining with them; when they have once told the price of a thing (and it is always a high one), they adhere to it firmly, and as money is no object to them, they make trading rather difficult. On my tours among the people, I found them hospitable. They always asked me to come in and sit down, and they have good manners.

The one thing they strenuously objected to, and which they were deadly afraid of, was the camera, and it took Don Crescencio’s and my own combined efforts for five days to induce them to pose. When at length they consented, they looked like criminals about to be executed. They believed that by photographing a person I should be enabled to carry his soul off to eat it later, at my ease, if I chose. They would die as soon as their pictures arrived in my country, or some other evil would result, anyhow. The women disappeared like frightened quails, when I was about to perform the dreadful operation on the men. However, most of them returned to see how their spouses stood the painful ordeal. When I then asked for some women to pose, they ran away, in spite of the demonstrations of the men; only three sturdy ones with “great souls” remained and were “taken” after having been duly “shaken” with fears.

The Tepehuanes feel at home only in their ranches. They clear land in the numerous little valleys of which their rugged country consists, and plant corn in places where no plough could ever be used.

They always have sufficient corn for their wants. Their store-houses are square upright cribs of bamboo sticks held in place with withes on a framework of pine poles. Sometimes they stand at considerable distances from the dwellings. The floor is raised about a foot above the ground, and the entrance is made from the top. The ears of corn can plainly be seen behind the bamboo sticks. In March they are taken out and shelled, and the corn is put in home-made sacks and replaced in the store-houses.

The Tepehuanes make pulque, but not tesvino, and cotton is cultivated on a very small scale. They gather the fibre of the maguey and other plants, and make sacks and ropes of excellent quality, for their own use as well as for sale in Durango, to which market they also take any fruit not required for home consumption.

Their only amusement is to drink mescal and pulque. No games are in use, and to stake money or valuables in any of the “neighbours’“ games is forbidden.

The commonest disease here, strange to say, is malaria, which sometimes proves fatal. The first thing a Tepehuane does in the morning is to wash his head, face, and hands with cold water, letting it dry without wiping it off. He starts to do his work with the water dripping from him.

The Southern Tepehuanes perform a religious dance called by the Mexicans mitote; it is also found among the Aztecs, the Coras, and the Huichols. In the vicinity of Lajas is a circular plain set pleasantly among the oak-trees. This is the dancing-place. At its eastern side is a jacal, a gable-shaped straw-roof resting on four poles, the narrow sides standing east and west. Inside of it is found an altar, consisting simply of a matting of large, split bamboo sticks (tapexte) resting on a framework of four horizontal poles, which in turn are supported by two pairs of upright forked sticks. On this altar the people put the food used at the dances, and many ceremonial objects are placed here or hung under the roof of the jacal.

In regard to their native religion, they are as reticent as their northern brethren, if not more so. “I would rather be hanged than tell anything,” said one shaman to me. Still, all things come to him who waits. This very man, who was so tragic, became my friend, and when we parted he asked me to write my name on a piece of paper, that he might salute me every morning. A name is a sacred thing, and they never tell their real native names.

Nowhere else in Mexico have the institutions founded by the missionaries of early times remained intact as in Lajas. Not only so, but the regulations are carried even further than was originally intended, and this in spite of the fact that the Indians have not given up their own ancient religion. No priest is now living among them; and only at rare intervals does the Cura come from Pueblo Nuevo to baptise and malry.

The native chosen civil authorities are composed of fourteen, the ecclesiastical of seven members. The gobernador has supreme authority with both bodies, and when important matters are at issue the people are brought together and consulted. The decisions or orders are given to the so-called captain, who sees that they are carried into effect. The officers are elected every year, and meet in sessions almost every day, to settle the affairs of the people, and to inflict punishment even on the shamans when necessary. They have recently renovated the prison, and put in a new set of stocks; and the whipping-post is still in constant use, to supplement the laws of the Mexican Government, which are considered altogether too mild.

The punishments which these people inflict are severe and barbarous. I have heard that Mexican criminals, who have been caught and punished by them, on complaining of their harsh treatment to the government authorities, did not receive any sympathy, the latter no doubt considering it meritorious rather than otherwise, on the part of the Indians, to maintain order so effectually without the aid of soldiers. The captain in Lajas is on duty day and night, watching that nothing untoward may happen to man, beast, or property. But few strangers come to this remote pueblo, and no one can pass it unnoticed. The only trail that runs through the place is swept every afternoon with branches of trees, and the next morning it is examined by the captain to ascertain if anyone has gone by. White men are wisely prohibited from settling here; and when a “neighbour” comes, his business is at once inquired into, and sufficient time, perhaps a night and a day, is given him to attend to it, after which he is escorted out of the village.

