As the clatter of his mules’ hoofs echoed through the dark buildings the manager rushed out, struck a light and demanded “Who’s there?” To the soldier’s cheerful “Buena noche, Señor,” he sneeringly replied “Halto! Guardia de la República, aqui hay nada para un soldado del gobierno.” Whereupon the soldier turned back to me and said we should not be able to stop here, and coming nearer me he whispered “He is a revolutionary.” I dismounted and approached the haughty manager, who was in a really terrible mood. Almost before I could begin to ask him for accommodations he rattled off that there was no pasture for our beasts, no food for us, and that we had better go on to the next hacienda. “Absolutamente nada!” he repeated over and over again, and at first I thought him drunk. Since it was then quite dark, with no moon, but instead heavy black clouds over the southern half of the sky and a brisk valley wind threatening rain, I mildly protested that we needed nothing more than shelter. Our food boxes would supply our wants, and our mules, even without fodder, could reach Abancay the next day. Still he stormed at the government and would have none of us. I reminded him that his fields were filled with sugar cane and that it was the staple forage for beasts during the part of the year when pasture was scarce. The cane was too valuable, he said. It was impossible to supply us. I was on the point of pitching camp beside the trail, for it was impossible to reach the next hacienda with an exhausted outfit.

A by-product of the revolution, as of all revolutions in thinly settled frontier regions, was the organization of small bands of outlaws who infested the lonely trails, stole beasts, and left their owners robbed and helpless far from settlements. We were cautioned to beware of them, both by Señor Gonzales, the Prefect at Abancay, and by the Subprefect of Antabamba. Since some of the bandits had been jailed, I could not doubt the accuracy of the reports, but I did doubt stories of murder and of raids by large companies of mountain bandits. As a matter of fact we were robbed by the Governor of Antabamba, but in a way that did not enable us to find redress in either law or lead. The story is worth telling because it illustrates two important facts: first, the vile so-called government that exists in some places in the really remote sections of South America, and second, the character of the mountain Indians.

We made our arrangements with the Governor and departed. To inspire confidence, and at the Governor’s urgent request, we had paid in advance for our four Indians and our fresh beasts—and at double the usual rates, for it was still winter in the Cordillera. They were to stay with us until we reached Cotahuasi, in the next Department beyond the continental divide, where a fresh outfit could be secured. The Lieutenant Governor accompanied us to keep the party together. They appeared to need it. Like our Indian peons at Lambrama the week before, these had been taken from the village jail and represented the scum of the town. As usual they behaved well the first day. On the second night we reached the Alpine country where the vegetation is very scanty and camped at the only spot that offered fuel and water. The elevation was 16,000, and here we had the lowest temperature of the whole journey, +6° F. (-14.4° C.). Ice covered the brook near camp as soon as the sun went down and all night long the wind blew down from the lofty Cordillera above us, bringing flurries of snow and tormenting our unprotected beasts. It seemed to me doubtful if our Indians would remain. I discussed with the other members of the party the desirability of chaining the peons to the tent pole, but this appeared so extreme a measure that we abandoned the idea after warning the Teniente that he must not let them escape.

Fortunately that afternoon we passed a half-grown boy riding back toward Antabamba and he promised to hand the Governor a note in Spanish, penciled on a leaf of my traverse book. I dropped all the polite phrases that are usually employed and wrote as follows:

Then he set out upon the return, faithfully delivering my note to the topographer about the course of the trail and the position of the camp. He had twelve miles to go to the first mountain hut, so that he could not have traveled less than that distance to reach shelter. The next morning a mantle of snow covered everything, yet when I pushed back the tent flap there stood my scantily clad Indian of the night before, shivering, with sandaled feet in the snow, saying that he had come back to work for me!

Then there happened a piece of good luck that seems almost providential. A young man came down the trail with three pack mules loaded with llama meat. He had come from the Cotahuasi Valley the week before and knew the trail. I persuaded him to let us hire one of his mules. In this way and by leaving the instruments and part of our gear in the care of two Indian youths we managed to get to Cotahuasi for rest and a new outfit.

In the end, however, we got them to understand the nature of our work. Gifts of various sorts won their friendship, and they consented to guard the boxes we had to leave behind. Two weeks later, on his return, the topographer found everything unmolested.

I could not but feel that the spirit of those strong and independent young men was much better for Peru than the cringing, subservient spirit of most of the Indians that are serfs of the whites. The policy of the whites has been to suppress and exploit the natives, to abuse them, and to break their spirit. They say that it keeps down revolution; it keeps the Indian in his place. But certainly in other respects it is bad for the Indian and it is worse for the whites. Their brutality toward the natives is incredible. It is not so much the white himself as the vicious half-breed who is often allied with him as his agent.

I shall never forget the terror of two young girls driving a donkey before them when they came suddenly face to face with our party, and we at the same time hastily scrambled off our beasts to get a photograph of a magnificent view disclosed at the bend of the steep trail. They thought we had dismounted to attack them, and fled screaming in abject fear up the mountain side, abandoning the donkey and the pack of potatoes which must have represented a large part of the season’s product. It is a kind of highway robbery condoned because it is only robbing an Indian. He is considered to be lawful prey. His complaint goes unnoticed. In the past a revolution has offered him sporadic chances to wreak vengeance. More often it adds to his troubles by scattering through the mountain valleys the desperate refugees or lawless bands of marauders who kill the flocks of the mountain shepherds and despoil their women.

He did not sleep at all the last night of his stay and had us called at three in the morning. He told his friends that he was going to leave with us, but that they were to announce his leaving a day later. In addition, the Subprefect was to accompany us until daybreak so that no harm might befall me while under the protection of a soldier who expected to be shot from ambush.

At four o’clock our whispered arrangements were made, we opened the gates noiselessly, and our small cavalcade hurried through the pitch-black streets of the town. The soldier rode ahead, his rifle across his saddle, and directly behind him rode the Subprefect and myself. The pack mules were in the rear. We had almost reached the end of the street when a door opened suddenly and a shower of sparks flew out ahead of us. Instantly the soldier struck spurs into his mule and turned into a side street. The Subprefect drew his horse back savagely and when the next shower of sparks flew out pushed me against the wall and whispered: “Por Dios, quien es?” Then suddenly he shouted: “Sopla no mas, sopla no mas” (stop blowing).

Thereupon a shabby penitent man came to the door holding in his hand a large tailor’s flatiron. The base of it was filled with glowing charcoal and he was about to start his day’s work. The sparks were made in the process of blowing through the iron to start the smoldering coals. We greeted him with more than ordinary friendliness and passed on.

The alertness of the soldier was unusual and I quite enjoyed his close attention to the beasts and his total abstinence, for an alert and sober soldier on detail is a rare phenomenon in the interior of Peru. But all Salamanca was drunk when we arrived—Governor, alcaldes, citizens. Even the peons drank up in brandy the money that we gave them for forage and let the beasts starve. The only sober person I saw was the white telegraph operator from Lima. He said that he had to stay sober, for the telegraph office—the outward sign of government—was the special object of attack of every drink-crazed gang of rioters. They had tried to break in a few nights before and he had fired his revolver point-blank through the door. The town offered no shelter but the dark filthy hut of the Gobernador and the tiny telegraph office. So I made up my bed beside that of the operator. We shared our meals and chatted until a late hour, he recounting the glories of Lima, to which he hoped to return at the earliest possible moment, and cursing the squalid town of Salamanca. His operator’s keys were old, the batteries feeble, and he was in continual anxiety lest a message could not be received. In the night he sprang out of bed shouting frantically:

“Estan llamando” (they are calling), only to stumble over my bed and awaken himself and offer apologies for walking in his sleep.

The drunken rioters of Cotahuasi and their debauched brothers at Salamanca are chiefly natives of pure or nearly pure Indian blood. They are a part of the great plateau population of the Peruvian Andes. Have they degenerated to their present low state, or do they display merely the normal condition of the plateau people? Why are they so troublesome an element? To this as to so many questions that arise concerning the highland population we find our answer not chiefly in government, or religion, or inherited character, but in geography. I doubt very much if a greater relative difference would be seen if two groups of whites were set down, the one in the cold terrace lands of Salamanca, the other in the warm vineyards of Aplao, in the Majes Valley. The common people of these two towns were originally of the same race, but the lower valley now has a white element including even most of those having the rank of peons. Greater differences in character could scarcely be found between the Aztecs and the Iroquois. In the warm valley there is of coarse drunkenness, but it is far from general; there is stupidity, but the people are as a whole alert; and finally, the climate and soil produce grapes from which famous wines are made, they produce sugar cane, cotton, and alfalfa, so that the whites have come in, diluted the Indian blood, and raised the standard of life and behavior. Undoubtedly their influence would tend to have the same general effect if they mixed in equal numbers with the plateau groups. There is, however, a good reason for their not doing so.

These facts are stated in a simple way, for I wish to emphasize the statement that the Indian population responds to quite other stimuli. Most of the luxuries and comforts of the whites mean nothing to the Indian. The machine-made woolens of the importers will probably never displace his homespun llama-wool clothing. His implements are few in number and simple in form. His tastes in food are satisfied by the few products of his fields and his mountain flocks. Thus he has lived for centuries and is quite content to live today. Only coca and brandy tempt him to engage in commerce, to toil now and then in the hot valleys, and to strive for more than the bare necessities of life. Therefore it matters very little to him if his home town is isolated, or the resources support but a small group of people. He is so accustomed to a solitary existence in his ramblings with his flocks that a village of fifty houses offers social enjoyments of a high order. Where a white perishes for lack of society the Indian finds himself contented. Finally, he is not subject to the white man’s exploitation when he lives in remote places. The pastures are extensive and free. The high valley lands are apportioned by the alcalde according to ancient custom. His life is unrestricted by anything but the common law and he need have no care for the morrow, for the seasons here are almost as fixed as the stars.

For example, the Anta basin at harvest time is one of the fairest sights in Peru. Sturdy laborers are working diligently. Their faces are bright and happy, their skin clear, their manner eager and animated. They sing at their work or gather about their mild chicha and drink to the patron saints of the harvest. The huts are filled with robust children; all the yards are turned into threshing floors; and from the stubbly hillslopes the shepherd blows shrill notes upon his barley reeds and bamboo flute. There is drinking but there is little disorder and there is always a sober remnant that exercises a restraining influence upon the group.

TO the wayfarer from the bleak mountains the warm green valleys of the coastal desert of Peru seem like the climax of scenic beauty. The streams are intrenched from 2,000 to 4,000 feet, and the valley walls in some places drop 500 feet by sheer descents from one level to another. The cultivated fields on the valley floors look like sunken gardens and now and then one may catch the distant glint of sunlight on water. The broad white path that winds through vineyards and cotton-fields, follows the foot of a cliff, or fills the whole breadth of a gorge is the waste-strewn, half-dry channel of the river. In some places almost the whole floor is cultivated from one valley wall to the other. In other places the fields are restricted to narrow bands between the river and the impending cliffs of a narrow canyon. Where tributaries enter from the desert there may be huge banks of mud or broad triangular fans covered with raw, infertile earth. The picture is generally touched with color—a yellow, haze-covered horizon on the bare desert above, brown lava flows suspended on the brink of the valley, gray-brown cliffs, and greens ranging from the dull shade of algarrobo, olive and fig trees, to the bright shade of freshly irrigated alfalfa pastures.