Safety to life and property is thus insured among these Indians. “I guarantee you that none of your animals will be stolen here,” Crescencio said to me the first night, and a very short experience convinced me that he was right. Theft is practically unknown here, unless some “neighbour” tempts an Indian with a promise of a part of the booty.

Murder is committed only by intoxicated individuals, and then the culprit is chained in the stocks for three or four weeks, and gets a whipping at regular intervals. Afterward he is sent to the Mexican authorities in the city of Durango to be dealt with according to the law.

There is no capital punishment for murder in Mexico, and when criminals have served their terms and return to their native village the Indians may even send them back to Durango, saying that they are better off without them. Suicide is unknown. When murder or theft has been perpetrated, they do not at once try to apprehend the suspected person, but first call the shaman to ascertain by divination who the culprit may be, by placing ceremonial arrows, smoking tobacco, and waving plumes.

I was told that three years ago two travelling Mexican peddlers arrived here, and after having done a little trading went away without informing the authorities of their departure. This aroused the suspicion of the Indians, who began to look around to see what was missing. Two cows, it seemed, had disappeared, and in two days the peddlers were overtaken, brought back, put in the stocks, and held in prison for eight days, and three times a day they received a thrashing. They had very little food. They were finally taken to Durango.

Once two cows and an ox were stolen from Crescencio, and the Indians followed the tracks of the thieves, their leader frequently touching the earth with his hands to assure himself by the smell that they were going in the right direction. After a while two Tepehuanes and their accomplice, the “neighbour” who had put them up to the crime, were caught. The “neighbour,” as soon as he arrived in the village, was given twenty-five lashes, and for two hours was subjected to the agonizing torture of having his head and his feet in the stocks at the same time. Next day he was given ten lashes, and the following day five, and eight days later they took him to Durango. His two Indian associates, father and son, were also put in the stocks, and for two weeks each of them got daily four lashes and very little food; besides which their blankets were taken away from them.

Although the Tepehuanes keep up their ancient rites and beliefs along with the new religion, they strictly comply with the external form of Christianity, paying due attention to all the Christian feasts and observances. Every day the bells of the old church are rung, and the saints “are put to bed,” as the Indians express it. When Crescencio first came here he found the people on Sundays in the church, the men sitting on benches and the women on the floor. They had gathered there from habit, though nobody knew how to pray, and they sat around talking and laughing all the time. It was their Christian worship. Crescencio has now taught them to say prayers.

The teachings of Christianity, however, are for the most part forgotten. No trace of the religion of charity remains among them, but the severity of the early missionaries survives, and their mediæval system of punishment. Evidently the tribe always entertained extreme views regarding the relation of the two sexes toward each other, or else the spirit of the new law would never have been imbibed so eagerly. “The slightest want of modesty or exhibition of frivolity is sufficient reason for a husband to leave his wife, and for young women never to marry,” says Padre Juan Fonte, of the Tepehuane Indians. There is no sign of relaxation in their strictness, or of any inclination to adopt more modern views on marital misdemeanour.

In the greater number of cases husband and wife live happily together “till death doth them part.” If either should prove unfaithful, they immediately separate, the wife leaving the children with the husband and going to her parents. Then the guilty one and the correspondent are punished by being put in the stocks and given a public whipping daily for one or two weeks. Neither of the parties thus separated is permitted to marry again.

If a girl or widow has loved “not wisely, but too well,” she is not interfered with until her child is born. A day or two after that she and the baby are put into prison for eight or ten days, and she is compelled to divulge the name of her partner. The man is then arrested and not only put into prison, but in the stocks besides. There are no stocks for women, only two horizontal bars to which their hands are tied, if they refuse to betray their lovers. The two culprits are kept separate, and their families bring them food. Twice a day messengers are sent through the village to announce that the punishment is about to be executed, and many people come to witness it. The judges and the parents of the delinquents reprimand the unfortunate couple, then from two to four lashes are on each occasion inflicted, first upon the man and then upon the woman. These are applied to an unmentionable part of the back, which is bared, the poor wretches standing with their hands tied to the pole. The executioner is given mescal that he may be in proper spirit to strike hard. The woman has to look on while the man is being punished, just as he afterward has to witness his sweetheart’s chastisement. She opens her eyes “like a cow,” as my informant expressed it, while the man generally looks down.

Many times the judges are ashamed to go through this performance, the character of which is below the standard of propriety of most primitive tribes; but, strange to say, the parents themselves compel them to let the law have its course. Afterward the girl is handed over to her lover in order that they may become officially married by the Church the next time the priest arrives. This may not happen for two or three years, but the two are meanwhile allowed to live together, the girl going to her lover’s home. To avert all the misery in store for her, an unfortunate woman may try to doctor herself by secretly taking a decoction of the leaves of the chalate, a kind of fig-tree.

Sometimes punishment is dealt out to young people for being found talking together. Outside of her home a woman is absolutely forbidden to speak to any man who does not belong to her own immediate family. When fetching water, or out on any other errand, she must under no circumstances dally for a chat with a “gentleman friend.” Even at the dancing-place it is against the law for her to step aside to exchange a few words with any young man. If discovered in such a compromising position, both offenders are immediately arrested, and their least punishment is two days’ imprisonment. If their examination by the judges proves that their conversation was on the forbidden topic of love, they get a whipping and may be compelled to marry.

Some of the boys and girls who have been punished for talking together in this manner, are so frightened that they never want to marry in Lajas, but the more defiant ones deliberately allow themselves to be caught, in order to hasten their union and steal a march on their parents. For these Indians are by no means beyond the darts of Cupid, and both men and women are known to have arranged with a shaman to influence the objects of their tender thoughts, and have paid him for such service. A woman may give a shaman a wad of cotton, which he manages to put into the hand of the young man for whom it is intended. Afterward the shaman keeps the cotton in his house, the affection having been transmitted by it.

On the other hand, men and women, to subdue their natural instincts, go into the fields and grasp the branches of certain sensitive plants. As the plant closes its leaves, the girls pray that they may be able to shut themselves up in themselves. There are two kinds of sensitive plants growing in the neighbourhood of Lajas (Mimosa florribunda, var. albida, and Mimosa invisa), and recourse may be had to either of them. Many men emigrate to other pueblos, though they may in time return. Others remain bachelors all their lives, and the judges in vain offer them wives. “Why should we take them?” they say. “You have thrashed us once, and it is not possible to endure it again.” The legitimate way of contracting marriage is to let the parents make the match. When the old folks have settled the matter between themselves, they ask the judges to arrest the boy and girl in question, whereupon the young people are put into prison for three days. The final arrangements are made before the authorities, and then the girl goes to the home of the boy to await the arrival of the priest.

When the Señor Cura is expected in Lajas, all the couples thus united, as well as all persons suspected of harbouring unsafe tendencies, are arrested. On the priest’s arrival, he finds most of the young people of the place in prison, waiting for him to marry them. For each ceremony the Indians have to pay $5, and from now on every married couple has to pay $1.50 per year as subsidy for the priest. No marriage in Lajas is contracted outside of the prison. Crescencio himself, when about to marry a Tepehuane woman, barely escaped arrest. Only by threatening to leave them did he avoid punishment; but his bride had to submit to the custom of her tribe.

Contrary to what one might expect, unhappy unions are rare. Probably the young people are glad to rest in the safe harbour of matrimony, after experiencing how much the way in and out of it is beset with indignities and leads through the prison gates. However, imprisonment for love-making does not appear so absurd to the aboriginal mind as it does to us, and the tribe has accommodated itself to it. I learned that some of the boys and girls after a whipping go to their homes laughing.

The obligation to denounce young people whom one has found talking together, under penalty of being punished one’s self for the omission, does not create the animosity that might be expected. Besides, the law on this point is none too strictly obeyed or enforced.

According to Crescencio, the census taken in 1894 enumerated 900 souls belonging to Lajas, and there may probably be altogether 3,000 Tepehuanes here in the South. As far as I was able to ascertain, the following Tepehuane pueblos are still in existence:

1. San Francisco de Lajas.

2. Tasquaringa, about fifteen leagues from the city of Durango. The people here are little affected by civilisation, though a few Mexicans live among them.

3. Santiago Teneraca, situated in a deep gorge. The inhabitants are as non-communicative as at Lajas, and no Mexicans are allowed to settle within their precinct. This, as well as the preceding village, belongs to Mezquital, and the padre from there visits them.

4. Milpillas Chico, where the Indians are much mixed with Mexicans.

5. Milpillas Grande. Here the population is composed of Tepehuanes, Aztecs, and Mexicans.

6. Santa Maria Ocotan, and

7. San Francisco, both little affected by civilisation.

8. Quiviquinta, about fifteen leagues southwest of Lajas.

The latter three villages belong to the State of Jalisco.

On the road from Durango to Mazatlan, passing Ventanas, there are no Tepehuane pueblos.